To strike or not to strike?

Anyone who knows me will testify that I do not lack passion. They would tell you that when I believe in a cause I will go the distance, take the necessary action... However dramatic. Aged 16 sitting down in the street during a protest against the Iraq war.  Coordinating the staging of a 'die-in' outside an arms trade expo as a student. I'm bolshy enough. 

Among my great passions is healthcare free at the point of access for everyone. Regardless of gender, ethnicity, geography, class... of whether they pay taxes. Yes, even Starbucks and Amazon CEOs. Hm. Maybe. In my country, the NHS embodies this. I love this institution. I love being part of it. As long as my children were well cared-for in my absence and my basic material needs were met, I'd even do my job for free. I'm passionate about providing high quality care. About treating my patients as I'd want my children and my parents treated. That's why I come in early, stay late, go without food and water and toilet breaks. You don't need those if you don't have time to drink anyway. 

So it's surprising to me that I've had to do so much soul-searching about whether or not to participate in strike action by junior doctors this week. I haven't flinched over the last strike actions. But this week is different. It sees the removal of emergency care. Strike action that calls for even those of us in acute specialities such as mine to down tools and walk out of the building 8am-5pm for two consecutive days. 

I've had to ask myself some questions. 

Do I doubt the cause? No. The contract due to be imposed on junior doctors across England from August is unfair and unsafe.

It's unfair that I'll probably lose out financially. I don't care about money. I really don't. As long as I can afford the basics. But even those may be called into question under the new contract. And I need time with my husband and children on days of the week when they are not at work or in school.  My 5 year old does not think Saturday morning is a normal working day. BUT, although I'm not sure what unfair changes will be necessary for my family from August, my faith in a God who does immeasurably more than meet my basic needs tells me that we will be okay. 

The contract is unsafe. And this is my biggest worry. Spreading the same amount of butter on a larger slice of toast equals a thinner layer of butter, no? Doesn't take a brain surgeon to work that one out. Or a renal physician. They're actually the cleverest out of the lot of us. The proposed rota changes are eye-watering. Doctors will be sleep-deprived and jet-lagged. Finishing a night shift one morning (still sleep-deprived from the first night) and starting a day shift the next day? It takes me days to come on and off night shifts under the current system. In that situation, do you want me holding the scalpel that delivers your baby? Your bladder, bowels and your baby certainly aren't keen.  

Most importantly though, I believe that breaking junior doctors would be a major step on the road to success for a health secretary who has admitted that privatising the NHS is a desirable goal. 

So, no. I don't doubt the cause.

Am I worried that patient safety will be compromised during strike action? I can honestly say that I do not believe a single patient will come to harm in my department. We have a huge team of non-training grade and consultant doctors who are loving the chance to cover for us. Because they believe in this cause too. And because they actually miss the kind of patient contact you get on the front line. I'm not lying, one of them actually said that. We might have had to show one of our most senior consultants how to use a bleep, but we're all sorted now. He's got his bleep license. 

So why the hesitancy then? Why not strike? 

Because of a bit of me worries about what it says to my patients that I would leave them in their hour of need. In their emergencies. I became a doctor to help people. I have compassion. Can I walk away? 

So I did what I do as a follower of Jesus. I asked God. Because I'm used to him answering, directing, guiding me. And with all my actions, I live to honour Him. I hate it when he tells me the choice is up to me. But that's what He did. Both options are okay. 

So I did what I do as a doctor. I weighed up the risks and the benefits. We're good at that.

I have decided to strike. Because my patients will be fine tomorrow. But they will not be fine when the new contract is imposed and I cannot look after them to an adequate standard because I am spread too thinly. This butter will melt into the toast and you won't even be able to taste its saltiness. And because they will definitely not be fine when our government have privatised the NHS. Profit and medicine do not mix. Ask the Americans. 

I have decided to strike because I support my colleagues. Because we are a team and I want to stand with them. Because they need me more than my patients do tomorrow. Because I make a great picket-line brew and I have the best flask. Because at the government's own admission the contract discriminates against women, doctors doing much-needed research and single parents. Because I have a friend who is a female medical student who wants to have babies one day and is seriously doubtful as to whether that's possible in the post-imposition world. 

