My daughter asked me today why do I often have hesitation in my voice when I pray for her.  I love her. She always is so honest!  I need that!  I answered her that it’s because I think she doesn’t always want to hear what I am saying. Maybe she sighs inwardly, yet she never says, ‘Mum, Stop, don’t pray for me’.

Are there any people that refuse offers to pray for them?  I doubt it.  Yet those fears, feelings of rejection, condemnation, people-pleasing linger …  tough ones.  They have stopped me from doing or saying a lot. Especially a sensitive person like me, who often gives up too soon.  I have wrestled for a long time.  But I am breaking out of the prison.

What I write, what I say, is not going to sit well with everyone, but that’s okay.  In fact, I have probably lost readers since I have subtly been writing more ‘spiritual words’ .  I have spent too much of my life conforming to what is expected of me, saying what people expect to hear, agreeing when I don’t really, because I don’t have the confidence to express myself properly, or I am too afraid of getting people upset, going against the norm.  It must be so difficult for young people in these times, when every expression, thought, image is instantly analysed and assessed.  But if they can just get to the place beyond all of that, and they are free to be who they really are, without fear, knowing their true value, believing it and living it.

What I have found is that when I broke past the fear, it was really never as bad as I imagined.  Fear was my foothold for too long.  Fear of speaking up in class in case I stammered, at boarding school fear of not having anyone to sit with in the dining hall and feeling that every eye is on me because I am alone. Thoughts of failing as a wife, mother …  I have overcome, thanks to safe places where I could share, good Bible teaching, my prayer groups, my affirming family.  And I am more than thankful.

Today is Day 13 of my series Prison Break of Thoughts – 31 Days of Inner Release that I am writing for #write31days challenge.

My grandmother knew.  She gave me a beautiful gold pendant of praying hands when I was young.  She left me her Bible when she died.  The same Bible that I hardly used until I was in hospital at age 32.  Then it went with me everywhere, even though the words were blurry and I could not read them then.

She knew that I would be the one to proclaim the mystery of the gospel.  She must have been praying for me a lot.  She probably knew I would end up writing.  I used to write letters to her, as she lived in Canada and I was in Barbados.  I remember as children we would visit over the Christmas holidays.  There was a play room in the basement which we loved, toys there that we never had at home, and everywhere carpeting, cozy.   And there was another room also, Grandad’s Hobby Room and we could never enter. Grandad collected stamps, created beautiful woollen rugs, did the hardest jigsaw puzzles and I can’t remember what else.  He was gifted in many ways.  We were afraid of him sometimes, very tall, straight backed, strict, but kindly and he liked a good laugh.  He and Grannie took us on a trip to Disney World when I was 8, driving all the way from Canada.  When Grandad was diagnosed with bone cancer, and it went into remission for many years, they took the opportunity to travel extensively, overcoming his fear of flying in the process. Grannie must have been praying through that time too.

Christmas in Canada at our grandparents house when we were little was full of excitement.  There would be a huge decorated box that contained the gifts and when we were all dressed in our Christmas frocks, we would get to pull our gifts out of the box in the beautiful drawing room that was only used on very special occasions.   I remember there was music too, but I don’t remember from what source.  We would have delicious meals at the long kitchen table, with the adults in the drawing room behind us.  Our uncle, who lived with them, would ensure we only used our own glass, and they had our initials on them.  We shared the television with him, his ball games and our cartoons, and were thrilled with the extra channels – at home there was only one channel.  It would take a very long time to get each of us dressed in our outdoor gear, to go in the snow and play.  We never stayed out long, but how I loved the snow.  So white and soft and silent, I would lie in it and make snow angels.

I will be a praying grannie too one day.  I can’t wait!  I hope they will have some vivid memories too as I did, unexpected jolts to times long past, taking us back to the simplest of family times.  My main prayer is that my children, grands and beyond will know and experience God’s love and faithfulness.  It is readily available to all.

Today is Day 12 of the series Prison Break of Thoughts – 31 days of Inner Release that I am writing for #write31days challenge.

