God - Keeping My Faith

 

I believe in God. I don’t know what God looks like and I wouldn’t know where to start to guess. God’s appearance is not important, it’s the sense of being I reach out to and, for me, God is a presence to be aware of rather than something visible.  I have what my husband would call ‘blind faith’. I get what he means, but to me my Christian faith is not blind.  Each to their own and we respect our opposite views. We trust each other to follow our funeral wishes, but hopefully they won’t be needed for a while yet.

Before school broke up for the Christmas break, I was in the infant’s library with a small group of children. I was asked if there was a book about Egypt and luckily I found something considered ‘perfect’. Bright and polite, the boy went on to explain to me that his family were from Egypt and don’t celebrate Christmas, so they were going there for the holidays to visit family and show off the new baby. He wanted to learn about the country before he went. I was pleased to help. I learnt a lot about his culture that afternoon. It was nice to catch up with him in the new term. His family visit had been very good and he’d been much warmer than we were.

It’s not unusual for my six year old grandson to have us in fits of laughter. He has a natural wit about him, inherited from his mum. One family tea time he commanded attention with, “Listen everybody, if I was the Son of God...” he proceeded to list the things he’d do to make a perfect world with lots of football and Roblox involved.  I wanted to know where this had come from so I asked him who the Son of God is. Confusion or Marvel characters had taken over as his answer was something about a man who lives in our heads and eats our brains.  

I’ve turned to God for help and guidance throughout my life. Growing up without my mother, who died young, was hard. Difficulties were magnified by my father’s swift remarriage which resulted in me trying to fit in but left feeling abandoned and not welcome in the new family. It was a long time before I found any hope and I never got any answers, but I got through it.

‘Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret’ is a book by Judy Blume. It’s a wonderful read for girls growing up, having anxieties about every aspect of puberty and not feeling confident about asking. I believe it’s a film now. I’ll look out for it. I had grown out of that stage of life by the time I read it, but I could relate to most of it and hoped it was useful to my daughter when she built an invisible wall to keep me out.

Life throws hurdles into the mix, or maybe just mine, and some higher to clear than others, but again, I never gave up and any obstacles haven’t been impossible to conquer, so far. Sometimes I’ve been my own worst enemy. I’ve broken more than one of the Ten Commandments, some more than once. I’ve tried to disregard God, only to realise that I can’t get by without my faith. For this and for past misdemeanours I have been aware of forgiveness.

This year has already brought challenges. I’m shuffling about as I write this, easing off one physical pain for another and trying to keep mental stresses in proportion. Someone once said, “When things look like they’re falling apart, it might be that they’re falling into place” or something like that.

Having a faith and believing in God is who I am. I don’t carry a banner, I don’t evangelise, I just do my best for everyone and in everything I do. I live and let live, accepting people for who and what they are, hoping they offer me the same.

The words of Desiderata mean a lot to me.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann. 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More