Who is my neighbour?

Today I feel a bit down. Someone I didn't know, hardly ever spoke to, and only ever saw for a maximum of 40 seconds a day has died ... and yet I feel like I've lost a friend. A beggar, whose name I never even found out, who would sit at the entrance to the Metro that I take every morning on my way to work, will be there no more. Every day, hundreds of commuters in the Rat Race to get to work, would pass him by without so much as even a glance. In fact, most people actually would hide behind someone else and try and pass by as far away from where he sat, in order to avoid having to drop some money in his little cardboard box.

Madrid's sub-zero wintery mornings make it difficult enough to get out of a bed that has an electric blanket (without groaning and complaining), and yet, there he sat on a strip of cardboard on a freezing slab of concrete, waiting for someone to have mercy and do a random act of kindness. I'm always reluctant to just give money. I'm never sure if it's going to be spent on drugs or alcohol, so I prefer to rather give something to eat or drink. He got both: in the form of a daily hot cup of coffee and croissant - and once I let him stick his finger in my tub of Nivea to moisturise his chapped and cracked hands, but his finger left black smear as he scooped, so I let him have the tub too - but I digress. On the odd occasion, that the line for coffee was too long, (i.e. one person in front of me), and I didn't have 5 minutes to spare, (i.e. no patience), I would give him 2 euros (10 times the going rate from others), and accompany it with a lecture about how he was not to buy drugs or alcohol, but rather some fruit or nuts because they were highly nutritious and rich in energy.

Well now, sadly, my unnamed friend passed away on Wednesday, 29 January 2014, at an unknown hour in a frigid alleyway, and I wonder if any one else, other than me cares. According to the barman at the cafeteria where I bought the coffee, unless he had an insurance policy, his body will be buried in a communal unmarked grave, 'sin sagrado' (which means without a funeral service/mass or whatever), along with anybody else who died in similar circumstances. And that makes me sad.

It reminds me of the account in Scripture, where a teacher of the law, tried to test Jesus by asking Him what he had to do in order to inherit eternal life (Lk. 10:25-37). As a pharisee, a self-proclaimed elitist even amongst his own people, the man wanted to know just who exactly could and should be considered as a 'neighbour' to him. Jesus responded with what we know as the parable of the Good Samaritan - well worth a re-read if you haven't done so in a while. It's Jesus' closing comment, like so many of His other comments, that has affected me greatly: "Go and do likewise." Giving a couple cents, euros or rands is not doing likewise. In the parable, the Samaritan 1) treated and bandaged the injured man's wounds, 2) put him on his own donkey, 3) personally took him to an inn and 4) stayed the night nursing him, and only on the next next day when leaving, took out the money, that we so quickly (or never) drop into the box, in order to pay the inn-keeper. How we have lost sight of what true mercy, generosity and caring actually is.

I know we can't eradicate all poverty in the world, and that's not what I'm trying to say, but each one of us, if we just extend ourselves a little bit more, can do something extra for someone else and try and make their life a little better. This man, that I hardly knew, will never get a funeral, a eulogy or be honoured, but perhaps in his honour, we can do something post humus to correct that. We can make the effort to show true mercy, genuine generosity and godly compassion to someone we maybe walk past every day ... and ask their name.

To my unnamed friend, rest in peace.

Pride goeth before ...

This is a blog that I started in May and just never got round to finishing off. Sorry for the delay.

Spring in the Northern Hemisphere not only has all the sparrows plucking and preening themselves to look good, but the same could be said of almost everybody at this time of year. Code named 'Operation Beach Body', which is kind of ironic as Madrid is miles away from any beach, sees everyone making concerted efforts to get themselves in ship-shape for the approaching summer season by dieting, hitting the gym, or doing whatever it takes to lose those extra kilos of winter lard. That included me. Only with me, as with almost everything that happens to me, life was about to teach me another lesson, or better said, remind me of one I should have known well. And I was about to learn it the hard way!

