Breaking the Spell: Learning from a Narnian Christmas.

Christmas is coming. The solstice is past, but twilight still early. I sit in the lounge, heating on listening to the tumble drier whirring in the kitchen. The front windows are covered in drops. In the corner of the room stands our Christmas tree, festooned in baubles, little ornaments and of course some small foxes. On the mantelpiece my olive wood nativity figures from Israel are out in force; donkey, Mary with babe in arms, Joseph, Angel and Shepherd holding a lamb.

Most of the presents (for family members) are wrapped and sitting under the tree awaiting their journeys to Kent and later north again to Nottingham. Christmas cards decorate the shelves of the bookcase, one half slipped between the books to hold them on their tiny ledge.

I have a day and a half of work left. Tomorrow's surgery and then walk-in-clinics on Christmas Eve, the last stragglers in the door, the empty waiting room and the deep peace of closing time.

Advent is for waiting too. Waiting as we celebrate what is past.

Mary waited (her Soul glorifying her Saviour and his mindfulness of her), Joseph dreamt and waited, Zechariah waited in silence, Elizabeth waited (marvelling at meeting the Mother of her Lord), Simeon and Anna waited in the temple (the faithful remnant), the Magi waited (and searched and then worshipped) and the Shepherds followed the Angel's orders and then spread the good news far and wide; that a Saviour had been born to them and he was (and is) Christ the Lord.

And so too we wait to celebrate again the birth of the Saviour, Emmanuel (God with us) calling him Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, trusting that of the increase of his government, there will be no end.

Just as in Narnia, although there had been for so long, Winter and never Christmas - it spread abroad the rumour that Aslan was on the move. The faithful remnant longed for the coming of the four children who would fill the four thrones of Cair Paravel, but more than that they longed for the coming of the King of the Woods Himself, the Son of the Emperor over the Sea. And so he came, melting the snow, bringing Spring and of course, weakening the Witch's power so that Father Christmas arrived.

 

 

 

 

 

Didn’t I tell you,” answered Mr. Beaver, “that she’d made it always winter and never Christmas? Didn’t I tell you? Well, just come and see!”

And then they were all at the top and did see.

It was a sledge, and it was reindeer with bells on their harness. But they were far bigger than the Witch’s reindeer, and they were not white but brown. And on the sledge sat a person whom everyone knew the moment they set eyes on him. He was a huge man in a bright red robe (bright as holly-berries) with a hood that had fur inside it and a great white beard that fell like a foamy waterfall over his chest. Everyone knew him because, though you see people of his sort only in Narnia, you see pictures of them and hear them talked about even in our world—the world on this side of the wardrobe door. But when you really see them in Narnia it is rather different. Some of the pictures of Father Christmas in our world make him look only funny and jolly. But now that the children actually stood looking at him they didn’t find it quite like that. He was so big, and so glad, and so real, that they all became quite still. They felt very glad, but also solemn.

 “I’ve come at last,” said he. “She has kept me out for a long time, but I have got in at last. Aslan is on the move. The Witch’s magic is weakening.”

And Lucy felt running through her that deep shiver of gladness which you only get if you are being solemn and still.

“And now,” said Father Christmas, “for your presents. There is a new and better sewing machine for you, Mrs. Beaver. I will drop it in your house as I pass.”

“If you please, sir,” said Mrs. Beaver, making a curtsey. “It’s locked up.”

 “Locks and bolts make no difference to me,” said Father Christmas. “And as for you, Mr. Beaver, when you get home you will find your dam finished and mended and all the leaks stopped and a new sluice gate fitted.” Mr. Beaver was so pleased that he opened his mouth very wide and then found he couldn’t say anything at all.

“Peter, Adam’s Son,” said Father Christmas. 

 “Here, Sir,” said Peter.

 “These are your presents,” was the answer, “and they are tools not toys. The time to use them is perhaps near at hand. Bear them well.” With these words he handed to Peter a shield and a sword. The shield was the colour of silver and across it there ramped a red lion, as bright as a ripe strawberry at the moment when you pick it. The hilt of the sword was of gold and it had a sheath and a sword belt and everything it needed, and it was just the right size and weight for Peter to use. Peter was silent and solemn as he received these gifts for he felt they were a very serious kind of present.

