Category: Life’s challenges

Yesterday is yesterday

When I started school, among many things I didn’t understand was why my desk had a hole. It was a perfectly round hole, nearly three inches across, in the top right corner.

I didn’t know what that hole was for until, three years later, the teacher came to each of our 42 desks and placed a black cup into the hole. She filled each cup with ink, and laid a pen and paper on our desks. The pen wasn’t a ball-point or fountain pen, just a shaped wooden shaft with a stylus on the end. She told us to dip the stylus in the ink, and then write on the paper. The ink quickly ran out so after each short sentence we had to dip our pens in the ink again. Writing was slow, and very, very messy.

We practised with ink and stylus for a year, and then our suffering ended. Why? Because someone realised this was a complete waste of time because ball-point pens and fountain pens were common by then. There must have been virtually no-one who dipped a stylus-only pen in and out of a reservoir of ink. Those days were gone.

Two other glaring instances of ‘persevering when the day is past’ stand out.

Typewriters    Part of my training for journalism was typing. I practised the drills and learned to touch type. Every finger except the left thumb was used, and soon I had no need to look at the keyboard. It’s a skill I still use today.

But that skill tempted me into my last, longest and least pleasurable experience with a typewriter. I made the brave but foolish decision to type my own doctoral thesis. As well as being 436 pages long, each of which had to be letter perfect, there were two special difficulties: a) much of the argument involved New Testament Greek, so I had to type each page leaving spaces to handwrite Greek into the gaps; b) I decided to create footnotes which, with a typewriter, requires calculating in advance the number of lines needed for that page’s footnotes so you could stop the main text with exactly enough space for the footnotes. My worst ever page to type had only two lines of main text and over 40 lines of a footnote. I lost count how many times I retyped that page. Almost every page was typed at least three times, but some pages many more than that.

Every page was typed on a small, portable electric typewriter. It was important that the margins didn’t change so I glued their settings in place. That typewriter lasted just long enough for me to finish. What a relief!

And then – then! – I bought my first computer (an Apple IIe). If only earlier. If I’d had a word processor before typing the thesis it would have calculated automatically the space needed for each page’s footnotes and every error would have been corrected before printing out. But I had stuck with my faithful old typewriter and made my life very difficult.

Typewriter manufacturers fought the good fight to keep their products selling after computer word processors became affordable. They gave them small memories so the typist had a chance to correct a mis-typing before the keys struck the paper. And they developed ‘golf ball’ typewriters which had no keys, just a super-fast spinning ball which struck the paper with exactly the same force every time ridding the script of light and dark letters. But no innovation could save the typewriter. The more that manufacturers churned out typewriters the more money they lost. The days of the typewriter were over.

Digital photography    As I understand it a Kodak engineer invented a digital camera in 1975. But Kodak made its money selling film, so did nothing with the idea. Other firms developed digital photography, while Kodak still tried to sell film. The giant of a former era of photography filed for bankruptcy in 2012. Film cameras still exist but only for a niche market. Film’s days are gone.

Those two examples could be multiplied. Most of us are slow to recognise when big change is happening around us, and even when we do we’re slow to let go of what’s familiar.

I’ll set down four categories where we’re ‘guilty’ of that. Some concern what’s happening in the world around us but all of them also touch on our internal reactions to change.

1. When we see change but don’t realise its significance

That would be true for Kodak and typewriter manufacturers. Some have said Kodak’s leadership thought they were in the photographic film business whereas they were really in the imaging business. That mistake imprisoned them in doing what they’d always done. Something the same happened with typewriters. Their manufacturers thought all the public wanted was better typewriters, not recognising that the disruptive technology of word processors would make their products permanently obsolete.

We think their mistakes were glaring failures to recognise new needs and opportunities. But at the time it wouldn’t have seemed like that to the CEO of Kodak or a typewriter manufacturer, someone immersed for years in one line of business and thinking all they needed to do was improve the product and raise the marketing budget. And, with no expertise in digital cameras or word processors, it’s not so surprising they shied away from what they didn’t understand or think important.

Many shun what they don’t understand or doubt. It happens with viruses and vaccines. With being told to abandon our petrol or diesel cars. With giving up the office for working from home. With radical changes to diet to counter obesity, diabetes and heart disease. What disturbs us frightens us, and we may react by denying the need to change.

2. When we don’t recognise a goal is unachievable

It happens in sport, in entertainment, in politics, with those chasing career promotion or, sadly, with those pursuing a significant personal relationship.

For every top golfer who is winning millions on a professional tour, there are tens of thousands slogging away in near poverty but still hoping that one day they’ll break through. And thousands of musicians borrowing small fortunes to produce professional standard videos believing that’ll give them a break in the pop world. And politicians aiming to run the country, but never getting further than the lowest level of local council work. Also millions working all hours at great cost to family life and personal health to climb the corporate ladder but never getting there. And the many women and some men I’ve counselled who want companionship and probably marriage, to love and be loved, but year after year it doesn’t happen.

My pain for that last group is as nothing compared to the pain they feel. And I’d never counsel anyone to close down their feelings. But, for those in other categories, there is a case for a reality check and accepting the goal that drove them on will never be achieved.

Arthur reached very high levels in one of the major oil-related companies. The work had been super-demanding, but very financially rewarding. Soon after he passed his 50th birthday, Arthur told me that if you hadn’t reached the top by age 50 in his line of business you’d never get there. He knew now his career goal was out of reach. Soon after he was offered a ‘package’ to leave. Once that’s offered, staying isn’t really an option. He accepted the deal, retired, and filled his life with voluntary work that fulfilled him, and at last he was able to give time to his wife and family.

3. When we don’t see or accept that something is over

Two blogs ago (‘Values and friendship’) I described a day out in my early 20s with then girlfriend Kate. On long drives I realised I was having to think up subjects for us to talk about. That was stressful. I wrote: ‘Warning bells rang, and the relationship with Kate gradually came to an end’. That was true. But that gradual ending actually took six months. Those extra months were not good for either of us. We should have recognised reality and ended the relationship earlier.

Many small and large things in our lives won’t work out. The only shame in that is when we won’t let them go.