I figured I'd start my exercise regime with a medium intensity boxercise class to ease myself back into the game, before taking on the heavy weights, no pun intended, in the weight section. There were five of us in the aerobics hall: three women, of which two were standing in front of the mirror putting lipstick on - need I say any more; one outrageously tall and gangly guy who looked like he'd lived his life on a diet of growth hormones and I immediately nicknamed him 'Skinny Malinky Long Legs'; and myself. I looked at him pitifully and smiled confidently to myself thinking that this was going to be a breeze. There was no way that a signal from his brain to his arms and legs could travel faster than my moves, and even if it did, he didn't strike me as the type who have what we call 'co-ordination'. I was sure to assert my dominance. It was during that brief moment of smug, self-satisfaction, knowing that I was going to be the best in the class, that the other class participants entered. Another two women that I can only describe as Amazons plucked out of the pages of Greek Mythology and translated into aerobics hall, and four other guys that looked like they'd stepped off the movie set of Fight Club, replete with shin high boxing boots, those shiny, silky knee length boxing pants, white vests that clung like Cling-Wrap to already perfectly tight, sculptured torsos, and all bore tattoos of ethnic design all over them. And then there was me. Me wearing bootlegged tracksuit pants and an ancient t-shirt, faded from over use and completely stretched out of shape to the point where one sleeve hung below my elbow.

Surreptitiously, I skulked my way to the back of the room, to be near to Skinny Malinks, while Rocky, Rambo and the Amazons indulged in a little shadow boxing, bopping and weaving the imaginary blows from their imaginary opponents in an effort to warm up. I on the other hand, tactfully rotated my head from side to side, and swung my arms backwards and forwards at my side. At the instructor's command, we all picked up some skipping ropes from a box in the corner, took up our positions and awaited the whistle to begin. My first attempt at skipping had me jump too soon - the anticipation of it all got the better of me - and my feet landed as the rope came down in front of my knees. My second attempt had me jump too early and too late. I can't work out which it was, but the rope somehow ended up between my legs. On my third attempt I took to it like a fish to water, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, all I saw was the perfect picture of grace and agility. That was until I looked at the Rockies, Rambos and Amazons and realised that not only did I look like I was skipping in slow motion, but my style of skipping looked more like I was running the hurdles or jumping over unseen boulders in my path, while their feet barely seemed to leave the ground. To make things worse, for every one skip I did, they seemed to do ten. Skinny Malinks was faring no better than me, and every time he swung the rope over his head it skimmed the ceiling with a ticking sound and came wobbling distortedly down to his feet. His movements reminded me remotely of a giraffe at full gallop, and again looked at him pitifully. The instructor's whistle signaled the end of our 5 minute warm up, which to me felt like an eternity. Our heart rates were supposed to be around 100-120 beats per minute, but mine I was sure was closer to 180. It felt like with all the jumping my heart had somehow got lodged in the back of my neck. Not only could I feel every throb but I could hear it too.

Next, we were placed in pairs to start the boxing circuit. To my horror the instructor separated Skinny Malinks and I, and teamed me up with Rocky and him up with Rambo. My first station was that silly little teardrop ball thingy doo-dab that dangles in front of you about face height. The thing you're supposed to rhythmically punch. Rocky went first to show me how it was done. He was poetry in motion. His hands moving so fast they were a blur. I on the other hand, was completely unable to make any connection with the ball - physically or otherwise. It was as if the ball had a mind of its own and was determined to dodge my gloves. Nothing gave me more satisfaction than abandoning that station for the next one: the kick bag. Again Rocky led the way by going first, telling me to stand behind the bag and stabilise it by leaning into it with a bear hug. His first kick left me slightly winded. Truthfully, it felt like the bag didn't even exist, so I felt it safer to turn slightly sideways and stabilise it with my hip. Once he was done, there was a decisive donga in the place where his repeated blows had struck. When my turn came, he explained to me how I was to kick and with which part of my shin was to connect with the bag. I kicked with all my might. Repeatedly, energetically, determinedly, hoping that he too was being slightly winded behind the bag, but my kicks hardly budged him or the bag and didn't even leave a dent in the fabric. It just felt like my shins were going to snap in half every time they made contact with the bag.

