The Whole Hague is Limping

I didn't take the weekend off the challenge friends - I've just been too busy (or lazy) to update you ... so here is Friday, Saturday and Sunday's experiences all roled in to one post - now there's efficiency.

Friday 20th April: This morning, a dear friend of mine Skyped me because she needed prayer. I shan't go into too great detail, for fear the squeamish among you would not appreciate that and also because she might not want her boobie news broadcast on the worldwide web. In short however, she was having problems breastfeeding her baby. I cannot even imagine. Well, I prayed for her and then we both got on with our days.

Work was fairly usual. I still couldn't see Marilyn on the playground at school, and remain in the dark as to the progress of her recently-operated-on leg. I prayed for one of the children that I take care of, who told me she was sick, but I have a feeling this was some sort of prank to guilt me into giving her chocolate, which I had previously refused.

Forgetting my Skype prayer and this prayer for child 3 (for confidentiality purposes - ooo how exciting), as I cycled home I was determined that I must find someone to pray for. As I was cycling through the Buitenhof (the area outside the Prime Minister's Office) I saw an oncoming couple, wonky on one side. The man was limping. Quicker than a stealthy predator surfacing after a 40 day fast, I hopped off my moving bike. "Ik zie dat je heb pijn in jou been?" (I can see you have pain in your leg?). [Dutch followers, sorry if my grammar offends you, but you got to do what you got to do!]

"Ja, ik heb" said the man, rather confused.
"Kan ik voor jou bidden? Ik ben een Christian." (Can I pray for you then?)
I can't recall what his answer exactly was, but with a sort of polite and pitiful smile, him and his wife informed me that prayer wouldn't help (what do they know!). I decided not to push the matter, because my stomach was rumbling. I wished them a fine evening and recieved a slightly perturbed pat of gratitude before I was back on my bike and pedalling into the distance thinking, "Well God, I did offer."

The offer alone however did not satisfy my craving for God to break into someone's life today. Next thing, I was in the Albert Heijn supermarket aisle, spending far too much time deliberating on which type on honey I should purchase when I noticed another limper out of the corner of my eye! Engaged as I was with the honey, he slipped (or rather hobbled) away unaccosted by me; but I felt an urge to go after him. I excitedly buzzed on over to his station- a bulging trolley - where his wife arrived simultaneously. So this is a slightly awkward scenario, the Friday evening Albert Heijn chaos, but what the heck. Same old drill. "Heb je pijn in jou been?" This time I was told that the leg would get better by itself. I was a bit more determined this time, and asked if he didn't want it to go away now? Either he didn't, or I had just freaked the poor guy out. But I got an appreciative smile from this pair, before another (this time more endearing) pat sent me on my way.

Perhaps I was a tiny bit discouraged. God I had really wanted to see someone healed today. I'm sure you do do it! Well, when I was out later that night at the cheesiest venue of my entire partying career, I received a text form the friend, whose breast I had prayed for earlier on Skype. Thanks for prayer, she was feeding again. Praise God! (I have a handful of stories pertaining to prayer and the commencement/cessation of bodily fluids).

Saturday 21st April: Having just discoverd that yet another pair of jeans had ripped in the good old-favourite crotch region (am I putting on weight, or is this due to five years wear and tear and biking? I prefer the latter explanation), I couldn't possibly avoid a jean-shopping trip to the city centre. Now, I confess, that when it comes to shopping, I am like a high-powered business woman on speed; in my very special zone until I find exactly what I want - normal cravings for food, water and other such vital substances, put on hold. But as I was decidedly marching through the bustling streets, I remembered that I must not make today all about me. Whatever my current status (be that chillaxing or stressfully going in search of the perfect pair of jeans), I am an ambassador for God's Kingdom and I need to be available for him today. Someone within this tin of sardines is in need of a touch of his love. And then I see him - another limper. Without hesistating to wonder why the whole Hague is limping (was there a marathon recently?) I go through the routine, "Heb je pijn in jou been?" (No need for translation this time my anglophones, you know the score...) He however did need translation, because this dude was a fellow English man. So I asked again, "Have you got a pain in your leg?"

He told me that he had and so I asked him if he'd like me to pray for him. He seemed dead chuffed and we pushed our way through V&D's crowds to get to a more quiet spot just outside. In the meantime I asked his name and discovered a bit about John and how long he'd been in The Hague for. He had such a remarkable story. The reason for his limp, was not a marathon, but varrucaes all over his feet and another problem from an injury 12 years ago. John lived on the streets and had not been able to get treatment. So I prayed for him, and expectantly asked if the pain had been diminished. "No" was his reply. I encouraged him, that I'm definitely sure that God does and can heal and I don't completely know why it doesn't happen when I expect it to and often does when I least expect it to (maybe it has to do with complete dependency on him). I say that we should pray again later, but first offer to take John for some lunch, which is like Christmas come early for him. On the way, we chat some more and I find out that of all the places in the UK, he comes from my home town - LEICESTER (in moments of elation, I refer to it as LESTA-da-BESTA). This explains why I found his accent so comforting. We chat some more, and I pray again, but still to no physical avail. Although, I am certain of one thing, God has used me to show John how much he cares and John is grinning all over, telling me what a great day this is.

Sunday 22nd April: drum roll ... IT'S SABBATH TIME BABY! Is God more effective on Sundays? Definitely not. I'm just being dramatic. Anyhow, I always get excited about church Redeemer International Church. www.redeemerchurch.nl shameless plug! No opportunities arise at church to pray for anyone. But after church I go with some friends to the trusty Albert Heijn for the 3rd time this weekend. And just who should be outside? "John!" I hollar, much to the amazement of the passing shoppers and his other homeless cronies. I find out that they are Peter and Jakob from Poland and Willem from NL. After our introductions, I realise they are all hungry, so get them all some food and then offer to pray for Jakob, who's on some sort of zimmer thing. John explains that he's got titanium in his foot due to some terrible accident, because Jakob doesn't speak any English. So I gesture that I am going to pray for him, put a hand on him and just pray for God's healing and blessing to come. I didn't stick around to see if there was any improvement. I am completely trusting God that there will be physical breakthrough in all of this, but the thing that I am perhaps learning the most is that God is so passionately in love with the down and outs of society and in being up for praying for people, he's introducing me to some of his friends and followers that normally I might have frowned at, along with the other affluent shoppers. Jakob's eyes smile and he points up towards God and touches his heart, saying "Jesus". Too right Jakob, we might have nothing else in common, but I'm glad that the most beautiful person in all the universe connects us during this brief and beautiful moment.

I'm nearly up, becaue this post is long and you've probably got things to be getting on with, if you haven't already given up by now. But I was chatting to another friend on Skype this afternoon and I ended up praying for her neck. Somehow something dodge has happened to her spine and she gets a lot of pain in her neck when she's sat still for any length of time. After I'd prayed for her, I asked her how she was doing and she said that her neck felt all hot. Now this is a great sign! Many people that I know who also pray for healing testify that heat is often indicative of the Holy Spirit doing something - I hasten to add for the sceptics, that my hand was not on her neck - this was a virtual conversation. My friend, will update me after her lecture on Monday, if there's been any improvement. I wait with baited breath.

No need to be narrow minded

I have been unable to pray for anyone's physical healing today. It's not that I wasn't up for it or looking out for signs of physical impairment; there just wasn't an opportunity. (Apart from maybe with the three zimmer frame's owners in the supermarket. Maybe God is trying to challenge me on yesterday's conclusion about not praying for OAPs. If I see another tomorrow, maybe I will just take the plunge.)

Being deliberately open to God today though has led me to pray for three people, that had I met last week (before I felt prompted to start this whole stepping out thing), I might not have ended up praying for. The first was the cleaner Doris. From previous Thursdays preparing dinner for the children in the kitchen that Doris has just cleaned because of the children, I have got to know her a little bit. She's a wonderful African lady with a great big smile. I knew that a few weeks back she'd been suffering with a bad back, so I inquired today how she was. She told me that her back was completely fine because the root cause of the pain, was another cleaning job, which required some back-crippling repetitive motions and her contract there had recently come to a close. Great that there's no pain anymore, but she also confided that she now needs another job to compensate for the loss of hours and pay. I asked her if I could pray for her to find another job. She hesitantly accepted my offer and insisted that she didn't want anything more than 3 hours a day in the morning. So I relayed the specifics of her situation to a wonderful person I know can help. My God isn't just a healer, he's a provider and I don't want to refuse to pray for people's other needs as I go about these 30 days. Afterall, one of the reasons that I believe God loves to heal people is because it demonstrates his love for them, but he can demonstrate his love in so many other practical ways too. Let's hope for Doris that because we presented her request to the King, she gets her ideal job!

