Unintentional Poet

Grace was born six years ago today.  I still find her 'birthday' hard to face. I think about her (and the whole experience I had with her) a lot in December. It's hard not to. Last week the words of the very well known Psalm 23 popped into my head, followed by some thoughts about them, which I scribbled down. I haven't edited them much, so it's not polished writing - just my thoughts. Thank you to anyone who takes time to read my writing and think about her and remember her. It still means a lot. A Thought "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me." Psalm 23 This is that. This is what this week is - the valley of the shadow of death. This week, where everything that happened that week, six years ago is relived in High Definition in my mind. The build-up - the happy bit where I was the pregnant mum of a toddler, enjoying a fairly typical

Thought for the Week December 2015   I am occasionally asked to write a piece for the 'Thought for the Week' column in our local free paper.  Here is this month's attempt, for anyone who likes to read my stuff!   _______________________________________________________   For self-confessed Christmas lovers, the countdown to Christmas probably began around August, while the rest of us were uploading our holiday pictures to Facebook. Some people are truly Christmas-a-holics, in love with Christmas and all things traditionally associated with it.   But for some it is a harder time of year; for the elderly it can be lonely and quiet.   For anyone struggling with grief of any kind, it can be a time where incompatible opposites are in play – the desire to embrace the jollity of the season, coupled with a (sometimes more forceful) desire to hide in a room and only come out when it’s all over.   I write this from experience, facing the memory, each year, of

An End and A Beginning Samuel starts school in three months. The enormity of that statement keeps hitting me like an express train.   At the moment, it still feels a long way away; the rapid flicking of the calendar over into new month after new month, tells a different story.   I have such conflicting emotions about the whole thing.   When Benjamin started school it was different – a new adventure for us and him. He was well and truly ready.   Now, three years on, facing the impending start of “big school” for my smallest boy, carries with it quite different sentiments. It is a turning point, a rubber stamp on a page in my passport, declaring that I am now entering a different and completely foreign land, from which there is no return. For precisely seven years (Benjamin celebrated his seventh birthday less than a fortnight ago), I have had small children at home. There have been seasons when I have stayed at home with them full time, and seasons where I have worked part time,