Station number three was a breeze. Sit ups, push ups and sprinting on the spot. I achieved all targets within the given time limits resurrecting my confidence levels and sending them soaring to new heights. Now, trickles of sweat were cascading down my face and back. Station number four was going to be the leveler - literally. Donning what looked like over-sized padded oven gloves and a padded gladiator helmet, I was now going to be the target of Rocky's potent blows. The idea, apparently, is to use the gloves to fend and push away any and all blows from your opponent. All was going well for about the first 45 seconds, until my mind wandered and I thought to myself, 'why the helmet?' It hadn't occurred to me, chiefly because it hadn't been explained to me, that blows could also come in the form of kicks. It was while wondering why I had to wear the helmet, that Rocky decided to change tactics and launch a kick. A kick so powerful and hard, that when it connected with my glove, it made me punch myself in the face and knock myself to the ground. Lying on the floor, I couldn't help by wonder if I was knocked out. Had Rocky knocked me out, or would I have to bare the shame of having technically knocked myself out with my own hand? When would the world go black around me? Right now it just looked like opening your eyes underwater without wearing goggles. With the music sounding soft and dull like it was coming from another room way down the end of a long corridor, I remember feeling somewhat serene and at peace looking at the world horizontally from the floor. My serenity was soon shattered when my blurred vision cleared and an assortment of boxing boots and trainers came into view inches away from my nose. I obviously had incurred no brain damage, as I distinctly remember thinking to myself that I hoped none of them had recently stepped in any dog poo on the pavements; and that the faces leering in over mine and repeatedly asking me if I was okay had no bad breath.

Finally, sitting upright, I began to regain my composure and realised that my left eye was slightly swollen and would soon develop a mild 'shiner' as they say. I looked around at the faces still leering in over my head, and tried to assure everyone that I was fine and everything was okay. This time, in a reversal of roles, there was Skinny Malinks looking pitifully down at me, and probably rightly so.

Now, you don't have to go knock yourself out like I did. You can take a page out of my book and remind yourself of one of life's vital lessons: 'Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall' - Proverbs 16:18. It's always best to think of yourself more soberly. Esteem others as better than yourself, and always watch out for life's round house kick!

'With a nick nack paddy-whack, give that kid a smack...'

Jesus loves the little children. All the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white. They are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world. Well, I don't! The only things red and yellow, black and white that I like are jelly babies. And even those I always eat by biting the head off first. This was not the idea that I had in mind for a blog, but sometimes, life's situations dictate otherwise. Allow me to explain.

It's 08:30 on this beautiful morning, on this even more beautiful island of Menorca, and I should be the only one awake and out and about. So I've come to this breakfast café, to read my Bible and get inspired to write. I am - well, was - the only person in this café. It was quiet, peaceful and serene. That was, of course, until Mommy and Mommy's Precious Princess arrived. Now there must be around 30 tables in this place, all of which are empty, and yet they have chosen the table next me. The closest table next to me. Mommy is carrying a bag that looks like a wheat sack, and is filled to overflowing with every kind of imaginable inflatable pool toy, that Mommy's Precious Princess is now emptying out on the floor all around my feet.
"Good morning!" Mommy said to me in that typical sing-sing manner.
"Morning." I strained back through tightly pursed lips trying to focus on reading the same line for the third or fourth time while kicking what looked like an inflatable book back into their territory.
"Angel, put your toys over here please. We don't want to bother the man."
"Too late." I thought to myself.
"I want to play here." she replied.
"What do you want for breakfast? Bacon and eggs?" Mommy asked.
"I want a milkshake."
"It's too early for a milkshake. What about some egg on toast? Would that be nice?"
"I want a hamburger." Angel replied, hitting my shins with the tail of her blow up orca.
After many suggestions and many refusals, the waiter finally said he'd come back when they'd made up their minds.
"No, no. We'll just have 2 bacon and eggs on toast." Mommy finally said.
"But I want a waffle," came Princess's reply from under the table as she continued to throw her toys around randomly in all directions.
Princess was now very close to getting a lecture from Linti about all the starving children in Africa who would love to have the privilege and enjoyment of eating a proper full breakfast.

The shenanigans only got worse once the food arrived. I witnessed Mommy training her daughter in the art of bribery and manipulation by making empty promises of buying her a milkshake and waffle if she sat down and ate. Finally, she resorted to the counting method in order to get her daughter out from under the table and to sit down and eat. Each time she said, "I'm not going to say this again (which she did - repeatedly). Come and sit down and eat. 1 - 2 - 21/2  - 23/4 - 3!" And every time 3 was said, it erupted from her mouth like a hiccough. 

