Of Grace and Favour.. and Long Walks...

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before Mummy sees it.

THE LIGHT HAS NOT GONE OUT….

Last week, Nelson Mandela lost his fight against the ravages of old age, we are led to believe. The truth is that he did not lose a fight, he went “the way of all flesh” as is described in the Bible. It was expected. Like most of us at the end any long period of work, he is now resting from all his labours, after his journey, in his own words, “The Long Walk to Freedom”. So it is with interest that I have been observing that his most vociferous critics are from the self-proclaimed Land of the Brave and Free.

I grew up in Ghana observing America, “Yankee” as at the forefront of forward thinking at all times. I read the story of the American Independence as they fought the British to establish self-rule.  I spent hours in the USIS Library, learning the American way. I read of how Benjamin Franklin stood in front of the British Parliament to demand that "The Colonies raised, clothed, and paid, during the last war, near twenty-five thousand men, and spent many millions”, and because of that, wanted America to be freed. I once loved the words of Patrick Henry, a man who decided that he was fed up of being governed by a power that had no legitimacy "Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me Liberty, or give me Death!" These words in the face of the reticence of the British to lose their hold on a cash cow, led to the American War of Independence.

So a young man who had studied Law saw that his people, who were being ruled by an imperialist force, introducing discriminatory laws, (Whites Only, European Only). He tried talking for so long but in the end renounced peaceful negotiations in favour of force against the ruling powers. The story of Nelson Mandela will be told over and over again. I am just angered by the ignorance of some in America (and other parts of the world) when they call Mandela a terrorist, as if it defined his entire life and works.

Two men who started the long walk of non-violent protest were Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King. They influenced generations with their attitude and teaching until they were shot and killed by ignorant people. Nelson Mandela went down the route of peaceful, non-violent protest but changed his mind chose a path that eventually landed him in prison. He was eventually freed and using the basis of democracy, the ballot box, (a concept that America seems to misunderstand since they assume that is has to be ratified in the courts, much to the amusement of the rest of the world), Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa. It is interesting that this violent “Terrorist”, then preached that there would be resolution by the Peace and Reconciliation movement. So instead of punishment, people had to come to terms with their actions by self-condemnation. Goodness knows that Mandela had 27 years in prison to consider his actions.

So why does the Tea Party element castigate Ted Cruz for his Facebook comments? Could it be that (some of) America is wondering what might have happened if Martin Luther King had not been assassinated? Perhaps a Black American President in the 80s rather than in the 21st Century? If slavery had ended as a result of strong Black leaders like Mandela and King leading in failed negotiations which ended in violence, would they have been considered terrorists? If Black America had created their own state in Texas, Mississippi, Georgia, would it have been a terrorist state? I am glad that Mandela blazed a trail through South Africa. I am pleased that he stunned African leaders by declaring that he was not going to be life president by rigging elections. I am pleased that he took the last few years of his life lighting up the world with his presence. I am glad that he is inspirational for people all over the world today.

However, perhaps, people should see his life as a lesson, not just an example. Rather than condemn him outright, what about applauding what he did right? Instead of blindly following the thoughts and declarations of Reagan and Thatcher who wanted to send Mandela to Guantanamo (would have if they could)  – should we not think for ourselves? I remember one of his quotes; “I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying.” He knew he was not a saint, who are we to judge? Yet that man has made a positive difference in the thinking of a nation, which is more than I can say for Tea Party critics. That should be our inspiration. As individuals, we should aim to implement change in the world around us by reconciliation, with individuals, with ideas, rather than condemnation of those who are brave enough to try.

BUS JOURNEYS

I love bus journeys. As I sit on that top deck on travels to and from work, I discover something new every single day. The building of the new riverside apartment blocks. A particular woman who always kisses her son good bye on the bus. The same woman on the way back home. Cyclists furiously peddling between cars in traffic. People pouring out of train stations, intent on getting to their destinations on time to justify the payments into their bank accounts. The individuals at a particular bus-stop who have started their journey of discovery through alcohol as they seemingly peep through the slot at the drink which is about to be poured down their gullet. The surly looking taxi-drivers, authoritatively edging their way in front of buses in the lanes. Children discussing the events of the day to come as they chuckle, titter, giggle, gossip. Joggers, working hard on their craft to prolong their lives through sweaty effort. Aeroplanes in the sky over the city which makes me wonder where all these people are travelling from – and whether they can see the bus I am on. The numerous mobile calls I have to listen to – nay – endure in different languages.

But that only emphasizes my point that I love bus journeys.

BEAUTY AND FAVOUR

I have always thought that beauty and favour go together. If you have beauty, then you are more likely to be favoured, right? Not according to the definition of the word favour. Favour by its very definition is unmerited, so if you favour anybody beautiful or anything of beauty, then you have seen a merit that you like and “rewarded” that merit. It brings me to the point of Esther, the Queen. It says in Esther 2:17 that, “she obtained grace and favour in his (the king) sight more than all the virgins”, also “And Esther obtained favour in the sight of all them that looked upon her.” So that tells me that there was a level-playing ground. There were other “fair young virgins” from all over the kingdom. God granted Esther favour before all, both men and women. I want to have that kind of grace and favour that will be because of God in my life, not based on my good looks (?) or my charm. This has been my prayer daily that as I walk out into work, with the people I meet and deal with on a daily basis.

RECORD I RECOMMEND

If you have heard the Gospel According to Jazz series, then I would encourage you to listen to “I Claim the Victory” by Doc Powell.

PS I shaved. No mo' vember.

About mean people... and separation

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before Mummy sees it.

DEPARTURES

Perhaps one of the most difficult human emotions stem from departure. Whether it is as a result of travel, death or any other enforced separation; we humans have to find ways of adjusting to the change in our environment.

So imagine how I felt as l watched my daughter embark on the next stage of her journey of a lifetime.

l felt the same apprehensions l had felt when I took her to nursery as a 3 year old. She didn't even turn around to look as we left her- perhaps we as parents were the grievers.

Similarly, we watched her as she confidently made friends on her first day of primary school. She made friends even as we walked out the door.

She was determined to go to the Secondary school of her choice so when she got in, we were delighted for her. Again we questioned how she was going to cope. In hindsight, l now realise how paranoid, insecure and silly l had been.

