I woke up in Grandma's house - late as usual, and so I had just enough time to gobble down a banana and bundle up before we walked down in the rain to the church for the 9.30 am church service.
I never know the hymns in Grandma's church, but it doesn't really matter if you sing out of tune because usually the person in front, behind, or beside you will be singing out of tune as well, and besides, God doesn't care what your voice sounds like, but what your heart sounds like when you worship Him.
I wanted to get back to Cambridge at 4pm so I would have plenty of time to get ready for the carol service St Andrews the Great (StAG) was having at 5pm. When I mentioned the Carol Service, Auntie Sarah was keen to come and I was so glad that she'd be able to see the church which I've been going to this term. To safely get back to Cambridge at 4pm, I said we'd have to leave between 3 and 3.15pm. And so when 3pm came round, I brought my cabin bag down the stairs, put on my coat, and sat with Grandma, looking at Edward Seago's art book. When, by 3.15pm there was no sign of Auntie Sarah, I asked Grandma if I shoul go round and check if she was ready. Grandma said we should give her till 3.30pm, and so we kept looking through the pictures.
At 3.30pm, I walked over to Auntie Sarah's, to find her still cooking lunch. 'Do you want some?' She asked. I reminded her that we needed to go, and she remembered, and we spent some time looking for her glasses, before we could leave at 3.45pm.
'Late, late, late,' my heart thumped, but I quietened, and, I don't know why, but the question sprung into my mouth and I asked Auntie Sarah when she knew, that is, when she knew knew, she needed Jesus in her heart.
Auntie Sarah told me that it had happened many many times. That, like Gomer in the book of Hosea, she'd run away from God multiple times (Like Gomer, like the Israelites, like me.) and had been called back to him when she was most desperate, when she most needed Him. The conversation was so beautiful, such a timely reminder of our Saviour for whom not even a sparrow falls without Him knowing, who holds me in His hands.
Perhaps if we hadn't been late, if we hadn't been in the car at that moment in time, that conversation wouldn't have had happened.
We drove into Cambridge at about 4.40pm and it was dark and rainy, and after depositing my suitcase in college, we drove into town to try and find a place to park near StAG. Unfortunately, as a cyclist, I am completely oblivious to road and parking rules, and all the places I thought were possible parking locations were not possible (unless you were a bicycle or a taxi), and we were going in circles round the Sainsbury's/Market Square circuit. We also drove into one-way streets the wrong way a couple of times. My heart was getting tighter and tighter as I watched the clock tick past 5 pm, to 5.10pm, o 5.15pm...
Finally, we managed to find a parking spot at 5.20pm, although it wasn't too near church, and so we walked and got into the warm at about 5.30pm. It was an incredible carol service. The church was packed, and when everyone stand up to sing 'O come all ye faithful' and 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing', the noise swelled and as such a warm sound. It didn't matter that we were late (I am such an impatient person), all that mattered was that we got there, and (as God said as He surveyed creation) it was good. It was so, so good. Auntie Sarah loved it, and as we sipped mulled wine afterwards, we decided we must bring Grandma for the carols by candlelight service on the 20th!
I got back to my room, quite tired and just wanting to go to bed, but I had volunteered as part of the organising team for Just Love's Secret Church event, which was happening that night. The Secret Church event sought to simulate the environment that the persecuted church has to worship in in countries like North Korea and Syria, to encourage us to pray for our persecuted brothers and sisters in Christ.
We'd managed (just the day before) to get a room in King's college, and had distributed buttons to those who'd signed up, as secret tokens allowing their entry. We'd memorised parts of scripture and parts of the Lord's Prayer in different languages, since it's impossible to get Bibles in the persecuted church. In Afghanistan, you'd have to show your commitment to the church by memorising Psalm 119 before you could even get on the waiting list for a Bible - that is, you had to memorise the longest psalm in the bible, without a bible in the first place, to get a bible!
The quiet, dim atmosphere of the room really helped me think about what I was there for. I wasn't there to run a programme or event, no, it was more than that. I was there to come before a God who, in the eyes of people in the persecuted church, is worth dying for. It is earth-shattering to realise that when God calls us to be like Christ, who died for us, we also should be prepared to die for him. It really puts that verse 'to live is Christ, to die is gain' into perspective.
We also took communion, but instead of having the usual bread and wine, we had pita bread dipped in olive oil, since wine is virtually impossible to get especially in the Middle East. We passed it around, that little packet of pita bread and cup of oil, in a circle very solemnly. I tore of my piece, dipped it in, and passed the cup on, all the while thinking how precious this was. How amazing that I had a saviour who would give us a way to remember him, a tangible way to remember how he gave his body and blood for us. I thought that having a tangible reminder like that would be so heartening for someone in the depths of despair. That little torn section of pita bread would be a huge symbol of hope, and a reminder for patience for Christ's second coming.
That morning, in grandma's church, there had been an old lady who tottered up to the altar to receive communion. She was shaking with age, and couldn't lift her head because of some ailment or another. I was so worried about her reaching the altar in one piece I couldn't concentrate on Jesus at all. As she knelt down, the woman holding the biscuit and wine dipped a biscuit in the wine, and instead of giving it into her hand like other people, pushed it right into her mouth. Oh! I was so afraid she would choke! I felt annoyed with the lady with the biscuit and wine - how could she treat that weak woman so roughly! My mind was completely gone from Jesus' sacrifice, and fixed instead upon a feeling of unfairness and worry. (The weak lady did not choke, you will be happy to hear.) I had the luxury of letting my mind drift during communion to the people around me - and terribly I spent it judging the biscuit and wine woman, when Jesus came to cleanse us from the judgement of our sins.
Sitting in the dark room with that little piece of pita bread, I had not another thought but Jesus on my mind. I think for people in the persecuted church, where faith holds such high stakes, to think of anything but the person you are willing to lay down your life for, Jesus, during communion would be a terrible waste. The persecuted church must take communion so much more reverentially, as it should be taken.
Oh God, whether in a car ride or communion, you always show me my weakness and faithlessness in the most timely way. Thank you for your reminders and I pray for more faith.
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