It has only been 11 days, but in that time words are being released, my words, and I am enjoying a true taste of freedom.  Words have been dormant for many years, not superficial words, ones that are expected, like a thank you note or a Christmas letter to a relative, but words that mean more, that have been held captive.  I will be delving in more to the interwoven, complexity of me, and in so doing the tension and pain held in will flow out like a stream of living water.  A voice low and hard to hear will become clear and understood, at last.  The body, held stiff and correct, maintaining ‘rightness’ and what’s expected will give way to ease of movement, freedom. The self-protection gestures, holding my arms to my stomach or chest will be replaced by a straight posture, arms hanging.  Sleep at night will be a fully stretched out body, arms out to the side, taking up at least half the bed, rather than clutching my body in a self protective, timid position.  A good friend told me ‘Speak forth! No more locking away that inner voice that God has given each of us,  He will speak to us as we release ourselves from this man made vice that seeks to stifle and make us ill’.  It is scary but it is TIME.  I am reaping the benefits already.  I feel more alive, joyful, and that hope that has always been there is at the forefront again.  And I love it.

It is how God intended us to be. Free to be who he has created us to be.  Not held back, not afraid, but knowing we are complete.  Living in the midst of expectancy, in true rest, loving God, ourselves and each other, knowing that this moment is enough.  It is time we all defined ourselves radically as being loved by God.

I had always thought that being a Christian was believing in God, praying and going to church.  It was not until my early thirties that I discovered there was so much more.  That I could actually enjoy a close relationship with Jesus, that he actually LONGED for us, welcomed us, wanted to enjoy chit chat with us, wept with us and rejoiced with us.  Accepting his free gift was the best thing I would ever do.

Today is day 11 of the series Prison Break of Thoughts – 31 days of Inner Release that I am writing for #write31days challenge.

I can remember vividly the first time she laughed, I mean really laughed.  It was the day of her Christening and we were staying in a beach house on the east coast.  She was lying on her back in her pink and purple playpen and her crazy Auntie Bucket came over and put her face down near her, and began a series of weird faces and noises, pulling away every few seconds.  The sweet, unmistakable sound of gurgling and baby laughter rang out and I ran to see.  Each time her auntie put her face down the tiny baby would chuckle uncontrollably.  Why couldn’t I do that?  I guess my use was to comfort, provide the food and be the mother.

Making people laugh has never been my forte, but my husband makes up for it in the family, with some help from the kids. God knew me from the beginning of time and so he sent me a funny husband.  We’re a good balance.  I have never been able to tell a joke well, but occasionally I will do or say something that causes some laughter, and that will make me content, till the next time.

I remember the days as children when my sister closest in age to me would make me laugh and I would do the same for her.  The little jokes only we understood, the foolish things we did.  We sometimes laughed so hard that our stomachs hurt.  The times with our childhood friends, very little was able to prompt that sweet sound of many different versions of chuckle, chortle, giggling with glee.

I would like to go back to the times when laughter came easily, before cynicism and some numbness crept in, before doing life became harder, before the comedian had to work so hard for a laugh.  To be spontaneous in my guffaws.

Help me to laugh till the tears stream down my face.  What a release that is going to be!

Today is day 10 of the series Prison Break of Thoughts – 31 Days of Inner Release that I am writing for #write31days challenge.

I thought today I would share something from one of my old journals.  But I first came upon my special place where I have recorded my daughter’s poems and my own favourite pieces of writing.  I have not looked at it for some time.   It is a large spiral journal with a beautiful wave curling, about to crash into an angry sea. It’s funny,  It caught my eye inside a little book store in Guadaloupe where I was visiting for the day from a cruise.  It is funny how you sometimes don’t notice things until years later.  I just noticed that there is a broken canoe within the picture with a man hanging on.  I chose it because of the wave and never even saw the rest of the picture and the story it was telling! The artist would have been disappointed if he had known.

I was drawn to a poem I had written years ago soon after an encounter with a vagrant when I was waiting in my car for my daughter to finish her dance class.  He was old and tired, and just wanted a friendly ear. The others in the car park ignored him, but when he encountered me in my vehicle he knew he had a safe haven, just for a while.  He did not ask for money.  He wanted to sit and rest his legs.  I hesitated, said a little prayer, and then opened the passenger side of the car.

He talked for about 15 minutes mentioning his life and the people he had encountered on his journey, throwing in some names of well known people in our society as if he needed to impress me.  I asked him at the end of his talk if I could pray for him.  We prayed and then he left, grasping a package of cookies that my daughter would not have needed.  The lady in the car nearby said that he shows up a lot in the car park to beg.  Yet I never saw him again, and I was sorry.

