A Problem

Okay, so I have a problem. A church/christian related problem, but I guess it could apply to work or schools just as well. It’s about Aid Agencies/Charities.

Now, I think you’ll agree, there are a lot. Wherever you go, there seems to be an opportunity, if not almost an obligation, to give to poor people. When there is a disaster, like the earthquake in Nepal, the High Street is full of people with buckets or selling sad looking cakes, all eager to part you from your money and send it to those in need. The motives behind all this bucket waving are undoubtedly good. My problem is, are the agencies that actually receive the money, the most efficient?

I started this saying it was a church problem because from what I’ve seen, churches are chock full of well meaning people who want to help alleviate suffering (which is good) and so start a charity. Not so good. Most people do not have the first idea how to best run an aid agency, however well motivated they are. I have laid out my feelings about this very clearly in the article ‘How to Choose an Aid Agency’.

My problem is that when someone, who is very nice, very Godly, very caring, comes to church and gives a plea for money, what should we do? My gut feeling is that I should stand on my seat and shout, “Don’t give him any money! He’s a nice bloke but a large percentage of the money will be wasted.”

I have learned, over the years (with much help from my family) that following my natural instincts is not always right. So I don’t. I sit there, fuming as I hear how his tiny organisation is working in 57 different countries. And I do nothing. I do not stand on my chair. I do not even approach him afterwards and ask him just how, exactly, his little charity ever checks that the money is being spent appropriately – does he live on an aeroplane travelling between countries, looking for fraud or misspent cash? Nope, I do nothing. Because I am not really sure what the appropriate response should be.

You see, these people ARE good people. They see a need and want to help. They probably do help a lot of people. My point is, if the same money went to a bigger, better run agency (like Tearfund or Oxfam, someone part of the DEC) then so many MORE people would be helped. By asking for money, they are diverting that giving from other places. They are, in effect, costing people lives. Yes, they might help 100 people. But if Tearfund could save 150, they have wasted 50 lives. It makes me angry. Too angry to trust myself to tackle it actually.

I know that God sometimes uses the people who are available, rather than those who are the best. However, there ARE good agencies out there. There are people who know how to provide aid in developing countries. To set up a small, inefficient agency is not kind, it is short-sighted. To continue running one, rather than handing it over to a larger agency, becoming part of something better, feels egotistical.

Imagine this: Someone comes to church and during a hymn they fall over, having a heart attack. I feel desperately sorry for them, I want to help, they are in a lot of pain. I also have my ABC first aid card. So I rush forward and offer to help. I don’t really know exactly what to do, but I have some knowledge and I want to help. Plus, I am better than nothing. There is a doctor at the back of the church. The doctor also begins to walk to the front. But my friends say, “Don’t worry, Anne is helping him.” The people know me, they know I am kind, so they want to support what I am doing. They ask the doctor to stand back, so I have room to work. They help to pass me the things I ask for. But at some point, shouldn’t someone say, “get out of the way Anne, there is a doctor here and they are better at this than you are.”

It is complicated because of God. When Jesus came, he chose eloquent men of learning to spread his message. Oh no, wait, he didn’t. He chose dirty old fishermen and Roman sympathisers. So clearly sometimes God does work through the people are perhaps not the best qualified.

How then do we know? If old-lady-Mildred-with-a-heart-of-gold wants to lead children’s work but does not have the first idea of how to talk to children, should we let her? Or should we tell her that no thanks, we would rather use Judy-the-qualified-teacher? If Bob-who-always-forgets-the-milk wants to be the catering officer, should we tell him no, we want Lorna-the-chef to do it? I have no idea.

I do know that if Judy-the-qualified-teacher is too busy, laden with other work, then God can use the kind-Mildred to form a bond with the class of children to teach them about Himself because I have seen it happen. I have also seen children who do not want to attend church anymore because the leader has no idea how to lead and the sessions are boring and irrelevant.

So, are aid agencies a different issue? Are we being foolish in saying ‘they are good people and they do good things’ and ignore that others could do it better? Is it okay to let people die because money is diverted away from the agencies that could do the most good? Or should we let people do what they ‘feel’ God wants them to? Another thing to bear in mind is the Parable of the Talents ( Matthew 25). If you have enough money to give some to help those in need, then you have a duty to do that wisely. Giving it to the person who speaks at church because it is easy, even though much of that money will be wasted, is lazy. It is a misuse of what God has given to you to use.

At what point is it right to criticise a person or a charity that is making mistakes? Yes, they are kind, yes they are Godly, yes, they are honest. But if there are better, more professional options out there, shouldn’t we lovingly tell them to butt out? I honestly don’t know. What do you think?

The link to my article is: http://anneethompson.com/how-to/how-to-choose-an-aid-agency-charity/

Fruits……..

Have you seen on facebook that people often include a ‘past event’, “this day five years ago I was….” ? As you know, being an IT dinosaur, I only got fb fairly recently, so I don’t have any such gems to offer. It did make me start thinking though, about where I was a year ago.

A year ago, life was really rather difficult. I was a couple of months post op and everything was hard work. Did I ever tell you the details of my op? (Look away now if you’re squeamish!) They shaved my hair, cut a window into my skull, cut through my brain to the centre and took out the rather annoying cyst (which would have killed me if left alone.) They then patched me up with some titanium and stitches and sent me on my way. Pretty amazing really. Also amazing that I now look normal, have hair again and don’t sit in the corner dribbling (no more than I used to, anyway.)

The thing is, I look normal, but inside I am different. When I saw my first post op MRI, I asked what the black line was that went through my brain. I was told that was the gap, where the knife went. I did a bit of research. Apparently, as I understand it, scar tissue in the brain never heals, it just sits there, blocking the flow of neurons that allow us to think. However, the brain is pretty spectacular. It cannot use the same pathways, so it makes new ones. Gradually it learns to rethink, to redo all the things that it used to do.

When I say gradually, I mean gradually, very very slowly. Enough to pull out your hair (if you have enough left) slowly. The first time I tied shoe laces it was like being three years old again, I just could not make different hands do different things. While I was still in hospital, before they decided whether I was well enough to go home, they took me to a kitchen and asked me to cook a plate of pasta. It is, by far, the hardest thing I have ever cooked. Just filling the pan with enough water, remembering to light the hob, timing the pasta when it was boiling. Oh, the effort, the mental strain. It was exhausting, I slept deeply for an hour afterwards. But I did it, passed the test, was allowed home.

