Tag Archives: Family

Our Ridiculous God

It was this time last year, when the sun shone hot over the water and the family of geese floated by. That’s when it happened.. something so ridiculous that only God could have done it.

We’re standing in the back yard, my husband and I. We’re not alone. There are others here too, perusing the papers passed to them by the realtor. They’re doing what we’re doing – trying to imagine themselves living in this home, this little home on the lake. But it is little. Cute… but would we have room for our family when they come to visit from England?

I blame the Fletters. It was that family, among others, who made us fall in love with the ridiculous idea of lake-living when we came to live in the United States. Fifteen long years ago it was when they took us to that lovely lake home where we were first introduced to the fun of tubing, and the crazy idea of swimming in a lake.

No-one in England swims in a lake. I can remember saying incredulously. They’re freezing!

But not in Michigan. In Michigan they are warm, and welcoming. And people live on them.

But not us. I remember thinking. We’ll never live on a lake, because we live in parsonages. We go where God sends, and that means a home I’ll never get to choose myself.

But who knows what God has in store? Not me.

So this time last year, the unimaginable is about to happen. And we’re thinking about this little home. We’re standing on the grass that looks and feels like a luxurious sponge, and we’re looking out over the water to where kayakers float effortlessly and two white swans drift by. And my husband turns around to look at the neighbor’s house. It’s much bigger. It has a lovely deck. And a cute little beach. And for some ridiculous reason, there’s an ‘Open House’ sign hanging there too.

Now that’s a lake home Glenys. He says. Look at next door! Look at that lovely deck! That’s a home big enough to share with our family from England. Let’s go and peek inside.

I remember saying it clearly:

Don’t be ridiculous.

And twelve months later, when those same white swans are drifting by, and the sun is sinking in a pool of red over the lake, that lovely deck is the one from which I write. That lovely home is the one we’re sharing right now with our family from England.

And all the thanks and praise goes to God, who whispers crazy things like:

Just hold your staff over the water Moses, and see what happens.

(Can’t you just hear Moses saying, Don’t be ridiculous!)

Or: Just march around those massive walls Joshua, and see what happens.

(Can’t you just hear Joshua saying, Don’t be ridiculous!)

Or: Just wait three days Mary …you will see me again.

(Can’t you just hear Mary saying, Don’t be ridiculous!)

But that’s our ridiculous God… who does the impossible, who whispers the incredible, who resurrects fifteen year old dreams and breathes them back to life.

Yes God is good: in earth and sky,

From ocean’s depth and spreading wood,

Ten thousand voices seem to cry,

God made us all, and God is good.

When You See Your Book Published in Korean…

7 Replies

A wonderful surprise plopped onto my doorstep recently. It was four copies of Love Letters from God….in Korean.

I tore away the packaging and eagerly opened the book. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word. But on the other hand, I knew everything it said.

My Korean translator is called JongRak Hong. He diligently pored over this book and spent hours translating it into his native language.

Last year, I got an email from him. It was very polite. It went like this:

May I ask you a question? Don’t worry. It’s a very simple question.

In Acknowledgments, you say thanks to your brother Trevor.

Is he your elder brother or younger brother?

Because In Korean, there are different words for calling elder/younger brother and sister.

His message made me smile. Here was I, thinking that a computer would be translating my book, when all the while, JongRak was poring over its pages, working diligently to make sure every single word was translated correctly.

Trevor is my older brother, I told him. (The one who first saw the potential in the pages of this book, the one who is a wonderful writer himself….but I didn’t tell JongRak that.)

It was several months later when that amazing package arrived at my door. I tried to find the name of my brother, Trevor. It’s hard, but I know it’s somewhere near the top of this page:

My name looks like this:

And this is the name of God:

And while I’m turning the pages in the USA, struggling to make sense of the words, I know there’s someone on the other side of the world, perhaps a mom, or a dad, or a grandma, or a grandpa, cuddling their little Korean child on their lap, who’s also turning these pages and smiling as they read God’s love letters to them. And every word makes complete sense.

Go into all the world, Jesus told his disciples, and preach the good news to all nations. Wow…perhaps I’m a tiny part of that, and so is JongRak Hong.

The Check I Never Wanted…

18 Replies

It was sitting quietly in the mailbox one misty morning. Waiting for me to find it. I knew what it was before I opened the envelope.

International Special Delivery, the important stamp said. I normally love mail from England… it’s always family-sent. But this one was different.

I opened it slowly and pulled out the contents. An impressive logo announced, ‘Zurich Bank’. So here it was…. the check I never wanted.

