Life and death

Today we're in the season of Advent - the period of waiting for the coming of the King, in two senses: the coming of Jesus in such extraordinary circumstances as a crying baby, I believe, to a teenage mum, and his coming again "in great glory to judge both the living and the dead". It's a time full of anticipation and awe.

This afternoon, after a visit to my wonderful dentist and a lunch with my distinguished oldest brother and his wife at The Bull in Fairford (good meal!), we came back to welcome the Holy Family - the pregnant Mary and Joseph, plus donkey - who are doing the rounds of houses in the parish. John, our vicar, brought them round and prayed with us. They'll stay with us until tomorrow when they'll move on until coming to rest finally in the church on Christmas Eve at the crib service.

It's a great way to focus one's thoughts on what is the reason for the season. Tonight Jane's out at a home group, and hopefully I will be disciplined enough to take time out from my usual lapsing in front of the TV for reflection and gratitude. On Sunday, John preached an Advent sermon on preparing for Jesus' coming, which, he said, we could do by watching carefully and serving faithfully. I'm going to try to watch and wait tonight.

This afternoon I also came back to read the news that a good friend (whom I've never met), Alison Davis, died this morning. She is a hero of faith. She was born with spina bifida in 1955. "She later developed conditions including osteoporosis, arthritis and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Coping with these permanently disabling and painful conditions dominated but did not define her life. Indeed, they led her to champion the rights of the vulnerable, the disabled and the unborn, first as an atheist and then as a Catholic." You can read her story here: http://www.catholicherald.co.uk/features/2013/12/03/obituary-alison-davis/. "Finally, on Easter Sunday, 31 March 1991, she was received into the Church.  Although Alison knew she had 'come home', being a Catholic brought its own difficulties. She discovered some churches couldn’t accommodate wheelchair users and she sometimes experienced an acute sense of rejection. She learnt that her Faith would not remove the sorrows of life but that it does provide the grace and strength necessary to live with them. A visit to Calcutta over Christmas in 1991, and witnessing the love a pavement-dwelling family had for their tiny baby, brought home to her the infinite value of each human being created by God." 

I came into contact with her through our shared belief in the sanctity of life. I think she contacted me after reading My Donkeybody. It was only over the years that I realised what a remarkable lady she was. She is a real example of serving faithfully, and I am really grateful to have known her. In her last email to me she talked about being "content with life as God has given it, which I think is the secret to a really fulfilled life". She lived a fulfilled life in spite of her limitations, beside which mine are tiny. I believe that Paul's expectation is true for Alison: "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing" (2 Timothy 4.7,8). I hope I'll meet her then.

Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection. Through the same Christ Our Lord. Amen.

Stephanie's Hope

I've mentioned Bo Stern, whose husband has ALS/MND like me, before. I hope she won't mind my copying her latest blog post here. I know you'll appreciate it.

"Oh, I love this guest post by my sweet friend, Stephanie Nelson. Never let go of hope.

'Hope.

It was her middle name. 

All we knew was that she was on her way; we didn’t know her gender or her diagnosis yet.  One Sunday morning, our pastor preached about hope, defining it as “confident expectation.”  I leaned over and whispered to my husband that I liked it for a name if we have a girl.  He playfully rolled his eyes at me, standing firmly in his resolution not to discuss baby names until we find out the gender. 

But I tucked it deeply into my heart. 

It was tucked into her heart too.

Photo credit:
http://www.etsy.com/transaction/39221728

Evelyn Hope was born with so many congenital heart defects that at 12 days old, in the NICU of a prestigious research hospital, the doctors told us there was no hope for her and that we should let her go.

I knew where she was going and I knew I’d go there too someday.  I had days that were full of faith, but also days that were full of tears.  Sometimes the line between the two is very blurry, especially when your eyes are puffy, and brimming with a constant and thin veil of salty water that runs down your cheeks at all the moments you wish it wouldn’t.

The truth is I that I had never before really longed for Heaven.  It was a default option because I didn’t want to go to Hell.  I realize this isn’t very spiritual of me, but it’s true.  So much of grieving is learning when to hold on and when to let go.  Having – and losing – Evelyn was God’s gift to me so that I could place my hope in His promise of Heaven. 