As time went on, everything improved. Now, a year later, most things are (roughly) back to normal. The point is (I do have a point, trust me) unless I used my brain, tried to do things like tying laces, kept going even though it was difficult, the brain would never make those new pathways. I had to attempt it before I could do it, the ability came second. Okay, hold that thought.

Now, quick subject change. I have been reading in the Bible about all the ‘fruits’, the things that Christians are meant to be good at. Things like forgiveness, self-control, patience. I have to admit, I’m pretty rubbish at all of them. Much nicer to have a quick shout at someone when they’re annoying or avoid the people who I think are nasty than do all that christian stuff. Plus, when I do pray, ask God to “help me to forgive Stacey because she’s a nasty piece of work and really I would like to slap her face,” I do not feel especially flooded with forgiveness. I still want to slap her face, so I avoid her.

However, it has been bothering me lately that actually, these behaviours are not optional extras. God does not say that when we are christians, if we feel like it, we should love and forgive the nice people we come across. It’s kinda in the sign-up sheet. If I claim to be a christian I have to be different, a better person than I would be if I weren’t one. So what to do?

Well, I have realised recently, that just like my brain had to start doing things to be able to do them (if you see what I mean) so I have to put these things into practice for them to be real. Sitting on my chair and asking God to ‘help me forgive’ and then waiting for me to feel like I had, just doesn’t work. I never felt like that. No, I had to ask God to help me, then trust that he had and actually start to behave and think like he had. I didn’t know if I could cook pasta until I did it. It was hard and I made some mistakes. Once I started behaving like I could, the skill caught up, now it’s easy. If I ask for the ability to forgive, then I have to start behaving like I have forgiven them, stop thinking about slapping them, start saying things that show I have forgiven them. Then the ability and the feelings, will catch up.

Okay, lecture over. But do you agree? Do you think that might be right?

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Thank you for reading.

More articles can be found at anneethompson.com

When Your Dad is the Minister…...

A Letter to My Sister…...

Do you think normal people ever think about what it’s like to live in a manse? To be the daughter of a pastor/vicar/rector/minister? Do they ever wonder what it feels like?

I found one of my old diaries recently. I had written: “Went to bed early with a headache. Downstairs I can hear the whole church singing, praying and praising God. I hate every single one of them.”

That sounds rather shocking now, but is it such an unusual thing for a teenager to write? I think not. Of course, one of the main problems is that people forget that the pastor’s kids ARE just normal teenagers. They will wear unusual clothes, be moody, be late for church, etc etc. It’s just that everyone notices them.

I remember someone describing life in the manse as being like living in a goldfish bowl. The world watches you swim. Of course, what they forget is that the pastor’s family also gets to have the whole world in their home. We see everything. I guess this makes for a valuable life experience – I doubt there is a single pastor’s kid who is naive about people. We have seen it all.

That can make attending church quite hard. Especially if the church provides a house with thin walls. Children have good ears, they see and hear a surprising amount. So they know that the sweet old man who gives out hymn books has a drinking problem, the nice bloke who fixed the church roof hits his wife and the lady who plays the tambourine is having marriage problems. It can be hard to get past those things. They do see the good stuff too – the pensioner who saves a little each week to give to the KidsClub, the lady with a terminal illness who helps with the youth group, the old man who prays for you every day, just because you are the pastor’s kid. The person who donates a dishwasher to the manse.

Ah yes, the manse. Do you remember? It is very odd. You are given a house to live in. In a Baptist church, it has been bought and paid for by the members, which is a huge financial burden for them and they have usually bought the best property that they could. But we, as children of the minister, have very little appreciation of this. To us it is just the house where we were told to live. You have no choice in this, it might be exactly what you love, or not. You just have to be grateful.

Then there is the living in it bit. It is your home, your private place. But it is also the church property, people have a ‘right’ to meet there before carol singing, to walk upstairs to use the loo when they’re at a prayer meeting, to hold discussion groups there. You are involved in everything, whether you want to be or not.

Then there’s the maintenance of the property. Before a minister moves in, the church usually fixes it up pretty well. They paint the walls, mend the leaking roof, maybe even put in a new kitchen. Again, it’s all done by volunteers and the money is raised from within the church. But children don’t think about this, not even quite old ones. The work is often done without actually asking the new minister what he would like because it’s usually done when the old one leaves, before they even know who is moving in. Then the minister arrives and…….well, nothing really. That’s it. Manse is finished.

I recall sleeping next to a window with a small hole in it. I wore a woolly hat to bed in the Winter. I remember sitting on the floor heating vent to read because the house was so cold. And I remember that horrible cold being the topic for one of the jokes at a church social, that my parent’s ‘always opened all the windows before we had visitors to try and get new heating for the manse’. They smiled politely, I think we just looked at each other.

But I have to be fair, I do understand how it happens. After Mum and Dad moved to their next church, I stayed at our ‘teenage’ church. I didn’t really think about the manse much. The church meetings were told if something major needed repairing and that was it. Until one day I was there and happened to use the upstairs bathroom. The same upstairs bathroom that I had used when living there over twenty years before (and it wasn’t new then.) Lots of avocado plastic. I was a bit shocked. Yes, it still all seemed to work but really? Who has a bathroom well over twenty years old and isn’t planning to change it?

The trouble is, no one really thinks about the manse. Churches need a ‘manse officer’, someone with a nice house themselves who every so often thinks about what the manse might need in terms of an update. Someone who is friends with the family, who can listen to them when they say they are cold or would love a tv point in the bedroom or better internet service.

Of course, it probably comes down to money. Churches are busy spending money on good works, they want to just keep their buildings functioning, they don’t really think beyond that. Plus the minister gets to live in the manse rent free, which most people see as a massive perk, almost a ‘free handout’ in some eyes.

Some people also view his expenses, his petrol allowance, phone bill, etc which are paid by the church, as part of his salary. I wonder how teachers would feel if they had to provide all their own paper and then it was reimbursed as part of their pay, if doctors bought their own medicines. There can be few experiences as awkward as sitting in a meeting while people discuss how much your father earns. Opting to stand outside in a cold hall while the discussion takes place doesn’t feel a whole lot better.

