Recently we’ve been talking about prayer. It’s a conversation we have regularly especially since we desire to know God more deeply and to pray in His will.

We’ve been asking what it means to adore God. In the course of our conversation we stumbled over the old word hallowed: “hallowed by thy name.”  We’ve scratched our heads and wondered exactly what does that word mean?

So far we’ve learned it means to treat something as holy and sacred, to give it our ultimate concern and make it the most important thing in our lives. Therefore, in teaching us to pray is Jesus asking us, at the very start, to adore God and praise Him above all else?

My prayers often start with confession and petition rather than adoration. Of course, it is good and right to confess my sin and to seek God’s forgiveness. It is also good and right to bring all my petitions to Him. But when my sin and my requests, even prayer requests for ministry, dominate my prayer life and subsequently control my thoughts, then I realise it’s time to ask questions.

Have my priorities shifted? Is worry driving me to lift someone or something above my adoration of God; because Jesus teaches me that adoration, praise of God, should come before all my confessions and petitions. First and foremost, He is to be, and to remain, my beloved father.

Admittedly, we all come to God for different reasons and with differing struggles. Yet despite the struggles we must learn to look beyond our world of worries and determine to let our hearts adore Him; Christianity after all is not based on externals but upon an intimate relationship with Him.

“Help me keep my perspective right Lord,” I pray. “Let me adore you so that praise permeates every part of my being.” Sometimes I fumble to find adequate words of thanksgiving. At other times my words seem hollow and mechanical. But as I see more of His beauty, adoration blossoms until praise flows freely and His truth, mysteriously, begins touching my life, and I start seeing the world right side up; through His eyes. By His grace healing comes to my deformed heart and my deformed view of the world as I find myself forgiven, accepted, and able to trust others.

Adore God first I repeat, reminding myself that praising Him helps me keep Him in His rightful place and enables everything else to fit into its rightful place too.

The world convulses as the news of another disaster, another epidemic or an even more heinous terrorist attack hits the headlines. People crumple and nations stand in stunned silence. Nothing seems certain or safe anymore. Listening to the news fear wells up in my heart too, and against the backdrop of unmitigated suffering I tremble — my hope suddenly feels shallow and terribly flimsy and a barrage of scary ‘what if’ scenarios flood my mind.

“Stop!” I raise my hand to halt the runaway thoughts that push me towards the dark abyss of hopelessness. I reason with myself and start speaking truth to my heart. My hope is rock solid. Strong and one hundred percent sure and built on nothing less than, as the well-known song says, “Jesus blood and righteousness”. 

Phew! I breathe a sigh of relief. The world we live in is filled with uncertainties and terrors at every turn so it is essential that I keep my heart and mind grounded in God and his word.

In chapter six of Hebrews the writer speaks of the certainties of God’s promises. Using rich images to convey the truth he tells us that our hope is sure and steadfast. He calls our hope an anchor for the soul which enters behind the veil or curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf.

“My anchor holds within the veil,” I repeat. Since hearing the story of the ancient Mediterranean ports this line has fixed itself even more deeply in my mind. In New Testament times a huge anchor stone was sunk deep into the ground on the wharf. When ships wanted to enter the harbour a small boat, known as a forerunner, left the safety of the port, navigated its way through the hazardous waters, which the boat’s pilot knew well, and out into the open sea to the waiting ship. The pilot then took hold of the ship’s anchor rope, returned to shore and secured it to the anchor stone so that the ship could safely be brought home.

Different pictures of the forerunner exist but each one depicts him as one who goes ahead of the danger to open the way of safe passage. Jesus is our forerunner; the rock of our salvation, the one who left the safety of heaven to come to the world to rescue mankind; Jesus, the one who passed through death to return to the Father to secure the way for each one of us to reach home safely.

So many layers, so many facets, to this picture but in the end, by faith, I realise that hope in God is full of certainty. He calls me to hold fast to hope — a word which I am told, in Greek, is the same word that is used for the rope of an anchor. And just like the sailors on those ancient ships who had to abandon their oars and down sails, I too must surrender myself to the will of the forerunner and let him guide me.

