"He makes wars to cease to the ends of the earth"

A pike man of the English Civil War Society stands over the scene of battle. Along with his comrades, he has just tried to make real for us the struggle, the fear, the life and death of conflict.

Where others fell, he somehow survived.

Maybe he will be greeted amongst survivors of his regiment. Stories will be told of his courage in the face of fearful odds. Some will speak of his quiet, gentle nature when not called upon to do battle, and how others took heart in his ability to take the higher road. Those about him will ask themselves if they would be able to walk his way; would they be able to carry themselves in such a dignified and honourable manner in the face of death.

Only days ago, the pike man, my brother, Gordon Hardy stepped up to the real challenge of a life and death struggle and passed into his glorious reward. I for one have marvelled at his steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds. At every meeting with him on this last part of his journey, I have been left wondering how he could carry on in the way he has, and have been challenged as to how I would stand in my day of battle. I can only pray for the grace he knew, for the heart-strength he lived in, the honesty and integrity that were his hallmarks, and his gentleness of spirit.

Two days before he lay down his arms, I was with him in the spirit. It was in the mist of an early autumn morning. We talked together and decided to walk together homeward after many years of battles faced and all survived. I helped him dress for the last time in the kit of battle. His shirt and breeches, his stockings and boots. Afterwards the breastplate and helmet, the belt and sword. He hefted his pike and I told him "No, at the trail will do, no more fighting. This is the march for home."

Together we walked into a brightening sunrise, clouds clearing and mist lifting. We talked of all the years together. Childhood to manhood, war and peace, heartaches and joys were all touched upon and all covered by the last words we spoke together face to face - "I love you."
The time came on the track when I knew that I would have to let him go. There was no parting of the ways, merely a knowledge that this last part of the journey was for him and him alone. He simply walked ahead.

As I write I fill with the same remarkable sense of loss and certainty - my loss, our loss, his certain future in the Son-rise.

A day later, Gordon died, but just before (and with no knowledge of the latest situation) I was again with him in the spirit. We lay together. We took heart in the certain knowledge that Jesus was with us.

"He's safe," I said. "His arms are under us now," and there was a sense of falling through the bed, both of us held secure, but in that child in a dad's arms way.

This is not re-enactment, not some show for the public. This is the real thing. It has all the noise and clamour of battle, all the unsettling quiet that falls across the field when the final shot has been fired and the last moans and cries have faded away.

In all the madness of loss there is the sanity of certainty.

If you knew him, you would salute him:

Gordon Hardy, January 24, 1956 - October 14 2009

Saving the planet...

I was saving the planet last week.

T’was evening, and I was gainfully employed in the upstairs office (Mahjong Matching Pairs actually.) I heard the dulcet tones of Mrs Goodwife, as she called me to be about her business.

I headed off downstairs with the lights out – carbon footprint, global warming, etc. – and anyway I know my own house don’t-cha-know?

Fully confident in my nocturnal wanderings, and striding out manfully to do my loved one’s bidding, I turned right for the stairs and walked into the bathroom door. (It has truly always been there, just to the right and just before the top of the stairs.)   

View of unlit Bathroom door

     Bathroom Door (lit)

“Ow!” was my watchword. (At this point you must understand that it is only when I am quiet that Mrs de Moi becomes overly concerned. Noise is the norm, apparently, where I am concerned.)

I duly removed myself from the doorframe and continued to help save the planet by walking down the stairs and, still in the dark, missed the last two steps.

Wife’s concern was immediate. “Oh! No!...Mercy me!...Oh Pete!...just look…You’ve gone and dripped blood on the carpet!”

First Aid was the order of the day. A piece of kitchen roll was thrust into my hand to stop further damage to the floor covering, and time was well spent clearing up the damage. (There is something in modern medical emergency thinking called the “Golden Hour” – treat a victim in the first hour and there is a much greater survival rate.)

Eventually, I was inspected at close quarters. “That could be a stitch or two” said my resident nurse. “It’s the Accident and Emergency Department for you my boy.”

I could not contain my excitement as I anticipated stitches in the head, as well as my new found street cred with difficult young men I meet in educational establishments. I had to call my daughter on the way to share my news. She just asked to speak to her mum and said she was sorry for her. (Is it just me, or are women really wired up differently to men?)

Well, to cut a long story short, the next four hours were spoken for so to speak. I was smacked on the hand at regular intervals and scolded for trying to make the cut more dramatic by poking at it. I was a ‘Non-urgent’ case, would not be stitched, merely glued and, as Mrs Wife pointed out it had cost us £4:00 for travel and parking, and £2:00 for snacks (did I mention  the carbon footprint involved in the journey and in keeping a whole hospital on standby for my visit?)

Cost of lighting the landing and stairs for two minutes – 0.16p; cost of putting things right £6:00. You do the maths (or “math” if you happen to be one of our North American cousins.)

Of course, explaining the facial damage was not easy. I carried a note for some days in order to keep my story straight.

Saving the planet, huh?

Next morning I read a nice bit of a book called Isaiah. God gets to talk in it some. He says that my thoughts are below His level, and my actions seem to keep in step with my thoughts.

The aim seems good, it’s just worth doing that old ‘think before you jump’ routine.

Much love

Pete 

prism my ism...

I had my eyes tested the other day.

I know that they are not quite the full picnic.

 

I was paying particular attention to the astigmatism (or should that be astigmatisms?) Yup, one for each eye folks!

 

Apparently the left wanders upwards (see diagram attached) whilst the right veers to the right somewhat.The thingymabob used by the optician should have red lines passing throught the point of light in the centre of the black box. My starting point for each eye is as shown above.