Here is my poem.  It doesn’t do him justice.  I found out later that he is called Neville.

Soft but anxious eyes, begging for money a game,

Playing to win, to beat the race

To the ultimate high.

He pours his heart out

Shows his wounds, Shares his sorrows

And his empty belly.

He watches for someone

Anyone who will listen

Paces around, restless,

Until his eyes rest on me

That compassionate soul, he has found her!

Waits to connect,

Plays his cards right and might get a twenty

Today is day 9  of the series Prison Break of Thoughts – 31 Days of Inner Release that I am writing for #write31days challenge.

Sorry for the longer than usual post yesterday, I got caught up in the moment of my glorious college and working days in London!

I had always prayed that God would provide a husband for me. And of course he did. I was 23, working as a hotel room reservations manager. He sent someone all the way from London to Barbados to work in the same hotel, the office right behind mine. It couldn’t have been more obvious.  Except for one thing – he had a girlfriend back home.  I received the telexes that came in every day and distributed them to the recipients.  He got one from her every other day or so.  But soon after he arrived he injured his hamstring and I used to see him hobbling to the bus stop some afternoons when I was leaving work.  I stopped to give him a lift, although my house was in the opposite direction.  That became a pattern for a while and occasionally I would come into his little house, which was let by a Reverend who lived opposite, and listen to music and chat.  Every Monday evening was the Manager’s Cocktail Party at the hotel for the guests, and it was part of our jobs to attend.  So he wanted to sample the other restaurants in the area as Food and Beverage Manager, and each week he got the Social Director to make a different restaurant booking. I was casually invited to come along, first joined by the Social Directory and then it became just the two of us.  He must have used up a lot of his wages on restaurant bills!  We went to the beach, did water-skiing and played tennis, all as friends, and we got on well.  He made me laugh a lot.  Fairly soon after he arrived the messages from ‘the telex girl’ lessened to none.  And the casual restaurant samplings became dates, and romantic notes passed from office to office and flowers in abundance.  He had a motorbike, a stray ginger cat and lots of love in his heart.  Who could resist?  We got married within a year and a half. And I thank God for giving me a faithful, handsome, loving husband who has always provided for my every need, who makes me laugh, and who teaches me to be real.

today is day 8 of the series Prison Break of Thoughts – 31 Days of Inner Release that I am writing for #write31days challenge.

I have made it through my first week of blogging, and my first time participating in the Write 31 Day challenge!

Each time I write it is a release, and I am loving it. As I said on my first blog day, I am hopeful that some of my words may help someone reading out there, but I am rejoicing that I am being helped in the process. A dear friend told me today to live in the moment, write in peace, let the words escape as it is meant for freedom. And yes, I am and I will.

So today a small glimpse into my college and brief working life in England’s capital. 20 minutes north of central London, I fell in love with the Hampstead and Belsize Park area immediately and would spend the next 3 years there, first completing a Liberal Arts and Secretarial Course and then working. I loved the green Hampstead Heath and the feel that I was in the country, yet so close to the centre of London. I loved the High Street with the posh shops and a few affordable ones, the Coffee Cup where lots of students congregated, and the Victorian homes and cobbled lanes and wooded areas. I made friends with a precious day student from Grenada who had just moved to England, and she welcomed me into her family like I was her own sister. During class she used to write lots of letters on shorthand pads to her granny and friends back in the Caribbean. Students were from a range of countries from Cypress to Saudia Arabia, and most of them were much more sophisticated than my friend and I. Our main classes were Shorthand, typewriting and related secretarial topics, a series of lectures for young ladies and weekly visits to museums and places of interest. I loved the culture of London, and in my spare time I would often go to an art gallery or visit an old stately home. We would have daily drills in Shorthand, having to write symbols for words and sentences. It was practically another language, and many hours were spent scribbling in shorthand notebooks and practicing, but I would leave college a competent secretary with 150 words per minute in Shorthand and 50 words per minute in Typewriting, and feeling of great independence. Unfortunately, my timing was just a little off, and the first computers were introduced to the college just after I left.

