Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18
They were more like the scratches of a mother hen in the loose soil, the barely legible scrawl of her scrawny hand. She had taken the piece of paper out of my hand in response to a question I had just asked and the ball-point in her small hand quivered as she held on to it, a little too tightly.
This lovely eighty-something year old lady was gaunt and unkempt, her tousled silver-gray hair framing a pale and wrinkled face with jutting cheek bones. It was clear to anyone who cared to look that she had once upon a time been quite the stunner. Her beautifully angled face would most certainly have turned a few heads in her day. Her arms must have been strong and her feet nimble. But those days were far long gone. And today, while she sat with me, in a hospital bed, I wondered how much of her life gone by she could remember. Not very much, I presume. Because the reason I was sat there, interviewing her with a string of statements I had prefaced as “silly questions”, was that the Consultant, on the rounds the day before had described her as “increasingly confused.”
I was given the rather pleasant task of conducting a mini-mental state examination on this lady in order to, if you will allow it, find out just how with it she really was. “Do you know where you are now?”, “What month of the year is it?” I asked her in turn.
She would score a respectable eleven out of thirty, but she got full marks for her response to my question, “would you please write a sentence for me? Any sentence will do.” As she took the pen from my hand and began to write I honestly did not expect her to come up with anything. What a pleasant surprise, then, when I noticed she was trying her darnedest to make out a letter “T”. Well now, I thought, perhaps there is something to hope for - a little comprehension to hang onto.
Next came an “h”. What now? Hmmm... Perhaps “The quick brown fox...?”
But then, “a”, each letter taking five or more seconds to carve out, her handwriting more like a chisel in granite than an ink pen on paper.
“T-h-a-n-k ...” It was by now obvious where this was going, but as I smiled, I let her finish. It might take me five minutes to get this sentence out of her but I would let her speak her piece.
In the end the words, “Thank you very much” had been not so much written as cajoled out of the pen but how very pleased I was. Not so much that her gratitude was towards me, indeed it most likely was not because I had done nothing deserving of thanks, but that her “any” sentence would be one of thankfulness. What did she have to be grateful for? Her beauty had been taken from her. And then her strength. And even now, in the twilight of her days, she could feel her very life ebbing away. But as ever, the one phrase she could muster was “thank you very much.”
I smiled as I took the paper and pen from her hands and leant in close to whisper to her, “No, Thank You.” She had given me a gift because I had caught a glimpse of joy within her suffering body, of beauty yet residing within, of gratefulness for a full life even when that life was at its end.
Indeed, everyday, in every moment, there’s always a reason to say thanks. Look around you now and see what God has done for you. And then say “Thank you very much”.
With love, Doosuur
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, April 2, 2010
Beat, Beat
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5 (NIV)
Beat, beat.
And her heart would tear, as she gazed upon the cross through watering eyes.
Hers were the arms that rocked him to sleep, hers the voice that sang in his ear.
Her precious son was trussed up on wooden beams like a hardened criminal -
mocked, battered, beaten and scourged.
Oh how she longed to hold him once again,
to cradle his head close to hear heart and wipe away his tears.
What he had done to deserve this she could not tell
for he had spoken love, he had preached forgiveness and he had lived service
Surely there was an answer, surely another way
But the heavens were silent. No answer today.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And their little hearts raced, as the children ran around at the foot of the cross.
They chased each other up and down the hillside, oblivious that their Lord was crucified.
For them he had come, or so he said,
and like no one before he had showed them kindness.
One of them turned and shielded his eyes against the morning sun as he squinted to see,
Was that not “The Man”, he wondered, whom he had boasted to his friends about?
For a few weeks earlier the one they called “Rabbi”
had held him close and comforted him and had told his disciples to look after him1
It was a special moment, the best of his life.
But that was a few days back and he could not be sure right now,
for the blood and the grime had sullied his face.
“Tag, you’re ‘It’”, the other children cried,
and off he went again, chasing after them.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he tossed and turned as the words kept ringing in his ears:
“What is truth?” he had asked the prisoner and now, finally, he knew that he knew.
