I love trees, but I wouldn’t normally run up to one and fling my arms around its girth. Neither do I boycott whatever threatens trees like some activists do. Although I am sad to see any tree, ancient or young, felled.

Trees stand with dignity. Full-grown, the beech is a stunning sight. Tall, with its round head, it sways like a jewelled crown of green and yellow in the early summer sunshine. And the English oak is majestic. Unassuming in its vastness, it stands elegant and sturdy. Deeply rooted, it endures almost all that the world throws at it. The oak lives life to the full and, spreading its branches wide, grows old gracefully. Its roots erupt through the earth, twisting and writhing like ancient snakes. Ridged and rough to the touch, the bark reminds me of the leathered face of an old Mongolian herder.

There are few fully deciduous trees in Mongolia. There are birch and poplars, but mostly it’s conifers and evergreens. They line some of the hills across this country. Slender and upright, row upon row, like towering sentries guarding their patch. We weave paths between them, treading carpets of faded needles as tender new ones adorn the pines. Sharp, citrusy scent fills our nostrils, reminding us of Christmases celebrated with family and friends. The ground is warm and heavy with loam, and all around are the sounds of new life. The simple call of the cuckoo, recently arrived after his epic journey from Africa, echoes through the forest. Woodpeckers, owls and larks, Asian Red squirrels and choughs all make their home in these trees.

Increased deforestation, the growth of urbanisation and subsequent pollution, have sadly depleted tree numbers here. Consequently, ten years ago, the Mongolian government introduced twice-yearly national tree planting days in May and October. Initially people responded slowly and many newly planted trees died. However, in recent years, people have begun to understand that trees are not only beautiful, but that they also benefit the environment. Trees give out oxygen, store carbon, stabilise the soil and prevent further erosion.

But beyond their beauty and environmental benefits, trees also speak simple, yet profound, spiritual truth into my life. Whether they be giants or tender young saplings, beaten by rain and wind or baked in the sun, they do not easily topple. Pushing their heads towards the light while their roots wriggle further and deeper into the soil, they constantly seek water and nutrients to keep on growing. In due season each bears fruit according its kind: apples, acorns and pine nuts, all of which provide food for others. Yes, trees are a reminder. As they become rooted, they remind me of my daily need to keep on growing in God. And their seemingly long lives jog my memory: there is more than this present moment; there is an eternity to be lived with God.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

There’s a general underlying belief, spoken or unspoken, amongst many Mongolians that good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to people who’ve done wrong, or have hidden sin. Such beliefs underpin a merit-making society, whereby people through good acts gain acceptance and respect. Some even believe that careful good behaviour can divert misfortune.

While these convictions might be a part of the Mongolian culture, I do not believe that they are unique to Mongolia. To some degree, they exist in every culture. Most people want to be good, or at least be recognised for their fine character. It feels good to be good. Sometimes our virtuous behaviour leaves us with the impression that we understand misery, misfortune, and why others suffer.

Perhaps such judgements expose our fears or, conversely, affirm our self-image as we seek to convince ourselves that we really are in control of our lives. But world events speak to the contrary. We live in a broken world, which we do not control. Misery and misfortune come unbidden. And to my eye, seem unevenly distributed because the innocent still suffer.

The Bible tells us that God is sovereign, that His love is unconditional, that He is with us in anguish and heartbreak, and that He can use pain for our good and His glory. Such truth is an antithesis to a world that strategises ways to live beyond or eradicate suffering.

Yet we can neither live beyond pain nor eradicate it from our lives. But we do have a choice. We can live in anxiety, pain and paralysing fear, or we can trust God. In trusting God, we find peace and realise that He understands our despair because He has experienced it first-hand. He is not immune to misery and suffering.

God sent His son, Jesus Christ, into our world. He entered our history, identified with man’s misery and pain, until finally His Father allowed Him to be nailed to the Cross. There, He took the weight of the world’s sin and suffering upon Himself. In that act, God experienced our final agony. The Father was cut off from His Son, and the Son was cut off from His Father. The Son experienced the loss of His Father’s love.

Ultimately that’s what misfortune, suffering and death does. It separates and deprives us of our loved ones. Knowing that God has experienced this, gives us the opportunity to draw comfort from Him. We are not alone. He has walked this way before us. He walks with us now.

