Grave 81 Compartment 37

My mum died in Spring 2007, aged 94.  We held a cremation service at Sheffield's Hutcliffe Wood.  I got the deeds of the family plot in Hull's Chanterlands Avenue Cemetery transferred to my name.  Then we took the ashes over and held a family memorial service in the chapel there.  I arranged for the wording on the headstone to be updated with my father's and mother's details.  Crown Memorials (Hull) did what they'd promised, and sent me a certificate.  But I'd never made the opportunity to go and inspect the finished product.  It was one of those sometime-I-must-get-round-to-it bucket jobs.  My cousin June keeps the plot tidy.

The sequence of events is interesting by which my mum came to spend her last eight years in Sheffield.  In the late 1990's I was driving over to Hull every other Wednesday to take her out shopping, go to the bank and generally make sure she was okay.  And to share fish and chips at Hessle Foreshore, under the Humber Bridge.  She was living in Lees Houses, a substantial leafy-suburbs charitably-based complex of 120 independent flats.  She'd moved there in 1984, three years after my dad died.   Throughout 1999, workmen were stripping out and replacing the asbestos insulation of the Houses' district heating system (an advanced concept for properties built around 1910).   Mum gave anxious accounts of the workmen having helped themselves to margarine from her fridge or having moved things around in the airing cupboard.  It was the classic confabulation by which we produce a 'why' story when slips of memory leave us unable to provide a consistent thread of explanation for events as we find them. 

Visiting in the September, the Warden took Mary and I to one side.  She explained that they'd found my mother in a state of confused distress trying to put some soiled bedsheets through the washing machine.  "I know she's been making up stories..." I offered.  "No," the Warden was firm. "This is the onset of dementia, and you need to plan for it."  She then summarised the stages of denial, distress and accommodation that form the recognised pattern of progression.

For Mum, it also meant she'd lose her tenancy, as her personal decline would carry her into the need for residential care.  "As it happens, she's spoken of possibly moving to Sheffield, because she can see she's become dependent on us, now," I added.  Within twenty minutes, we had a game plan.  The Warden would get Mum properly medically assessed.  I would arrange to take out Enduring Power of Attorney, and we would look for a place in a Residential Home.  Mum, unaware, complied.

Mum was registered blind, having lost the sight in her right eye aged eight through an accident that caused a detached retina.  These days, it would be routine to sort it out.   She suffered the disability all her life, and a bodged cataract operation nearly cost her the residual vision in her 'good' eye.  Over Xmas 1999 she came to stay.  I arranged for her to visit the Royal Sheffield Society for the Blind's Cairn Home residential unit, just over a mile from us.  On enquiry, Hull's equivalent facility had closed down.  She got on famously.  We agreed to put her name on 'the list', while the staff checked her eligibility as an out-of-towner.  "Mind you," they warned, "She's number 17.  And we've only had four vacancies come up in the last ten years."  No matter, it was progress, and we sensed a lot of grace in the whole sequence of events. 

In March 2000, Cairn Home rang.  "This is a long shot.  A place has come up, and we've been turned down by the the first 12 people on our list.  Would Mum be interested?"  Would she!?  We moved her to Sheffield a month later.  Viv came over from York Uni to help, including, I remember, sliding her large wardrobe out through the first floor window.

"I suppose it would be nice to spend a bit of time together..." I'd mused to Mary in August, "Y'know, before I go to India.  We could go to see the grave, and have fish and chips under the Humber Bridge," I added hopefully.  But the only suitable day was a Saturday, and the Cemetery wouldn't be open.  Then last week, Andrzej tracked me down to where I was trying to read some Jesus Centre stuff in quiet.  "I'm trying to arrange for someone to cover Mary's Help Desk slot tomorrow, so you can get some time together."  "Did you know about this?" I asked her shortly after.  I confess, I don't take kindly to folks organising me into 'quality time' scenarios. 

