In her book ‘Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,’ American author Annie Dillard encourages her readers to Learn to pray with their eyes open. That phrase has stuck in my mind because I think Dillard is urging me to be attentive to God and my surroundings.

This past year of lockdown has been an opportunity to pray with eyes open, to not be in such a hurry or so preoccupied with completing tasks that we forget to be attentive to what’s going on around us. We are learning to listen and notice that evidence of God’s creativity abounds.

In forests, we’ve watched delicate snow showers cascade from overburdened branches like confetti falling on a bride and her new husband. We’ve held our breath, waiting for the woodpecker to resume his tapping and the birds their song, as we newly discover the breadth and diversity of Mongolia’s bird population.

Many endangered species reside here, probably because the country is large and the human population small. Nomadic culture and sparse development beyond populated areas has left the countryside largely unscathed, letting animals and birds flourish without human interference.

Like most countries, Mongolia has plenty of stories of the ancient links between bird and man. Chinghis Khan had many great falconers who used golden eagles to hunt and keep people fed during the harsh winters. Today falconers, in the far west of Mongolia continue that tradition. The magpie, collector of all things sparkly, with his distinct white, blue, black and iridescent green feathers, supposedly announces the arrival of an unexpected visitor when seen sitting on a ger’s hitching post. And swallows, arriving early summer from wintering in Africa, carry with them a sense of the constancy of the changing seasons that Mongolians say, points towards eternity.

Aware of our ignorance, we have bought a book about Mongolian birds in the hope that we can finally recognise and name the birds we see. But it’s a slow process. We need to sharpen our vision, discern the differences between a variety of crows and appreciate the birds’ routines. And not least of all, learn from others.

Yet a flock of sparrows near our house, has happily made their home in a huge, tangled mass of thick wire. They’ve adapted to their surroundings. But the reality is that progress endangers their environment and destroys their habitat, causing them to decline or die. It is a delicate balance of which the birds are unaware.

But life here is not static. Mongolia is rapidly changing. Fewer children follow their parents’ nomadic way of life. The discovery of vast mineral deposits promises development and wealth for Mongolia and disruption for the countryside. Pollution and steppe fires, poaching and overgrazing of cattle are beginning to impact wildlife and threaten the birds’ habitat.

Life is a delicate balance and walking with God in this complex changing world requires attention. Praying with eyes open, we learn a lesson. Birds live lives abandoned to their creator. Resting in His hand, they receive His wonderful care as He supplies all their needs. They live without anxiety and truly soar.

The simplicity of this good news proclaims a profound truth: all things in the universe that have been created by and through Christ are sustained by God.

The road is empty of vehicles. The landscape, still under snow, lies dazzlingly bright, unstained and trackless. Only the wind disturbs the serenity. Howling and groaning, it whips snow into frenzied twisters that brutally batter all in their path. The blue sky is hidden and the ubiquitous winter sun relegated to a luminous glow through the dullness.

We smile; the greyness reflects our mood. Lockdown has eased although our movements remain restricted. Most Mongolians, who are able, opt to stay at home with their families. And suddenly it hits us again – we are not a part of their families. We are not Mongolian. I know, it’s obvious, but there are times when, absorbed in friendships and the challenges of the day, we forget that we are foreigners in this land. However, this isolation accentuates the truth – we are outside people.

We dream of England, the land of our birth. We remember family and friends, happy times of celebration and walks along the North Cornish coast where the waves constantly rise in foaming crests only to fall flat on the beach. We remember the rocks where we stood to watch the sun descend as it lights the sky like a winter hearth. That moment was perfect. We want to hold onto it, making it stretch across time.

We love to return to the place of those wonderful memories. But, somehow, it’s not the same. Our memories are grander than the way things really are. Things have changed, the place is different to how I remember it; people have moved on or gone. Yet, beneath the memories, the longing remains the same – the desire to truly belong.