 “Lord,” I pray, “let me live in the reality of this hope. And give me courage and wisdom to share the truth of your word with those who live with the fear of the world breaking their hearts.”

We often walk in the woods. During the winter months we kept our heads down and ploughed a path through the snow. It was a sheltered place to walk, protecting us from the worst cruelties of the winter. But with the Lunar New Year over we’re officially into spring and the places we’ve walked are changing.

With each passing day the warmer temperatures melt the snow that’s covered the hills and paths since November. We’ve started taking time to sit out on a tree stump and drink our coffee. Above the trees we can see the amazing blueness of the sky, and we can hear the woodpeckers hammering on tree trunks. Small birds are returning and the tall pines are growing new needles. All around there are signs of new life, but in the midst of it all we’ve noticed that many of the silver birches are bent to the ground. Have they been weighted down with snow or damaged by the wind and ice? Or are they diseased on the inside? We don’t know but from their blackened branches and dry orange leaves they look crushed. 

Seeing them reminds us how we too have times when we are bowed down and crushed. We can be physically sick and worn down. Or through repeated disappointment and discouragement we can become listless and, sometimes, even feel like we’ve lost the desire to live.

The world tells us that happiness is determined by external situations but I don’t fully believe that. When I was younger the answers to life’s problems seemed easy, more black and white, but as I get older I realise that life is more complicated. We are complex beings. The Bible tells us that man is created in the image of God. Yes! We are created in His image, fearfully and wonderfully made, people with extraordinary senses, remarkable minds that are more superior to any computer in this world and hearts that are filled with rich emotions.

Therefore the remedies for a crushed or wounded spirit cannot be pat answers. They do not fit neatly into one or two sentences but somehow our restoration involves getting the gospel into the very depths of our heart, and that is not easy. We love God but there are barriers. We struggle with relationships, people are awkward and difficult and they hurt us. Anger grips us and bitterness festers. We hide our emotions and disobey God. Guilt weighs us down and our own depravity makes us sick.

We’ve placed our hope in ourselves. We’ve placed our hope in the things of this world rather than God: the things in this world that move and break and eventually die. Our careers finish, our material possessions fall away or relationships end in death. Our trust in the visible world smashes our hopes, leaving us with wounded hearts and crushed spirits.

We are complex people, created in the amazing image of God. So let’s pray that God would give us hearts of wisdom to have confidence in the complexities of life. Let’s pray that He would strengthen us in our inner beings. We are totally dependent on Him and we need a sense of Him with us. We need to be able to see Him putting His love and truth into our hearts because only God can truly fill the emptiness — He alone is the true hope of our hearts, the ultimate tree of life. Take hold of the gospel and let it work in you on the inside that we might stand upright, healthy and whole, confidence in Him.

“They soar,” Tsogoo says, lifting his hand high above his head. “Magnificent! The eagle is king amongst the birds.”  

These birds, with their hooked beaks and keen eyesight, not to mention their strong legs and impressive talons, possess a fierce nobility that demands respect. During the warmer months many raptors make their home on the Mongolian steppe or on its craggy peaks. Traveling in the countryside we often spot a hawk or a falcon perched on one of the white kilometre posts that mark our journey, but the sight of a small, brown steppe eagle will always cause us to put our foot on the brake.

From the safety of the car we eyeball one another, his pale yellow eyes sizing us up until, with a flap of nonchalance; he extends his wings and climbs effortlessly into the blue. He’s a hunter; an abductor stealing prey from the very mouth of another bird as it dashes for home. This eagle is an opportunist circling high and low scanning his territory for a tasty morsel.

“Yes Tsogoo,” I reply, “the eagle is magnificent.”  

              “Many myths exist about the eagle,” says Tsogoo, “but nothing is more fascinating than the truth.” He’s right. The truth often is more wonderful than fiction. “Do you know how a mother eagle trains her young to fly?” he asks.

              “I’ve heard she pushes them out of the nest, forcing them to fly.”

