AMEN gets rolling

I was glad to find we were blessed with sunshine on Saturday mid-morning when Rukundo and Steven appeared.  With Mary, we headed off from Cornerstone to Cornhill.  The conversation turned to rhubarb (the produce, not a metaphor).  "Would you eat it?" I asked Steven.  He wriggled.  "Ah, you'd wouldn't mind being told that you had, once you'd safely digested it?"  I prompted.  He laughed.  "Remember you asked me if I'd ever eaten bush meat?  It's about the same..."  The topic of 'gun meat' arose when we teased Rukundo about Steph's dog.  He'd rankled that an apple core was wasted on a animal.

Lunch at Cornhill was pizza, followed by rhubarb crumble and custard.

Ed arrived, then Claire, and soon the Tudor room was filling up.  We'd invited the intended teams for our two visits: Kenya in August and Rwanda next March.  The welcome Reception was part of their familiarisation.  A phone call from Oxford confirmed that Gregory would be a bit late.  They'd only picked him up from Heathrow mid-morning.  Matthew and Simeon from Nigeria arrived, and folks were chatting freely.

We'll planned to let each of the international guys share something for no more that ten minutes.  Then we would give a quick update on Multiply UK and Europe.

The problem of Boko Haram is clearly in the consciousness of the church in Nigeria.  Simeon is based in the north, and Kelly described him as the bravest man he knows.  Pastors are finding it timely to link together in Multiply's regional 'chapters'.  Rukundo, too has been putting himself at risk, holding prayer conferences in North and South Kivu, DRC.  This is where the M23 rebels are operating - sometimes with the churches' unintentional shielding.  He wants to avoid tribal difference from descending into more bloodshed, prompted by his tragic experience in Rwanda.  Steven described how our UK team visit last year has produced ripples of interest in Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania.  By the time Gregory spoke, the atmosphere was hushed.  He spoke of being hopeful for good progress in Uganda. 

After a tea break, it was Jesus Fellowship's turn to bat.  Each of the guys from Africa had managed to stay within the allotted ten minutes!  Piet talked about his visit to Moldova and the massive impression it had made on him.  Paul Poz explained that he's due to see Bishop Michael Nazir-Ali, and then Andy Flannagan in the Houses of Parliament for an article on Christians in public life.  Ed filled in some background to our (hopefully more effective) approach to practical projects, and Claire on the current Multiply admin arrangements.  We rounded off with Hilary's inspiring account of how we have had donated to us 18 new sewing machines for August's trip.

I noticed the deep conversations around the room.  Mary and I were due to stay in Coventry in the evening, and the Cornerstone saints would be collecting Rukundo and Steven after tea.  The Kings-in-Coventry has waited til we arrived before eating.  There, on the kitchen table, was a delicious rhubarb crumble. 

May 2015 and AMEN comes round again

I must have been slow off the mark when the Multiply planning team chose to hold a meeting in the office that I share.  My name appeared on the minutes, and I was co-opted into the monthly agenda.  Or maybe it was my mild protest when Huw said we wouldn't be holding an event on the opening Saturday of the Conference week, even though that was the focal point in the Church diary.  "You can't do that, Huw.  The guys will have travelled here with that date in mind.  Ed and I will be happy to sponsor an informal Welcome/Reception event for them." 

Apostolic Men Empowering the Nations is our catchy title for the main leaders of the International Network.  They each operate in clutch of countries.  Regular readers of this blog will have met Gregory (Kenya), Steven (Zambia) and Rukundo (Rwanda) from my trips to East Africa, and Colney from India.

I usually stay at Kings House throughout the week's deliberations.  But the saints there moved to Coventry in April.  This year I'm toggling my time between Kings-in-Coventry and the Farm.  But the story starts at Cornerstone in Birmingham.  I'd planned to stay one night en route to a family Trust get-together in Cheltenham.  This AGM fulfills the legalities surrounding Mary's aunt's inheritance money, which got invested in a tax-efficient pot that can't be touched for twenty years. 