We left at 10.00am next morning.  It was hazy and overcast, and I predicted it would only get worse nearer the East coast, whereas Mary was sure the sun could just break through at any time.  Once on the M18, Mary asked me what had changed me on the Multiply trip.

In Hull, we threaded our way to the Cemetery through road closures and lane resurfacing .  The detour included Westbourne Avenue's cast iron mermaids that I ran into as a novice driver.  The family grave stands in a prime position near the wrought iron entrance gates.  My grandfather had secured it when he worked as a supervisor for the Council Parks Department.  He lost his right hand in WWI, and had a war pension, too.  Everything looked fine. I spotted one headstone that looked like a cherub on a space hopper.  Mary, observing the silver birches afflicted with fungus, announced that she'd like the one in our back garden taken down, because it blocks out too much light. 

We bought some fish and chips from the shop where I used to go 'as a lad'.  As I expected, from the Foreshore carpark we could barely see to the far bank of the estuary.  When Mary's brother Tony rang, she chirped, "The sun's just about to break through." 

After a walk, we headed home.  I was due to go to a business consultation meeting with with Paul Blomfield, our MP.  I'd read an article in Abu Dhabi about the disproportionate effect on GDP of mega cities and city regions.  "Look at this," I'd explained to Mary, "Six years, and between Hull and Sheffield there's been nothing more than a couple of new sheds (meaning warehouse units) and a new roundabout.  And as for airports..."  I fear that Humberside and South Yorkshire's not in the running as a 'top 600 places of global economic influence', despite our Council's glowing rhetoric in their ten-year Strategy Plan.  Mary bore with my comments silently.  I probably need another day off.

Zebedee Three

"You will come, won't you," Kat insisted.  "It'll just be a couple of hours, 2.00 til 4.00."  She'd lined up assorted lovely couples and yummy mummies with their Georges, Alberts and Henrys for Zeb's birthday party.  Age three seems to me to be threshold where a party begins to mean something to the child rather than the sentiment of the parents.  It seemed doable, too, even though I'd had hardly had any time to sort out the 6.30pm meeting with Barrie.  Mary was vague about the exact arrangements, but at least we had a postcode.  Then Kat texted to say the carpark was full.  Jack and Harriet's youngest, Silas, agreed to come with us.  Although there promised to be plenty to eat, he insisted on taking the chunk of bread that was the remnant of his lunch.  AJ met us in the alternative, Dore and Totley railway station, carpark.  We loaded up with folding chairs and carrier bags of pizzas and fruit-juice cartons.  "Last time we came, there was hardly anybody here.  Today it's heaving - sorry."  He apologised inecessarily.  We trekked up a farm track.

Ahead we could see a half-size railway footbridge, four concentric miniature tracks passing through picket-fenced station buildings, and, through the crowd of parents-and-children, several steam engines taking around their passengers.  A yellow board announced 'SMEE' - Sheffield and District Society of Model and Experimental Engineers Ltd (founded 1905).  "Goodness," I thought.  "So this is what Mr and Mrs Average find to do on a Sunday afternoon.  And we've set up a mission focus group to discuss how to connect with them."  "Over on the left," AJ encouraged, as we negotiated the footbridge.  "We didn't bother with the gazebo, and all the picnic tables are taken."

The central field was about an acre in size, swelling with families (and assorted grandparents) under the sunshine and autumnal trees.  Tables sagged under the piles of sandwiches, pop bottles and birthday cakes.  Streamers and bunting announced first, 2nd, 3rd and 4th birthday groups.  The air was pungent with smoke from the locos, and toots and whistles ascended the musical scale as the train rides passed the rail junctions and cross-overs and emerged from tunnels. 

"You could find a new hobby here," Kat burbled.  "It's all run by grandads like you.  Engineers.  All voluntary.  AJ's going to get a fistful of tickets - only £1 each - so we can all have a ride."   It was indeed an interesting set-up.  But I could resist the idea of spending weekends sitting astride a hissing boiler wearing a scruffy jacket spotted with assorted interest-group lapel badges.  I took Silas and Zebedee to peer over a fence and wave at people, while Kat spread out the food on travel rugs.  Mary occupied younger grandson Zane.  Various of AJ's and Kat's friends arrived.