The next person that I was able to pray for today was an ever so slightly odd, but charming wrinkly man from Curacao. He remarked on the family's dog Mac, as I untied him outside of the supermarket. God prompted me to take the opportunity to strike up a conversation with him, rather than pretend I hadn't heard him (often a tempting option when you get accosted by weirdos about town). Manuel, as I discovered his name was, might have been externally odd in appearence, but he was such a sweet old man who I am glad to have met today. We chatted for a little while yo-yo-ing between his adequate English and my amateur Dutch about our origins and whether he liked my dog. After these niceities, I explained that I was a Christian and believed in healing and asked whether he had anything physically wrong with his body that I could pray for. He said that there was nothing at all, but he suddenly wanted to talk some more, so we walked together past his house and he told me about a prophet that I've never heard of before and about his life philsophy. Before we parted, he said that I could pray for his well being, which I did as I left.

"Thank you God for Manuel. Please bless him with the joy and peace that comes from knowing you. Please help me to be more open to meeting men and women that you created and love dearly, that I might share your love with them and help me not to be so judgemental about outward appearances."

So I looked out on the playground today for Marilyn, the Spannish lady who's leg I prayed for yesterday. But I couldn't see her anywhere. I'll be sure to keep a look out tomorrow and let you know how she's getting on. I wondered today whether there was anyone else God might like me to pray for at school, but I just didn't feel a pull towards anyone.

Once at home with the kids, I wondered if my options to pray for healing had dried up for the day. "God I am up for praying for someone for healing, but you kind of have to show me who." None of the kids got sick today, but after work I went to visit some friends that I haven't seen for ages. They're both Hindu and quizzed my brain for hours on Christianity. I did my best to answer their questions and dispell their confusion. Before I left, I asked them if any of them had any physical need that I could pray for. My friend asked if I would pray for anything other than physical healing because she'd really like prayer for her mum. Of course, no prayer request is void, God cares about it all. From my experience, praying for someone no matter what the issue, touches them in such a special way, that I love to do it.

Today I think God has challenged me that over these 30 days of making myself especially available to him, there's no need to be narrow minded and insist that I pray for physical healing - although these kind of prayers can be exciting and often see "spooky" instant results, I think God heals men and women as an expression that they are not forgotten by him. Any kind of prayer though, can communicate to an individual that they have significance before the God who created and cherishes them. I'm up for informing people that they are loved by God!

Prayer on the playground

As the first glimpses of light peeped through my heavy eyelids this morning, an immediate awareness interrupted my bleary state. Day two of my personal 30 day commitment to pray for healing. Anticipation mixed with disorientation - who, what and where today?

Cycling on my way to work today I prayed constantly, keeping my eyes peeled for any visible signs of physical deterioration. I was scouring the pavements so hard, that slightly dangerous cycling ensued. Fortunately, I avoided collision - although had I not, perhaps I could have prayed for myself? Anyway, except for an old guy with a zimmer frame, I didn't see a soul outwardly in need of healing prayer. Maybe, I passed up an opportunity with him, but I'm not quite sure how I feel about praying for oldies. If you're old, you're nearing your end anyway and I figure that at some point a dose of bad health normally does proceed the ultimate fall. Is my theology there in need of a little tweak?

I arrived at the house where I work as a nanny without success. So after some laundry and dinner preparation (a tasty chorizo and chickpea stew) I figured that if I took the dog out for a walk, I might stumble across someone in the woods to pray for. I didn't. And this could only mean one thing: unless I am going to be required to stop off in the city centre late tonight on my way home from work, the likelihood is I will have to find someone on the playground at the British School when I go to collect the children. A squirm-worthy thought.

So the BSN (British School of the Netherlands) playground is full of yummy mummies and Louis Vuitton leather. I feel a bit awkward there at the best of times; in part because I am not clad to quite the same standard, but also because I am not the mother of the children I am collecting, which means I don't know the other mother's from their coffee mornings or other middle-aged socials, and finally because I am clearly too young to be the mother of these-aged children and therefore I am a visibly identifiable nanny, which makes me feel slightly second class.

I collected the youngest, all the time spying out some imperfection amongst his classmate's guardians, but there were none. Out onto the rainy playground we went. This is normally the time of day that my four year old has me pretending to be a teradactul and flying over imaginary volcanoes as we wait for the older two to come out of their classrooms. Today however, I was distracted, eagerly and yet hesistantly waiting for my moment. That's when I saw a lady limp right over the playground. Now I knew I couldn't go over to her straight away because I had to stay in view for my kids to come out. Just then my middle child came over to me and I could see out of the corner of my eye the had-been-limping lady talking animately to someone about her disfunctional leg. The conversation was coming to a close. For fear that she would hobble right out of the playground never to be seen again, I dashed over to her indicating that the children should follow me. As I reached her, my final child arrived too, a bit confused as to what I was doing. They get rather embarrassed of me at times, but I like to think they find me endearing.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice that you were limping. Is your leg OK?"

"Did you hear me?" she replied.

"Oh no," I assured her that I hadn't been listening in on her conversation. "I just saw you limping and you see the thing is, I'm a Christian and I believe God can heal. Would you like me to pray for you?"

Immediately her tone softened and she took my hand tenderly - she was a middle-aged Spannish lady, which made this gesture quite natural - not that I'm one to easily feel uncomfortable. I asked her name, which I think was the Spannish equivalent of Marilyn and told her mine. She told me that she was recovering from an operation on her leg and was really struggling, having just returned to work (also as nanny). She said that she suffered from pain, particularly at night. After she asked whether I went to church and then what kind of church and told me she was Catholic, she agreed to let me pray for her. I did so there and then in the playground, quite promptly, as I had my three children observing awkwardly from the sidelines and she had to scoot off to collect her own. But she was so touched and insisted that I catch up with her on the playground with her tomorrow. I will do that and I hope to share with you tomorrow that her leg is doing much better!

I've got the Dutch, let's get back the Courage

So I'm back for 30 days at least.

A whole LOT has occurred since June 11 2011, which I've just seen was my last post. Since then I've attained an MA in Religion, Science and Ethics: Philosophical Approaches, moved into the beating heart of the Hague (or rather the contorted upper lip that is the wealthy Statenkwartier area) and progressed a fair amount with my Dutch. Nu kan ik een biedtje Nederlands gelesen en mijn liefelings Nederlands vehaal is over een Beer en een Aap! Oh yeah, and I've become an Nanny to four wonderful children. [There is much more that could be inserted here, but those few facts will serve as the headlines to bring us up to speed.]

I'm back on the blogosphere, not because Dutch life has become a bore and driven me into ego-centric cyber activity, but because it has been brought to my attention that my initial fervour for adventure has become dimmed over the last five months or so. I'm more integrated in Dutch life than I was then, but this integration has been accompanied by a kind of apathy when it comes to "stepping out" for God. I think that's in part a fair assessment of my predicament - I've become a little comfortable and thus less Kingdom-focused. But that's only half of the story. The other reason is perhaps that I spent the best part of last year writing my MA thesis on supernatural healing. My attempts at objective, academic scrutiny and investigation were insightful, enthralling, but at the same time exasperating and a little bit painful. It was a long and laborous task (20,000 words!) that left me dampened and confused, and as a result I hung up my coat and thought it easier not to dwell on the topic anymore.

You know what though? As much as I have tried to ignore the topic of healing and praying for it in Jesus' name, there's been an underlying nagging for some time and a desire that I would get back on it in terms of praying for people - friends and randoms alike. Well, I've sulked and been bitter, but after a few recent challenges from some super people - I've decided that rather than agonise over the specifics and unanswerables of Christian healing theology, I could just give it a shot and be taught by "doing it" again, rather than theorizing. So I've said to God, that in an attempt to heal myself from the hurt and disorientation that writing my thesis has caused, that I will commit to praying for someone for healing every day for 30 days. (I'm going to blog about it daily to make sure I do it). God, please show me your heart for healing as I actually start praying for people again and see what happens.

April 17 2012, 7.17pm: I'm cycling to my church small group and I'm thinking today is almost up. Who can I pray for God? Come on, I'm available and I'm up for praying for someone. I park my bike outside my friend's house and am thinking, "I hope someone from small group needs prayer, because my options are eradicating by the second". And then, just as I park up my bike I see two (slighty shady-looking) Asian blokes walk past. One is hobbling - or is he strutting? - hard to tell. Right, what the heck, I'm gonna just do this.
"Sorree".
They look at me. "Sprek je Engels?".
"Nee".
Damn. I'm gonna have to do this in Dutch. I string a mock-Dutch sentence together, which can't make much grammatical sense and the fellas must hear something like, "I am Christian. Is your leg pain? Can I pray for you? I have prayed seen people better become. Can I pray now for leg you?" The guy looks perplexed. He says that his leg is in pain and am I wanting to pray for him at home? I tell him that I mean to pray for him now, but he refuses the offer, so I ask his name and then assure him that I will pray for him when I get home. I wish them "fijn avond" (fine evening) and awkwardly shift a metre away to the front door of my friend. They walk past me seconds later and say "dank je wel" and there's an air of deep gratitude, mingled with "what a weirdo" in his voice.

