I’m not really much of a gardener and weeds do rather get away on me. But the Roses are prolific, the Geraniums sure know how to climb, and the Bourganvilia might have managed better had they not been so smothered until just the other week. Luckily the Marigolds, Snapdragons, and other little pretties (can’t remember their names) seem to like it where they found themselves, and the Daisies and Daphne are faithful every year anyway. Just as well. As much as I love them all, I’m not a very good mother to them. I just don’t have green thumbs.

Would it help if I was to make a New Year’s Resolution? Take better care of my flowers! I doubt it. My experience of New Year Resolutions is that they usually work in reverse. They seem to trigger the Oppositional Switch in my personality, and that guarrantees certain failure.

What I do find works for me, once I learnt to become organized some time ago, is a list of goals… or tasks. Things to do. Verbs. Things to achieve. Nouns. Going to the extent of adding “due dates” made it too much like school assignments, so I stopped before getting that far. Too easy to give myself extensions for insufficient reasons. But keeping lists and checking off items gave a sense of accomplishment, and made even more sense when I broke down those goals, and the tasks that led to them, into sub-tasks or little steps on the way. They could get checked off as well, and my life would become a glowing record of tiny accomplishments. Just like school these days where nobody fails anymore… just simply “not achieved” er, yet. How postmodern and up with the Age!

So… it is early New Year’s Day, and I have some goals to write down. I have been thinking of them all December (while lying awake with the birdsong) and my keyboard is about to learn of them. No, I’m not making all of them public. Most of them are just for my eyes only… and He who knows every thought before I have even come up with it. But there is an all-encompassing and really massively huge one (well, several) that I can let you know. See if you can match this - be challenged! - for a Really Big Goal…

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.
~ Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another.
~ Forgive as the Lord forgave you.
~ And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.
~ Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.
~ And be thankful.
~ Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God.
~ And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.

(Colossians 3:12-17, NIV)

It seems like only yesterday! It was summer… those long hot carefree days that, in my childhood fantasy, were destined to last an eternity. We scrambled all over this large dome of rock, knowing every pothole, every safe hollow in which to place a foot and a hand. We would watch from above as the tide turned and the water rushed into the large caverns below, rush out again to regroup and come back, each time pushing in a little further, hitting the rock to throw up fountains of spray, dousing our eagerly peering faces. We would laugh at each other, taste the salt on our lips and brush tangles of wet hair out of our eyes. Summer days were meant to last forever… just as the sea and the salt and the sand and the sun would surely do so as well.

Cave Rock, Sumner Beach, Christchurch, New Zealand. This watercolour sketch was painted by artist, Peter G. Leitch. There is no copyright mentioned on the reproduction greeting cards that remind me of those days long ago. I hope if Peter should see his handiwork here that he will know it is only because I treasure it enough to draw attention to it, and similarly to the one below of Shag Rock, marking the other end of the sandy expanse where I played my eternal childhood summer days.

Shag Rock, Sumner Beach, Christchurch, New Zealand. There we waded sandal-footed in rock ponds, squatting in them getting our bottoms wet, searching for crabs and starfish, or picking out fascinating shells, the discarded little houses of various other sea creatures. The shags would perch high upon the rock and watch, no doubt hoping we would turn over and leave for them some tasty titbit for their tea.

Time moves on. Now another generation of children assume our places, engage our activities, roll over the countless endless days of the calendar as I and my brothers give them up to fond memories. The sea rolls in and out of those caverns under the dome just as before. The rock pools fill and empty, and fill up again, just as before. The shags and gulls are still perching there - or their descendants are - and waiting patiently for the offering of another snack.

Does anything last eternity? Even memories fade, presumably one day to be extinguished by that Grim Reaper who appears scythe in hand as our final heartbeat beats and in doing so has gone. Time moves on without us. And we move on into timelessness, into the realms of eternity.

Any frequent visitor here could rightly predict my own belief about what exists beyond, one that was long ago revealed to us. There is indeed an eternity and how we live our lives here really does matter, and matters greatly. No moments are truly lost, no words or thoughts or deeds. We meet with them again, and they will sift and measure us against our Creator’s yardstick. Would you seek justice? None of us will receive injustice at His hand, but think carefully if it is justice that you seek. As idyllic as those childhood memories pose themselves, even as supposedly “innocent” children playing on the sand, laughing at the surf and at the shags, we must surely know deep within us that our souls were not truly free at all, not even in entertaining our very best desires. Who wanted the best view, the best foothold, the longest turn, the most shells, the best shell, the only crab, the biggest starfish, the dry towel, the unbroken bucket, the shared spade, and not to go home just yet when we should? Those who know that they were never ever truly innocent, who know they have always had a natural inclination toward self gratification and promotion at the expense of others… they will not be so keen on justice when eventually their eternity comes face-to-face with them. No matter my own very best memories such as these of Sumner Beach, rather than justice it will be mercy that I seek, and there is only one Redeemer given us in whom that will be found.