Zeb doesn't like cake, so he had a birthday pizza, with candles, instead.  I tempted Silas away from his chunk of dry bread, and he tucked in to some grapes.  Viv had mentioned that he'd been invited, too, so I texted him some directions.  They proved unnecessary.  When the first ride contingent made their way to the ticket box, I saw his red cross teeshirt across the platform as he was busy with his camera.   Now I was looking after Zane, having rescued him from chewing a polystyrene plate followed by an apple juice carton.  He's at the everything-goes-into-my-mouth stage.  "They're on the red train," I explained to Edward's mum.  We waved excitedly.  And then the next time they came round.  And then two more times.

By 4.00pm the crowd was thinning out, and the queues for rides had shrunk.  AJ's and Kat's friends began to give their goodbyes.  Mary and I brushed the sycamore leaves off the blankets, scooped up arms full of folding picnic chairs and tottered back to our car.  Silas skipped along with a white balloon.  "Thanks for coming," Kat offered for the last time.  "No, it's been fascinating," I could truthfully reply.

Check out http://www.sheffieldsmee.co.uk/ 

Liverpool Black-E

For the past dozen years we've used a Saturday in September to hold concurrent celebration events at two locations across the UK.  North/South approximately describes it, though East/West has sometimes been geographically more accurate.  Ours (i.e. 'North') was in Belfast last year.  For fairness, we aim to toggle between the respective 'patches' of our apostolic team guys.  This year, we opted to return to Liverpool.  The previous city action day, and evening event at Black-E, had been a great success.

I'd leaned on our household to get over to Liverpool on a Saturday earlier in September, to give a bit of moral support to the local saints' preparatory publicity and prayer walking, etc.  Despite the distance, we are Lighthouse's nearest neighbours.  I returned from the Multiply trip to find an A3 sheet scheduling the transport arrangements already pinned up on the hallway bookcase.  Josh and the guys had been hard at work.  They all chipped off early to do set-up.  I didn't scrutinise the list until Friday evening, when I discovered that Mary and I were due to ferry (older) Ray and three Chinese students.  An interesting mix.  I'd expected that Ray should have had his electric scooter.

Come Saturday morning, it all emerged as a considerable challenge, as Mary was poorly in bed.  I'd single-handedly have to deliver the passengers to the march start/gathering point (Chevasse Park) on the edge of the posh retail zone, and shuttle the car around between start and finish parking spots.  Last time we'd had an extensive trek, having parked on the docks.  We also found ourselves snagged up in the Labour Party conference, by which the minibus was taken through a full-on Police security check.  But that's another story.

I opted to go via the Woodhead Pass.  I couldn't face crawling though Glossop's Saturday shopping traffic.  (Older) Ray remained morosely silent.  I couldn't quite manage sustained conversation with the Richard, Flora and their friend Ray on the back seat.  We pulled into what's left of Burtonwood Services, as I couldn't remember that there were toilets near the shopping centre drop-off point.  (My enduring memory of Burtonwood is driving a swaying broken-down double-decker into the now-defunct West-bound carpark, accompanied by four motorway Police cars.  Three points on my License for a CU30 offense.)  My passengers had spotted Jack, Harriet and family tucking into their lunchtime rolls, so whatever other ideas I'd had for food were highjacked.

Our 'Together' instructions for the day thoughtfully included postcodes for the march start point and for Black-E.  So I cranked up the satnav and sought to follow directions.  As we got to the Waterfront, the satnav stubbornly insisted that I should turn up a one-way bus lane, and I was abandoned to my wits.  I recognised a couple of landmarks, but missed a vital turn just in time to see the Lighthouse minibus emerge from the side road.  Round the loop we went again for another 20 minutes.  "Jump out now!  You wait just beyond that barrier," I urged.  To my relief a Birmingham member had spotted my passengers, as I roared off to Black-E, hoping to park up and walk back in time for the march.