Anyway, Jesus, thanks for Ricardo. Thank you that you love him. Thank you that you heal even today. Thank you that you have shown me countless times on skype and facebook chat that even the internet is an appropriate medium for healing. Would you take all the pain away from Ricardo right now and cause him to be amazed and in wonder of you - to your glory and his joy. Amen!

Interreligious Uncertainty

Wow, so it has been a while indeed...

So I mentioned last time that I was off to Istanbul on my course. It was a really intense experience. Not only time-wise - contrary to the cheap holiday I had hoped I'd signed up for - it was an exhausting 9am-6pm fortnight of lectures. The conference was on interreligious dialogue in South East Europe and we covered issues surrounding Muslim-Christian relations. Some lectures I wasn't expert enough in the field to follow and others aren't adequately described by the term 'thought provoking'. The whole experience really got me itching. Not only the academic programme, but socialising with the other participants from diverse cultural-religious backgrounds became somewhat of a personal epidemic, demanding my attention: my [per]spect[ive]acles were after-all of the western, baptist-come-charismatic christian variety. But over the course of my time there, I began to realise that not only are there Muslims with as equal a strength of convictions as mine, but there are Christians from other parts of the world and other traditions, whose faith manifests itself in a manner completely alien to me. This realisation, that I am not the measure of all things, proved a bit tumultuous at first, but clearly in need of this sobering I have been mulling things over since and hope as a result that I am now less dogmatic. After all, the world will keep spinning on its axis irregardless of my lack of answers. What's more, things might shake up the nitty gritty of my theology, but nothing can take my experience of God away from me.

Anyway for fear of boring you, I shall put down my semi-philosophical meanderings, in favour of some more practical narrative. Since getting back from Istanbul, the reality of impending deadlines have been hovering over me like clouds and I have been seeking to shoot them down like Beijing before the 2008 Olympics. I have also had to say goodbye to two great friends who were studying at Leiden on Erasmus and having finished their programmes have returned to the UK (Johnny and Sophie I will miss you!). A rather strange phenomenon in two respects: 1. I still have a 20,000 word thesis to achieve and will not myself finish until the beginning of August; 2. Even then, I will not be following them back to the UK, having decided to stay put for at least another year.

For a while I felt like I was in exile here, being prevented from returning to my motherland and her benefits, but in a rather unspectacular way, God has whispered peace to me about remaining here. I had been umming and arring like ayo-yo for weeks as to whether to stay or go and just felt the need for decision rising up in me. So that's what I did. I don't exactly know what the following year will hold, but what I do know is that God will provide for me as He did before and always has done. I will have to seek some form of employment to pay my way, but have been offered a place to stay with my favourite Dutch couple (a wonderful pair from my church). Thus, I will imminently be turfed out of my sublet residence in Leiden and hit the Hague's suburbia. Whether I try my hand at bar-tending once more or take on a humble occupation as a cleaner, (or perhaps something more glam will pop up) I will again determine to simply put my efforts into seeking first God's kingdom. A tried and tested cliche, I need some serious shuffling of perspective to make this possible. Besides earning some dollar and serving the King, I will make a proper effort to learn Dutch. My pathetic 'beetje' of Dutch so far is part and parcel of a distraction in MA-form, but I hope that once my study becomes another shiny piece of paper, I will have the mental space to seriously tackle the acquisition of another language.

I know you'll be wondering, what's a little further down the line? Well, at present (and I stress at present) the longer term goal is to train to be a secondary RE and Philosophy teacher. I have realised that I have a knack for explanation and what's more find myself really drawn towards teenagers. On top of that, the Istanbul experience did really stimulate me to think about promoting interreligious dialogue and open-mindedness. I wasn't really sure, who outside the walls of our conference would be affected by our abstract musings, but nevertheless thought we were getting at something. If our aloof considerations and inconclusive conclusions could be translated so that they become accessible to the many (rather than the academic few) and at a much earlier stage in education, then they could help to shape the thinking of influenceable young people, before their open minds become closed, and beyond that promote peace and understanding. I wonder if this could be my role as teacher? Sometimes we can snuff at this profession.

That being said, whilst I will apply for some teacher training programmes in the UK for 2012, I'm not 100% convinced that this will all come to pass. God has a habit of surprising me and my plans will thus reflect this in their pliability and openness to amendment. After all, life with God is an adventure and too much planning takes away the fun. I guess this blog is in essence an elongated and rather poetic way of saying, I really don't know what's around the corner.

Alive and Kicking

I have been insanely busy since I last blogged - I have absorbed copious literature and secreted a 19 page essay on healing over the last few weeks ... exhausting and mind-frazzling. What this means is that I am intellectually bankrupt and incapable of creating any novel material this evening. I imagine it will be a while until I blog again (I'm going to Istanbul for 2 weeks as part of my course - what a hard life). However, I have just - whilst thoroughly tidying my room for the first time this semester - unearthed a poem that I wrote a little while ago and I thought I could share it with you. It very much reflects the spirit of the motivation behind the essay I have just been writing and my thoughts on healing and the Christian life in general as I perceive it.

I don’t want to live a normal life,

Don’t want to give up sex, drugs, inebriation

And not replace the thrill with a new sensation.

I don’t want to suck the joy out of my being

And replace laughter for stillness

Dancing for kneeling,

But I want to live my life to the full.

Her solemnity is not a reflection of my saviour

His rigidity is not an imitation

Their ritual does not proclaim him

Empty religion does not honour him.

On most days I’m radical

On Sundays they’re cynical, sceptical

I’m over the top – I don’t think so,

It’s just that he fills me until I have to go

The passion it just overflows

What he’s done for me no other man ever could;

No other man ever would.

They pretend to herald the good book

I wonder if they’ve had a good look

As they fallaciously traditionalise

Birthing unbiblical rigour

Fairytale, fable, fiction minus action

Their twisted version, a boring perversion

Of a living freedom, a free invitation

To a much faster experience

A more intense kick

Laced with superior spirituality,

Supernatural expectancy:

The dead raised, lepers leaping

Blind men seeing

He said it would never stop

He said it would never stop

FULL STOP

But greater things he announced

We would pronounce

With holy articulation, righteous authority

Graceful affirmation, miraculous authentication.

They want to introduce you to doctrine

But I want you to meet my man

Breathing oxygen into these formerly withering bones

I exhale captivity, inhale freedom

Shackles broken.

So give me an adventure of faith

Abandon me to the unworldly, otherworldy way

Which I was created to walk in.

Oh and one other thing, a preemptive HAPPY EASTER! Jesus is alive and kicking.

I don't have to say anything

I think I talk too much,

Predicating to my mind

thoughts I'm not sure there abide.

I must be still

and know you are God

Silent, and know who am I.

Calm my active, wagging tongue

Harbour this dissonant song

and only allow harmony.

I don't want to give myself away

parcelled oft in uncareful words.

Protect this fragile heart of mine

Block the gush of biographical verse

I think from now, I'll talk less.

So I'm feeling pretty down at the moment. If you're a prayer, please send one up for me!

Facebook fast

So, how do you like your pancakes? I like mine bigger than my face with bacon, banana, cheese and maple syrup. Yum yum, yes please, ding dong. This year the most glorious annual day of cakes in a pan fell on the anniversary of my birth, but I didn't feel the need to honour it with pan flipping agility, since the Dutch eat pannekoeken all year round in restaurants dedicated to the flat and versatile delights and I have frequented them these past few weeks. (I thought this pancake definitely merited the feature of my first photo in the blog - it's massive like!)

I nevertheless had my fair share of sweetness, don't you worry, hosting a High Tea for my birthday instead. I managed to bake some delectable and quintessentially English scones in the excuse of an 'oven' housed sheepishly in our kitchen.

Now I don't know for sure, but I think pancake day has something to do with lent. Traditionally I believe we had to use up all our rich ingredients before the chastity and abstinence from all things nice began. Rather than fighting over which family member should assume the daring responsibility of flipping the pancakes, which in the land of pannekoeken must have lost its novelty way back when, the Dutch instead drink their faces off at carnival. Strange that the English have a reputation for lager-loutishness, when its the Dutch that seem to like to party at every opportunity from what I have thus far experienced.

I am not a huge drinker, so I didn't feel the need to go out on Tuesday evening and get wasted before a 40 day alcohol strike (even though it was my birthday, I managed to stay almost sober -Dutch beer is pretty weighty). This year lent didn't creep up on me as it sometimes does and in the weeks approaching, I thought about whether there was anything I should try giving up. Given that I never do anything for the sake of it, I wanted to consider whether there was anything that I was wasting my time, money or effort on, or something that was in some way detrimental to me, or that I had become ultra-dependent upon...