              “No!” Tsogoo says. “It is much more complex than that, and a beautiful illustration of God’s nurturing of us.” Tsogoo rubs his hands together, “Eaglets have to be taught how to fly,” he says with glee. “Their parents build large comfortable nests furnished with twigs and padded with rags and camel dung. It is a safe environment for the chicks to be born into and they begin life having their every need met. However,” he raises a finger, “a few weeks into this routine the mother begins stripping the nest of the soft rags and twigs until it’s no longer a comfortable place for the chicks to be.

“Hovering a few feet above the nest, she holds her wings steady as she demonstrates that, despite her chicks’ discomfort, she is still in control. Eventually she places her wing on the edge of the nest and encourages her young to step onto it. If they stubbornly refuse she starts beating them until, left with no choice, they step out. Once there she lets them experience their first flight. Returning to the nest she repeats the process again and again until, sensing the chicks’ growing confidence, she shakes him from her wing and lets him tumble. Some fly but many fall and, swooping down beneath them, she catches those caught in freefall.”

Tsogoo stops, rubbing his chin for a moment as a grin spreads across his face. “My experience of walking with God is so similar to that chick’s,” he says. “When I’m feeling comfortable God often comes close and begins stirring up my world until I recognise, whether I want to or not, that I must step out. Trembling, I take a shaky step and find that His presence is close, upholding me, but then He seems to distance Himself and I begin falling. I cry out and He comes, scooping me up, and letting me rest in the warmth of his closeness again. But He never lets me remain there for long. He’s always nudging me higher so that, slowly, losing my clumsy awkwardness, I learn to fly with great strength and agility and realise that I am, indeed, growing closer to God.”

They seem to be multiplying; ice sculptures that is. This year they’re in squares, in front of shopping malls and interesting roadside locations. And I’m left wondering whether this is the latest craze.

A large truck, stacked with giant ice cubes hewed from some monstrous freezer, arrives at the edge of the car park. With the aid of a crane and a dozen men the glassy blocks are manhandled to the ground. By dints of heaving and shoving they’re pushed into their allotted place, while the sculptor, a man in his early thirties, adjusts his safety glasses and bobble hat. Nailing his flimsy template to one of the icy rocks the sculptor removes a chisel from his tool box and traces the image onto the cube.  

Satisfied he’s captured the likeness sufficiently, he fuels up his chainsaw and, pulling the throttle trigger, lets a billow of blue smoke escape as the saw spits into life. Revving the engine for a minute or more the sculptor carves away great chunks as he discards the excess. Multiple cuts later the chainsaw is silenced. The ice is no longer a neat, clean-cut block but an indistinguishable blob that leaves me scratching my head and asking, is this man really a sculptor?

Stamping my feet I feel torn, I really should get on with my shopping but, like the crowd who are gathering, I’m fascinated and can’t tear myself away.

Discarding his gloves the sculptor takes out an angle grinder and lets it run over the image. Up and down, backwards and forwards he moves until the image is smoother but still barely recognisable. He returns again to his tool box and, rooting though a pile of tools, finally selects a mallet and a small chisel.

Gently tapping the steel hoop of his chisel he guides the cutting edge along the contours of the ice. He works slowly, a few taps here a few taps there, before stepping back to assess his progress. I think the image of a fish is emerging although it doesn’t look very fluid and smooth. Finally the sculptor lights a blow torch and lets the pencil tip flame glide quickly over the image, melting the imperfections and bringing a glossy polish to his work.

The sun, slung low in the sky, shines with that white light that comes in the winter. Numbed with cold my feet are heavy and I decide to abandon the shopping and return to the car. There’ll always be another day to shop but watching a man create something from nothing, from conception to completion, is an opportunity I rarely get. Walking on the compacted snow I’m reminded of the work God set himself to do in his creation, in his church and in my life. Forming, cutting, polishing, painful work and yet work that bears the image of its creator and hopefully, reflects his glory.