God doesn't need me to strike to save the NHS. He can do all things. I could go to work and pray for justice for myself, my colleagues and my patients. I believe he'd be more than okay with that. But I also believe He gave me passion for a reason. And He also made me pretty good at non-violent direct action. And I'm pretty sure He's okay with me doing that too. But most of all I'll be praying. For all of us and our beloved old lady, the NHS and all the people who have the passion and privilege to care for. 

Welcome

Have you got a spare room? It doesn't need to be very big. Or very beautiful. A bed or a sofa bed would do. A small space in the corner of your life for someone who needs it.

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ Matthew 25:34-36

Over the last 48 hrs or so there has been an explosion. An explosion of awareness. Of desire to do 'something' to help. Getting that something right is really important. Everyone seems to be trying to fill vans with 'stuff' and get it to Calais, maybe further afield to Greece, Italy, Turkey... Including me. That's great. It shows that we care, we want to respond to human suffering, human need. And from what I hear from those on the ground in Calais, 'stuff' is still welcome - we're not doing a bad thing. But as the volunteers at Calais camps find themselves swamped with (sometimes unsorted and unhelpful) donations, I can't help but wonder if this is the absolute best 'something' we can give.

Below follows a bit about my experience of hosting asylum seekers in our home. I've included a bit of an FAQ at the bottom in case you're in a hurry. This is not a story about the heroic Riches family and how they scoop refugees off the street and look after them. This is about the ladies that have stayed with us, and the immense blessing they have been to us. The laughs we've had, all we've learned, seeing my 18 month old being read a story in Somali... It's not always easy - there are cross-cultural differences galore, there are times when you just want it to be only your family in the house, when another adult seems to take up too much space. But look at the need. And think about whether you can make the sacrifice. It's harder than bundling up your old clothes and putting them on a van headed somewhere where they might get to people who need them. But true sacrifice is what is asked of us. And true sacrifice is where the blessing lies. 

In 2009 my husband and I opened our home to our first asylum-seeker guest through the wonderful organisation The Boaz Trust. She was called I and she came from the Congo. She spoke mainly French. Why did we do it? Because we knew that our city was full of literally tens of thousands of 'failed' asylum seekers with no recourse to public funds, nowhere to stay, and no way of returning to their home country. In many cases they were (are) not actually allowed to be returned to their country of origin as they're deemed too unsafe by the foreign office. But not unsafe enough to warrant asylum here... Go figure. Anyway, that's another blog post for another day.

So there we were. With a random African woman living in our house. With all her stuff. Singing French songs at the top of her voice. Cooking goat in my kitchen. It was odd to start off with, I won't lie. She didn't get in our way. All of the guests we have had over the years have tended to keep to themselves, unless we have specifically drawn them out. We invited her to join us for the occasional meal, but mainly she ate her own meals in her own time. She was out a lot of the time. But sometimes she would sit with me, having a coffee, and chatting in Frenglish. She would throw her head back and laugh. I remember one morning trying to engage her in a serious conversation about healthcare in the Congo... with my International Health and Development hat on, I asked her some serious questions about how things worked. Including asking her why she thought people in Africa had so many kids. I expected her to say that they needed them to look after the old people, to work to earn money for the family... She gave a wide smile and said that she thought it was because there was nothing to do but have sex when you didn't have a job. Unexpected. But that's one of the things I love about meeting people from other cultures.

I will tell the truth, sometimes my guests have irritated me. One lady called G who came from Nigeria insisted on doing the washing up in our teeny tiny kitchen. We were eating with some guests in the next room. I had asked her not to do it as the dishes were literally stacked to the ceiling as I'd cooked something ridiculously ambitious. As we relaxed with our wine, I heard a shriek from the kitchen and went running to find she had smashed one of my wedding gifts - a Le Creuset ramekin. One of a set of 6. To this day I only have 5 ramekins - never having been able to justify the extortionate cost of buying 2 (and also a bit anal about the thought of owning 7... still an odd number). I look at them and smile, remembering her. I was so mad at the time though, I'm not going to lie. Why hadn't she just listened to me? Why didn't she do what I asked? And now I know - because she just wanted to help. We were helping her, she probably felt indebted and awkward about it. She was probably looking for something to do to bless us in return. And that's what my broken designer ramekin stands for.

