ChrisTime 2010: Day Nine

Enabler.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" Philippians 4:13

I don't know what lies in store in 2011.

But I do know Who will be with me through it all.

And though some of the things ordained for me may cause great pain, I can trust that I will be given the strength to make it through each day.

Jesus is my enabler. I am remembering this this Christmas time.

**************

It's been wonderful taking time to reflect on what Jesus means to me. Thank you to Kandace for the great idea. 

I hope you've all had a bright and blessed Christmas.

I'm heading up North to spend a couple of days with my beloved's family.

See you back on the blogosphere soonish <3

Ready for the holidays ...

I stocked up on holiday supplies after work: Lush loveliness; beautiful wintery yarn for a new chunky scarf;

strawberry toffees from my favourite sweetshop; the latest issue of oh comely ... 

 and came home to the surprise early arrival of my Cakies cameo hairclip

Today is the first day of my Christmas holiday.

Last night I stocked up on supplies, some of which are already gone. Ahem.

And we decorated the tree.

It's a little late, I know, but it's so much more enjoyable when you know you don't have to get up for work in the morning. I'll upload better pictures when my beloved brings his fancy camera round. But, for now, presenting Tabitha (yes, I name my trees. Last year it was Tina):

Meet Albert and Winifred. I got these Dala Folk Horse decorations this year to
add a bit of craft-y, folksy charm

After talking and relaxing by the fire, my father went to work, my mother went to bed, my beloved went home. And I?

'Candy Cane' bubble bar slice

Sat in a warm tub of pink, marshmallow-scented bubbles, with those strawberry toffees and a bar of red Lindt Lindor too. Because that's what you do when the working year is over and you don't have to get up early and resolutions to eat healthily can wait. I actually fell asleep in there ... and later scoffed the remainder of the treats in my fluffy red robe.

Now I'm off to eat breakfast for the first time in months, lather my hair in coconut and vanilla, and attempt some final bits of shopping. On Christmas Eve.

I'm ready for the holidays, yes siree.

ChrisTime 2010: Day Eight

Miracle

" ... I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life." John 8:12

ChrisTime 2010: Day Seven

Inspiration

Just 30-odd years spent here on Earth.

He who comforted the brokenhearted. Healed the sick in body and soul. Spoke wisdom into the lives of so many. Loved His Father's creations in spite of the ugly lurking in their hearts - in our hearts - spilling over into harsh words and cruel acts.

Accepted His lot, resigned to His Father's will. Made time for what was important; for prayer, for serving, for fellowship.

Gave His life for us.

Fully God. And fully man. The spotless Lamb who experienced every emotion, every trial that we will ever go through. Literally felt our pain, shared in our suffering.

I am 26 years old. He lived, maybe, seven years longer? 

Jesus is my inspiration. And so He should be.

But am I living like it? One definition of inspiration is the act of influencing - the power or capacity of causing an effect.

Am I effected by Jesus's life? Not just moved, affected, but actually effected; spurred to action, to do likewise.

Do I love wholly and without fear? Giving of myself until I am spent? Am I caring for my neighbour as I would for myself?

Am I making time for what really matters? Living with purpose and intent? This is something that requires careful prayer and thought, lest I waste my Earth-time merely indulging in frivolities and trifles.

Jesus is my inspiration. I am remembering this - and praying to be effected by it - this Christmas time.

ChrisTime 2010: Day Six

Tomorrow.

No matter what today looked like.

Whether it was magical,

Or whether everything that could go wrong did.

No matter what the next day holds.

Fun and excitement,

Or trials of the kind my flesh deems unbearable.

Jesus is my hope for tomorrow.

I can bring my cares and concerns to Him.

Rest.

In His assurance

That He will never leave us

Nor forsake us

Jesus does not promise an easy tomorrow.

But He does promise a tomorrow

By His side.

Jesus is my hope for tomorrow. I am remembering this this Christmas time.

ChrisTime 2010: Day Five

Saviour. 

"Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the LORD revealed? 

For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.

He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the LORD hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth: he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.

He was taken from prison and from judgment: and who shall declare his generation? for he was cut off out of the land of the living: for the transgression of my people was he stricken.

And he made his grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death; because he had done no violence, neither was any deceit in his mouth.

Yet it pleased the LORD to bruise him; he hath put him to grief: when thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin, he shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days, and the pleasure of the LORD shall prosper in his hand.

He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for he shall bear their iniquities.

Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death: and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors." Isaiah 53

ChrisTime 2010: Day Four

Intercessor.

I remember being utterly humbled when I learned that Jesus prays for us. He is, for want of a better word, our go-between. He speaks to God on our behalf - and He alone is able to do so.

The thought that Jesus is in heaven interceding for me, pleading for me, petitioning for me? Is such a great comfort, especially during those times when all I can do is put one foot in front of the other and cry help.

It still fills me with awe. That Jesus personally brings my prayers before God.

"Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death: and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors." Isaiah 53:12

"Therefore he is able to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives to intercede for them." Hebrews 7:25

Jesus is my Intercessor. I am reflecting on this this Christmas time.

ChrisTime 2010: Day Three

 Reviver.

(I'm not convinced it's gramatically correct to use the word in that way. But since my posts are taking the form of "Jesus is my ... " I'm going to make an exception. Editor geekiness over.)

In the spirit of honesty?

I'm tired.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Scrap that. I'm exhausted.

I accept that might sound melodramatic. But it's the truth.

I have felt like a hamster in a wheel for a long time. As some of my 'sparklier' posts will testify, there have been good days; very good days. But I realise now that the general tiredness lurking beneath it all? Has never gone away.