Here is a little ancient wisdom from the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible:

There is a time for everything,
    a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
    a time to search and a time to give up

These are selected verses from a longer list in Ecclesiastes chapter 3. Their message is that we need wisdom to know when to start, and wisdom to know when to stop.

4. When we can’t let go of our past

This is different from the earlier subjects, because it focuses on our internal feelings.

With people I’ve counselled, two things are often said:

  • I can never be different
  • I can never forgive myself

The first of these – the thought they could never change – imprisoned some. Usually they believed they could never escape their background. Perhaps been abused physically and/or sexually as children. Perhaps developed damaging and dangerous habits related to smoking, drinking, drugs. Perhaps grew up in an economically challenged area, with no opportunity or expectation other than drudgery, hard work and an early grave. Or perhaps been raised in such a privileged environment that later on they couldn’t relate to anyone from any other background.

The challenge for these folk was believing – really believing – it was possible to be different. That the old was yesterday and the new is today and those ‘days’ won’t be the same.

Not for a moment did I ever suggest that was easy. And very few changed overnight, so my ‘yesterday’ and ‘today’ statement shouldn’t be taken literally. But a new beginning really is possible. I’ve seen it happen with people from their teens through middle age to old age. The grip of what controls us can be broken.

The second statement – that they can’t forgive themselves – is a curious one. Why curious? Because often the full version is: ‘I know God can forgive me, but I can never forgive myself’. The cheating spouse can’t let go of their guilt for such an enormous betrayal. Or the exam cheat is dogged by knowing they didn’t deserve their degree, their job, their salary. God says they’re forgiven, but they can’t accept it.

I’ve never been a priest (just as well since I have a wife and four children) but have acted in a priestly way for some tortured by their past failings. They’ve told me exactly what they did (confession) and how they don’t live like that now (repentance). I’ve been able to assure them of God’s forgiveness and tell them his will now is that they release their guilt burden and live with no sense of condemnation (restoration/renewal). God has cast their sins into the deepest sea and erected a sign saying ‘No fishing’. Truly ‘the old has gone, the new is here!’ (2 Corinthians 5:17) Not all have found peace, but, with help, many have.

For every person who ever breathed, there have been days which were good and days which were bad. But those days are gone now. I sometimes tell myself that past things have drifted down river and round a bend, and they’ll never flow upstream back to me. Today is a new day. A good day. And there are better things to do than grieve over my old typewriter, film camera, unfulfilled goals, or past sins. Yesterday is yesterday.

Why quit while you’re ahead?

Two golfers have something strange in common. One was male and played more than 90 years ago, the other female who played more recently. Both were highly skilled, and greatly admired. In their twenties they were hard to beat, and had great golfing futures. But the strange thing they have in common happened when they were 28. They both quit.

Bobby Jones, an American, was always an amateur and played while also working as a lawyer. He won his first tournament at age 6, and shot to golfing stardom by winning the US Open in 1923 aged 21. By 1929 he’d won the US Open three times, the Open Championship (the UK’s top tournament) twice, and the US Amateur four times.

Then came 1930 when Jones did what no-one had before or since, he won the Grand Slam of Open and Amateur titles all in the same calendar year: the Amateur Championship (UK), the Open Championship, the US Open, and the US Amateur.

And then he stopped. He stayed involved with golf, such as designing Augusta National Golf Club and launching the Masters Tournament which is played there annually. But he retired from competitive golf aged 28 and practised law.

Lorena Ochoa, a Mexican, also quit at her best. She was ranked number one lady golfer in the world for 158 consecutive weeks (no-one since has got past 109 weeks), winning 30 titles in eight seasons, including two Majors. In each year from 2006 to 2009 she was the Ladies Professional Golfer Association player of the year. Then – aged 28 – she stopped. In an interview just after, she said she wanted to give time back to her family, and added: ‘I am very satisfied with my achievements’.

These are two examples, but ‘going out at the top’ isn’t unique to sport. I’m intrigued why people call a halt when things are going so well. Do they feel they’ve done all they can, and don’t want to see their abilities decline? Has the stress of getting to the top been too much and now they want out? Do they fear they’ll never produce such good work again? Or do they simply have other ambitions to fulfil?

Quitting while ahead isn’t done only by superstars.  Our achievements may be less spectacular, but they’re still achievements and family and friends would expect us to go further.

Why don’t we? Why stop doing what you’re good at doing?

I’ll describe four reasons.

Fear of not being able to repeat    Authors – including the most successful – are often afflicted with this thought. The last book was a blockbuster, and now they stare at a blank computer screen thinking, ‘I can never match that. I can never do that again’. Some get past their writers’ block and produce more good work. Some can’t even make themselves try.

The odd thing is that the more people praise us for doing well, the more we’re afraid we’ll disappoint them in the future. Perhaps an achievement was a one-hit wonder. We can’t sustain that standard and don’t want to fail, so we don’t try again.

Public acclaim comes with unreasonable expectations    I happen to be writing this blog the day before England play Italy in the final of the UEFA European Championship. Unquestionably the England football team has done well to get this far, and if they win the players will be legends in their lifetime. Children will be named after them. Huge financial rewards will flow their way. And, in England, the media and public opinion will declare the team near certainties to win the 2022 World Cup to be played in Qatar.

That’s enormous pressure. No matter how well paid, no matter how skilled, no matter what’s been won before, it’s hard to cope with that level of expectations.

Some thrive on pressure. It’s been true of top tennis players like Navratilova and Federer. But others have stopped while ahead. Björn Borg won 11 Grand Slam singles titles in seven years (including five consecutively at Wimbledon), and everyone expected more from him, but he quit aged 26, telling family and friends that tennis was no longer fun. Constantly trying to live out massive expectations would rob anyone of joy.

Failure to understand why we’re succeeding    Some personality types are happy to go with the flow of whatever happens; others like to feel in control. So when opportunity or achievement occurs, but you don’t know how or why, it’s unsettling.