Almost immediately it became clear that facebook was this thing. The social networking sight has always been a welcome distraction from study, but since being here, away from the majority of my friends, it has posed as somewhat more of an attraction, offering cyber company when I have been momentarily bored or my study ethic has see-sawed towards futility. I hereby announce that until Easter Day I am on a facebook fast. I will have one day a week off, this is tradition (see wikipedia if you doubt me) but also because facebook does still remain a vital link with home and I'm not sure I can bare to be out of touch with you all completely.

Whilst I will permit myself a sign-in a week, what I will no longer tolerate is the sheer amount of hours that I pour away, signing in almost hourly to scour for little red notifications or message alerts; trawling through my homepage to see what my friends and acquaintances, some I have barely seen recently (or in more extreme cases - ever) have been doing with their time, other than documenting such activities; and scanning through pretty pictures of people, casting an embarrassing eye back at my own gawky (of late double-chinned) profile snaps.

I am currently warring against the demand for a 20 page paper, due in at the end of the month and as time runs out, I am determined to lay hold of my time rebate. "Facebook, please give me my life back." OK, so it never got that bad, but I have been signing in, first thing in the morning, last thing at night and oh-no-the-world-might-not-still-be-spinning-on-its-axis-if-I-don't-verify-this-with-my-online-family numerous urgent(ish) times during the day.

More than my time however, I want to get my identity back. Does it really matter if I am kept completely in the loop with all 900 or so of my acquaintances (yes I really need a friend clear-out) and does it really matter if all of those are kept up to date with my latest bulletins, most of them hand-selected to make it appear like I am having a better life than you. Maybe facebook should change it's name to boastbook or fakebook. My friend told me the other day about an article written on the facebook phenomena and how it leads many to depression as they only ever get bombarded with the great things other people are doing and feel their lives to be inferior or dull. Don't worry peeps, you're acquaintances profiles have probably been airbrushed and their news feeds are for the most part edited to perfection. I don't want to me sucked into the online social interactive magazine anymore.

Even if I am a little bit out of the loop over the next 40 days, I want to focus my energy and my spare time on something much better, Jesus. How much happier (and productive) would each day be, if rather than feeding myself with your news and countless others, I was munching on the good news that Jesus loves me just the way I am. I wouldn't have to worry as I learnt about x's new job or y's year travelling, about my current uncertainty, meditating instead on Jeremiah 29 vs 11, "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Hear me right by the way: I love facebook, I love hearing about what you're all up to and sharing my times with you also - but it is sometimes a wee bit excessive, just like the size of my pancake!

He who has ears to hear

I spent today with my oldest friend. We’ve known each other since we were wee four year olds without a care in the world. When we were about fourteen our lives went down different paths; or rather I should say, that I took a diversion sign-posted ‘Jesus’. I hadn’t been seeking a road to spiritual enlightenment, but just happened by a lucky chance to stumble across this narrow pathway I might have easily missed, and, too curious to pass by, I took the detour. Today as we met up almost eight years on, here in my current whereabouts, Leiden, we updated each other on the goings on in our lives since our last meeting, almost two years ago.

I don’t necessarily realise how much I talk about God. To me it’s natural. He’s with me in the morning, throughout the day, before I go to bed and as I came to appreciate recently, in my dreams (more on that later). I’m just so used to God. He’s my reality and more than that, He’s the most important person in my life and the person I put my trust in, worries to, and direct both my frustration and happiness towards. But my friend said to me today as I was recounting stories, ‘Do you not think you’re reading God too much into everything? I mean what do you think?’ I guess I had just told her about how I felt like God wanted me to move to the Netherlands, God had provided the finances and how I wasn’t sure what God wanted next. From her point of view, I guess it seems like I’ve been taken over to a certain degree and that I should step up, make my own decisions and not let someone else (if indeed God isn’t a mere figment of my imagination) take the reins. ‘You think about God too much Nay’. The thing is, I don’t think I think about God nearly enough.

God isn’t just the object of my religion, which I have fanatically taken to the extreme. I wouldn’t even consider myself a religious person – religion stinks for the most part. But God is more real to me than my own hands! I am sure to the depth of my battered and fragile soul that He’s there and not just there as if He was outside and beyond me, but that He’s here with me, next to me, within me by His Spirit. This sounds weird? I’d probably think the same if I was still on the same road my friend and I both started out on. She asked me today, ‘But how come it works out for you? Why don’t other people see this stuff? Isn’t it coincidence?’

It’s true we’ll never completely escape the subjectivity of personal experience and I can’t prove to you that my landing £10,000 by a non-law-of-nature-breaking-means two weeks before I moved to the Netherlands (completely covering costs that I was in no state to even scrape towards otherwise) was any more than lucky coincidence. But rather than thank my lucky stars, I have attributed it all to a God that I believe loves me and knows my name and had the logistics worked out and a redemptive plan ready to execute when I unsuspectedly turned in front of a fast-moving car as a starry-eyed eighteen year old new driver and obliterated my parent’s car and almost one of my best friends.

My interpretation: “I’ve got that covered” God must have thought as He saw me beside myself with hysteria, anxiety crippling my lungs at the fear that I had killed my passengers. But four years on, my friend who was badly injured has been miraculously healed of her injuries, met this God for herself and as a result half-funded my year here with the compensation from the accident, which she wanted to use for God’s purposes. Pretty sweet turn of events. Coincidence?

The Bible says, he who has ears to hear, let him hear (Matt 11:15).

I can’t help but chuckle. So I told you we’d return to the dreams. Well the other day, I dreamt that God gave me some words that He wanted me to tell a friend of mine. When I woke up in the morning, I could remember them word for word, an uncommon experience, but although I wrote them down, I decided this was probably just me reading too much into things again. You’ve all been bored by a friend recalling an incoherent and in your eyes insignificant dream. Well I put this dream on the don’t send-them-all-to-sleep shelf until the next morning when the said friend came on facebook and I just felt an urge to tell him after all. With the caveat that I might have an overactive imagination, I hesitantly shared with him the words that I felt God wanted him to hear. ‘No way. I was praying last night and felt God say the exact same thing to me’ was his response. Flippin’ crazy, I’m no Mystic Meg.

But then it dawned on me that in the same dream, God revealed to me that another friend had something up with her ears and that I should pray for healing for her. So following the confirmation that my dreams were at least freakishly accurate if not God-inspired I took a stab in the dusk and asked my mate if she had anything up with her ears. Without confusedly remarking on the oddity of my question, she nonchalantly tells me that she thinks she has an ear infection. I told her that was weird as I had had this dream and would she like me to pray for her. Yes she would. We meet up and I pray. Her ears get better. Earie business.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this all. Perhaps the Dutch air is making me dizzee. If you’ve got ears to hear though, take out the plugs of preconception and let ‘em hear a new song, which might seem a bit bonkers. It’s rocking my socks off.

Divine Romance

When I first decided to follow Jesus, I remember feeling like my eyes had been opened up to a whole new world where anything was possible. I went from resignedly wondering ‘is this it?’ about my meagre existence, to a giddy excitement; the kind that a novel romance might conjure up.

But starting my relationship with Jesus didn’t just make me feel better looking, more interesting or more desirable than I had without him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I did feel damn special and pretty significant all of a sudden, but this divine romance effortlessly thwarted the menial butterflies of school-fling-frolics and utterly changed my outlook on life. Now I was day dreaming about what l automatically assumed was bound to be an adventure. It had to be right, anything is possible for God.

This is what I pondered the most. Excitement is an understatement. What I started to read in my Bible (which I desired to read even more than I had used to desire to read and reread soppy texts during the pastimes that they cluttered my inbox) was that Jesus was absolutely wonderful and through his father God could do anything. I was particularly captured by the fact that he healed everyone he saw. Wow, this is the guy that has pursued me, died for me and who takes the blame for the bad stuff I have done, so that I also get to call his father ‘dad’(Matthew 6:9). This is the guy that said I am not a servant but can call him ‘friend’ (John 15:15). I was obsessed by what being the daughter of God and friend of Jesus might mean for me.

Think about a person that is special to you. Perhaps you sent them a card today or maybe you are feeling a little disappointed that you would have liked to receive a card from them. Whether it’s love or strong admiration you feel, it can be so wonderful, allowing that significant other to consume your waking thoughts... What makes them happy? What makes them sad? Where would their perfect day be spent? What do they love doing? Do they enjoy the rain? What are their dreams? Do they think about me? Where will they end up in life?

I have been to the heights of loved-up. It can be pretty breath-taking. Perhaps you’re on the lovey peak of Everest today, but you know you could be up a mountain that would make a molehill out of your summit. I’m talking about Jesus. He promises so much more than a string of great dates, so much more than a great sex life, so much more than an exotic holiday, a white wedding, 4 bedroom detached house and kids, and so much more than a great job and a golden Labrador! None of these things are bad by the way, but they’re not the ultimate sources of satisfaction in life either. When I started to spend my thoughts on Jesus I felt more fulfilled and enchanted than ever before. No guy could cast this spell.