"Rukundo arrives at Birmingham at 9am," Mick announced after Thursday tea.  "And Steven's landing at Heathrow at 6am.  So we'll have them both here tomorrow."  'Tomorrow' Mary was catching a train from Sheffield, and Mick and I would collect her from Cheltenham station. 

Friday morning, just as I greeted Rukundo with an unpolished "Habari ya asubuhi", Mary texted to say the train was an hour late leaving.  No matter, Mick and I headed down the M5 as planned, and parked near the Italian eatery that Tony proposed for lunch. 

Actually, it was worse than that.  Mary booked her journey with our common purse pre-paid 'plastic', and only collected the sales receipt - not her tickets - from the station machine.  She'd nearly been thrown off the train, and had had to fork out an extra £16 to get from Birmingham New Street.  It wasn't for the first time this week that I commented, "We seem to be battling with the 21st Century and losing."  Maybe my 70th birthday on Tuesday made me uncustomarily defeatist.  I'd just loaded a forkful of Penne al Gianni when Mary rang to say she'd arrived.  Then the frustration of Cheltenham's one-way system.

Later, back at Cornerstone, Steven had arrived.  We sat together for tea.  Rukundo declined to give Steph's guide-dog his apple core.  Ah, cultural tides.  We chatted about Tanzania, the current political unrest in Burundi and children's school books.  Then the household gathered for their weekly prayer time.  They were keen that Saturday afternoon's 'bluebell barbecue' should go well.  I made a mental note to book the four of us in for lunch at Cornhill, ahead of the planned Reception.  After their overnight flights, the guys headed gratefully for an early night in bed. 

Off to the seaside

"We didn't go anywhere together as a house family, last year," Harriet scolded. "Please can we, this summer?"   She was right.  But the trouble was that every Saturday seemed to be booked up with weddings or Jesus Centre events. 

We found a compromise.  Mary and I were due to be in Liverpool, so if everyone headed west for the coast - instead of east as we usually aim - then we could arrange something.  Jack's idea of a day out consists of canoeing, cricket and digging up sand.  Steven's involves an art gallery or museum and nice coffee shops.  Hoping to broker some sort of compromise, I suggested, "Southport has a lot going for it."  The weather forecast predicted rain and low temperatures.

Barrie's orders were that transport should leave at 8.30am.  This meant that Mary got up at 6.00 to fill flasks, while other saints whiffled downstairs at 20 past 8 to start looking for breakfast.  No matter: habits differ.  We set our satnavs for The Atkinson, Lord Street, and headed off.  It proved to be a convoluted route.  In fact, there's no direct route - say a decent dual carriageway - from Sheffield to anywhere.  Oh, except Rotherham and Chesterfield.  I rest my case.  Powerhouse of the North?

Mary and calculated that we'd arrived first, despite rain and cloud on top of the Snake Pass.  So we explored the sea front for picnicing potential, and then parked next to Debenhams to use the (impressive) toilets.  Ian, in Liverpool rang me about Lois, who, having spent the week there, planned to join us.  He announced that he could arrange no lift for her, and a train was the only option.  Then Jack rang Mary.  "Nothing here but a stretch of mud.  Andrzej and Sharron want to go to Formby."  "Tell him to let Barrie know, and confirm with me, asap, 'cos of Lois," I snapped. 

Barrie banged on the car window.  "I've lost Ray and Malcolm.  They got out at Sainsbury's car park to use the toilet, and then disappeared."  "Jack and Andrzej are saying 'Formby'," I replied.  "I know.  What a flippin' game."  He disappeared.  'Meet at the Crispy Cod, Queens Street.' read Jack's text.  I contacted Ian to divert Lois - just in the nick of time, it emerged.