And then there was A. From Somalia. The other ladies stayed with us before children entered our lives. But A came later. She moved into Noah's room when it became apparent that after 10 months, he was still not up for moving out of our bed. His room seemed wasted and empty. Enter A. She was in her early twenties, and her story was atrocious. A mother of four babies - one had died shortly after birth. She had come from a village where militiamen regularly arrived, gang-raped the women (including her), fought with the men... and left again. But they knew that they'd come back. One day when they came, intense fighting broke out. She was separated from her husband and three children. She never found them again. She searched for them, but her life was in danger and she ended up in the UK. As she played with Noah, laughing and smiling, I struggled to comprehend the hurt that must be inside her. I couldn't even imagine. 

Are you ready to help someone like A? To give her the stability of a roof over her head, people who care about how she is and want to help her?

There's a million excuses we could give about why we can't do it... Here are a couple of things you might be thinking.

1. My house isn't big enough - really? Do you realise how little space many of these people are used to? is it dry and warm? Sometimes that's all it takes to be better than the alternative.
2. What if they steal/damage my stuff? - get to know them, this fear will disappear. Why would they jeopardize their only safe place to stay? And what do you have that you'd miss if it was gone that wasn't worth the risk of helping someone in need? As they say, you can't take it with you when you go... As for breakages, see above.
3. What about my kids? What better way for them to learn about other cultures, learning to serve and sacrifice, learning another language even. Baby Noah being read books and sung songs in Somali by A is one of my treasured memories.
4. What if I go away for the weekend? - Boaz can usually find an alternative host for a few nights if you're not happy for your guest to stay in your house.
5.  Do I have to feed them, because I'm not sure I can afford it? - not necessarily., but it really helps. They don't have a lot as they don't have access to benefits and aren't allowed to work. Some get weekly food parcels (which aren't great). If you really can't afford to make an extra portion then ask around - I'm sure someone who is not as brave as you in taking someone into their home will happily crowd fund a few hot dinners for your guest.
6.  I need my spare room back for the weekend as I have guests coming - as above in number 4, arrangements might be able to be made for your asylum-seeker guest. If not, could your guests stay elsewhere for the weekend? Travelodge?- it could be their contribution to your effort. Or with your friends?

Feel free to get in touch if you want to ask anything further. Get in touch with The Boaz Trust if I've convinced you.

You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt

- Deuteronomy 10:19

You're Beautiful

"I see your face in every sunrise

The colours of the morning are inside your eyes

The world awakes in the light of the day

I look up to the sky and say

You're beautiful"

Singing these words over in church this morning, I wondered if I really knew what they meant. Struck by just how difficult it was for my tiny mind to comprehend just how beautiful He is. How I just had no idea.  And then words from years ago echoed in my head. A wise and wonderful preacher I once knew who said "If you don't think you love God enough, then really, you don't know how much God loves you".

And then flashback. It's the early hours of the morning. I'm standing at the operating table in bright theatre lights. It's been a long night. This woman is one of many I've got to know over the last nine hours or so. We've been in and out of her room on labour ward all night. Things have moved slowly, there have been concerns about the baby, and we've ended up here, doing a C-section. Her partner has been with her all the while. He sits by her head, just behind the screen, but I can just see him in my peripheral vision. Silent, grey-faced, worried-looking. Concerned at her pain, perhaps more concerned about what will happen to her ultimately, what will happen to their baby. He hasn't been the type to ask a lot of questions. He looks more worried now, uncomfortable in theatre scrubs. I doubt he finds any reassurance from us, unrecognisable scrubbed for theatre, masked and gowned. He waits.

I do my job and think nothing of it. As I step back from the table at the end of the operation, he has just been passed his baby.

His face is changed. The colour has come back. The lines of worry are smoothed, lifted to lines of joy. I barely recognise him. The happiness as he looks down at his newest child. The beeping machines of theatre, the bright lights, all of this has faded away. This is not his first baby, but in that moment, he can see no other person. No other being can compare to the beauty he sees before him. And his face says all that.