Had his wife not warned him, “Pilate, have nothing to do with that righteous man”?
Had his voice not shaken as he pronounced Barabbas free?2
But now it was too late and the Truth was on a cross
and all the Governor could do was toss and turn.
Beat, beat.
Beat, Beat.
And his heart skipped one,
as blood drained from the soldier’s face.
“Truly this was the Son of God”, his confession,3
as his charge hung helpless on the cruel cross.
He had joined in the laughing, the mocking and the spitting.
He had crowned the prisoner with thorns, thinking it was only jest.
But now as creation rebelled he knew at once:
Truly this was the Son of God, and his heart skipped again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he wished it would stop,
for his heart kept him alive while he wished it would not.
His lips had denied his Master and friend
and he had lied to a servant girl.
The look on His face had said it all,
when the Master had glanced at him while the cock crowed.4
In His eyes he saw forgiveness, not anger or judgement,
and yet the burden of guilt was too much to bear.
Oh how he wished he could take back his words
for Jesus had always been there for him.
He had healed his mother, he had saved his brother.
He had changed his life and taught him to live better
But here and now, all that seemed lost.
And he bowed his head and wept again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And His heart was full of love
for the people who had gathered round.
As he looked around at the world beneath,
He knew it was finished and salvation was won.
“John, here’s your mother”, he told his best friend,
who cradled and comforted His mom as she cried.5
The calls of the children came to his ears
and He smiled as he recalled the little boy’s surprise.
“Let the children come!”, He had insisted,6
for they were precious to Him and He loved them so much.
And every word He had heard he recalled,
every touch, every scent.
His experience of mortality was close to an end
but he would need to remember to represent Man after death.
Pilate, the Centurion and his friend Peter were not too far gone
if they could but open their eyes and see -
He was the Way, the Truth and the Life
and this was the moment for which He came.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
“It is finished!” He cried, when he came to the end7
A cry of victory, the shout of a King.
The lamb had died, the pain was finished
Sin had been conquered and salvation was won.
Beat, beat.
And it beat no more.
With love, Doosuur.
Scripture references:
1Mark 9:36,37; 2Matthew 27:15-26; 3Matthew 27:54; 4Luke 22:54-62; 5John 19:25-27; 6Mark 10:14; 7John 19:30
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5 (NIV)
Beat, beat.
And her heart would tear, as she gazed upon the cross through watering eyes.
Hers were the arms that rocked him to sleep, hers the voice that sang in his ear.
Her precious son was trussed up on wooden beams like a hardened criminal -
mocked, battered, beaten and scourged.
Oh how she longed to hold him once again,
to cradle his head close to hear heart and wipe away his tears.
What he had done to deserve this she could not tell
for he had spoken love, he had preached forgiveness and he had lived service
Surely there was an answer, surely another way
But the heavens were silent. No answer today.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And their little hearts raced, as the children ran around at the foot of the cross.
They chased each other up and down the hillside, oblivious that their Lord was crucified.
For them he had come, or so he said,
and like no one before he had showed them kindness.
One of them turned and shielded his eyes against the morning sun as he squinted to see,
Was that not “The Man”, he wondered, whom he had boasted to his friends about?
For a few weeks earlier the one they called “Rabbi”
had held him close and comforted him and had told his disciples to look after him1
It was a special moment, the best of his life.
But that was a few days back and he could not be sure right now,
for the blood and the grime had sullied his face.
“Tag, you’re ‘It’”, the other children cried,
and off he went again, chasing after them.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he tossed and turned as the words kept ringing in his ears:
“What is truth?” he had asked the prisoner and now, finally, he knew that he knew.
Had his wife not warned him, “Pilate, have nothing to do with that righteous man”?
Had his voice not shaken as he pronounced Barabbas free?2
But now it was too late and the Truth was on a cross
and all the Governor could do was toss and turn.
Beat, beat.
Beat, Beat.
And his heart skipped one,
as blood drained from the soldier’s face.
“Truly this was the Son of God”, his confession,3
as his charge hung helpless on the cruel cross.
He had joined in the laughing, the mocking and the spitting.