Stanley Baldwin was Prime Minister in the UK three times in the 1920s and 1930s. Two out of the three occasions he didn’t expect to hold the post. In 1923 Prime Minister Bonar Law retired as soon as he was given a diagnosis of terminal cancer (and died soon after), and Baldwin was appointed PM.

After periods in and out of office, his third term began unexpectedly in 1935. Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald was becoming increasingly senile, and Baldwin deputised for him. Then MacDonald’s health declined more severely, and Baldwin was formally made PM.

That third term was tumultuous, with furious debates about disarmament / rearmament in the run up to World War II, and then almost equally ferocious arguments about the intention of King Edward VIII to marry the twice divorced Wallis Simpson. Baldwin opposed the marriage, and ultimately the King abdicated.

Two times Baldwin was thrust into the top job unexpectedly. The strain on him during those years must have been immense.

I can’t come close to rivalling Baldwin’s situation as Prime Minister of the UK. But two of the major roles of my professional life were unexpected. I became General Director of the Baptist Missionary Society without ever having been a missionary overseas or served on any of BMS’s committees. BMS (now BMS World Mission) was founded in 1792 by William Carey, the first ever society of the modern missionary movement. BMS has an illustrious history. It is also a major charity, channelling millions of pounds per annum to the least evangelised and impoverished countries of the world. After 12 years in BMS’s most senior staff role, I accepted an invitation to become President of Northern Seminary in Illinois, USA. I had the right academic qualifications for the role, but – as I pointed out to my interviewers – I wasn’t American, hadn’t come through the American education system, and though I’d taught at university level in Edinburgh and Aberdeen didn’t have academic roles in my career background. They still made me President. Both those positions were challenging, especially when people assumed you knew things you couldn’t possibly know. I persevered; some wouldn’t.

Many find themselves in roles they didn’t expect or don’t think they deserve. Even when things are going well, they’re uneasy. The result? A level of discomfort that causes some to step away.

Physical, emotional or spiritual exhaustion    I’ve always loved the biblical account of Elijah. He’s a triumphant hero but that’s not the whole story. In the book of 1 Kings, chapter 18, he challenges hundreds of false prophets to prove their god’s strength against what the Lord can do. The true God will be able to light a sacrifice without human intervention. They meet on Mount Carmel. The prophets of Baal dance around their altar calling on their god, “But there was no response, no one answered, no one paid attention” (1 Kings 18:29). Then it was Elijah’s turn. He organised his altar and sacrifice, dug a trench around it, and had everything soaked with water three times. Then he prayed, and the fire of God fell and burned up the sacrifice, wood and stones. And the people cried out “The Lord – he is God! The Lord – he is God!” (1 Kings 18:39).

It was complete vindication about who was the true God and who was the true prophet. A great day for Elijah. That’s 1 Kings 18.

But 1 Kings 19 is very different. The Queen was furious her prophets had been killed, and threatened Elijah’s life. Elijah ran. When he stopped he left his servant, and went on another day into the wilderness. He was at breaking point. “He came to a broom bush, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. ‘I have had enough, Lord,’ he said. ‘Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors’” (1 Kings 19:4).

At first glance, his running away seems strange. If God hadn’t sent fire, Elijah’s life would have ended on Mount Carmel. But God did send fire and Elijah saw what God could do. But that was yesterday, and today he couldn’t cope, ran away and prayed God would take his life.

We might now call that a form of post traumatic stress disorder. Elijah had been through a hugely difficult experience. He’d survived but it had left him exhausted mentally and physically, overwhelmed and unable to cope. He couldn’t go on, and just wanted out.

Now five responses to these four reasons for quitting.

One   It’s okay to stop. Just because you do something well doesn’t oblige you to keep doing it. Besides, there will be other things you’d be good at. C.H. Spurgeon was a brilliant preacher during the Victorian era, packing massive crowds into churches. He founded a college (Spurgeon’s College is still operational today) to prepare more pastors and preachers, and in the early days interviewed all applicants himself. If a prospective student said he knew he was meant for ministry because he’d failed at almost everything else, Spurgeon always refused him. Spurgeon believed anyone who would be a good minister would be good at another six professions as well. He was right. And it’s true for more than ministers. If we can succeed in one thing, we can succeed in others. Moving on to something else isn’t the end of the road, just a junction at which we choose to turn.

 Two    Self-esteem and self-confidence are fragile things in almost everyone. I suspect someone who never self-doubts isn’t super competent but incapable of honest self-analysis. So when we doubt if we can be successful again we’re being normal and natural. And it might be right just to press on. I have a coffee coaster which includes words that have meant much to me down the years: ‘Believe in God; believe also in thyself’. I have believed in God since a child, and the coaster constantly reminds me to believe also in the self God made me. There is such a thing as righteous self-confidence. It’s not pride, and not mere positive thinking. It’s saying ‘I can do this thing and keep doing it. And I can face whatever comes next’.

Three    You might imagine successful people hear nothing but praise. You’d be wrong. I’d preached to about 2000 at a national gathering, and many gathered afterwards to thank me. Then came a lady in tears. During my talk I’d told the story of how my daughter nearly died when caught in a strong tide, and that had triggered memories in her of how her son was murdered by drowning. I couldn’t have known her situation, and my story was appropriate to my message, but I was deeply sorry I’d upset that lady and spent time talking with her. Afterwards I remembered almost none of the kind words said to me that night, but vividly remembered that lady’s pain. She was right to speak to me, and I learned lessons from how deeply she’d been affected. But the criticisms of some others are not legitimate, and I’ve tried not to be too affected by foolish comments. And, whether the negative criticisms are foolish or wise, still to face forward and do what I’ve been called to do.

Four    There can be a streak of perfectionism in high achievers. When our projects are going super-well, we imagine everything is exactly as it should be. But rarely is that true. Most things contain flaws or mistakes. The perfectionist can’t cope with that. If it’s not remedied immediately, the temptation is to get out. But none of us can escape the real world in which things are hardly ever entirely perfect. They’re good, but they’re not 100 per cent as they should be. So, especially when there’s more to be done than can be done, we must accept that good enough is good enough. Life is a balancing act of competing goals and responsibilities, and to give more time to perfect one is to steal time from another. Good enough isn’t perfect, but often it’s perfectly acceptable.