Perhaps, 6th form was the heart breaker when we couldn't get the school of choice and seemingly, the strong facade that helped to assuage doubt had been broken. But then 6th form was a breeze. Don’t get me wrong, there were times I could have strangled a tutor or two for their pompous attitudes. And once or twice, I might have been done for “daughtericide”. I do not know many parents who have not hit that point yet.

Anyway, the results arrived and University of choice, subject of choice was hers. And after all this, l still worry. After all, throughout the years, my irrational fears have proved groundless and without substance, l should now be relaxed.

Last week, I left her with total strangers in a different city, with her own room and house keys.

 I have finally realised that l have nothing to worry about. It’s all in God's hands. Besides l need to worry more about the fate of Arsenal.

TIMES THEY ARE A-CHANGING

So Arsene Wenger has decided to spend big. I come from the IN WENGER WE TRUST brigade and I almost never question any of his decisions. But he spends £42m on a marquee player and l am sceptical.

Why? Because in my humble opinion, Mr Wenger does not handle big money buys very well. And whenever he bows to public and fan pressure, it turns out badly. The list is endless. Jeffers, Reyes, Arshavin, Walcott (outstanding speedster, still waiting for football genius to emerge) to name a few. 0zil could be the exception. We can only hope.

UNSOCIAL MEDIA

There seems to be a vicious element in so-called social media where it is alright to castigate certain people. I found myself recently involved in a discussion about different lifestyles. This person I was in a discussion with was of the view that anybody who lived a lifestyle contrary to his Christian beliefs and customary traditions should be stoned to death. I pointed out that it was not so long ago when Christianity and his customs were in conflict with each other, a point he totally ignored or perhaps did not hear. I also pointed out to him that the stoning he advocated was intended for all other things - including adultery and embezzlement of community funds. It had not been my intention to bring up his past. .I was then un-friended unceremoniously.

 It has given me an idea. Before you are allowed to un-friend anybody from unSocial media, there should be a separate button for each of the following reasons:

I'm a bigot
I'm a hypocrite
I'm ignorant
I'm an idiot
I'm too sexy
I don't like black people
I don't like white people
I don't like any people

It won't make the world a better place but it sure would make me grateful for being rejected.

A STORY OF A MAN

Following on in the theme of meanness. A friend of mine told me a story about his friend who used to work for a company a few good years ago and had to leave the job because of what could only be described as beastly behaviour by a particular individual.

There was this one man who worked there. He was a meanie, all be it, a charming one. But he was not selective in his targets, a universal meanie. I'm sure if I was working there, he would have been mean to me. At one time he was instrumental in getting her contract payments delayed. Then as would happen, all the people who he had been mean to made charges against him, some true, some with a hint of truth and others were outright lies, and he faced disciplinary action. But so unpopular was this chap that even ex-employees were queuing up to testify.

Anyway, all the charges were dropped against him. So apparently, he found a new job far away from his old haunts, in another country.

So there was a conference that my friend’s friend attended and she networked with the delegates and then one of them said, "l met a charming man from your country, such a charming fellow. He used to be a director at so and so." "I used to work there,” she said. “I knew all the directors there. Was it Sir A or Tom That or Clyde So?"

The delegate said "No, his name is Sam This." At that point my friend's friend swallowed her drink the wrong way, and started to choke. When she had recovered she started laughing hysterically.

"To start with, he was never a director at that company.” Then she spoke the six fatal words that signed the meanie’s fate.” I would not hire that man." And as a result of a chance meeting and conversation, a meanie was not appointed.

It reminds me of the story of Esther who watched as a man planned the downfall of her race to the point of commissioning the building of gallows. He was later hung on the very same gallows he built.

And the moral of the story is: WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AND WRlTES YOUR REFERENCE. IN ANOTHER COUNTRY.

Finally, I have decided to add a recommendation of a CD I’ve enjoyed immensely for Jazz fans out there: Getting To It by Christian McBride And, no, .I am not getting paid by Mr Mcbride or Amazon, before you ask.

Back from the brink - of rest

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before Mummy sees it.

BACK FROM THE REST

I am back from a well-earned rest from my trusty laptop which has suffered a mishap and has to be tethered to my telly to be effective. It is a blessing in disguise as I know get to see everything I type (or surf) in wide-screen.

In the time that I have been “away”, there has been the summer of sport that has threatened to reduce the summer Olympics last year to a distant memory. First of all, GB v Australia in rugby as the Lions were tested against Australia and won convincingly. Then Andy Murray became the first British man since Fred Perry in the 1930s. As much as I enjoyed that, I still couldn’t help but feel that perhaps if this win had happened maybe 25 years ago, it would not have been embraced with such fierce praise as an achievement, but then, I have always been a cynic.

Then the Ashes.

What's the difference between an Aussie batsman and a Formula 1 car?
Nothing! If you blink you'll miss them both.

That is my favourite Ashes joke to date - My love for cricket was cultivated lovingly by a very good friend (whom I shall call Steve, because that is his name). As my interest and love for Test cricket grew, so did my resolve to take disappointment on the chin. But never mind, this summer the boys rewarded me for my diligence, and in their Ashes win, oversaw the dramatic collapse of an Australian team that was yearning for the good ol’ days of Merv Hughes, Steve Waugh, Shane Warne and Alan Border. Then Hamilton decided that his Mercedes had to come good and won his first grand Prix for his new employers in the Hungarian Grand Prix. Then Arsenal won the Champions’ League. Finally, the successes of the Mobot and Christine Ohurugu sealed the summer of sport before the football season kicked off in style. (Spot the deliberate mistake?) 

Of course, there will be future unbearable pain, we will be weeping in our cornflakes again very soon (when sports returns overseas and is being played out at night, or dusk). Even now, we have been undone by another baton change, but let us not get too caught up in that.

A FELINE MESS

A cat belonging to my neighbour has been wreaking havoc in my back garden. I am sure you’re thinking torn laundry ripped to shreds or flower beds dug up, or even the carcass of its kill being strewn about . Nope. My neighbour’s cat has decided that my garden is its cat litter.