That's when it strikes me that this is how God sees each one of us.
"Look at you, my child. You are so beautiful."
And his fatherly face filled with love and kindness.

We can focus on our worries, our uncertainty... Even our uncertainty about whether we love God enough, or whether we understand His true beauty. Or we can turn away, turn into his face and listen to him tell us, "You're beautiful".

Promised Land

Israel. The word conjures memories. Hammocks swaying in the warm air of lemon-groved gardens. Gazing up at the stars in the black sky. Grown-ups laughing round the table; drinking wine, eating. Sunsets on the beach. Swimming in the sea, splashing in the pool. Kind faces. Friends. But then. An undertone of fear. Bomb-shelters in basements. The numbers I noticed on the arm of an elderly friend. Explosions heard from the same poolside. "Planes breaking the sound barrier," I was told.

Growing up, Israel was present. In our conversation. In our art. In our bookshelves. In our food. In our family holidays. My family are not Jewish. Not by bloodline, anyway. My step-father, attracted by the concept of communal living, spent time post-university living and working on a kibbutz in the north of the country.  And in the long-running 'conflict' with the Palestinians, there was no hiding the fact that the sympathy of my parents lay with the Israelis; friends who lived in fear of their teenage children boarding buses and being the next victims of a suicide bomber.

But now, years later I see Gaza. Fear-stricken-faces running through rubble. Bodies of children stretched out on hospital trolleys, tortured eyes, broken limbs, bullet holes. Head-scarved old women, covering their eyes. Wailing. Brothers and Uncles, angry. Fists punching air. My heart pounds and my stomach twists and turns. Two hospitals hit by Israeli fire in two weeks. Families killed sheltering in UN buildings.

I was 21 years old, on the other side of the world when I met A. Palestinian born and raised, but he looked like he could have been my brother. Same pale skin, freckles, slightly red-toned hair. Immediately the conversation turned to this homeland. His manner was mild, gentle and kind. But he spoke with conviction and his tone was firm. Looking back, the patience he had with my utter ignorance of the plight of his people astounds me.

 He spoke to me of his grandparents, dispossessed of their land after World War II. He told me about his life, a medical student in East Jerusalem. The struggles getting to and from University via unpredictable road blocks. He told me about The Wall. About Palestinians trying to reach medical facilities dying whilst Israeli soldiers looked on. About Israeli soldiers throwing grenades at Palestinian children on their way to school. About what he lacked growing up as a refugee.

I was no longer able to defend the actions of the country I loved. But I continued to love its people. And part of love is to let the other party know when you know they are wrong.

So I have often found myself on the pro-Palestinian side of the lines during violent uprisings and incursions. And I did yesterday. I won't agree with everything the protesters chant. But I will stand up for the weakest in the face of a stronger aggressor. My son, aged 4, asked why we were going. I explained to him frankly that in a country quite far away, there were people who were hurting each other. That lots of children were getting hurt. I explained that God loved all these people, and that we loved them too. We were going to ask them to stop the fighting. But I let him draw Palestinian flags and buy himself a 'Free Palestine' badge.



Arriving at Piccadilly Gardens, I was impressed by the diverse turnout. Especially with the presence of Jews For Justice For Palestinians. The rhetoric from the microphone was peaceful. We were to demonstrate without violence, without hatred, without antisemitism, without racism.  We were to let businesses investing in Israel know that we would be boycotting them whilst this action against Gaza continued. After about an hour and a half, my family broke away from our side of the protest. Manchester was sending it's best downpour. My husband had no jacket. The baby had woken up and was not pleased about being strapped into a pushchair. We left the protest as it snaked from Barclays to Marks and Spencers.



Suddenly, we turned a corner and were face to face with blue and white, Stars of David. We were outside Kedem, an Israeli-owned business selling goods from the Dead Sea. I'd heard tales from the pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathering there daily to encourage shoppers to boycott. Pro-Israeli protesters gathered to oppose them, cheering as the names of dead Palestinian children killed int he military action that week were read aloud.  My Muslim friend had racist abuse yelled at her as she stood peacefully and silently holding signs outside the shop. This was not somewhere I wanted to be with a small boy waving his hand-crayoned Palestinian flag. We hurried through. I noted a policewoman in her uniform embracing a man wrapped in the Israeli flag.