They forget, of course, that if the minister, who is usually an intelligent person (I’ve never yet met a thick minister) had a secular job, he would be earning many multiples of what a minister earns. They forget that when he retires, he will be homeless, not having lived anywhere for long enough to qualify for council housing and not paid enough to save for rent on a decent property. They forget that his children will probably stay at school and want to go to uni and how much that costs (I have written an article about the costs of sending your child to uni. Perhaps every church who employs a minister with student children should read this. Look under ‘Mystery of Money’ in the menu bar above.) They forget that while they go to France for their holiday, the minister usually camps in rainy England (and has to forego his holiday if someone dies.) They forget that Christmas and Easter are hugely busy times for the minister, not a break when he gets to spend time with his family, that the phone never stops ringing, that you can never watch a whole television programme without someone ‘just popping in’. They forget that weddings are not ‘fun events’ but extra work, which like funerals, have to be fitted into the week alongside all the normal visiting and meetings that already make for a full-time job. They forget that although the minister has a strong calling from God, is sure of his role, this does not necessarily extend to his children, they have no choice in their father’s profession.

Church houses tend to be used for meetings and studying, so are often large. This is especially true in the Anglican church, which owns large (cold) vicarages. I have heard some people suggest that to ‘properly relate to the poor people in our area’ the minister should live in a cheap house. I have never seen a single one of those people sell their own house and live in a caravan so they can relate to the very poorest people in society. Not one.

What did we learn from that I wonder? I guess we learned that God takes care of his own – we did get unexpected Christmas gifts from random people, we did see a charity provide housing for Mum and Dad when Dad retired, we did learn that you can live on very little money.

The hardest part for me wasn’t the money though, it was hearing people criticise Dad. Everyone has a view about the minister, he is employed by the church, so everyone has a right to express that view. Even when his sermon WAS long and boring, he was still my Dad, I didn’t want to hear other people moan about him.

The time thing was hard too. Dad wasn’t there much. He would always give time to the person who was depressed, or the one fighting an addiction, or the one with marriage problems, the one dying. Even if it clashed with our school play or we needed a lift somewhere (no money in a minister’s budget for two cars so the children can’t learn to drive.) I think we lost out on Dad’s time, the church always came first.

That’s why, when he died, his Thanksgiving Service/Funeral was so special. It lasted hours and the whole world came. So many people spoke about how Dad had helped them, how their marriage had been saved, or he had helped their mother while she died or he had brought someone a little closer to God. It was a long service, I expect everyone was wishing it would hurry up and end. But I didn’t. I felt like those people owed me time. And I needed to hear, to know that all the things that we had given up, gone without, were not without purpose.

Being a minister’s kid is hard. Churches should spend more time thinking about them. But it’s not a waste. God doesn’t owe anyone, not in the end.

Take care,
Anne xx

Hate Came to Stay

Hate Came to Stayby Anne E Thompson

     Yesterday, Hate came to stay. Uninvited, he knocked on the door and when I opened it, to see who was calling, he burst in, pushing past me. I knew he had visited other houses, had caused damage and hurt and anger. But he had never visited me before. He came yesterday.

     He went into the kitchen and smashed all my plates. He over-turned chairs and tore my cushions. He punched my children and spat at my dog. When I went near he scratched me and made me bleed. The house was dark, he closed all the curtains. I was hurt, frightened and angry.

     But worse, worse than the pain and fear and broken china, was the slime. Every time I tried to stop him, to catch him, hurt him, trap him, he produced more slime. It came off him in silver trails, sticking to everything he touched, dirty, germ filled, slime. It made me change. I began to be like him. I wanted to punch him, cut him, hurt him.

     Others came to my door, friends and family and people needing help. I bolted it shut, refused to let them in. I glared at the world and felt dark thoughts from my hiding place under the bed. I too wanted to scratch and bite and smash.

     So I went to the window and I looked at the sun. I let the light brighten my mind, sear my eyes, burn off the slime.

     Then I turned to Hate. I made him tea but he threw it on the carpet. I gave him bandages for his wounds but he used them to tie up the cat. I made him a cake but he trampled it into the rug. I noticed the slime was disappearing, there was less of it. I read him stories but he put his fingers in his ears. I sang him songs but he swore at me. I danced for him but he threw stones at me. Hate would not accept love. But Love stopped the slime.

     Love made a cage. At last, when I was so tired I thought I would fall, Hate was trapped. The bright cage of Love enclosed Hate. There was no more slime. He couldn’t escape. I pushed the cage out of the door. Hate was gone.

I began to sweep up the broken glass.

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Thank you for reading.

More stories and articles at : anneethompson.com

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Mary's Story

Mary’s Story

by Anne E Thompson

I travelled to Bethlehem in a small cart. Every bump (and there were many) was agony. As I was jolted along, I was racked with pain. The baby’s time was near, you see, and the pain was almost unbearable. Later, they would sing songs about a cute donkey carrying me. Nice thought! I don’t think there’s any way you could have got me on a donkey. As each contraction cramped every muscle in my torso, I huddled up like an animal and prayed for it to be over.

I could see Joseph, watching me as he walked alongside. He really didn’t have the first idea what to do. Oh, how I wanted my mother. I yearned for her to be there, holding my hand, telling me everything was alright and would be over soon.

When we arrived at Joseph’s uncle’s house, the women folk came and helped me inside. The room was crowded. All Joseph’s male relatives from miles around had come to the house for shelter and food. The women were busy cooking supper and the men were drinking wine and comparing stories. They all told Joseph how much he resembled his grandfather Matthan and laughed at old stories from years ago.The smell of fish and fresh bread was nauseating. I was so tired and so uncomfortable.
Joseph knew I was suffering and asked if there was somewhere quiet that I could go. There was no chance that we would get a place in the inn, they had filled up days ago. Somewhere quiet, in a little house packed with relatives? There were some fraught discussions and then his aunt suggested that the animal cave might be best. It wasn’t terribly clean, but it would be quiet and private and at least it wouldn’t smell of fish!

Joseph helped me go down, and a couple of the women came too. One of them examined me and told me the baby was a long way off yet, first babies always take their time in coming. This was not great news but I felt better having her there. I felt that she knew what was happening, had seen this before and it took some of the fear away.
I was frightened you see. I was horribly afraid that somehow I would damage my baby. My baby and God’s. I knew he was going to be special, I knew I had a great task ahead of me but it all seemed to be going horribly wrong. I trusted that God was still in control but He felt so far away. Could the baby not have been born in a palace, surrounded by comfort? Would these poor beginnings really be part of a plan? Could they really make this king accessible to the people? I had no idea. I was a mere girl, I had no education and my memory of scriptures was often fuzzy. To be honest, at this present moment, I didn’t even care. I just wanted this baby OUT! Special or not, my body was tired of carrying him, tired of being stretched and pushed, of fitting something inside that was now too big to be there. I needed this baby to be born and I was too exhausted to wait much longer. How I longed for sleep.