Happening to rather like Autumn, I can certainly relate to the poem by the Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1849 - 1916), whose second stanza of the poem by the same name as the first half of his last sentence (er, did you manage to understand that?) goes… They’s something kind o’ harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here– Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; But the air’s so appetizin’, and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the early autumn days Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock– When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The first day of March is the first day of Autumn for those of us living Down Under. It has not been a marvellous summer in my neck of the woods - far too much wind and many dull, rainy, days. Well, far too much for a proper summer, that is. But as one who has just had three of them straight in a row, I guess I don’t have much cause for complaint. I heard that the winter I missed was bitterly cold. Cold is OK, but not bitterly cold. And I like that Autumn is here… just a cooler version of the so-called summer we’ve had. One of my favourite past-times is walking along the beach when the weather is brewing up something inclement to unleash upon us. I love crunching the empty pipi shells underfoot, having the wind whipping my hair about my face, the sea spray stinging my lips with the taste of salt… seagulls soaring and circling in little eddies, riding the thermals overhead, diving to land among their squawking brothers busy squabbling at the rubbish bins for scraps of yesterday’s lunches left behind by brave picnickers undaunted by rough weather. Tom, Dick and Harry Gull may fight for possession of a potato chip, but there is no sign of Richard Bach’s Jonathon, of course. He has far better things to do. Neither do I have any wish to squabble for left-overs. Wherever Jonathon was, I am too… strolling along the shore in the biting breeze, savouring the touch of nature through my skin and speaking to my soul. Yes, I have written of these things before in here. As the days get cooler and the white-caps rough up the harbour, it is good to get out and have the mental cobwebs blown away. Peeling off shoes and socks I stand up to the ankles in the edges of the bubbling surf, the tide pulling back against my heels, the sand tunnelling under my feet. I am invigorated. To experience through one’s skin is primary; the point where personal boundaries meet and become defined, where contact is made, and life is discovered to be real. To feel the wind, the salt, the sand, the sea… it is right there that Mother Nature touches me.

Early in the morning, on New Zealand’s eastern shore, the sun was barely halfway up and barely dressed before the people came with rods and bait, willing up their breakfast feast from Neptune’s salty store.

I will make you fishers of men, I heard His words once said, and remembered how He told them then that life was more than bread.

The light was shining in the east and spread across the bay, gilding touches to sea and sky with all their shades of grey. No ball of fire, no solar disc, no heat to scorch the air but just a glimpse of glory hidden out beyond the sphere.

I am the light of the world, I heard His words again, and remembered how He told them all to follow Him and then no more would darkness reign.

The people stood and faced the light, but watched their rods and lines, or clambered up the driftwood beach not looking at the signs.

If you love me, my commands obey, I heard my Master say, and watched the people pack their things and blindly drift away.

They left me standing on the beach gazing at the light, seeing only He who beckons me, a captive to His might. My line is cast, the sea is wide, the people need a prayer. And if some enigmatic breath rustles in the air then know that I am fishing… and that He is very near.

Mt Egmont, reaching a height of 8,260 ft with its base at sea level, is often claimed to be one of the most symmetrical volcanoes in the world. It is usually covered with snow, but it is summer at present in the Southern Hemisphere and I took this photo just yesterday. The mountain is frequently cloaked in cloud but the winds above obligingly unwrapped its form though left in place a hazy veil of UV light. It erupted last about 350 years ago and is considered dormant rather than extinct.

The first time I was welcomed on to a marae (Maori meeting house) and permitted to speak, I was required to introduce myself by naming both the river and the mountain with which I identify. As a South Islander with a special fondness for the Southern Alps, I nominated Mt Cook as my mountain, and having been born in Christchurch, the pretty meandering Avon River as my river. That one identifies with a territory, not just a name, is interesting to me. It locates one’s origins geographically. Mt Egmont appeals to me aesthetically, but it is not my mountain in the same way that I feel towards the Southern Alps.

As a New Zealander, I belong to this country. As a human being, I belong to this world. In terms of time, I belong to this present Age. However, my real home is not of this world, nor of this Age. I have dual citizenship, that of this world where I live at the moment, and that of elsewhere in another, the one where I truly belong. Submitting to the lordship of Christ provides a dimension that radically changes perspective, that gives assurance that this earthly life is not all there is. There is far more to creation than that of which our senses appraise us. This kind of knowledge comes as a gift. It is not a consequence of being in any way deserving. And the Giver is indeed gracious beyond measure. He has said:

You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. (Jeremiah 29:13)
Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. (Matthew 7:7)

I guess that having ended the previous year’s entries with a vivid sunset, it is appropriate to begin the New Year’s entries with a glorious sunrise. So here it is… with best wishes to all who stop and visit here, that you may be granted a New Year filled with all things good, as rich in events and insights as this sunrise shows in promise for the day that is dawning.

It was about this time last year that I posted a “Goodnight 2007” photo that showed a glorious sunset that had lit up the evening sky with the richest of golds, and now history is repeating itself once again. Yesterday was a beautifully fine, warm and sunny, summer’s day and as it drew to a close, the softest of rain began to fall. It was barely there, the faint goose-prickling touch of wetness that cooled the skin after the heat of the sun had abated. Then came the golden evening.

This year has had it ups and downs, just like most years do. There were highpoints and lowpoints, none quite as low as the previous year and the highs were definitely higher. I guess that makes for a reasonable year.

Often Christmas is not such a happy time when families are divided, conflicted, troubled, and the sentiments of the Season are all about “Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards Men” which can sound hollow and unreal. Sometimes the joy escapes, ungrasped through a barrier of difficulties. The global economy appears to be circling the drain, the Pope calling for solidarity rather than selfishness to prevent a demise down the gurgler. Fighting has broken out again between Israel and Palestine. Mugabe has trashed and squandered the foodbowl of Africa, people suffering beyond belief. Everywhere there is pain, disease and death. BBC’s Channel 4 did a dastardly thing in having the President of Iran deliver the alternative Christmas message, he not a Christian and his Islamic version of Jesus just that of the (fictitious) Prophet ‘Isa. Beams and motes come to mind with his message to the Wicked West. Our domestic violence rates have moved up to an all-time high, and relative poverty levels are sinking lower and lower. How does one grab hold of JOY when the peace and goodwill are so hard to find?