To my English mind the scene on the edge of Ulaanbaatar is quintessentially Christmas. The ground is snow-covered while the sky, a vault of brilliant blue, shines all the way to the horizon. Fondant-like frosting covers naked branches, roofs and fence posts. A close neighbour, clothed from head to toe in fur, ambles along the pavement on his old horse. Stopping for a moment he mentions that the lamas are forecasting a harsh winter.

Officially Mongolia doesn’t celebrate Christmas and yet the shops are tempting shoppers to buy artificial pines, baubles and other gaudy frippery to decorate their homes. It’s true the New Year celebrations are growing in popularity and perhaps, one of these years, Mongolia will adopt Christmas as an official holiday. However at this point it’s only the church that marks the true meaning of the season with the coming of Emmanuel.

On the smoggy streets, close to the ger districts, hawkers stack sacks of firewood and coal and tout for business. Beyond the city limits a solitary woman stands on a lone corner selling pine nuts. With a pile of banana boxes for her counter she stamps her feet on the icy pavement. Day in and day out she’s there, rolled up in a thick deel, like a pig in a blanket, waiting and hoping for a sale.

Red and orange down-coated children make their way to school, carrying on their backs rucksacks that are nearly as big as them. With shrieks of delight they slip and slide along the pavement. Filled with grand ideas of being astronauts or inventors, dancers or artists they hope for a better future.  

At the weekend a glut of battered cars appears in the bus stops heading out of city. The drivers erect a row of brightly-coloured sledges and, huddled in their cars, wait for parents, driving gleaming four-wheel vehicles, to stop and buy a sledge for their children. In juxtaposition the poor and rich exist together, each struggling for a better life. It’s Christmas, I want to shout, the time when we celebrate the true, living God’s son’s birth on earth.

The sun is incandescent with beauty — although I cannot look at it directly. With my eyes closed its warmth fools me into the thinking the cold is less cruel than it is. But, constantly nipping at my extremities and seeping iciness into my shoes, it steals away my warmth. Relentlessly, the wind whistles down this valley, laughing as it rips through layers of clothes to reach my heart, pulling heat from the very core of my being.

In nature only one thing removes coldness. Likewise, ultimately, there’s only one thing that can remove the eternal cold loneliness of our soul: the love of God. We were far from God but, taking great trouble, He came close, looked at us and loved us. In fact He loved us before the world ever began and had a plan to draw us into His love and take away the cold sin at the core of our beings. Filled with His love our unspoken ideals become a reality. He came to free us to love Him and that’s why we celebrate Christmas.

On my desk I have a photo of my mother’s parents’ wedding. Its black and white image is rich with detail. Great Aunt Grace is seated next to Aunt Elise neither of whom, so word has it, ever spoke to each other from one year’s end to the next and yet here they are seated together. On the back row Uncle Noah, the family comedian, grins warmly while the bride and groom look demure and my grandfather, holding his gloves in his hand, looks rather dapper.  He always was a snazzy dresser with his navy blazer, white shirts and gold cufflinks. The two small children seated on the floor below look like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

The photo is over a hundred years old and yet it links me to great uncles and aunts I’ve never met. However when my father died, nearly thirty years ago, I learned that my mother had been adopted. Such news explained so many mysteries but it also left so many questions unanswered. Who were my real grandparents, aunties and uncles?  Of course there was no way to find answers to those questions but it made me realise how important it is to know that we belong.

Mongolian friends often make us smile when introducing us to a new family member. “This is my father’s older brother’s sister-in-law,” they say and, raising our eyebrows, we think surely that’s no relative at all. Despite having nomadic spirits, knowing where you belong is very important to the Mongolians. Children, parents and even distant relatives, no matter how tenuous the connection may appear to us, are all linked. They belong to one another and this belonging inexorably links their lives into an elaborate web of complex relationships.

But the threads that bind us in families can sometimes appear as delicate and fine as a spider’s web suspended between two trees. Mostly, invisible to the eye we only see it when the shimmering sun illuminates the gossamers. Or the rain or dust weighs down the supple strands. Often, we pass by without even noticing until we find minute threads clinging to our clothes.