In our own strength, we cannot be good. We probably can’t explain the days we live in either. But there is one thing we can know with certainty: God is trustworthy. We can throw ourselves on Him for He will sustain us.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

Two hundred countries and territories as well as two cruise ships-that’s the current reading the ‘Worldometers’ websites gives for the spread of the coronavirus. That is both incredible and devastating. In the early weeks as the potential implications of the virus began to unfold, I remember hearing an international health official say that there was no need for alarm. “We can and will conquer this,” he said with confidence.

While that may well be true, it has been horrifying to watch Covid-19 devastate our world. A couple of weeks after the health official’s announcement we watched a videoclip of American doctors and nurses praying. Gathered in a hospital corridor, some wept as they asked God to intervene, to stem the spread of the infection and bring peace and calm to the panicked population of their town. They also asked for healing and for wisdom as they treated patients.

Their admission of impotency was striking. Here was a group of skilled professionals acknowledging their limits and asking the Creator of man for His help. It reminded me how fragile life is and that, despite all the wonderful medical advancements across our world, influences beyond our ability to control remain.

Illness, suffering and loss are a part of our lives. Which often leads people to ask the age-old question, “Why does a God of love allow such pain and suffering?” Some answer that question by explaining that there is no God and that evil, grief and injustice are just part of existence. But that dismissive answer deprecates the layered complexities of life.

There are no succinct answers. But one thing is clear; in suffering, we long for a hope that is outside of ourselves. Affliction and sorrow heighten our desire for comfort. That desire can lead us to God, to believe that He exists, or to draw us closer to Him. Conversely, pain can simply affirm our doubts. Unanswered questions thwart and confuse our minds leading us to conclude that God is absent.

A relative of Mark’s has motor neurone disease. Her diagnosis was, naturally, a journey of fear and anxiety. There were moments when her messages sounded a note of despair. We, her family and friends, prayed and from a distance, we observed a change in her. She moved her trust beyond the doctors and fully onto God. Her messages reflected a true peace that comes in the worst of times as she realised that Jesus is her all in all.

To find peace in pain seems like craziness, particularly to our natural minds. Yet it is true! While we can’t tidily answer questions on sorrow and grief, we can point people to the place of true peace. When we look beyond ourselves, past our noisy media-driven world and life’s uncertainties; when we can acknowledge our finiteness, bow our knee and declare our constant need for a Saviour; then we enter a place of hope and peace, because it is in our weakness that God accomplishes His salvation.

 

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

Sometimes, after the initial introduction, there comes that serendipitous moment when we say, ‘What, you too?’ Whether it’s a shared interest, or a philosophy of life, we realise we have a connection with the person standing before us; a connection holds within the seeds of friendship.

We may have a similar disposition or character; we may be the same nationality and colour or we may be completely different. It doesn’t matter because discovering the seeds of friendship is like embarking on an exciting journey into the unknown.

Sincere and straightforward, we begin enjoying one another’s company. Our conversations are rich, stimulating thoughts and intellect as our horizons broaden. Friends honour us. They hear our words and understand our hearts until we find, whether we’re laughing, chatting or simply taking pleasure in companionable silence, we’ve become firm friends.

The Bible tells us that a friend can be closer than a relative. Perhaps because, to a degree, they are chosen and relatives are not.  A friend is dependable and faithful, loving us whether life is happy or not. Empathising with us in pain and celebrating our joys, they know us to the bottom of our hearts and still love us. Words of truth come from their lips: complimentary words that cause our hearts to swell and corrective words that crash against the wall of our fortified selves.

Different friends challenge me in different ways. Each brings something unique to our relationship that no other friend can impart. Their personality draws something out of me that no other person can reach, challenging me to be more than I am on my own; enabling me to become more the person that God has created me to be.

Yet, friends leave us. Some move away. Some die. And then, there’s the messiness of upsets and disagreements that leaves our dreamed image of the ideal friend disfigured. It is gut-wrenching. Something is lost, something in us dies.

 Only one friend never, no, never leaves us and never lets us down. Jesus! He is the ultimate friend. The friend who went to hell for me, who endured more pain than I can possibly comprehend, and yet still loves me totally and unreservedly. The one with whom I can have a complete and true emotional connection that frees me from the fear of rejection and fits me to become the person God desires me to be; the friend He created me to be.