The proprietor seemed somewhat shaken by 16 separate orders fired at him, as four waves of passengers clamoured through the door.  By 12.30 we'd parked up at Life Boat Sands ("no toilets" muttered Jack), and were picking at our chips and mushy peas with plastic forks.  At the final mouthful Lois texted to say she'd arrived.  Mary and I headed off to locate the station carpark.  You'd think it would be easy.  You'd think that this popular little spot, attractively accessible to Merseyside's multitudes, would signpost the station's whereabouts and direct you smoothly to pick up visiting friends.  No chance.  Wearily we got back to the beach much later, having driven straight past the Crispy Cod and Lois's lunch.  Five hours since we left home.  I fell asleep. 

The sands, including dunes, offered a little compensation.  Lil and Ray took their electric trucks over the boardwalk right up to the tide line.  Our happy party huddled in the wind - tempered by some welcome sunshine.  Jack and Mary dug in the sand with the kids.  Steven found that he enjoyed joining in the cricket.  Titus exercised his recently-developed swimming skills.  Lil flew a kite.  Ray scowled from behind a blanket like Grandma in the Giles cartoons.  Gormley's iron men remained out of sight, but Malcolm rehearsed details of his exhibition at The Baltic.  Andrzej and Sharron disappeared for a walk.  Harriet changed the kids' wet clothes for the third time, and handed round flapjack.  Barrie relaxed.  Lois reminded Mary about her luggage again.  We were all doing our bit.

But, even happy days come to a close.  Mary and I duly headed for Lighthouse in Liverpool, and everyone else headed for petrol stations and toilets.  "Did you see the red squirrels?" Ian enquired at Lighthouse.  "We saw stonechats..." I tried, hopefully.  Ah well, maybe another time.

Music and Worship

Rob was due to be in Leeds for a gig ('lounge concert' is the current fave description).  He offered to our Jesus Centre events team that on his way north, he would do us an evening, too.  The posters went up, the Parlour Cafe volunteers were put on stand-by, and Clive wired up some speakers. 

Meanwhile, John and Jennie said they'd like to come up and treat Mary and me to lunch (which doesn't happen very often, from any benefactors).  Third, it was due to be a full weekend of Burn activities, including a Friday evening event, 14 hours of worship on Saturday, and an afternoon's outreach in Fargate.

I thought I did well with the Friday morning: up at 5.30 to unload the food order; our household prayer time; an hour at 'Hallam Active' to keep my trainer (Nathan, not Andy, as previously posted) happy; rush to see Ian, our new Jesus Centres' treasurer; and finally an hour with Kat, Zeb and Zane, before John and Jennie arrived - slightly late.  Nevertheless lunch was pleasantly relaxed.  Then they chipped off to have a walk in the Peaks (despite a biting wind), while Mary had her customary afternoon rest.  I got in some preparation on our year's scriptures on discipleship, ready for giving teaching the next time we're in Coventry.  In the Jesus Centre main hall, the Film Afternoon found Colin Firth struggling to overcome his nervously-induced speech difficulty.  I was surprised no-one gave a "tut".

John and Jennie skipped joining us for tea, as the weather had sent them scrambling for warmth into the Fox House pub.  Rob was in full swing when I arrived at the Cafe.  We had a good local turnout, and as an encore he sang about his Grandma being in the 1936 Berlin Olympics.  It emerged that Liz's mother had been in the equestrian team.  You couldn't make up some things!

Rob and Jean had a leisurely breakfast in our kitchen, then went on their way.  Three birthdays today; so I texted Mick and my mate Dave, then rang Faye (six).  The afternoon gave Mary and I a chance to see James and the team at the Burn, while Steven hoped to catch up with their city centre spot.  Woodseats Baptist Church is an unprepossessing stone chapel adjacent to the Chesterfield Road. 

The two tea-station insulated jugs were empty.  I sought out the kitchen and boiled up four kettles, along the way discovering two coffee makers, a cupboard full of biscuits and a stash of Yorkshire teabags.   Some churches know how to do generous.