 “Susan, Eve’s Daughter,” said Father Christmas. “These are for you,” and he handed her a bow and a quiver full of arrows and a little ivory horn. “You must use the bow only in great need,” he said, “for I do not mean you to fight in the battle. It does not easily miss. And when you put this horn to your lips and blow it, then, wherever you are, I think help of some kind will come to you.”

Last of all he said, “Lucy, Eve’s Daughter,” and Lucy came forward. He gave her a little bottle of what looked like glass (but people said afterwards that it was made of diamond) and a small dagger. “In this bottle,” he said, “there is a cordial made of the juice of one of the fire-flowers that grow in the mountains of the sun. If you or any of your friends are hurt, a few drops of this will restore you. And the dagger is to defend yourself at great need. For you also are not to be in the battle.” 

“Why, Sir,” said Lucy. “I think—I don’t know—but I think I could be brave enough.”
“That is not the point,” he said. “But battles are ugly when women fight. And now”—here he suddenly looked less grave—”here is something for the moment for you all!” and he brought out (I suppose from the big bag at his back, hut nobody quite saw him do it) a large tray containing five cups and saucers, a bowl of lump sugar, a jug of cream, and a great big teapot all sizzling and piping hot. Then he cried out “A Merry Christmas! Long live the true King!” and cracked his whip and he and the reindeer and the sledge and all were out of sight before anyone realised that they had started.

C.S. Lewis, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, Chapter 10 The Spell Begins to Break.

Samuel and I read this together, earlier in the year. It strikes me, that in waiting for Christmas, we all (and Samuel) wait for another coming too. A coming that is far more exciting, homely, full of warmth and exhilarated joy than we can ever imagine.  A coming, where Spring will always be fresh, where the True King lives (and always lives) and we live with him, with new hearts, minds and bodies, where cold, dreariness and the long dark winter of pain and suffering is finally and completely done away with.

In the meantime, our tools (not toys) should be used in his service bearing them well, bravely, courageously, wisely and with healing and mercy run through.

May we also pray not only, "Come let us adore him" quietly and with every growing strength but also "Come Lord Jesus, Come".

Raindrops against the windows.

I hear them
Raindrops against the windows
Pattering, tapping
The wind whistling in answer

The lights are turned on
The fire is burning bright
And still they keep up their morse
Dips and dashes
Against our windows

We run out the door
Coat hoods up
Dodging those raindrops
Spitting and spattering
Drizzling like mist over us all

The rain is heavy
Now it is gentle
Hanging in the air
Sky turned grey and dim
Twilight all day

I am cold and weary
The rain has kept falling all this day
I have woken to yet more of it
The slow fall
No brightness yet

Tomorrow is morning
Steadfast love unceasing
Mercies are new
Faithfulness always
Rainbows through the gleaming drops

Linda

Linda.

We have said goodbye,
Watching your coffin pass by,
Orange flowers atop,
Matching the orange carpeted church,
And the rain came down.

We have shed tears,
Broken speeches and words,
Sadness lays siege to our hearts,
Rosy memories changing colour,
And the rain continues.

The black clothes were inky,
The violin plaintive,
Singers grieving,
Hymn singing subdued,
And the rain kept falling.

Words remember you,
How you lit up a room,
Kindness and hard work,
Gentleness and giving,
And the rain came down.

Stealing through the darkness,
The darkness of loss,
A gleam of hope,
A pale dawn,
And the rain kept falling.

We know you are safe,
With your greatest friend,
We will see you again,
Beyond that beckoning dawn,
And all rain of grief will cease,
In the brightness of the rising sun.

The Booksellers of Banphot Pisai.

The Booksellers of Banphot.

In late 1985, our family moved to a small town in Central Thailand called Banphot Pisai in Nakon Sawan province. We lived there for just over a year, in a group of houses off a "soi" (street) near the banks of the River Ping.