Now, without sounding unduly paranoid, I believe that this cat is picking on my house because I am not a cat lover and it must have read at least one of my previous posts. It means I cannot hold a barbecue in my back garden lest family members step in smelly and disgusting mess. I have tried everything on the market, but this fine example of God’s creation keeps thumbing his paw at me. I have entertained the thought of an air gun or a bear trap, but knowing me, I will be back on these pages, relating to you how it is I am typing without two or three digits on my hand. So if anybody out there knows how to stop a cat from leaving mess in your back garden, please let me know.

MADNESS CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE

I am a student of King David in the Bible. As an amazing warrior, he was also a very quick thinker. In one instance, he inadvertently found himself recognised as a fugitive in an enemy camp. So he feigned madness. This is no small feat. I have found myself in situations in life which I could not possibly have gotten out of without a little display of insanity. I was on the tube a few years back listening to my headphones when and tapping on the hand rail, as you do. Unbeknownst to me, the tapping was irritating this man who was glaring at me. I did not know why he was staring, so I stared back.

He then approached me and said, “If you don’t bleep tapping as you listen to your n-bleep bleep music, I will tear your headphones off your head and bleep stuff them down your bleep throat.”

I was so taken aback by his belligerence that I immediately did not have anything to say back to him. I actually entertained the thought of going along with his bleep request but I remembered King David, turned round and looked the man in the face – and roared. Ok, it was more of a shout, it was unintelligible, I think there was a bit of spittle and also made me sound very scary and irrational.

The man got off at the next stop, rather hurriedly, I think. I went back to enjoying my music – minus the tapping, with my eyes closed because I felt so embarrassed. I have to admit, it did get me out of a tight spot.

On a more serious note, though, I now understand why God did not want David to build his temple. David had blood on his hands, not just innocent blood, but he walked with a group of militant, hardened killers, who were good in battle and also equally effective killers out of battle. Joab was his right hand man who unquestioningly carried out David’s requests. Sometimes he carried out his instructions too far, killing Absalom much to David’s distress. So, in Godfather style, David’s last instructions on his death bed included Joab’s assassination. Even to the end, David, the man after God’s own heart, had blood lust in his eyes. I pray that I do not be so cold in life not to have compassion. I pray that I live life to the fullest, and collect my blessings as they come along and be a blessing to others.

A GOOD YEAR

Sometimes we work so hard towards a goal. As we move towards our target, things seem to go wrong and completely bent out of shape. Circumstances beyond our control seem to take over. The decisions we take to rectify a plan going off on a tangent does not always justify the end result. We pull back the rudder in despair – and then wait for a result in resignation. So this year, I would like to thank the Lord for answered prayer, that a loved one has got through this stage of her life to the next, it’s been two crazy years of lows, the highs were not so many, till now. But God confounds the wise and uses the foolish things of this earth to set us right. And it is not down to some examiner or some course coordinator to pass judgement. God’s plan is not limited to some examination board.

Then I found favour./ Every time I step out to an interview, I ask the Lord that I will find favour in the eyes of the panel. So He heard. I did find favour, and I have new employers. I'm still determined though, to work for the best employer I know. Me.

AND FINALLY

George Duke, the Jazz Funkmaster passed recently. He had not recovered from his beloved Corinne dying from cancer 12 months before. He produced his final album dedicated to her. And then, to quote the Bible, he fell asleep. RIP, George.

Football retirements...and Mass Murder

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before Mummy sees it.

TALKING WADDLISH

A couple of weeks or so ago, David Beckham retired. In true Beckham celebratory fashion, he wept after he was substituted in his last professional game. I say he has earned the right to weep. My beef is not with him though, it is with Chris Waddle, who claims that Beckham would not make his top thousand player list, and could not be really described as one of football’s greats. Sometimes, I think people should rehearse what they say in their minds, taking a good look at themselves before they open their big mouths.

Firstly, I maintain that Chris Waddle does not know 1000 footballers. I doubt that he knows 500 footballers. But that is just me being petty. I remember that day in 1990 when Chris Waddle stepped up to take a penalty that could have made the difference against West Germany. I remember seeing him weep after he missed. However, I remember Beckham against Greece 3 minutes into extra time win England a place in the World Cup 2004 with a magnificent 30 yard freekick. Chris Waddle played at the highest level for Olympique Marseille (3 titles), Spurs, Newcastle and Sheffield Wednesday. Beckham played for Man United (6 titles, 1 Champions League), Real Madrid (1 title), LA Galaxy (2 titles) and Paris St Germain (1 title).

I am not a particular Beckham lover but respect is due where it is. He may have sold a couple of shirts, perpetuated the myth that is Skinny Spice, and allegedly have children named after cities in which they were conceived (I am not sure about Romeo, though). If Chris Waddle thinks that Mr Beckham is not in his top 1000, he is entitled to think so. After all, Henry (yes, my Henry!!!!) named Chris Waddle in his top 10. But I think he should have been a bit more accommodating in his comments regarding a winner who has beaten him hands down in every comparative area. If Beckham had achieved nothing at all, he was part of the side that dismantled (and inadvertently restarted a revolution in) German football in the 5-1 demolition derby, in Munich. Chris, you could not even muster that against half the German team.

THE POINT OF SAMSON

Samson was one of the most controversial judges in the Bible. A man who insisted on marrying from a land where he was told not to (twice); tied fire to the tails of 300 foxes and set them loose in a vineyard (RSPCA alert); lost a bet to 30 men for 30 full sets of clothing so went off to kill 30 men to redeem his bet; killed a 1000 men with the jawbone of a donkey because his father-in-law and his wife were burnt alive, but not before his wife had been given away to his best man; killed a lion who attacked him (it says to his surprise, the lion attacked him – it suggests that he killed the lion because it disrespected him). I don’t know about you but trying to catch 300 foxes, and then tying them together as involuntary couples would not be my idea of an afternoon pastime, but then to set their tails on fire suggests to me behaviour worthy of a visit to a psycho analyst.

In his redemption, it says he killed about 3000 Philistine men and women on his last day on earth, killing more in his death than he did in his whole life. And he judged Israel for 20 years so an average of 200 killings a year. It is all put into perspective though when you read that a) The children of Israel did evil in the sight of the Lord and because there was no king, they all did what was right in their own eyes; b) The Philistines were the enemy and c) before he got involved in a lot of his, erm, activities, the Spirit of the Lord came upon Him, in some cases mightily. I am just saying that at least he made an impact in the lives of his people. There was a judge who ruled before him for 8 years, and his claim to fame was that he had 40 sons and 30 grandsons and they road on 70 donkeys. Yeah.