I’m not so sure that they are so hard to find. It certainly isn’t there in some places, but it depends where one looks for it.

The roads gleamed with moisture, reflecting a vivid amber-gold as the sky turned colour above, and everything glistened around me. I stood out on the road, drinking it in.

An interesting comment someone made recently left me thinking.

The very first Christmas was not perfect. Well, not for a young expectant mother who had to leave home and ride donkey when 9 months pregnant, who went from house to house and could not find a proper bed, not a room anywhere. She ended up giving birth in a barn with the farm animals. Most mothers don’t dream of such circumstances in which to have their firstborns. And yet the baby was born, and Mary brought forth her son, Jesus. It was those unenviable circumstances that made the hope and beauty of the miracle even more evident.

The psalmist wrote “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.” (Psalm 19:1) We catch glimpses of beauty when it shouts at us like these sunsets do, but so much of that which can give joy escapes our senses, passing under the radar of normal perception. Jesus once told Nicodemus, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.” (John 3:3) It takes this spiritual rebirth to have one’s eyes opened to the things that are of God’s kingdom. It is when spiritual eyes are opened that these blessings become known to us… joy, the peace that passes all understanding, hope instead of despair, faith instead of doubt, and the certain knowledge that God is Sovereign in a world where there are no maverick molecules and He is our provider and sustainer, right into eternity.

No matter how 2008 was for you, my prayer is that 2009 will keep you walking close with God, partaking of all the blessings that He provides in abundance to those reborn as His adopted children, in the name of Jesus, the baby born in those circumstances far from ideal but sufficient none-the-less.

How soul-less are those who live by bureaucratic tosh rather than use their brains with an enlightened heart.

Having spent the last several weeks in North Carolina and Virginia, I must admit they are perhaps two of the most beautiful states in the USA. This has much to do with the trees everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, including in the cities, lining freeways, around buildings - just everywhere and everywhere! I had not long been home when I heard a truck pull up outside our house. A quick glance out the window told me I was needed out there. The tree butchers from the local council had arrived! Many years ago I had approached the council, not just once but repeatedly, to ask that they plant some trees on our berm. The street needed more trees, looking particularly barren and not very special. One day they turned up and left behind a very small specimen down by the nextdoor neighbour, but no more and certainly not where they really were needed. So eventually we planted a few more ourselves. They are now tall and strong, maturing nicely, and looking quite lovely. So when the truck pulled up I went out to lean on my gate. Three men got out of the truck. I was told that branches overhanging the road where they would interfere with cars needed to be cut back. I was told “we’re just doing our job” to which I replied “…and I am just keeping my eye on you.” Out came the chainsaw. Immediately the criterion they had just given me was violated. “So what make of car might possibly have been able to hit that while still remaining on the road?” I asked. There was no answer. As the man with the saw stood on the footpath eyeing yet another branch, I added “and of course, we have cars driving along the footpath every single day here!” He changed his tune… it was the posties on bikes, he said. “Sure, we have posties well over 2 metres tall riding bikes here every single day”, I informed him, my sarcasm getting away on me. Another man reached back inside the truck for some papers and started reading aloud the council by-laws. The third man stood there looking uncomfortable. The man with the saw, having swung on another branch to see if it could be dragged down to possibly bother the mythical posties over 2 metres tall, sensibly decided against any further action. Fortunately the others followed his lead by getting back into their truck and then drove away. They had overlooked a dead tree standing on the berm of a neighbouring house, but less than half a mile away there was more evidence of their handiwork. A cluster of beautiful native trees in a small reserve was decimated, ugly stumps being all that were left behind.

Greetings to all visitors to Judah’s Journal. May the Year 2008 be full of blessings, a fresh start, and the fruition of past efforts. It is summer down the bottom of the planet this time of year. Blue skies, sunshine, fine warm weather and long daylight hours. My Northern Hemisphere friends are all wishing they were here, yet in a little while that will change and I will be wishing I am where they are. But not right at the moment… Where I live we have a sizeable back yard of native bush, some of the trees being very large indeed, with paths and timber board walks taking us down under the canopy to an idyllic escape from the rest of the world. There it is cool and still, except for whatever breeze is around. The petite Waxeyes and friendly Fantails dart in and out among the branches, catching insects on the wing. The Tuis sing out their melodious songs. A small stream emerges from underground and trickles down over rocks into a valley of more trees and ferns beyond. To this refuge I sneak away when in need of respite from the world. The canopy overhead creates a cathedral, with choir of birdsong and crickets; soft organ notes the breath of the breeze, the rustle of ferns high above. Down here no telephone rings, no clock strikes the hour. There is no doorbell, no computer, no chores to do. No liberal theology questions my faith, offering disbelief in my Creator whose hand is clearly seen where I look about me. The sounds of the city are distant, belonging to the valley below. The sense of peace in this enclave sooths and settles my soul. During a storm three winters ago, a huge pine tree some distance down the road from us was uprooted and crashed down the hillside, blocking the road to our home. That evening, just on dusk, we walked to the scene of the disaster and stood in awe of that tree. I was moved to write the following about it… — — — — — — — — — — — — — We walked to the tree that was blocking our way, The winds having died with death in their sway; Death from Thor’s wrath, with mighty thunderous fall The tree had come down in the wet wintry squall. Others stood gazing, bewildered as well, That seventy years had succumbed and then fell; From Earth’s endometrium a placenta left swinging, A mass of roots matted, to cliff face left clinging. We stood there in mourning, in silence and sorrow, Surveying the tree that would see no tomorrow; Broken and battered, branches bent strangely angled, With torrents of dirt that had tumbled entangled. The woodmen had cut with their chainsaws so crudely Huge slabs of the trunk, naked growth rings so rudely Exposed to the skies, with their sacrifice weeping Sticky wet sap of life’s remnants still seeping. We walked away softly having murmured a prayer, For the scene was quite awesome, one hard to bear; And the night sky descended, draping all with a shroud Of darkness and grieving, gentle tears from a cloud. © Judah (2005) — — — — — — — — — — — — — I remember the occasion I stood before mighty Tane Mahuta, the world’s largest living Kauri tree, said to be almost 1300 years old. There was a general hush all around, an air of reverence, and an American tourist whispered to me “It’s like being in church, isn’t it?” Yes, it was indeed. There was a presence, a sense of Emmanuel - God being with us. And in the words of that great hymn… To God be the glory, great things He has done!