Around 5pm the Empower band took over.  They lead the quarterly prayer concert by that name, and had been heading up the worship on Fargate.  Here I must allow a sensitive comment: it was the cross on the platform.  First, it had draped across the horizontal bar, something that looked like a tea towel.  Yes, I know it was supposed to be discarded grave-clothes - but in January?  Then the upright was plastered with multicoloured post-it notes.  Yes, I know they were probably some prayers, confessions or burdens that folks had been invited to 'bring to the cross'.  Finally two bright red heart-shaped balloons were floating above it.  Again, probably the remnant of a message that God has shown us the greatest love.  But imagine a first-time visitor...  Altogether, it was odd.  (But our house probably has some equally weird trappings.)

I'm sure it's Rachel who sings - she looks like a Rachel.  Well, after an hour she psalmed, "I feel like I've been singing all day, Lord.  But I've got a little bit left in the jar, and I'm going to give it to You.  'Cos that's what I want my like to be like, and to be for... You..."  Comparing notes with Steven later, I found they'd been equally engaging in the outdoor scene.  They'd given testimonies standing on planters, and then retired to Starbucks where they'd prayed with folks.  Jesus Army - your anointing's passed on.

I was leading Sunday morning.  In fact I don't need to make that point, because now I always do (well, apart from twice - before the end of July).  I led the pre-teaching worship into "I lean not on my own understanding", and folks 'got it'.  There is hope.  I spent the afternoon re-listening to some of the Burn songs I'd noted.  Stevo kindly explained who Kari Jobe is. 

With meetings in Northamptonshire on Monday, I opted to drive to Kings after our evening bible study and a bite of supper.  The weather didn't look too good (it was -4C next morning, and the canal was frozen when I delivered Faye's present).  Steve looked in good shape.  But the house family were worried about Dave, whose ageing parents are giving him increasing concern, and Mavis, a member in her late 80's, who'd fallen and was in hospital.  It's interesting how mortality and eternity can simultaneously draw close. 

Claremont Hospital

Mary spent all of August in agony with a painful right shoulder.  She never got a decent night's sleep, and by September capitulated and went to the doctor.  He booked for a consultation (six weeks wait, of course).  He hinted that of the choice of three hospital he could refer her to, the small Claremont mixed NHS and private one in Sandygate, Crosspool, may be the best option.

Meanwhile, she struggled both with the pain and incapacity.  And I got severely rebuked for my neglect by our assembled children at our annual family gathering day in early October.  Lizzie even insisted that we 'went private'.  Mary wasn't clear how it may have got injured.  We'd prayed (seemingly unsuccessfully) for the shoulder twice in our Sunday evening bible study time, when I invited folks to 'do some of the stuff' after teaching on healing.

The appointment duly came round, and I went along in case the examination left her unable to drive.  And anyway, I'm soft like that.  The last time we'd visited Claremont was when a dear elderly local Church member had had a hip replacement.  If my recollection is correct, at that point it was fully private. 

It was run by a small Catholic order of nursing nuns.  The impression that stayed with me was the splendid illuminated inscription commemorating the Pope's prayer of blessing on the Order and their labours of love and mercy.  It read (something along the lines of), "Thus, with apostolic blessing, the work of the hospital is sure to flourish..." (and probably added 'to the honour of Our Lady, or some equivalent).  Hmm.  You don't seem to get much of that 'apostolic = sure blessing' stuff in Jesus Fellowship.

The building was in the middle of a make-over, and there were tradesmen everywhere.  The Main Reception had disappeared, and certainly the inscription was nowhere to be seen.  Instead, behind a timber and plastic sheet temporary partition, staff were trying to eat meals.  We found the departmental reception desk and its adjacent waiting area.

Mr Ali, the consultant, had a stripped down model of a shoulder on his desk: fascinating.  He asked Mary to undress, and then thoughtfully added, "I assume this is Mr Callard?  I once got this far with a patient, and the gentleman with her turned out just to be the driver."  With a few arm bends and swings, he confirmed a torn tendon. 
 