Burden-carrying is draining work. But it's not the only reason for my fatigue.

My night-owl tendencies have gotten the better of me. I've been eating copious amounts of junk food. Work has been extremely busy, more so than usual.

And most importantly?

I've failed to prioritise what is needful. And wasted time on what really isn't.

I've flitted and floated from magical thing to magical thing, letting my feelings carry me here, there and everywhere. I've longed to instantly be accepted into inner circles instead of trusting God to build relationships in His timing. I've let ugly habits creep in: covetousness, envy, restlessness.

And I've worried.
   And worried.
      And worried.
        
Instead of resting in Him. And embracing where He has placed me.

Here. 

In London. 

An unmarried twenty-something with a full-time job. 

And everything that entails.

Spending quality time with God and my family, paying careful attention to both my professional and personal work, and preparing for Christmas have taken a backseat to surfing the Web and daydreaming. To what-ifs. And if-onlys. And I-wishes.

It's left me disorganised and exhausted. 

The very reason I started this blog was to stop focusing on other people's lives and start living my own. Somewhere along the line I've lost sight of that.

Thank God for grace. For His precious Gift to us.

Jesus is my reviver.

I've been blessed with some time off work this Christmas and I plan to take time to rest. Really rest. Not just get my eight hours a night. But rest in Jesus; that He would revive me, refresh me.

I want to lie down in green pastures beside still waters; close my eyes and just be. Because the world won't end when I stop worrying. When I quit being anxious for everything. When I let go and let Him.

Jesus gives me new vitality; causes me to flourish. He renews my mind and helps me to live intentionally. To give thanks for my life and my circumstances. He gives me strength to live each day to the fullest and prioritise those things that have eternal value.

I am remembering this this Christmas time.

ChrisTime 2010: Day Two

Healer. Helper.

Sometimes life feels too difficult to bear.

But often? I bring it on myself.

Carry burdens that were never meant for me. Burdens I should have left at the Cross a long time ago.

The emotional burdens hurt the most. They weight heavy on my heart as I fear and fret, wondering how I'm going to deal with things.

As if I could. As if I know the way forward. Who do I think I am?

See, my intentions are sincere. My soul aches for the ones I love and I long to help. Long to make things better.

But no matter how I dress it up, it's pride. It's me saying I can do what Jesus alone can.

I can pray and encourage. But the rest? Is out of my hands.

Jesus is the true Healer. The true helper. He reveals God to us, brings restoration, helps us stay on the narrow path.

He alone made a way.

Sometimes I long to shake my loved ones and cry, "Don't you see? Don't you understand?"

But in many cases they don't.

And only Jesus can bring revelation.

No amount of crying and nagging and wringing my hands will work. It will rob me of my peace and alienate the very ones I'm trying to help.

I cannot heal.

But He can.

I cannot help beyond prayer and encouragement.

But He can.
Jesus is my Healer. My Helper. I can depend on Him. I am remembering this this Christmas time.

ChrisTime 2010: Day One

Counsellor.

In my Bible, Jesus's words are printed in red. They stand out on the page, immediately pointing me to His teachings.

I need that.

The pure, unadulterated words of my Saviour.

Because this world is overloaded with books that talk about Jesus; about how to draw closer to Him, how to be more like Him.

Some of them certainly have their place.

But others? For all their sincere intentions? Noise. Distraction.

A couple of Bible verses followed by verbose prose full of anectodes and "life application".

When did the the Word of God stop being enough? When did we swap Jesus Himself for man's interpretation?

Maybe I'm particularly harsh about this because I know what it is to be sucked into a crazy whirlwind of "Christian" self-help.

At one point I owned every volume on managing my emotions that I could find. I had relationship books by authors of every culture. Whenever I felt down, instead of turning to the Word I'd choose a brightly-coloured volume laden with peppy me-me-me slogans. Or something soothing in pastel shades that equally encouraged me to look inwards.

The result? Was self-obsession. And pure confusion.

Because books are fallible. Not God-breathed. Not divinely inspired by the very One who knitted me into existence. To make them our source of counsel? Is futile.

Seeking out self-help instead of God-truth left me dependent on man. When something went wrong, I would immediately turn to my beloved or a sister. I craved analysis, explanation, sympathy. Pure distilled truth? Not tangible enough. Comforting enough. I wanted to feel a hug, to hear a voice.

But it never worked. There may have been temporary happiness, but there was never lasting joy. I longed to be more like Jesus but ended up feeling more fleshly than ever.

Man cannot do what Jesus alone can. Praise God for revelation.

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace." Isaiah 9:6, emphasis mine.

Jesus is my counsellor. I can come to Him at any time; pour out my troubles to Him in prayer and thanksgiving. He hears me and comforts me. He points me in the right way. He encourages me to look upwards and outwards; to place no trust in my feelings.

Prayer and reading of the Word brings joy, peace. It teaches patient trust. And it increases faith.
I am still a tangible person. I still feel deeply. But I strive to seek my Counsellor above all others, even those dear to my heart.
Jesus is my counsellor. I am remembering this this Christmas time.

Christmas roses

 At the end of a 15-hour day, could anything gladden the heart more than these?

#246 "Mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful"
#247 Tights covered in flowers
#248 Looking through old photographs and remembering the blessings
#249 Sister parties
#250 Crocheted dinosaurs made by dear friends
#251 A free stand for our Christmas tree
#252 The German-style Cologne Christmas Market on the Southbank - hot apple juice, currywurst and fudge
#253 Lush
#254 People passionate about sustainable development for the poor
#255 Bumping into interviewees in the most mind-blowingly God-orchestrated ways
#256 The joy that comes from trusting Him and doing hard things
#257 Sparkly red 'Christmas' roses from my beloved

Glitter

I struggle to live in the moment when I know there's something daunting or difficult around the corner.

