New Dog, God Knew (almost a palindrome)

Don’t you find that a story means so much more when you find out that it's true? And very occasionally something that starts out as a story becomes a reality. Well, this is one such case...

I found it mildly surprising that many of our friends had our family down as the last people they would expect to get a dog. I grew up with a dog. Admittedly I don't like being licked by them, I feel a little uncomfortable when people elevate them to human status and I definitely don't like the smell of 'wet dog' but otherwise ... I like them.

The rest of my family had wanted a dog for ages but I was holding out - I knew who would have to walk it in the cold, the wet and the dark. But then my wife found a photo of 'Scrumpy' on a dog rescue centre's website, and I caved in. There was little chance to go back on the decision as, only 5 days later the dog was with us. All we know of Scrumpy's story is that he was found as a stray in Ireland, he had wire wrapped around his mussel and had lost some teeth and skin as a result. When he first arrived we hadn't known if he even had a bark. He was silent for the first fortnight before he started to relax from his traumas.

Scrumpy has been an amazing fit with our family; good natured and with similar energy levels to us (I have often observed that people seem to go for dogs that are two sizes too big for them - you need to realise that my Dad died whilst walking the dog!) Most importantly, he doesn't try to lick me. It might seem a bit super-spiritual to say it, but us getting Scrumpy does feel like a real God-thing for our family. The biggest impact has been on my daughter Chloe. She had been struggling with college at that time, which had really got her down; combine that with teenage angst and it was a pretty tough year for her. She fell in love with her new dog and that took the intensity out of some of her other concerns and gave reason to spend more time at home again.

Months later, I was looking at a picture that is up in our living room taken of Chloe years ago on a farm holiday. She had wanted to have her photograph taken with a sheep dog she had met on the farm and had really taken to. Looking into the photo I realised that you could have almost mistaken that dog for Scrumpy. In that moment I felt sure that Chloe had wished for a dog like that, all those years ago. Later, when Chloe came in, I showed her the photo and suggested, "I think you asked God for a dog like that back then". "I know I did," she said with out hesitation "I remember it".

It’s an encouragement to me to know that God hears our prayers and the thoughts of our hearts and remembers them; sometimes even when we've almost forgotten them ourselves. Nothing in life takes Him by surprise and nothing is an accident for those who love Him(a). He can take the prayer of a little girl and give her just what she asked for, just when she needs it the most.

Before we got Scrumpy I had already written my first parable, 'The Dog'. The Dog is a character who learns how to behave at the harsh hand of The Trainer. When he is sold he struggles to relate to his New Master's kindness and presumes that he is expected to show the same compliance that the Trainer had demanded. Gradually he discovers the true heart of his New Master and, in doing so, discovers himself too. That story has more to do with me than any animal, but Scrumpy has now become the dog of that story too. He even has a place on the cover of my book.

Sometimes stories come true.

(a) Romans 8:28
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Parables, Preaching and Toxic Waste

I have always thought in metaphor and simile. From a young age it seemed natural to me to translate a concept from one form to another, just to prove I'd grasped it. When the same thing happens to a story the result is a parable. It might be simple and charming, it might even tug at an emotion, but at first glance it appears no more than a story. The power of a parable is in that 'ah-ha' moment, when I realise what the story means in its own parallel universe. So because of the way that my thinking is wired it seemed inevitable that I would be drawn to writing in parables just as I was first attracted to reading them.

Of course there was one man above any other associated with parables. Jesus was the master of the medium. In fact the Bible says that "he did not say anything to them without using a parable"(a). Now here's a curious thing: It seemed that most of the original hearers of these parables did not understand them. Even those closest to Jesus had to come and ask what they meant!(b) What Jesus spoke to that first audience was radical and completely different from anything they had heard. So why would he choose a form of communication that the people didn't understand? The answer is surprising, but obvious – he didn't want them to understand; he was actually being coy about his message! I'm not conclusion-jumping here. As unexpected as this might seem, the gospel writers record Jesus as saying to his disciples, "The knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given to you, but to others I speak in parables, so that, "'though seeing, they may not see; though hearing, they may not understand.'"(c) This is an approach that is alien to the culture of the present day church, where clarity and directness are paramount. In current Christian culture 'The Gospel' is to be preached and so, of every hearer, a decision is demanded one way or another. Now both of these approaches are seen in the Bible and both produce results. For the person who is given revelation (God-given insight) the 'ah-ha' moment can come via either preaching or parable. But one of these approaches does have a downside.

Let me illustrate: For years I sang in a rock band, and being the lyricist too I was the natural front man. My songs had a message, but I was never under any illusion about why the people came - it wasn't to hear a sermon but to experience the music and excitement of a live band. Having been to Christian concerts myself, if I'd heard more preaching than music it left me feeling uncomfortable, like I had been cheated. So I wasn't going to do that to anyone else. In our concerts I offered no "come forward now" appeals. From my vantage point on the stage I could see that there were a few at the front who might respond to an invitation of faith, but I still had an eye on those at that back who might leave in disgust. I was playing to all these people; I cared about communicating to each one. I wasn't going to shake the tree that would have loosened the fruit at the front, but left those at the back bruised from the experience.

The downside with preaching is that it turns away those who don't respond. A parable doesn't do this because if you don't have revelation it's only a story and where's the offence in a story? The one who doesn't get a parable may still get it another day, when he is ready to hear the deeper meaning. The one who doesn't respond to preaching is likely to learn their lesson and steer clear in future.

Back when I first came to faith there was an accent on rallies, crusades, missions to get people to hear a famous preacher. And they worked; they reaped their harvest and many people came to faith. But at the same time many more were turned off evangelism. I believe that what I see around me in the UK is the result of this. We are left with the toxic waste of caution, cynicism and contempt for the church and its message. I don't believe that preaching will do it for this generation. They've had it and they didn't like it. They've had the inoculation and are now immune to it.