Five    There are two very down-to-earth reasons Elijah ran away when Jezebel threatened his life. 1) It wasn’t just spirituality that had sustained him on Mount Carmel, it was adrenalin. When he came down the mountain the adrenalin drained away, leaving him deflated and vulnerable. 2) He was exhausted, and therefore less able to cope. By the time he’d fled into the wilderness and prayed to die he was beside himself with tiredness and hunger. So, after he’d slept, an angel wakened him and gave him food and drink. He slept again, and a second time he was wakened to eat and drink. Only then was he fit to move forward, learn lessons and accept new challenges. I’ve learned not to look for super-complicated explanations when very ordinary factors are staring us in the face. Elijah didn’t need to die. Rather, after giving out so much, he needed time, rest, and a renewed vision for what was ahead for his life.

Most likely you’re not a golfing, tennis or football superstar. Nor a Prime Minister or a prophet. But you may feel you can’t keep doing what you’re doing even though it’s going well. I meant what I wrote earlier that it’s okay to stop. But often it’s also okay to keep going.  Reaching a ‘Stop’ sign usually means ‘Stop and check’, not ‘Stop and never move forward’.

May God make you wise with your decisions.

Values and friendship

Gail and Simon said they wanted me to conduct their wedding service in two weeks time. I knew them but hadn’t been aware they’d been seeing each other.

‘How long have you been going out together?’ I asked

‘Three weeks,’ Simon said.

I took a deep breath. They’d dated for three weeks, and now wanted to get married in another two. At any time with any people, that would give a pastor pause for thought. But I also knew two other things about Gail and Simon. The first was that neither of them were without a load of troubles in their lives. The second was that Gail was twelve years older than Simon, not a disqualifying factor but I didn’t have strong hopes they’d have thought through issues related to their age difference.

I didn’t refuse to marry them, but did make it clear it couldn’t happen in just another two weeks. They were very unhappy, telling me it was my ‘job’ to marry them. I explained gently my services were not theirs to command, and I must fulfil my role as a pastor in accordance with the trust the congregation had given me and what I believed was right with God.

They left, but not before saying they’d find someone else to marry them in two weeks.

In less than two weeks they’d split up.

Gail’s and Simon’s relationship seemed to have little going for it, and the fact that it ended almost as quickly as it began was no surprise. But I have been surprised with other couples, like Amy and Vic who had a strong and loving relationship others might envy. But not so strong or loving after ten years when it ended.

Relationships never come with guarantees. But there are factors that support and help a relationship to thrive. Love is, of course, foundational. But you can’t live in a foundation. You must build on it. And what’s built, and how it’s built, determines if love will grow and flourish. Real happiness in a relationship is not an accident. It has to be built.

I’ve been identifying factors that help, and in this third (and last) in a short series, I’ll set down two more building blocks that Alison and I believe have been important.

Values When very different people get on well, we say ‘opposites attract’. Yet when two similar people do well, we don’t say ‘similarity attracts’. Personally I don’t give much credence to the ‘opposites’ v ‘similarity’ theory.

What does seem to matter are values – how great a value we place on things that truly matter to us. Relationships can work with differences in these areas, but the greater the differences the greater the potential strain on the relationship.

I’ll give examples, but these are mine and you will have other things which, for you, are deep values.

Faith    When Sharon was fourteen, the faith she’d been taught from childhood came alive for her, and she became a committed Christian. A few years later she went to university, joined a Christian group where she met Joe and, after some time, they became a couple. He proposed, she accepted, two years later they were married, and eventually they had two children. They seemed very happy. But not entirely. One day Sharon told me that two days before their wedding Joe told her he wasn’t actually a Christian. He wasn’t sure faith had ever been real for him; it certainly wasn’t any more. Sharon had always intended to marry someone who shared her faith, but what was she to do with wedding day so imminent? She married Joe, then prayed and hoped he’d find new faith, but he never did. ‘We’re okay,’ Sharon told me, ‘but there’ll always be a gap in our lives that nothing else fills’.

Over the years many have told me of ‘the gap not filled’ because of a faith not shared. Perhaps some couples haven’t felt that tension, but I struggle to understand how faith can be central to every value and purpose of life and for that not to be the same for the person to whom you’ve dedicated your life.

Children    This sub-heading could cover several things, all related to children.

One of the biggest questions is how many? From the start Alison and I felt it right to add to our family number until we knew that more children would seriously harm the wellbeing of those we had already. We reached that point with four. We’d already met disapproval when we went past two, some suggesting that number three must surely have been a mistake. When number four was coming, several reacted ‘Oh no!’ and offered no congratulations. And Alison’s first pregnancy-related medical appointment began with a nurse who assumed we clearly didn’t understand contraception. How could anyone actually want four children?

Well, we did want four. Others may want none, one, two, three or any other number. How many they want doesn’t trouble me. What does is when couples are sharply divided on family size. Several times I’ve been told, ‘We have two children, and I want at least one more, maybe two, but my husband absolutely refuses’. Division on something so fundamental generates pain and frustration for both involved. No-one can know in advance if they’ll be able to have children, nor what family life with children will be like. But some couples admit their pre-marriage conversations about family size lasted only until their differences became uncomfortable and then they backed off. If you asked, ‘Did you talk about this?’ they’d say they had. Did they resolve it? No, and therefore they didn’t realise how different their heart-felt hopes were.

Once there are children, plenty other ‘values’ issues surface:

  • About spending time with them
  • About discipline
  • About education
  • About behaviour
  • About the role of grandparents
  • About the kind of friends they can have
  • About ambitions for the children

And so on. When parents don’t agree on values issues like these, they become pressure points in a relationship.

Money    Alison and I had very little income in our earliest years together. For seven years we had no car, our furniture was almost entirely second hand, and none of our carpets were new. The children’s clothes were castoffs from kids who’d outgrown them, or bought from charity shops. Summer after summer we never had a family vacation, until finally we got a week’s break because friends loaned us their caravan at no cost. Alison would do our budget three times to make outgoings and incomings at least distant acquaintances. We learned three important things. One, you can be happy with just a little. Two, when having one thing means not having another you value what you buy. Three, money was not a subject that divided us because our attitudes to it were aligned.