When my heart is not at peace.

Yesterday my boss asked me to attend a conference that would involve waking up before 6am and travelling for more than two hours. She gave me "first refusal" but really? Nobody says no to something like that unless they have a genuine excuse (apparently I-kicking-screaming-just-don't-wanna doesn't qualify).

My heart was not at peace. And the idea of going as a journalist (hunting down stories) rather than a delegate (sitting back and soaking up knowledge)? Most definitely daunting.

To set the stage for self-pity, I had managed to sprain my wrist. And my blog was lonely, which in all honesty? Made me sad. I had to stare at that black box in my sidebar for a long time and remind myself Who this writing venture is for.

As the working day drew to a close, I could feel the knot in my stomach. Don't want to go to bed early. Don't want to wake up early. Don't want to spend the day chasing scoops (unless there's ice cream involved).

I took a deep breath. Uttered a quiet prayer.

And decided this would be the day I purposefully enjoy myself despite the Dreaded Tomorrow awaiting me.

So?

'Sunnyside' - smells like oranges and leaves your skin covered in gold fairydust

I headed to Lush. 

Bought the sparkliest bubble bar I could find. 

And relaxed in a warm tub of tangerine-scented glitter reading my favourite book in the world.

My head insisted I couldn't have a long, luxurious bath at a time like this. 

My heart? Declared it's exactly times like these that call for sparkles and the March sisters.

Because there will never be a "better" time.

This moment is all we're guaranteed.

**********

There was still some fairydust on my skin when I interviewed people this morning.

But that's just part of the fun ;)

Sisters

I am an only child.

My parents didn't intend for it to be that way. They tried to grow their young family; mother, father and me.

God had other plans.

It was fun being a princess, a daddy's girl. The first of everything, the best of everything. I knew nothing of the pain of miscarrying - that truth would be revealed years down the line. All I knew at the time was the three of us in our little nest and me the centre of attention, lavished with love.

I held under-the-duvet tea parties with imaginary friends and rabbits. We discussed Very Important Things and ate jam cakes until heavy lids gave way. Come morning I would teach make-believe students and mark their 'schoolbooks' with red pen and a prim satisfaction. Soon there were real friends to be made at pre-school; a world of PVA glue, tricycles and birthday parties.

I blew out 5 candles of my own and started 'big school', My Little Pony lunchbox in tow.

And, as the years passed, I began to feel the lack.

No-one to whisper to in the dark. No clothes to swap or secrets to share. No arguments, unpleasant but necessary rites of passage as you navigate this thing called life.

Schoolfriends just weren't the same.

I wanted a sister.

It was biologically impossible, I knew that. But I longed for a heart-sister, a kindred spirit; one who pushed through niceties to really see me. Who dove to the bottom of the pit to find me and help me fight my way back up, holding me in prayer and laughter the whole way.

I wondered if it was too much to ask.

When you're ebony curls in a sea of golden silk; when your skin is wafer thin; when you see no wrong in respecting teachers and turning in assignments on time, childish cruelty pricks the soul and the prospects of sisterhood seem slim.

The 12-year-old innocent gives way to a jaded girl of 16 who mocks the idea of a kindred and feigns acceptance of shallow friendships that eventually break her heart. Nothing destroys a teenage soul like whispered fears and insecurities laid bare for all to see.

I grew cynical. But God is always on time. He healed the wounds of gossip and drew me away from the crowd. He found me a quiet corner to rest in Him. And He chose to fulfil a childhood longing that had grown into a throbbing ache.

Last night I stayed over at my sister's house. 

We feasted on pizza and a decadent chocolate creation that someone gifted this cake-monster with in the office Secret Santa.

We talked about anything and everything and nothing and laughed until it hurt.

We watched rom-coms and shouted at the screen.

There was crochet and skirt-fixing; Stevie Wonder and girl-talk.

She is 30 to my 26 and a crafter extraordinaire. We became sisters three years ago and have camped and cried and danced and disagreed and laughed and sang since then.

I will never have a biological sister. But, after years of waiting, I have heart-sisters.

Women who love me as I am and tell me when to fix up. Who do the funky chicken with me in this dance of life, figuratively and literally. Who deem beautiful the very things that once alienated me.

To the ones who will read this and the ones who won't. The ones I see every week and the ones I've never met.

Thank you.

I have waited for you for what felt like forever. You are my answered prayer, my gift, and I cannot imagine my life without you.

"Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''"

- Robert Browning

It's the little things

Everyday dashes of whimsy.

To beautify.

Stir the heart.

And nourish the soul.

I embrace my reality gladly.

With flowers on my legs.

And poetry on my lips.

Stealing away to reality ...

I cuddled babies, stroked pets and toasted crumpets by an open fire. 

Accompanied by fry-ups and gallons of tea.

It was good for the soul.

My beloved's hometown, Bolton, is a world away from London. It's not a picturesque village, but there are cottages, trees and open spaces a-plenty.

This is a place where people stop to talk to eachother; where, instead of high street brands, you find charity shops and wool shops and general 'knick knack' shops that leave me giddy.

More importantly? (although my quixotical self sometimes insists few things could be more important than yarn and treasures ...) Life, for the most part, moves slowly. Quietly. Without fanfare.

This is the kind of place to be when your heart is weary from the frenzy of the Big Smoke and you just.
  Need.
    To.
      Get.
        Away.