My parents were OMF missionaries and were hoping to start planting a church in Banphot. There was one Christian lady in the area, but no-one else. And so they started with relationships with neighbours (some of which were not straightforward) and my Dad would cross the River Ping by ferry taking with him book-table, books, tracts, chair and umbrella all balanced on his motorbike to set up in the Banphot market place.

My memories of Banphot relate to learning to ride a bike without stabilisers, crossing the River Ping by ferry, inspecting the sandbagging along the edge of the river due to the threat of flooding, going to a Foremost Icecream parlour in Nakon Sawan on days off, washing the pots outside the house and eventually heading off to boarding school in Malaysia age six in August of 1986.

Crossing the River Ping by Ferry.

                                         All set to go, outside our house in Banphot.

Just over a year after moving to Banphot, we moved again to Bangkok, so my Dad could work at Kanok Banasaan - the OMF publishers.

During our recent trip to Thailand with the help of my Dad locating the house on google maps and the assistance and hospitality of Bob and Jan Trelogan, Mark and I were able to locate the neighbourhood and specifically the house that we lived in 30 years ago.

In high humidity that makes you sweat whilst merely standing still, we found the house to be greeted by a chorus of barking and aggressive dogs. Neighbours started to emerge from houses partly in response to all the racket. There had been little change in terms of whom was living in the houses apart from our old house which was occupied by two young women working at a Seven/ Eleven. With the help of Bob, who chatted to them in Thai, there was much smiling and laughter and remembering when we had lived in that house.

The landlord's wife turned up and immediately recognised who I was, sticking her head out the vehicle, gesturing and laughing. In the fashion of 2015, out came the smartphones so they could take snaps of these long lost "farangs" (foreigners) who had suddenly emerged from the past.

                                    

                                         The balcony of our house.

                                        

Later the crowd dispersed and we made our way back to the car and on to the now established church in Banphot. This was planted in the 2000s by a Swiss couple, Emmanuel and Barbara Zwygart and a Thai pastor, Ajarn Suppochort and his wife.

When we arrived at the church, it was to find that the Ajarn was resting, with two other visitors already with him, Alan and Averil Bennett, now retired, but missionaries in Thailand for many years. The building itself is on a piece of land next to the Public Health office, with some good sized rooms, nicely furnished for church ministry.


                                                  

                   The site of the market place, where Dad would of taken his table, tracts and books.

The Marketplace Singer of Banphot.

It turned out that the Ajarn was keen to write a history of Banphot Pisai Church, and so by translation through Bob, I explained when we had lived in Banphot and how things had been in 1985. He was excited to tell us of a man living in Banphot, a maker of Buddhist idols, that had visited with my parents and talked to my Dad in the marketplace. Apparently he had been taught a simple Christian song by my parents, which he reproduced to the rather dis-believing Ajarn. He recognized the song as being in the Thai hymn book but could still not identify who the OMF missionaries had been who had lived in the town at the time, until, of course, we came for our visit! The Ajarn continues to be a friend to this marketplace singer who still as yet remains a Buddhist.

The Ajarn had been somewhat downhearted due to various issues and over-busyness, but re-vitalised and encouraged by this new piece of information relating to his history project, he and his wife, bustled off to get changed in order to be "riaproy" (tidy) for photographs.

                                                      

 

 

Full of enthusiasm, for his history quest, the Ajarn asked Bob to show him the neighbourhood and house we had lived in, in the hopes of speaking to the Landlord and Lady and perhaps of following up the neighbours who had remembered the "farangs" who lived in their midst.

 

This was all a remarkable day, from the finding of the house, the crowd of neighbours, the actual church building to the orange shirted very busy Ajarn and his smiling wife. The planting of a church in Thailand can take many years and the Dickinson family were only living in Banphot a short space of time but the Ajarn was so keen to thank my parents for the seeds planted those thirty years ago in the seemingly stony ground.

 

"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9

 





Sowing and reaping: Memories of Thailand.