We stood on the other side of the road, watching. Bitterness, anger, hate afflicted their faces. My son asked what they were shouting. I was at a loss.  It had seemed easier when I hadn't had two opposing sides to explain. He kept asking as I gazed at the 4-5 pro-Palestinian protesters being swallowed by the sea of white and blue. Their banner had shown a  premature baby on a ventilator who had been delivered from a dead mother, killed in the fighting. She disappeared. I shuddered to think what would happen here later when the black, red and green arrived. I wondered what hope there was for peace where the bombs fell, when we so far removed from the violence could not even speak kindly, act peacefully.

Some men held banners proclaiming their reason for supporting Israel today was their Christianity.

I wondered. Where would Jesus stand today? I know he wouldn't be muttering about 'complex issues' and changing the subject. I know He wouldn't be rolling into Gaza on a tank. I know He wouldn't be firing rockets into Israel for Hamas.

He of immeasurable love and justice, where would He be found? I imagine Him standing in the middle, between these two groups. I imagine He would see straight to the fear, the insecurity, the generations of hurt on each side. I imagine Him open his arms to Muslim, Jew, Christian, saddened by the disrespect and hatred expressed one for the other.

The Name for God

'Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of little children'
- William Thackery

Mothering Sunday. Pink everywhere. Florists breaking their traditional working hours to trade on a Sunday. On the streets unkempt men walk quickly having 'just popped out for something', clutching paper and plastic-wrapped carnations in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. Restaurants have papered over their usual Sunday offers, knowing they won't need to sweeten the deal to haul the customers in today. Mothers of young children unwrap delicate parcels to find painted pasta necklaces and hand-printed cards. Dads everywhere breathe a sigh of relief that preschool teachers had the forethought they lacked.

This is the day we celebrate motherhood. We celebrate it because we recognize the sacrifice that it entails. Or we think we do. Before I was a mother myself I knew that there was something mysterious about  motherhood, that I didn't quite grasp. Then I became a mum, and now I know that there are things about being in this role that only other mothers can relate to.  The following are the three things I find most difficult about being a mum.

First of all there is the, sheer, utter, complete exhaustion. As a student I frequently stayed up til dawn debating, talking, joking with friends... sometimes night after night. Then I'd spend the whole of the next day awake. I was tired. But not like this. As a junior doctor I've done night-shift after night-shift responsible for all the medical or surgical patients in a large hospital, with sick patients and grumpy medical registrars. It was tiring. But not like this. When the sun rose, I  drove home, responsible for no one but myself, and could crawl under the duvet and sleep all day long in reasonable amounts of peace (barring the occasional knock from a postman with a parcel or a drill on the road outside). With a baby, the jolts from sleep are unrelenting. The somebody who needs you (and only you) is indifferent to the colour of the sky, the number of hours you have been on duty or the last time you ate. If you're lucky, you might get a nap in the daytime whilst the baby sleeps. If you're unlucky, the baby falls asleep, you rush round tidying, putting on washing, maybe preparing some dinner, then fall into bed hoping for sleep just as the baby's familiar tones drift across the baby monitor, pulling you to your feet again. If you have an older child, your chances of sleep in the day are slim to none. You might as well just forget it and slug down the coffee. Gradually, thinking and dreaming about sleep becomes boring.  You resign yourself to achieving fewer and fewer hours of the mythical stuff. You stop talking about it, and just laugh hollowly when asked about it.

Then there is the extreme lack of alone time. Not even when you want to use the bathroom. If you shut the door when you're on the loo, somebody is soon shouting for you from downstairs. Or has clocked where you've gone to, and started asking you questions through the door. Currently my younger child will not tolerate being separated from me for the time it takes for a quick trip to the loo. Thus, I rarely get through an entire wee without having to stop (very good for the pelvic floor) and rescue my crawler from the shower tray, trapping her finger in the bathroom cupboards or bumping her face off the bath as she pulls to stand. When people ask me how I'm getting on back at work, how am I managing four full days a week in a busy A&E department and having two wee ones at home, I often smile and say that I appreciate that I at least get to go to the loo on my own at work. And that I get to finish an entire cup of (still hot) tea during my breaks. And if I can't perform normal bodily functions alone, the chances that I can do much else alone are totally scuppered.