Letting go of what I thought my life should be.

Holding this view of Heaven before me every day.

Heaven is where I will embrace her again, and spend endless days by her side worshipping Jesus together.  Knowing this gives me courage that I can greet every morning with faith, and rest in knowing that I am in His hands.  My trials and triumphs are hand-crafted by Him in order to bring me into a deeper relationship with Him.  Even when I want to call it quits in the midst of the dark days and even when I feel that sadness might rend my heart, I hold on to hope.  Knowing Christ more fully is worth the pain it might take to get there.  And spending eternity with Evelyn, compared to the breath that is this life, is just the icing on the cake. 

I did let Evelyn go.

But I will never let go of hope.' 

Stephanie Nelson is the author of “See You in a Breath,” and wife to Chris and mother to Clara and Jonathan. Her passions, in order are: Knowing Christ, loving her family and church, writing, reading, politics, and talking her friend’s ears off."

There's a lot I identify with in that, including her old default position on Heaven and hell! "Having - and losing - Evelyn was God's gift to me..." - that is some statement.

Spring in Sussex

Over the weekend we visited our family in Ashburnham near Hastings, a lovely estate which is the home of a large Christian Prayer and Conference centre. The weather was clear and sunny, mostly, if a bit chilly. Spring had definitely sprung in East Sussex. I've written previously about visiting there last autumn - Ashburnham. This time we heard a nightingale singing in the bushes near the family's garden on two evenings - the first time I'm sure I've heard one. There is something special about listening to its varied song in the twilight.

On the Sunday morning we attended the small local church in the centre of the grounds next to the once grand house. The people were very welcoming, but I especially liked the invitation to communion which the visiting minister used. It was something like this:


"This is the table, not of the church,

but of the Lord. 
It is made ready

for those who love him,

and those who want to love him more.

So come, you who have much faith

and you who have little,

You who have been here often 
and you who have not been for a long time,

You who have tried to follow and you who have failed,

Come …

Not because it is I who invite you. 
It is our Lord.

It is his will that those who want him

should meet him here."

I believe these words come from the Iona Community. I like the way it's phrased as an invitation from Christ and is addressed to people who are aware of their imperfections. It's not the well, it's the ill who need a doctor. The good news is that in Christ we have the perfect doctor.

PS I've just come across this quotation on the blog called Goodness and Beauty:
“If I were a nightingale I would do the work of a nightingale; if I were a swan, the work of a swan. But I am a rational creature, so I must praise God.” – Epictetus. Right on!!

Love unknown

"Faith is not a thing of the mind; it is not an intellectual certainty or a felt conviction of the heart. It is a sustained decision to take God with utter seriousness as the God of my life. It is to live out each hour in a practical, concrete affirmation that God is Father and he is 'in heaven'. It is a decision to shift the centre of our lives from ourselves to him, to forego self-interest and make his interests, his will, our sole concern. This is what it means to hallow his name as Father in heaven." Sister Ruth Burrows, O.C.D.

I am indebted to "Leafyschroder" who comments on this blog for introducing me to Ruth Burrows, a Carmelite nun, who wrote the Archbishop of Canterbury's Lent book last year. In particular she recommended Before the Living God. I found this in an on-line review: "Her other books demonstrate the way God used even her worst experiences in the convent for her (and other's) spiritual benefit. It seems one purpose of the book might have been to encourage the reader to realize that God will take the most traumatic, or unfair circumstances if we turn to Him and transform it into one of our greatest blessings that brings spiritual peace and personal intimacy with God." 

Leafyschroder then sent me this beautiful extract from a review of Ruth Burrows' latest book, Love Unknown:

"She has been trying to pray as a nun for 65 years. And what has she to show for it? Darkness, by her own account, and the feeling that God does not exist. As a young woman, when she prayed, nothing 'happened', and she soon realised it would always be like this. 'It is impossible to understand my life unless it is seen all the time against the background of black depression,' she wrote 36 years ago, in one of the great autobiographies of the twentieth century, Before the Living God.