We are now nine weeks beyond the shortest day Down Here, but still into Winter with snow on the mountains and an icy chill in the air. This river is snow-fed and extremely cold. But not far from here, as fearless teenagers, we swam in the irrigation channels fed by these mid-Canterbury rivers. The sissies smeared their bodies with petroleum jelly first, but I doubt it really made a lot of difference and would have been a mess to remove. The secret was just to keep moving, swimming fast to the end of the mile, the annual challenge for the hardy types that we were back then. Would I do that again today? No, I doubt it. The mid-winter dips in the sea with the carnival fanfare of community participation have not enticed me yet. Better to stay snuggled up cosy in my possum/merino layers of woollies and watch as the others shiver instead.

In the background are the foothills of my favourite Southern Alps. When visitors to a Maori marae (meeting place) are given the opportunity to speak, they introduce themselves by naming their tribe (or giving their whakapapa - genealogy) and their mountain and river. I have only once ever done that, and liked the idea especially of naming my mountain and river, as though they are mine. They are indeed the land to which I relate, my home turf, that with which I will identify when away from home or needing to feel grounded in my being. This is not my river, but the mountains are mine - greedily the whole chain of them, the rugged backbone of the South Island of New Zealand. These mountains are a view to gaze upon and be still, to drink in their might, majesty and grandeur. They were there well before me, and will be there long after I am gone. I am nothing to them, but they are a symbol of stability and permanence to me, and they whisper the words that describe the character of the Creator… I am here, I am mighty, I am majesty. I will look to them and beyond to the Source of my being, He who is my sustainer and stronghold.

As a South Islander, a Cantabrian born and bred, I thoroughly approve of the new 50 cent stamp we are soon to be using for our regular letters.

Lake Coleridge, named after a descendant of the famous English poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was created by glacier moraine. The water is snow-fed, freezing cold - testified to be so by one who once braved a skinny-dip therein! But to climb the surrounding mountains would require those scansorial feet that, as a native of the Canterbury Plains, I do not have.

This is the kind of natural beauty that tells me about the artistry and character of He who created all. To have spoken it all into being is quite some feat, and it has me wondering about the liberal theologians who say they believe in such a God but then go on to deny the intervention of His supernatural abilities whereby a virgin did give birth, and the crucified Jesus was bodily resurrected.

God is certainly not limited by liberal theology. It took Someone of incredible imagination to conceive of our world, and incredible artistry to design all its features. The only limits God exhibits are those self-imposed by virtue of His character, and of His being. The question may be asked, “can God create an object too heavy even for Himself to lift?” and the answer is neither yes nor no. If the answer is Yes, then it suggests that He is not omnipotent (all powerful) - and the same if the answer is No. The answer is that the question itself is meaningless nonsense. It is another form of the question “Is there something that is more than infinite?” And the answer to that is that it is logically impossible for anything to be more than infinite because infinity has no end. In short, the question represents a category mistake.

Our Creator has the power to do anything actually possible, even if it is impossible for ourselves to do, but He doesn’t attempt that which is meaningless nonsense as His character, His being, is not that of meaningless nonsense. The liberal theologians who attempt to strip away the truth of the Virgin Birth and the bodily Resurrection of Christ are confusing their own power (the lack of it) for His, laying on God their own human impotence. God who created all is far greater than that, as testified by His entire creation.

The content of Judah’s Journal is copyright. If you are NOT reading this on Judah’s Journal, then it has been copied from there and is re-published illegally - in other words, stolen. Those who would do that are common thieves and lack moral integrity. Judah’s Journal

To Nature

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

It may indeed be fantasy when I
Essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.
So let it be; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

A perfect Freesia from my garden…

Even where the weeds keep growing, there is still beauty to be found. It is there regardless of that which is unwanted, a nuisance, a chore to be attended to, something unruly and overbearing that would hide such glory that exists.

There are times when everything seems to be going wrong and nothing going right. One way to get really down in the mouth is to focus on the negative, to see the glass as half empty rather than half full - or even completely empty (ignoring the tap where one can fill the glass again).

As a small child onwards I was told to count my blessings, and as far back as I can remember, I found myself poised on the edge of a hard choice. If I had to rummage around and come up with blessings - that is, really come up with them and not complain that there are not any to count - then I was forced to forgo the gloomy satisfaction of a good wallow in the injustices of this world. A good wallow would have me continue to believe in my misery, hang on to it, even magnify it. Looking for the good, the positives, the things for which I could be grateful, and how much more fortunate I was than others (and there were always others far worse off than I ever was) had me loose hold of that which pained me. A tough exercise at times, but a very healthy one.