A third problem that is particularly true for mothers who breastfeed is the claustrophobic feeling that your body is no longer your own. Your time, your patience and your multi-tasking skills are being tested to the limit, but if that weren't enough, these little people even want your very physical being. It starts before they're born. I enjoyed my first pregnancy immensely, but even then there was the feeling that my body had been hijacked by a tiny human holding court somewhere deep inside. By the end of my second pregnancy, suffering from antenatal depression and a variety of seemingly trivial, but utterly agonising pregnancy-related physical complaints, I looked forward to nothing more than my abdomen and pelvis being vacated. And this despite the fact that this time I knew what to expect from labour (ie not the candles, birth pools and massage oils I'd dreamed up during my first pregnancy). Then they're out. Breastfeeding is beautiful. I can hand on heart say that it saved my bond with my first child during the long months of post-natal depression I suffered after his birth. But it does mean (at least with my babies) that you have someone literally sucking the life out of you pretty much round the clock. I'm not kidding. I was trying to wash my hair in the bath the other day and my youngest latched on for a post-breakfast snack. Your body when you have young children is not only exhausted, but beaten and bruised from feeding them, carrying them around on your hip all day and sleeping awkwardly so that you don't disrupt their fragile sleep-wake balance.

I realise I am not making motherhood sound massively attractive. It's not glamorous. It's a massive sacrifice. I've struggled with this, and not gracefully. I love my children more than I could ever have imagined I would. I know how extremely blessed I am to have been able to conceive them and carry them. But I've been bitter, I've felt resentful of my husband and I've just felt that none of this sacrifice was very fair. At times this has led to streams of silent tears, or fits of rage and tantrums a toddler would be proud of.  At other times, I have silently got on with it, enjoyed the good days, accepted the bad and drunk an awful lot of coffee and the odd gin and tonic.

This weekend I had my perspective changed. I attended a wonderful day conference for Christian mums. I was privileged to be joined by some of my best friends. We were like children ourselves, practically giddy at the prospect of a day without kids or work. It felt wonderful to be in the presence of other people who knew my struggles. Who knew how hard it was to try my best to be a good and godly mum, and to feel like I fail at this an awful lot of the time. But best of all was the insight and truth brought by keynote speaker, Ness Wilson.  She described mothers as a 'perfect snapshot of God's perfect love'. I sniggered inside, hoping beyond hope that God loves better than I. But it went further. How we nurture and tend to our children builds a framework on which they will then be able to see and receive God's love. They will know the love of God and recognise it for what it is when they are first loved by a mother who will sacrifice all for them. And God knows about sacrifice. Did He not make the ultimate sacrifice for us in giving up His very own son, coming to earth in the form of a man and suffering torture and death in order that we might be restored to full righteousness? I know this, but maybe such a sacrifice is too big for my tiny brain to compute. How about Jesus and the Disciples? They were busy. Really busy. The bible tells us that the demands on their time were so great that they barely had time to eat and rest. Mothers can relate to that.

I regularly pay lip service to the idea of ‘giving my all’ for God. I sing it in church often enough. And I’ve always thought I meant it. When I think about it now, I think I meant that I would give my all for the things I felt God was calling me to, the things I am passionate about. Yes, I will give my all to fight global poverty, to bring healthcare to those who don’t have it, to stand up for refugees and asylum seekers to have no voice, to serve the homeless… Will I give my all for the little things? Will I put my all into helping my 3-year-old cellotape his toilet roll vehicle creations? Will I lay aside the work I’m doing on my laptop help him get the colour of his homemade playdough just right?

So when I get up for the third time in the night and stumble towards the crying voice of my baby girl, lift her from her cot and sit feeding her in the darkness of her room... The comfort and love I show to her then will help her know how God loves her, how he longs to tend to her every need and sound, how he will never ignore her cry in the dark. What a privilege.  