But many couples I’ve known were far from aligned about finance. One spent, the other saved. One ran up huge debts, the other begged creditors for time to pay. Some didn’t know the other was spending their money, a secret that always came out and caused great tension. Different attitudes to money can wreck a relationship.

Life goals    I was one of a team interviewing people with a sense of calling to overseas missionary work. Harry and Cathy were only in their mid twenties but especially promising: great personalities, clear thinkers, well qualified, full of faith. Everyone enthused about them. Until, that is, we interviewed Harry and Cathy individually, and those who talked with Cathy reported that they’d sensed she had reservations about being far from her family. In the final session Cathy confessed she’d always dreamed of living within only a few miles of her parents, raising her children with their support and having her parents play an integral part in their grandchildren’s lives. Harry’s dream was going overseas to serve disadvantaged and impoverished people, and Cathy had tried to make herself share his dream. But now – at the moment of decision – she couldn’t face that future. So, lovingly, the interview team advised Harry and Cathy to withdraw and find the way forward that would be right for both of them.

Sadly I met some who had squashed a conflicting dream and gone overseas. It never worked. Whether overseas or at home, it’s very hard when one is chasing a dream the other doesn’t share.

My work was always demanding: pastoring growing churches, heading up a mission agency, being president of a seminary. But Alison believed in the rightness of what I was doing as much as I did. Sometimes she’d say: ‘He holds the office, but both of us have the calling’. Jointly owning a life goal is important.

Shared responsibilities    One short story will tell the message here. Ken and Jean were part of a small group who knew each other well enough to be open and honest about deep issues. What was shared in the group stayed in the group. One evening Jean talked about Ken’s love of playing squash and football, but they used up any time he had alongside his growing work responsibilities. Jean had a significant career too, but she had cut out hobby-type interests in order to do the shopping, cook the meals, and keep the house organised. Jean’s pain was clear as she described what that was like. Here’s how she finished: ‘I’d always imagined we’d each have home responsibilities and careers, so each with one and a half jobs. Instead Ken has one job and I have two.’

No-one left the group that evening unaware of how those unshared responsibilities were hurting their relationship.

Values matter, and the more foundational they are the more they matter. When they’re in tension with the values of the person with whom they share life, the more difficult that relationship becomes.

Friendship

I’d rank friendship as one of the most important foundations for a strong and happy long-term relationship. Here’s when I first realised it.

Before Alison I had an earlier girlfriend called Kate. Kate was outgoing, popular in company, great performer from a platform, clever academically and came from a strong family background. We had good times together.

Except there were two problems. One was almost a culture issue. Her parents were wealthy, lived in an impressive stone built house in the suburbs, and Kate had absorbed tastes in clothing, travel, dining out, that were foreign to me. Then we got near to her birthday. She knew I’d be away on the date of her birthday, so Kate was clear she expected a bouquet of flowers to be delivered on the day. I certainly couldn’t afford flowers, but it seemed to matter so I raided the bank account for her. But it left me feeling uneasy.

The second problem was more decisive. I didn’t have a car, but my aunt loaned hers so I could take Kate out for a day. There were good things about that day, but during the longer drives I realised we’d run out of things to talk about and silence was uncomfortable. I began inventing subjects to fill the void. The day that should have been special was actually stressful. Warning bells rang, and the relationship with Kate gradually came to an end.

With Alison it was different, both then and all the years since. From the beginning there wasn’t just romance there was friendship. We enjoyed being together. We laughed, had fun, chatted about anything and everything, and when there was silence we were at peace. It’s still like that. Alison often reminds me that I vowed life would never be boring, and that’s always been true. We enjoy listening to each other’s stories as much as telling our own. We have stimulating conversations on countless subjects. We love visiting places together, exploring, learning, sharing. We support each other through rough times emotionally and physically. Neither of us fears the other would fail to care, no matter what happens, because we’ve already shown we do. When things have gone wrong, we’ve forgiven and moved on. Some marriage books have a chapter about ‘keeping romance strong’ where they advocate date nights, candlelit bedrooms, or meals in expensive restaurants. And there’s nothing wrong with those if that’s what you want. But romance can happen through every day, every event, every experience, every part of life. It’s in the simple joy of being together, a joy that’s never diminished, and in fact gets stronger and better all the time.

Relationships are unique to a particular couple, so our experience won’t be anyone else’s. But a bedrock of friendship seems crucial – enjoying each other, sharing with each other, depending on each other, laughing with each other, moving forward together.

May whatever relationships you have be productive, strengthening, fulfilling, and fun.

(My apologies this blog is posted late, but this last weekend I prioritised a very special birthday event for Alison with all our family. It was the right – and very happy – thing to do. Thank you for being understanding.)

Lasting relationships are not lucky or unlucky

In the last blog, I left a mystery. What is it that Alison and I have in common which is odd and possibly unique?

Here’s the answer.

I was five years old, and playing with my older brother Alan in our front garden. Mum told us to stay there while she talked to the lady at the house opposite. Alan and I chased each other – the front garden was very small – I didn’t want to be caught any more – I unlatched the gate and ran to the safety of mum.

Except I never got there. All I remember was glimpsing something coming fast towards me. My mum remembered a screech of brakes, a massive thud, and seeing her son in the air, landing twenty feet down the road. I was conscious, so she got me to my feet and helped me indoors. (Moving someone just hit by a car isn’t an example to follow!) I was put to bed, and a doctor was called. Apparently all my ‘vitals’ were sound, but I was kept in bed for two days. The utterly blameless car driver returned the day after the accident to see how I was, and left relieved that I was well.

Alison was five years old. She was playing in the front garden, while her mum was across the street talking with a neighbour. Alison wanted to be with her mum, so unlatched her gate, and ran across the road.

And never got there. Her mum heard the bang, turned, saw Alison bouncing on the front of the car before being pitched forward down the road. Alison was helped up, taken into the house, perched on the kitchen worktop, and bumps and scrapes cleaned. Alison doesn’t remember a doctor being called but, thankfully, she was perfectly fine.