Georgie opened the Black-E stage door, much to my pleasure, and I gave Nate, Neive and Elise the small carved elephant I'd brought from Myanmar.  Neive offered to come on the march with me.  We set off at a pace to find the rest.  There was another mission, too.  Over breakfast, I'd broken my glasses trying to tighten the nose bridge.  Two weeks' of perspiration meant my glasses kept slipping down, annoyingly.  If it hadn't been the third morning that I'd found myself fully awake at 4.15am, I may have had more tolerance.  Because I declared on my driving license renewal that I need glasses, and I haven't got a spare pair with my current prescription, I needed to get them fixed for the journey back to Sheffield.

The march was lively, but somewhat undirected.  Leaders Chris and Loz only had a hand-held megaphone, and couldn't make themselves heard past the first few rows of followers.   Ray was puffing along half a mile behind, supported by Andy and Tracy.  I wondered if we should get medical help, but instead they put him in a taxi to Black-E.  As we all peeled off to our respective evangelism spots, Neive and I went on a hunt for Specsavers.  "No, sorry. It's a discontinued line" the helpful assistant reported.   I fortified Neive with a bottle of cola, and we trekked off in search of another optician.   This time it was Boots.  Same story, "We don't do a frame like this."  And in answer to my next question, "There's a Vision Express round the corner."

The afternoon had hotted up and I felt overdressed, insulated against the UK climate.  The man at Vision Express looked doubtful, but dived off into the 'laboratory'.  Yes, I know the glasses are now well out-of-date (and design).  But I'd fully expected to have to replace them last after my last sight test, only to find the assistant had declared it unnecessary.  The Vision Express man found a spare nose bridge.  Apologising that it wasn't exactly what I needed, he handed it over with a smile.  Back at Black-E, Gav produced a tube of superglue, and all was well.

The evening event cracked off brilliantly.  Elise joined me sitting on stage, as her bit of time with Grandad.  Gav had rung Mary and told her that I was looking lost.   As Viv was leading a song in the kids' spot, "All of God's children...", everyone joined in with enthusiastic whistling.  Only the insistent penetrating squeal wasn't us, but the fire alarm: we all had to vacate the premises.   Flora, Richard and Ray were nowhere to be seen.  I correctly surmised that they'd sneaked out to the inspect the several nearby Chinese restaurants.

I don't know how my passengers found the journey home.  With the twists and turns on the Snake Pass, and my indifferent speed control, I was just grateful to arrive safely.  Mercifully, my satnav proved reliable as I dropped off the three Chinese folks at their respective student digs.  "Mick says we should do this every year," I commented to Mary.  "Not without Ray's scooter," the bedclothes replied.

Multiply India Visit Day Sixteen, 18 Sept

"You look a lot better than you did when you arrived," Hephzi observes over breakfast.  "Hmm, my blog was so pedestrian that I commented that I may be on the point of total collapse," I agree.  "And the hearing-aid that's not been working suddenly decided to start again."  Mizoram and Myanmar were desperately wet, and the climate here in UAE would dry out anything .  The fact remains that I've shied away from conversations because I just couldn't rely on hearing adequately .  Daniel and I talk budgets, expenses and receipts.  "You know Greatheart, when I see how much of this goes into the visit, you really need to get someone to take it over," Steve chides.  Later, at the airport, we have a similar 'what-we'd-do-differently' and 'what-would-work-better' conversation.  It takes in baggage and clothing, gifts for people here, relative priorities in the use of our time, etc.  Maybe we'll get there for the February/March 2014 trip to Africa.  Certainly, I've carted around too many clothes, and a heavy and unnecessary church laptop. 

Daniel and Hephzi talk some more about their future.  I feel like we should have given them more opportunity.  There can't be many friends 'outside the scene' they can refer to.  We pray together and zoom the short drive to the airport.  I see Daniel waving furiously from the car window as we push the trolley towards check-in.  "Ooh, I must get a shot of a 777," Steve enthuses.  And then admits: "I clean forget to take a picture of Daniel and Hephzi".  What have we done to him?  I check the time, 9.30am, and realise Nathan and Sam will just be at Heathrow. 