Did you notice the words among the leaves with the roses two posts back? They were: “You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.” In this imperfect world there will always be things that go wrong, that do not happen according to one’s liking, but we still have choices regarding our reactions to those things. You make the choice yourself. Nobody else makes it for you. You can choose to wallow in misery, or you can choose to throw the switch completely and go the other way. If you are not used to doing that, it may take a little help from a friend and then a bit of practice, but it is certainly possible. Feeling states are preceded by thoughts which are often embedded in attitudes. Deal with the attitudes, change the thoughts, and soon one’s outlook changes in that new direction. Is that hard? Yes, sometimes it is. But it is not impossible.

It was a long time ago now, but one day I came to be sitting in a hospital waiting room with the weight of the whole world on my shoulders, being far from well. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young women going through the process of being discharged from hospital. All was going well for her. Then she stopped and looked towards where I was sitting. I did not know her, but she came over to me and did something most unexpected. I must have looked as ill as I was because she spoke very gently and said “I was very ill when I was admitted and now I am well. I pray the same will be for you too.” And she kissed me on the top of my head. Yes, I was very ill, but that kiss became the seed of hope that I dearly needed that day. It was a surprising thing that happened but it meant so much to me right then. It told me to hang on to hope, to hold out for the best, the good, the positives and to believe that such things can and do happen.

Now I know that these things are there all the time for us - if only we will look for them, open our eyes to see them, believe in the Source of them, truly appreciate and enjoy them, be grateful for them, and in our gratitude thank God for His provision of them. It can be the hardest thing to do sometimes, but seeking out that which is good and thanking God even in the midst of one’s pain is the way towards overcoming those things that are imperfect in this world. Our God is the provider and unlike the shifting shadows, He does not change; they continue to be there for us - all of the time.

One of my hobbies is working with images in Adobe Photoshop, especially repairing and restoring old photographs, but also creating something special from those which I take with my Olympus C-5060 wide zoom digital camera. Here I have combined several interests together ~ growing flowers in my garden, digital photography, image manipulation, Biblical Christianity, and Judah’s Journal. The result is presented here: one of my favourite verses combined with a beautiful rose from my garden.

There is much that is ugly and unpleasant in this life. It is there first thing every morning when I pick up the newspaper tossed on the driveway, a quick glance at the headlines confirming that I am still on this planet. It doesn’t stop at the front page, unfortunately, as after the entire first section explores the criminal element and their activities, or some other unpleasant thing, the next section moves on to international news - soldiers with guns, threats, deaths, wars, and more. Well, that is reality; that is what our world is like.

I am glad that I stopped outside and spoke to the two Tuis chattering away in the big tree by the front door. Mr and Mrs Tui (one presumes they are heterosexual mates although anything is possible these days, it seems) are often breakfasting there in the mornings at newspaper time, two of our handsome “King of the Forest” natives gaining more confidence to take up residence in the more leafy suburbs. They are some of the nicer things in this world, along with my garden and the advice of this verse which knows the real benefit of spending time with such things.

There is a saying: “you are what you eat”. I also think it is true that you are what you feed yourself in the way of experiences - what you read, look at, think about, and do. The poet describes this well in his poem where he writes:

There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon,
that object he became,
And that object became part of him
for the day or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycle of years.

Walt Whitman ~ “There Was a Child Went Forth”

Psychologists warn us how youngsters may become more aggressive from spending long hours playing certain X-box games or watching a lot of movies of a certain kind. I think that watching TV News these days may also contribute to that effect - or perhaps precipitate depression! Those who seek out internet pornography find it becomes addictive, inflaming the passions and enticing them to look for more of it more often. Then these things begin to drive one’s life, influencing, steering, directing, etc. Most of us know for ourselves that we have different kinds of reactions to what we read, watch and use to entertain ourselves, or whose company we keep. We can excite ourselves or calm ourselves, scare ourselves or enlighten ourselves, and over time will grow ourselves depending upon what it is, in this way, we feed ourselves. How far more worthy it is to feed on what is best in this world, not that which is unsanitary and seamy.

Matthew 5:

6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.

8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.

The content of Judah’s Journal is copyright. If you are NOT reading this on Judah’s Journal, then it has been copied from there and is re-published illegally - in other words, stolen. Those who would do that are common thieves and lack moral integrity. Judah’s Journal

It isn’t all that big just yet. At least, not nearly as big as it will get in time. But already towering above the roof of the house, our very own “NZ Christmas Tree” is quite a pretty sight just now. Although we are currently having “the summer that didn’t happen” and the coldest one on record, these Pohutukawa trees have been flowering prolifically and for quite some time almost everywhere. Some have already dropped their red stamens, creating a dense scarlet carpet all around them. Before that the ground was a bright golden yellow from the fallen Kowhai blossoms. Now when it rains, little streams of red run along the gutters and into the drains. I wonder what colour carpet we will have next. My roses are a mass of blossom so maybe pink and white will be Mother Nature’s next redecorating decision.

I just happened to be reading from a little book of “scriptural reflections of promise and hope” written by James R. Welter who happened to point out how the image of a garden symbolizes an intimate relationship with God. This is what he has to say:

The story of our relationship with God begins and ends in a garden! It begins in the book of Genesis with the story of creation. We are given a beautiful image of God, who “comes down” and walks in the garden with Adam. It reveals to us the intimate relationship God has with his creation, and it is a precursor to God “coming down” in human form to be one with us.

So it isn’t surprising to see Jesus spend his last night talking with his Father in a garden. And it is fitting, too, that Mary Magdalene first encounters the Risen Lord in a garden.