I am daily in awe of him, he is better, more glorious and lovely than I can grasp and anything is possible for him, and through him, for me! I am so excited about our future together. I can only faintly imagine what he might have in store for me.

Perhaps today is a sensitive day for you. Maybe you are dissatisfied in your relationship, maybe you are jealous of your friends that they're in one and you’re not, or you are feeling worthless and unattractive. Whichever category you fall into, Jesus is crazy about you and would love to invite you into (or continue) a divine romance with him. Let him sweep you off your feet. His arms are open wide and chocolate, roses or even an engagement ring were not enough to show it - he gave his very life in love for you. He promises only good to you. He is faithful and won’t get bored. He is exciting and abundant in love. He is crazy about you and relentlessly pursuing you. Why don’t you give him a try? He might be the best valentine’s offer you have ever had.

I AM LOVED BY GOD AND THIS MAKES ME HAPPY.

A church plant?

I realise that several of my blogs have a) been a bit angsty and b) been a bit me, me, me. I’m sure my initial motivation for setting this blog up was to encourage you dear reader (excuse the period drama speak) about my amazing God and tell you about the adventure of planting a church. It has occurred to me that I have said little about this church-planting malarkey and some of you still remain in the ‘unknow’ about what I am actually doing.

In fact I’m sure over Christmas a few people asked how the church I’m building was going. Such has been my ambiguity, that some of you think me heroic enough to be part of a building project. Let me clarify, once and for all, that I am not involved in physically resurrecting a church.

To dispel another myth that none of you have been sheepish enough to query, I am not physically planting a church either. Hopefully you will have by now realised that this is a metaphor, even if you couldn’t quite work out what it implied. They plant a lot of tulips over here, but to my knowledge church bulbs are as of yet, unavailable, even in the Netherlands. Apologies for the confusing terminology that Christians have chosen to adopt here. The term ‘church plant’ is a metaphor alluding presumably to the fact that when you start a church from scratch it begins small and formless like a wee-seedling and then becomes a massive sunflower, bush, tree [insert your favourite foliage in here].

So I am in Holland planting a church, which means in plain English, that I am part of a team of people who have moved to The Hague to start meeting together to worship Jesus and we hope that by starting jobs, university courses here and getting involved around our neighbourhoods and with activities that float our respective boats that we will befriend people, introduce them to our amazing God and then flourish into a wonderful church (photosynthesis galore) as more people decide to join us. There are currently over 40 of us meeting on a Sunday, but the number seems to be creeping up weekly.

We don’t have our own building yet and are renting another church’s hall, but in mid-March we are hoping to move more centrally into The Hague, we’ll possibly be renting a theatre, but we are still waiting on God for this. Where we meet isn’t the most important thing though, we just want to be somewhere with space for all our activities and somewhere that’s really easy for everyone to get to.

Our desire as a church will be to see new people meet and glorify Jesus and as they do to see the city of The Hague blessed as lives are restored, broken relationships are reconciled, the sick are healed and for God’s love and joy to reign in our lives. It’s also our desire to be a multicultural and economically diverse church, which truly reflects God’s heart for all people.

There’s one final thing to clear up. Some of you seem to think that I am working for the church. This is not true per se. I am here simply as a regular member, but we are all needed to make church happen. We each are essential to meet invite our friends and people we meet to church (or Chris, our leader, would be preaching to empty chairs), but we are also needed to make church practically happen (serving tea and coffee, helping out with the kids’ work, playing in the worship group, welcoming people etc.) When I’m not at church (which is most of the time) I am still loving and worshipping Jesus, but in a different way. The Bible says that we should offer our whole lives to God as living sacrifices (Romans 12:1). I do this in Leiden mostly as I enjoy my MA course, rowing and spending time with all the wonderful people I have met so far.

Hope that clears things up a little. I’ll keep you posted with our progress as a church, as well of course as with my personal adventures. And any questions - just whack ‘em in my direction!

Now

So I'm feeling really very frustrated as I have an imminent deadline for an essay, which ashamedly I have not started (and what's more, I have a second deadline on the selfsame day, for another paper that I haven't started either ... the dreaded day is January 31st - a party will follow!) The cause of my frustration is that I have to set my own title and the subject matter is 'death'. No wonder I don't feel so cheery. I just don't know where to start - I'm dead stuck... (rubbish gaff that my mum cracked earlier!)

A few of the questions that have been racing around my head: Everyone dies, so why do we fear death? What is it that we fear - pain or non-existence - or the worry of an afterlife and its essence? Is there a right time to die? When people are feeling suicidal, do they want to terminate their very existence, or do they just want to be free from the circumstances that life has dealt them? Should we prolong life for as long as possible or go to meet death?

I'm getting into an existential pickle (imagine if they sold that in jars). Last night, overwhelmed by the certainty - and yet uncertainty - of death, I lay in bed and listened to a sermon on Ecclesiastes and then this morning, I read it for myself. Life is a vapour. It passes us by. Everything good, or bad, comes to an end. So we need to embrace the moment and find God in it. To know His peace. I have been feeling less alive over the last few days whilst writing my papers in solitude. It's been an isolated dull(ish) succession of hours, punctuated only by food - how I love it! - and I have craved company other than my computer screen. I am a social animal. Ecclesiastes assured me that I was (or am, I should probably say) alive and that I should tune my head into NOW'fm rather than wishing away the present. So I did and the result, was this poem:

Now is the moment that I live for

Yesterday is a dream

Tomorrow is a possibility

A stream trickling past me into an amass of sea

I dip in my toe

Asserting the Now with a little splash

Undoes the shackles of regret

Unweights the worries in my chest

Alive in the stillness; this non-event

Torrents howl and fall

You're here, not vapour.

And on that note, I should probably proceed with my essay. There's no time like the present eh?

Here and there

I am sorry that I haven't blogged for over a month and I am also sorry that I will not do what I promised to in the last sentence of my previous blog. I had been toying with sharing some pretty emotional stuff, which would have made me very vulnerable to you all, as well as other folk involved. It is partly for that reason that I have not posted for so long, but also simply because I have been so incredibly busy.

I have just got back to Leiden from my time at home in the UK over Christmas and New year. (My time was an absolute blast. Thanks to those of you who blessed me with your presence.) On the way to the airport, I felt like I was snapping a lot at my mum. When I have underlying sadness I can be really quite a grump. I managed to suppress my tears as we neared Luton. Despite having felt so called here, months and months ago, I just did not want to return. Maybe my Christmas holiday at home was always going to be a better memory than what I imagine will follow this term, in virtue of the fact that holidays are meant to be full of relaxation and FUN and now I have only 20,000 unwritten words to keep me company. My time in Leicester and London had felt so right: two homely spheres between which I feel I fully belong.

Here, I am still an outsider and not completely settled. Arriving at Schipol last night, I just had to commit it to God. I do not actually want to be here (mind you if I was still living in London, things would have changed). Over the last week though, I feel God has reminded me, that my voyage over here was never about me. My walk as God's child is not about bending God's arm to make my life as easy as possible, but about submitting my will to His, for His glory and my joy. Volunteering to cooperatively be part of the larger plan and what a plan I cannot imagine... Jesus taught that we should be willing to give everything up for Him, the pearl of great price. I had forgotten that last semester and wondered why I found myself getting miserable. What I need to focus on, is that Jesus also teaches that if we give up our life for Him, we will truly gain it. Life to the full? (John 10:10) Yes please!

Hopefully, there won't be such chasms between blogs from here on; that being said I have to submit three papers and move house over the next couple of weeks, so no promises. I will conclude this notelet with a poem I wrote this morning:

Trains come and go

But you remain the same

Planes take off and land

But you remain the same

You are the platform and the port

There when I arrive and when I leave

And of greater comfort is this:

You go on the journey with me

Therefore, as I travel and as I go

Here and there and to and fro

I shall not be shaken

My God, you're here with me.

Rowing in the dark

The other night I was in rowing in the dark. (Well that's not strictly true, it was actually my turn to coxwain, which is amusing for the girls powering the boat, as I am meant to be the one supplying the inspirational instructions, but the requirement for me to give these commands in Dutch, probably causes more stomach-creased amusement than abdominal sturdiness and focus.) Fortunately for us all, there were several prolonged moments of silence, with only the occasional gentle splashing of the river over their oars, disturbing the eerie peace. Gliding unhurriedly through the waters which rippled apart for our boat like melted chocolate in the dim light of the moon, I was reminded of a dream I had two years ago on a distant part of the planet. The dream that is, was dreamt in Australia, but I confess I have no clue which ocean was its scenery.