We slept on airbeds - his double one the centrepiece of the living room, mine crammed into the study - in the cosy cottage his mother and stepfather renovated not two years ago. They found it broken and unloved, and saw what it could be. Many affectionately rolled eyes and shook heads.

But now? It's a home like no other.

A stained-glass star hangs in the window that looks out to where birds come to feed. Grandchildren, pets and local artists adorn the ledges and walls. A wooden dresser displays green-flecked crockery and birthday gifts.

There's the country table where the family so often gathers; the floral sofa and armchairs everyone retires to to soothe full tummies with a warm brew.

Mabel, beloved mongrel, stretches out in her corner. A bag of knitting sits by the fire. Upstairs, fairy lights twinkle above their bed. And on the nearby allotment, the earth is ready to receive the seeds that will that grow their way into delicious recipes all year long.

There isn't enough room to stay more than a few days. But give me airbeds and peace over a four-poster and a restless heart anyday.

And I hope I always feel that way.

At my beloved's sister's bungalow, the atmosphere is a little livelier - she's a mama to two under-3s :)

But this?

This happy chaos of gurgles and shouts and toys?

It warms my heart and makes me glad to be alive.

There's nothing like nose-kissing a chubby, smiling baby with wild-bloom cheeks and too-big dungarees. Like hearing his curly-haired big brother call me Auntie and slay the only-child-sadness that occassionally pricks. Like stroking docile cats who somehow doze quietly in the middle of the crazy ... until a tail is pulled or an eye poked.

Here, and at the cottage, you'll find simple pleasures. Laughter. Full plates. And best of all? A sense that life is there to be lived, not dreamed about.

One thing I have always admired about my beloved's family is their ability to accept their reality and get on with it. To make the most of what they have. Certainly the countryside is more peaceful than the city. And of course it's easier to find rest where there is calm and quiet.

But peace and rest are not exclusive to to the countryside. It took a weekend there to show me this.

I am no stranger to whimsy. No hater of dreams.

But sometimes? I get so lost in my imagination; in the I wishes and the if onlys. That I steal my peace and rest. The "frenzy of the Big Smoke" is real. But, often, I aggravate it.

I forget that it is possible to live a city life and maintain a country heart. That outside there may be frenzy but inside there can be peace. And the rest? I can make time. I don't have to say yes to everything. I don't have to let my feelings put me on a leash and drag me every which way. I can slow down. Now and then? I can even stop.

We are only guaranteed the now. This one moment is all we have. And not all of us can spend it among greenery.

Are you embracing your here and now? With all its simple pleasures? Are you awakening your senses to what is around you? Or do you constantly steal them away to a make-believe world that reality can never live up to?

Steal away to reality. Whether that reality is snow-covered countryside or a smog-filled town. Gurgling babies or a full-time job.

Live contentedly.
   Peacefully.
     Make time to rest.
       Make the best of what you have been given.
         And remember to give thanks.

#227 A warm car - heating fixed by my beloved when all I requested was a little fan-heater to warm our toes
#228 Hot chocolate with marshmallows en route
#229 The wonder of a tiny cottage covered in snow
#230 The woodpile outside the front door
#231 Toasting crumpets by an open fire
#232 Mabel
#233 Sitting in the warmth and doing nothing in particular
#234 Sliding socked feet against the polished floor
#235 Debuting my Joules wellies
#236 Holding sweet babies close
#237 A blue-eyed cutie gingerly licking cake batter straight off the spatula
#238 Fry-ups
#239 A full mug
#240 Dressing for dinner
#241 Discussing faith long into the night
#242 Dozy cats with the softest fur
#243 Little butterfly-print dresses
#244 Baby curls
#245 Happy chaos that soothes the soul

PS: I just realised that I haven't been adding the 'Thousand Gifts' button. So, starting as I mean to go on, it's making an appearance today :)

This and that

Well hello there :)

It is *freezing* in the Londonium - relative to our usual weather, at least. I ventured out at lunchtime, in a beige knitted hat that can best be described as hobo-chic, and bought out all the fresh cream and jam slices in the supermarket.

Because this kind of weather calls for comforting creamy things loaded with sugar, am I right?

On Tuesday night I came home from rush hour and icy winds to a surprise in the post. All the way from Australia!

Hand-painted tea towel tied up with string ... this is just one of my favourite things

Ok, I confess. It's not *exactly* a surprise. It's the hand-painted tea towel I ordered from Dawn Tan Wenyi - she of beautiful recipe ingredient prints fame.

But I wasn't expecting it so soon.

The tea towel itself is a delight. But the packaging? Too cute. Tea towel, doilie and recipe for Julie's Chocolate Cream Pie (from Julie and Julia - if you haven't seen that movie, you should), all tied up prettily with brown string. My photos are awful but *sheepish* I can't tie the string as nicely as she can, so these will have to do. Ahem.

And yes, that is gingham you spy around the edge of the recipe card <3

Dawn included a free print with every Christmas order. I got this one (again, excuse rubbish photo):

Note the cute thank-you doilies ...

.. and now I can't stop singing the song. It keeps my heart warm and happy while I'm waiting on the train platform watching my own breath.

Hurrah for surprises in the mail. Especially ones from far-away lands ... This is just one of the reasons why I love Etsy so much. Sigh.

So, it's December! Are you all feeling festive yet?

Yesterday I opened the first door in our office Advent calendar (thank you first-letter-in-the-alphabet surname). And today, Jill, our lovely office manager, sprayed frosty white stencils on our windows. There's a snowman on mine, peeping through the curtain of fairy lights. Our Christmas tree is up too, complete with company-logo topper fashioned from cardboard and a toilet roll tube. Craft-y goodness.