I need that kind of Spirit to come into my life and make a huge impact on lives around me. Not necessarily to kill 1000 men, but to be of value to my community and to those I love and care about.

MADNESS IN WOOLWICH

Two young men butcher a young soldier in cold blood. Their ignorance as they rationalised what could only be described as cold-blooded murder astounded me. If you are going to stand up for something, at least get your facts right. I just think that they should be sent to visit some of their relatives in Nigeria for some proper re-education.  A few years behind bars in the UK will only mean they will come out after a few years and then tell us they want to assassinate some royal; they will then be monitored and followed at the taxpayers’ expense. I say a few weeks in a village with no running water or electricity can sometimes have a dramatic effect on one’s beliefs. That tied in with some mosquitoes and having to fend for yourself off the land could be one road to rehabilitation.

Or maybe, I am just talking waddlish.

Remembrance week

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

REMEMBRANCE

This week, the Iron Lady will be laid to rest. She has divided opinions in her life as much as her death. Various commentators have talked about her fight with (and defeat of) the Trade Union Barons, mainly in the Mining and Newspaper industries, her intransigent stance against the IRA, the introduction of the Community Charge, and the difficulties as home owners lost their homes, the very same people she introduces to home ownership.

If I were mean, I would also draw attention to the fact that during her term as Prime Minister was the Kings Cross Disaster, the great storm of 1987, the fire of the Piper Alpha oil Platform, Lockerbie, the Clapham Junction rail disaster, the Hungerford massacre and the Hillsborough disaster. But I am not mean. So I won’t.

In death, she has two top ten chart hits, demonstrations in Trafalgar square, street parties (just like the Queen’s Jubilee) and been called all kinds of names.

I can only remember here as the bullying Spitting Image puppet who made her cabinet members cry, and how at the end of her reign, she became a figure of fun, ridicule and hatred. One thing I am sure of, she would never have been part of a Lib-Tory coalition.

In spite of all that, we are admonished to give respect to all authority 1 Peter 2:13, 1 Timothy 2:2. Tough call.

CORRECTION

In my last blog, I mentioned how a concoction of medication kept me awake. My very own health professional has reliably informed me that Piriton could not have kept me awake. Based on that correction and assertion, I can now confirm that I am an insomniac.

ANGER

I was witness to a road rage incident not too long ago just around the traffic lights where I live. A pizza delivery cyclist, who was quickly making a delivery in 15 minutes or less, scraped his bike against a taxi, and then a W15 bus. Perhaps he had a thing against public transport, I do not know. Anyway, in his confusion, he turned the wrong way down against the flow of traffic, and the next thing you knew, before you could say, Dominoes, pizza was flying everywhere.

The cyclist picked his sorry self up off the floor and started haranguing and insulting both the taxi driver who had gone to park further down the road to examine the scratches on his car, whilst the bus driver had stopped right in the middle in the road bringing Hoe Street to a halt. The visibly shocked passengers on the bus started to get disgruntled and started to complain to the driver, the police and ambulance service arrived and within minutes, the junction was turned into a centre of mass confusion. All on account of one motor cyclist.

What really got to me was the contorted, angry expressions on the faces of all involved. The question I asked at that point is that why is there so much anger in the world? Has it always been this way? Are we always so stressed out that all we need is one little thing to tip us over the edge? Are we so on edge that we are looking for an excuse to relieve our anger and tension?

What happened to Proverbs 15:1? A soft answer turns away wrath? Matthew 5:9? Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God?

AND FINALLY…

A young lady I know was in a state of confusion as to which direction was “right”. As she got more and more flustered, she got a bright idea. Facing the sign that clearly pointed to the right, she hit herself on the forehead in an Eureka moment, turned around so that the sign was behind her and triumphantly announced, “This is my RIGHT hand”. Only problem was that she was holding up her left hand. It happens to us all at some point in our lives, I suppose.

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

FATHER HOOD

On Sunday, my daughter turned 18. I remember that day, 18 years ago when she was born as if it was yesterday. It was not a particularly difficult birth. Not for me anyway. She did not cry much and I carried her towards the window to look at the moon.  I gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks and told my daughter to look up at the moon. That bonding process led to the relationship that we have now despite a number of setbacks along the way. She then rewarded me greatly by giving me all her “firsts” when I was around - step, word and sentence. 2 years ago, we were both heart-broken when she could not get into her preferred choice of sixth-form but then as we discussed her options, I then realised that my little girl was  growing into a young woman and I watched and listened to her in wonder.

It also takes me back to what might have been. 21 years ago, I had a son who was not to live long. Unfortunately, I was unable to deal with his passing as philosophically as my hero David did in a similar situation. After David’s first son (with Bathsheba) died, a sickly baby, the Bible says in 2 Samuel 12:22, that David said (and I paraphrase), “Why should I cry now when the child is dead? When the child was alive, there was hope. Now the child is dead, I will go to him one day.”

In 8 or so weeks, I lived and aged 10 years. I did not think or act rationally and long after his passing, every decision I made and every thought I had was around the birth and death of my son. Outwardly, I was able to speak calmly and quote the Bible to members of the local community who would come and share their condolences. Inside though was continuous turmoil, anger and rage, directed towards myself for being helpless about the situation. In reflection, perhaps, my anger was more directed at God. And then Sue arrived.

I thank the Lord that I had to go through the painful process so that when my daughter arrived, I appreciated her more. Like a wise woman said to me a short while ago, this too shall pass.

HOSANNA

This has been a year of coincidental dates. I shared my birthday with Mother’s Day, my daughter had her birthday on Palm Sunday.  I do not believe in astrology, or reading the stars, however I have asked the Lord that this year should be a year of success, a year of greatness, a year of prosperity for me and all I love. Lord as you make me prosper, may I touch the lives of all around me in a positive way.

THINGS FALL APART

Chinua Achebe died last week. He introduced me to Okonkwo, a conflicted man, who worked hard to achieve power and wealth to separate himself from his father’s legacy – and fighting the religion of the white man. What an agenda! In the end, he ended up committing suicide, therefore bringing about the shame and disgrace to his name that he had spent avoiding all his life. It was the first African writer I read by choice.  Then, I did not quite understand the mysticism and the complex nature of Okonkwo’s driven nature and the consequences. The lesson I learn from it now is hard work and riches amount to nothing unless God has a hand in it. Except the Lord builds a house (or a dynasty, or a family), they labour in vain that build it, Ps 127:1.

