The Secret Place

The Secret Place

What a pleasure it is to be welcomed home by a dog with a waggy tail, or by a cat purring as it rubs itself against your legs!  For about ten years I had the company of both Benji and Squeak, a consolation as I gradually got used to living alone after Bob’s death.  Here they are, looking hopeful at the dining room table!

After Squeak the cat had died (aged 19), followed two years later by Benji, a kind friend presented me with a small cuddly dog to cheer me up.  On a whim, I placed it on top of the chest of drawers on the upstairs landing, so that whenever I returned home, I would see a doggy head peeping down at me!  Here he is – but what is that other creature, seemingly whispering in his ear?

It is a souvenir of my cousin Ishbell’s 80^th birthday lunch in Harrogate, which took place just after Easter.  Before we left, Ishbell asked us each to choose a little reminder of the occasion from a decorated basket containing small Easter eggs and knitted egg cosies.  I chose this cosy, but instead of putting it in a kitchen cupboard beside the egg cups I decided to display it.  But where?  As I unpacked my suitcase on the landing, I suddenly thought that if I placed this little winged creature close beside the dog it would look as if it is breathing inspiration into his ear.  That would be a fun version of a favourite picture in my study!

The picture in question is a copy of Rembrandt’s St Matthew and the Angel. 

The angel is whispering words of inspiration into St Matthew’s ear as he writes his Gospel (Good News).  ‘Angel’, from the Greek ‘angelos’ means ‘messenger of God.’  The verb ‘inspire’ comes from Latin ‘inspirare’ meaning ‘to breathe or blow into’. I love the following message from Chapter 6 of Matthew’s Gospel because I think it is applicable to any age: 

Jesus said, “When you pray, go into a room by yourself, shut the door and pray to your Father who is there in the secret place, and your Father, who sees what is secret, will reward you.”

Blaise Pascal, the 17^th century brilliant mathematician and devout Christian, once said      “All men’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.”

Of course, not everyone has access to an empty room at home, or the prospect of silence in the middle of a busy household or office.  But we can pray for help and guidance – or give thanks to God – at any time, in any place – in a train, on a bus, in a queue at the supermarket, in the dentist’s waiting room, on a hospital bed, etc.  Aware of that, Leslie Weatherhead, in his book A Private House of Prayer, quotes this lovely little poem:

There is a viewless, cloistered room, 

As high as heaven, as fair as day, 

Where, though my feet may join the throng, 

My soul can enter in, and pray.

One hearkening, even, cannot know
When I have crossed the threshold o'er.
But He alone, Who hears my prayer,
Hath heard the shutting of the door.

Two Kinds of Fishermen

Two kinds of Fishermen

‘What will I have for tomorrow’s evening meal?’ I wondered as I hurried round the 
supermarket.  ‘Something quick and easy! I won’t feel much like cooking after an afternoon at Dungavel.’  

 My first visit to Dungavel Detention Centre for asylum seekers had been emotionally demanding, as I had tried my best to communicate with Kenene, a young French-speaking man from the Democratic Republic of Congo – a war-torn country of which I unfortunately knew practically nothing.  I expected that my second visit would be just as much of a challenge…

My eyes fell on a new product at the chilled food counter: big fat sardines!  Not the usual little tinned ones, but large plump fish, just like those I used to buy fresh off the boats at the harbour in Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie away back in 1960. As part of my degree course in French and German, I had spent nine months in that little Vendée fishing town.  How delicious those freshly-caught sardines had tasted then, lightly fried in a little oil, with only salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice, and accompanied by buttered slices of a fresh baguette, plus a glass of the local Muscadet!  Relishing the thought of this rediscovered pleasure, I bought the sardines and, once home, stored them in the fridge for the following day.








The very next morning, a letter arrived from my friend Marie in France.  She had enclosed a newspaper article from Le Monde.  Unfolding it, I was astonished to see a large coloured picture of a sardine!  The headline above it read ‘Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie renoue avec son passe sardinier (Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie goes back to sardine-fishing.)

The writer described how the fishermen of this Vendée port had, in the late1960s, given up this, their traditional catch, in favour of the more profitable anchovy.  Now, however, there was a movement afoot to promote the sardine once more. I could hardly believe my eyes!  Over the forty years since my stay in Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie, my life in Scotland as a teacher, wife and mother had been so very full that I rarely looked back to that period, yet here were two vivid reminders within the space of twenty-four hours!  Chuckling, I fetched the packet of sardines from the fridge and took a photo of it beside the newspaper article as visual evidence of this latest striking coincidence.

But another surprise was to follow. When I turned the paper over there was a most remarkable photograph of fishermen - but of a completely different kind. These were perched precariously, like acrobats, on flimsy wooden scaffolding above the rapids of the mighty River Congo, hauling up their catches in conical bamboo baskets. The name Kisangani immediately caught my attention, as that is the capital of the D.R.C.