"Her depression did not stem from any 'Dark Night of the Soul'. It came not from her vocation as a nun, but happened to be something that she brought to it with her, as part of her disposition. Those who have met her find her a sharp, intelligent, amusing interlocutor, but things are no easier for her in her spiritual life today. The difference is that now she is 'happy to be poor'. This attitude of poverty is the underlying, human theme of Love Unknown. The two themes go together: the objective reality of a loving God, and on the other side a radical human poverty on the part of the Christian loved by him.

"In this lies the answer to the person who finds that he or she is 'not getting anywhere' with prayer. Ruth Burrows challenges any such judgement based on subjective experience. Since it is God who prays in us, what would we expect to see and feel? Only by focusing on what is revealed by the risen Christ can we be sure that our God is real and not just a projection. We can only know the true, living God through his incarnate image."


Forgive me if you've already read my conversation with Leafyschroder, but I thought that last quotation really merited being a main blog entry. I'm ordering some of Ruth Burrows' books.

Thank you, Beth

This morning we went to Beth's funeral. She's the 15-year old additionally disabled daughter of James and Lynn whom I mentioned last time. The church was packed. Among those who carried her basketwork coffin were her brother, father and, I guess, her grandfather. It was as emotional service as I can remember, but far from miserable. It included a most remarkable reflection on her life by her parents, which didn't gloss over the pains of having such a disabled child but did not deny either the joy and love she brought.

There were too some of my favourite songs such as "Great is your faithfulness" and "How great thou art". There was one written by Paul Oakley I'd not heard before, "There's a place", which contains this verse:
"No more, no more sadness,
No more suffering, no more tears,
No more sin, no more sickness,
No injustice, no more death." Which would be pretty good news if that was all there was. However the song goes on to the positives:
"There is joy everlasting,
There is gladness, there is peace.
There is wine, ever flowing,
There's a wedding, there's a feast." And it ends,
"We'll see you face to face
And we will dance together
In the city of our God, because of You." (If you don't know it, the best YouTube clip I've found is this -Because of You.) It's hardly a miserable dirge; in fact it's full of resurrection joy.

Yesterday I was simply going to post something that my venerable friend, Brian, had put on Facebook, but today's service made me want to write something more as a thank you to Beth Ross. But I'll still include Brian's lines because somehow they feel all of a piece with the journey of faith walked by James and Lynn and their family.
"I believe in the sun,
even when I cannot see it.
I believe in love,
even when I cannot feel it.
I believe in God,
even when he is silent."

The vulnerable mind

Last Friday, the Evangelical Alliance published an article of mine in their Friday night theology series. The aim is to write about 500 words on something topical. I've written for them a number of times, but I think in the end I have been most pleased with this article. You can read it here: Friday Night Theology: The Vulnerable Mind.

It's very tempting for Christians to pretend life is a bed of roses for them. I think that has a number of causes. One is the habit that preachers used to have of saying something like, "Come to Jesus and all your problems will be sorted." As Anne said at Stanford's Festival Songs of Praise last Sunday, that certainly wasn't the message that Saul, later St Paul, was given at his conversion, as God tells the reluctant evangelist, Ananias, “Go, for he is a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before the Gentiles and kings and the children of Israel. For I will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.” Not a great sales pitch! 


Another is the culture of "strength" fostered among the clergy. It's not done to admit weakness, either mistakes or mental fragility. I was very fortunate when I was an apprentice pastor to have an understanding boss - as within my first year I was plagued by panic attacks. Early intervention and counselling restored my equilibrium. Later on, I actually believe that my MND, which is such an obvious weakness, helped some in our church to feel free to admit to their vulnerabilities. It made us all more real with each other and with God. 


Depression is of course not at all obvious. It may creep up insidiously as MND does, but it's easier to conceal and has a public stigma which encourages concealment. However, to my mind, it's worse than any physical ailment, as is true for all mental unwellness. The truth is that people of faith have never been insulated from mental struggles. Look through the Old Testament and try to find heroes of faith who sailed untroubled through life.... Of course the example who is most often cited is Elijah, whose treatment begins with food and rest, but you can uncover questionings, doubts and tears all over the place. The psalms contain their fair share of complaints and honest misery. If you've suffered depression, you'll recognise the feeling of Psalm 55: 

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove!
    I would fly away and be at rest;
⁷ yes, I would wander far away;
    I would lodge in the wilderness;
⁸ I would hurry to find a shelter
    from the raging wind and tempest."