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

The art of aging

"In a cavern, in a canyon,  Excavating for a mine, Dwelt a miner, 49er, And his daughter Clementine."

These are the first few lines of the lyrics of the song Clementine, a haunting song that has been continuously ringing in my mind since I became a 49er myself a few days ago. Ok, I am not a miner, I do not have a daughter called Clementine (I have 3 but none of them were named after a citrus fruit, thank God!!), and God has been good to me so they do not have the misfortune of wearing “herring boxes without topses”!!

It is a weird feeling as I stand on the verge of reaching a half century and have had a chance to look back in reflection on my life. My hero, a man of faith from the Bible was just getting around to accomplishing great things. David was anointed King when he was 15, but was enthroned when he was 30. By 40, he was known as a fearless leader with great military knowledge, but as he approached his fifties, signs that he had reached mid-life crises began to creep into his life culminating in his affair with Bathsheba and murder of her husband.

So I ask myself, have I reached mid-life and if so, should I expect a crisis? For example, my taste in music has evolved and become quite eclectic and almost, well, nostalgic. Whereas before, I would chase down that elusive jazz LP latest release to the ends of the earth, I now find myself being more selective in my choices. On the other hand, I am less critical and more appreciative of other music forms that I used to pooh-pooh, though I do have the sense that a lot of the stuff I hear now has been recycled and repackaged. Perhaps the most telling sign for me is that the rate of death of jazz artistes increases proportionately with my increasing age, and makes me very aware of my own mortality.

The same applies to my love of reading, where again; I used to chase down the latest novel by a favoured author till I was “up-to-date” with all their writing, I am now more selective. Still reading voraciously, but now testing other authors about other ideas.

Walking is no longer a chore or a means to an end, but an opportunity to notice the things around me, resulting in a leisurely ambulatory inspection of my surroundings, though one may argue that the phrase “as quickly as his legs could carry him” no longer applies to me as much as it used to.

A friend emailed me recently with the following, “Charle wishing you the very best in last year of the 40s ”. I am going to enjoy this last year in the 40s with the same kind of excitement, ambition and hope as I did the 20s, 30s and the early 40s, and wait for this new era of the 50s. As long as the lord gives me breath. As the psalmist said in Psalm 90:9, 10 and 12, I will now number my days so that I will have a heart of wisdom, and knowledge.

When the cure is a pain in the ….

I have Sickle Cell Disease, a congenital condition which means that my blood cells are sickle-shaped and can crystallise very easily, sometimes causing blockages in my arteries and ensuing in very serious pain. (This is just the short version). The scientists tell me that my cells are abnormal, but Psalm 139:14 says that “I am fearfully and wonderfully made”, so I prefer to think of my blood cell shape as unique.

So I recently had a painful episode (which is usually referred to as crisis, that word again). I took the painkillers that usually help alleviate the pain but one of the side effects is that I itch uncontrollably, so once the pain subsides; I then spend most of the night scratching away. Most of the itch is in some of the most annoying places (my eyeballs? Please….). So then, I take Piriton which alleviates the itching, but then stops the sleeping, till the painkillers wear off, till I take the painkillers gain resulting in the itch (my Black and Decker and surrounding accessories? Please…), resulting in ensuing Piriton, insomnia etc….

Finally…

My birthday this year fell on Mother’s day so I received a phone call from my mother, instead of the other way round. It was wonderful day with phone calls from all the beautiful women in my life (mother, sister, daughter, sister-in-law). When my mother finished singing Happy Birthday, she then sang a second song, bringing back memories from primary school, wishing me many happy returns and the best of luck on my birthday. Somehow, I do not think its luck

Just when you think you are humble...

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

Pride goeth before a fall (Proverbs 16:18)

It has been a few weeks since I last posted. A new venture has been taking up a lot of my time, there is just enough time for grazing, chewing the cud and sleeping. I have now had more than enough of each in equal measure, so I have enough time to mull over a number of issues. Sadly, football will NOT be one of them. Sorry.

I do not know about you, but sometimes, I get "Screaming in the Forest Syndrome". This is not about  naked men with increasing girths and full guts stand in Epping Forest, shouting to get back in touch with their inner man (who disappeared years before the flab took over). 

This is about when you remember an incident and how you reacted (or did not react); and how you wished you could have avoided humiliation by just being a little smarter, or saying the right thing, instead of just looking, well, foolish.

Well, my SITFS moment is thus. I have already mentioned my love for reading and how I voraciously devoured as much written material in the English language as I could manage. I therefore went into secondary school with a reputation for being good at English language and literature. This went to my head so much so that I earned the nickname "Ble" (for the uninitiated, Ble was the short form of Blefo, English). So my reputation grew daily as I attempted to top the class and keep in touch with the elite few whose names I will not mention.

So, a group of lower sixth formers heard about me and asked me to read their huge scholastic tomes in my dulcet tones. Coriolanus, or similar. I had not yet acquired (and perfected) my sexy, baritone lady killer, telephone manner delivery. (By the way, when our children ask, Why do I have to learn this or that? I am never going to need it in future. We should agree with them and say, "My son, my daughter, you are probably right. However, knowledge is power. The more of it that you have, the better equipped you are for life. Like the spare tyre in the boot of my/your car.") This was more a pre-pubescent cross between the croaking teenage frog and the high-pitched screech of youth, but who cares about the delivery when the maestro was at work? Now these sixth-formers were foreigners, in other words, they had attended forms 1 to 5 in some far-away distant establishment (Adiasadel, Achimota, Mfantsipim, Prempeh) and had risen to the heights of scholastic achievements by attending PRESEC. Well, that was our way of thinking in those days. So I read to them. That is when I first came across the word "denouement", pronounced dey-noo-mah. Or something like that. But to my untrained (and arrogant) eye, it looked nothing more than an English word that I would pronounce like, Permanent, Testament. Denouncement.  Apartment. You get the idea. These seniors made me repeat the word over and over again without attempting to correct me, whilst they sniggered into their cover cloths, behind their opened books and into their coffee mugs. They never corrected me.

