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Archies story

9/25/2018

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There are two types of people in this world, fighters and giver-uppers. Archie is a fighter. Five years ago he was diagnosed with a brain tumour. The tumour was classed as terminal and the prognosis – at best three years, with rapid decline in cognitive and motor function and entering a vegetative state prior to his demise. On top of that he developed epilepsy.
 
Surgery confirmed the severity of the condition and was only able to remove 40% of the tumour. Intensive, brain focused radiotherapy and 12 months heavy-duty chemotherapy followed, severely damaged his brain. Doctors told him the treatment wouldn't kill or shrink the tumour but might give him a little more time.  
 
Unwilling to accept there was no hope, Archie developed a plan to try and beat the tumour and re-train his brain to some sort of normal functionality. Through prayer and meditation, strict diet and demanding exercise routine,
he was rewarded with seeing the tumour shrink and no longer show up on an MRI. But the neurological dysfunction resulting from the radiation meant that his brain had a mind of its own, frequently beyond his control.
 
His sight, speech, walking, thinking and concentration have all been affected and in his words, “More and more I feel like I’m getting swept down the creek with a paddle full of holes”. In a herculean effort to help the left side of his brain accommodate for the failures of the right side, Archie has undertaken to learn to play golf, play the pipe organ, write a book and he is taking drama classes. All this he hopes will enable him to regain some semblance of normality,
spare him the twitches and wobbles that have become so much a pat of his life and ward off early onset dementia, which the medical team believe may result from his brain damage. 
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About 18 months ago Archie married my friend, Allie. She has been a tower of strength for him through some extremely dark days. They cling to faith and hope.
 
Hope, the belief that there is light beyond the darkness … a determined optimism that things can change ... seeing beyond the impossible to what might be.
 
It walks hand in hand with faith and love. Faith in a God who Romans tells us is a God of Hope, who is able to fill us with joy and peace as we trust him despite the circumstances, and through the Holy Spirit, gives us hope overflowing. Not just a hang-in-there-by-my-bootstraps kind of hope but overflowing
hope.
 
And who can know the extent of the healing power of love. The love of those who walk with us through the tough times, refusing to give up on us, encouraging us to keep going.
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Hope for Archie has been a decision not to “lay under the quilt till the lights go out” but to fight with all he’s got. For each of us it will be different because our stories are different, but none of us escape the dark times … the accident or illness that robs us of our livelihood or our talent … the sudden death … the relationship breakdown. Dark times are an inevitability of life in this broken, suffering world.

But as Tolkein says, “Oft hope is born when all is forlorn.” 

Perhaps the dark times are the breeding ground of hope.  

There's something refreshingly alive in hope, like a summer breeze, a field of bluebells or the fragrance of rain. It lifts our spirit,  lightens our step and keeps us afloat. And if darkness tempts us to despair, we may need to borrow someone else's eyes to see hope through them, to get a fresh glimpse beyond the crushing walls of our own existence. Its a gift we all need at some point in our life, a hope-offering that says, "I'm here, I care". What a beautiful gift!
​
Archie has been an inspiration to many people. If you want to know more of his story you can read more here:  
www.beatthebeastchallenge.co.uk/
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Whispers from the past

9/18/2018

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When my daughter was looking to buy her first house, I discovered a quaint little cottage I thought she’d love. The only problem was that every wall was covered in bold patterned, vivid yellow, brown and orange 70s wallpaper.
 
Beyond the wallpaper were an unimaginable number of ornaments and nick knacks, baskets of whatnots and piles of this and that covering every flat surface available. The abundance of clutter made the rooms look small and decidedly uninviting.
 
My daughter was unimpressed and a friend who came with us couldn’t comprehend why I thought it quaint. But I could see beyond the wallpaper and clutter … a cosy country cottage with cream walls; deep lounges and a warm fire alight under the elegant mantelpiece. My daughter eventually bought the house and turned it into a comfortable and delightful home.
 
The house began to whisper its story as we removed the wallpaper layer by layer, all 15 of them. Era after era unfolding beneath our fingertips, revealing the history of over 100 years.
 
Beneath all the layers we discovered the walls lined with newspaper and in one room the walls were nothing but hessian. The house is a precious piece of history, dating back to its beginnings as a railwayman’s cottage in 1892.
 
We could so easily have walked away, put off by the externals, unable to look beyond first impressions to see the gold underneath. I’ve done that more than once in my life, with people and with situations. 
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Paris fashions 1800s in the newspaper lining the walls.
But I’ve never forgotten that clutter.
 
At the moment I’m de-cluttering and it’s struck me that these accumulations of a lifetime not only tell the story of the eras of my life, but they also have a lot to say about my priorities over the years. Things that seemed so important at some stage of my life I’m now quite happy to add to op-shop shelves. I’ve changed and my priorities have too. Age seems to have a way of skewing my focus to the importance of relationships over things and the present moment over worrying about the future.
 
But there are some things that still tug at my heart.
 