No wonder this child just does what she likes. Constant threats are made, but never followed through. I hated to think what she was going to be like as a teenager. With the fourth round of the counting method underway, I was ready to intervene swiftly. My plan of action was to stick my hands under the table, grab the child by her sideburns, and assist her to the proper placement of her backside in the chair at the table. It was at that point that my Bible bookmark caught my eye. Blazoned in bold black print were the capital letters WWJD? It's a jolly good question. Just what would Jesus do in a situation like this. Would it be another scenario of Him calling the child to Himself and laying hands on her and blessing her. In the version of my mind, He called the child over to Him, and when she got there He put her over His knee and gave her the hiding of her life. Then He turned to her mother and quoted Proverbs 13:24 'Spare the rod and spoil and the child'. That was followed by Proverbs 22:15 'Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him.' After that, He quoted Proverbs 23:13 ' Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you strike him with a rod, he will not die. If you strike him with the rod, you will save his soul from Sheol.' And finally, He quoted Proverbs 29:15 'The rod and reproof gives wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his mother.' And with that last quote I let out a resounding 'Amen brother!' There are some discipline quotes that come from my family that I would have liked to of added. Like Grosa 11:7 'Jislaaik, I'm going to do you a damage.' or Grosa 16:3 'You're not too old to get a hiding.' and then of course Grosa 22:12 'Just wait til your father gets home.'

Now truthfully, I actually love children.  It saddens me to see how so many of them are raised without boundaries, being over-indulged and allowed to live as a law unto themselves. While editing this blog this morning, I read on news24.com that South Africa is pushing forward with a law making it illegal for parents to discipline their kids with a good hiding. How tragic. We already exist in a lawless youth society. Not just in South Africa, but worldwide. Children need to learn that disobedience has negative consequences. Disobedience in later life can have disastrous consequences. These formative years are their training ground. A training that will enable them to integrate into society as functional, mature people.


So Mums and Dads, I ask you, if not for the sake of your child, then for the sake of people like me, who just want to enjoy a morning coffee with peace and quiet in a café; teach your kids to obey. Then they will truly be a blessing from God.

They say that 'The Lord works in mysterious ways' and that is entirely true - at least for my life. When I think of some of the things and situations that have happened to me, I can only describe them as being bizarre and strange. Even the ordinary is sometimes just plain bizarre. That is true of homecell the other week.

After a long and exhausting day of work, I was really looking forward to some good company and a chance to just relax and be refreshed, but the course of life never seems to run the way we wish it would. It was one of those meetings where the leader says that he has got nothing prepared for the meeting, so let's all just pray and wait on God and see what He says. In these situations, my gut feel is always why can't we just eat, chat and maybe watch a movie. Especially, when you have someone like Pedro (remember the guy from a previous blog whose inappropriate comments had me imagining myself stabbing and pegging his tongue to the table with the fork I was holding in my hand), who you never know exactly what he's going to come up with as being a word from God. So, on the given command of 'let's all pray', we duly closed our eyes and bowed our heads and all began to wait on God.

I have to confess that I was very tired and having a totally off day, and although my eyes were shut, I was neither asking God, nor waiting and listening to what He had to say. In fact I was waging my own personal war against sleep taking over, by replaying the events of my last class of the day in my mind, so that I didn't disrupt the prayer meeting with an occasional snore. I had been teaching on phonics and pronunciation. After what felt like an eternity, but actually was only about 10 minutes, we were all asked what we felt God was saying. Having nothing myself, I did the usual avoidance tactics of pushing myself back in my chair and avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. After moving round the group and everyone sitting like mutes, I was the only one left, and I felt all eyes staring at me waiting for some pearl of wisdom to drop from my lips like honey. Responding to the desperation and insistence of the leader as to what I'd been thinking while praying, I finally confessed, I was thinking 'how much wood would the woodchucker chuck, if the woodchucker would chuck wood'. That was followed by another eternity of awkward silence.

"He's speaking in an African tongue." said Pedro, "Does anyone have the interpretation?"
"It's not an African tongue," I said, "And yes, I know what it means."

There were varied responses to my attempt to try and translate that into Spanish. Some people giggled. Some people covered their mouths and whispered into the ear of the person sitting next to them. Others just stared at me with their mouths open. But finally, true to his nature, Pedro said, "Seriously! Couldn't you not have made up something more interesting?"
"No." I said, "That would be lying."
"Well, it would be better than having people think you're an idiot." he replied.
"I don't mind people thinking I'm an idiot." I said, "At least people will know that I'm an honest idiot."