It is easy to mask our loneliness, or perhaps I could call it a sense of homelessness, by trusting that a loving family and a beautiful home will meet our longing to belong. To some degree they can and do meet that need. But families grow and change and homes come and go. Yet the desire to belong persists. Something in us yearns for a love that will last forever, for beauty that will never fade or diminish. But this world cannot satisfy that longing. It’s like we are strangers living in a place that is not our true home, living in a place where we reach forward towards a home that we’ve yet to experience.

Sometimes I feel exiled, detached and alone in this spiritually unwelcoming world. Then I remember Jesus’s words to His disciples before He went to the Cross. …if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.

This is the home God has made for us, the place where He dwells, where we can live now and forever. By faith and through prayer, we inhabit that home now, the place where God can absolutely fulfil our deepest longings by His unending love and His undiminished beauty.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

There’s a period in November when the daytime temperatures linger around a balmy minus ten degrees Celsius. Enjoying the pleasant dry cold, we long that the whole winter might remain like that. But, inevitably, the mercury plummets below minus twenty and beyond.

Despite the icicles that grow on our scarves and our white crusted eyebrows, we try and go out each day. We walk in the woods amongst stark trees. Gnarled and twisted, they moan as the breeze pushes their branches this way and that. We follow the footprints we made yesterday, careful not to fall down a rabbit hole or trip over buried branches. Streaks of sunlight filter through the trees, causing us to cover our eyes as it illuminates the snow’s brilliance.

We walk by the river. It’s even cooler there. Relentlessly, the toothy wind bites at our cheeks. Ice crackles beneath our feet reminding us that we’re walking on frozen water. The river, silenced by cold, gleams in the late afternoon sun. We shiver as the sun dips below the hills, leaving the sky ablaze although there is no warmth to be found beneath this landscape’s snowy eiderdown.

Stray dogs scavenge for food. A grandma and her grandson we’ve met a few times call out to us. We stop to chat. She has a folded sack tucked under her arm and her grandson pulls his empty sledge. They are heading into the woods to gather firewood before it gets dark. Her scarf, wound tightly around her head and neck, exposes only her cherry cheeks and eyes. Despite the cold, her eyes smile with warmth as she invites us to her home.

Knowing she has so little, her generosity is humbling. This lockdown has been tough. Many poorer families struggle. Many have lost their jobs, or not received wages for weeks. They grapple with finding ways to keep their families warm and fed. The winter exposes poverty more than the summer. The cold can shatter people’s hopes.

Churches in Ulaanbaatar have gathered funds and bought essential supplies for families in their area. Perhaps it isn’t much, but it keeps people fed and warm for a few more weeks. Everyone helps as they are able, but the needs are great. I wish we could eradicate poverty. I know I cannot. All I can do is be faithful to what God has called me to do. Yet I don’t only want to give a sack of flour to relieve a need now, but I pray that I might be able to help a family find a way to sustain their own needs.

Perhaps my thoughts are naive. Transforming a person’s poverty until they can stand in a place of dignified independence is a complex task of restoration that requires careful thought and planning. It feels impossible.

But I am thankful that God has the ultimate plan to restore the poor. His plan became incarnate in Jesus. He did not come to earth simply to bring relief to man’s physical poverty. Pouring himself out in costly service for impoverished mankind, He came to heal the root of our spiritual poverty and its effects. Jesus came to transform our lives. Not to make us independent but dependent on Him.

Christ’s actions on the Cross enabled God to endow those who recognise their soul’s destitution, with salvation wealth. His unmerited grace transforms us and the supply of that grace never ends. Daily, we can receive the love and healing that God offers. And on a dull winter’s day that hope brings rich joy to our hearts.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2021

If you like Gillian’s posts do not forget her latest novel

You can find out about buying this book from the following link or simply go to Amazon. http://bespokechristianpublishing.com/buy-the-red-book/

Opening the blinds on the steely post-dawn light, I notice that the horses are back. There are twenty or more of them, black and every shade of brown, snatching tufts of grass and drinking from the shallow river that passes close by our home. Tails flicking, heads tossing, they tread barefoot over the uneven ground. Their stocky bodies move gracefully at a gentle pace. Their manes unfurl like flags in the wind. Puffs of moisture escape their nostrils, and I hear the squeal and nicker as mother and foal walk side by side.