The postcards from the Cotswolds and the booklet about Queen Mary’s dollshouse we collected that time I got to experience Britain through the eyes of a seven and ten year old. There’s the box of cards and letters from my children and grandchildren … the Mother’s Day card they made in Sunday School and the squiggly picture of me they presented with such excitement. For me its not a box of cards and letters but a box chock full of love.
 
There’s the Bobs board and cue that has been a part of my family for three generations. It still echoes with shrieks of laughter and playful accusations of cheating back when families played together before the advent of screens.
 
How do I let them go, these priceless remnants of the past, like layers upon layers of wallpaper clinging to the walls of my life? Is this the last hard lesson in the school of life … letting go.
 
I suspect it might be the hardest lesson of all and maybe it takes a lifetime of learning before we can surrender, not only our possessions but our attachments.

I pack up many boxes for the Salvos and feel a wonderful freedom but the personal treasures remain for another day. Perhaps one day when I’m gone those treasures will whisper to my family about what was precious to me ... a celebration of moments and memories.
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Blind Spots

9/11/2018

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Red dust caked his sweaty brow, dried his cracked lips and settled on his unseeing eyes. Today, like every day he sat by the side of the road desperate for kindness. But everyone passed by too busy to notice him, to stop and give that one coin that would make his next meal possible. The sun was relentless but so was his need.
 
It never got easier, the loneliness, the aching longing for someone to care, even to be able to see the passing crowd and catch their eye.  But something was different today, he sensed a swelling crowd, a sense of urgency and someone told him, “Jesus of Nazareth is coming”.
 
“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me”, he called out again and again. The crowd tried to silence him but he screamed all the louder, desperate to be heard over the noisy throng.
 
Jesus heard, not just his cry, but his faith. Calling for him to be brought to him, Jesus asked the strange question, “What do you want me to do for you?” “I want to see”, the blind beggar replied.
 
His healing was instant. This man who’d had no sight, no job and totally dependent on others, had the most important thing that no money can buy, he had faith and Jesus said, “Your faith has saved and healed you”.
 
Where are my blind spots?
Where am I blind to the truth about myself – denying reality?
Where is the log in my own eye?
Where am I failing to recognise God’s leading?
Where am I blind to the unhelpful ways I relate to others?
 
Lord, I want to see.
 
Where am I blind to your glory around me everyday?
Where do I fail to see the beauty in others?
Where is love being offered and I don’t even notice?
Where do I scurry passed the needy, the person who longs for love and understanding, the grieving, the homeless, the lonely?
 
Lord, I want to see.
​Open my eyes.
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The scent of a woman

9/4/2018

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I picked my first freesias yesterday. They’re the old fashioned ones, creamy white with a soft yellow throat and dusty mauve stripes on the outside of each petal. They’ve been popping up their heads each spring in this garden for over 100 years.
 
They were part of the original garden of one of the first homes in the village where I live. The house and garden were established in the late 1800s and the house still stands behind my home, which is built on what was once its tennis court.
 
The old house has had a number of owners over the years, some have died and some moved on but somehow the freesias remain unchanged … sentinels of history … a witness to over 100 years of living.
 
They are such simple and uncomplicated flowers and last night their exquisite fragrance infused the entire room.  

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You meet people like that. People who are curious and intrigued by life and a little bit of their enthusiasm splashes onto you too … or those who are joyful and full of fun, who manage to make you laugh and see the funny side of life … and ordinary folk who add a drop of kindness to your day and manage to change the way you feel. Somehow their fragrance lingers after they’ve gone. 
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I thought about that the other day when I opened a new box of my favourite herbal tea. It comes in a small cubed box in shades of aquamarine with tiny chamomile flowers on the front. But it's the inside that caught my attention. Inside the lid are the words, ‘Infuse your world every day’.
 
I got to thinking that we can do that quite unconsciously. We can just get out of bed and let the day dictate, responding and reacting to whatever comes along. We have a job to do or a family to raise and we step right out into the day without giving any thought to how we will live this precious once in a lifetime gift. The consequences often are indifference, resignation or focus on the immediate.
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The other option is to choose to infuse your world each day. Infuse it with
 
  • Gratitude, deliberately refusing to take anything or anyone for granted
  • Kindness, it doesn’t take much effort to be kind and it can change somebody’s day
  • Encouragement, we all need encouragement but so often all we receive is criticism
  • Enthusiasm or positivity, which can change the whole dynamics of a workplace or a family. I love positive, enthusiastic people who throw themselves into life even when things aren’t always easy for them. Somehow they change their life and mine.
 
Recently on my morning walk I passed a lady walking in the opposite direction. As I walked in her wake, I caught the sent of her perfume. It hung in the air long after she had passed. It was beautiful. What a challenge to live like that so even after we have passed by, something of the fragrance of our life will linger.
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    Author

    Glenyss Barnham
    ​I'm a mother and grandmother who loves  discovering beauty in unexpected places.

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