God gifts us with friends. Old or new, it doesn’t matter. He created us and knowing our need for human friendship, He brings people into our lives that we might enjoy one another’s company, see His beauty revealed in humanity and turn our eyes to our one perfect Friend.

Our neighbour scrambled onto the roof of his ger and began clearing away the snow before the hot sun melted it and water began leaking into his home. It was a simple action but a reminder that Mongolian winters are harsh. After the wet and damp we experienced in England, and the ease of life in Ulaanbaatar, where homes are warm, water is on tap and the supermarkets full of food, it is easy to forget the herders living out on the steppe.

Urban Mongolia is changing and developing quickly, but Mongolia’s weather is relatively unchanged, and for the nomadic herders life remains a battle against the elements. Herders say that the weather is their master, especially during the long winter, when the cold can be ferocious and an ever-present threat to survival. But behind that master, they recognise a force. They aren’t always clear who or what that power is, other than it’s something spiritual − perhaps the god of the blue sky or the spirits that govern the earth and heavens. However, they do acknowledge there is something beyond them.

A frequent countryside winter and early spring greeting amongst herders is: “Are your animals fat?” Animals − sheep, goats, cattle, horses and camels − are the nomads’ livelihood. The animals are food and money, as well as producing dung which keeps their gers warm, and wool and skins to make felt and clothes. The nomads know that, if they care for their livestock well then, their livestock will take care of them.

Naturally, fat animals survive the winter better than thin. In the warmer months herders will try to feed their animals up and ensure that they have fodder for the winter, but sometimes the summer grass is meagre and the animals are not strong enough for winter.

Of course, disaster rarely announces its arrival. Wild blizzards come blanketing the ground with snow, covering vegetation and drifting deep, leaving animals buried and herders feeling helpless. This is an uncontrollable world in which the nomads recognise they must adapt and make changes to work with the weather. It is not easy and yet, beneath the fears, a stoic pride rises again and again. They can survive, even flourish in the winter.

“Nature is our master,” the herders say. They know it is awesome and, generally, they treat it with respect. They recognise that they are small and subject to a power that is beyond themselves. Their ears and eyes are open and yet often they cannot see beyond the blue sky to the Creator God who sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to this earth.

Creation speaks of its Creator. The evidence is abundant and all around us.

 

But hold on a minute! Even as a follower of Christ, are there times when I too am blinded to the deeper realities of the living God? Times when the rush of the immediate renders me blind and deaf to the subtle nuances of God and His word to me?

As I pray for the Mongolian herders, asking that they might see the beauty of the God who created and governs this world, I can’t help but ask that I too might not miss His Word.

White-capped waves furiously beat the craggy cliffs of the North Cornish coast. Churning grimly, the sea seizes fishing vessels, sending them pitching and plunging like corks bobbing in a barrel full of water. The wind, a demented soul, howls and thrashes, petrifies trees, setting them in an angled quiff. My lips are thick with salt as the sky darkens, bringing with it a veil of rain that obscures sun and moon.

This is a wild place of untamed ocean and largely uninhabited coastline, of secluded beaches and hidden inlets. Standing on the cliff’s edge looking out to sea, it’s easy to imagine smugglers dragging ashore cases of tea and brandy, rum and tobacco.

The sea is the block and tackle of this county. Fishermen still fish these waters and all its residents draw enjoyment from its coast. Whether the Atlantic gives people a living, or some form of recreation, all know these waters are an unpredictable master that no man can quell.

People say some sailors still hold to the ancient rituals, believing that good or bad omens influence their voyages. Even in this day of global positioning systems, gyrocompasses and radar, sailors still scan the horizon for the single light that pierces the darkness.

Standing on the dramatic edge of land and sea, lighthouses emit concentrated beams that once guided mariners to a harbour’s safe entrance or warned of hazardous reef formations below the water and dangerous rocks close by. Their light, pulsating across the darkness, says “Beware! Danger!” Or “come this way!”

Lighthouses have a long history, the oldest dating from the 3^rd century BC. In Britain, the lighthouse was initially a fire lit on the ground. Later that fire was placed on a platform before engineers began the challenging job of designing a tower, like the trunk of an oak constructed from granite, to house the rotating light. Each lighthouse, or series of lighthouses, had a slightly different pattern of signals that allowed the mariner to identify their location.