All summer the horses have been absent, I think. But then from June until the end of September, life bustles here. Living on the edge of Ulaanbaatar, we are right in the middle of the traditional area where city families spend their summers which is a time when our normally quiet corner of the city teems with life.

Vehicles choke the roads, shoppers crowd shops and local market stalls while the riverside becomes a carpark for day-trippers barbecuing and partying late into the night. The sound of banging, drilling and sawing accompanies the steady rumble of traffic as property owners renovate their homes. It’s noisy but fascinating too, Absorbed, we watch the comings and goings, intrigued by summer’s frenzied activities.

Come October, the pace slows significantly and by November, as temperatures plummet, the stillness returns. The locals pack up their gers and move to sheltered winter places. Baasan-huu, a herder who lives on the other side of the hill, takes his sheep and goats out to pasture. Every day he leaves his ger in search of the best grazing land.

Fenceless and without roads or bridges, the steppe presents perpetual possibilities for adventure and infinite opportunities to find pristine pasture. But the wise herder knows that the lure of adventure must not divert him from his quiet, settled routine. He must resist the temptation to leave the well-worn path in favour of discovering some thrilling uncharted way. Even though his daily steps might vary a little, his constant focus is to find grass close to home that will nourish his animals because their health depends on it.

Perhaps the horses were here all summer and I just didn’t notice them. Did the noisiness divert my attention? Like Baasan-huu, those who live in this area year-round, maintain their daily routine no matter how loudly the visitors party.

The unassuming presence of the horses is a poignant reminder: that which clamours for my attention can blind me to God’s merciful presence in this world and my life. Preoccupied with the din and subsequent activities, I don’t notice God’s voice fade, that is, until something inside me shouts ‘Shh,’ to the external noise.

With purpose, I seek quiet and stillness, knowing that our wise God speaks softly. I draw closer, leaning forward to hear His word. He reminds me that He is immoveable, unchanging. Constant, close and familiar. I see my capricious nature and vulnerabilities in the light of His steady faithfulness, and with thankful heart receive again the invitation to walk the well-trodden calm path with Him.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

Just over thirty years ago, Mongolia became a democracy. Seventy years of Russian communism, outwardly, slipped peacefully away as radical new laws changed the foundations of the country’s constitution, paving the way forward for democracy.

              Despite the nonviolent transition the journey has not been a smooth one. The initial departure of technical support to Mongolia’s industry and breaks with their foreign trading partners left the country reeling. Harsh economic problems followed. Inflation soared, unemployment skyrocketed and it was hard to get food.

              Slowly the country’s economy strengthened but the elected government found their struggles against the communist way of thinking were far from over. Factional differences were rife and rumours of corrupt government ministers constantly hit the headlines.

              Remembering easier days, many longed to return to the way things were. Some still do. The ordered city with clean air and less traffic. Shops brimming with food from across the former Soviet Union. Public concerts and dance circles. Free university education with generous stipends. Bosses who were older, wiser and more respectful of the people they governed than these younger leaders. Tearfully, they mourned their loss.

Mongolians are not the only ones prone to bouts of wistfulness. We too have moments when we imagine life was better than it is today. While that may be true, it is rarely possible to re-experience or recreate past events and the feelings attached to those events.

Christians are no exception. When our lives become chaotic and messy, we long for the return of peaceful days. When beauty seems to disappear and ugliness becomes the order of the day, we are apt to pine for the contentment of past blessings.