We usually put our decorations up mid-December at home, something of a tradition for us. But I think I'm going to rebel tonight and hang the little scented wreath I got from the Country Living Christmas Fair above our fireplace :) 

Speaking of Christmas, I have some exciting news - starting on December 15th, Kandace at 'Moments and Memories' is hosting a blog hop (I love that phrase - makes me think of dancing. Lindy hop? I don't know).

'ChrisTime 2010', fashioned on the GreaThings 2010 hop that Chantel just hosted, is an opportunity for us to reflect on the real reason for the season and praise Jesus for all His good gifts. I don't know about you, but Christmas always takes me by surprise - resulting in frantic rushing around and barely enough time for my regular devotional time, let alone extra time to just be and give thanks to God for His wonderful gift.

I'm jumping on board the ChrisTime train - join me? Click on the image below to get to Kandace's post (she explains things much better than I can):

This weekend I'm heading up north to Bolton (a small town in the northwest of England, about 20-odd miles from Manchester) to celebrate my beloved's dad's 50th birthday. Yeah, he has *young* parents.

If we manage to navigate the anticipated heavy snow, it should be a lovely, relaxing time. I haven't seen his family since March ... time really does have wings.

We're driving up tomorrow evening, by which time I pray he's found a heater for his little Fiesta. Sometimes I think it's actually warmer outside :)

So. I might sprinkle some fairy dust here and there - but it's mostly goodbye from Yarnbelle until Monday.

Hope you all have beautiful weekends filled with peace and quality time. And lots of tea to ward off the cold. Vintage teacup optional.

I leave you with some encouragement from J. C. Ryle:

It costs something to be a true Christian. Let that never be forgotten. To be a mere nominal Christian, and go to church, is cheap and easy work. But to hear Christ's voice, and follow Christ, and believe in Christ, and confess Christ, requires much self-denial. It will cost us our sins, and our self-righteousness, and our ease, and our worldliness. All- all must be given up. We must fight an enemy who comes against us with twenty thousand followers. We must build a tower in troubled times. Our Lord Jesus Christ would have us thoroughly understand this. He bids us "count the cost."

Snow and dreams

Yesterday we strung twinkly white fairy-lights across my window in a cheerfully haphazard fashion.

They make me happy.

And ease the wintery chill that sneaks in through the single-glazed panes and mocks the broken radiator next to my desk.

Now when it grows dark I see stars in this cold, smog-choked city. About fifty of 'em, shining for me.

Or so I like to think :)

This morning London had its first snow of the season. It's not sticking, but watching it fall is still a lovely experience.

Besides, sticking would mean a long, chaotic journey home. I don't mind if it happens overnight - then we might get a snow day. (Ok, a work-at-home day ... but I'd still find time for maple snow candy).

************

I intended to keep a list of thank yous over the weekend to compile into a bumper post of sorts.

It didn't happen.

Honestly? I struggled.

I climbed into a mental bubble of self-pity and stayed put. On the outside I seemed happy enough. I had a lovely shopping day with my mother. Spent another wonderful Sunday at church.

But inside, that quiet place no-one but God goes, there was discontent. Confusion. Worry.

So many decisions to make. So many dreams I thought had gone.

Yesterday I read a post by Sara-Sophia about daring to speak our dreams out loud. To be unashamed of having them. Unafraid to pray them true, come what may. Unafraid to take a step.

Then I realised.

Somewhere along the line I'd convinced myself that my dreams were silly. Selfish. I'd prescribed a good dose of sensible, swallowed it down with water and told myself to stop being so whimsical.

And I still do it from time to time.

I'm 26. I should be climbing the ladder of life the normal way, I tell myself. One cousin just bought a condo with her husband. Another had a home in the suburbs ready and waiting before she married. Both work busy, extremely highly-paid jobs. In fact, most everyone in my family - all of us cousins, the closest thing I have to siblings - does a good, sensible well-paid job. They have good, sensible dreams. House. Car. Stability. They have plenty of fun, find plenty of time to play. But the "important things" are firmly in place.

Me?

I dream of writing. Crafting. Folksy harmonies. Handmade and homemade love. Reaching out to people. They're fuzzy dreams. But they're my dreams. They haunt me daily; remind me that you can't fit a square peg in a round hole.

And I am very square.

I work a job that pays well below the national average, because I am passionate about it. Because I can say, with no vanity, that it makes a difference - however small - in the lives of the poor.

But it's not easy explaining this to people. It's not easy convincing them that I'm not being selfish. That I'm not too lazy to do a "high power" job. That my degrees weren't a waste of time and money. That I want to live my life passionately and sincerely. Do things I love, not things I "ought" to do. That I will eventually move onto to another job that inevitably pays better because of my increased experience. That starting "at the bottom" is the nature of my chosen work.

I'm tired. Of explaining. Of being afraid. Of doing nothing for fear it will all go terribly wrong. Protecting myself - and destroying myself in the process because it is His job, and His alone, to protect me:

"Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." Isaiah 41:10.

So?

I'll write - blog for my 5 followers; share my heart, get used to reading my words.
I'll craft - knit my simple scarf and breathe calm when it takes longer than it ought.
I'll sing - embrace my place in a barbershop chorus and harmonise to my heart's content; trust Him to take it further in His timing if He wills.
I'll give homemade love - cook for my beloved; hunt down the perfect Christmas cookie recipe for my sisters
I'll reach out - help show the developing world how science can lift them out of poverty sustainably; attempt to make friends in the blogosphere.