The pain in my back was terrible. Great waves of cramp that seared through my body, making me oblivious to everything else. I was vaguely aware that someone was sweeping the floor and moving the animals to a far corner. They had laid out a mattress and blankets for me to rest on but I couldn’t lie still for long. I felt better standing, rocking in time with the pain, trying to remember to breathe, in out, in out. Some one offered me water but I couldn’t drink. I wasn’t thirsty, I just wanted this baby to be born.

I could see Joseph with his big anxious eyes watching me. He didn’t know what to do. Someone suggested he should go into the house to eat and I nodded in agreement. There was nothing he could do and the poor man must have been tired too. He had endured such an emotional time lately. First there was his fear and anger when he first heard about the baby (now that was a difficult conversation!) Then he had to endure the smirks of his friends when the pregnancy became public knowledge. He never complained, but I know he felt embarrassed, wished that God could have chosen a different girl.

We had been travelling for five days, with hardly any rest and the last couple of days had been more chilly. I know he felt the burden of caring for me, watching for bandits on the roads and wondering if we would make it to Bethlehem in time. If the baby had come early I don’t know what he’d have done – left me with strangers on the road somewhere I guess and come to register on his own. One didn’t mess with a Roman decree…..

The pain eventually became almost constant. Joseph had eaten and rested but I continued to sway in discomfort in the little cave of animals. Every so often one of them would poop and although the women with me cleaned it up quickly the smell pervaded the atmosphere. I could hear the musicians gathering outside, someone must have told them the birth would be soon. That gave me hope, maybe soon the baby would arrive.

Then at last, in a final searing pain, the baby was born. I looked down at his blue waxy body as he wriggled on the blanket and I knew that he was mine. One of the women wiped him down with oil and salt and I held him in my arms while they looked for the swaddling bands in our luggage. How beautiful he was. His indigo eyes would soon turn brown and they gazed at me trustingly. I loved him with my whole being.
Outside, there was the sound of music and singing as the musicians heralded the arrival of a boy.

Joseph came and took him from me. He held the tiny baby in his giant carpenter’s hands, hands that spoke of hard work and safety. Then the baby started to mouth for food and Joseph passed him back. The women showed me how to feed him, but he was soon asleep. Then we gently wrapped him in the swaddling bands, securing his tiny limbs so he would feel snug and secure and his bones would grow straight and true. He was so beautiful. It was hard to remember what the angel had told me, that this was God’s son too. I began to wonder if I had imagined it, if it were all a dream. This baby did not look like God, he was a baby. My baby.
“If it’s true God,” I thought, “Let there be another sign. He is so little and I love him so much. Remind me again…”
I too needed to sleep. Joseph fetched fresh hay and put it in the animal’s manger, covering it with a soft blanket. I didn’t want him to put the baby there, I wanted to keep him on the bed next to me, but Joseph was worried I might roll on him in my sleep. Then he laid the baby down and told me to sleep. He looked deep into my eyes and brushed my collar bone lightly with his fingers.
“Soon you’ll be truly mine,” he whispered. I knew what he meant and felt myself blush.
I was so tired, I thought I would sleep for a week.

I actually slept for about two hours! I was abruptly woken by loud voices and a draft of cold air as the door was flung open. There, standing uncertainly in the doorway was a group of youths. Their clothes were dirty and exuded the strong smell of sheep. Joseph was with them.

“Mary? Are you awake?” he asked.
It would be hard not to be with all the noise from outside.

“These shepherds want to see the baby. They were told by angels where they could find him and they have come to look at him.”

I nodded and they trouped into the room. They seemed so big and clumsy in such a small space, I was worried they might hurt the baby. But they didn’t try to touch him, they just stared for a while and then one of them knelt and they all followed suit, kneeling before the manger, staring at the baby.

Then they told me their story, how they had been in the fields and an angel had appeared. They had thought they were going to die, to be struck down right where they were. The angel had reassured them, told them that a saviour had been born, the Christ who we’ve all been waiting for. They would find him lying in a manger. Then suddenly there were lots of angels, all praising God and saying he was pleased with people on earth. After the angels had gone, finding they were still alive after all, the shepherds decided to come at once and see for themselves. It was as though they couldn’t quite believe what they had seen and heard, they needed to actually see the baby with their own eyes.

I felt so humbled and so cared for. God had heard my thoughts, He was reassuring me. It was all His plan, not some terrible mistake. We were meant to be here. He even knew about the manger! I listened and smiled and treasured my thoughts.
The shepherds left as noisily as they came. I could hear them in the streets, shouting their news, telling everyone what had happened. They were so excited.
They had of course woken the baby who was now crying with a thin wail that jarred my nerves and was impossible to ignore. So I fed him some more and then we both slept. A tired, contented sleep borne from exhaustion and wonder.

After eight days, Joseph came and circumcised the baby. How he wailed! It felt cruel, though I knew it was the right thing to do, even in this strange place we must obey the Jewish laws. We also formally gave him the name Yeshua, the name we had been told to give him by the angel all those months ago. I wondered if Joseph minded, people would know it wasn’t a family name. I also had no one called Yeshua in my own family, though I did know a boy from my childhood with the name.

After forty days, we had to travel to Jerusalem, to pay for redemption at the temple. As Joseph was from the tribe of Judah, we had to pay five shekels of silver. We couldn’t afford a lamb, so bought two pigeons to sacrifice. It was nice to leave Nazareth and to have some exercise at last, to see people and to take my baby into the world. I felt quite excited as I approached the temple, our holy place. I didn’t recognise anyone, but everyone could see we had a new baby and lots of the women came over to see him. I felt so happy!
We walked through the Beautiful Gate and up to the Gate of Nicanor.