Then the matter of how to treat it.  The discussion went backwards and forwards about the relative advantages of surgery, the likely success rates, and what Mary would consider was a satisfactory recovery.  In the end, he offered two months' of physiotherapy to see if it would improve use and reduce the pain.  And instructed, "No heavy domestic work". 

We booked some dates at the desk, and thoughtfully drove home.  "Better than an operation and six months with my arm in a sling."  Mary stated.  She'd been canvassing some advice.  And was more stubborn in prayer for getting healed than I.

After the first round of physio, Mary had to lie on the bed holding outstretched a can of baked beans, then swinging it in arcs - several times a day.  The second time she graduated to a larger can of pie filling.  The pain was subsiding.  After the third time she borrowed a kilogramme work-out weight from Barrie, which was "much easier to handle".  She packed it to take with her when we were away for weekends recently, but muttered about the heaviness of her overnight kit.

Finally, triumph!  She'd got restored mobility, and very little pain.  The physiotherapist signed off her notes, and booked an appointment with Mr Ali.  By now, the Claremont building work was done, and a transformed Reception glowed with subtle LEDs.  We padded softly down the thickly carpeted corridor.  Mr  Ali had been running late all afternoon, but took his time to confirm the results.  "No operation," he congratulated. 

Maybe there was just a sprinkling of apostolic good fortune around.

Induction at Hallam Active

I finally conceded that a modest gym subscription would be sensible.  At least, it would be preferrable to overdoing it with my knees, keeping up jogging three times a week.  The new Heart of the Campus facility down the Crescent invites the local community to use its various amenities.  This includes the professional-level Sports Centre.  Having established that I was eligible, I then had to stump up some funds. 

Now, our house family finances aren't too bright.  Food, excess phone charges, gifts, trips to the cinema, repairing dinks in the cars and vets fees all pass without comment.  But personal expenditure is under scrutiny.  Mercifully, apart from my weekly cup of tea at the Choir, and even less regular Costa Express on the motorway, I hardly figure in the statistics.  That reminds me: I need a hair cut.

If I paid by plastic, I could get a whole year's subscription for the cost of eight separate months.  That takes me just up to August, and the Multiply trip to East Africa, in which I have to tote around 30kgs baggage in tropical temperatures.  I couldn't lose out.  Cheri, on Reception, was all smiles and helpfulness, but our blooming prepaid Kalixa card wasn't behaving.  I left, apologising and frustrated.

After Andy, Malcolm and Andrzej agreed that the problem was that there wasn't enough money on the card, I had to have another go.  And I had to book my Induction with the Personal Trainer, too.  "It's a University.  There'll be mixed changing rooms - and showers," I bantered with Steven while in Mary's earshot.  10.15am, Wednesday duly arrived, and a couple of guys helped me to work out the locker latches in the Mens room.

I sauntered into the main Suite and located the Trainer.  I didn't get his name, but we'll call him Andy: he looked like an Andy, breaking into smiles through his blokish beard.  He grabbed a Plan sheet, and began to grill me on my 'previous experience'.  "How often can you come?"  "Well, three or four times a week," I heard myself reply.  "Good.  I wouldn't have bothered with you if you'd said less than that.  You're not ready for the free weights, yet."   He ordered me to perform five minutes on a cross trainer, while he thought about the challenge I represented, and finished off his conversation with a slim lass doing impossible push-ups.

Then the machines.  I'd never seen a Leg Press before.  Andy slipped into the seat, and being about a foot shorter than I, made it look easy.  Seemingly he was lifting the entire stash of weights.  "Go on," he nodded.  "And try not to lock your knees.  Or crash the weights..."  he added, after my first press.  I contorted like a giraffe in a shipping crate.  "Twelve of these; a minute's break and twelve more; then another twelve.  And a bit faster.  Okay?"