Jesus himself was not immune from doubts (in the temptations) or from the sense of God having abandoned him. When he said, "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" I can't believe he was pretending, or merely reciting poetry. I believe he was using the closest words he could find to describe his experience. "This is what I'm going through - and it hurts even more than the nails." The sheer cliffs of the mind are dreadful places to hang.

My article was inspired, oddly enough, by the transparent honesty of four MPs in a recent debate. When, I wondered, did I last hear a prominent church leader talking about his struggle with mental health? Would someone who admitted the vulnerability even be considered for ministry in the church? And if not, what sort of message does that send to other Christians? The wrong sort. The Church is not the domain of the strong and satisfied; it's the haven for the hurting and the hungry. It's not the resort of the successful, but of the lost and limping. It has good news not for the righteous, but for washed-up sinners. It's meant to be a ragbag of mixed-up, messed-up men and women, not there in the first place because they need mending, but there because they need loving - and they are loved. And because Christ loves every member of his motley Church and gave himself for them, so they in turn are meant to accept and love each other in the same way, without conditions and without reservations.

Farewell

If you have a memory for such things, you may remember that in June last year our friends, Jean and John, put on a successful coffee morning in aid of the MNDA just down the road in Grove. It was a lovely sunny morning and a thoroughly cheerful time. I commented here, "As well as friends and neighbours, there were four of us there who had MND at various points of progression, Jean herself, David the herb farmer, Maria the shopper, and me. Three of us were out in the garden, and, yes, we did talk about our frustrations and the lessons we'd learned, but it wasn't a moany sort of conversation. It was companionable, and at times jokey."

David and Jean both died before Christmas. Last Wednesday night, Maria too died. Maria too was a delightful person - a devout Catholic with a sense of fun and hope. It's sad to realise I shan't be seeing her again, this side of the grave. The deaths of these three local friends and Jozanne thousands of miles away bring home to me the speed and harsh reality of the usual MND. I was talking about this recently with my physio and saying how I feel almost guilty to be among the "lucky" few with a very slow form. She gently pointed out the irrationality of the feeling! She also commented on the amazing qualities such as strength that the illness brings out in the family carers. That was certainly true of Eric, Maria's husband, and Camilla, her daughter. One of my other conclusions is that I would now put a "health warning" at the start of My Donkeybody, saying it's an account of PLS, a very gradual form of MND and far from typical, so that readers don't have unrealistic expectations raised for themselves or their relatives. (At the moment it's in the appendix.) So it's vale, Maria - farewell, till we meet again.

[from http://mydonkeybody.blogspot.com/]

A song of faith

The Bodyguard used to be one of my favourite films, not least because of the image of loving self-sacrifice it portrayed. As far as I remember it, Whitney Houston was the beautiful superstar whom former secret service agent Kevin Costner was hired to protect. After a stormy working and romantic relationship between them, the climax of the film comes at the Academy Awards when Costner takes the assassin's bullet and saves Houston's life. It of course is the film which rocketed Whitney Houston to stardom and made Dolly Parton's song, "I will always love you", a hit for her.

Another of her later theme songs was "I look to you":

As I lay me down

Heaven hear me now

I’m lost without a cause

After giving it my all

Winter’s storm has come

And darkened my sun

After all that I’ve been through

Who on earth can I turn to?

I look to you

I look to you

After all my strength is gone

In you I can be strong

I look to you

I look to you

And when melodies are gone

In you I hear a song 

I look to you

About to lose my breath

There’s no more fighting left

Sinking to rise no more

Searching for that open door

And every road I’ve taken

Led to my regret

And I don’t know if I’m going to make it

Nothing to do but lift my head

I look to you

I look to you

And when my strength is gone

In you I can be strong

I look to you

I look to you

And when melodies are gone

In you I hear a song

I look to you

My levees are broken, my walls have come

Crumbling down on me

The rain is falling, defeat is calling

I need you to set me free

Take me far away from the battle

I need you, shine on me

I look to you

I look to you

After all my strength is gone

In you I can be strong

I look to you

I look to you

And when melodies are gone

In you I hear a song

I look to you

I look to you

I look to you

Speaking about why the album has been named after the song “I Look to You” Houston said: “The last several years spiritually, this song says all I wanted to say. There are times in life when we go through certain situations - some not so good. You have to reach for a higher strength, you have to reach deep inside yourself, spend time with yourself to make some corrections that go beyond your own understanding and lean on a higher understanding; for me song puts it all in check. If I did not have my faith, I wouldn’t be as strong today.”

