Monthly Archives: May 2013

So, here we are dans la belle France, in fact dans la even more belle Provence!   On our first morning, although it is not as hot as we had anticipated, the sun is shining which is more than can be said for Kingston on Thames. The view from the bedroom window of the quaint Bergerie (shepherd’s cottage) where we are staying is like a Monet painting: a field full of poppies in the foreground, an ancient and picturesque village behind and a line of blue hills in the background. Fabulous.

Terry is enjoying his book, sitting in the sun, but the surrounding hills beckon and I announce I am going for a walk. We have been here before, so I am fairly confident of finding a path that leads to the top overlooking the valley where nestles the village of Fontaine de Vaucluse. I don’t want to be long because we intend to go to Vaucluse for lunch. I set out and sure enough easily find the path I am looking for. It winds up, stony but well defined, and as I get higher I am exhilarated by the beautiful views toward the Luberon range of hills on one side and the gentle plains on the other.

 

Eventually, I reach a point where a signpost points me toward Vaucluse in one direction and Esperacon in the other. I take the first and continue without deviation, hesitation or repetition. I am now going through forest. Pine trees and thorny bushes are thick on either side. I press on, but the path gets narrower and narrower, and the bushes press in and scratch my legs. I am puzzled: this doesn’t seem like a proper well trodden path! But I keep going until the track peters out altogether. I push on a few yards and stop. No point; I must reverse, go back the way I came. I’ve obviously missed a turn somewhere.

So I turn around and walk back to the path. At least I try to walk back to the path. How difficult can that be? Oh that must be it, over there, of course! But after a few yards, I am faced with impenetrable thorn bushes. I back out exasperated and turn in another direction, following gaps in the trees which must lead to a path…I blunder around trying this way and that, by now becoming genuinely worried. I have not brought my phone with me or even a bottle of water! How dumb must I be, I tell myself.

By now my imagination is running riot. I could blunder around here until nightfall;  I could die of thirst or starvation or fall down a crevasse and no one would ever know. Suddenly a tremendous roar from over head and a fighter plane zooms low across the sky. It is so sudden and so loud it scares the life out of me and contributes to my growing panic. I stand still and speak sternly to myself. “Stop it. Do not panic. Think. Pray.” In fact I have been praying non stop. “Help me please Lord. Show me the path! I’m lost! Help me, oh help me!”

Where is the sun? Which way is south? At this point the sky is cloud covered, but I think I know. Trying to stay calm I decide to walk steadily in a downward direction, dodging through branches and twigs. Suddenly a path! Yes a real path with stones and edges. Enormously relieved I turn left on to it. After about 10 minutes I arrive at a high point overlooking a deep valley. I realise I should have turned right so I retrace my steps (again!) and soon come to the signpost on the main path. By now I am jogging down that path, full of heart-felt thanks that the Lord guided me out of the confusion, despair  and fear of being lost.

Being lost is frightening. Why is that? There is an inbuilt desire to know where we are and where we are going; to be surrounded by the familiar; to be in control. We find security in knowing where we are, and not knowing reduces the most confident person to a gibbering wreck.

Perhaps what is worse is not knowing that you are lost, that you are pressing on thinking you are OK but heading for disaster.

I am so glad that Jesus found me when I was lost. I didn’t know I was until then. But since then I have had a true path to follow. There have been a few short-lived deviations, but he always searched for me and found me and brought me back. I can say like David, “Make me to know your ways O Lord, teach me your paths, lead me in your truth and teach me for you are the God of my salvation.” (Psalm 25:4)

 

I arrive back at La Bergerie, scratched, dishevelled and exhausted. Terry looks up from his book “Nice walk dear?”

Photograph by JMC Photos

I was sitting on a hard wooden bench in a little hall on a Sunday afternoon in May. It was Whitsunday, that is, the day when we commemorate Pentecost.  I was 7 years old. The teacher was explaining about the day the Holy Spirit came. I don’t really remember what she said at all, but I do remember that at the end of her talk she read a poem about a boy who was challenged to give his life to Jesus. He declined. The poem went on to describe multiple other times in his life when he had the opportunity, but he kept hardening his heart. Eventually the poem came to the death bed scene, where he was given the final opportunity to make that choice. The last line of the poem sonorously proclaimed, “turning over on his pillow he died.” There was a collective gasp from the children present, as we knew he had entered eternity without turning to Christ for forgiveness and redemption.

A somewhat bizarre poem to bring to seven and eight year olds! Some would say it was gross manipulation of a child’s emotions. But as our teacher went on to explain that we didn’t need to go through such a process but could come to know Jesus now, this very day, I knew that He was calling me. It was very clear. She led us in a simple prayer. I prayed it with all my heart and as I asked Jesus to come into my life, forgive my sin and save me, I felt Him come in.

I remember it so clearly. It was as if the lights came on. Everything looked brighter, more focussed. I ran up to Mrs Tilsely Green and hugged her and told her that Jesus had come to me. When my father came to pick up his daughters, I told him. I told everyone, expecting in my childish naïveté  that they would understand and be pleased too. Some were, some weren’t.

The next week at school I insisted on singing a hymn to the entire class. When we were told to write an essay on the happiest day of your life guess what I wrote about? I can still remember the teacher’s comments: “Wendy, you are too young to take life so seriously.” I think I was probably a bit of a pain to all and sundry.

But I have to say that after sixty years, I have never regretted making that decision. For although at the time I thought I was asking Jesus into my life, I began to see eventually that he had been seeking me; he had me in his sights before I was even born! He had a destiny for me.

I am so grateful for my Christian parents who patiently trained, taught and disciplined me, and who showed me that God’s way is best  by demonstrating it by their choices and loving obedience to him. I am grateful that I have been surrounded by Christians for much of my life and I value the Christian community which encourages, supports,  loves and spurs us on. I am grateful that I learned to know and trust the wisdom found in the Bible to guide me through my life. I am grateful for a loving husband, undeviating in his total devotion to the Lord. I am so grateful for children and their spouses walking with God. I am grateful for countless answers to prayer; for daily provision, for health, for amazing adventures around the world.

But most of all, I am eternally, endlessly, unspeakably grateful to the Son of God who loved me and gave himself for me.

60 years has gone in a flash! But I will have endless ages to sing his praise.

Thank you God.

 

Photograph by theirhistory