I find it difficult to rest on the eight-hour trip.  A crammed schedule awaits me, and I won't really 'unpack' until Tuesday next week.  It's no consolation that John Biak was due to fly to the US within two weeks of returning home after leaving Yangon.  The meal offering is very Western, and tasty, too.  As we descend slowly into Manchester, the nose camera view on the video captures Derwent Water.  Yes, we've come right over the Snake Pass.  The lady across the aisle is twisting her hands in agitation.  After ten flights in two weeks, I can't raise any adrenalin about this final touch-down.  "Didn't you offer to pray for her?" Mary asks later. 

I give Sam a quick ring, and he's obviously been asleep.  "Did you get today off work?" I tease him.  "Listen, when can we get together for a debrief?" he counters.   I find out why Mumbai was a nightmare - they landed into Domestic Arrivals, but it's two miles distant from International Departures, then they were stopped by endless security checks.   Manchester beats its reputation for being painfully slow clearing arrivals, and Steve and I are soon at the rail link station.  "I'll probably see you tonight," I explain.  "I've got to travel down anyway, and it makes as much sense to come tonight.  Make sure Dave leaves the door open."
Mary rings me three times as a trundle out of the station in Sheffield: there are too many ways you can miss people arriving here.  I get a lovely reception from Jack and Harriet's kids, and challenge Grace to carry my case upstairs.  Within an hour, I've got another case packed and we leave for cell group.  Barrie will pick me up later, and drive us both to Kings House.  Over our meal, Phil and Donna fill me in about the 'vision review' Agenda that's been in full swing: it seems good progress. 

At Kings, I find Steve's case contents exploded around the room.  He's under his quilt, and sensibly an extra layer, too.  I find an incredibly thick blanket and snuggle under it gratefully.  At 4.15am, I wake up with cramp.  And the Malarone tablet I took (without a drink of water) has catalysed heartburn.  My body clock tells me this is a perfectly fine time to be getting up.   From past experience this will continue for three or four days.  Steve sleeps on.

Multiply India Visit Day Fifteen, 17 Sept

I want to make the most of the cooler early morning, and at 6.00am settle down in the bay-windowed dining area adjacent to our bedroom.  I catch up with some journalling and dip into a Joni Earekson book.  For the trip I'd taken just one paperback: J Oswald Sanders' reminiscences.  He was appointed Director General of Overseas Missionary Fellowship (OMF - formerly China Inland Mission), and from 1947 criss-crossed Asia visiting their extensive activities.  He also appeared regularly at conferences in the Pacific, and maintained contacts in the States and Europe.  Our mishaps and travels have been child's play compared with his caseload.  I reckoned the book should see me through the two weeks, but time on my hands between Myanmar and UAE meant I'd finished it.

Breakfast was a leisurely affair, bacon, eggs and chipatties.  Daniel explains about the moringa tree growing outside the window.  He's researching the possibilities for sustainable development.  I comment that triffids started off as a too-good-to-be-true horticultural discovery, but Steve scowls at me.  Our 'official' schedule for the day - visiting a home fellowship in Dubai, wasn't going to tie us down until the afternoon.  Steve wanted to doing some shopping, and I needed to check emails and do an account of Butch's expenses for Daniel, now I could get on-line.  I even managed to post two blogs complete with pictures.  However, it was something of a challenge and the tags on the compose page were in Arabic, and the text flowed right to left.  I'd given up on a similar enterprise in Bangkok airport, when the web pages displayed in Thai.  Annoyingly, the connection drops out after I think I've banged off a load of emails, and I have to redo them.  I ring Mary and confirm that I'll be at the Farm early on Thursday, but yes, I'll make it to Phil's and Donna's, too, first.

