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?

courtesy of Jon Tyson – Unsplash

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.

Do you ever have moments when you feel like giving up what you’re doing? Moments when you want to walk away and do something completely different? We do! At such times scenes of the English countryside float through our minds, beckoning us to some imagined idyllic life where all is well with the world. Of course, this side of heaven no such place exists.

Returning to reality, we take stock. Life is hard. We have struggles. Our friends have struggles. But we have choices. We can choose to live cautiously, hiding behind the challenges or we can embrace them and live courageously. Although godly courage doesn’t always look like the courage we see depicted in the movies.

We recently watched some Christian friends, who’d taken courageous risks in ministry, suffer a fall. Having spent ten or eleven years sharing the gospel, helping the poor, preaching and pastoring a church, our friends had over-extended themselves and lost their way.

What had started out as a genuine desire to help those in need had gone awry. Even though they tried, they couldn’t meet the all-consuming needs of those around them. Their big vision was unravelling but their desire to fulfil it diverted their attention away from God. There was no time for rest. No time for essential relationships. Flaws surfaced, causing them to cling to the ministry more fiercely, until the very ministry that God had entrusted into their care became their god.

It was, and is, a sobering reminder of how easy it is to take just one step away from God, and then another, and before we know it our well-intended human courage and determination has distanced us from God and His best.

‘But, how do we walk courageously, aright with God?’

Jargal has recently been demonstrating this to us. Petite with huge glasses, she has a bright smile and a burning passion for Jesus that touches everyone who meets her.

For the last ten years she has been travelling in and out of North Korea. More recently God has given her opportunities to stay for longer periods, befriend locals and share gospel truths. She is naturally discreet, few of us know all her stories but every now and then we hear more and realise that God has given this lady an open door into people’s lives.

In July she returned to Ulaanbaatar in great pain. After surgery to remove a blockage the doctor announced that she has stage four pancreatic cancer.

‘Is this right Lord?’ we asked.

Jargal was due to move to North Korea in the autumn. God had finally opened a door which would enable her to make North Korea her home. Yet the cancer has halted her. Initially she was confused, but then she came before the Lord, opened her hands and surrendered herself and her ministry to God. ‘I am not offended,’ she said. ‘Because my Father knows best.’

Jargal’s obedience touches our lives. Her daily courage urges us not to give up, but to be daring with our faith. To choose to obey God and keep doing what we’re doing, for He is the one who equips us with courage.

Whatever the celebration, Mongolians will sing. In fact, people say if you can’t sing then you’re not Mongolian. At concerts, amongst the chatter, ringing of phones and eating of ice-creams, the audience will happily add their bold voices to the performance. Sometimes a famous singer will invite a child to join them; most children eagerly leap onto the stage, grab the microphone and begin singing with an unconstrained gusto that delights the audience no end.

Mongolia has hundreds of folk songs. Some are new, and some date right back to the time of Chinghis Khan. But whatever their vintage they all reflect the nature of the Mongolians.

They speak of love: especially love for the mother who brought them into the world, cared for them, nurtured them and sacrificed so much that they might thrive. While others honour the herder and his animals, particularly his horse. The traditional long song, with its drawn-out notes and staccato rises and falls, often symbolises the horse; evoking in the mind of the hearer images of horses galloping across the steppe. And songs, too numerous to number, celebrate this vast land that beckons the Mongolians to the freedom of the steppe and the promise of a life lived in harmony with nature.

Such songs are cathartic. They lift the Mongolians, cheer their hearts and take them beyond the mundane, beyond themselves to see the beauty that surrounds them.

Of course, such rapture is not confined to the Mongolians alone. Beauty carries all of us beyond the ordinary, as we marvel at a myriad stars and galaxies set in a clear velvet night, or a lofty mountain reaching far into the clouds; or as we relish the simplicity of a child’s laugh. All these things inspire us, affirming an essential element of our humanity: life may be less than perfect, but beauty teaches us that the extraordinary is possible.

More than that – in the presence of such beauty, words of praise rise unbidden. Life is praiseworthy.