So does that offer you a new perspective on being outside among the plants? I will have to ponder that as I go pull the weeds that have grown mightily this “summer that didn’t happen”.

Postscript:
There is a little war going on within the workings of Judah’s Journal just at present. If you are viewing with IE as your browser, you may find the conflict causes part of the image here to be obscured. Viewing in Mozilla Firefox instead will probably solve that for you. Hopefully my kind and clever friend, Visiblesoul, might have it fixed for me very soon.

Yes he has! Thankies DKC.

My son had called me to come and look at a magnificent rainbow that had formed in the darkening liquid grey sky to the east - a full semicircle, vivid colours with a repeat outer image. As we were gazing in that direction, completely absorbed in its beauty, I noticed the subtle change in light to something more golden. We turned and looked westward. Dusk was beginning to settle and the sun was sinking in the mid-evening sky, the promise of a glorious sunset forthcoming. And the promise was indeed fulfilled. I grabbed my camera and here above is the stunning result.

Genesis 1:1 In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

Yes, that is I. No, I am definitely not up there with the greats! I was a high school student when that photo was taken - coloured sepia by me to age it suitably! The violin was given to me by my father, he having been given it by an Australian passenger on board ship en route from Southampton (England) to Melbourne. The Australian owner had taken it to Europe to have it valued, the maker’s name being Giovanni Paolo Maggini (1580 - 1630), but was told it was not an original - instead, just an excellant copy. He was so disillusioned that he wanted to give it away to someone who could play one. My father happened to be in the right place at the right time, and being with him on board, so was I.

My musical dabblings began as a very small child when I went to the piano and picked out the tune my mother was singing as she was doing her housework. It happened to be “The Happy Wanderer“. I found the right notes with my right hand, then as I experimented, found some pleasant sounding other notes that went with them with my left hand. I put them together and my father was delighted. He also played the piano “by ear” and we entered on a journey together where we often played duo - two pianos, one each - all the old favourites that my Dad loved. We played together for hours on end, often forgetting the time. The fun was to challenge each other by changing key, slowly working our way up the octave, one semitone at a time, one leading and the other quickly following, both with different styles but the one same shared love. Before long I was packed off to music lessons and discovered how to read a manuscript. The violin came a few years later, after my mother suggested that my father take me, instead of her reluctant self, to an NZSO concert with the visiting virtuoso violinist Alfredo Campoli (1906 - 1991). I must have been about 10 years old, and I was rapt.

A number of years later Signor Campoli, on another concert tour to NZ, decided he would like to play a little competitive Bridge one evening. It was on this occasion that my mother, herself a very good Bridge player, happened to meet him when they played at the same table. She told him about the young girl whose love of classical music, especially the great concerti of the Romantic Period, was awakened by one of his earlier visits. I have always been quite chuffed that through my mother he sent me his personal best wishes.

These days I am a listener, a staunch attender of the NZSO concerts, rather than a player. Besides the Maggini copy, I have my father’s piano and still amuse myself on that a little, but it is being transported to Elsewhere by the beauty and exhilaration of the sound of real talent that does far more for me now. Is there really an Elsewhere? My experience says that there is - a place where there is perfection, wonder, majesty, awe, beauty, and a savouring of all that resonates with the depths of our being. I hear it in this kind of music. I hear and see it again in Nature with the evening birdsong, the rainbow after the sudden downpour, the flowers in my garden glistening with dew, the majesty of my Southern Alps… and I touch it in prayer when I reach out to my Heavenly Father. This Elsewhere is His place where the wisdom of His righteousness has allowed no evil. We have a reflection of it in this life, a taste of that for which my soul yearns as He draws me ever closer to Him.

The First of September is the first day of Spring down the bottom end of the planet. NZ’s national tree is the Kowhai which comes into bloom around now with masses of yellow flowers often photographed against an azure sky, a spectacular curtain fall to the last dreary days of winter.

These images are my own, photos I have taken of the tree outside the window of my Happy Room. Those who know me personally know that my Happy Room is also my quilt studio and from where I write to my friends around the world. Judah’s Journal has been a little neglected as of late with the pressure of real life events taking up time and leaving little space for much else. It is still nice to see that visitors have continued to call despite no new postings, and they often come as a result of searches on a wide range of subjects, Professor Google frequently pointing them this way. Of note has been the interest in Mother Teresa and her lovely simple little poem to be found here. Mother Teresa was a very special person, a saint by virtue of her salvation in Christ, a saint in modern secular terms, and a Saint by recognition of the Church. If you have not seen it yet, there is a DVD worth watching that tells the story of her life.

Spring is the season of new beginnings, new life and new hope. There is much in the world that is wrong, a source of gloom and despair for those serious thoughts when it seems nothing will stop “the forces of darkness” from overwhelming and taking over. I’ve noticed a new definition by some regarding whom they think is “the Anti-Christ” and where once many said it was the Pope or the Roman Catholic Church (which I have always privately thought rather silly) now I am hearing that it is Islam instead. I am not clued-up on these matters and prefer to stay out of the debate.

I notice that there are visitors to Judah’s Journal from several different Islamic countries ~ I have counted 16 so far, Islamic countries that is, and there may be more. If you are a Muslim reading these pages, then please know that they are not written with any hatred towards you as a person. An objective study of Islam does give much cause for alarm. Any belief system forced on another is a violation of that person’s freedom to choose. If you as a Muslim were forced to abandon your dearly held beliefs and made to confess those of another under pain of torture and death, would that not concern you as well? But the verse of the sword in your Qur’an says “But when the forbidden months are past, then fight and slay the Pagans wherever ye find them, and seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem (of war)…..” (Surah 9:5) and “O ye who believe! Fight the Unbelievers who gird you about, and let them find firmness in you: and know that Allah is with those who fear Him” (Surah 9:123). These verses abrogate the gentle verse you prefer us to know, namely “But there is no compulsion in religion” (Surah 2:256). Christianity is never to be forced on another. That goes against everything that it is about. The freedom to choose gives one personal responsibility, and the denial of that is to take it away making one less of a person.