Families are like that, intricately spun, lacing us into roles that never change. We are always a son, or a niece, an uncle or a mother. Families give us times of sublime delight and chest-expanding pride but they also make us cry and break our hearts and yes, cause us to experience every shade of emotion in between. Sometimes we boast of them and sometimes we want to deny any connection to them. But like it or not, adopted or natural born, we are in a family and the ties that bind us are as strong as steel, integrally connecting us to parents, siblings and, dare I say, all those eccentric aunties and uncles.

The richness of our families so often mirrors the family that God births Christians into. There are plenty of interesting characters in His family. But if we are in Christ then they all become our brothers and sisters, aunties and uncles. Many of them are easy to love and respect but there are some whose sharp personalities, actions and opinions just don’t fit with our personality and leave us never wanting to speak to them again. Yet as Christians, for better or worse, we are in God’s family, we are a brother or sister, an older or younger member. And God calls us to love those in His family, even the strange one with all their faults and idiosyncrasies, and in loving them we soon learn that we too have plenty of faults and idiosyncrasies ourselves.

I grew up in the county of Worcestershire, England. Situated south of Birmingham, Worcestershire is a pretty county of undulating hills and farmland. Wandering down narrow lanes you easily find hidden villages of timbered cottages with thick thatch. Ancient churches and abbeys lie scattered across the county while an impressive cathedral overlooks the banks of the River Severn.

It is a picturesque county but my overwhelming memories are much more down to earth. As a child I remember spending time in other people’s gardens. My parents came to gardening late in their lives but we lived in a small town where gardeners, and their gardens, thrived.

Memories of walking down red-bricked paths to warm greenhouses fragrant with loam and humus, brimming with beefy tomatoes are surprisingly close. In my mind’s eye I see neat rows of onions, standing tall like soldiers, while radishes poke their peppery red jackets above the earth.

I remember a frail elderly couple, who had no children, and their pocket-sized scrap of land filled with fruit trees and bushes. Nurtured and fed over the years those trees reached summer’s end eager to lighten their ripened load.

And then there were friends who crowded their borders with flowers of every colour and variety that released sweet perfume as dusk fell. Heavenly roses, night-scented stock and lavender bushes, breaching the path, left their herby fragrance clinging to your clothes. I love gardens.

I always wanted to cultivate one, but up until now there hasn’t really been the opportunity. Living on the edge of Ulaanbaatar we have a patch of ground on which we could do something but, so far, there hasn’t been time. This summer we’ve hardly cut the grass let alone thought about planting a tree.

Bemoaning this loss, I told God I didn’t think it was fair. (You’d have thought I’d have learned by now that life isn’t always fair.) Nevertheless, in my gloom God extended His grace as the faces of friends, unbidden, started coming to my mind. A long-term gossip, who now speaks words of encouragement, has become an inspiration to many. Another, rescued from dark years of alcoholism, is helping others find freedom.

Nara, shy and retiring, with shutters like leaves that fold inwards when she feels threatened, has taken a woman, crushed by abuse, into her home. Undisturbed, Nara works in her shady spot, encouraging this frail one towards God and His healing.

Older friends, mature and strong in faith, travel to restricted areas to share the good news of Jesus. Like a strong oak they nourish young churches and watch Christians, under God’s protection, grow stronger. And Tavan living in a place where beauty is fading and austerity is the order of the day allows her gentle heart and bright spirit to strengthen the lives of those touched by anguish. 

And so the list of friends, whose changing lives are bringing joy and happiness to others, goes on. I sigh. I still dream of cultivating my own English garden — I’d love to plant borders brimming with flowers and fill tiny furrows with seeds but perhaps this dream must wait for another season of my life.  In the meantime I’m content to watch others grow and blossom.

“Are you enjoying autumn?” people ask. I always marvel because as soon as Nadaam, the July sporting festival has passed the Mongolians start talking about autumn. The days may continue as hot as ever but there is a distinct coolness to the mornings and evenings.

Although the warm days speed by the Mongolians take time to revel in each and every one. Those who spent their summers near us let the days meander at their own pace, eating what they have, sleeping when they’re tired and enjoying time with family and friends without too much thought for tomorrow.