He had crowned the prisoner with thorns, thinking it was only jest.
But now as creation rebelled he knew at once:
Truly this was the Son of God, and his heart skipped again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he wished it would stop,
for his heart kept him alive while he wished it would not.
His lips had denied his Master and friend
and he had lied to a servant girl.
The look on His face had said it all,
when the Master had glanced at him while the cock crowed.4
In His eyes he saw forgiveness, not anger or judgement,
and yet the burden of guilt was too much to bear.
Oh how he wished he could take back his words
for Jesus had always been there for him.
He had healed his mother, he had saved his brother.
He had changed his life and taught him to live better
But here and now, all that seemed lost.
And he bowed his head and wept again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And His heart was full of love
for the people who had gathered round.
As he looked around at the world beneath,
He knew it was finished and salvation was won.
“John, here’s your mother”, he told his best friend,
who cradled and comforted His mom as she cried.5
The calls of the children came to his ears
and He smiled as he recalled the little boy’s surprise.
“Let the children come!”, He had insisted,6
for they were precious to Him and He loved them so much.
And every word He had heard he recalled,
every touch, every scent.
His experience of mortality was close to an end
but he would need to remember to represent Man after death.
Pilate, the Centurion and his friend Peter were not too far gone
if they could but open their eyes and see -
He was the Way, the Truth and the Life
and this was the moment for which He came.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
“It is finished!” He cried, when he came to the end7
A cry of victory, the shout of a King.
The lamb had died, the pain was finished
Sin had been conquered and salvation was won.
Beat, beat.
And it beat no more.
With love, Doosuur.
Scripture references:
1Mark 9:36,37; 2Matthew 27:15-26; 3Matthew 27:54; 4Luke 22:54-62; 5John 19:25-27; 6Mark 10:14; 7John 19:30
Monday, March 22, 2010
"Can You Spare Me a Pound?"
And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.
Ephesians 4:32
I was loitering just outside of Liverpool Street station this afternoon, taking in the concrete skyline of London’s business district and enjoying the sounds of leisurely weekenders out for a little bit of Sunday sun when I caught the glimpse of a kindly looking middle-aged woman standing next to me. She seemed to have a question in her eyes but after a moment’s hesitation she turned away and I moved on.
“Can you spare me a pound?”, she asked from behind me, and I turned to look at her once again, full in the face. Her’s were warm eyes and she had a gentle face and my heart was drawn towards her. It was a simple enough request. No long-winded tales of a difficult journey or no food on the table. Simple and straightforward.
“I don’t think I have any change,” I said, as I rummaged through my jacket pockets. “Oh, here’s one,” as I plopped the brass into her chubby palm. I nodded my goodbye and sauntered off to find a place to sit. I had a lot of time to kill so I made it all the way to the back of the station before I found a convenient park bench to plunk down and soak in the early spring sun - a welcome relief after months of gray skies and cold drafts. I watched the pigeons flutter about after bread crumbs as amorous couples strolled by hand-in-hand, laughing and snuggling, oblivious to the world around them.
Presently I noticed someone walking towards me, smoldering cigarette in hand. It was the same kindly woman whom I had met a short half-hour before. She came over and sat down right next to me, obviously not recognizing me from our brief encounter. I smiled to myself as I looked away, half expecting her to say something. But she kept silent, taking long drafts and shortening the stick with every breath. “What a waste” I thought, as I considered what employ my hard-earned pound had been put to.
Soon enough a disheveled man walked along, jingling a few spare coins in a calloused hand. He stopped and looked at both of us without saying a word. “Would you like some money?” my seat mate ventured. “Yes,” he answered. I froze, half expecting her to point in my direction and say “ask him.” Instead, she replied, “I’m sorry but I have none”, as she turned her face away (not so much with disdain as with nothing further to offer).
