If you haven't been there yet, visit www.beingyourself.info for me.
It's a site we launched in September at work, and it's based on Psalm 139. The idea is to find a new way of engaging with the psalm, and getting people into it who might never have bothered with the Bible. Take a look. It's a bit of an experiment, and I'd love to know what you make of it.
It's not meant to just sit there on the web and look pretty either. www.lifewords.info/beingyourself is a user site that explains what it's about and how you can use it in your church.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
wanderers
In case you've just ambled across, this is a blog that I've never really publicised. I will sooner or later get round to putting stuff here, as you can comment without being a member.
In the meantime, my thoughts are here: http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=supajem
In the meantime, my thoughts are here: http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=supajem
Monday, June 20, 2005
stars, promises
Let me tell you a story...
“Suddenly his eyes were open, the surroundings making themselves known piece by piece in the darkness - the dull grey of the ceiling, the soft wind in the trees beyond it, the warm presence of his sleeping wife an arm’s length away.
Careful not to wake her, he slipped from under the covers, rose and stretched, and stepped into his sandals. He slipped out of the tent and stood, alone with the thoughts that kept him awake, the nagging inadequacies and the self-doubts.
On the other side of the canvas slept his beautiful bride, the envy of the king of Egypt, and he was unable to give her what she most desired. Either that, or she was unable to give him what he longed for. Their faithfulness to each other meant they would never know who was to blame, if blame their was.
He walked, and he remembered that first year, the mutterings of in-laws, the talk of the neighbours, the laughter of the young men, the quiet sadness of the childless couple.
Many years stood between him and those first questions. Circumstances had changed. There was the wealth, respect, wisdom, but the ache would not go away. What good was all he had acheived? He had a servant for an heir. He was blessed, and yet the blessings seemed at times like mockery.
Long after he and his wife had stopped trying he would sit and stare at the shepherds’ fires on the hill, or walk through the moon-dappled shade to the edge of the trees to where the sky broke vast overhead.
And there he would stand and bathe in the enormity of the night sky, and the words of a ancient promise would come to him again, words that he confessed had at times rung hollow: ‘I will make you a great nation.’
These words had tested him. At times he had clung to them, at other times abandoned them. Sometimes they filled him with hope, and on other days he despaired at how much time had passed, that the opportunity was gone, and he and his wife were too old.
He knew, and yet he wondered. He hoped, and yet he hardly dared.
‘Look up into the night sky and count the stars if you can. Your descendants will be like that.’
The old man sighs, the heartfelt prayers so often repeated that words hardly seem necessary any more. He walks slowly back, parts the curtains of the tent and quietly steps through, drawing the strings behind him. He slips off the sandals and wipes the dust from his feet. Then he tip-toes across the goatskin rug and creeps under the blankets again. Sarah half stirs and he pauses, not wanting to wake her. He settles, and reaches across to place his hand gently on her belly, as he’s done a thousand times before. And he knows.
He despairs, he grieves, his patience wanes and his trust wavers, and yet he knows.
“Suddenly his eyes were open, the surroundings making themselves known piece by piece in the darkness - the dull grey of the ceiling, the soft wind in the trees beyond it, the warm presence of his sleeping wife an arm’s length away.
Careful not to wake her, he slipped from under the covers, rose and stretched, and stepped into his sandals. He slipped out of the tent and stood, alone with the thoughts that kept him awake, the nagging inadequacies and the self-doubts.
On the other side of the canvas slept his beautiful bride, the envy of the king of Egypt, and he was unable to give her what she most desired. Either that, or she was unable to give him what he longed for. Their faithfulness to each other meant they would never know who was to blame, if blame their was.
He walked, and he remembered that first year, the mutterings of in-laws, the talk of the neighbours, the laughter of the young men, the quiet sadness of the childless couple.
Many years stood between him and those first questions. Circumstances had changed. There was the wealth, respect, wisdom, but the ache would not go away. What good was all he had acheived? He had a servant for an heir. He was blessed, and yet the blessings seemed at times like mockery.
Long after he and his wife had stopped trying he would sit and stare at the shepherds’ fires on the hill, or walk through the moon-dappled shade to the edge of the trees to where the sky broke vast overhead.
And there he would stand and bathe in the enormity of the night sky, and the words of a ancient promise would come to him again, words that he confessed had at times rung hollow: ‘I will make you a great nation.’
These words had tested him. At times he had clung to them, at other times abandoned them. Sometimes they filled him with hope, and on other days he despaired at how much time had passed, that the opportunity was gone, and he and his wife were too old.
He knew, and yet he wondered. He hoped, and yet he hardly dared.
‘Look up into the night sky and count the stars if you can. Your descendants will be like that.’
The old man sighs, the heartfelt prayers so often repeated that words hardly seem necessary any more. He walks slowly back, parts the curtains of the tent and quietly steps through, drawing the strings behind him. He slips off the sandals and wipes the dust from his feet. Then he tip-toes across the goatskin rug and creeps under the blankets again. Sarah half stirs and he pauses, not wanting to wake her. He settles, and reaches across to place his hand gently on her belly, as he’s done a thousand times before. And he knows.
He despairs, he grieves, his patience wanes and his trust wavers, and yet he knows.
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