As is clear, she wasn't that strong even three years ago. And yet that song, with its repeated "I look to you", remains a remarkable expression of faith. Sometimes we have none of our resources left and all we can do is "look to you", or as Charles Wesley put it in his children's hymn, "Lamb of God, I look to thee." Although the circumstances of Whitney Houston's death might make some doubt her faith at the end, I suspect it's more an indication of the havoc that drink and drugs had wrought with her mind than her spiritual state. I am sure that God to whom she was looking never lost sight of her and never stopped loving her. I suspect she's now hearing the song she sang about: "In you I hear a song."

Will my rope break?

Today, when I was dressed, my carer asked me, "How has your illness affected your faith?" Oh, crikey! as Billy Bunter would have said. But it was a good question.

"Well," I replied, "it's got thinner. It's like a rope that was fat, with lots of strands, and now it's thin, but it's not less strong. I think it will still hold me. Before a lot of the strands were made by me - such as being useful, doing things for God, like being a vicar, praying. Now those strands are fraying. For example it find it very hard to pray."

"Really?"

"Yes. When I hear of good friends with terminal cancer, I really don't know what to ask for. I can't find the words to pray. I just feel upset."

"Isn't that the best kind of praying?" asks my carer, who doesn't go to church. "It's honest." He's not wrong. I continue musing. I agreed.

"Are you worried about the future?" he asks, meaning the inevitable shutting down of my muscles.  

"I don't think I am," I reply. "There's a difference between worrying what might happen and worrying about what will happen, isn't there? The first is understandable; the second is pointless.

"Although my strands have frayed, what's left are God's cords and I reckon they are utterly reliable. It's a bit like abseiling with a safety rope. Even if you let go of the brake rope, you're still safe. Of course," I admit, "I don't know what I'll feel when I can't speak or do anything for myself. Maybe I'll think differently then. Maybe my faith will give way."

"I don't think it will, somehow," is my carer's comment.

"I hope not. There's a great verse in the Bible: 'If we are faithless, He remains faithful' (2 Timothy 2.13). I might let go, but God won't, because that's his character. That's where my faith has got to now."

 Our conversation had to end as my legs were locking up and I needed to move towards the lift. So off I tottered hanging on to the rollator. Oh yes, and at some point I'd commented that my faith was less cerebral now, less a matter of ideas or doctrines. I didn't doubt God's existence or his love, but I didn't understand it at all. There's much more mystery about God and everything than I'd ever imagined. And somehow I'm comfortable with that too.

I love this picture from the National Geographic. I trust I'll be as free as that when I am left entirely suspended on the rope of God's love.

The question Why?

"It often seems that God will answer a simple need before a great one. We can pray for car parks, and we do, but we still unload our wheelchairs from our cars. Why is that?" Roderick Mallen commented a couple of days ago on this blog. Strangely enough, I'd been thinking about that sort of thing after Jane and I had been reading about Jesus healing the ten lepers. Because I have to say there are times when I wish he'd just do the same for my friends with MND and that sort of thing (and, yes, for me). It's really not a picnic, you know. At the moment, mine's not bad, but in the advanced stages.... 


I know I wrote about the question in I Choose Everything, and I should really be sorted. And on the whole I'm content to live with the mystery of it all. I don't believe there are easy answers or easy solutions. I really like the folksy song There is a reason, not least because I think Alison Krauss has a lovely voice, and because, in its simple-faith way, it represents someone struggling with the question "Why?" "There must be a reason for it all." I don't believe that hurtin' is designed in order to bring us to God, though it may have that effect. However in the middle of the song is the nugget where the answer lies hidden: "The love that shed His blood for all the world to see -
This must be the reason for it all". It doesn't explain it. It simply points to the cross as the proof that Love not only underpins everything, but also allows Himself to be impaled with us in pain.