Today, few people like being preached at or lectured to. So isn't it time for some subtlety, some coyness, and the layered beauty of parables? Isn't it time to re-discover what Jesus always understood?

(a) Matt 13:34 - (b) Matt 13:36 - (c) Luke 8:10 (& quoting Isaiah 6:9)
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Why a small boy loved the beach

The beach is one of my favourite places to be - it’s the sounds of a breaking wave followed by pebbles tumbling back under the next one, or the distant roar of bigger surf carrying over a long flat sandy beach; it’s the sun on my face and the soft, warm sand between my toes; it’s the distant intensity of the horizon that stretches each way into my peripheral vision; it’s the way the sounds of children playing and people talking seem close, yet distant at the same time, but somehow they don’t intrude as the sun shines red through my closed eyelids.

Whilst reflecting on what makes the beach such a special place for me, the thought occurred that the best of the beach is not what it is, but what it isn’t ... Picture this :

The sand is criss-crossed by ropes that form an orderly grid. Some of the plots have ‘Reserved’ signs in them - these are for the season ticket holders. Visitors are queuing back into the dunes waiting for the next ‘day-plot’ to become available, each one clutching a credit card ready to pay (family discounts are available). An official patrols the sand checking that all the surfboards have current licences. Another is at the shore with a bull-horn calling in all bathers with a yellow wrist band - the half hour they paid for is up. Running, diving and ball games are strictly prohibited. Teams of migrant workers meander amongst the beach-plots attempting to wash the car that is parked within each one, hoping that the family sat by its side will feel pressured into paying. There is a compound reserved for sand castles. It’s safely sited in the dunes, away from the sea, where there is planning permission to build. For child safety reasons no parents are allowed within but the facility is staffed by qualified children’s workers. There is healthy charge for each two hour session which starts with a lecture on health and safety and the importance of engineering solid foundations. Billboards obscure views cross the bay as the beach sponsors take opportunity to promote their brand. But don’t worry - for the price of a drink or a meal you can watch live scenes of the bay on the big screens in the beach bar (average 45 minutes wait for a table – you are best to book in advance.) Rock-pooling is no longer allowed but various sea creatures mounted in Perspex are on sale in the gift shop as you leave.

Yes, what I love about the beach is that it's free, without charge and only passingly subject to rules and regulations. Sometimes there are even lifeguards simply there to guard lives seemingly for the love of it.

But the reason that I love the beach the most is because it is full of happy childhood memories. Long before it all went wrong, before my parent’s divorce, I was the only-child who got all of mum’s attention and all of dad’s too, on our family beach holidays. I was taught how to rock-pool, skim stones, play cricket, throw a Frisbee, fly a kite, build sandcastles, swim and surf at the beach. As a parent I have taught my kids the same and it’s fun to see the younger beach urchins that gather to them as they teach the safe way to pick up a crab or how to catch a wave. Later, some of the short stories went on to write have featured sea creatures in ‘The Crab’ and ‘The Mackerel’.

Today I still have the same plywood belly-board that I ‘customised’ as a 10 year old. There is a unique feeling I get when I have just surfed in and I am running back out through the waves to catch the next ride. It could be any time in the last forty years. Nothing has changed. I love that.

Lastly, whilst drafting the above, I remembered that I once wrote a song filled with beach imagery as I envisioned how I wanted to live life. You can listen to it here in ‘The Art of Growing Old’ (bottom left of the page on this link).

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10cc and a charming transgression

I remember when I first heard the song in the 70's. Like many others I was mesmerised by the swirling, velvety instrumentation and backing vocals. Back then was impossibly new. But for me there was something even. I once heard the song playing on the radio and as it started to fade the DJ came in with the words, "That's 10cc with 'I'm not in Love' - A love song if ever I heard one". The words seemed to crash the moment and break the secret. Yes, it was true, but it felt like it should not have been spoken. I had recognised that the genius of that song was that the listener, saw more clearly the heart and desire of the singer than he did himself. So, as odd as it seems, it felt to me that this DJ was being insensitive. I don't think I consciously recognised all this at the time but, as a writer of children's stories, it's an approach that I have instinctively taken up myself, where the reader understands what is going on before the central character does himself.

Sometimes I see things before they arrive but other times it can take a while before the important point dawns on me. To make the point another, more recent, memory comes to mind...

There was a time that my wife and I took delivery of a new pine bed. Within the week I notice a scar on the clean new wood of the curved footboard. It was a carved letter 'd' with traces of blue ink, the kind of mark that is made when you try to write on wood with a biro and go over it, pressing harder each time trying to get the pen to work. There was only one person who could have done it; my small daughter. I confronted her. I hadn't seen her do it but I was sure I could bluff her into confessing. She denied it. So I pressed her harder. She cried and said she couldn't remember. I continued with the bluff. She cried more and apologised for if she had done it, but she couldn't remember. I think there was a punishment but I felt really bad that I had put her under so much pressure and blown the thing out of proportion. I did believe that she couldn't remember the incident. One day shortly afterwards I was gazing at the scar on the footboard. I remembered that when the bed had arrived I'd commented that we'd never had a footboard before and how it made the bed look a little like one the seven dwarf's beds. My daughter had heard that: It dawned on me what the 'd' had been about - because in the movie of Snow White each Dwarf has his name carved into the footboard. The 'd' was to have been 'Daddy' at the foot of my bed. I sighed; if I'd only seen that earlier I would have been so much softer on her - it was such a charming transgression.

It seems, in life, that we often can't tell if we're going to cotton-on to things early or late.

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