Dear Mrs Nellist, Paying the claim on your father’s Adaptable Life Plan, the words said in bold.

Your. father’s. Adaptable. Life. Plan.

I had to read those words three times and still I didn’t want to believe them. Is that my father? The one with a twinkle in his eye and a love for life?

The one who taught me how to swim, and played badminton with me on holiday?

The one who walked with me through the woods, and taught me how to spot glow worms in the dark?

The one who held my hand when I was in the dentist chair, and read books to me every night?

The one who taught me the name of every insect and every tree?

The one who happily gave away everything he owned, and the only things he ever saved for himself were acorns in his pocket?

Do you mean my father? Surely not.

Because if you do, then I don’t want this check.

What I want is for my wonderful dad to see what I’m seeing… which is a fiercely protective robin, who labored long to build a scraggly nest in a ladder outside my front door; who carefully laid four little blue eggs in there; who chases away every naughty chipmunk that dares to go near her home; who sits on those eggs every minute so that her young can have the very best future possible.

Who, when those babies are born, will watch over them, and love them, and feed them, and nurture them, and teach them everything they need to know about the world….

just like my wonderful dad did for me.

And if I could hug him again, and laugh with him again, and walk with him again, and show him the robin building her nest, I would gladly rip this check to pieces.

But it’s his way, my wonderful father’s way, of caring for me, even though he’s gone.

He’s gone.

I Wish You Knew. (A Tribute to My Mum)

22 Replies

Her name was Isabella. She hated it, and preferred to be called Isabel. But she hated that too. She thought it old-fashioned.

I wish she knew now how popular that sweet name is, and how, when I meet that little girl called Bella, she always makes me think of her. But there’s a lot I wish she knew now.

I wish she knew that I married David, whom she adored.

I wish she knew that he became a pastor…how surprised and thrilled she would have been!

I wish she knew that I had four wonderful children, that my family has grown to welcome three daughters-in-law, and four adorable grandchildren.

I wish she knew that I went into teaching, and eventually became a children’s book author.

Because it’s really due to her.

Those who know me well would never, ever believe that I was a naughty girl at school. But I was. My poor parents were constantly hauled into the headmaster’s office, as he tried to rein in my unruly behavior.

I remember one of those occasions more than most.

I’m sitting in his office, while he glowers at me from behind his big important desk. His black gown is as dark as his mood. I’m sure I deserve to be there. I probably deserve to be shouted at too, but I can’t remember what I’ve done. Perhaps I got caught smoking again, or perhaps it was the time when I nicked someone’s bike from the bike shed and rode off down the road with my best friend. But we had only sneaked away from boring science class to get some fish and chips… what’s wrong with that?

Whatever it was, I’m upset. And that’s unusual too… because I’m a bit of a rebel, and I have a hard exterior. But the headmaster in the black cloak has no hope at all for my future; in fact, he thinks I’m heading for failure.

And perhaps I was.

But that’s when I hear Mum come to my defense. To be honest, I can’t remember her exact words, but they went something like this:

But did you know, Mr Ellis, that she is SO very good and patient with children? I wish you could see Glenys at home. She takes her little niece, stands her on a chair, and they bake dozens of wonderful fairy cakes together. They line them all up on the kitchen table, and fill them with custard and jam. Glenys is so good with her! I just know she’s meant to work with children.

Mum didn’t know that she had just sowed a seed in my heart, that I would one day become a teacher, and out of that, my love for writing for children would grow.

She didn’t know because she took her last breath the day I sat my final exam at college. She never saw me wear the cap and gown, or pick up the pen to write Love Letters from God.

Mum has been walking those gold-paved streets for thirty-five long years. This month, I will turn fifty-seven, the age she was when that cruel illness stole her from us.

I wish she knew how thankful I am, what a privilege it was to be raised in that wonderful home, a place full of laughter, and busyness, and song.

A place where a hard-working lady called Isabel did her best to raise eight children, and saw the good in them when others couldn’t.

I wish she knew.

My Dad’s Battered Bible

26 Replies

This is my dad’s Bible.

IMG_20160224_155855 (1)

The cover is not patterned, as my son first thought, and it’s definitely not pretty. The leather is terribly cracked, and wrinkled, and dry – so much so that the words ‘Holy Bible’ are almost obscured.

I don’t know how long my dad owned this 1957 King James edition, or where he got it from, but I do know that he read it every day, that his hands turned the well-worn pages, that this was the most important book he ever owned.

As a Methodist local preacher, my dad preached every single Sunday, and like a faithful companion, this battered Bible accompanied him. It must have traveled for miles.