But what of new beginnings? It is hard sometimes to shelve these considerable concerns; they are weighty to bear. But in many ways they are like everything else in that too much of something causes a shift in balance that may not be helpful. We need some respite from the weariness of the journey, the anxieties and fears that would soon have us depressed and unable to go on. Like reading a book all weekend and not looking beyond will have your vision so fuzzy that you can’t see to drive. Or too much candy which will make you as sick as green apples, or too much sun burns and blisters your skin. With all the concerns around us, there is a great need to be able to “take time out” and put it aside for a while. For me there is nothing like being out in the garden early in the morning as the little dewey buds spread their new petals to greet the sun that rises each day. Yay, that’s me, a nature junkie!

And a poetry junkie as well. The following is one of my most loved poems of all time, written by my favourite poet of all time:

The Story of Two Wolves

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said, “My son, the battle is between two “wolves” inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather:
“Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

And the following is a longer version which provides an application of the message:

A Grandfather’s Story

There was Grandfather, his little grandson often came in the evenings to sit at his knee and ask the many questions that children ask. One day the grandson came to his Grandfather with a look of anger on his face.

Grandfather said, ” Come, sit, tell me what has happened today.”

The child sat and leaned his chin on his Grandfather's knee.Looking up into the wrinkled, nut brown face and the kind dark eyes; the child's anger turned to tears.

The boy said, “I went to the town today with my father, to trade the furs he has collected over the past several months. I was happy to go, because father said that since I had helped him with the trapping, I could get something for me. Something that I wanted.

I was so excited to be in the trading post, I have not been there before. I looked at many things and finally found a metal knife! It was small, but a good size for me. So father got it for me.”

Here the boy laid his head against his Grandfather's knee and became silent. The Grandfather, softly placed his hand on the boys raven hair and said, “and then what happened?”. Without lifting his head, the boy said, “I went outside to wait for father, and to admire my new knife in the sunlight. Some town boys came by and saw me, they got all around me and started saying bad things.

They call me dirty and stupid and said that I should not have such a fine knife. The largest of these boys, pushed me back and I fell over one of the other boys. I dropped my knife and one of them snatched it up and they all ran away laughing.”

Here the boy's anger returned, “I hate them, I hate them all !!!”

The Grandfather, with eyes that have seen too much, lifted his grandson's face so his eyes looked into the boys. Grandfather said, “Let me tell you a story. I too, at times have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times. It is as if there are two wolves inside me, one is white and one is black. The white wolf is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended. But will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way.

But, the black wolf is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him off into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. Sometimes it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit.”

The boy looked into his Grandfather's eyes, and asked, “Which one wins Grandfather?”

The Grandfather, smiled and said, “The one I feed.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Proverbs 25:
21 If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink: 22 For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the LORD shall reward thee.

Romans 12:
20 Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. 21 Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.

Words from a friend…

When we forgive someone we excuse them from just condemnation of the law because there is no forgiveness that does not come from above. When someone offends us, the truth in our forgiveness is shown when we not only forgive them ourselves, we ask God to forgive them too. This brings grace into the equation between us and the offender just as it does between God and ourselves through Jesus Christ.

Through grace one learns of the attributes of Christ and when we do for others as Christ did for us we become more like him. Forgiving is not human in nature, it is divine. The person doing the forgiving has moved forward along the path toward righteousness and the person being forgiven is introduced to it.

I have not written before about quilting and quilts, but since I am a passionate quilter (some will have known this but maybe not most who visit my Journal) it seemed well past time that I wrote something on this subject as well.

The image to the left is that of a quilt book published in 2005 by Martingale & Company, USA, and is my latest quilt book acquisition, one full of wonderful projects. This book describes a new way of using an old method of piecing a quilt, that of covering each paper hexagon with a piece of fabric which is basted into place, then hand sewing the hexagons together through the fabric only using tiny stitches that are practically invisible afterwards. The paper hexagons are removed from the back of the work, then with the same tiny stitches the hexagon piecework is hand-sewn on to the larger background fabric. Sewing one piece of fabric on top of another piece of fabric is called appliqué work and is one of my favourite ways of making a quilt. The rest of the design - the flower pot with vines, leaves and hexagon pieced flowers - is constructed and appliquéd on to the background in the same way.

(Permission to use this image on my site has been granted by the publisher - to use it without permission violates copyright. )

This is my latest quilt project. I am making a quilt following this design - more or less - using a darker green, burgundy reds, a junior navy instead of brown (just to be different) and all rich, deep, saturated jewel colours. Whereas the quilt in the book is a minature, mine will be proportionally the same but full size. There is a lot of hand sewing required. Indeed, all of the quilt top, except for adding the green border to the cream background, is hand sewn. Would you like to guess how many paper hexagons I will need to cover with fabric? I can tell you now that this will keep me going all through the forthcoming winter evenings. There are no less than 750 hexagons involved in that quilt. Just as well I actually like English paper piecing. Yep, I sure am a pretty patient type.