There may be few parallels but the story Jesus told of the unmerciful servant (read Matthew 18 for the full account) came straight to mind. In it Jesus tells of a servant, severely indebted to his king for a lifetime of wages and facing imminent incarceration. When he pleads the master cancels the debt and sets him free but no sooner is he out of the king’s court that he accosts his fellow servant, who owes him peanuts by comparison, and locks him up until he should repay. The king hears of this and the wicked servant gets what’s coming to him. The morale of the story as told by Jesus is that we can expect the same treatment we mete out to others from our Heavenly Father. In his words, “This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive each other from the heart.”
A similar principle is repeated several times in Scripture such as where the Lord enunciates, concerning giving (Luke 6:38) and judging (Matthew 7:1,2) “with the measure you use it will be measured to you.” We too, worldly as we are, have enshrined this same concept in the so-called Golden Rule - “Do unto others as you will have them do unto you.”
So ask yourself, have you received mercy? Show mercy. Have you experienced love? Give love. Have you enjoyed kindness, graciousness, forgiveness, compassion, friendliness? Do not hold back. Give, give, and give again. No-one puts it better than Paul when he encourages the Ephesians, “And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32, NKJV, italics mine).
With love,
Doosuur.
Ephesians 4:32
I was loitering just outside of Liverpool Street station this afternoon, taking in the concrete skyline of London’s business district and enjoying the sounds of leisurely weekenders out for a little bit of Sunday sun when I caught the glimpse of a kindly looking middle-aged woman standing next to me. She seemed to have a question in her eyes but after a moment’s hesitation she turned away and I moved on.
“Can you spare me a pound?”, she asked from behind me, and I turned to look at her once again, full in the face. Her’s were warm eyes and she had a gentle face and my heart was drawn towards her. It was a simple enough request. No long-winded tales of a difficult journey or no food on the table. Simple and straightforward.
“I don’t think I have any change,” I said, as I rummaged through my jacket pockets. “Oh, here’s one,” as I plopped the brass into her chubby palm. I nodded my goodbye and sauntered off to find a place to sit. I had a lot of time to kill so I made it all the way to the back of the station before I found a convenient park bench to plunk down and soak in the early spring sun - a welcome relief after months of gray skies and cold drafts. I watched the pigeons flutter about after bread crumbs as amorous couples strolled by hand-in-hand, laughing and snuggling, oblivious to the world around them.
Presently I noticed someone walking towards me, smoldering cigarette in hand. It was the same kindly woman whom I had met a short half-hour before. She came over and sat down right next to me, obviously not recognizing me from our brief encounter. I smiled to myself as I looked away, half expecting her to say something. But she kept silent, taking long drafts and shortening the stick with every breath. “What a waste” I thought, as I considered what employ my hard-earned pound had been put to.
Soon enough a disheveled man walked along, jingling a few spare coins in a calloused hand. He stopped and looked at both of us without saying a word. “Would you like some money?” my seat mate ventured. “Yes,” he answered. I froze, half expecting her to point in my direction and say “ask him.” Instead, she replied, “I’m sorry but I have none”, as she turned her face away (not so much with disdain as with nothing further to offer).
There may be few parallels but the story Jesus told of the unmerciful servant (read Matthew 18 for the full account) came straight to mind. In it Jesus tells of a servant, severely indebted to his king for a lifetime of wages and facing imminent incarceration. When he pleads the master cancels the debt and sets him free but no sooner is he out of the king’s court that he accosts his fellow servant, who owes him peanuts by comparison, and locks him up until he should repay. The king hears of this and the wicked servant gets what’s coming to him. The morale of the story as told by Jesus is that we can expect the same treatment we mete out to others from our Heavenly Father. In his words, “This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive each other from the heart.”
A similar principle is repeated several times in Scripture such as where the Lord enunciates, concerning giving (Luke 6:38) and judging (Matthew 7:1,2) “with the measure you use it will be measured to you.” We too, worldly as we are, have enshrined this same concept in the so-called Golden Rule - “Do unto others as you will have them do unto you.”
So ask yourself, have you received mercy? Show mercy. Have you experienced love? Give love. Have you enjoyed kindness, graciousness, forgiveness, compassion, friendliness? Do not hold back. Give, give, and give again. No-one puts it better than Paul when he encourages the Ephesians, “And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32, NKJV, italics mine).
With love,
Doosuur.
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