Red letter day

A day that is red – lettered is



A day that is lettered in red is



A day to be treasured

To gathered up and pondered on


In my life red letters have a different meaning

Midnight flits

Hiding behind the couch

Till the rent man departs

Buying on tick again and again

Existing on less and less


I entered a time of jubilee

Where no debt was held

And no debtors were found

I live in that space.


I live in a space where my bills are paid

So grateful for all I receive

Food on the table

And a roof over head

Never did I think I would see

A red letter once more.


The postie delivered one today

it sits on the mantle waiting

for conversation of redness

round and round the merry-go-round

and wonder will we need

to flit once more?





A {secret} to share


I watched a bloke lie

His family did not know.

He pretended his life

Was peachy perfect

When really it was going down the tubes.


I could have reached out

And help him through

But I was too close

I heard the lie

Sighed and walked away


What could I have done?

Shamed him to his family?

Called him out on the lie?

I just walked out

One footstep at a time.


There was a time in my life

When it was all going away

But I turned to the one who heals

The one who takes away the shame

And presses the delete key … to the past


I want to share the secret

That life with God is cool

But I don’t know how to tell him

It is all a bit close to home

I am praying for someone else

To share the Good News.


When I write I don’t think about publishing or books {although technically I publish here each time}. My concern is with getting down on paper {technically – screen} whatever has come into my head as quickly as possible before my aged head forgets the thought.

From time to time someone comes alongside and whispers “publish” in my ear and for a few seconds my head turns. For the longest time it was about fear; fear of failure & fear of succeeding, fear of criticism and fear of my name becoming known.

It is not about fear anymore. It is about perspective. In 2 Corinthians 8 we meet this person:

And we are sending along with him the brother who is praised by all the churches for his service to the gospel.

This brother is praised for his service to the gospel. He is famous for exalting the name of Jesus, not his own. He is nameless. His name is not important. The important thing is that in his life and work – Jesus is exalted and he gives Him all the glory.

I heard about this guy earlier in the summer and something clicked, I had tried to explain over a dozen times this year alone why I was not comfortable with publishing being the aim and failed miserably. But now, I had a verse in the Bible to help me.

At the weekend I shared a few poems with a great bunch of people who were more than kind and full of encouragement {that I have been told to remember} and some asked could they share the poems with their home groups. The words ‘publish’ and ‘book’ were said and I explained it was not something I was aspiring to.

Later on in his second letter to the Corinthians Paul says:

But, ‘Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.’

And I guess that is where I am at, my writing reflects my life in Christ. I do not need to be ‘published.’

There is a German hymn that Charles Wesley translated into English that says “Let us in life {and} in death thy {Your} steadfast truth declare and publish with our latest breath {with each breath} thy love and guardian care {Your love}”

That is the kind of publishing I want to see – all over this land… speaking the name of Jesus, doing life according to His will, being steadfast in faith… giving the Lord Almighty all the glory.



O Lord come dwell in me

Make your home in my heart.

O Lord come speak to me

Make relationship in my heart.

O Lord no matter how much I love you

It will never be as great 

As your love for me.
O Lord come dwell in this church

Make your home in this place

In the hearts of those present

As we pray for those almost

And those not here at all
Spirit of the living God

Come, fall, fall, fall

Fall afresh on us once more

Give us courage to proclaim your name

Give us strength 

To go where others fear to tread

Give us love to share throughout the land.

A time to plant

Bloom where you are planted

The glibly spoken line

Often quoted rarely lived

What does your field look like?
Mine well sometimes it is

A minefield, never knowing where to step

Sometimes like a puddle seeping in my shoe

Often like a river Polluted further up
If you were to see what I see

The maggots, the carelessly thrown carcass

Would you shudder and withdraw

Or cheerfully say bloom where you are planted
If your mission field is work

Where people are no longer valued

Where one year contracts and no benefits

Are the order of the day

Where interns do a real days work 

For no pay at all

And if you are different the bullies hone in
How to share Jesus in such a place

Or stay with the pack and survive?

One thing I know in the minefield of my life

When God has your back – it can happen
Celebrate yes celebrate our icky sticky mission fields

Jump for joy in the challenges of life

Sow those seeds of Gods mercy

Wherever you tread

Let the world know you are His

A time to bloom

Imagine wearing the labels

You hold deep within your heart

Imagine sharing the shame

As a brooch on your cardie
How many brooches would you wear?

Weighed down under the weight of metal

That my dear sister is how your heart feels

Weighed down, burdened, overwrought.
For decades this stuff accumulates

It kills the breath inside

Ella learned in a frozen land

And we can learn too
Let it go, let it go

Let your heart be cleansed

Let it be healed so you can wear

A different brooch
Daughter of the Living King

Forgiven, loved, awesome child

Let your inside match

The carefully prepared outside
And sing with joy

With abandon like David

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord

Saviour of us all.

Hiatus over

I was supposed to write the great novel of all novels this summer. I was to start on July 1st and write 1500 words each day and yesterday I would have finished. But life had a way of messing me about. I was in such turmoil and pain on June 25th that I did not notice two weeks go by and then it was too late to start. {wasn’t it!}

I decided I would catch up and use a notebook to write rather than laptop or tablet. I bought a pen and notebook. I opened the book, pen in hand expecting the story to flow from my brain to the page in one long fluid movement. But it didn’t happen and I put the pen and notebook away, it wasn’t the right time to start. {was it!}

Every now and then through the summer I would contemplate the missing manuscript. I was kind to myself, I did not berate. Few people knew of my intention so I did not have to publicly humiliate myself. I was good about it. Well not completely…

I was a little disconcerted that I couldn’t write, because it is what I do. I put down on paper stories and poems that come from situations and people, I steal conversations from coffee shops and weave them into a tellable tale. And I had stopped. Not just the actuality of writing it down but I had stopped the rhythm in my head that floated in and out of prose and poetic form. It’s the only rhythm I possess being clunky and clumsy in real life, bodily function.

In my head I can pirouette with a stanza and waltz with a new word, found on my travels.  It it was all gone, as the song goes, I was pretty vacant. I remembered the first time I lost it and that took me on a different path this summer… One of rest and refreshment, of drinking in the word of God, of feeding on sermon after sermon. I practiced the disciplines and did not much of anything else. I did not want to lose connection, and live without God’s rhythm feeding my own.

I was patient {I know … So not me} and I waited on the Lord. Last night he opened up within me such a fire of rhythm I could not use words to give it justice. And now, I know my rhythm is back. I see stories bouncing around and I am spoiled as to which story I use first. I am letting the songs and poetry out first so that the stories can take more form. This marks the return of the rhythm and the stories unfold.