A case of clover.

When I was a boy, a very long time ago, we had a little cottage at the beach. It wasn’t a mansion by any means, a couple of bedrooms, basic kitchen, lounge room, fibro and lino. A wonderful place.

It was a very short walk out the back to the quiet waves that lapped up on the sand where I would engage upon massive engineering projects with my yellow Tonka dump truck: My favourite toy at the time.

The front law was a different matter.

The front lawn was a clover infested nightmare. But it was super sweet dreams for the local bee population, who found it without any hesitation.

The problem with small boys is they don’t wear shoes. At least I never did.

I can hear my mother’s voice: “Christopher, put some shoes on.”

Nah. Out the door in flash and a rattle.

Most of the time out the back onto the beach. That was my happy place.

But sometimes, it was out the front, through the clover, through the bees.

In bare feet.

I think there is something in that saying that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I am not sure when you are six, seven or eight that you think about that, there is no such thing as a deep understanding of states of mind.

At that age, you commit yourself to an action and just do it. It’s a Nike time of life. Zero risk assessment. Eventually you grow out of it, well, some of us do.
It’s the battle cry of all boys isn’t it?
“Gee I hope this works out.”
I hope I land this jump. I hope Mum doesn’t catch me.
I hope I don’t get stung.

I hope ….

Somehow it never seemed to work out for me.

I would almost always ended up with Mum picking out bee stings from a massively swollen “don’t you dare go on the sand with that,” foot.

Five minutes later I’m back on the beach with my Tonka truck, not the least bit concerned about my bee stung foot. (There was always anti-histamine! Oh and some amazing yellow ointment that had miraculous powers.)

This idea of hope, it’s natural for a kid. Hope is something that is more sure than not.
When I think back on it, my hope was knowing Mum was there to step in and make things right when things weren’t. I have forgotten the number of times she gathered me up and tended to scrapes and grazes and dealt with bee stings and blood with little more than a “thanks Mum,” as reward.
A kiss on the forehead, a pat on the backside and off I went headlong into the next adventure.

She was very much my childhood anchor.

Now I am all grown up, and my Mum is no longer here, and oh, how much I miss her every day, my childhood anchor weighed, I must now look to someone else to hold me firm in the midst of life’s storms, life’s hurts, life’s troubles, life’s wildernesses.

I must find another anchor. I am bigger now, so the anchor needs to be stronger.

If we are adrift, without an anchor, we float away from where we should be, where we are needed, where we do the most good, where we are loved, and where we love.

We can hold firm only when we have the right anchor. I was so sure that everything would be all right knowing that Mum was close.

But we do have an anchor. The writer of Hebrew’s talks about it. “We have this certain hope like a strong, unbreakable anchor …” It holds us tight to God, a strong chain that secures us to His mercy, His grace, His deep love.

This hope is assured, God is there, all the time, His love is complete and always.

God is patient and kind and enduring. God is now, and God is forever.

I am once again OK in whatever storms batter me.

I am OK when I have to stop and pick out stings. Jesus is there with the salve.

I am OK, because my hope is in Him.

I am OK because He will always be my anchor.