Perhaps, it was their way of saying, "Is this really the best PRESEC have to offer?" Perhaps, this was their show of fists against the snobbish attitudes towards them as "foreigners" who had given their gift teeth to be in the presence of greatness. Perhaps, they were just small-minded people.  As we also were, at the time. As they say, youth is wasted on the young.

So what lessons have I learnt from my SITFS moment? Well, now, I always use a dictionary and in the absence of Google,  I always ask. Second lesson, I learnt that no matter how wickedly brilliant I am at something, there could be someone out there who might know of the one thing that I do not. Final lesson, even though I say I never look back with regret, there are times when I sure could use wisdom that I could pluck from the future to redeem my present.

So sometimes, when I remember this humiliating incident, I scream silently in my pillow. Loudly, yet silently.

Where were you when....

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

Footballing matters

So, again, my country has been knocked out at the crucial stage. No, not England, but the Black Stars.The problem was not the Stars, the coach or even the game plan (which admittedly, was virtually non-existent).  Out by penalties in the semis.  It seems to me that our starting point then is the semi-final, How do we develop our game from the semi-final to get to the trophy? That is the big project. The answer does not lie in seriously brilliant talent. We have had that for ages. It does not lie in foreign coaches. We have had the so-called stars, the foreign coaches, the opportunities (home advantage) for so long and we have always arrived at the same point. It lies in a local coach who can work with players, humble enough to respond to the call and not be too late to catch their plane (Mr Ayew, take note!!!). We are not too far from the finished  article, we need a little bit more to take us a little further, we are within touching distance. I hope that we have that little bit more, the polish, the finesse to take us back to where we once belonged, the pride of footballing excellence, a mantle that has been worn by the likes of Ivory Coast, Cameroon and the North Africans for so long.

Where were you when....

As a footballing fan, I am a hapless victim of "were where you when"... In this instance, I will recount 7 of my favourite instances and not in any particular order.

·         26 May 1989 Arsenal v Liverpool - In footballing matters, I have always had the fortune of being the black sheep in the family. Whilst the whole family had been Asante Kotoko driven, I was the lone voice celebrating the Phobia. Whilst I proudly followed Arsenal, other family members held fiercely onto the red colours of Northern England, Liverpool and Manchester United. So it was with that we settled before my newly-acquired 28 inch TV set on a rickety table in our upstairs front (back?) room to watch Michael Thomas perform the acrobatics of desire to push the ball over the line to give Arsenal the first title win in 18 years. How sweet. That song Goldigga, listen to the lyrics carefully about 18 years? Even Kanye knows.

·         21 May 2005 Arsenal v Manchester United FA Cup Final We were in my brothers’ home (Liverpool supporter) watching the most one-sided event as Mr Wenger employed negative tactics against a marauding Manchester United and won an undeserved trophy (based on performance) with the last kick of the game (and the career) of Vieira who had been Captain Fantastic for an era.

·         2 March 2002 Newcastle v Arsenal. A week before my birthday and family members needed a reason to get me an Arsenal replica jersey. As we watched in my front room and as I tried to justify the investment in said garment, Denis Bergkamp came to my rescue with a goal that confounds logic and defies reason – and sceptics still ask if he  really meant to do it.

·         23 October 1999 Chelsea v Arsenal in my front room, I had been told off for screaming the house down as a seemingly inept Arsenal struggled in vain to find a path past Chelsea. Then arrived Mr Nwankwo Kanu, the giant of a man with a tongue twister for a name, who then reduced Chelsea fans to tears with a hat-trick.  And I needed help up the stairs after I hit my hip against the door post.

·         2 July 2010 Uruguay v Ghana and Asamoah Gyan misses penalty. I was in the front room. The dent in the wall proves it.

·         4 May 2002 Arsenal v Chelsea In my front room as the Invincibles finish off Chelsea. Those immortal words from Tim Lovejoy “It’s alright, its only Ray Parlour”, before the Romford Pele released a 25 yard screamer into top corner. Priceless.

·         8 May 2002 Manchester United v Arsenal In the local pub with work colleagues from Barclays Bank. Wiltord scores. And the Gunners equal United’s record of 3 doubles.

Now these were not my 7 best, that would be much more difficult to select, these were the 7 best moments when I remember exactly where I was at the time.

Were You There When They Crucified My Lord

To continue the theme of "where were you when..." I now turn my attention to Easter. Lent starts next week. Catholics and Anglicans (and other denominations) the world over will be preparing for Easter and traditionally  most people will be giving something the love up for Lent. It seems a cruel twist of providence that Lent should start the day before Valentine's day when chocolate will be sold in abundance, all these women who cannot indulge in gifts from their beloved ones could result in an increase of incidents of road rage on February 15th!!! Whilst for many, this is the only time to get "spiritual" after 10 months of living outside the Christ zone, I think there is a trick here that today's (evangelicals, Pentecostals, Charismatic) child of God is missing. I do not need a set time in the year to remind me of the price that was put on my head and the One who set me free, but as we approach Easter, I pray that I will remember daily how precious a price it was. Isaiah 53:4 and 5 graphically describes what that was all about. Let us not make Lent to be like the story I recently heard about a preacher who was held up in a churchyard by a robber who asked for his wallet. The priest took out his wallet but in so doing revealed his collar. The robber, on seeing his collar, relented and started to walk away but the priest offered the man a bar of chocolate, to which he received the response, "I'm sorry, Father, I have given up chocolate for Lent". I was not there when they crucified my Lord, but I didn't need to be. And I do not necessarily need to give up anything to remind me. All I need to know is that the price has been paid. In Full.

Reading... and the Departure Lounge

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

Reading

I love reading. As a young person, I loved to go to libraries and browse through shelves of books, both fiction and non-fiction. I remember going to the United States Information Services, British Museum and Accra Central Libraries and disappear into the fantasy world that authors had spun, worlds in which I would disappear for hours, sitting on the toilet, in a tree (not at the same time!!), at the dinner table. A book inj my hand was my excuse to be allowed to leave the real world. I devoured writers in the African Writer's Series reading about characters in Lagos, Cape Town and Nairobi  I understood that  issues like corruption, disease, power, famines were not just real-life issues they held ore important places in books.