Then something strange happened. As Joseph and I walked through the temple, a man approached us. He came to look at Yeshua and indicated that he wanted to hold him. That was a little unusual but there was something about him, something that made you sure he was a good man, someone you could trust. When he looked at the baby, he got all emotional and prayed, thanking God and saying that now he could die in peace. He blessed me and Joseph too and then he leant towards me and said something which was very strange. He said Yeshua would cause “the fall and rising of many in Israel” and would be “a sign that would be opposed so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”

What does that mean? I know that he is God’s own son and that he is part of the plan to establish God’s reign on earth. Will he be opposed? Surely everyone will accept God’s annointed one, we have waited so long for him.

Then he said something that made me afraid. His face was very near, I could smell his breath. He said that a sword would pierce my soul. It made me very frightened, I practically snatched Yeshua away from him! I want my son to grow strong and be happy, will I suffer for this?

I knew I was tired, not getting enough sleep and it was hard to care for a new baby in a strange place without my mother to help me. I felt that I did not want to hear the man’s words, even if they were true.

The man left us and almost at once an old lady approached. She was ancient, her white hair showed under her mitpahath and she leant heavily on a stick. What I noticed most were her eyes. They almost sparkled! You could tell at once that she was a holy woman and also one who loved to laugh. As soon as she saw Yeshua she started to pray loudly, thanking God and telling people nearby that if they wanted Jerusalem to be redeemed, they should look to the baby. I was glad that no Romans were allowed in the temple, we would have been in trouble!

We finished making the offerings and then went back to Bethlehem. I didn’t know whether to tell Joseph what the old man told me. I kept thinking about his words, worrying about what they might mean. I was so tired, I decided I would wait and maybe tell him later.

The months passed and we settled into life in Bethlehem. We moved into a little house and Joseph worked on the many building projects that the Romans have introduced. Yeshua continued to thrive. He grew into a sturdy toddler and would walk around the room holding onto the stools and baskets. I loved to feel his solid weight when I carried him on my hip. He started to sleep much better at night and Joseph and I were thinking about having another child. Then everything changed.

It was one evening, still quite early but we had filled the lamp with olive oil and lit the linen wick. Joseph put it on a bushel basket, so the room was well lit and we could talk about the day. Suddenly, there was a banging at the door.
Joseph went at once and there, in the road, was a group of Persian travellers. They had dismounted from their horses and were peering intently into the house. They told Joseph they had seen a star and had come to worship the king.I was so glad I hadn’t gone to bed yet! We let them into the house and I went to get Yeshua. He was damp from sleep and his tired eyes looked blearily around him. I wondered if he would cry but he seemed fascinated by our strange visitors. They wore their hair in long curls and one had a band of gold on his head. It glinted in the lamp light and I could see Yeshua watching it intently. Their clothes were patterned with birds and flowers. We offered them wine, it was clear they were tired from their journey. I was embarrassed that we only had two stools to offer them, but they didn’t seem to mind and in fact insisted that I should sit on one with Yeshua and they were happy to sit on the rush mat. They didn’t really sit anyway, they wanted to kneel before Yeshua.

Then they gave him gifts. They were beautiful to look at. They gave him gold, signifying that he is a king. They gave him frankincense. The strong aroma filled the house and I wondered if Yeshua was to be a priest, even though he is not descended from Levi. They also gave him myrrh. Myrrh is costly but is for embalming a body. It was a strange gift for a baby and I wondered what it meant.

They told us their story before they left. In their Persian home, they were magi, watching the stars and foretelling the future. Many months ago, at the time of Yeshua’s birth, they had seen a special star which they knew meant a powerful new king had been born and they determined they would find him and worship him. Unfortunately, following the star caused them to go to Jerusalem first (I always knew that star gazing was a misleading activity!) They went to Herod’s palace and asked where the new king was. This was scary, Herod had shown he was not a king to be trusted and his cruelty was well known. I would not have wanted to visit his palace.

However, it sounded as though he had decided to be helpful. He asked the scribes to research the early scriptures and they discovered that the promised king was to be born in Bethlehem. The king told the Easterners and asked them to find the king and then return and tell him the exact location, so that he too could worship.

I wondered what would happen next. Would Herod himself come to visit my precious baby or would we be summoned to the palace? This was not a comfortable thought. I also wondered why the palace scribes had not come to visit us. Did they not believe the scriptures that they studied so diligently? Surely if they were truly expecting a redeemer they would also have come?
The men left. They planned to sleep in an inn and return to Jerusalem the next day. We could not offer them lodging in our tiny house and they seemed content to leave now they had seen Yeshua.

I returned Yeshua to bed and soon after Joseph and I also went to sleep.

I had not been asleep for long when Joseph woke me. He shook me awake, then went to light the lamp. I could see his face was tense and instantly turned to check Yeshua was well. He was sleeping soundly. Joseph told me I needed to get up at once, we needed to leave. He said that he had had a dream, like the dream when the angel told him that the baby inside me was God’s son. It was so intense and real that he could not ignore it. He said he had been told we must leave Israel, Yeshua was in danger, Herod planned to kill him.

I wondered why I too had not be warned and then I realised, God had told Joseph to take care of me and Yeshua. That was a hard task for a man, to care for a son that was not his own. So God was now telling Joseph alone what we needed to do, underlining his role, establishing him as head of our family. It was a kind act.

I began to pack our things but Joseph was hurrying me, telling me to only take what was essential.
We were to go to Egypt. Egypt! Could this be right? Was Yeshua not to be king of the Jews? I packed hurriedly and we left that very night.

What would the future hold? Would we ever return to our home town? The future was uncertain but I knew that something bigger than us was happening. Whatever happened, God had a plan and no one could alter the course of that.

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This account necessarily involves some imagination but I believe it is also as historically correct as possible (and a lot more correct than some of our Christmas carols!)
If you are aware of any historical errors, please tell me and I will modify it.
I used a variety of sources including:
The gospels of Matthew and Luke
Geoffrey Bromily (1995)
William Hendriksen
William Barclay
Joseph P Amar (university of Notre Dame)
Michael Marlowe
Tessa Afshar

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Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog at : anneethompson.com ?

Then you will receive all my posts by email (usually two per week.)

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How to Have a Brain Tumour

How to Have a Brain Tumour

by Anne E Thompson

  I must begin by stating that I merely have an honours degree in education and an outdated first aid certificate, so nothing I say should be taken as having any medical knowledge at all. This is simply an honest account of the things I wish I had known when I had a brain tumour. It is necessarily subjective and you will disagree with some of it but I hope that some of it is useful.