All That Matters

The thing is, I had a whole list of mummy/feminist/parental-type issues to blog about. I could have picked any one of them. Except the one where I wax lyrical about the benefits of having a working dishwasher once again. Probably not what you want to hear about. Although I did catch one of my mummy friends giving me an 'OooooO' when I mentioned it.  I might have picked shared parental leave or postnatal body image. You would have related, hopefully at least cracked a smile in mild amusement, and possibly returned for discussion of such issues in the future. That would be my hope. As it turns out, there's only one thing in my head today, one thing that I keep coming back to and can't get away from. And that's how fantastically amazing the baptisms were at my church last night. Really. And that's not the kind of thing I thought I would be blogging on.

Now, I love a good baptism. What's not to love? Happy people getting dunked in freezing cold water, rising up out of said water to the sound of applause from the congregation and a shiny new slate. There's a high feel-good factor at a baptismal service. I've been to quite a lot of them. It's always nice, it's always moving. But last night I think there was something more profound about what happened.  

The place was packed, folding seats were being brought in from other parts of the church, people were standing, sitting on the floor. The atmosphere was electric. It was notable enough for me to get my phone out and tweet. And that's not something I do often. One by one, 11 people got up and told their stories. What life was like before they met Jesus, how they met Him and what had changed. Every story was amazing. But what was significant to me was how different each of these people were.  A beautifully-manicured young woman with a perfect face of make up and pearl earrings who spoke eloquently, a 7 foot-giant of a man with a seriously hefty gold cross round his neck, a timid middle-aged lady whose voice came so softly we had to strain to hear. Each story was unique, and bore testament to the amazing transforming power of the cross in its own way. A life of criminal activity turned around since hearing and accepting the gospel. A woman locked in a prison cell for the umpteenth time, desperate to know if the God she'd heard about was real; overjoyed when He answered her cries with a vision and a deep, deep peace in her heart - now working, off drugs and loving Jesus. A lady in the middle of her life who simply stated that she had always loved Jesus. A young woman addicted to alcohol who'd lost three children as her life slipped off the rails, repeatedly admitted to mental health units and medical wards, changed as she came to know Jesus - no longer addicted and holding down a job. A woman set free from a destructive relationship that had lasted nearly an entire decade because she heard God's call on her life.  Two young women who had both grown up in Christian households, finding faith for themselves and using their baptism as a public declaration of their own faith. A man who played bible bingo (opening your bible at a random page and choosing a random passage), came up with 'The Parable of The Sower' and decided if the church service that afternoon was on that passage, that that meant God was real and he'd become a Christian. Needless to say, the service was indeed about 'The Parable of the Sower'.

Each of these people from different backgrounds, different colours, different genders, different communities, different levels of education, different incomes, different life experiences... They all went into the same water.

The sheer simplicity of this was stunning. Where else would you see each of these together? Each on a level with the other. Equally considered children of The Most High God. And there was I. As much a brother and sister of one of those as with my own flesh and blood. Tonight I was no-one's mother, no one's wife. My profession, my ambitions, my identity struggles... swept away by one clear truth. We were all people who at one point had heard a story about a man who died on a cross to take our place. We all accepted this sacrifice, said "Yes" to this offer of salvation and celebrated with each other. And that was all that really mattered. This is what church should look like. 

Gold Stars

So. Nearly a year since my last post. Hrm. Probably best not to trawl through what’s happened since then. Better to let it all come out in the wash, a bit like a spaghetti bolognaise stain on a baby’s white t-shirt… slowly and painfully. But I'm back. At least until Baby Girl wakes up. She's cute (a definite evolutionary advantage), but you can't blog with an awake baby. That would require six arms. For some reason our species has evolved without six arms. I'm surprised by this. But, I digress. A definite risk when you're used to thinking about 16 things at the same time... and none of them very clearly...