In the dream I was sitting on the front of a small and humble yacht, surrounded by vast and unending sea. I remember a tension of emotions: the threat of being overwhelmed by agoraphobic awareness at the colossal waters, but at the same time a sort of awe at the majestic seas trickling over the horizon. I was sitting with my feet dangling over the front of the boat as it sailed slowly towards the ever-moving edges of the sea. I had no idea where I was going and whether I would ever get there. The water was an eternity spreading out before me, but I became completely calm because my toes weren't just dipping impersonally into the plethora of sea, but were stretched out to touch the tips of a tail rising up from an enormous shadow beneath the surface. Swimming bucolically before the boat was a beautiful blue whale. I can vividly call to mind at will how I then felt looking ahead at an oceany abyss; would-be-terror subdued by my not being quite alone. The whale’s flight was gentle yet purposeful; my feeling of meaningless abased by the communication of my little podgey toes with this mighty creature of calm and harmonious navigation. I didn't need to know where I was or where I was going. I felt peaceful in the midst of an otherwise uncomforting infinity.

A while after having this dream, unable to escape its impressing image, I asked God what it might mean. I felt him interpret it for me. He was my shepherd in the deep. So often I worry about what's behind me, (the unhelpful 'what ifs' of my past) I worry about what's beside me (the pressures, stresses and demands of the present) and I worry about what's ahead of me (the future: am I heading towards my destiny? Will I make the right choices? Have I already scuffed up Plan A for my life? Am I fulfilling my potential? What does my life even mean? What is the point? Will I make it to the end?). But as I consulted my heavenly dad, I felt assurance wash over me as I realised that the magnificent whale in the dream had been him with me. He was guiding me through the troubling waters of life. And because he was there, they were still. It didn't matter that I was a million miles from eternity's shore, because I was safe and God not only knew exactly where I was with all that surrounded me then, but he also knew exactly where I’d come from, and what’s more he knew where we were headed to and was leading the way. The huge mammal wasn't hurried or flustered, like me as the cox. There was no one or nothing to disturb our tranquil sojourn.

I felt reminded too that in the absence of the spectacular (in the dream there were wasn’t a storm, a fight with pirates, a shark attack, riding on dolphins, conversing with mermen, or anything else that might have been characteristic of a sea-orientated remarkable dream – it was just me in the boat and the whale on a journey), God still goes ahead of me. One day I will look back or maybe I’ll catch a bird’s eye view (that’d be cool) and I’ll see the pathway, like wet tracks across the sea that my life has forged, but I don’t need to worry about what direction those tracks will spread into, nor force them into being. Jesus comforts me saying: Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6:34) As I silently coxed in the dark, I experienced a baptism of peace, even though the flurry of my next frustrated Dutch command was soon due. I still don't completely fit in here and I still don't quite get why God wants me here, neither can I imagine what I will look back on in years to come, but because I am following the whale - the beautiful beast before me, I will not be fearful, even though there's 'water, water, everywhere'.

I don’t quite know whether the season I’m in at the moment fits neatly into my ‘high’ or a ‘low’ category among those moments in my life which I can easily compartmentalise, but I do know that I am excited to see what’s next. I love the adventure of following God. Sometimes he asks some pretty scary stuff of me and I have no idea how I can possibly make such decisions for him, without life changing radically. But I’ll take the risk of radical changes because I do not want my life to be like an idle ship on a painted ocean – I want the dynamism that comes from following, even when it hurts and my trust seems blind. Next time I will tell you about one of the most difficult decisions I ever made, which I guess in hindsight was a little bit like rowing in the dark.

Holy Buzz

[direct continuation from last blog]

... I was invited to go with some friends of the family to a Christian conference during the Easter holidays. The only reason I agreed to go was because it was at Butlins and I figured I could skip the Christian stuff for the fairground and the water rapids! Well to my annoyance, my friends' mum insisted that we sign up for the teenagers' programme. I was disgusted to see my peers singing passionately and 'getting into' prayer and listening to all this religious malarky. I always sat at the back during the sessions scowling and cringing at the thought of my school friends knowing I was there. I was made to go to the programme all week.

On Friday something shifted inside. Rather than scowling, I started to cry. I can’t even remember what was said, but I heard about Jesus for the first time, which was odd as I’d been going to church all my life – maybe it was just that my ears were now open. I heard a woman at the front speaking about how we have each done stuff that we’re ashamed of and have not acknowledged God in our lives, eventhough he loves us and made us to be in relationship with him, we have ignored or discarded him. I heard about how this Jesus, who I'd always pictured woodenly in a distant manger or on a crooked cross in some life-sucking church building, had actually died to give me life! Apparently, me rejecting God, the giver of life, was going to result in death. I had freely chosen death and deserved to be separated from God forever, but on that wooden cross Jesus died a death that should have been mine to reconcile me to God, and to bring me back into the relationship I had destroyed!

I know this all sounds mental and as I type it, I'm like - do I actually believe this? But yeah 14 year old, teenage-angsty me just started balling my eyes out and deep deep down, I knew it was true! I think I'd always kind of assumed that God loved the world, but the fact that he loved me personally was revelation. I felt a tug on my heart and I just knew that I had to let this Jesus in and say sorry to God for turning away and thank you to Jesus for making a way back to God. Balmy I know ... This was a very inconvenient acknowledgement – it was a Friday night if I remember rightly and if I was at home, I’d be stoned, drunk, or both! This Christian thing, just wasn't me... I wasn't sure how well behaved I could be and whether I could stop the drinking and pot-smoking... It took me (and is still taking me) lots of time to continuously realise that following Jesus is not about moral behaviour, but we'll come to that at some later date. So yeah, I said this prayer to God, pretty much like: 'Erm God I know you're there and I know that I haven't exactly been letting you into my life, but I can feel you calling me, I'm not exactly sure what you're calling me to, but I can just feel a tug and how can I say 'no' if it's true that your son died for me - that's amazing. So yea, thanks for dying for me Jesus and sorry for disregarding you. I think I want to follow you.'

And that was it. I was a Christian. I hadn't become weird and sandal-with-sock-wearing and I wasn't thrusting around the Holy Scriptures and bashing people all of a sudden; but I did feel like my eyes had opened for the first time and I was buzzing! It was like I was drunk or stoned, or both, but I just felt all tingly and alive in a very raw way, but this was a holy buzz. I felt on top of the world. I had begun a relationship with the creator. I couldn't believe it. (My friends as it happened, had not responded to God and I couldn't work out why they were not as excitable as me, but I didn't care too much and was dancing around like a bit of a loony). It is probably worth me mentioning now, that life as a Christian, doesn't always make me feel fluffy and invincible and is sometimes times really tough, but that was my experience at the very beginning. That being said, living life for Jesus is an adventure! I wouldn't want it any other way. My question of 'Is there more?' was answered with a resounding 'YES' from the heavens and life has never felt boring since. My trials mean something and my destination is significant. I am not blowing in the wind, but am standing firm on a rock. I will continue next time to share some of the highs and lows of my walk with Jesus so far ...

Facial hair and knitting - before it began

Since I last updated you, I have nursed a beard, climbed the cultural ladder, aged by about 4 decades and had a thought about my future.

So what's with the beard you wonder? My friends and I went to see Harry Potter 7 pt 1 at midnight on Tuesday in Amsterdam and I decided to transform into the world's favourite half-giant Rubeus Hagrid. Apart from the beard protecting my face from the bitter cold, having a pillow up my t-shirt was probably the most beneficial nugget of costume I have ever sported, contributing to the most comfortable 3 hours in a cinema ever. That's right English suckers - Harry Potter came out in the Netherlands two whole days before the UK, in fact, we had the second soonest release date in the world; only coming after North Korea and Japan, but I figure that may have something to do with them being almost a day ahead due to time zones... Anyhow it was actually brilliant! Of course Daniel Radcliffe never fails to disappoint, but I sincerely enjoyed the film despite him and wasn't constantly comparing it with the book in my head, which I think can only be credit to the director.

My cultural metamorphosis took place as I watched Carmina Burana - my first opera! It amazes me how sound vibrations can make ones hairs stand on edge. If my existence has at times felt dull here in Holland, I was truly alive, as a full orchestra serenaded me into the depths of my imagination and onward to sophistication.

Which brings me to 2050! I've learnt to knit. I don't even care if it's what old people do. It's amazing and it's actually tres chic. Furthermore, it's so therapeutic, even if I haven't progressed beyond fraying patches yet, my new pursuit is laden with potential, which might end up as a stocking or even in yours this Christmas - watch out I might make some home-made pressies if my skill allows it.

As to thoughts about the future. I have been loosely toying with the prospect of a phD, having been enjoying my course so much. This week however, my tutor informed me of a funded position coming up next year at Leiden, that he thinks I'd be interested in/suited for. I actually think I might apply. The thought terrifies and excites me all at the same time - kind of like I felt about coming to Holland in the first place and yet here I sit... We'll see what God has in store.

