Confessions of a Girl from the Pit

I'm so sorry, it's become all about me;
Some assumed retribution for my years in the pit.
But what was meant for evil You worked for good.
I'm starting to see it, even now.

It's not about me -
The pit from which I've emerged doesn't owe me a thing,
All that's owed is praise to You,
I've got a new song to sing.

Let praise ring from my every breath,
Breath you bring faithfully until you decided otherwise,
I can live with that but not with the lies
That try to tear, and cloud and divide,

So come and clear the sleep from my eyes,
I admit I've used excuses
But now you've set my feet on solid ground.
There's only one confession left:

On Christ this solid rock we will stand,
All other ground is sinking sand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

Attack of the Butterflies

This evening would have been much more productive had I not had to take so many trips to the toilet. (Starting to get nervous about starting college on Monday).

The Last Test

I've got less than 2 months left in Swansea and I'm beginning to realise they won't be a walk in the park. There have been up and downs and painful lessons, and despite the fact there's only 7 weeks to go... the fun doesn't stop!

My biggest challenge right now is my work ethic: my self-discipline, and my ability to just press on and keep writing even though I am bored out of my skull.

I'm CERTAIN that this is an important grounding for my next 3 years at theological college. (Please don't misunderstand me and think I'm suggesting the work will bore me out of skull.) God hasn't eased off because this chapter is coming to a close; He's still got things to teach me, still got plans to refine me, and still got ways to prepare me.

I'm glad. I'm glad God promised to continue to do good in us, and that He's committed to seeing us grow.

I would love it if you'd stand alongside me in my 'last test': keep me accountable for the time I spend working, and pray for me as I try to stay focussed and work my butt off. Thank you.

The Last Test, c'mon...

"Well at least you can write about it on your blog,"

my Dad said, having told me I've got a speeding ticket.

Gutted.

iTunes on Shuffle: Losing the Album Concept

No, this isn’t an essay about Sgt Pepper’s as one of the greatest concept albums ever made, just a few thoughts on the effect iTunes has had on my listening habits.

I love homemade compilations - unique inlay covers, beatsy songlists in perfected running order; there’s just something really good about that variety.

I also love iTunes, a catalogue of all your music with that fantastic ‘shuffle’ button giving you Ben Folds after Kate Rusby; The Shapeshifters after The Kooks.

Out of their album context though, some songs just sound pants. I love ‘In Between Dreams’ by Jack Johnson, but I often find myself skipping past its song when they start to play on iTunes. I’ve also noticed that songs from musicals don’t seem to fit so well intermingled with the rest of my collection.

I’ve bought a few new cds recently, under a little plan to buy an album a week and explore music a bit more. The first port of call for these cds is THE CD PLAYER. Without the touch of the shuffle button, I appreciate the feel of the over all album, and get to know the songs in their context.

Of course, you can listen to music in their album forms on iTunes if you like, it’s just that I like to have that shuffle feature on the go, and then I’m not just shuffling an album, but a whole catalogue of cds spanning genre and time. It can be great and sometimes iTunes compiles the greatest tracklist. But from time to time, it’s good to just remember those songs in the context of their album.

If you’re a shuffle-addict like me then give it a try...

Inextricably Linked

I don’t want to forget the house I grew up in. It was an ex-council masionette in a Peterborough council estate. My parents moved from the North during the 1980s housing boom under Mrs Thatcher, only the house prices hadn’t risen up North, so they lost out. There was only 5 of us then, but a 6th came along the following year in the form of Jenny Rachel.

It was a bit of a squeeze in our small 3-bed house. The housing market plummeted, the value of the house halved, and still no one would buy it off us!

Years went by, the little Crawfords grew up and two of them flew the nest. Mum had gone back to work, and my parents could just afford to buy another house and let ours out.

We moved to our beautiful new 4-bed detached on 15th October 1999. Within a few years house prices had risen considerably, the estate had deteriorated and my parents were advised to try and sell the old house.

This time we managed to sell. An offer was made an accepted by an organisation who housed asylum seekers.

Roll on eight years. I sit in Swansea Museum - a long way from home, watching the ‘Asylum Monologues’; drama voicing the stories - in many cases through the exact words - of those who have come to UK to seek asylum. Asylum is a human right, allowing people ‘seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.’1 It was made in 1948 in response to the laws that had prevented persecuted German Jews from gaining entry to other countries.

I hear the horrible stories, and I’ve heard them before. It’s just words to me, I’m thinking to myself. Then I look around the room. It’s not the same sea of white middle-class faces I’m normally surrounded by. There are faces that aren’t from here. I start to wonder what this must be like for them to hear. What it reminds them of.

Peterborough is mentioned: a place where those seeking asylum are often sent. I'm reminded of my old house, and the people who live there now. I have a slightly better idea of their ordeal now. I’m glad they get our house. I feel blessed and privileged to have lived there for 10 years, and to have passed it on those rightfully looking for refuge in another country.

I remember something else I’ve read recently too: ‘The Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. "Get up," he said, "take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him."2 So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Herod.’ Joseph, Mary and Jesus; the asylum seekers.

I'm thinking maybe this has a bit more to do with me than I thought. What did I do to be born into a fantastic, loving family in Britain? Not a thing.

1. http://hrw.org/doc/?t=refugees&document_limit=0,2
2. Matthew 2:23-15