 I got some time to think about what may be good to share in the evening, as this was clearly not going to be an occasion for a full-on Multiply presentation.  Steve and I were both at war with our tummies.  I simply put it down to irregular eating, and lack of any recent exercise.  Daniel and Hephzi's situation has become somewhat precarious.  They aren't sure of their immigration re-applications next spring, and the other main ministry Daniel's involved in, Cana, is struggling because of reduced flow of funds.  We promised to pray for them (Carmino take note). 

After a late lunch, and celebrating their nephew's birthday, we head of to Dubai, the best part of 100km.  We then head for Sharjah, the Emirate beyond, where we'll spend the evening.  Dennis, the brother Daniel and Steve stayed with in Kochin, is related to our host Jacky, and some of the folks who turn up.  "You'll find Jacky is very 'Brethren'," Daniel explains.  He proves to be more than that; he's outspokenly anti-clerical.  His wife agitates about the meal they want to offer everyone, and ends up sending out for a KFC for Steve and me.  Jacky has been in UAE, trading, for 35 years and remembers Dubai "when it was just one building".  He remarks that the fellowship is seeking ways to draw closer together, and we feel we have something we can impart.  Right on cue, I get my weekly agape 'Covenant love' text message from home. 

Two girls lead us - numbering over twenty - in worship songs: universal Hillsongs.  After I've explained a little how tonight's intention is to relate our experience for the sake of encouragement, Steve talks about brotherhood covenant.  He's just made his first point when an older brother breaks in with a litany on personal relationship[ with Jesus, everyone reading the word for himself, etc.  But Steve has the attention of the young people, and ploughs on.  When we're well past 10.00pm, people get fidgety, and I rapidly wrap up.  The reception has been warm and attentive.  We get instant invitations to visit again next time we're in UAE.  Despite the time, there are some lingering conversations.  I'm amazed that again, in some unsuspected corner of the world, there's a heart to move forward with the Holy Spirit.

Nathan rings from Mumbai airport; "Give us Colney's number, and address, if you've got it.  We have to complete an immigration departure form."  (He and Sam have the details on the insurance risk assessment form that I told them always to carry with them, but no matter.)  "How did it work out there?" I ask, referring to their time in Cuttack.  "Absolutely amazing.  Yesterday we went to a Sony centre (in Bhubaneswar) and got everything (meaning video kit, and supporting laptop).  You should have seen the boys' responses at the orphanage.  Agnes (Colney's eldest daughter) says they won't have slept last night."  That sounds like it's topped off their time well.

The Burj electric gate slides open at quarter to one.  I've managed to doze on the journey home.  The hot air wraps around us as we unpack the car; "Can't believe it, can you?" Steve comments.  Tomorrow's flight is at 10.00am, and we'll have to get moving early.  We've put Daniel and Hephzi to a bit of trouble, but they're indefatigable hosts.  I lay out some fresh and warmer clothes. "Wrap up well, Dad," Ellen has messaged. "We've had to start the heating already."

Multiply India Visit Day Fourteen, 16 Sept

I can hear Steve somewhere behind me.  He's animatedly chatting with a bunch of Philippino women.  It turns out they're off to UAE for three years, leaving their families with relatives, to earn money for their kids' education.  These are typical of the members of Daniel's congregation, and represent both the opportunity and problem he's got building  a strong scene. 

Steve's become a Boeing 777 fan, and the 2.55am Etihad one to Abu Dhabi is very nicely equipped.  I snort at his unintended jet-setting snobbery.  The two weeks have changed us all, I guess.  Two seats next to me are empty, and I opt for getting some sleep over waiting for the warm corned beef sandwich which is promised on the in-flight menu!

Daybreak has just about arrived when we land, and soon we're travelling in Daniel and Hephzi's air-conditioned car.  Huw and I stayed at their home, Burj al Barakat (Tower of Blessing), in November 2011.  "You'll see why Tim came here for a five-day break on his way home from Australia," I comment to Steve.  The  building work that I remember has extended the new residential development further.  The largest and richest of the seven Emirates, Abu Dhabi intends to stay ahead.  "Oh, my days,"  Steve smiles, as Hephzi puts out three boxes of breakfast cereals.  His  tummy's still playing up, and he reckons it's been the fats used in the fried rice that's been pretty much a staple for the last week-an-a-half. 