These are my small steps. Steps towards dreams that won't die.

When I'm feeling really brave? I'll sit down and pray clarity over my fuzzy heart-crys.

And I'll come here and declare them.

Out loud.

Pray for me?

Giving thanks. Because we may wallow now and then, but it's never impossible:

#216 Bright magenta coats that defy gloomy weather
#217 Vintage-inspired handbags
#218 Stargazer lilies slowly unfolding
#219 A warm, soft duvet
#220 An empty news inbox
#221 Stars in the window
#222 A crazy, colourful skirt that makes me feel like a fairy princess - and the realisation that it's okay if others don't understand
#223 'Mooli' - delicious Indian street food
#224 Embroidered felt
#225 Snow
#226 The Lovely Guide, which continues to inspire me and speak courage into my heart

And speaking of fairytales ...

This beauty is winging its way across the Atlantic to me:

It looks magical. 

I predict much dancing and twirling ... 

and that'll just be when I open the package ;)

I'll write more (much more!) when it arrives - all the way from New Orleans. For now, head over to CreoleSha and check out their 'Funky Eco Winter Wonderland Tattered Fairy Pixie Skirt' - how's that for a whimsical name?

They have a few that are ready to go but you can get one custom made, which is what I did. Big thank you to the lovelies at The Lovely Guide for the recommendation - and the encouragement to channel our inner fairy princess.

"Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again." C.S. Lewis

Remember your fairytales (C.S. Lewis)

In speaking of this desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. 

I am almost committing an indecency. 

I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. 

We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. 

We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name.

Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. 

But all this is a cheat. 

If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. 

The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. 

These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.

Do you think I am trying to weave a spell? 

Perhaps I am; but remember your fairy tales. 

Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. And you and I have need of the strongest spell that can be found to wake us from the evil enchantment of worldliness which has been laid upon us for nearly a hundred years. 

Almost our whole education has been directed to silencing this shy, persistent, inner voice; almost all our modern philosophies have been devised to convince us that the good of man is to be found on this earth.

Mother-daughter day

A couple of times a year, mum gets the urge to visit Harrods - Britain's largest department store, crammed to the rafters with luxury goods. So we make a day of it, have lunch somewhere nice (usually the Lebanese restaurant in-store - seriously, this place is *huge*) and stop off for a stroll through Covent Garden on the way home - which is lovely any time of year but particularly magical approaching Christmas.

It's become something of a tradition for us. We always say we'll try something different next time but, right down to the choice of food, I think we secretly like the routine. Maybe because it makes it seem more like our thing? I don't know. We actually queued at a Tuscan restaurant when mum started shuffling. "This place is really ... cramped. I think we should go to the Lebanese place. What do you think?" Cue big grin from me.

We only came away with a CD and an orange blossom macaron from Laduree that mum said tasted like perfume (I tried to convert her, folks, but it didn't work), but navigating Central London on a Saturday - one of just four Saturdays before Christmas, to boot - has left me exhausted.

To top it all off, it is *freezing* here. You'll have to forgive us Londoners. Being situated in the south of England, we usually get the fairer weather. We don't do well with snow - a few inches and our transport system is pretty much crippled. I kid you not.

And tonight? really feels like the white stuff is headed our way. I am sitting here in a big, fluffy red robe shivering. A spot under the duvet, head and all, has my name all over it.

But I digress.

I'm so thankful for today; for the quality time that I got to spend with my mother. I treasure days like these, which - I'm ashamed to admit - have gotten fewer and further between since I started working.

I leave you with three pretties I came across on our adventures. I think mum's would fill more than a page. Mainly because they include, y'know, grown-up pretties - like placemats and table runners and vases :)

Nannarific fairisle = love. Look at those gorgeous, rich colours

These shoes are pure magic. And the fact that they're flats makes it
all the more amazing - heels usually get all the fun

This perfume smells *incredible*, and the French-style bottle
multiplies the loveliness ten-fold

Hope you're having a great weekend. Oh, I should probably explain the blog. While the sassiness of the old design was cute, it was starting to get a bit much for me. After a fruitless hour and a half of playing around, I decided on this until my brain loves me again.

PS: Steve Martin plays a mean banjo.

I heart Mexican food

Wahaca Soho. Sadly I didn't have my Blackberry on me
and couldn't find a picture of the chandelier online

I used to loathe Mexican food with a passion. Controversial, I know. But my experiences of it largely consisted of orange melted cheese slathered over everything.

Which really isn't my thing.

Every Mexican restaurant I went to, the menu was "Cheese with ... ". I would choose the least cheesy item I could find and either eat it or, occassionally, do away with the fromage and eat the "with".

A couple of months ago, my friends and I had dinner at a place in Covent Garden. Feeling a little unwell and knowing that, even at a push, my stomach wouldn't be able to handle it, I asked for quesadillas without the cheese (I know that melted cheese is the whole point of a QD but it was the only dish with a manageable portion).

Our waiter looked horrified. "With-OUT the cheese. Without the cheese??!!" A few people looked up. I swallowed slowly. "Yes. Without the cheese."

I'm pretty sure he sneered at me.

Some time later our food arrived. My little pitta bread quarters containing chicken, guacamole and not much else looked pretty tragic. The waiter made a point of setting it down and enunciating, "Quesadillas. No cheese."

Thankfully, I won't have to endure that kind of thing anymore. Because, friends, I have discovered Wahaca.