Finding Out

  You will probably have either a CT scan or an MRI. A CT scan is much quicker but uses lots of radiation – about 13 times the amount of a normal X-ray. An MRI is scary before you have had one but is nothing more than lying on a hard bed. The amount of time it takes seems to depend on the age of the machine. I dislike confined spaces so always keep my eyes shut. The main thing to know is that it is noisy! At my first MRI I was offered a choice of music to listen to whilst in the machine. However, when it began the machine was so loud I could not hear anything. It made me laugh and I still have no idea why they offer it.
The machine sounds like someone is digging up the road right next to your head. Sometimes the machine also vibrates. I am always sure that there has been a nuclear explosion and I am the only person left alive, but when I emerge everyone is completely fine!
Sometimes they inject you with a dye because some tumours enhance with contrast. If they are planning to do this, you may have a blood test a few days before so they can check your kidney function is good enough to flush out the dye afterwards. The rules on this seem to change quite often. They inject the dye into your arm. I told my mother that they put it in one ear and I had to lie on my side while it dripped through my brain (it made me laugh….) My cyst did not enhance and I did not much like being injected with dye unnecessarily, so I asked for them to not do it after the first couple of MRIs. Remember, it is your body and if you would prefer for something to not happen, it is okay to ask if it is necessary. Sometimes we just accept everything that happens and feel it would be rude to ask questions. It is not.

  When you first discover you have a brain tumour, whatever the type, it is shocking. I put it in the same category as cancer – it was something completely horrible and soon I would be dead. However, a little research shows that there are many different types of brain tumour (as there are cancers) and some are more sinister than others. That said, I personally think they are all nasty.

  So, what to do? I suggest that you try to find out some facts. This is not always easy. I was diagnosed incidentally after a CT scan due to a bumped head. The hospital told me nothing and sent me to my general practitioner. He told me nothing and sent me to a neurologist. He told me very little (he told me he had read about them! ) and sent me to a neurosurgeon. All this took time.
Meanwhile I had looked on the internet. This has mixed results. I did not understand much of what I read and a lot was very scary. “Sudden instant death” seemed to be a feature of my particular tumour (a colloid cyst), which was not terrifically reassuring. If I could go back in time, I would tell my newly diagnosed self that things move very slowly in the medical world, so learn patience (unless they think something is life-threatening, then they move quickly! So, if the medics are being slow, probably you will not die today.)
However, you can be proactive. You can ask your GP for the number of the person they are referring you to and you can then phone their secretary and make an appointment. You do not have to wait for your GP to write, then for the next person to receive the letter and write back with an appointment. It does not speed things up much but it helps you to feel that something is happening.

  Decide how much you want other people to know. I decided that my children (then all teenagers) would realise that something was wrong and actually not knowing is more worrying than knowing. I wanted them to trust in the future that I wasn’t holding back information, so I was open with them from the start. Obviously that depends on the age and personality of your children. However, you will need some support, so I strongly recommend you tell some close friends or relatives. Choose who you tell carefully. Some will immediately plan your funeral, others will offer practical help, others will just tell as many other people as they can and invent any details they are unsure of!

  Sort out what you believe. Brains are in a compact space with not much room for anything else. Many people live for decades with benign brain tumours and never even know that they have one. However, mostly they cause trouble.
I think it is sensible to be realistic about this and it is a good time to sort out exactly what you believe in terms of religion. Most of us tend to follow our parent’s faith (or lack of) and it’s easy to never actually make clear decisions for ourselves. Now is an excellent time to change that. Personally, I have been a christian my whole life, but this made me really think about what I actually believed as opposed to ritualistically ‘followed due to habit’. None of us know when we will die, but being faced with a possibly terminal illness is definitely not the time to delay making a few grown up life decisions! Our society dislikes talking about death. I am not sure that this is always very helpful. Modern medicine is amazing, but no one lives for ever, so decide what you think will happen next. It also helps to take away some of the fear. If the worst that can happen is death and you have sorted out your beliefs on that, then some of the fear will go too.

  Find some people who are in a similar position. I did not know anyone who had ever had a brain tumour or brain surgery. However, I soon found a chatroom called “Braintalk Communities” and found a wealth of helpful information and could read about people who felt the same as me. I later joined a group on facebook, which was very similar.
Obviously you need to use some common sense, some people will be depressed or lonely or have other issues that make them write things that may not be especially balanced. However, mostly I found it a huge support and a wealth of information. If you cannot find a group that relates to your tumour, I would recommend starting one!

Finding a Surgeon

  At some point, hopefully fairly quickly, you will meet a brain surgeon. I don’t know how the system works in other countries, so this advice is based on the UK. Decide what you want to ask. You may want all the details about your tumour, you might just want to know what s/he plans to do. However, it is worth being clear with your questions and I would recommend writing a list beforehand.

  Take someone with you. It is amazingly easy to not hear correctly when you are stressed! If you have someone with you, they can often explain things you didn’t understand and repeat information that you misheard or forgot. However, agree beforehand whether you want them to speak during the consultation or just listen.

  Decide what you want from from your surgeon. If they intend to just observe the tumour, you might want the surgeon to be someone very approachable who you can discuss things with. If S/he plans to remove it, you probably don’t really care what their conversation is like, you just want a good surgeon!
In the UK you have a choice. I did not find my first neurosurgeon very easy to talk to, he tended to try and convince me of a course of action rather than answer my questions. (When I asked “How big is the tumour?” I did not want to be convinced it was too small to undergo a dangerous operation, I just wanted to be told the size!) I knew, from various chatrooms, that it was possible to change surgeons and this is normal and not a massive insult to the one who you change from. I read on the chatroom about a surgeon at NHNN in Queens Square who sounded good and I asked my doctor if I could switch. She wrote a letter, and it was as easy as that! I am so very glad that I did.
It is of utmost importance that you trust your surgeon. It removes a lot of anxiety, so decide what you need, ask different people for recommendations and find one.

  It is also worth learning a few phrases that surgeons use! I do not mean especially technical terms, but sometimes what we hear is not what they mean to say. For example, I was repeatedly told my tumour was “asymptomatic” when clearly it was causing headaches. I felt as if they thought I was lying about the pain! However, what they meant was that they could not find a proven physiological reason that showed on scans for the tumour to be causing pain. I think the hydrocephalus was very intermittent, and because they could not see it, they did not acknowledge it. Once we cleared up the terminology problem, we could discuss the pain and I was referred to a neurologist for pain relief medicines.