The great thing is, she just like pushed a  button and said, "Is this better than this?"

I was interregated thus until finally both eyes had the line on the spot.

I was put in mind of all my funny little 'isms'. Seeing off-field right, above the spot left etc, etc, etc.

It's like Jesus has been busy sticking in prisms to pull my view into line with his. It's been a life-time's work and it's not done yet.

 

Then again, I've been wearing specs since I was six years old and the optician says she's looking forward to a return visit in a couple of years time. (With the over-rider that I can pop back in should I feel the need.)

I guess prisming the ism ain't over 'till it's over...

PS: note the glue spot and scarring over left eye - more next time under the title "Saving the Planet".

clouds and glory

As far as I know, my uncle Ernie hit the headlines twice.

 In 1936, he was fined heavily (and rightly so) for doing serious damage to a pit pony with a pit prop.

 “You are very fortunate not to be going to prison”, said the Beak.

 Then, in May 1956, as a Battery Quartermaster Sergeant with the Royal Artillery he gets the British Empire Medal (letter from the Queen, etc, etc.) for services rendered in the Far East.

 So, Ernie leaves the village under a cloud and returns covered in honour!

 Believe it or not, that’s the whole Gospel story. Come to Jesus under a cloud, take him at his word and come out covered in glory.

 Early season’s greetings to one and all! (Especially those in the clouds)

Fire Proof...

I've got this friend right. 

A friend for years OK. 

He comes out with just some of the best stuff!

He was chatting to a guy who runs a crematorium. 

The crematorium man was talking about the realities of disposing of the human shell when it's run its course. Obviously it makes you think.

Into the middle of this conversation my mate says "The human spirit is fire proof."

When he told me this, I absolutely loved it. Couldn't get it out of my mind. FIRE PROOF!

'See, I've been reading all sorts of challenging stuff lately. Stuff that has been going down to the root of how I live, how I think. The fact is, I have been following Jesus for some 37 years. At times I've been regarded as radical. At times I've thought of myself as a close relation to the traditional English suet dumpling - a bit thick, a little on the heavy side, stodgy maybe, and very well boiled. The truth of the matter is that this is a journey and it has its ups and downs. Destination certain, mode of travel interesting! 

During times like these, it's great to hear again that the spirit is FIRE PROOF. 

I guess we could relate it to a trip on the space shuttle. Re-entry is the really interesting bit. If you're going to live to tell the tale of all your adventures, you'd better just hope they got those little tiles on the outside right! All kinds of bits and pieces will be burned off during re-entry, it's what's left that will matter and will really tell the tale.

So folks, during this particular part of the journey, it came as a reassuring reminder from my mate, "The human spirit is fire proof."

Good thing too, I say.

Love

Pete

They call him Mellow Yellow. Quite rightly.

Laugh!? We all fell off our corporate chair!

Once again I have become the object of derision amongst family and friends and the cause of mirth for any stranger passing.

Yes, dear ones, I am like a letter publicly read by all. Now, I share myself with the virtual world.

We all know that topping up the water in your flower vases is not a straightforward affair. It’s so easy to find the life-giving liquid dribbling down the side of the container, or directing itself along the leaves and pooling on the newly polished tabletop and eventually cascading to the floor.

And so it was that I found myself amongst the Longiflora Lilies. Moving in closely to avoid overspill, I directed the jug to the best possible spot. I carried with me the cloth of mopping (at the same time working the said cloth of mopping into a state of redundancy by my careful orchestration of jug, vase, flowers and water.)

Not a drop, ladies and gentlemen, not a single drop went anywhere but into the vase!

Oh the ecstasy! The outpouring of self-congratulation as I stood back to admire the work of my hands! See the dryness of tabletop and floor! Feel the cloth of mopping unused and available for future and immediate use (by one, no doubt less careful than myself.) Sense the joy of thirsty stems reborn through water, oh my word! Anticipate with mounting excitement the approbation of the lovely wife as she realizes that man is capable of such homely activity as topping up the flowers!

And so we fast forward to the following morning.

Hair washed and body prepared for the new day, our heroic bloom dowser casts a critical eye over his morning’s toilet before unleashing himself upon the world.

What is this he sees?

Has his hair – previously silvered by the ravages of time – been touched miraculously in the night? What are these strange and wonderful straw-like tints? How now the move from aging man-about-town to blond bombshell? Is this a “Stars in their eyes” home production?

“Yes, Matthew, tonight I am going to be…STING!”

Nope. It’s simply a case of pride coming before the fall. Getting close up and personal with Longiflora means coming into close proximity to some of the most powerful pollen known to man. Witness the bright yellow of its hue! Experience now for yourself the tenacity with which it bonds to any passing scalp! Behold the new man.

Oh brave new world that hath such creatures in it.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere waiting to get out. More later.

Love
The Artist Formerly Known as Pete

Lost? What me? Lost? How do you mean, lost?

I love that God specialises in finding things! (My diary just returned after three weeks of heart pounding uncertainty.)

There are a lot of spooky ideas circulating around the “I was lost but Jesus found me” idea. I’ve concluded that the lost-ness is the confusion, the mess I make of stuff, the sense of “How was it I ended up here? I didn’t set out to get here! But here I am anyway!”

I am enjoying the thought that Jesus didn’t die on the cross to make us Christians, or live to show us how to be good Christians either.

No. I think that the whole show was about getting us back in touch with our Father ( the one in heaven) so that he could get his arms around us, settle us down and unpick the deep-seated loss lurking in all of us.

Now, where did I put my keys?

Highest of all possible regards

Pete