Faith rises, fresh morning dew

                                                             Picture credit: Author’s own

Regular readers may recall that last month I wrote about the anticipation we were enjoying before visiting Amsterdam. The trip was fantastic and one highlight of many was a visit to the Keukenhof tulip gardens alongside thousands of other tourists. The display was spectacular and, whatever your taste in gardens, you can’t fail to be impressed by the millions of expertly curated blooms. It was bitterly cold and wet, but that barely dented our enjoyment. Of course, I took a ton of photos. Despite the sheer brilliance of the display, as soon as we got back, we wanted to see how our tiny pot of tulips was getting on, and I took another photo. We had seen the best display of tulips anywhere in the world, but we were just as delighted in our little effort – because they were ours.

If our tulips were human, they might have felt like imposters compared to their Dutch cousins. Maybe they would shy away from the camera, too embarrassed to even call themselves tulips. One stem had snapped in the wind and it’s in the kitchen window now, a single wounded specimen. It is utterly lovely, and giving us great satisfaction.

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of being at the ACW retreat at Scargill House. One thing I loved was the integrity of the occasion, by which I mean no one there had to pretend they were anything they weren’t. The weekend was not a masked ball (although an ACW masked ball would be fun!). One of my favourite parts was listening to those who stood and shared extracts of their work, some doing so for the first time, full of apprehension and nerves. Expertly led by Adrian and Bridget Plass, they encouraged us to embrace our feelings rather than cover them up or pretend they don’t exist.

Like my little pot of flowers, so many of us experience imposter syndrome, unable to declare ourselves writers in a world where there are already so many talented authors. One thing is certain – there will always be ‘better’ writers than us in the world’s eyes. God may love those amazing writers, but he loves our little (or not so little) work too – because we are his.

Whilst I was at Scargill, I remembered some forgotten poems I wrote a while back, which I have saved in a file called ‘Brave Face.’ As far as I remember, I haven’t shared any of them anywhere before. The poem reflects how I felt returning from Scargill. Faith rises…fresh morning dew.

Brave face wanes

at end of light.

Fades away

in grip of night.

Strength melts as

candle flame struggles.

Drowning in wax ’fore

dark visions tussle.

Faith rises

stronger than I knew.

Dawn comes

fresh morning dew.