And thus was born our topic for the evening. 'Is it okay to tell white lies?' Surprisingly, our group was divided on the issue with some people maintaining that in certain situations and circumstances it was okay to lie, especially if it involved protecting someone. The puritans, championed by me, maintained that God is Truth and the devil is the father of lies, therefore it is always best to endeavour to tell the truth at all times. Should it be a tricky situation, the best course of action is to say that you are not at liberty to discuss or disclose that information. Others counter-argued that not telling the truth, when you know the truth, is the same as lying. Anyway, the evening was saved from going into yet another tarrying session.

So, what's my point? Life is so much simpler and easier when we walk in truth and speak truth. Lies perpetuate more lies, and eventually it's difficult to keep track of what we're lying about and maintain the falsehood. In Psalm 141:3 David had to pray and ask God to set a guard over his mouth so that he would not say something false or out of line. The prayer here is, that God would guard him from the temptation to say something wrong. To this he seems to have been prompted by the circumstances of the case, and by the advice of those who were with him. He did not want to utter any rash, unguarded, and unbecoming word, or express any fretfulness at the prosperity of the wicked, or speak evil of them; especially of Saul, the Lord's anointed, for the ill usage of him.

Let's try and live our lives in the same way. Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry. And most of all, let's watch what we say. Honesty is always the best policy - honestly.

Have a God-blessed week.

Out Of Africa ... deepest, darkest Africa!

I'm sitting here at my computer in a somewhat pensive mood, hoping that inspiration to write a blog will miraculously drop out the sky. Well, inspiration didn't drop from the sky, but it did open the window of the apartment next to mine and appear in the form of my 80-something year old neighbour hanging her knickers and brassieres out to dry. It's not quite the inspiration I'm looking for, but it'll do. After each of our encounters I always leave with a smile. She refers to me as 'that boy from Africa'. Each time she calls me that, my mind conjours up images of me in the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa, dressed in tribal gear with a bone through my nose, standing next to a black cauldron with two bound European explorers quietly simmering away in a gourmet jacuzzi. Despite me being as white as the white-washed walls of our building, she has repeatedly asked me if my parents are black. Not only that, but also whether I come from a tribe and what's its name, and have I come to Spain for asylum and how many more of 'us' live in the apartment. We have struck up an odd sort of friendship. From her side it's about curiosity and intrigue to know more about my world, and from my side, well, as long as she keeps making me tuna empanadas (a Spanish pie like thing), I'll keep talking.

Last week we had a particularly amusing conversation as our wires were very obviously crossed. Being the Easter weekend, I wished her Happy Easter, to which she responded by asking me if I'd kissed Jesus' feet recently. That took me totally by surprise as that's a rather abstract Scriptural concept taken from Lk. 7:38 where the woman with the alabaster jar anoints Jesus' feet and then kisses them. Most people only remember the part of her washing His feet with her tears, drying them with her hair and pouring the expensive perfume over them, but not the kissing part. Me thinking that this was all metaphorical for worship, replied by saying that as a matter of fact I had just done so that morning. "Wonderful!", she exclaimed clasping her hands in joy, and asked me where I'd done so to which, much to her further delight, I replied in church. Obviously elated by the knowledge that the Gospel had reached as far south as South Africa, she raised her now teary eyes heavenward and thanked God that the savage world of the Dark Continent had obviously been evangelized and again asked me where I'd kissed His feet. Not sure how much more specific I could get I quoted the full street address of my church, to which she clarified herself further by wanting to know if I'd kissed Jesus on the toe, the ankle or the heel. Confusion was now really setting in, as I'd never thought of any specific location and the thought of the toe, the ankle or the heel kind of grossed me out. I tried as best I could in Spanish to explain that I imagined it was on the upper part of His foot just before it turned upward to His shin. "What?", she said somewhat horrified, "what did you do that for?", as if the Gospel that had reached Africa had been corrupted and perverted. Not wanting to upset her further, I tried to justify myself by saying that my imaginary kiss had actually been very close to His ankle and possibly the part of my lips at the side of my mouth had probably even touched His ankle. It obviously wasn't a good enough explanation. She then went on to explain where she was coming from. Every weekend from the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, in her church, they take down the effigy of Jesus and people come from all over Spain to kiss His feet. You kiss His toe in worship and thanksgiving for coming from Heaven to Earth, you kiss His heel for walking the Earth and bringing the Gospel, and you kiss His ankle INSTEAD of the top part of His foot representing where the nail was driven through in His crucifixion. Apparently, if you do this it guarantees you greater blessing throughout the rest of the year, and you feel the presence of God when your lips touch His feet, which is why people come from all over the show and stand in line to do it. I had actually seen the lines of people queuing for several blocks waiting to get into this particular church a few weeks back when I went to an art exhibition. I had passed a comment that maybe revival was breaking out in that church - little did I know that they were lining up to kiss a toe, an ankle or a heel.