Did God create man to extol something greater than ourselves? Did God create us to praise Him? Yes!

In the ordinary, I praise, thank and adore Him, marvelling at His power, love and grace; aware that as I direct my praise to Him, something happens in me. I sense His presence, and my small understanding begins to grasp a little of His greatness. Humbled, I realise that neither I, nor my work, nor the troubles of this world, are the centre of my universe. He is. And not only does my simple praise re-orientate me, but it finds its home with Him, the God of heaven and earth.

He created beauty and He created me to sing with unconstrained gusto. In my tiny part of His world I want to worship and glorify Him so that, by a miracle of God, my life might reflect His beauty to this world.

Wow Lord, such a thought is audacious. Can my feeble praise delight you and really bring glory to your name?

Concrete mixer trucks thunder past our house, while low loaders lug steel girders to newly leased land. Giant excavators trundle towards virgin land, moving at caterpillar pace, gripping and churning the tarmac beneath their heavy tracks. A new neighbour drills a well. The steady knock of metal against rock beats incessantly through the day, boring slowly towards the hidden pools.

There’s an exit from the smog and traffic jams of Ulaanbaatar as people build second, or new holiday, homes. Edging to the river’s bank, fences eat up this once unfenced land. Claiming their rights, metal pens creep into the woods, diverting path and track, evicting squirrel and chipmunk in their wake. Electric saws and vintage radios sing out their music, smothering the lark and swallow’s song.

Amid the diggers and canary yellow cranes, people labour. Their black hair shines in the sun, their shirtless chests berry brown. They work from morning to last light and beyond, eager to the get the job done, eager to collect their bounty. Creating floor plans, pouring foundations, and building walls, they sit astride ceiling joists smoking and downing chilled cola.

They start so well, enthusiastic and energised to get the house built. But something happens along the way. The money runs dry; the cost is more than they thought. Someone is sick and money is needed for medical bills. Dishonest builders abscond with funds and the customer is powerless to continue. Or a vicious storm destroys the site.

The reasons are many and varied. But the building work, for this year at least, has come to a halt. Bricks, ready for the builder’s hand, stand untouched. Wood, stacked and cut for beams and joists, is forsaken. Some begin again and go on to complete their new home, while others never return.

Unfinished buildings surround us. Enclosures littered with reinforcing bar and concrete blocks have become new homes for sparrows and wagtails. And broken homes built, on soft soil bare testimony to well-intentioned, but ill-prepared, projects. Abandoned half-builds are being stripped by opportunists of doors and windows, stair and wire.

It is a sad sight. Was it not possible to return, I wonder, to resume the work and finish the job? The reasons for discontinuing are largely unknown. Most are valid but some are less so. What is it that trips us up, that causes us to abandon the task we were given?

Perhaps next year, they’ll resume building. Perhaps the plan will be more solid and they’ll come equipped with all they need to move beyond the disarrayed building site and the messiness of work left unfinished. And perhaps, they will complete, with joy, what they purposed.

The grass is brittle beneath my boots. Insulated against winter’s harshness, the bleached ground has been under snow for more than four months. But the snow has gone now, save for a little that remains on the high hills around Ulaanbaatar.

It has been a mild winter with relatively little snowfall, for which we are thankful. Although many herders would disagree. Speaking in low tones they worry that the light snow cover exposed the steppe to the worst of the winter elements damaging precious spring pasture. Anxious for their herds, they wonder whether the underfed animals will make it through the next few weeks, especially since sudden spring snowfalls can easily drift and bury cattle.

They are right to be concerned. We’ve passed dead animals collapsed beside the road. And even those tramping the steppe are starting to look shabby, as their winter coats cling to their ribs.

When will the shadow of winter’s death be cast off?

Spring winds arrive unannounced; the Siberian northerly meeting the warmer breezes from the south. Like turbulent enemies they clash, roaring at one another like lions engaged in battle. Whipping loose sand into their hands, they cast a bronzed cloud over Ulaanbaatar. The cloud moves menacingly towards us until, lashing our faces, we are caught in its grip. We wince, remembering the reports we’ve heard that some Mongolians love to stand naked in the raging storm.