March is the first month of Autumn “down under” and already the temperatures have cooled. The winds have picked up, blustery and strong, blowing the leaves from the exotics while the evergreen natives come to life as great Tolkien-like monsters, whole bodies waving, bending and swaying, but feet firmly grounded. They will keep the flesh on their bones - green leaves on their branches - while the imports are fast turning to skeletons, littering the lawn in crunchy carpets of gold, red and brown.

There are still many flowers in my garden, some sheltered places for sitting out in the sun, and the fun of watching clouds scudding in ever-distorting shapes while surprised birds fly unwittingly backwards. The last of the Monarch caterpillars are “J”-ing on the swanplants - the late ones who will now take longer than their older siblings to re-birth into butterflies as the warmth disappears from the sunlight. I have pulled most of the weeds, and trimmed and pruned. Now it is time to tend to my Grandmother’s Garden, the one made to provide warmth for the winter. Already 63 hexagons covered - only another 687 to go!

Ecclesiastes 3:

1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

9 What does the worker gain from his toil? 10 I have seen the burden God has laid on men. 11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. 12 I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. 13 That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. 14 I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him.

The first day of March is the first day of Autumn in the Southern Hemisphere. We have had no cause to complain about our summer this year - it has been warm, sunny and for the most part, fine. When I have been missing from my computer, I have mostly been out in the garden, encouraging things to grow. So now I have lots of flowers with which to decorate my Journal.

There is something deeply satisfying about digging with one’s hands in the soil, crumbling the earth between the fingers, sifting it to pick out the tiny weeds that would soon grow humongous if left there to do so, and making it ready to nourish the new seedlings about to be planted. It is more natural than sitting at a keyboard, risking Overuse Syndrome, a stiff back and sore shoulders, and reading all the woes of the world. It has been my much-needed respite from the frustration of questioning how it can possibly be that still, yes, even still, so many people have not yet comprehended the agenda of a certain aggressive and imperialistic ideology that slaughters and slanders but insists on appeasement on threat of more persecution and carnage to come. How can people not see it? Are they blind? Are they deaf? Are they scared? Are they cowards?

There are so many voices out there now, telling how it is, pointing to the signs and asking our leaders to stop and to notice, to think and remember. History forgotten is bound to repeat. Appeasement does not bring about peace. Oh where is Churchill just when we need him? Is there a Churchill anywhere out there? Or are all our leaders just modern-day Chamberlain clones instead?

A Roman Catholic Archbishop had something realistic to say. Yes, we could be a little more sensitive and try to avoid treading on the toes of others - but they must stop destroying us! The idea of reciprocity must not be ignored. If the intention is to destroy us, then considering such sensitivities as trodden-on toes has very low priority in the light of a far greater issue, surely that of our very survival. Is a blasphemous bruise as bad as a bomb and brutal beheadings? I guess a touch of perspective tells that it depends on whose toes versus whose headless torso.

But if the reader who came calling from a certain cartoon site is the same one who claimed I know nothing of this subject, and that this ideology is good, then please look to the left-hand sidebar and visit my page on Islam. Hiding one’s head in the sand will not make anything go away. It is simply premature burial, leading to death whatever the order of things. Or look to the words of wisdom below and weigh up the witness of world events. Yes reader, I am sad too - just like you. I am sad that so many have been deceived by this devilish doctrine that pushes domination and death.

I think that one of the most horrifying images that has caught in my mind is that of the mother who dressed the third of her sons to follow his two other brothers on a murder-suicide mission, and jubilant in his death she told how she has five more she is grooming for the same end. I am a mother. I have a son. What a horrendous distortion of maternal instinct to so joyfully commit your own child to such an end.

There are forces in this world that are utterly evil, and by their fruits they are known.

It is a matter of perspective. While I am focussed inwards and trapped by my own preoccupations, I am limited by the volume of my cranium. Worries bounce like echoes off the inside walls of my skull - oh, does that imply an emptiness in there? I am certainly caught within a closed system.

There was a worrier who spent all day and most the night at his computer, researching worrisome things and quizzing others for their responses on a Christian forum. Several good souls tried to calm his fears with rational responses seasoned with some sound advice, but to little avail. It had become something of a lifestyle and while he was so absorbed in his own spiritual anxieties, there was little room for anything else to squeeze its way in as well.

It is interesting how we often need to do the opposite of what we are doing now. One who holds on needs to let go. One who looks inward needs to look outward. One who is self absorbed needs to care for others. One who is sedentary needs to get mobile. One who worries needs to trust that God is greater than all those worries and is able to handle them if asked, and bring about a good outcome for all who love Him and are prepared to do as He bids them.

While it is a matter of perspective, as unpopular as these next words might be, it is also (dare I say it?) a matter of obedience.

Out in the Fields

The little cares which fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what may come,
I cast them all away
Among the clover scented grass,
Among the new mown hay;
Among the hushing of the corn,
Where drowsing poppies nod,
Ill thoughts can die, and good be born,
Out in the fields of God.

(Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806-1861)

Matthew 6:28-30 “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you?”

Hello visitors from Australia, Austria, Brazil, Canada, Germany, India, Japan, NZ, UK and USA.
It is amazing where you all come from, and it is very nice to have you call in to visit. You are very welcome to register and leave a comment too.

It is Springtime here in New Zealand, and these Iceplant flowers are currently in bloom in my garden. This is a photo of a small portion of a large earthenware container with flowers cascading everywhere. Also in flower at the moment are Freesias, Irises, Sweat Peas, Lavender, Jasmine, Roses and many more, plus the native hebes too. There is nothing like a garden, and getting one’s hands into the soil, to touch base with nature and recharge the batteries when times are tough and life gets rough.

A Prayer in Spring
by Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.