So I was five and run down by a car, and Alison was five and run down by a car. If we lived in the same town, you might think there was a crazy driver targeting five-year-olds. But those accidents were 400 miles apart. We grew up in very different places, but met, married, and eventually discovered we had nearly identical accidents when we were five. That may not be unique, but is highly unusual.

What is also unusual today is for relationships to last long-term. The divorce rate in both the UK and the USA is heading towards 50%, and a high percentage of unmarried couples also don’t stay together for as long as they first planned.

I’ve heard many talk of being either ‘lucky’ or ‘unlucky’ in marriage, as if there’s a marriage lottery where chance decides if you win or lose. It really isn’t that simple. Certainly, you should make a wise choice, but there are also important beliefs, attitudes, principles, practices which determine how a relationship will go. I shared two of those in the last blog – commitment and dependency – and, in a moment, I’ll add two more. (And another two next week.)

One more thing before launching out. I believe almost every relationship can work out well, but that requires willing people. I’ll explain. Early on as a pastor, I hurried to meet with Lauren who’d walked out on husband Bernard the previous day. I never got the chance to share my good advice. As soon as I began talking about healing the marriage, Lauren said ‘I don’t want it healed. I don’t love Bernard any more’. And though we talked for longer, that was Lauren’s position and nothing I said or Bernard said could change that. She was determined to go her own way.

Three scenarios, therefore:

  • A troubled relationship can be restored when both want it.
  • A troubled relationship will likely dissolve when neither wants it.
  • A troubled relationship is also likely to be lost if only one wants it restored.

So no-one should think ‘If only I’d done more my relationship would have lasted’. Where two are willing to work at it, there’s an excellent chance. But if one won’t try, nothing the other does will compensate. That’s sad, but reality.

All that said, here we go with two more important principles for a lasting relationship.  

Sharing – being a couple, not two individuals

Chris and Janice’s marriage didn’t survive because Chris had an eccentric idea of what sharing meant. Half of the furniture was his, and half Janice’s. Half of the space on a window shelf was where he put his things, and the other half was where Janice put hers. Half the cups and mugs were his, half hers. He washed half the front steps of their house, and Janice should wash the other half. I don’t know if Chris thought half the TV screen was his, and half Janice’s, but he likely believed half the time he could watch his programmes and half the time Janice could watch hers.

Chris had no concept of everything belonging to both of them. For him, it all came under a Chris heading or a Janice heading. I tried to help him see how a deep relationship meant just one heading with both their names, but he couldn’t compute that. Janice found his rigidity intolerable, and the marriage ended.

There isn’t a one-size-fits-all formula for sharing. What matters is they think as a couple, and work that out in ways mutually comfortable. So, for example, Alison and I have never thought of having personal money or personal property. What we have is ‘ours’. When our children were very young, Alison’s full-time employment centred on the home. In later years she earned a wage. But nothing changed regarding money. When either of us thought we should buy something exceptional, we discussed it and agreed a way forward. It worked, and still does. Others will have their own ways, and that’s fine too providing both are content.

Intrinsic to what I’ve just written is openness and honesty. At one time I longed to start a club to train people in advanced motorcycling. (If you read the last blog, you’ll know my path to being an ‘advanced motorcyclist’ was rocky to say the least, but I got there.) But I couldn’t do that with the underpowered bike I was riding. My eyes were set on a 900cc Yamaha. Alison studied our annual budget. The unwelcome news was that we simply didn’t have the money for the Yamaha. I was disappointed but accepted that. But a month or two later, Alison said, ‘I’ve redone the budget, and if we make some changes there’s enough for the motorbike’. I asked lots of questions. I didn’t want the wrong kind of sacrifices just so I could have a 900cc motorbike. Alison showed me the figures, reassured me, and the Yamaha 900cc was bought. (A good investment – that was more than 30 years ago and I still have the bike.)

Three things made that possible – communication, honesty and flexibility. Communication – we talked about the situation. Honesty – both about the desirability of the purchase and the reality of the budget. Flexibility – I would have accepted a negative decision, but Alison made the effort to reorganise our finances to make the new bike possible.

Sharing feelings, dreams, fears, possessions, money all centre on seeing yourselves as one couple. Get that right, and most things fall into place.

Forgiveness – finding a way to move forward

A and B are a couple. For A never to wrong B, and for B never to wrong A, either A and B must both be perfect, or A’s and B’s relationship must be entirely bland and boring. Since all relationships exist between imperfect people, the first of these isn’t possible. And, since two people will inevitably pull in different directions sometimes, the second isn’t possible.

So we have to be able to forgive each other.

This isn’t the place for a comprehensive thesis on forgiveness. But I have preached and counselled about forgiveness for decades, so I’ll set down three key statements.

Forgiveness isn’t only what we need to give another, it’s what we need ourselves.

Larry has plunged himself and Lizzie into debt. He’d assured Lizzie he was on top of their finances, and they could afford the foreign holiday, the big screen TV, the second car, the bikes for the kids. But, while rummaging in a drawer, Lizzie found letters making final demands for payment, and threats of court action against them. Confronted, Larry admitted he’d been weak and greedy, hoping somehow it would all work out. But it hadn’t.

Lizzie, a disciplined and organised person, resents Larry’s folly. How can she forgive recklessness which has jeopardised their financial future? And then she remembers how, last week, she ranted at one of their children’s teachers, and claimed their daughter’s poor exam marks must be the result of incompetent teaching. But once she got home, she calmed down, realised her allegations were unfounded, and she was venting her own guilt and disappointment on an easy target. She’d have to apologise and ask forgiveness.

So, just as Lizzie is thinking that Larry is in the wrong, she realises she’s also in the wrong, albeit in a different way. Larry needs forgiveness; Lizzie needs forgiveness. Neither is perfect. ‘We are all sinners’ says the Bible (Romans 3:23). We need forgiveness from those we’ve wronged, and need to give forgiveness to those who’ve wronged us.

Forgiveness isn’t ignoring a wrong, but an essential step towards putting things right.