Details were given in the ensuing article about this war-ravaged African country where, according to the writer, conditions seem to be reverting to those at the time of the cavemen.  The only people able to exist successfully there are those fishermen, incomers whose tribe has devised this perilous means of survival.  How I wished that this article had reached me sooner!  Here was valuable background information which would have helped me converse more sympathetically with Kenene the first time I went to Dungavel.

A local pastor had found out that this young man wished to be baptised as a Christian.  Hearing that I could speak French fluently, one of his fellow visitors, a lady member of his congregation, had telephoned me to ask if I would accompany her there and talk with him. 

When we had reached Dungavel I was horrified to see the high barbed-wire fence, the yellow line in front of the big building which the children were not allowed to cross (so there were children confined here too!), the lockers into which we had to leave everything we had brought.  Before proceeding farther, we had to have our fingerprints taken, pose for identity-card photographs and give the precise name of the detainee we had come to visit.  Fortunately, I was able to persuade the guard to allow me to take in one sheet of paper, a photocopy of an e-mail from my French friend, Suzanne. At my request she had sent me the French version of Psalm 13, which apparently was Kenene’s favourite psalm.

When at last he was brought into the visitors’ room, I was glad to have something to give to this unknown young man, to ‘break the ice’.  His face lit up when he saw what it was and, after thanking me, he began to talk about the reasons why, as a former soldier in Mobutu’s army, he would be in grave danger if sent back to the D.R.C.  With tears in his eyes he asked me to pray for him – not for his physical safety but for God’s forgiveness of his sins.  We recited the Lord's Prayer together, in French.

I heard that his appeal for asylum had been unsuccessful, and that he was to be deported.  However, he had been given the names of Christian contacts who, it was hoped, might be able to help him.  Now, gazing down at the photograph of the daring Congolese fishermen, I prayed once again for Kenene, and thought of the words of the Psalm which meant so much to him.

           Prayer of the oppressed

How long, O Lord, wilt thou quite forget me?

How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

How long must I suffer anguish in my soul,

grief in my heart day and night?

How long shall my enemy lord it over me?

Look now and answer me, O Lord my God.

Give light to my eyes lest I sleep the sleep of death,

lest my adversary say, “I have overthrown him”,

and my enemies rejoice at my downfall.

But for my part I trust in thy true love.

My heart shall rejoice, for thou hast set me free.

I will sing to the Lord, who has granted me all my desire.

A few months later I was invited to a Christmas party at the church whose members visited Dungavel.  To my surprise and great pleasure, there, sitting at the table, was Kenene.  His appeal had been granted.

He greeted me with a big smile, a hug and a kiss!

Her Mother's Voice

                                                      Her Mother’s Voice

Every Christmas I have the problem of how to sign my cards, as I try to remember by which name each close friend or family member knows me.  I sign the majority of the cards using my full first name, Kathleen, but that is too formal for those who address me as Kath, Kathy, Katie, Kate or Ka.  My late husband, Bob, decided when we began our courtship to call me Kath (after the heroine of a favourite novel, I think!)

This photo is one of a very few taken of me as a child.  Because they had paid a photographer to take it – and tint it! – I expect that my parents referred to it as “the photograph of Kathleen”, using my full name in honour of the occasion!  However, as far back as I can remember, my parents called me “Ka” – except when occasionally my mother would snap, “Kathleen, come here!” and I knew that I was in trouble!

My maternal grandmother’s name was Catherine.  Her second daughter was baptised Katherine but was known as Kath - or “Katie” by siblings wishing to tease her!  Three of her granddaughters were given names derived from hers, with slight variants:  Fiona Catherine, Catriona (Gaelic) and Kathleen (Irish). 

 Catherine had nine children, all born in Glasgow. When two of the boys grew up they went south to England in search of work.  In due course they settled there, married and established families.  All eight of my English cousins refer to me as Kathleen or Kath, whereas those who, like me, were brought up in Glasgow call me Ka, having heard my parents use their pet name for me.

I have two outstanding memories concerning the name Ka.

The first is of a conversation I had several years ago with a lady I had just met at a conference in Edinburgh. Our chat turned to first names and their variants.  When I casually mentioned that my parents had usually addressed me as “Ka” her jaw dropped in amazement.

“Ka?” she exclaimed.  “Ka!” she repeated, almost reverently.

It turned out that she was a university lecturer in Egyptology.  I had no idea why this name appeared to have had such importance in ancient Egypt.  Although I have a vague knowledge of the Pharaohs, I have never studied that ancient culture.  But, on that occasion, amused by the lady’s reverential attitude, I decided that all I could do was adopt a benevolent expression and lower my eyes modestly!

Later, at home, I ‘googled’ the name and discovered that, in ancient Egypt, Ka was (to quote www.dictionary) ‘a spiritual entity, an aspect of the individual, believed to live within the body during life and to survive it after death’.

The second memory is of an incident which occurred a few years after my mother’s death at the age of 99.  For the last ten years of her life she had suffered from dementia and was in a care home.  Whenever my sister or I visited her we were greeted with a smile, but she had no idea who we were.  One Mother’s Day she laughed, pointing to the card my sister had sent her. 