Whether lying on the front seat of his car, being carried under his arm as he walked, or riding in the panniers of his bicycle as he rode to his appointments, this book was at his side. It was, for my dad, the only text from which to preach.

As a young girl, I can remember coming downstairs early in the morning to find him sitting at the kitchen table, his head pored over this book.

This is a great text, Glenys. I just need three good points to preach on, he would say.

I don’t know how many pulpits my dad climbed, how many sermons he preached, or how many lives were changed because of his words, but I know mine was.

I found his bookmark, tucked, appropriately, in Romans 8:28, towards the end of the New Testament. My four-year old grandson, when he saw it, said, in his wonderful, innocent way,

Oh Grandma, your dad nearly got to the end of his book. You’ll have to finish it for him.

There’s nothing I can do to finish what my dad began. But I can carry it on.

I can continue what he started, what he pursued so passionately in life. I can spread the Gospel – from the pulpit, or the page. I can try to put others before myself, be in love with the splendid world God made, always look for the good in everything, and live like Jesus lives in me. Because that’s what Dad did.

I hope I’ve inherited more from my dad than his Bible.

My dad died as he had lived – quietly, and humbly. He left this world like a whisper, without any fuss, or ceremony, or great reproach.

And it’s really no wonder that the heavens literally opened as we lowered him into the grave.

They were opening to let a great man step in.

Blog Stop #3!

The Last Time I Saw my Dad…

12 Replies

The last time I saw my dad he was sitting under a magnolia tree.

It was the last time we would smile for the camera together; the last time we would laugh together; the last time we would sing hymns together under its leafy shade. But I didn’t know it then.

It’s a splendid tree, this love, he said, with that wonderful twinkle in his eye that characterized my dad so perfectly. Just look at it! It’s really at its best.

It wasn’t quite the truth. I knew it, and he knew it. The tree’s best days were certainly behind it. The tell-tale carpet of pink blossoms on the ground beneath our feet gave it away. But my dad was always one to look up, never to look down. It was the reason he saw the best in everything and everyone.

And so we smiled, and nodded together, and admired the splendid tree.

Now then, said my dad, as he looked up into its leafy boughs. Is that Mr Blackbird? He’s always here love, and he’s always singing. Well then, give us a tune.

And Mr Blackbird did. Perched high up on the branch as it swayed in the wind, the blackbird opened his beak and sang at the top of his voice. It was a beautiful tune, shrill and clear, a morning song that carried on the breeze and brought sunshine to the grey skies overhead.

My dad chuckled.

What about this one then? he asked, as he pursed his lips together and began to whistle a tune. The blackbird cocked his head to one side and listened. We waited. And sure enough, there came the obligatory reply. And so it went on: my dad whistling a tune and the blackbird copying.

That was in May, before summer gave way to fall, and autumn gave way to winter.

And on a December afternoon, I found myself kneeling at my front window, clutching my phone, saying good-bye to my dad, as he lay 4000 long miles away, taking his final breaths.

Dad, it’s Glenys, I say, very deliberately and very slowly. It’s really important to me that my dad hear these words.

I have something very important to tell you. I can hear his breathing.

I love you Dad. And I WILL see you again.

I can’t bring myself to say the word goodbye, and so I don’t. I save it for the moment I see him again, lying very still, and peaceful, and quiet and very cold.

I slip an acorn into his pocket as he’s lying there and kiss his icy head.

And on the morning of his funeral, I’m in front of the mirror, getting ready, when I hear something right outside my window. It’s a blackbird, perched high in the treetops, swaying back and forth in the wind, and singing for all it’s worth.

It’s so very loud. And it’s so very lovely. You’d never guess it was singing in the rain that morning, or that the sky above was so grey.

It’s just singing for all it’s worth, that little blackbird…

singing its song for a man who truly taught me how to live, whose legacy of love will last forever, who saw the best in everything, who sat with me under a splendid magnolia tree in May as blossoms of pink covered the ground.

Sam and the Red Balloon

6 Replies

It’s Sunday morning, bright and early. I’m excited to be here, in Portland, Oregon, to meet my wonderful new granddaughter and spend time with her big brother.

Sam is not yet two and a half. He is utterly adorable, and utterly sweet. I didn’t realize quite how sweet he really is until I got to spend seven precious days with him.

We arrive at Montavilla United Methodist Church and jump out of the car. It’s cold and rainy in Portland this morning. We pull our coats up around our ears, put our heads down and get ready to scurry inside.