We give Daniel something of a flavour of what he's unfortunately missed in Mizoram and Myanmar.  He recommends we catch up on sleep so we can enjoy the afternoon and evening.  We obey without protest.  After Hephzi's shepherds pie lunch, we drive to Yas Island, site of the Formula One track, Viceroy Hotel and the  mind-boggling Ferrari World.   But then, mind-boggling tends easily to become an an overworked adjective here: everything's world class and supersize as standard.  We fill the tank with petrol: 41dirhams - just under £8.  It's also hotter than I remember.  Daniel confirms there's been a recent spell of temperatures running even to 50C.

Daniel's invited some folks round to Burj for an evening get-together.  First to arrive is John and family, the parents of Ricky, who accompanied us around two years ago.  They are all loveable, and arrive with several trays of grilled meats, nans, vegetables, and assorted fruits juices.  More friends from several nations arrive.  Some have only just become Christians, and an evening of fellowship is a much sought-after event even given the long working hours that most of them face each day.

Hephzi engages some of the ladies, and in the main lounge, Daniel gives a brief introduction.  Clearly, informality is the key.  I tell my testimony of a good new birth, baptism in the Holy Spirit, but then the real influence for stability and fruitful service - finding the Body of Christ.  Steve leads us in a couple of worship songs, and by now it's 10.30pm.  An hour later, several are still talking, but I'm yawning.  The two guys who came late are whisked off by Hephzi for some curry and another hour's conversation with Daniel.  This is one-to-one New Testament church building in a heavily circumscribed context, and it stirs us.

Multiply India Visit Day Thirteen, 15 Sept

Rain all night, and at 2.00am I hear Steve bumping around.  "Thought you'd gone to bed," I mutter, without opening my eyes.  "I've been bitten on the leg, and it's driving me mad."  He agitates.  I dig out some Aventis cream, and he's soon sorted.  But I'm not.  I turn over and over, jammed between the rock of an urge to post mortem what the messed up finances may omen for our AMEN relationships, and the hard place of attempting to condense in my mind what I want to share at the Bible College 8.00am meeting so that I don't over-run.  Truth is, I should have taken some time out of the day to get some quiet reflection. 

My phone calendar tells me it's Zebedee's third birthday.  I skip the shower in favour of stoking up with a good breakfast, and John and Mary are already there.  Butch ambles in: I've given him enough money to settle his bill and get his final Manila to Cibu flight, which isn't included on his international ticket.  He's given me a fistful of receipts to pass to Daniel. 

At 7.30am the taxi bumps down a side road to the International Mission and Church Planting (IMCP) Bible College.  Mar Yen, the student rep, is delighted we've come.  John and the principle, Thomas, are old friends.  But there could be a problem if neighbours see foreigners, so John has rung him - away in Chin - to get his okay.  We climb the wooden stairs to to chapel, and find twenty girls on the left and 25 boys on the right, with singing in full swing.  Soon they ask me to share.  I talk about king David, and the four occasions he's tackled by his prophetic 'chaplains'.  Steve follows, and gives his testimony of the time he saw his old football team coach (vehicle, not sports), from a field of vegetables.  Some begin to weep at this cost of his discipleship.  The students will complete a four years here, then wait to see where God creates a calling.  For sure, it won't be to any cosy pre-paid pastorate.

Mar Yen can't leave our side, and Thomas's younger sister, Ruby, is full of questions.  John draws me to one side: the hotel have rung to say that Butch left without paying.  Fortunately I'm carrying enough dollars for him to travel over and sort it out.  Next stop is Lai Baptist Church.  There's a local choir competition featured during the 10.00am service, and the IMCP students are among the four contestants.  The place is packed.  I count 480+ fixed seating places, and there are random other people downstairs and on the stage.  There's a balcony supporting about 70 seats cantilevered out from the back wall, with no balustrade or handrail on the access staircase.  Sit well back you guys; check that out, mums with kids. 