“Look at that card!” she exclaimed.  “It says ‘Mother’ on it.  I’m not a mother!”

Poor Freda’s face fell. She lives in Manchester and had always looked forward to her trips to Scotland to visit Mum, with whom she had a close relationship.  We were both sad that she no longer remembered our happy years together and also that, having no recollection of being married, she had forgotten our dear Dad.  However, we just had to accept the situation and do our best to keep her happy.

Here we are, helping to celebrate her 99^th birthday.

 (By the way, the plant which seems to be growing out of my head was actually in the garden outside!)

 It helped me to remember what an elderly lady had once said to me about her husband who had Alzheimer’s: “I just think that at present his personality is in abeyance”.  She was sure that they would be happily reunited once they had both passed on.

Several years after our mother’s death, I experienced a wonderful moment of consolation.  As I sat up in bed one morning, still in the state between sleeping and waking, I ‘heard’ a man’s voice, strong and emphatic, like that of a radio presenter. 

“Mother’s voice” he announced.

And then, to my astonished delight, I did hear my mother speak.  “Ka”, she said.

“Ka!”  Just one word, one syllable, only two letters – but what joy it brought me!  To hear her unmistakable voice pronounce my pet name once more was in itself a huge comfort.  But even more profound was the realisation that not only had she survived physical death (she who had always refused to think of that possibility!) but that her dear personality had been restored.  Her dementia had been only temporary! 

What a comfort.  What a blessing, for which I thank God with all my heart.

Deo gratias

Join the Dots to see the Bigger Picture!

Join the Dots to see the Bigger Picture!

Join-the-dots books used to be given to children for amusement on a rainy day.  Nowadays much more difficult and complex versions for adults are available, and are recommended for the creation of a sense of order in times of stress. 

Gradually, as we use a pencil to join the numbered dots, we begin to see that each one is part of a bigger, recognisable picture.  In the same way, we can look back on surprising coincidences which we have experienced and realise that each - though apparently insignificant at the time - was part of our slow awareness that "there is more to life than meets the eye".

There are different kinds of memorable coincidences.  For example:

 The right place at the right time; 

Just then the post man arrived;

 I had just been thinking of that friend when... ;  

  I switched on the television and was amazed to see..

We can think of these as being like different coloured beads threaded together in a bright necklace.  

But what is it that threads them together?

When I told my friend Helen (a Church of Scotland minister) that sometimes I felt overwhelmed by the appropriateness of a “coincidence” and couldn’t help wondering uneasily how it had come about, she wrote me a very helpful letter.

First she referred to Psalm 139, in which the Psalmist says: 

 ‘Thou hast discerned my thoughts from afar.  Thou hast traced my journey and my resting places, and art familiar with all my paths.’  

Then she wrote:  ‘I think the area we are talking about is what you might call the mechanics of ‘comforting coincidences’ or other coincidences, promptings, directions, voices, etc. that lead us to places, people, thoughts which are helpful to ourselves or others and for which no other explanation can be found.

‘For me, I would always simply say that these coincidences/promptings etc. are indeed the Holy Spirit in action.  He is God’s “follow-through” in our lives, and that follow-through includes absolutely everything, from teaching, inspiring, directing, healing, comforting - in whatever way is meaningful and effective.  I find that last part to be extremely special, since God knows each of us completely and loves us very particularly, and therefore, in ways that many times take our breath away, communicates with us and through us in our own spiritual, emotional, intellectual, circumstantial idiolect. (This means our own personal language, the speech habits specific to an individual).

‘I can understand when you say “I don’t know how” or when you sense that you have been directed by “whatever it was”, because these things are a mystery to us in their outworking.  I would attribute such directing to the work of the Holy Spirit – although it is interesting how many times people use the passive voice – “I was led” etc. to avoid actually attributing the leading directly to the Spirit.’

How grateful I am to Helen for sharing this insight with me!  It is true that people hesitate to refer directly to the Holy Spirit, perhaps because they are instinctively wary of the word ’spirit’ or simply because they fear being regarded as “too religious”! 

But we do need to ask God for the gift of discernment, in order to avoid being open to spiritual influences of a non-holy nature, which can feel alarming - even threatening.

My friend Margaret once said, “Kathleen, you are like me – aware of the unseen spiritual dimension beyond everyday appearances.  You need to protect yourself by saying the Lord’s Prayer every morning and every night.”  So every day I repeat the words that Jesus taught us, concentrating especially on “Thy will be done on earth; deliver us from evil; Thine is the kingdom the power and the glory.”  In addition I use an encouraging book of daily readings, where readers have contributed Bible passages which have affected their lives.

In this secular age many people would say dismissively, “Oh, coincidences happen to everyone now and again. So what?”  My reply would be “Note them down, ponder over them, thank God for them, then ask for the ability to “join the dots!” That is, to become aware that certain incidents, past and present, form part of a “bigger picture.”

'To crown all, there must be love, to bind all together and complete the whole.'  

(Paul's letter to the Colossians, 3 v 14)