Life is moving forward.

A ground squirrel wakes from his winter hibernation, pokes his head above his burrow and excitedly takes his first steps of the year. His fawn coat is the perfect camouflage in this faded landscape. He stops, standing motionless on his hindlegs, beady eyes surveying, ears twitching before scurrying back to the safety of his underground home.

On the growing warm breeze there is the softest of calls. The gentle hiccup of the shy cuckoo, whom we rarely see but often hear. She is a strange bird, retiring on the one hand, audacious on the other. Gate-crashing her way into another nest she lays her eggs and leaves, abandoning the invaded nest’s owners to rear her young instead of their own.

But still we wait. There has been no rain since autumn. Surely, it will come soon.

And then it’s here. A dirty storm sending streams of water cascading down drainless roads. The rain revives and, among the yellowed shades, new grass shivers. Close to the ground spring flowers blossom, dainty stem and frail leaf standing bold and strong. How did they survive the cruel winter? How did they keep faith?

The transition from winter to flourishing spring is slow. Leafless silver birches crowd the wood and the hills are still largely desolate. And yet the landscape is not dead – merely moving through the seasons. While the animals slept, roots secure in the soil, pushed deeper through the chill until warmed they raised their heads above the earth and bloom.

Precious warmth and moisture, reviving, restoring, and renewing. Grace is here. Elucidating the presence of my loving Creator, reminding me of His timely renewal of my deadened mind and refreshment of my depressed heart as he pours His nourishment into my thirsty soul.

There have been three or four occasions when Mongolian friends have asked us to name their newly born child. Admittedly, one such naming happened during casual conversation when we were listing some of our favourite names. But the other three times have required much diligent thought and prayer on our behalf as we sought to choose an appropriate name.

Aware of the honour conveyed on us by such a request (traditionally the giving of names has been reserved for parents, respected elders, or religious figures) we’ve also keenly felt the weight of responsibility. Naming a Mongolian baby requires choosing a promising name with symbolic references that capture the essence of the individual’s character, and which the parents hope will bring a good future to the bearer.

Today, most Mongolian names consist of two adjectives or two nouns for example: Saran-Tuya is Moon-Ray; Altan-Tsetseg is Golden Flower. Girls’ names usually reference beauty and honourable characteristics while boys’ names tend to be linked to strength and courage – Bat-Baatar is Strong Hero, or Gan-Huu is Steel Son. Some names are gender neutral and some families choose to call all their girls – something Flower or something Ray, or all their boys something Baatar. While a few, fearing the power of evil spirits, call their children Not This One, or No Name. But in almost all cases, the name’s meaning has been thoughtfully considered and chosen.

Fewer parents in the west would choose their child’s names with such concerns. We may know the meaning behind a name and be thrilled to give such a name to our children, but I don’t think we’re constantly recalling the meaning of that name as the child grows to adulthood.

In fact, I had to look up the meaning of my name, Gillian: the medieval English feminine form of Julian. Latin: youthful. I can’t imagine my parents thought I’d be forever youthful!

Nevertheless, our names are vital. They connect us to our world, allowing us to be known by acquaintances, friends, and our family.

In biblical times names were important too. Often, they implied a person’s character or his or her deserved reputation. And some names were, as the Mongolians recognise, predictions or prophecies of what kind of person a child would grow up to be.

Names make a difference. The Bible tells us that God knows our name which acknowledges His closeness to us. The Bible also tells us that God gives the followers of Christ a new name. Certainly, there are biblical examples of people receiving new names. Old Testament Jacob, the twister, became Israel after he wrestled with God’s angel. And Simon, one of Jesus’ disciples, had Peter added to his name.

I am not sure what our new name is but I do recognise that as believers in Christ, we enter a new standing with God. His grace has come, and that enables us to be transformed.

Walking daily with Christ, I pray, audaciously perhaps, that my new name might reflect the growing character of God in me.