Before I get ahead of myself I want to look back to where it all started, even before Holland I mean. Why do I attribute everything to God? Has it always been that way?

I’ve always believed in God. Maybe because I was taken to church with my family from the moment I popped out my mother’s womb, or maybe because as I observed the world I couldn’t but think it must have a purpose. However, that being said, any belief I had was vague and didn’t affect my life and it certainly wasn’t strong enough to make me view church-attendance as a worthwhile activity (or up and leave my country for that matter). I went to keep mum happy and make my life easier subsequently; but I was terrified that as the second-hand girl to the most popular girl in school, my reputation might fall from superficial glory to the status of bible-basher (the term knocking about on the playground of the early naughties).

When I was about 12 I remember having a discussion with my puppy-love about whether or not he believed in God. He said he did and described what his god would be like. I distinctly remember thinking that his god sounded nothing like mine and thinking that if there was a god, he couldn’t both be like his and my idea of him at the same time. Perhaps I was destined to be a philosophy student.

But it was to be two years later that I stopped theorizing about God and encountered him...

The love affair with prawns begins

Apologies for my thesis-long blog posts recently. Obviously no one enjoys my monologuing enough to merit my writing to that excess! I promise to keep today's post succinct and easily readable.

Since the last time I blogged, I've been through peaks and troughs. I'm going to therefore adopt a writing formula that I never have before - one that mirrors the fat burning program on the bike at the gym... In other words I'm going to give you a high and then a low alternatively, in an attempt to slim down my flabby, waddling blog style, which never seems to be in a hurry to reach the conclusion.

High: the last Saturday of October I took part in my first ever rowing race in Amsterdam.

Low: I had to get up at 4.45am to get ready and get to the train station on time.

High: we didn't forget how to row and came 2nd in our first race, getting us through to the next round!

Low: we got knocked when our mind - body synchronization and sheer fatigue failed us.

High: nevertheless, I was able to enjoy the proceedings of the day - the atmosphere was as I would imagine that of a Hogwarts Quidditch match (all the different university rowing clubs, like Hogwarts houses, in their different coloured uniforms with their supporters and matching scarves - we of course we red and purple and the red makes us Gryffindor!) To top it off, there was even a commentary box with Lee Jordan-esque comic student commentary and songs and cheering and well, it was fanatstic!

Low: on Monday night I went to eat with the rowers and was reminded how much it sucks not being able to understand what people are saying. I'm normally one for initiating conversation, or cheekily butting into other people's, but when you don't understand what is being said, you don't want to risk interrupting a D&M (that's deep and meaningful folks) to trivially comment on the weather AGAIN and it's just really frustrating. I just felt so isolated and like I'd been stripped of my personality, as those of you that know me can hopefully testify to, I like to joke around and make people laugh and I am not a silent spectator, but rather have a loud and often uninformed opinion about most things. Not being able to speak Dutch however, renders me a mute, shy and 1D, lesser version of myself.

High: I've discovered prawns! For years I've refused to eat them, because they look horrific; like little pink aliens that will build an army in your intestines and eat your insides, from your bowel upward until they take over your brain, allusive to the heinous scene in Men In Black. I remember my old best friend asking me once to shut my eyes and open my mouth, an order which I stupidly obeyed, as she subsequently popped one in my mouth, which I proceeded to spit straight back at her. But gone are the days of prawn-projectiling: they're succulent and sweeter than honey-roast ham (well not quite), juicier and more delicate than chicken and absorb subtle flavours better than delectable lamb. Why oh why, did I not surrender my stubborn not quite know-it-all gastronomy before now? I even caught myself day-dreaming prawns in my class on Death last Tuesday. I was imagining a peachy-coloured, succulent little bugger on my tongue and the mellifluous explosion as I pierced it with my canines, when my teacher caught me by surprise and asked my opinion on people that will to die ... Have you ever noticed that prawns look a lot like croissants? I wonder whether prawns and croissants would taste good together ...

Low: I can't afford fresh prawns every day.

Serious Low: I have loads of work to do.

High: I went out and danced to drum 'n bass beats all Friday night long in Amsterdam. Finally good music (Leiden's nightlife leaves London to be desired). Four hours straight, a break prevented by the incredible deep jungle-tastic booms murmuring through my body and driving my dance moves like a whip and all this perfected by Jonathan Cluny's incredibly smooth and excitingly original hip moves. I rarely envy dance moves, but his I wanted to perform and claim as my own.

Low: my friendships here are lacking in depth. I was spoiled in London - with people that knew me so well, I didn't have to lie about having been to lectures for them to already know if I'd skived and people that I knew so well, that I knew what they were thinking simply by the way they walked into a room.

High: God is faithful and if He wants me here, then it's where I'm supposed to be even if it's hard and very surreal at times.

2 poems and a less cultural performance

I’ve just realised that it’s been like over two weeks since I blogged last, apologies if I have any avid readers! I know this blog is about Holland, but I want to tell you about my recent trip to France to visit a good friend (who wishes to remain anonymous...)

Thinking that the easiest method of transport would be plane, I chose to fly there but had a minor running at the airport, which I describe below in a poem:

The 1 bag, 10kg of handluggage Ryanair iron rule:

Enough to make an underprepared, underpressure passenger cry, explete, stamp, collapse, slump, give-up, pay and give-in

But I am no fool and with my quick thinking, my hopes of a true economy flight not sinking

With buyoncy and cunning, I am still in the running for escaping the undemocratic and bloody annoying baggage charge with my systematic, loop-holing-logic repacking.

I’m 2 kilos over the allowance and must eject the extra weight or pay 35 euros (more than my quasi bargain flight!) for my 2-bags-of-sugar’s worth of extra freight.

Not feeling sweet, I recall the contents of my bag, consider what of my swag I can discard, but it occurs to me and should do to the airline too, that I haven’t packed items for which I have no regard like a packing retard – if this was the case I wouldn’t have overloaded my case, what a waste of space that would be and my intention is clearly to travel light otherwise I’d have checked in a larger bag for the flight, but this logic is out of sight to Ryanair who don’t want to play fair and should turn on the lights rather than remain aloof to the truth that I’ve packed what I need and won’t with any heed throw away thoughtfully selected paraphernalia and neither will I pay an excess fee, it is an outrage that my baggage should cost more than me, too uncanny to savour, but I refuse to exclude a single item and conclude with defiance that I won’t be done-over by the pseudo cheap way to travel and a plan I unravel...

With a little rejiggle, rewiggle, reshuffle, unshuffle, rearrange, realign, redesign, remix and redistribution of my luggage I can reduce Ryanair’s money-grabbing, back-stabbing 10kg 1 bag, not so genius iron rule to fluff and stuff my pockets! A puff of victorious triumph and out comes the ipod, the phone, the purse, the make-up bag and into the receptacles of my attire.

I reapproach but am reproached, still 800g over the allowance, but there’ll be no concedence or unquestioning obedience to their ridiculous enraging policy of folly.

I walk away and shove my gloves into another aclove in my jacket, take out my scarf and hat and 600g of biscuits, too delicious to throw I hide them in my hat which goes under my arm and wrapped in the aforesaid scarf, a secret niche and return to the dreaded scales with a lighter bag, but heavier person, pockets more affected by gravity than at the start of this mission, but a cavity in their bizarre regime means I defy the system and with no emission proceed to the gate and as quickly as I loaded my person simply return the freight of my disallowed extra weight back into my case and it weighs as before when they said, ‘Get rid of 2 kilos or pay’ and I thought

NOT OVER MY STUFFED-POCKETED BODY

And sabbotaged Ryanair’s pathetic, frustrating, sense-abating 1 bag, 10kg iron rule which presumably aims to moderate the overall weight of baggage + people taken on board, but their rationale must be flawed and ignored in so far as although my bag now lighter, I was a blighter and reassigned my excess stuff to my clothings’ storage sollutions with a resolution not to be defied by, but instead to undermine Ryanair’s stupid rule, which on a less-cunning day might well have made me cry.

No frills = nonsense and if we’re going to be pedants then thinner people should have a larger luggage allocation on their way to vacation – seems like a deal - with less load round their middle, that would make more sense, and save the healthy expense, perhaps raising an eye-brow of the obese-people-pleasers, but then it might just be easier if we all quit the aueronautical bargain hunts, think about the planet (as well as our figure) and reduce our carbon foot prints; not making reality of our dreams of jetting off on the rainy days or we could just do it properly and fly with good honest British Airways.

I soon got over the annoyance of airline pedantry and was greeted by my wonderful friend. She’s living in France to learn the language and as part of her language school’s scheme is living with a family there to help her more quickly progress. I too was to be a visitor in this house for the week, a little awkard considering I couldn’t speak to any of them (if my Dutch is bad, my French is worse!) and felt at times like an intruder, but saying that they were a lovely family. My friend and I enjoyed a lovely few days together, in the morning she would go off to school and I would sit trying to learn Dutch scribbling thoughts and eating pastries – I have another poem coming up dedicated to these blissful mornings! And in the afternoons we spent time at the beach, wondering around the city and just generally catching up on all the things we’ve missed over the last 2 months of being apart. At first I felt rather sophisticated, two friends away from home, both living in foreign countries, both proud possesors of a BA from King’s College London, but then came Saturday nigh, a joust to knock me off my high horse.