The wooden pews are solid, like the hotel beds, and the four of us spread out where five should fit in.  There's not a word in English, except that I catch one phrase when visitors are welcomed: "especially foreigners".  We do a traditional congregational hymn, and you could be in a Welsh chapel for the vocal harmonies.  The PA allows one note in four to surge forth from the piano before cutting out.  It creates a curious effect of being kept in key rather than being accompanied.   In turn, the choirs perform the identical test piece.  Ahh, I get that time for reflection.   In the sermon, after two offertories,  I identify 'reformation', 'Luther' and 'holistic approach'.  Steve got 'transformation', too: I won't argue.

At 12.30, we finish, and shuffle to the staircase.  The downstairs crush hall was previously scattered with 200 drying umbrellas.  Now, with smooth efficiency, servers are giving everybody a white takeaway box containing a chunk of banana cake, and there's tea on offer.  Sheffield congregation, thou shouldest have seen this hour.  You won't, because at this moment my phone camera decided to die, and Ruby whisks us away promptly.

Back at Thomas's family home, we're reunited with our baggage, which went with Mary in a second taxi.  Across the street is the dormitory house for the Bible College girls.  John takes us off to our first shopping mall for a bite of lunch.  It turns out to be a dutiful affair.  His and Steve's tummies are playing up, and I don't like Sunday lunch.  Back at Thomas's, we have three hours to employ before Steve and I head for the airport.  The conversation grows deeper. 

John shows us photos of his missionaries' work in Ka-chin state, both near Lake Inle and along the border with China.  He's just stated an orphanage for 8- to 10- year-olds whose parents were snatched and used a 'cannon fodder' by the military.  They had fled to the jungle, and their only hope of survival would be to grow opium.  Now they've found Jesus and are able to testify in villages where 'imported' missionaries would be treated with suspicion (or worse).  To encourage the saints, John has to walk three days through the forests and sleep under the stars two nights.  Two year ago he was arrested seven times in one month for holding unofficial church meetings.  The congregation may paddle two hours to the Sunday service, held at remote gathering points to avoid intrusion.  John has just been able to hold a weekend workers' retreat, after three years of seeking the funds and a place of safety.  We relate some incidents of bureaucratic and media persecution in our UK experience, and he feels strengthened to be of the same heart.

We pray and head for the airport.  "Two hours before flying," I quote from the travel docket.  "You will be twenty minutes," John laughs.  He's right.  Past the KBZ Bank counter, which in the end offered the best exchange rate, we stroll through two security checks, and there are no questions at the immigration exit.  "We could have a suitcase full of narcotics," Steve observes.  It's very different from Bangkok, where I had to step into a tardis for an all-over body X-ray, and found the booth wouldn't accommodate my larger-than-your-average-Thai dimensions.

Thai Air must take the prize for the busiest cabin crew of the to-date eight flights.  In just over an hour's journey they offer us newspapers, a drink, a meal, another drink, and duty free.  All smoothly and courteously executed.  But we have to stack for fifteen minutes as heavy rain storms are hitting the city, and flights are affected.  "They'll be a signal and free wifi," I encourage Steve.  We haven't spoken to anyone at home for over a week. 

At the transfer counters it's 10.00pm - six hours ahead of UK - and the seats are all occupied by sleeping bodies. I ring Mary, who gives me an update on the Arena meetings to advance community and mission in Sheffield.  She sounds well.  Then I catch Nathan, who gives me a colourful account of their arrival in Cuttack in the middle of a Hindu festival.   Huw's next, then Kelly, and I hope they'll get the one photo I managed to email onto the screen at Heart.  I thank Gav for responding every time I've sent something, and leave a "happy birthday Zebedee" on Kat's answerphone.  Then I plonk myself down in the one remaining free seat, and Sunday drifts into Monday as I doze off.