My favourite Library, though was the Kaneshie Children's Library. When I joined the library in 1973 or so, they would only allow me to borrow two (2) books at a time. By the time I had got home on public transport, I would be halfway through the first one, only to return the following afternoon to change my selection. After the first few weeks, the librarian decide to let me have 7 books at a time. Like Alexander the Great, I was disappointed when I read all the books there was in the library and had no more literary material to conquer. Then I was referred to the Central Children's library.

T M Aluko, Peter Abrahams, James Ngugi, rubbed shoulders with WM Thackeray, Mark Twain and Sir Walter Scott, all vying for my attention. Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys one day, and then Henry David Thoreau the next. Clay boy from Spencer's Mountain with all the values that a white Virginian Christian logging family had were competing with Flora Nwapa's Efuru. Even as I am writing now, I am surprised how well my memory serves me. I wish my children would read like that.

We now live in a commercialised world that tells us that Disney has the "rights" to Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid" and distorted stories that I have held dear for years (101 Dalmatians is not a Disney book, it was written by Dodie Smith!!!).

Perhaps then, it is interesting that nobody has been able to do to the Bible what has been done to our best-loved stories. As I have read the Bible more, I now realise that it is a book that has so much to offer. Every time I read a chapter, there is  new meaning;  a new take; a clearer interpretation, an angle that I had not noticed before, a new discovery. There is no better description than the one that it gives of itself, "For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. Hebrews 4:12".

I would like to see Disney's take on that.

The Departure Lounge

In any station or airport, passengers ready to leave and their loved ones staying behind are hugging, kissing, lovingly holding onto each other, trying to squeeze out that last bit of togetherness before separation. Sometimes, it is laughter that signifies the importance of the group, sometimes its tears, sometimes there is a lull in the conversation as a loaded, heavy silence takes over. Once in a while though there will be a solitary passenger, sitting all by themselves,  nobody to see them off. I sometimes think, "How sad". I heard of a departure tonight that filled me with sadness, and memories of another time, almost an epoch ago, I hear heavy footfalls of jogging around our house one early morning; I am awakened by the early arrival of  a traveller who insists that household chores be carried out pronto; I am yet awakened on other mornings as our early traveller prepares their bag to leave. I am reminded of the authority that a presence carries into a room, one almost of palpable fear as people scurry around to finish off duties or face the consequence. But I also see shoulders that bore a responsibility of ensuring that their family was always fed. A leader who felt that they had to take on the mantle of authority. All I can say is RIP, Head.

...of Cats

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

LETTING CATS RAIN REIGN

I recently heard an interview on Radio 4 by Paul McCartney of how he and Linda finally became vegetarians. The way he tells it, there was roast lamb for dinner on the dining table and they both looked outside the window and watched the lambkins jump about happily. Straight away, they made that decision to go vegetarian. They only farmed for sheep shearing and their flock die of old age, instead of being dinner. I am not going into the ins and outs of vegetarianism here (I will not change, though I have cut down on my meat intake recently). It is with this interesting take of when a pet takes over your life and influences life choices that I am going to talk about my relationship with cats.

I do not have a relationship with cats.I don't like them very much and they do not care for me either, the very fact that the feeling is mutual absolves me of any accusations of my being evil towards cats. It is said that dogs are man's best fiend. I presently do not own a dog but from what I can see from my neighbours and their relationships with their dogs, that is quite true. I myself have had dogs and as I remember Duke, Honey, Sugar, Terror, Pogo and others, I have pleasant memories of walks, being licked, feeding, fleas and de-worming. There was companionship as well but relationships are not just fun and games - its hard work. In all of this though, the dogs remained faithful, until they died.

Cats on the other hand are firstly, women's best friend. Then men come in a distant second. Actually, I lie. A cat's best friend is itself. Women tend to be their second best friend. And then  ... erm, there's me. I always get snarled at when I try to gently stroke these supposedly genteel creatures, and on more than one occasion  I have been undeservedly scratched and/or spat at. I have clothing that bear talon marks which I can no longer wear. A dog will hump you. A cat will shred your clothing to bits. Cats take great delight in proving that I have no redeeming characteristics and always show me up in public.

I visited a friend once who had a black feline called Kat. My friend is a university lecturer as well as a consultant in medicine, so when she explained the rationale behind her pet's name I started to question the wisdom of my choice of friends. Apparently, she had to choose between calling the mangy clawy, furrball "Cat" or "Kat", but then decided on the latter because the animal responded better to that name. Go figure.

My neighbours were going away for 3 weeks and left their keys so that I could feed their cat in their absence.  Everyday, twice a day for 3 weeks  I would go and change the feeding bowl of uneaten cat food and replace it with fresh, but I never saw a sign of the animal. That is, of course, until the day that my neighbours returned. As fate would have it, it was a cold wet, windy day. I told my neighbour how I had not seen the cat for a while, and they said, "Don't worry, she does that quite often." So the idiot cat crawled in wet and bedraggled that evening with scratches and briers in its fur and and had to be taken to the vet because it had an infection. My relationship with my neighbours was never the same after that and when the family moved to Brighton the following spring, the man said it was because West Ham had been relegated. Ok.

My other neighbour caught me chasing his cat out of our garden into his. I was holding a rake at the time. I was NOT going to use the rake, it was purely coincidental that I was chasing the cat. (Because the resourceful predator, instead of hunting mice and rats in the neighbouring allotment had entered my kitchen and helped himself to some freshly fried fish that did not belong to him). Anyway, that winter, after very heavy snow, I woke up one white morning and opened my front door to find the pesky thief stretched out, frozen on my door mat. I panicked (as you do) but just as I bent over to examine the unsightly carcass,  my neighbour came out and saw me with his dead cat. On my door mat. Without a word, I picked up the hardened criminal (he was a thief!!! he stole my fish and my reputation!!!) and handed him back to his owner and returned indoors, waiting for the police and the ensuing investigation. Which did not happen.

So you see, I do not like cats.

I usually have a biblical slant to my musings, but not today because cats are not mentioned in the Bible, apart from Jesus being the Lion of Judah in most prophecies. All the other lions (cats) mentioned were killed by David or Samson. Enough said.

The long Road to Wembley (or redemption)

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

WEMBLEY BLUES (or Reds or Cockerels or Canaries...)