I learned violin from ages seven to twelve, and played in concerts organised by the violin teacher, Mrs Black. One evening we played in a village community hall, and though we were all string players one piece needed the sound of a church bell striking eight times. I was handed a musical triangle, and at the right moment I was to solemnly strike the sound of the bell. I got it spectacularly wrong. When the pause came in the music, I began with firm strikes on the triangle: BONG (long pause) BONG (long pause) BONG (long pause) – and then, realising I was going far too slowly, I quickened my bonging – BONG  BONG  BONG  BONG  BONG. Three slow strikes, five super fast strikes – the strangest church bell ever. The concert finished, and what Mrs Black said to me was … absolutely nothing. She didn’t speak to me at all. But she did bring it up at the next rehearsal, scolding me in front of others in the orchestra. And my relationship with Mrs Black never recovered.

I knew I’d messed up. A private word would have sorted it out, and I’d have played in that orchestra under Mrs Black’s leadership for years more. Instead I left.

There’s no need to pretend a wrong hasn’t been done, but forgiveness is a vital early step to restoring a relationship.

Forgiveness is not only a gift for the other, but one for yourself.

Jenny’s relationship with Martin was completely broken. That wasn’t surprising because she only found out Martin was having an affair with her best friend when Martin announced he was leaving. For months Jenny was in a state of shock, then gradually began to get life together again for herself and their two children. Around then I got to know her, and Jenny was very clear she could never forgive Martin for his betrayal.

The bitterness I heard in Jenny’s voice was unmistakeable and understandable. We talked over a lengthy period, and she accepted she hadn’t moved past the pain Martin had caused. She wasn’t sure she ever could. I reassured her it was possible. Then one day she told me she wanted to forgive him.

‘But I can’t feel anything but sadness and anger,’ she said.

‘Okay, I recognise that. But keep acknowledging you want to forgive even though you don’t feel forgiving.’

And that’s what she did. Over time, Jenny’s desire to forgive became a decision to forgive. And that’s when healing began, the bitterness eased, and a seed of trust was planted. That seed grew, and after some years she met Jack who was a wonderfully steady, loving man. Jenny responded to his love, they got married, and last I knew they were enjoying years of great happiness.

Every story won’t be like that. But the principle is sound: forgiving someone isn’t just a gift for them, it’s also a gift you give yourself.

That’s almost where I’m ending on this theme of lasting relationships. There’ll be two more important principles in the next blog. Please join me for that.

But finally, there’s one more factor that Alison and I have in common.

I left home aged 16 to become a trainee journalist with Scotland’s premier quality newspaper. Two years later I became a Christian, and soon sensed a new direction for my life. But I needed more qualifications for admission to university, which added another two years before I could enrol at the University of Edinburgh.

Alison finished school at age 18 with great qualifications for university, except that her university of choice was revamping the course she wanted to study and enrolling no-one that year. Rather than go anywhere else, Alison deferred her application and meanwhile searched for work. She lasted three weeks in a cigarette lighter factory, after which she felt so brain dead she resigned. Instead she worked the rest of the year as a checkout operator with the British supermarket chain Sainsbury’s. The work wasn’t exciting, but she enjoyed meeting customers, especially those who made a deliberate choice to bring their purchases to her checkout. Then her year was over, and she enrolled at (you’ve guessed) the University of Edinburgh.

Lots of factors could have been different about when and where each of us went to university. But they were what they were. We enrolled at the same time, met three weeks later, and so it all began… It must have been meant.

How a motorcycle crash changed my life (but not in the way you think)

I was 21 and at last had a motorcycle. Back then you could ride anything up to 250cc with only a learner’s licence. I’d found the money and bought a new Honda CB175.

My CB175 was a beautiful gold colour, electric start, 4-stroke engine, five-speed gearbox, dual exhausts. It accelerated fast, and had power to spare for overtakes on open roads. Bikers would call it ‘naked’ (no screen) so I nearly froze on cold days, but otherwise it was a thrill to ride. I loved it.

Then I crashed it after just five days.

I’d set off mid evening to ride out into countryside to the west of Edinburgh. Traffic was light, the road was wide. Up ahead I saw a tight bend to the right. No problem. I eased off on the throttle, and pulled the left brake lever to slow down gently. Except that lever wasn’t the rear brake. On everything I’d ridden before it was, but on a grown up motorbike it’s the clutch lever. Suddenly, instead of the engine slowing the bike, I’d ‘released’ it and speeded up. I reached the bend going far too fast. Half way round I ran out of road and hit the kerb at about 40 mph.

The next thing I remember was hearing voices. They were coming from all around me, and I realised I must be lying on the ground. Someone said, ‘I don’t know what happened. He just hit the side of the road and went flying in the air’. I began to stir, and another bystander asked how I felt. I mumbled something about being all right, though I’d no idea if that was true. There were no shooting pains, so I staggered to my feet (a very bad thing to do without being assessed by a paramedic), removed my crash helmet, assured my small audience that I’d be okay, and gradually they drifted away.

Right then I was more concerned about the bike than myself. It was on the grass verge several yards away, looking sadly crumpled. The front wheel and the handlebars were seriously out of shape, so there was no way I could ride it. I pushed the bike to a safe place and caught a bus home.

My flat was up two sets of stairs, and every step hurt. Once inside, I got a good look at myself. No bones were broken, but my neck was stiff, my arms bruised and gently bleeding, skin scraped away on both legs with grit embedded in the wounds. Since I’d likely somersaulted through the air, that wasn’t too bad.

I’d no idea how to sort myself out, so I phoned a friend. She said she’d come immediately, and arrived with cotton wool and antiseptic. She filled a bowl with warm water and gently bathed the areas where the skin was broken and eased the road dirt out. That evening, more than ever before, I realised what a good friend she was and, actually, much more than a friend. I was grateful for her tender loving care. So grateful I married her and Alison has kept blessing me with her tender loving care for decades since. I’m not glad about the motorcycle crash, but very glad it helped me realise who my life companion should be.

I have crashed more motorcycles since, but I promise it’s not been to keep earning Alison’s care. So have there been foundational beliefs and principles that have sustained our relationship down the years?