We recently inherited these scales from my husband's granny. I've been looking at them a lot and thinking about measurement. Thoughts usually punctuated by pauses to chatter to Baby Girl, shouting because she's getting bored of banging a wooden spoon on her highchair table, or to placate Boy, furiously crying because I put the wrong filling in his sandwich. I've mainly been thinking about how we measure our value, our worth. Things I don't measure so often now. They've been replaced by the measurement of lentils, butter, flour and other daily fodder for my household. I think about how I used to weigh them... I used my achievements to mark degrees of value, degrees of worth. Not so easily done these days.

From an early age, I was driven to achieve. Apparently I came home crying on the first day of school, bitterly disappointed that I hadn't yet learned to read and write. I wanted to be the best in the class, whatever the subject. I measured my own value in the red inky comments at the bottom of my latest short story, in the score on the most recent spelling test, the praise received for my painting. My mum tried to discourage this over-achieving; telling me she'd be proud of me even if I was working in a fast-food restaurant or sweeping the streets, so long as I was happy. I pressed on regardless.

And so it was that I was plunged (or rather, plunged myself) straight from final year of medical school into motherhood. I worked hard despite growing Boy Bump, and the odd trip here and there to the Early Pregnancy Unit with one complication or another. It all went well and I achieved a pass with honours. Even pregnancy was an exercise in achievement; conceiving at the earliest possible opportunity meant that my last ever day at medical school was the same day Boy Bump turned 37 weeks; full term. I had to achieve perfect growth (ideally 25th-50th centile), delivery (homebirth, no pain relief) and timing of my baby (after 37 weeks, no later than 39 weeks). To fail to attain these self-set goals wasn't worth thinking about. There was no plan B. So you can imagine the slight ripples sent through my world when afore-mentioned homebirth turned out to be an entirely terrifying experience ending in blue-light transfer to hospital.

And then there is child-rearing. Nine months into maternity leave, over a year since I last worked and I find myself frustrated, disgruntled with my daily role. How does a person who measures their own value in concrete achievements feel satisfied with motherhood? Because motherhood is not a land where achievement is measured in test scores, and encouraging feedback is not commonplace here. There are rarely gold stars at the end of the day. Not for me anyway. Sometimes Boy gets gold stars if he manages to get himself dressed, go an entire day without shouting at me and remembers his manners at mealtimes. And thus the cycle of need for positive feedback is perpetuated... Hm. Worth thinking about that, I guess. Anyway. If you are a stay-at-home-parent you will know what it is like to expend effort until your very bones ache, but yet have very little to show for it. There are few other people who truly understand this. To spend your entire day from before sunrise til long after sunset 'doing', but yet have very little to say when asked, "So, what have you been up to today?" by an innocent party. When some days your only achievement is that you and the two small people you are charged with are still alive at the end of the day, and it's taken blood, sweat and tears to get to that point... Where is your identity as an 'achiever' then? 

So, how to deal with this? If you're me, you might make ridiculous plans to achieve ridiculous things whilst continuing in the role of full-time mum. These are usually concocted after one too many cups of caffeine. You know, when your sleep-deprived haze lifts ever-so-slightly and you feeling like you're flying? In that state I do things like borrow Arabic linguaphone cds to listen to whilst breastfeeding a newborn, signing up for professional exams that I don't need to take until years into the future so that I can do practice questions on my iPhone whilst I stir some kind of stew for dinner... Anything to make me feel like I am managing something I can look back on as a tangible achievement. Later, these high-flying paper-aeroplane ideas plummet to earth, crashing and burning ungraciously.

Why isn't the act of mothering satisfying in itself? It must be for some women, but I haven't found that to be true for myself. This feels like a terrible admission. It is certainly not that I don't love and enjoy spending time with my children. Their smiles, giggles, spontaneous cuddles, funny sayings and doings are precious gold in the silt of the river I pan daily. I think the answer lies out there, in wider society. The role of the mother has consistently been undervalued, throughout history and throughout the world. As girls we are brought up to believe that we can do anything we want, that we have equal opportunities with men to achieve our goals and dreams, but it's a rare girl who aspires to be a mother over all else. We need to ask ourselves why this is. 

ps The trite Christian answer to my problem would be that I need to find my self-worth in God, that my value to Him is not measured by my achievement. That His grace is enough regardless of what I do or do not do. I know this. I'm working on believing it.