Short or tall, painted white, or even striped lighthouses are still clearly visible from land or sea. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, lighthouses were manned by a keeper. Some romantics envied the life of a keeper but the reality was somewhat different. Keepers in isolated locations found the long periods of confinement drove them close to madness. Yet the lighthouse and its keeper provided safe guidance and comfort to seafarers.

Today Britain’s lighthouses are all fully automated and monitored from remote offices around the country. Some lighthouses have even been decommissioned. They are no longer needed by the seafarer. The keepers have all gone, their homes derelict or turned into fashionable holiday residences. And yet from our Cornish window, the light of Trevose Head, some twenty miles down the coast, can still be seen. Its light is still a beacon solid and stable, offering comfort and continuity, strength and stability to today’s sailors. No matter what the weather, its light is unchanging.

That simple light reminds me of Christmas, and the true reason we celebrate. Jesus Christ, the light of the world, came into our darkness. Despite the changing times, He is still the light that shines, guiding us to the right path and warning us of the dangers in life. He is the true comforter and giver of strength. The one who gives inspiration to the weary soul in the stormy seas of life.

The haze shimmers in the autumn light as we land in Los Angeles and make our way through baggage control to our waiting friend. Travelling north, our friend speeds along Freeway 110 towards Pasadena. The sun is dropping, leaving the sky a riot of muted violet, rose and orange. We overtake Cadilliacs and shining Mustangs while giant juggernauts blast their throaty horns.

California is warm, like the Mediterranean. Palm trees, silhouetted against the pastel sky, swirl in the breeze. Our friend tells us California possesses 1,100 miles of magnificent coastline. This is a beautiful state of beaches and turquoise lagoons, mountains and arid desert, fertile valleys and giant trees. It is also a state of equally giant success. Of innovation and entrepreneurs, of entertainers and economic growth that’s touched our world.

And yet all is not well in California’s cities of plenty. Clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag, drunks anaesthetise away the torment that tortures their days. While others simply kick down doors and loot shops. What has happened here?

Fast food detritus, Big Mac wrappers and polystyrene cola cups accumulate beneath benches and at subway stations, and parked up shop trolleys bulging with plastic bags give evidence of a growing city of people who sleep near the subway or on the sidewalk.  

Our car comes to a halt beside a group of young people shooting drugs and sniffing heroin. What has gone wrong in this city? Has the comfortable, successful life turned flabby and indulgent? Have grief, loss, crime and poverty touched these people’s lives? Has abundance demolished boundaries and turned to excess? I don’t know. Certainly many suffer and walk the streets desolate, yearning for some permanent nourishment and shelter.

Thankfully, there are programmes and schemes that help some get their lives back on track. But not everyone can get up so easily, and not everyone truly recovers. For no man can truly save himself. And yet the homeless one is not alone. He has a Father. Each of us has a Father who reaches out to the vagrant and destitute with an openness that gives us the courage to grasp His hand and let Him pull us out of the mire.

Perhaps this is the essence of salvation − God rescues us. But that’s not all. He doesn’t just leave us dangling. He rescues us that we might live our lives in response to His redeeming hold. God draws us into a love relationship with Him which, when lived out in simple, sincere obedience to His word, instructs us in healthy disciplines that develop a life of faith. Distinctive new boundaries take root; boundaries that support and preserve our faith in God and hold us in our permanent home with Him.

“We used to dry beef in lengths,” said Davaajav as we sat on her sofa at home in her lounge in Arhangai. “The strips were about five or seven centimetres long and a couple of centimetres thick,” Davaajav continued, remembering her family’s time-consuming preparations for winter. “Hung on pieces of string, we dried the lengths for a month, or until they’d shrunk to the size of a small woody stick. Then we’d store them in linen bags and use them through the winter.”

We grinned, recalling the number of times we’ve seen travelling Mongolians produce a bag containing such meat. Rubbing it between their fingers, they’d crumbled the beef onto their food, adding a tasty supplement to meatless soups and bland vegetables. Few families, particularly those in the cities, dry meat but everyone relishes the flavour.

“Summer was relaxing,” said Davaajav, “although we knew we had to think about getting ready for winter. From the forest, we’d collect wild onions, chop them finely, add aarts (soured dried milk) stir thoroughly, and then bottle them. You can’t imagine how delicious those onions made a batch of dumplings on an icy day. We also prepared and stored as much dairy as we could, stockpiled dung to fuel our stove, and cut the summer grass.”