"Right.  The Chest Press."  I struggled.  "Was that 25kg?" I smiled weakly.  "Nine."  He hmm'd.  "You'll be alright."  Across the aisle, guys heaved on monstrous bars and pulleys.  And so we tackled the Pull Down and the Vertical Lift (only ten of these - an unexpected concession).  "Right, get on with that lot," he smiled.  Finally he despatched me to a Cycling machine for 15 minutes Aerobics.

Nearly an hour had passed.  "That's your Plan."  He waved the sheet and put it in a concertina file, under 'I' for Ian.  "All the latest technology.  Tomorrow, you do an hour's CV.  Anything you like - Rowing Machine, Treadmill, Cross Trainer...  Then it's the work-out Plan again.  Got it?"  I nodded, and stepped aside as a frail elderly gentleman negotiated his way from the doorway shuffling a zimmer frame.  They are among the very best and trusted professionals, Hallam Active.  And I will find out Andy's proper name.  "Two girls helped me to put my socks back on," I lied to Mary.

All Quiet in Liverpool

Strong winds and high seas were pounding the west coast.  "I quite fancy the idea of going up to Formby or Crosby to see it",  I suggested to Ian.  He'd asked us if we'd got anything in mind for Saturday afternoon.  We'd already cancelled our customary Friday evening outreach outside Sainsburys by the University tram stop.  Mary couldn't guarantee keeping the barbecue from blowing over.  Then we'd had a blustery drive over the Snake Pass and along the M62 before lunch.  Apparently, flights from the United States were arriving in Europe up to two hours early.

Mark was away in Cornerstone (Birmingham) for the weekend.  "For his annual hair-cut", one wag suggested.  Blaze was away with Dave in Leicester, Chris had been admitted to hospital with pneumonia, and Moira had a bad cold.

After lunch, Ian was keeping an eye on the children, while Lil and Kerry went to buy a sewing machine from the local charity shop, and then tried out all its fancy stitches.  He was in a good frame, obviously having benefitted from the central Church events over the past two or three weeks.  We chatted on-and-off, and I read a conference paper from The Global Think-Tank on Business As Mission (BAM).  We've got to get our act together to help our Multiply partners with developing business plans, ahead of the summer visit to Kenya and Uganda.  I don't know why I say 'we', as it's basically down to me to scope.

Because we'd cancelled the barbecue, we had a big box of donated cream cakes left over, so they constituted a 'Red Cross' parcel for the deprived saints of Merseyside.  Not too deprived - they've got a nice new coffee machine.  I mentioned to Ian that we'd been singing a few new songs, and we rolled out a couple before the evening bible study on John chapter 1.  It was great having Kerry playing, too; but Ian and I were the only guys.

As I lay in bed, I hoped to enjoy the sound of the winds, but Mary and I were on the wrong side of the house.  By Sunday morning, the gales had blown out.

We arrived early at the Arche, for our morning meeting.  Usually the back yard section is alive with ducks and chickens, part of the charity's social enterprise activity.  Today it was bare.  "Oh," I commented to Nick, "don't tell me they all voted for Xmas?"  "Well, they were here last week," he added thoughtfully.  It was due to be his 60th birthday, and back at Lighthouse, they'd put up balloons and made him a generous jam and fresh cream cake (with candles).

He normally does the after-lunch washing-up.  But I nipped into the kitchen, and Wayne and I got stuck in instead.  Wayne worked like a machine, keeping up with the draining, drying and stacking as fast as I was simply washing.

I was due to take the evening bible study in Sheffield, so Mary and I got away at 3pm.  On the way to the motorway I thought I could here the rhythmic rumble-plap-plap of a (very) flat tyre.  But, stopping and checking, it wasn't us.  I got stuck behind a real Sunday driver in Glossop, and negotiated the whole Snake Pass at nothing more than 30mph.  Down at the Jesus Centre, "Gender in the Church" went well.  Even John, our gritty heckling old Pentecostal, appreciated the exchanges.

On Monday morning, Jack asked me where the heavy-duty wheel brace had got to.  Our car had a completely flat back tyre.