Mark and I are travelling to Thailand in 2 weeks time, partly to see where I grew up but also to consider our own future, and how we might serve. I have been remembering my last trip to Thailand, 5 years ago to the north of Thailand. Following the trip, I wrote three articles (one per month) for the (Gilcomston) church monthly record. In the third article I introduced a young couple, whom we met, living near the Burmese border.

 

Let me introduce you to :- Jaa and Sai (pronounced Jye and Sye).

 

On the day before we left Maehongson,  we travelled with Toi and Andrew to visit, a group of Shan Christians who live in a valley near Palaan (where Sheila Kendall worked for a number of years).

 

We briefly dropped in to see Nang A, and soon another lady, A Yu arrived, her husband Tun Aung arriving about 10 minutes later. A Yu and Tun Aung had been encountering various difficulties in their marriage relationship and Toi stayed behind with Tun Aung to discuss these things with him, with our hostess staying behind as well. A Yu, his wife, climbed into the vehicle with us, and we left them to talk, heading out towards the Burmese border.

 

It was possibly the hottest day, so far, in Maehongson,  the sun beating down. A breeze blew into the back of the vehicle as Andrew drove, but standing out in the sun as near the border as we could get, heat and humidity hung in the air. After some discussion we drove back down the road,  to Jaa and Sai’s house. (We learn that Jaa became a Christian after seeing the love shown by Christians, to a lady called Dim, who was dying of AIDS at the hospital. She then led her husband Sai to the Lord).

 

Away from the road, up a short track, Jaa and Sai’s house is made of wood, with a dried leaf roof, raised up not on stilts, but on a wooden platform. It is bare, swept clean, with a wooden floor, some tools hanging from the walls and a mosquito net bundled up and suspended in the air. Sat on the floor, our feet hopefully tucked tidily away,  Jaa brought out to us, cups, tea and warm soya milk. Our new hostess, is a young girl in her 20s, with an open smiling face, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and head-scarf, her feet muddy from rice farming. A portable fan balanced on the floor whirred, cooling the air down.

 

But there were other guests, A Yu who had come with us, Jo and Nor (another married couple) arrived, along with another friend. Bibles came out, questions were asked. They talked about gossip and forgiveness. Phil shared from 1 John ch 1. More tea and soya milk was consumed. Now nearly lunchtime, we spilled out, down the wooden steps to survey the stretch of  dusty garden right next to Jaa and Sai’s house which belongs to them. 

 

Mid- day sun was striking down, and I found, “touch-me-not” plants scattered about the field. Touch them with a foot, they fold up. Jaa  re-appeared from her rice harvesting work and she and her husband, showed Andrew the small field where they intend to construct a church building for the group to meet in. In the group is Jaa and Sai, along with four new believers, three of whom were baptised later in September. A mixed group, some young Christians, along with a Kachin lady and a Karen lady. Pi Jeng (an older Christian man who works with a church in Maehongson and has a prosthetic leg) visits periodically. But Jaa and Sai with six-year old son Sam,  are being Kingdom- Minded with the little they have- sharing with everyone.

 

Soon after we left, after trying in vain to take a proper photo of everyone, Jaa’s smiling face hovering near the back. Bundles of garlic lying at our feet in the back of the van, that Nang A wanted transported back to her home, we waved goodbye, rice and corn fields again flying past in the shimmering sunlight.

 

Jaa and Sai are rice planters, hired labourers, ankle deep in water gathering together green shoots, transplanting them elsewhere. Providing a nursery for new tender shoots. Putting down new seeds in rice planting season. Soon to be harvesting, bending over, picking the ready-to-be plucked plants, working hard under the unrelenting sun. But they are harvesters and planters of a different kind as well, the more important kind that is of eternal value.

 

“Do not be decieved, God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. The one who sows to please his sinful nature from that nature will reap destruction; the one who sows to please the Spirit, from that Spirit will reap eternal life. Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Therefore as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the familly of believers.” Galatians ch 6 vs 7-10.

 

..............................................

 

Pray for the Shan, that they might hear the good news of Jesus Christ. Pray for the Shan church, for small groups like this one, for young Christians and those in leadership. Learn and pray about the difficult issues that face the Shan church such as the marginalisation of the Shan as a minority people group but also the tremendous needs of adequate health care for those suffering from HIV/AIDS. Pray that Christians like Jaa and Sai will grow in their faith and that they won’t become weary of doing good but will reap a rich harvest.