On the drive to Arhangai, we’d passed countless small trucks piled high with grass that leant ominously towards our side of the road. Cut from agreed common ground, the grass bursts with thistles and crabgrass, dandelion, clover and rye. Sweet and rich with amino acids, it’s like a medicine that keeps the cattle healthy in the cold months.

Davaajav refilled her bowl with milk tea. “As the cold came, my father would slaughter a cow that was unlikely to make it through the winter. That cow, along with seven or eight sheep, kept us fed.

“It was a simple life. On snowless evenings, we gathered in our neighbour’s gers to play cards or ankle bones while our elders spoke of legends and old heroes. How quickly things change,” Davaajav said, wistfully.

“Change is inevitable,” we replied, aware of the rapid transitions we’ve witnessed in Mongolia.

“But not all change has real long-term benefits,” said Davaajav. “And we Mongolians do have a propensity to abandon long-practiced ways in favour of what we perceive to be progress. Look at the herders,” she said, waving her hand towards the river where many nomads live. “They have cars.”

“Which must make life easier for them,” I added.

“No one is denying it makes life easier, but it also makes them lazier. Some young herder would far rather drive his expanding herd forward from the steering wheel of his car than the saddle of his horse. But sitting in his car, the herder loses the immediacy of land and his herd. If he’s perched in his saddle above the flock, a shepherd walks with his sheep, observing their health and their temperaments. He encounters the weather and sees the ground beneath his feet. He knows the dangers, and he guides his sheep to safety; to the good pasture and the place of sweet water.

“I know, we live in a developing world that we are all eager to embrace, but the car-herding herder sounds a clarion call. A young herder dreaming of owning a large herd often seeks to grow his herd quickly and neglects the true preparation necessary to care for his animals skilfully and wisely.” And that is no progress at all.

Traditionally, Mongolians say that autumn begins after the sporting festival Nadaam, in the middle of July.  This makes us smile as the days are still hot, although by August a gentle northerly wind has nudged a chill into the evening and morning. Darkness comes down earlier, and the coolness touches the landscape.

Flowers begin to fade and petals fall. Leaves, tinged with gold, spin silently earthwards, while the short season of rain saturates the woods, leaving them filled with a humid sweetness that draws fungi to life. Red and yellow minute umbrellas, tiny white puff balls and brown sombreros cover the decaying floor. Blueberry and lingonberry, sea buckthorn and cranberry shine on bowed branches, beckoning pickers to gather their bounty.

Autumn has a core of fruitfulness at its heart, and yet this fruitfulness is a prelude towards decline.

The holidays are over. Metal shutters cover windows, and heavy locks secure front doors as families leave their summer homes and return to the city. Dismantled gers, loaded onto the back of small trucks trundle along our road, taking their owners to their more secluded autumn locations.

Under the quiet morning sky, tiny pearl beads sit on the ground. The frost has started to fall, deepening the forest’s colour until its stands resplendent in orange and red. The sun hangs lower with light that is softer, more golden. This is a season of great beauty.

Purple thistles swirl in the breeze until their light and downy heads disperse and fall to the ground. Dormant they rest, waiting for warmth and nutrients to quicken new growth.

Before that new growth comes, however, we must endure the demanding season of winter. It is strange to think of winter when life is so full and the trees are still bright. But the time when all appears dried up or just plain dead will come. I wonder whether that knowledge intensifies the beauty of autumn?

Our friend Bayar-Jargal’s life is lessening. Her cancer rages and yet there is an indescribable beauty in her. The bed-sit she shares with her sister is rich with warmth and colour. Each person who enters receives a word of encouragement: a scripture, a prayer, a word of exultation that implants itself in their hearts and carries them forward. Friends who’ve recently returned to work overseas, speak of her words as a seed, beckoning them forward to a new season of ministry.

While Bayar-Jargal scatters, she is also preparing to become the seed that, in the hands of the Creator of this world, will fall into the ground.

The winter here is barren, long and harsh. The brilliant sun and clear skies cover a snow-covered land devoid of growth. Yet contrary to appearances, this landscape is not dead. Come spring the land will turn green, wildlife will awaken, flowers bloom and the trees brim with leaves.

Right now, colourful autumn is marching towards winter. We cannot stop it! But in the lessening of visible nature, we are confident, that the seeds of new life have already being sown.