A couple of lovely cards arrived this morning - I am a very fortunate person to have such support - and in one was this poem which I've decided to share...

The Divine Weaver

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colours,
He works it steadily.

Sometimes he weaves sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget that he sees the upper,
And I, the underside.

Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skilful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he has planned.

I like that it acknowledges the unanswered questions of life, or at least that we won't find the answers this side of eternity.  Whilst I'm not sure I go with the preordination the poem implies, I do believe that God somehow works* the dark 'threads' into something beautiful... "in all things God works for the good of those who love him" Romans 8:28.

* or at least can work them thus, if only we are open to that working

HT ST in Dibley for this one.

Check this youtube video for some thought provoking insights on shared humanity and values.

Brenda Namiggade was due to be deported from the UK because, according to the radio news this morning, she could not provide 'credible evidence' of her sexual orientation.  I am left bewildered at what this actually means - what kind of evidence is 'credible' in demonstrating anyone's sexual orientation?

Ms Namiggade says that she is a lesbian, so how is she meant to demosntrate that?  Lust after female security guards?  Dive into bed with every woman she meets?  Dress like a stereotypical lesbian?

Would we expect a heterosexual person to provide credible evidence of their orientation?  Granted, this would not be cause of an asylum request, but even so?  Where does that leave the single, celibate heterosexual?  Not sure I could provide 'credible evidence' in similar circumstances... not sure 'I think so-and-so is really hunky' would count!!

I am at a loss to make sense of this.  I appreciate that superficially it might be an easy claim to make but it is one that is costly if not true (extradition) and if true (long term suspicion and widepsread homophobia).

It kind of reminds me of the old poster that used to be on the walls of many churches - 'if you were arrested for being a Christian would there be enough evidence to convict you?'  The idea being going to church does not a Christian make, nor does saying the right things, it is something about lifestyle.  But what precisely?  It's a sobering thought that if it was us having to seek asylum on religious grounds our lack of 'credible evidence' might be equally compelling.

Today's Baptist Times carries the announcement of the death of a minister who died too young, too soon.  I'm not sure how old Jeff was, but I reckon about my own age.

I met Jeff when we both served on the committee of the Baptist Ministers' Fellowship (BMF), I as area rep for EMBA and he as sector rep for Chaplains.  There was some common ground in that we both trained at Northern (he best part of a decade ahead of me) and that he was chaplain at Northampton General Hospital; at some point he had visited my Mum when she was in hopsital and I am grateful for that, as was she.  More recently Jeff moved to the south coast to take up a chaplaincy role in Taunton.

I knew Jeff had been diagnosed with cancer a couple of years back but had understood all to be going well.

Jeff brought to BMF committee meetings lightness and wisdom, humour and spirituality, important insights from the 'sectors' and a genuine interest in our own pastoral ministries.  He will be missed.

Go in peace, good and faithful servant.

A week from today it will be over - I will wake up having been 'redesigned' the day before and ready to begin the next stage of recovery.

It's kind of strange to imagine part of me being missing (albeit being reconstructed), to imagine scars where now there is smooth, blemish free skin.  There is a certain sadness about that, as well as a kind of relief that the outward, public appearance will be pretty much unaltered.  Odd really.  The thought of the surgeon "drawing on me" is especially weird, and means of course the last time I see the 'whole' (or 'original') me, I will be covered in black ink.

I am glad to say that as the day draws nearer the anxiety levels are diminishing rather than increasing.  I am sure this is the effect of the hundreds and hundreds of prayers that are being said on my behalf; I wonder if God is getting fed up with hearing my name so many times?!  I still don't relish the thought of anaesthesia but the foreboding has evaporated (even despite a few unhelpful comments!).

My house is nearly tidied, the laundry is almost up to date, the perishable foods will soon be eaten up.  A few tasks remain and then all will be ready for my return.

This waiting is all rather weird - feeling pretty healthy, if rather tired from the last few months, and knowing that I have to feel worse before I feel better again.  I still can't imagine the weakness and stiffness I've been promised; maybe that's a good thing.

I will be glad when it is a week from now and it's behind me; not that I am wishing this week gone, anything but, just that the waiting game is a weird 'place' to be right now.  In the meantime it's back to the odd jobs...

Five days to admission, six to surgery, a week to the redesigned future...