But Sam has seen something. He pulls on my hand, makes a squealing sound and points upward. He can’t quite say airplane yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s seen.

We all turn to gaze upwards, and we see a tiny red balloon, floating far, far away, being carried on the wind through Portland’s cloudy skies. It’s only there for a moment, and then it’s gone.

Wow Sam! We say. Good job! You saw a balloon!

And that’s it. That’s my little story. Except I think there’s so much more to it than that. I’ve thought a lot about that tiny red balloon since Sam saw it, less that a week ago. And I got to thinking:

Why did he see that balloon?

How did he see that balloon?

He was the smallest person there. My husband is over six feet tall, my sons are taller still. But Sam is only two feet tall. You could argue that us grown ups were closer to the balloon, and therefore, shouldn’t we have been the ones to see it?

But we didn’t. Sam did.

And the only possible explanation, the only possible reason, is that he was the one looking up. And why would he be doing that, if he wasn’t expecting to see something… something surprising, and wonderful?

And that makes me think about God too.

We grown ups, we think we’re the ones closer to God. We think we’re the ones who know more, who read the Bible, who know how to pray, who study the scriptures.

But maybe, just maybe, our children are closer to God….because they are the ones looking up, the ones expecting to see God, the ones knowing that God will show up in surprising and wonderful ways.

Like little Sam, who looked up one Sunday morning and saw that tiny red balloon, as it floated across Portland’s cloudy skies and far, far away.

Stealing From My Brother….

14 Replies

When I was a little girl I was a thief.

I used to steal from my big brother. I couldn’t resist. I knew that hiding in his brown wooden wardrobe was a stash of sweets. I would creep into his room while he was at work. It didn’t take me long to find them. If they weren’t at the back of the shelf, then I would simply feel around his jackets as they hung quietly in his closet.

I can still remember the joy of feeling a tell-tale bulge inside one of the pockets, and the thrill of discovering a bag of Raspberry Ruffles hidden inside. Sometimes I would find liquorice…. the only sweets I ever put back.

My brother must have known that I stole from him. But he never challenged me. He was much too quiet, and forgiving, and unassuming.

And if you’d have told me that one day, this quiet, humble brother of mine would become a preacher, I never would have believed it, and neither would he.

John was never one to speak in public. Even though he went to church every Sunday, knew his Bible inside out, and read the scripture lesson when asked, he was always much more comfortable greeting people at the door, or handing out hymn books, or passing the offering plate.

John was utterly terrified of preaching. The very thought of having to stand in the pulpit and deliver a twenty minute sermon made his knees knock and his heart pound.

How could he go back to school and compose long, detailed essays, after forty years?

How could he battle through all that studying and reading when he had cataracts?

How could he become a preacher when he was over 60 years old?

But he did.

Because when the call comes, it doesn’t go away. We can ignore it, or walk away from it, or pretend we never heard it. But God is a pursuer. God is one who will chase you down and keep tapping on your shoulder, until you turn around and listen.

And John did.

I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have sat in that little church in England as my family gathered to celebrate. Like our dad before him, and our great Uncle Harry before that, my brother joins a long line of Methodist Local Preachers in our family who have answered the call…

and as I see John standing at that open door, I know that God opened that door for him; that God will walk ahead of him, opening doors in the hearts and minds of all who will listen to his message.

One day, the person listening will be me. I’ll sit in that pew as my brother preaches, and I will be proud of him. I’ll learn from his words and I’ll remember his bravery, his determination, and the sheer hard work it took for him to be standing there.

And I might just steal some of that courage, and perseverance, and obedience, like I stole his sweets all those years ago.

Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you. Revelation 3:20 The Message

What Happened on the First Day of Fall…

4 Replies

It was the first day of fall when they came to take the silver maple down.

I had loved that tree so much. So ingenious the way the previous owner had wrapped the deck around her sturdy trunk.

‘Our Shady Deck’ we used to call it. It was like being in a tree house. No one could see you. No one knew you were sitting up there except the birds.

And now she’s gone.

Just this morning I went out there to take one last look. One last photograph.

And call me crazy, but I even put my hand on her strong trunk and apologized for what was about to happen. I prayed over that big stupid tree who was making me cry and thanked her for the shade she brought, and the squirrels she entertained, and the sheer beauty of her yellow and orange leaves in the fall.

And you can laugh, or snort, or scoff, but I wouldn’t be my dad’s daughter if I didn’t love all living things, and marvel at the beauty of every tree, and respect their place in God’s world.

I was there when they made the first cut, like a mother accompanying her child through surgery. For three long hours, I endured the incessant whirring and grinding and sawing.