Apparently it's been around for a while (being a former Mexican cuisine hater, I would never have sought it out) but a branch just opened in Soho. My work colleagues and I checked it out at lunch today to celebrate the launch of our spotlight on nanotechnology for health.

Churros. You *have* to try it ...

Wahaca, which prides itself on 'Mexican market eating' is amazing. The yummiest, most affordable Mexican food I've ever eaten. If any of you visit London, we're going.

The place itself is spacious, well-lit and cheerfully craft-y without being pretentious - we sat on a slightly elevated table underneath a fabulous chandelier fashioned from banana boxes. This all provides a nice, laid-back atmosphere that's more friendly catchup than "work lunch".

And the menu. My word. They sell chargrilled chicken. Pork pibil. With spicy pickled onions. Rice. And no cheese!

But if you want cheese? (Like normal people). You'll get it. Lots of it. Here is the menu. Because I am that excited. Apologies to those of you who *have* tasted cheese-less Mexican dishes and are wondering what the big deal is.

I had the Baja-California fish tacos, consisting of delicious plaice goujons served up with rice and spicy slaw. And for dessert?

Churros.

Crispy fried doughnuts sprinkled with cinnamon and served with a little jug of warm chocolate sauce for dipping. I saw Nigella Lawson making them on Saturday and had been craving them ever since. Mission accomplished. They are so bad for the waistline. But so good for the soul. And getting to eat them with your hands makes the experience all the more blissful.

I officially heart Mexican food. Or maybe I just heart Wahaca ...

And as an added bonus? Their business cards are Serrano chilli matchstick seeds. Guess who's going to do some gardening on her windowsill? :)

Encouraged

In the six weeks or so since I started a public blog, I've "met" some lovely people and had the privilege of reading their wonderful blogs. As I mentioned to Kandace, in so many things I felt alone ... and then I discovered an online world of like-minded sisters striving for the narrow path. It has been such a blessing to me I sometimes wonder whether I'm dreaming.

Yesterday, several posts spoke directly to my heart. Beautifully-written posts that had the very stamp of God on them. From the encouraging to the magical, they warmed my soul and lifted my spirits.

Chantel, who hosted the fabulous GreaThings 2010 blog hop - I'll join next year, promise! - spoke about counting our blessings and looking for little things to be grateful for each day.

" ... sometimes the biggest blessings can be masked in the form of the little and almost obscure moments of our day. It can be raindrops on pine trees, or the call of a loon over a still lake, or the smile of a stranger, or the warmth of a cup of tea and the comfort of a favorite verse. It can be anything that speaks of God’s love, anything that warms our hearts, anything that reminds us that He cares. Because He does.  And we should be grateful for all these things."

The chaos of my life was put into perspective through Elisabeth's lovely post, which reminded me that God himself tenderly knits together my days and that, although far from perfect and sometimes filled with such pain, my life is *good* because He is in control.

"I thought of this life God has put together for me – of it’s gorgeous and unique busyness, craziness, relationalness, messiness, happiness, weariness and … blessedness ... And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Melissa's sweet post exhorted me to do small things with great love when seeking ways to bless and encourage. Not content to merely read, I put her words into action by posting some love to a dear friend currently overseas (more details below).

And The Lovely Guide continues to draw me into its whimsical bubble and inspire me to pursue the pure and the beautiful -

Sara-Sophia's encouragement for a fairy princess afraid to love brought tears. And Ashleigh spun an adorable, soul-warming tale about a newlywed named Ellie Kate and her baking magic.

Ladies, thank you for your words.

Today is my mother's birthday. I brought her roses and lilies, and we feasted on her homecooked love. She looked *breathtaking* in a ruffly blue blouse, a string of delicate pearls and the chunky bracelet I gave her last Christmas. We gifted her with a year's membership to the National Trust so that she can come on countryside adventures with us ... and practice her motorway skills to boot.

After the festivities had ended, I crept upstairs to do magical secret things. Yesterday I discovered the 'World's Smallest Postal Service'. It is possibly the most adorable thing in the universe. For just $10 (plus shipping) you can send a loved one a teeny tiny letter/card (complete with a folding magnifier so they can actually read it. Oh yes.) Or a sweet little package like this:

The label reads "You are as cute as ... "

Someone close to my heart has a whole lot of love heading her way. I can't wait for her to receive it. Happy days.

What I now know

I was the talkative, politely inquisitive little lady as a child, safe in her happy bubble of innocence.

Somewhere along the way I lost that and morphed into a sullen teenager with homemade bangs and a candle to Daria Morgendorffer, desperate to prove her individuality and find something to be angsty about.

And then my twenties arrived ... and I learned more about myself in the ensuing six years than I did my entire lifetime.

I know it's customary in these 'A Thousand Gifts' posts to count about 10-20 things in your ever-growing list. But I want to start with one big thank you (#205).

I am thankful that I am finally learning to be me.

Not that I spent my childhood and young adulthood as an imposter. But I wasted so much time looking at other people's lives.

Trying to keep up. 

Comparing. 

Despairing. 

And it was hard work. Sometimes I was literally exhausted from trying to fashion a life out of thousands of others. It was like making the biggest patchwork quilt in the world by hand, all. By. Myself. 

Turns out I could only do it for so long. There came a time when I had to let go and let God. When I had to look into the mirror and face it. This is me. It wasn't easy. In fact, it's still a struggle. Coming clean and being yourself sometimes costs you friends. Respect. Certain privileges you may have been been used to.

Your own flesh and blood may think you strange. May not understand why you march to an entirely different drum.

But it is so much easier in the long-run.