I’ve identified six, but four of them will be next week’s blog (when I’ll also tell you what Alison and I have in common that is not only odd but perhaps makes us completely unique).

You may be surprised that ‘love’ isn’t in my list, even though it has been present daily in our marriage. It’s not listed because love is like a foundation on which you build, and the principles I’ll list rest on the foundation of love but, for want of a better phrase, they’re the next level up. Besides, if I was even to try to describe love I’d need space for at least another million words.

Also, I’m acutely aware that many don’t have a life companion. So, knowing what I’ll be writing about, if the rest of this blog could be unhelpful for you please feel free to stop now. I have no wish to cause anyone pain.

So, here are the first two things Alison and I have found super-important.

Commitment

Years ago, I spent two weeks with a church in Santa Monica, near Los Angeles, and got to know the young adults there. One evening, after all the pizza had been eaten, we started talking about relationships and I was asked, ‘Alistair, what does “commitment” mean? We don’t understand it.’

I knew that none of the group were currently married (some had been), and many of them had lived through the divorce of their parents. Perhaps their backgrounds explained the question.

They were all dedicated movie watchers (we weren’t far from Hollywood), and many films included the romantic line ‘I have feelings for you…’ So I began with that concept of love, and explained that of course love involves feelings, but that can’t be all. Lasting love isn’t just a feeling but a decision. It’s the deep and serious decision to love someone through good times and bad times no matter what. I quoted a song by Don Francisco (a Christian musician) in which the dominant line is: Love is not a feeling it’s an act of your will.

In other words, I told them, to love someone is a choice, one of the toughest but most wonderful choices you can ever make. That’s what commitment means.

It’s something I learned from my father. Mum died when she was 55, and years later Dad remarried. He and Anne enjoyed a good relationship, but then Anne had a stroke which left her almost unable to walk or do much. She plunged into a deep depression. For two years Dad did everything to care for her at home, but his health declined and his doctor told him Anne must go into care. Very reluctantly, Dad eventually agreed. But Anne became even more depressed and took out her frustration on Dad. Yet he visited every day. Anne was his wife, and, though every visit hurt, he cared and never stopped going, never stopped listening, never stopped being a faithful husband. When Anne died, Dad grieved deeply.

I saw and will never forget my Dad’s model of commitment. And it’s the no-matter-what-happens commitment to each other which has been a bedrock of our relationship.  

Dependency

I also learned something about dependency from my Dad during the one and only ‘relationship’ conversation I ever had with him.

Not long after my parents celebrated 25 years of marriage I asked Dad a question: ‘So, has the love you and Mum have for each other changed from when you were first married?’ My Dad was the strong, silent type when it concerned personal feelings, and, in any case, he couldn’t have had a ready answer to a question like that. So, there was silence. He was thinking.

Then he spoke. ‘When you’re first married, you’re new to each other. You know you love each other, but now you’re building a life together. The situation is different after 25 years. Yes, love is still there, but now your lives are tied together. You share everything important. Your Mum and I depend on each other for everything. Dependency is right at the heart of the relationship.’

My parents’ lives had become interwoven. I understand some people don’t think of that as ‘healthy’, but my Mum and Dad both found it important and satisfying. They didn’t think of themselves as two single people but as one intertwined couple.

And that’s why Dad felt tragically alone and helpless when Mum died four years later. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t boil a potato or scramble eggs. He’d lost the person with whom he shared everything, the one with whom he’d raised two sons, the one he’d talked to about small and big things, the one from whom he got advice, or with whom he shared anxieties and aspirations. My brother and I did all we could for Dad at that time. And he appreciated that. But he’d lost the person above all others on whom he depended.

Alison and I also know what it means to need each other. It’s not just a longing; it’s feeling your life depends on the other.

For me it was during dark months of depression. I saw no value in anything I’d done, and no future worth living for. I’d lie awake through the night terrified of facing another day. At the worst of moments I’d reach across the bed for Alison’s hand, and she’d take it and hold on to me. She was there. And she’d be there when morning came, and there through that next day, and the one after, and the one after… I depended on her and survived.

Alison’s dark months came after a terrible accident. Workers were installing super-heavy office furniture in our home in America. A heavy unit was dislodged, and fell on Alison’s back. She was rushed to hospital – scans showed broken vertebrae – fragments of bone were now dangerously near her spinal cord – eventually there had to be an operation. Alison was on the operating table for nine hours while they took bone from a rib, reshaped it in her back, and built a titanium cage to support it. For months Alison was disabled and in severe pain. Movement was greatly impaired. She needed help to walk, to climb stairs, to get to the bathroom. She couldn’t stand to shower herself so we bought a shower chair on which she sat while I sprayed water over her. And every day and every night the pain was intense, with no guarantee it would ever be better. I gave her as much practical help as I could, but maybe the greatest thing I gave was hope. Over and over I told her that this would pass, and a new normal would come by Christmas. She clung onto those words. And they came true. At Christmas she wasn’t free of pain or able to do all she wanted, but she was much better than before. It was the beginning of a new normal. Today that new normal is a good normal, which includes walking the dogs and spending hours tending to our garden. I couldn’t heal Alison’s body, but I could help her hope for better days ahead. She believed me – trusted me – depended on me – and we got there.

We keep getting there every day. Our lives are no more free of problems, puzzles and pains than anyone else’s. So we still hold hands, share our struggles, and draw strength from each other. Jesus said ‘the two will become one’ (Matthew 19:5) and we’ve found that as ‘one’ we’re stronger than the two we used to be. Dependency can be a good thing.

That’s enough for this blog!

I’ve four more bedrock principles for lasting relationships still to share. But, if I wrote only a sentence or two about each I couldn’t begin to do them justice. And, if I wrote as much as each deserved, this blog would be so long no-one would ever read it!

So, those principles will be at the heart of the next ‘Occasionally wise’ blog. Please join me when it’s posted. And, as promised, I’ll also tell you the oddest of things Alison and I have in common – and it’s not that the first four letters of our names are the same; it’s much stranger than that!