Very obviously I had done a sacrilegious act by kissing the upper part of His foot and she was not at all impressed. But, it did get me thinking this Easter. How grateful I am to God for everything He has done for me and for those who put their trust in Him. I'm even more grateful that His mercy, His blessing, His favour, His forgiveness and His love is not dependent on whether I kiss His toe, or His ankle or heel, but simply on that I love and obey Him. I'm even more grateful that I can 'kiss His feet' at any time of the year and feel His presence with me all the time, and not just from Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday. It's been one week since Easter, and I hope that all that that weekend signified has not been forgotten already, but that the gratitude for all that God has done still is alive and fills your heart. Sadly, it's also been one week since my last tuna empanada!

God bless

It's not XMAS, you fool. It's CHRISTMAS!

Well, after an absence of almost 3 months with writer's block and 4 unfinished blogs, I'm back with a vengeance and I'm back with an agenda. As you can see from the title of this blog, there are no prizes for guessing where I'm going on this issue. I make no apologies for the title of this blog. In fact, it was Biblically inspired, but I'll get to that later.

The prompting to write this blog has come from reading online newspapers on a daily basis from South Africa, the United States and the United Kingdom. It neither saddens nor sickens me to read the references made in these papers to the Christmas season and all the festivities associated with this time of the year. It makes me outright indignant. This is NOT the Festive Season. It is NOT the 'Silly Season'. Neither is it Happy Holidays or any other title the media may ascribe to this time of year. It is Christmas. Always has been, and always will be. This is the time of year where millions of Christians around the world celebrate the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ, our Emanuel - God with us. It is the time of year when we celebrate God stepping out of eternity and into time, taking the form of a human being, coming to reconcile man to God and bring salvation to all.

I'm horrified by the number of newspaper articles and shopping advertisements I've seen all making reference to Merry Xmas or Xmas Shopping specials. The hypocrisy and bigotry displayed by the media is enough to make me want to rip what remaining strands of hair I have left on my head off in disgust. They have no problem printing pages of colour inserts or bold headlines on the front pages of their newspapers that wish their readers a Happy Diwali or Happy Eid Ul Fitr, yet at this time of year, the best they can do is Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings, or if they go out on a limb - Merry Xmas. Jesus Christ is the reason for this season. I am not an Xian - I am a Christian. His name is not Jesus X - it is Jesus Christ. This is not Xmas - it is Christmas. Jesus was not just a person, He was God. The Bible tells us that He was the express image of the invisible God. Secular media and society contest the fact that He is the one true God and think that by removing 'Christ' from these titles, they can erase the reason for this celebration. It is the fool who says in his heart 'there is no God' (Pslam 14:1) - hence the title of my blog - and only a fool would dare contend with God. The day will come, when every knee of believer and unbeliever alike, will bow and confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

Dear Editor,

Try as you like to avoid saying or printing the 'Christ' word over Christmas, but the day will come when you'll confess it, and confess Him as Lord.

Sincerely
Linton

And on that note, may I take this opportunity to wish you and your families a wonderful and joyous Christmas. I really do pray and trust that Jesus will be the centre feature of all that you do, not a tree, not presents and certainly not the food. May the presence of God fill your homes and hearts and His hand of blessing be upon you all. May He make His face shine upon you, protect you and give you peace and rest over these holidays.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

AND 

GOD BLESS

Thank God I'm not God!