              What is it that makes us remember some events and parts of our lives with such fondness? What is it that causes us to overlook the negatives, the irritations and petty annoyances that must have been there and simply focus on the positive? Could it be that we know how those events turned out? Today’s world is filled with uncertainties. We do not know what is going to happen tomorrow, let alone next week. In the face of the unknown, the pull of the past can be powerful.

But we should not seek to relive our experiences or to let them overtake the present. Memories of happier times should not divert us from the purposes God has for our lives today. Rather they should serve as a reminder, telling us of God’s goodness and His continued faithfulness.

The Mongolians wisely recognise that they cannot return to what was, but in remembering they can draw those memories into today and allow them to shape their fresh future. Likewise, as we draw on our past, bring it to God, review it in the light of His word, and allow Him to renew us, then He will propel us forward into the newness of today.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

We love the Mongolians and we love living amongst them. But there are moments when frustrations overtake us and we feel pushed to our limits and beyond. Often those times are marked by a particular discouragement that strikes us squarely in the stomach and knocks us to the ground. At such times, we often wonder whether we are fools.

I recently published a simple Mongolian novel[1] which begins with a Scottish missionary tramping his way through the Gobi Desert sharing the gospel with seemingly no visible results. The protagonist asked himself whether he was a fool too.

It shocks me to think of the ease with which disappointment and discouragement trips me up, leaving me questioning my calling and, worse still, moaning about my lot. It seems to take a little while before sense alerts me to my own shortcomings, which are many. How many times have I disappointed God, or used Him? And more precisely, what does my reaction reveal about the inadequacies of my own heart?

God is always gracious in His rebukes, enabling me to glimpse what He is doing while my eye has been focused on what I think should be happening in a person’s life or a given situation. As I repent and move forward, God has a habit of blessing me with encouragements.

Last week we had a telephone call. The caller said that he was Altanbaatar, Batjargal’s son from Arhangai. We immediately thought of the scruffy young lad with a passion for basketball but that lad has long since gone. We heard he had become an alcoholic.

We met him in a café in the city. Before he even spoke, we knew that he was no longer drinking. He told us how he managed to track us down and about the last ten years of his life. He spoke of his misuse of the church and Christians, of his downward spiral into oblivion that led to hankerings to end his life, particularly after the death of his parents which left him grief-stricken. But he said, “Some great fear prevented me from actually following through on those hankerings.”

Two years ago, God amazingly connected Altanbaatar with a Christian alcohol recovery programme. Step by step the programme enabled him to gain sobriety. As he began to experience life without alcohol, the Lord drew Altanbaatar back to Himself, until he was changed.

Today he helps others find the recovery and transforming truth of the gospel that he himself has experienced. His mother would have been leaping, or rather lifting her walking stick in praise to God. Despite her own frailties and her seeming physical insignificance, she was a pillar of the Arhangai church. In the years when she was bedridden, her worn Bible was constantly at her side. She read it and read it again, interceding for all who came through her door.

She lacked education. She lacked wealth and held no position whatsoever in society. From the world’s perspective, she was foolish. Truly a fool for Christ. Beyond the things that trip me up, I trust that God will enable me to be such fool as Batjargal was.

Altanbaatar’s story used with permission.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

[1] The Red Book – available on Amazon and via this link

Whether Christian or not, Mongolians will often ask us to pray for them. Those who are non-Christians have no idea to whom or what we are praying. Yet grateful for our prayers, they hold on to a shred of hope, believing that just maybe the so-called foreign God of western religion, who resides somewhere in this vast universe, will answer their prayers.

Most who entreat us to pray are seeking relief from suffering; or they want God to provide for an immediate and pressing need. While others simply want a short-cut exit out of their poverty-stricken lives. Their requests are usually valid and remind me of my own frequent petitions and requests for healing and wholeness for myself and others.

Sometimes God answers our prayers in spectacular ways. Other times it feels as if He never even heard them. It can be disappointing, crushing even, especially when we feel that we are praying in accordance with scripture and with an understanding of God’s will and the only answer that comes is silence. What is God doing?