So football fans across the country are licking their respective wounds as they feel they have been unjustly treated by the teams they support, especially if you support one of the big teams with players who have to justify the huge weekly wages and adoration they receive. It is a scene that is repeated year after year (since 2005, in my case  but you all already knew that). As an Arsenal supporter, I can only commiserate with the losers, whilst I look forward to my team falling at the next hurdle. It is an odd time in particular for me as I also watch Ghana make it through to the knock out stage of the African Cup of Nations. Can I just say that if I have to make a pledge to my parents as their dying wish, that it would not be as profound as the one that Asamoah Gyan made to his mother i.e. never to take a penalty kick for Ghana ever again - in case he misses. Thankfully, there were others  who took their place and put away the penalty shots as required. After his recent performances, I wish his mother had told him to play in a better league to enhance his skills by playing against the best, and also to stop taking free kicks.

As I look at the comments of all the experienced football pundits (yours truly included), I can't help but wonder about what a unifying effect that football has on people all over the world. The only international language that does not require a Google translator. A good friend of mine always maintains that when life from beyond the stars arrives, all we need to give them is the FA rule book - and then try to explain why Afghanistani,  Bulgarians, Brazilians, South Africans, Kuwaitis, English, Germans, Togolese have a passion for a kickabout with a leather bound case five.

I maintain that if we did not have football, there would probably be more wars than we have now, South Korea would probably have already been bombed by the North. No evidence, just gut feeling.

DAVID (a man after God's own heart)

Somebody asked me once which one male figure had influenced my life. I asked if I could have two people instead. My dad was the first person. The second was King David. I seriously believe that King David was the forbear of Jazz. In the Bible, there are many instances which show not just his skills as a lyricist (see the Psalms), an accomplished instrumentalist (1 Samuel 16:16-23; 2 Samuel 6:5),  but also a free-style jazz dancer (2 Samuel 6:14, 15). The influence on generations of flawed characters who left a legacy of beautiful music.

AND FINALLY....

In August last year, I went to Ghana on a long overdue visit. I enjoyed the sights, sounds, re-established relationships, put my heart through its paces with dare-devil driving (as a passenger);  but nothing had a more profound effect on me than the sound of silence. In the early hours of the morning, before my neighbour's cockerel (I will tell you about that and my love/hate relationship with cats and other pets), there was perfect silence except for the sound of insects in the distance, or the single rogue mosquito that had found its way past my full defences of nets, spray, coil and un-coordinated hand claps. And self-abuse in the form of slaps.

But the silence that occurs before daybreak made me sometimes question if I was alive. Perhaps, someday, as I am laid to rest, that will be the feeling of complete peace I will enjoy, whilst I wait for my call-up to heaven. I hope when the trumpet sounds, it will be music like David played, to soothe the soul so that I am not awakened in fright and frustration - like my alarm clock does; but rather in assurance and the knowledge that the sound of jazz I hear is the shape of things to come - forever.

Being prodigal..

This will be the standard start to all my postings. For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it. Thanks.

For years, I had wrongly assumed that the prodigal son referred to in the Luke 15 was "Prodigal" because he left home and came back penniless "after returning to his senses". The story of a young man who asks for his inheritance, well in advance of his father's death always used to strike me with a mixture of horror, amazement and begrudging admiration. It just showed a young man who had what it takes to grab life by the horns, take advantage of his opportunities and make a mark on this world. Or did it?

The word "prodigal" is an adjective meaning "spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant". As a noun, it is used to describe "a person who spends money in a recklessly extravagant way". So really, this young man could already have had a prodigal nature, but lacked the means to practice.

There is something wonderful about spending somebody else's money, whether it be MasterCard or Visa (I always have to remember that I am borrowing from them two!!!!), your parents, spouse etc. I have seen project managers splash the cash in ways they would not have dared had the money come from their own pockets. (How many times have we unofficially "borrowed" office supplies, used the printer, phone, internet etc with that wonderful justification,  'they do not pay me enough in this place....')

So young prodigal, (for the sake of simplicity, let us call him Sam), young Sam had a nature that needed a bit of cash to be unleashed to its full potential, even before he stepped out of his Papa's mansion. This realisation then led me to my next mis-assumption.

I always assumed that Sam made a decision to return home because he was broke and eating pig food. However v 14 (NKJV) states that, "When he had (a) spent all, (b) there arose a great famine in that land and  (c), he began to want." Verse 15 goes on to say "he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country and he (the citizen) sent (Sam, my man) into his fields to feed swine."  Verse 16 "And he would gladly have filled his stomach with the pods that the swine ate, and no one gave him anything."

Sam would probably not have returned home if had not spent all his money; if there had not been a great famine; and if he had not begun to want. Hard economy means no jobs (sound familiar?). It is never said (or even implied) that he ate pig food, though he was sorely tempted. (When I am more rehabilitated than I currently am, I shall tell a story about this). The other important point for me was that noone gave him anything. Where were all his mates who helped him spend his fortune? (Sidebar. I am reminded of a story which could be urban myth, of a group of (illegal?) immigrants who were flat sharing. One of the flat mates dropped dead whilst she was cooking. Her colleagues called the ambulance and after the body was removed, they proceeded to tuck into the meal that their ex-flatmate had been cooking after a hard day's work. Well, I suppose life must go on. But I digress...)

So if someone had given him something (a loan, a gift), if he had got a better job (Senior Procurement Officer - Pig Division), and most important of all, if there had not been a severe famine, Sam might never have fashioned the reasonable plan in verses 17 to 19: "But when he came to himself, he said, 'How many of my father's hired servants have bread enough and to spare - there's nothing like hardship to remind you of how wasteful others can be - and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say to him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you, and I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me like one of your hired servants'." Being broke is no joke.

I have become more sympathetic of Sam's plight now than when I was younger, possibly because I may have lived part of his dream. Isn't it wonderful though that as a Christian, God is willing to look beyond all that and without asking where I had been, what I had squandered his inheritance on and why I had decided to return home, showered me with His Grace, v 20 "And he arose and came to his father. But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him." How long had this old man been looking off into the distance, day after day, week after week, month after month? How did he recognise that presumably emaciated individual from afar off, who would have looked nothing like the well-fed young man in finery who left the family home ages before? Had he heard of the great famine in the neighbouring lands and therefore was expecting his son to return?

I thank God for His grace, mercy and favour.