I know how much happier I am when I let my curls run free. When I fawn over pretty hair accessories and brooches. When I watch Little Women for the umpteenth time. When I dance in bookstores. When I potter in the garden. When I go National Trust-ing. When I sit with friends drinking tea and knitting. When I relish quality conversation and the fusing of hearts. When I choose to celebrate my birthday with a vintage tea party.

And when I do it all in my own uniquely British way.

I can sometimes feel the effervescing within me as my heart bubbles over with joy.

I used to try and swallow it down, hoping no-one would notice much more than a hiccup. But now? I've given up fighting it. Making peace with myself is healthy. And healthy is good.

Counting down little hallmarks of me - and giving thanks for the revelation of who I really am.

#206 The red sparrow on my coat 

#207 Browsing Red Velvet Art with the open-mouthed realisation that, in their world, cute is very, very in

#208 Brainstorming for a pop-up shop and buying Craft Inc. to read up on the reality behind the dream

#209 Spirals that won't behave and insist on falling everywhere

#210 Tea and cupcakes ('Dad's Favourite Apple', with scarlet and white swirls) at the Buttercup Cake Shop

#211 Glowing after delicious Thai food and much laughter with my church family

#212 Dresses with doily collars and notebooks with pretty birds

#213 Secretly planning what a friend has nicknamed a "love cake" (homemade banana bread for my beloved, who's got a hard week ahead)

#214 Leaving a little bit of my heart on favourite blog posts

#215 Hunting secretary dresses on Etsy

PS: 50 posts and counting :)

Why I'm thankful for blogs

I left the following comment on a lovely blog I recently discovered, and I post it here because it sums up pretty well one of the reasons why I am so grateful for blogs. Monday gratitude post coming up later ...

“I’ll come back and they will be safe, well fed, and extremely dirty.”

I absolutely loved that comment. I loved the sweet honesty of it. I loved the refusal to feign perfection.

One of the things I love about you (and I don’t even know you!) is you don’t pretend to have it all together. Instead you blog lovingly about the chaos; about the God in the middle of the chaos; the love and commitment in the middle of the chaos; the joy in the middle of the chaos.

When I think about my life stretched before me – my life as a wife and mother if He permits it – I sometimes get scared. I lie there long in the dark, softly wondering “How?”

And then I read blogs like this. Blogs not about Stepford Wives but about sweet, young mamas who try their best and drink in the rain of His grace. And I breathe out. And understand that I don’t have to have it all figured out. I just need to trust Him and commit myself wholly to my family. The rest will figure itself out.

My humble blog would love to have you over for tea and cake sometime if you’d like.

Wishing you a beautiful day full of sparkles.

Monday macaron magic

Can you mix the decadent frivolity of Paris macarons with the mundane madness of Monday?

Yes!

And can you eat said macarons for lunch? As lunch??

YES!

I've had one of those Monday mornings where the rain is pouring and the crowds are raging and you arrive at your desk, ready to sit down and breathe, when your boss informs you to keep your coat on because you're going to a press briefing. Now. Sans preparation, just a few papers thrust at you.

Oh, and it's already started.

You're rushing down the street, zig-zagging through Christmas shoppers, Blackberry pressed to ear as you try to negotiate a late arrival. Your faux-ribbon shoelaces come untied. You bend down, do them up, carry on zig-zagging. And it happens again. Bend down, do them up ...

You then realise that the bus you thought could take you there doesn't go anywhere near there. So it's back on the Underground. Down the steps, through the barriers, down the escalator, onto the platform ... whoops, that's northbound. I'm not going home yet.

All you can do is laugh. You know, one of those mornings.

On the way back from the briefing, head spilling over with ideas, phonecall to boss just made, I realise I'm going to be passing Burlington Arcade. Home of Laduree. The Laduree, of Paris macaron fame. Should I?

I peek through the window of the tiny boutique, all shiny gold decor and multicoloured circles of joy.

I should.

I squeeze inside, and my mouth forms a childlike O. The gentleman in front of me, purchasing sugary treasures for his loved one, smiles. Pinks and yellows and greens and purples and caramels and creams. How. Does. One. Choose? There are two small tables outside and perhaps one day I'll come back with my beloved to stay and savour. But this is my moment now. I am only guaranteed the present.

I gaze upon stacks of gift boxes and rolls of ribbons, and I am giddy. The imagination comes alive and I am in Paris. Pretty frock, cute shoes, satchel ... and not a care in the world. Then I remember I'm en route to the office, not on holiday.

I go with a box of eight minis and don't know what to choose. Finally I decide on a selection of Rose & Ginger, Vanilla, Salted Caramel, Pistachio, and a deep purple spiced wonder called 1001 Nights. Into a pistachio-green box they go, one by one. Ohhh. And back to Paris I go ...

Is it for a gift? The shop assistant's lovely French accent shakes me out of my daydream.

I smile to myself. Yes.

Why can't we give ourselves gifts now and then? And go the whole hog and tie them up with ribbons? I choose purple, then go with pink when we discover the empty roll.

My box of delights is placed into a matching gift bag and I walk away swinging it in the November breeze. The rain has subsided and my heart is lifted. I smile at everyone I pass.

Back at the office, I steal a moment on my lunch break to photograph my double-decker beauties. I consider heading out for something sensible to eat; you know, like a sandwich. It's raining again.

Macarons for lunch it is.

Besides, they are sandwiches in a way - chewy meringue-based exterior, gooey filling. Just very sweet ones ;)

The Rose & Ginger is a little overpowering, but the rest are delicious. My favourite by far is Pistachio, which has an almost coconut-y kick to it.

I'm wondering whether I should make Macaron Mondays official.