Living with the Stress

  Okay, so whether they operate or not, you will probably be rather stressed. There are a few ways that I found it helpful to deal with this.

  Occupy your mind. I found that I could not stop thinking about the fact that I had a brain tumour and was in danger of it defining who I was! It is impossible to ‘not think’ about something, so I think filling your mind with something else is a huge help. I started to learn mandarin at the same time as my diagnosis and this was wonderful! I am not a linguist, cannot speak any other language at all and gave my language teachers at school nervous breakdowns! However, mandarin was fabulous. It is fairly difficult, so I concentrated with my whole mind during lessons and there was no time to worry about anything else. It also was a great distraction in all those boring hospital waiting rooms. Obviously a language might not be your ‘thing’, but I really would suggest that you find some hobby to occupy your mind and give it a break from worrying. Whether it is chess, knitting or kick-boxing, find something that is quite difficult, fits into your schedule and that you enjoy.

  Secondly, do some exercise. Whether they operate or not, you want a healthy body. Cycling as fast as you can or swimming a few laps, is another good way to burn off some stress and give yourself a break. Even if you are too weak for anything else, go for a walk. I had lots of pretty bad headaches but I found that cycling did not make them any worse and I felt better in myself after I had exercised. You should check with your doctor that you are safe to exercise, but if there is no reason not to, I would say force yourself to!

  Thirdly, be nice to yourself. If it was a close friend suffering, you would give them treats, encourage them to do things they enjoy, etc. Do the same for yourself. You are special, going through a tough time, allow yourself some treats!

  Try not to face things you do not need to. Sometimes our thoughts run away with us and we imagine being handicapped, mute, dependent and so on, when actually these things are unlikely to happen today. Try to live in the present, each day face what has to be faced that day. Don’t worry about the future until you have to. (You could still get run over by a bus, then all that worry will have been for nothing!!!)

  Pray. If you have sorted out what you believe, now is the time to put it to the test! It’s not worth having faith in something that cannot help you right now. Praying is not a ‘genie in a lamp’, it changes us over time but I do believe that it helps hugely. If you decide that you do not believe in any God at all, then I don’t know what to suggest (maybe re-think….?)

If You Are Having Brain Surgery

  Depending on the type of tumour, surgery might happen very quickly or not at all. I was told that my tumour was unlikely to ever change and they would simply monitor it. After five years, it did change and within a week it was removed. Many people have their tumour removed as an emergency procedure and have no real choice. However, if things move a bit slower, what do you need to know?

  Firstly, is the surgeon you have been seeing one that you trust to operate? There is a lot on the internet about surgery going wrong, people being left mute or unable to move and so on. Do not bother to read that! All that really matters is, has your surgeon operated on this type of tumour a few times before? If he has, how many of his patients were left with serious complications? Then you can make your decision. If you do not trust him, find a new surgeon. This is not something you want to mess about with and it is important to really trust the person who’s going to be fiddling inside your head.

  Secondly, decide what you want to know. I am a coward. When my consultant started to explain what he planned to do, I stopped him and said that I planned to be asleep during the operation and did not need to know anything. This was a slight mistake. True, I did not need to know about the actual operation (though some people would want to know) but I was completely unprepared for what would happen before the operation.

  Soon after arriving at hospital the day before surgery, a very nice young doctor came to attach stickers to my head. They were about 2cm diameter and were put in several places around my head. Each one needed hair shaved off first and then she drew around them with a marker pen. For some reason, this was very perturbing. I had of course known that some hair would be shaved but I had assumed I would be asleep. I also found being drawn on weirdly dehumanising. It was silly and the stickers were necessary (they did an MRI which showed the stickers and then used this as a map during surgery) and actually I found the reason very interesting but I was unprepared and so it knocked my confidence. I then had to walk down to the MRI room covered in pieces of chopped off hair. Again, had I known, I could have brought in an old shirt and used it as a ‘hairdresser’s gown’ to keep the hair off my clothes.

  I also did not know what I needed to take to the hospital. This was in part the fault of the hospital, who should have sent me a list however, brain surgery is often done quickly and things get forgotten. I should have phoned the ward and asked what I needed to bring in the way of towels, clothes and food.

  Do take a mobile phone and recharger. I found that friends and family sent texts and emails and this was a huge support and made the whole experience strangely special. I was never alone. However, take some care with what you send after surgery. I sent a ‘selfie’ to show my mother how I looked to help prepare her. I have no idea why I also sent it to people who I hardly know, my child’s school, the postman, etc! My daughter checked my phone after my surgery and had to sent some explanatory texts to a few people! Brain surgery does somewhat muddle us.

  I also should have asked what I should expect after the operation. It can help to prepare visiting relatives if they have some idea of how many machines you will be attached to, if you will be able to speak, will you be in pain and so on. One of my children arrived at hospital expecting me to be sitting up in bed chatting. He told me that seeing me look like I was dead was very traumatic and he would never visit me in hospital again unless I was dying! This could be a problem if I break a leg and he arrives – will be like a visit from the Grim Reaper! However, joking aside, it is good to prepare both ourselves and our visitors.

  I read that my surgery often results in memory loss. If that is also the case for you, it is worth writing down PIN numbers, passwords and important numbers and making sure that someone else knows where they are. If the surgery affects the left side of your brain, it may affect your language. This is not just your ability to speak but also to form words in your head. This will probably improve over time but it is worth letting people know beforehand – if you cannot speak, them giving you something to write with will probably not help much!

  After surgery I mostly slept. I was nauseous but the nurses gave me anti sickness pills. They also gave me injections to prevent blood clots (in the stomach – most unpleasant.) I was on a drip. I had a drainage tube in my head and before I came home this was removed and the hole was stitched. The stitches hurt – listen to something distracting or recite poetry or something!

  I went home five days after surgery. My face swelled up, starting at the top, then my nose (I looked like a centaur!) Apparently this is normal but I was not expecting it so I worried.
I also had problems with my ears, everyone’s voices sounded weird, as if they were a Darlek. I heard popping noises and buzzing. Again, this was normal and due to excess fluid settling down, but I did not know and so was worried. Prior to surgery I had hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain.) This caused a bruised feeling at the top of my head, like a hairband was pulling my hair, even though there was no bruising when I touched it. After surgery, I sometimes had the same feeling, especially when lying down. I was worried but the surgeon told me that the fluid levels in my brain were having to readjust and it would take time, so the feeling was normal.
Similarly, reading anything in the morning had been difficult due to the fluid levels (I did not have double vision but to focus on small print was uncomfortable.) This also continued for a couple of weeks after surgery.
I also worried about my stitches. They became very itchy and the wound felt tight. Again, this was normal and a doctor could reassure me that the wound looked healthy and was not ‘angry’ or inflamed or weeping.