Eighteen year old Nelson, one of the boys in the family we were staying with invited us to go clubbing with him, describing the three rooms of some huge club out of town: one minimal tech, one drum n’ bass and one apparently for Lady Gaga! I was stoked, Leiden knows nothing about nightlife and I’d been craving a good night out for ages - so what if the guy taking us was young enough to be my son (well not quite)! We headed into town with him, bought some beverages for pre-drinking at his friend’s house (our drink of choice: wine, because we’re so cosmopolitan) and the night began. I had been a little apprehensive about going to his friend’s house, thinking I was way beyond school-boy gatherings, but turns out there were just three other girls and a boy there, all of whom seemed very pleasant and mature, not that I understood much of what was said.

Maybe it was the comfort of being around a friend that knows me as well as anyone in the world and I let my barriers down; or maybe because I wasn’t exercising my mouth as much as I usually would in social situations, dibilitated by my lack of French mastery, that I kept sipping on my wine; refilling my emtpy glass and then sipping some more. I switched to Desparados and back to wine (I hear you scream, don’t mix the grape and the grain!). Feeling more drunk than I have been since I was like thirteen we headed out and I wondered why I didn’t do this more often – I was all floaty and confidently talking at the French guys despite their inability to understand me. My friend and I headed to the bus stop with them and I was arm in arm with Nelson, loving the reliving on my youth, as he bragged about his eighteen-year-old- bachelor lifestyle and made me promise I would return to visit him one day. Next thing we’re on the bus with hoards more energetic French school students all dolled up, drunk and ready to go. Julian a member of our little gang, thrusts a bottle of lime green vodka emulsion at me saying “drink Naomi, drink”. “No thanks Julian” thinking I transcend such teenage tomfoolery. My friend takes a swig and the bottle reappears under my nose, “drink, drink”. My resolve crumbles and I take a big swig and giggle like an idiot. I am wasted, but still happy. The bus journey goes on forever and involves bumps and corners which I may have exaggerated in my memory. My friend is swinging her head around heavily whilst holding onto the bus pole and I think, ‘Oh no, she’s going to really embarras us’. The gaggle of French youths are babbling away excitedly as we make our joint venture to the superclub on the otherside of town. Our crew, other than my friend are playing it quite cool, chatting, laughing, getting psyched up for the night with more sips of yellow stuff from the plastic bottle, whilst I am starting to feel very light-headed and dreamy, zoning out of the numerous buzz of conversations I don’t comprehend. With another glance at my friend the only one on the bus who speaks my language, and a concern that she really is about to do something stupid; I pass out slumping down the bus window and onto the floor, before vomitting everywhere. I hear shrieks, French ‘yuks’ and am aware of everyone edging away from me, as I feel my sick stickying my face and running into my hair. I am in the south of France, lying on the floor of a bus sardined full with eighteen year olds, passed-out helplessly massaged by my my own vomit: smooth. Turns out I do not condescend this teenage past-time. I don’t remember much more than flickers after this. Dragged off the bus against my will. BLANK. Lying on a curb with my friend slapping my face. BLANK. Being pulled into a seated position. BLANK. Puking. BLANK. Puking some more. BLANK ‘Naomi, Naomi are you OK?’ BLANK. ‘Naomi, can you hear me?’BLANK Puking BLANK Puking and ... you get the picture. Next thing I know Nelson has called his mum and she drives 50 minutes accross the city to rescue me. In the meantime, my friend who was as I suspected apparently also pretty past it, is sick (she blames it on the smell of mine – whatever!). Heroically Nelson’s mum manages to get a very stubborn comotozed masquerade of myself into her car before I pass out again. The long journey home is a blip in my memory and I only become conscious again as she undresses me and tucks me up in bed.

I sleep like a dead weight until 2pm the next day and wake up as the snippets of memory from the night come rushing into my mind. Oh no. How embarrassing. That is so not me. I can’t believe Nelson’s mum had to come and rescue me at 1am – I don’t even know her, she’s going to think I’m always like this, but I’m not. My friend is going to be so annoyed at me. We were the older ones going out with eighteen year olds, we should have known better. Not so sophisticated. Turns out thet only place your BA will get you is into the gutter. What on earth was I thinking? I touch my face and feel dried puke and try to orientate myself before taking a well-needed shower, drinking the herbal tea that Nelson’s mum has prepared and consoling with my friend our joint embarrasment.

Why do I share this with you? Well so you can all laugh at my expense, but also because I’m human and I do stupid things like the next person. Sometimes I can be so self-righteous, thinking I am beyond drunken folly, but I’m not. I’ve been in Leiden for like 2 months with people all around me getting smashed, but thinking I’m not like that! Sunday morning was truly humbling, having to face Nelson, (probably wishing he’d never volunteered to take two twenty-somethings out with him and his mates, doing more damage than good to his street cred) and his mum, but also Jesus. As I lay in bed with only my terrible hang over for comfort, I prayed, God I’m sorry for being an idiot. And I just felt Him remind me, that it’s not about my behaviour and that He knows I’m an idiot and that I’m gonna do stupid stuff from time to time, but He loves me all the same – this Christian thing is not about keeping Him sweet. It’s funny cause I’ve been reading in Judges (a book in the Bible) about God’s people messing up and Him always redeeming them. I’m glad He’s the God of the screw ups and that I don’t have to be all holy and religious. I’m also grateful that other than receiving a terrivle hangover I was reminded that the reason that I don’t normally get wasted is not because I have a duty to keep God happy, but because it sucks. Despite the brevity of feeling like I could fly, I hated not being in control, definately didn’t enjoy being humiliated infront of youngsters I thought I superseded and an achey chest from persistant vommitting for three days after wasn’t good either, not to mention missing out on a night of dancing to drum n’ bass nutrients, or the wasted mongy next day in bed ... Jesus knows what’s best for me. Can I just say for the record that I LOVE red wine in moderation - that way you enjoy its silky smoothness slipping down and not its acidic burn on the way back up!

Anyway I’d like to end on a sweeter note by sharing another poem inspired by my delicious mornings spent in French cafes:

Boulangerie, boulangerie

How that word does speak to me

Not so much the satisfying combination of syllables

But that promise which your names stands for –

Your salivatable goods within.

Your pan eux chocolat calls to me

Tickling my nostrils as I try to walk past

No chance, as I glance

You’re on my mind and I want you in my mouth

That chocolatey scent is foreplay to me

And I reason that making a transaction for you would be a euro well spent

I anticipate the warmth in my hands

As I walk with you to a bench

All the while the delicious stench

Fueling my impatience

And I can’t wait – I will bite you

And enjoy you whilst still in motion

And your texture, your flavour, your buttery flakes are a love potion to me

Putting me under your edible, erotic spell

It’s that smell that takes me to some place else

That only an invasive sewage-or-similar aroma could call me back from

You’re the little black dress of pastries

Classic, reasonably-priced and guaranteed to be tasty

Giving me everything I need and yet

Your seduction is flailing, failing, dimming

By the radiance of the macaroons beside you.

They’re exciting, inviting, sense-stimulating

Promising the sweet peak of oral pleasure

The array of colours representative of exotic flavours

An assortment like a tapas of puddings: perfect

Is it my greed that I lust for more than one taste?

I don’t just want my fill, I want the thrill of variety

The spice of life and I feel

That the macaroons will give it to me.

But then I catch a glimpse of the chocolate tart

And I know what it is to want to start my life with the one

You’re casketed with a protective pastry case

Not giving away to much too soon, chaste

An outer shell to conqueor

(You are driving me bonkers)

I will pursue you and when I’ve undone you

I know we’ll have a richness of bliss

With your warm chocolatey kiss

And a depth of indulgence that makes for a romance

That tingles right down to the core of me.

Raspberry and almond brioche, raspberry and almond brioche

I thought I had everything I desired, but it’s not enough

You didn’t appear appealing at first

But I caught a glimpse and developed a thirst

For your hidden sticky red suprise

The sweet raspberry red syrrup within

Layers of nutty wholeness

And a burst of berry boldness

Adding zing to our growing passion

You’re the plane Jane I hadn’t noticed before

I repent, once I start I always want more.

Boulangerie, boulangerie

How that word causes problems for me

You’ve thrown me into confusion

You offer so much

But it’s not that easy to choose from you

I’d hate to objectify your honest apple pie

Only to satisfy my current desire, so flippant

When tomorrow reveals my lack of commitmant

As I struggle to make up my mind.