Traditionally the Mongolians have not been planners —although for many life is changing. Living for the day has been a part of their psyche and I must admit it’s a quality I find appealing though, in reality, I struggle to live without planning ahead or thinking of the next responsibility. Planning is prudent yet living for today has a biblical ring to it — Jesus instructed his disciples not to worry about tomorrow and to pray for their daily bread.

Our life with God is eternal but it is lived out on this earth one day at a time, receiving His daily provision and gifts. Thinking on God’s instruction my mind runs back to the Old Testament and the Israelites journeying through the wilderness. Every day they experienced God’s faithful provision. However, when the people tried to hoard the manna and quail, even though God had told them not to, it melted or rotted away.

Storing food for tomorrow seems sensible but I wonder what motivated the Israelites. Did they doubt God’s promises? Or imagine a day would come when He would not be present or not supply the nourishment they needed?

Jesus instructed us to pray for our bread daily, to entrust ourselves into His care and receive His abundant provision, daily. I sense this principle holds true for all of God’s gifts. As we make our petitions known to God, He comes and supplies us with all that we need. But such gifts must be received and used up in the present moment because, like the manna in the wilderness, they do not keep overnight.

The cool stream has become the daily washing place. A mother with a broken wedge of soap pummels clothes clean and then lays them on the grass to dry. Toddlers throw stones from the safety of the bankside while woops of delight, amidst much splashing, accompany children immersed in the shady depths. A young boy, baseball cap in hand, scoops a cap-full of water and plonks it on his head. He cracks a huge grin as the water cascades down his head and small body. Laughing, he repeats the process relishing every sweet moment.

Mongolia is changing. Western influences shape city life but I trust that the Mongolians will continue to enjoy the moment as it reminds me that I too need to receive God’s precious grace gifts afresh every morning.

Cement trucks rumble down the road to building sites beyond the trees. Diggers and earth movers block lanes while shirt-less builders lay block and brick, set windows and roof, drill wells and erect fences. The warm months of the summer are a busy time for building and repairs. And yet in the frenzy of activity there comes a point when the work ceases and the Mongols stop to admire their work and rest.

Food is gathered, twigs and wood arranged with care in a circle of stones. The men wash their faces in the cooling river while the women light the fire. Children, carefree and bare, jump and dive in the shallows sending shoals of fish retreating to the shadows beneath a bankside tree. A heron, his orange feet submerged beneath the water, eyes the crowd warily; one false move on their part and he’ll be gone.

After the meal families settle, chatting and playing games, drinking and singing. The evening light mutes the hills and some take blankets and sleep beneath the stars. These days have a rhythm to them, activity and rest; friends and family, in log cabins in the woods or new homes beside the river, all enjoying the outdoors.

I watch but the simplicity of downing tools and relaxing sometimes eludes me. There is unrest in my soul that all the holidays in the world cannot satiate and I’m left feeling that my work is never enough, or perhaps it’s that I think I’m not enough.

God worked and He rested too. He also looked at His work and was satisfied with what He had accomplished. All the work He needed to do had been finished and He saw that it was good.

I believe Jesus calls me to hand all my labours to him and that He promises me rest. He is the Lord of rest. But there are moments when I miss it. Stumbling over my humanness I intuitively find myself doing good works to earn God’s blessing, or meet my own exacting unrealistic standards. It is exhausting as inwardly I never make the grade and, if I’m not vigilant, the cycle of trying to prove myself worthy never ceases.

On the seventh day God rested from his work completely satisfied with what He had done. If Jesus gives meaning to my life then He will enable me to rest. And His rest is different from mine; it is a deep rest which doesn’t bind me as a slave but gives me liberty because I do not rest on my accomplishments but His, and His work is good. He has given me everything necessary for me to say that my work is finished.

Learning to rest in Him I begin honouring His image within me and realise more deeply that I am no longer defined by my job, accomplishments or qualifications. I am defined by Christ. I rest utterly satisfied in what He has done for me. But it is an act of trust which requires that I acknowledge that I am not god of my life, He is.