But our disappointments are no reason to stop bringing our requests to Him. He wants to hear our petitions. It is good and right to do so because God does answer. He does heal; He does provide for our needs and free us from suffering. However, we cannot dictate the outcome of our prayers.

When answers don’t come and our hearts sink, we must learn to recognise that God’s purposes are greater than ours. That He desires to strengthen our faith in Him if we will allow Him to do so. The Bible is rich with characters who pleaded with God to remove hardships from their lives, yet it was through those very hardships and tribulations that He purified those believers’ faith.

Christian prayer is about more than getting our prayers answered.

Jesus’s disciples asked Him to teach them to pray. He did not give them a formula, but rather a framework that we call the Lord’s Prayer. One line in that outline makes me tremble: ‘Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’

Historically, kings or queens held much power over their kingdoms. Mongolia’s twelfth century king, Chinghis Khan, demanded complete allegiance to his rule. But in today’s world monarchs are largely constitutional figures, officiating ceremonial events and championing social causes. However, in Jesus’ day, a kingdom’s citizens would have been subject to their sovereign’s rule.

We pray to see the kingdom of God come on earth, but that prayer carries an alert: it has personal implications. For God’s kingdom to come the King must reign in me, which means I must surrender the control of my life over to Him. God did not call me to do my own will or to build my own kingdom. He did not call me ‘to do it my way,’ as the old but still popular song says. Rather He calls me to surrender all, so that He may work His godly purposes in and through me.

His kingdom reign begins in my heart as He resides there. But it doesn’t remain there. This kingdom reaches out, touching lives, churches and our communities with acts that reveal the beauty of the true king who comes to reign.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

Lockdown changed the pattern of our lives, limiting our movements and activities. Personally, we didn’t mind, although we quickly started missing seeing friends and we still long to meet with our church family here. Others, we know welcomed the opportunity to spend more time with their families and tick jobs off their ‘to do’ list.

But as the weeks turned into months, frustrations which normally lay buried beneath our busy schedules, began to surface. Restlessness grew. Loneliness and anxiety replaced joy, fuelling uncertainties that wearied souls. Some wondered whether they’d stumbled into a desolate foreign wasteland while others, conversely, savoured the isolation.

Whether we benefitted from the lockdown or not, the reality is we’ve all experienced bleak moments when feelings of abandonment have overtaken us. We may well be isolated or alone, but the reality is: God is not absent. As David of the Psalms so clearly demonstrated, feelings of forsakenness and depression should make us cry out to God. With Him, we can freely share all our doubts and fears. It is far better to speak them out than to let them become rooted in our hearts and minds. Speaking them out can sometimes bring clarity too, as the deceptions we’ve believed are exposed and the order of our minds begins to be restored.

We must listen to our heart, although we must not allow it to lead us into error. We must learn to take ourselves in hand, remembering that God is constant, that He is everywhere and never changes. While we listen to our heart, we do not stop there. We also seek to recognise and understand why we feel as to do, to uncover the underlying motives that drive us.

In despair David asked himself, “Why are you cast down, oh my soul?” I too with unblinking honesty must ask what causes me pain and discontent. Does my disappointment highlight the fact that I’ve placed my hope in something transitory rather than eternal? Or does it reveal the falsehoods that mingle themselves around my faith in Christ? If God loved me and was in control, He’d answer my prayers. If only I had stronger faith then life would be fine, and so it goes on. Recognising the lies that bind my mind, I must learn to speak God’s truth to myself. David told his soul to hope in God.

Distress and despair come to us in all shapes and sizes. With one blow it can knock us to the ground, or slowly, insidiously sabotage the foundations of our faith. At such times, we must do as David did. We must tell ourselves to hope in God. Even though we might not feel like it, even though we cannot see an end to our pain, we must speak God’s truth to ourselves. Because the day of praise, the day of joy will surely return. God is merciful and He does answer our prayers. He will return for us, and we will not be disappointed.

© copyright Gillian Newham 2020

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