  I was expecting a lot of pain after surgery but actually there was very little. In hospital they gave me morphine a few times (which I have since added to my Christmas list but am not hopeful!) but mostly I just took paracetamol. I did have a few headaches but they were not as bad as the pain prior to surgery.

  I was very worried about things like sneezing in case I dislodged something important! I did sneeze soon after surgery and nothing bad happened!
Whatever the reason for being in hospital, it seems very normal to feel anxious afterwards. I know some completely sensible people who had a panic attack after being in hospital and I found that I worried about the tiniest thing. It did improve. I think perhaps it is because we lose all control when we are in hospital and it can be scary when you first get home. I also felt that I had been brave enough and I could not be brave about anything else afterwards!

  I was told that it would take six months before I started to feel ‘normal’. I did not believe them! After six weeks we drove to Italy for a holiday and I expected to feel completely well afterwards. I did not. Brain surgery takes a long time to heal. You will need to rest a lot. Fill the freezer with easy meals, arrange for someone else to look after your animals and try to relax.
Depending on your type of surgery, you may not be allowed to drive afterwards. I had a craniotomy and the rules at the moment are that I cannot drive for at least six months. However, the rules seem to change frequently! I suggest that you phone the DVLA directly and hope to speak to someone intelligent who can tell you the current situation. There also seems to be some controversy about who decides you are ‘fit to drive’.The DVLA want a medic to make the decision but the medics argue (correctly in my opinion) that whilst they can inform the DVLA of a patients health, the DVLA must make the rules for who can and cannot drive. Neither party wants to take responsibility and be sued by an insurance company! The DVLA also seem to be very slow at processing information and reissuing licences. So, although you may be told you cannot drive for a certain period, it may turn out to be longer.

I think that people tend to feel different afterwards too. I have heard people talk about the “old me” and the “new me”. It is not terrible, you will adjust, you just need to allow yourself time. My surgery was on the right side and they removed a cyst from the third ventricle (the middle of the brain.) I still find multitasking difficult and I burn most things that I cook. I am assuming that eventually this will improve or I will find new ways of doing things.

  Whether you are reading this because you have a brain tumour or because someone you care about does, remember, it does not have to be as scary as we fear. Even when life is unpleasant, there are usually new things to learn and unexpected special times.

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Since my craniotomy, I have realised that it is unlikely I will ever return to teaching. Instead, I have started to write. My first book, Hidden Faces, is due to be published this summer. My online book, Counting Stars, is available now, as a Kindle book, from amazon.co.uk for £1:99

Imagine a future with a global government. No more wars, or terrorism. No more famine or poverty. But at what cost? Follow the journey of one family as they work together to survive in an uncertain world. (One of them has recently had brain surgery and reflects all the feelings and hopes that I felt as I struggled to recover.)

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Thank you for reading.

More stories and articles at:
 http://anneethompson.com

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Letter to My Sister 22

Letter 22

So, I was asked if I would consider helping with the Sunday School. Actually, it’s not called Sunday School, it’s called Boulders, but everyone knows what I mean if I give it the old fashioned title. If it happens, it will be hugely exciting. I did help with the group about a year ago, before I was ill. It was tremendous fun, I (and I think the kids) enjoyed it immensely. This might be my second chance.

When we were children, did you enjoy it? Mum and Dad dutifully sent us every week, but I think for me it was a bit too much like school. I did learn though, much of my Bible knowledge today is based on what I learnt as a child in those classes, despite my main aim being to kick off the shoe of the teacher when she crossed her legs. I remember one teacher who I loved because she let us draw stick-men instead of writing the story. We were simple souls.

Of course, if I am the teacher, I can be as imaginative as I want. Last year I taught about the plagues in Egypt, Moses, Pharaoh, God leading his people to the promised land. I was very keen that it shouldn’t be like school, a ‘sit down and write’ lesson. So I made it as real as I could. I felt it was important to source some of the plagues. Husband (somewhat reluctantly, I must say) helped with this.

First was blood – I did wonder about asking cousin the nurse if she could get me some but thought that maybe there would be health risks with using human blood. So we used food colouring and coloured some water red. It was more pink to be honest. Fear the children may now think all Jewish people were anaemic.

Next was frogs. I tried the local ponds but they were very hard to catch. Father-in-law came up trumps. Apparently his pond had too many and he needed to lose some. Gave me a tupperware box full of bouncing amphibians. I put them in the garage in a very big box covered in netting with a ‘pond’ in an empty ice cream container. Was getting excited now.

Flies were easier than you might think – my window sills had a good supply of dead ones that could be put into an envelope. The joys of living on farm land. I decided the smaller ones could double up as gnats.

Locusts were also easily sorted. The local ‘exotic pets’ shop sold them in boxes as food for the lizards and things. They were alive (apparently lizards and things do not like to eat dead things.) We put them into another big crate in the garage. You would be amazed by how much green stuff a locust can eat. We had about twenty of them. Husband then got rather enthusiastic. He ‘decorated’ the crate to make a nice environment for them. Lots of leaves and branches, areas of soil, etc.

The boils were lipstick spots with ‘tumours’ of lumps of cold porridge. The hail was crushed ice cubes. The dead animals were found in my daughter’s long forgotten farm set in the loft. The darkness was a big blanket everyone could hide under.

Death was harder, we had to just act that. Even I felt that using a corpse might be going too far. And be illegal. And damage the children beyond repair.

Anyway, we had a terrific time. We learned about the story, then made a short film, using mobile phones. It would probably win some Oscars if I released it. I will send you a copy.

Afterwards, the frogs went into my pond (still see them occasionally) and the rest of the stuff went back into cupboards.

The locusts were a problem. They had grown huge (we only had them a week) and husband had bonded with them. Super. Son 1 did suggest we could release them into crops next door but that was clearly wrong. Eventually we found someone with a big lizard thing which ate big locusts, so we gave them to him. Think husband was rather sad but we coped.

Am very much hoping it happens. Husband has banned me from teaching about Noah’s Ark. But I think it has potential.

Take care,
Anne x