Thank you all for your kind wishes; I hope that Christmas was good for you, too. This being Boxing Day, I proposed a hill climb (quite moderate); otherwise I don’t think that I’d feel like eating for some time. So we ascended Traprain Law, which is only a short drive from where we live. The weather wasn’t bad; this was the view from part way up:
Not much to say, really. Hoping that 2008 may be the year that dreams are realised …
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Working to-day and to-morrow, but then off until the new year. Don’t really know where things are going. But we’re still here – that’s good, I suppose.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
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Buying shoes to fit our son has been, to put it mildly, a challenge. The first attempt, a few weeks ago, had him wearing a pair of GoreTex boots; last year a similar pair served him well, but these, he told us after wearing them to school for a day are ‘too big’, by which I understand ‘clumsy’. We tried again, coming home with a pair that look like a cross between shoes and trainers; initially he liked them, but now he has a problem. Children’s shoes nowadays are fastened with Velcro straps – easy and quick to do, but they don’t have the staying power of laces. Also, our son likes his shoes tight, so he pulls the strap across so far that the bits which are supposed to stick to each other are no longer opposite one another. I think that part of the problem may lie in the shape of his foot – like me he has a narrow heel, so that shoes which fit the front of the foot tend to come adrift at the back. And, naturally, we want to buy shoes which have room for growth.
So, maybe hoping for third time lucky; but we’re not buying another expensive pair. Perhaps, without too much outlay, we can buy shoes that will do him until he grows into the shoes that he already has. And his trousers don’t fit. I really don’t want to be going to the shops this close to Christmas, but I already leave the house fairly early on a Saturday morning to take our daughter to a ballet class. Maybe, son will come with me, and we can somehow fit this extra activity between dropping my daughter off and collecting her.
Ironically, last Saturday I was talking with the father of one of the other ballet pupils, who was taking his son to the shoe shop later that day. I was recommending the shop we normally use, which, not being in Edinburgh, offers a pleasanter shopping experience. Not that shopping in Edinburgh is generally unpleasant, of course, but as the season of cheer and goodwill (and giving presents) approaches it can become somewhat fraught. This time around, though, I shall just have to put on my body armour, and head for the (I can’t think of the right word – it isn’t a mall) centre.
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My closing prayer last night was short and not sweet; an exhausting weekend, and the prospect of another difficult week meant that my words to God were not hopeful, and are certainly not to be repeated here.
During the night, I distinctly heard my son call out, “Dad!” The house seemed quiet, and I tried to go back to sleep. Again, I heard, “Dad!” I got out of bed, and went to where my son sleeps. He was fast asleep. My only explanation; God was reminding me that my son needs me.
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As I continue to read “The Deafening Sound of Silent Tears”, I find myself frequently very nearly in tears myself. Stephen Fischbacher sings a song called “My Old Friend Tears” on the CD “These Are Our Emotions” (which I have listened to over and over again, because it’s the music we put on to help daughter to go to sleep). I think that compared with many people, I find it difficult to cry. Part of the reason has to be that the time when I ended up (for the first time) in a psychiatric ward, I had just been taken to see the consultant psychiatrist, and as I told him of my circumstances I burst into tears. I still carry the association that if I let myself go somebody is going to put me in hospital.
But I reckon that it goes deeper than that. Even on occasions where one is expected to be in tears, funerals, for example, my eyes remain dry. It doesn’t mean that I don’t feel; just that I don’t express my feelings – perhaps can’t. I wonder if my inability to experience the presence of the Holy Spirit in a tangible way could be a consequence of this aspect of my personality.
But I continue to enjoy reading the story of Caring for Life. There is a sense of God working, of authentic Christianity which, dare I say it, seems generally absent from my week-by-week experience of the church (but then again, perhaps it’s just me).
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