Sometimes a bad day is actually a bad day more as a result of our responses or lack thereof in any given or seemingly negative situation. I'm not denying that fact that situations do go wrong, and that things happen that do just 'push our buttons', but in each of these situations, we are still the ones who should have control over our emotions to determine just how this is going to effect me. I've always assumed that I fall into the range of what is considered normal of a person who is both mentally and emotionally stable, but this week, my flesh betrayed me, and has shown me to be a sadistic, deranged megalomaniac, who probably needs a couple sessions of the couch with Dr. Phil. Allow me to explain.

One of the assignments that the kids have been given at school this week, is to imagine that they were omnipotent and had control and influence over all the world, and then to write an essay on how they would make the world a better place for everyone. I would love to say that I threw myself heart and soul into the project by putting pen to paper, explaining how I would fill the earth with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, bring about lasting world peace, find cures for all diseases, stop all whale hunting and clubbing of seals, ensure that re-forestation projects reclaimed all that has been damaged and deforested, but truthfully, the best I could come up with was to wipe out about three quarters of earth's population. And the remaining quarter, well, I had them maimed just to teach them a lesson.

The reason for my diabolical responses, I'm somewhat embarrassed to say, are seemingly trivial situations and yet somehow they just seem to send my blood pressure soaring and leave me muttering away under my breath, while clicking my tongue as I walk away. For example, I do not understand why it is that people feel the need to stand in a door way and have a conversation, blocking both the entrance and exit to the room. Is there something comforting or cosy about the surrounding door frame that facilitates or offers security to those to those engaging in door way chit chat? No matter how many times you say excuse me, clear your throat or give fake coughs, they remain entrenched in their position. And for the life of me, I cannot fathom how, when they can see you hopping from one foot to the next like a cat on a hot tin roof, with a line of other people also wanting to enter the room forming behind you, they don't think that maybe they are obstructing the way. And then it all turns nasty when you start standing on tippy toes to see over them into the room, at which point they normally say something inane like, 'Excuse me, we're trying to have a conversation here,' or 'Oh, would you like to enter the room?' And should you politely respond with, 'Get out of my way, NOW!', they give you that look of dejection and hurt and tell you that there's no need to be ugly about it. In my animated thoughts, because these people won't move of their own volition, I zap them with my imaginary ray gun and make them disappear.

Another group of people that I would probably have wiped out in my moment of frustration, are those who cause unnecessary delays. I encounter at least one of them a week. Morning rush hour sees about 2 million people commute on Madrid's Metro system which I am told is the world's most efficient and user friendly underground transport system - eclipsing even Japan. The rush hour performance of the people is equally efficient and can only be described as a synchronous ballet of entrance and exit as people with ticket in hand pass through the turnstiles. But then there is always one, who has a bag bigger than the one that I arrived in Madrid with and which carried all my possessions, who only when in the turnstile decides to rummage through her bag to find her ticket - and yours truly is normally next in line behind her. There is no retreat from a situation like this, only a frustrating wait as she scratches through her bag like a hen scratching for worms pulling out shopping receipts and then shaking her head disapprovingly that it's not the travel ticket, then squealing with delight at finding the missing top to her lipstick and holding it up in triumph for all the world to see as if she's carrying the Olympic flame before opening another bag within the bag (a bag of equally chaotic cosmetics), to replace the lipstick top on the lipstick, then finding 'a' ticket which turns out to be invalid because it's last month's travel pass. Once those unfathomable depths have been fathomed, and the bottle-neck has now grown to almost out the door, she unzips the side pocket and eureka, finds the travel pass and smiles in victory as she sails through the turnstile. I too smile back through gritted teeth, though my victory is that I didn't drop kick her over the turnstile.

So, I guess we can all breathe a sigh of relief and be grateful that I am not God, and that neither is any other human being for that matter. I also guess that we shouldn't think too highly of ourselves, because at some point we are either the one frustrating somebody else, or the one devising malevolent plans to solve the crisis. Think about this: Our God is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love. He does not accuse us, nor remain angry forever. He does not punish us for all our sins, nor does He deal harshly with us as our sins deserve (Ps. 103:8-10 NLT). That's something that we all need to remember. Next time you read the news and find yourself 'responding' to something about a politician, or something someone did to you, or a situation you find yourself in, let's try the godly response: being slow to anger and not accusing and I'm sure you'll have a wonderful week.

God bless