 

Aunty Miriam

This past weekend, Mark and I visited a lady living in the South West of England. This was because for ten years she worked as a Dorm Parent at Chefoo School (the OMF boarding school) I attended in West Malaysia, age six to twelve.

Her name is Miriam and she cared for the youngest girl's dorm, the six and seven year olds. This was so named, Dorm 7, then Dorm E and then finally Dorm Perdah after one of the mountains in the Cameron Highlands where the school was situated.

Now she lives in retirement in a small seaside town, where she herself grew up.

In these days of local international schools and home schooling, boarding school at age six, for any reason, can seem reprehensible. And yet it worked in the main, because of the commitment, hard work and care of such as Aunty Miriam.

Arriving after a long journey from Bangkok, (a short flight to Kuala Lumpur as an unaccompanied minor and five hours in a taxi) a weary and perhaps slightly car sick six year old would find themselves, arriving to an environment where great care and preparation had gone into getting ready for all these little arrivals. The dorm was decorated with some theme in mind, beds neatly made, and lockers labelled.

Over following days, unpacking would take place, bed making lessons ensued for the littlest and routines established. The week would settle into a familiar pattern of rising early to drink immediately a beaker of water, dressing, breakfast, school, break time, more school, lunch time, rest hour, afternoon school, sandwich at 330 pm in the dorm, change into play clothes, play time, supper, an evening activity of treats/craft/story time/games outside and then baths and bed. Clothes became categories of school clothes, play clothes, Sunday clothes and even travel clothes on going home. Saturdays were patterns of washing one's hair in the sink (an invaluable skill), changing the sheets on the bed (hospital corners all round, challenging on a bunk bed), roti breakfast sometimes, trips out in the number plated WAX and WAM vans and short hikes in the jungle. Sundays were another regular pattern of Sunday Clothes, Sunday School, getting to church, Sunday groups waiting for church to start, return to school, Sunday Lunch, rest hour, a long play time, supper and Evening Prayers.

Aunty Miriam was particularly expert with the youngest girls because of her high standards in terms of behaviour and consistency but also her imagination and creativity in generating regularity and routine that was both fun and enjoyable. Such was this the case, that although homesickness reared it's head from time to time there was comfort to be found on these occasions from her but also the dependability of routines that divided the days and made them flow rapidly so that suddenly it was the last weeks of term with the excitement of suitcases airing on the basketball court, packing up school work and taxis leaving for the KL Mission Home or airport.

I have not mentioned teachers or other dorm parents in this article and of course they were invaluable and made many wonderful contributions, but in many ways Aunty Miriam set the tone and traditions that followed one through school and into other dorms. There are good patterns of behaviour and habits that I developed in those early years that I trace back in large part to Aunty Miriam and her faithful influence.

There are so many things that can be said of my years at Chefoo School; memories of now life long friendship and connections, creating imaginary worlds, learning to love reading, playing in that green and pleasant valley, the rush of cool air in through the taxi windows after driving through Tapah and then on into the hills, God's hand of protection from various hazards including poisonous snakes, learning hard lessons, some tears and sadness because of separation from parents, trying to care for siblings, making mistakes and making up. I could go on and on.

Mark and I were both struck on visiting the now retired and still single Aunty Miriam, of her simplicity of life, the habitual frugality still in evidence, her commitment to her local church, her clock that has different birds chirping for every hour, her beautiful garden, the amazing neatness of her little house and the keenness of her on going service. I realised that many traditions and habits that were established when I was a child at boarding school were not as it were summoned out of the air, but were due to Aunty Miriam's innate character and personality, gifts used to serve God and many missionaries and their little girls. 

It was a very special visit, and I left with full heart and rethinking many memories and pondering treasures.

 

With Mark on the way to the beach.

 

Promenading on the sea front.

(Aunty Miriam with a halo in her beautiful garden. Very appropriate).