I also like the song because, despite that glimpse of the mystery of love, just as it starts with a question, so it also ends with an admission of doubt. "I do believe but help my unbelief... I've been told
There is a reason for it all." Someone said, "Faith without doubt isn't faith." 


That really doesn't answer your question, Roderick, why God doesn't answer the really big ones. I guess you and I would willingly trade the parking spaces for our wheelchairs. But then I think of Bruce Almighty and the mess he made of answering prayers, and have to admit it's way beyond my competence. I have a feeling St Paul was right: "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known." I like the translation: "Now we see puzzling reflections in a mirror." I suppose that God is working out THE REALLY BIG ONE. Then we'll know, and be amazed. Till then it's a matter of hanging on in there - like He did.


I've seen hard times and I've been told
There isn't any wonder that I fall
Why do we suffer, crossing off the years
There must be a reason for it all

I've trusted in You, Jesus, to save me from my sin
Heaven is the place I call my home
But I keep on getting caught up in this world I'm living in
And Your voice it sometimes fades before I know

Hurtin' brings my heart to You, crying with my need
Depending on Your love to carry me
The love that shed His blood for all the world to see
This must be the reason for it all

Hurtin' brings my heart to You, a fortress in the storm
When what I wrap my heart around is gone
I give my heart so easily to the ruler of this world
When the one who loves me most will give me all

In all the things that cause me pain You give me eyes to see
I do believe but help my unbelief
I've seen hard times and I've been told
There is a reason for it all

Through the... narrow door

In Closer to God (that's the Bible reading notes than Jane and I use) yesterday there was particular good note, I thought, on Luke 13.18-30, with the heading "You have to choose". If you, like me, are too lazy to look up passages when they're mentioned, here it is!
'Jesus said therefore, "What is the kingdom of God like? And to what shall I compare it? It is like a grain of mustard seed that a man took and sowed in his garden, and it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches."
'And again he said, "To what shall I compare the kingdom of God? It is like leaven that a woman took and hid in three measures of flour, until it was all leavened."
'He went on his way through towns and villages, teaching and journeying toward Jerusalem. And someone said to him, "Lord, will those who are saved be few?" And he said to them, "Strive to enter through the narrow door. For many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able. When once the master of the house has risen and shut the door, and you begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, 'Lord, open to us,' then he will answer you, 'I do not know where you come from.' Then you will begin to say,'We ate and drank in your presence, and you taught in our streets.' But he will say, 'I tell you, I do not know where you come from. Depart from me, all you workers of evil!' In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, when you see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God but you yourselves cast out. And people will come from east and west, and from north and south, and recline at table in the kingdom of God. And behold, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last."'
Richard England commented:
"You know that awkward moment in a blossoming relationship where the girl (it's usually the girl) thinks to herself, 'Why won't he just ask me out?' Perhaps you've seen it among your friends or it's happened to you. What it indicates is that in a romantic relationship, it's not enough to hang out and say nice things to each other; you have to make a choice for a relationship to go forward.


"Perhaps one of the most deeply held errors about God is that, in the end, he will let everyone in. Today's reading shows us how mistaken that is. While God's kingdom will grow until it reaches every part of the planet, we still have to choose to enter it. Even those who could say to Jesus, 'Hey, we hung out with you, eating and drinking' - if they don't choose to follow him - will in the end hear him say, 'I don't know you.' We want to believe that being a good person is enough, but we're like the boy who hangs around the girl without realising that you have to make a deliberate choice. God desires a relationship, and a genuine relationship  cannot be coerced. It has to be chosen.


"This is a painful truth for many of us, but we cannot let ourselves be drawn into the mire of well-intentioned platitudes that claim 'it'll all work out'. Jesus transcends that. Love must be chosen."

That, he concludes, must make us pray for those we love who haven't chosen that Love. I think I'd add that that choice may be very tentative at first like fingers linking rather than hands firmly interlocked. The extraordinary thing about God is that he does not reject even the most hesitant approach, the tiniest seed of faith.

I quoted in full one of my favourite poems in I Choose Everything, which is George Herbert's Love, which begins: 
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
        If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";

         Love said, "You shall be he."...