After college I was fortunate to find a room to let in the Belsize Park area, in the home of an amazing couple who would become close lifelong friends. I was able to get a series of temporary jobs, before I landed a longer contract at a firm of engineers. It is worth mentioning that my very first job was a week at a small office near Oxford Circus. On my second day my elderly boss took me out for lunch and after a failed attempt at seducing me I was not called back for a second week. It was a welcome change to be in a large office, and there was me among a large team of friendly and easy-going engineers. Those were the days when men opened doors for women and let them go first. I am glad I got to experience those days. The firm was located on the top of the underground map, far north of the city, but in order to get there I would have to go south on the tube train to change and pick up the upward train. That was when I got to know the inner workings of the London Underground. I allowed an hour to get to work and I was never late, even during the winter when I would be up before sunrise, and return home when it was dark. The short winter days never bothered me – I was working, earning my own money, and I had a great group of friends that I went out with regularly. Life was great!

My boss was a laid back middle-aged man who never got angry. I reported to the chief engineers and I enjoyed the work on the project. On Fridays a few of the engineers would take me out for lunch and they would ask me about Barbados and I got to know them well. In a firm full of males I was never hassled, and only once asked out on a date, and when I declined he begged me not to tell anyone in the office. When I eventually left to return to Barbados I was given some special leaving gifts and taken out for a meal. I was sorry to leave them.

When I returned home to Barbados and back to live with my parents it took me time to adjust to the way my life had become smaller, and to build my friendships up again. I would pine for London for quite some time. But I never expected I would meet and fall in love with a Londoner right where I was in Barbados, and while I was at work …

http://write31days.com/
I encourage you to browse through some of the other bloggers in this 31 day challenge (above link) – there are 9 different categories and you are bound to find something that interests you. The category I chose was Too Awesome to Categorize, because I didn’t know which category my writing fell into.

I am doing a writing course at the moment. We are studying memoir right now, and I want to share some memories of my boarding school life in the UK. I guess it’s a form of prison break/inner release for me. I wish I had a picture of me in my brown winter school uniform, or even my gold and white summer dress, or my Sunday best, to post here. That was the time when cell phones did not exist, and when it was days/a week before you could see pictures taken from a camera.

I was at a British girls boarding school for 3 years between Grades 9 and 11. The first year was the worst. Apart from adjusting to the change in climate from tropical Barbados to the cold of a small seaside town in the south of England, the homesickness and school work, I was in the form where all the grunge work was designated to. We had to lay out the hall chairs every morning for school assembly, and on Saturdays for the lectures or films. We had to take it in turns to stand up in front of the whole school and read the news. We were supposed to pick out news points of interest and read them, along with the daily weather. It worked out that every school term each grade 9 girl would have to read the news twice. Each time it was my turn was worse than the last. I dreaded every moment. Standing up with my legs shaking, wet, clammy palms and attempting to read what I had extracted from the newspapers was overwhelming. I tried to swap or beg someone to take my place, but it did not work. For days, even weeks before my turn came I would worry and imagine the worst, not being able to speak, and having to face my peers afterwards. When I did it, it was usually quite bad with many stammers. (I had a stammer as a child which I eventually grew out of) My feeling of relief afterwards was usually overshadowed by some girls mimicking and teasing me, which almost felt worse than the actual act of standing up to read. Now, as a 51 year old woman, I have got up in front of larger crowds to speak, and although the lead up is often nerve-racking, it has become less of a big deal, especially with a mic, and I don’t have to worry about any teasing, instead, rather a lot of encouragement comes my way.

Better memories of boarding school life were being ‘let out’ on Saturdays to walk to the town where I bought my favourite thing, vanilla fudge, a quarter pound, from the corner sweet shop. Also, I bought stamps to write my weekly letters to my parents with the weekly allowance we were given by house matron. I loved receiving letters from my mum and I enjoyed writing them too. Letter-writing was a chore for some of the girls. The only times I could speak on the phone to my parents was when I was on the two ‘exeat weekends’ each term when I stayed with guardians or my cousin in London. There was one time when the coin-operated school phone booth was jammed, and girls were lining up to use the phone for free. I got my turn too.

There was no cyber-bullying or social media trouble to get into. Instead regular bullying happened, and in my 6-girl dormitory the first term there was one. It was like she had a split personality, one minute she was kind and happy and the next minute scowling and picking a fight. The worst ‘run-in’ I had with her was right after church one Sunday when she called me a hypocrite for saying something that she interpreted as a curse word. I tried to defend myself and her voice got louder and she said some very mean things to me. Although I was very shy and had trouble making friends, I had made one very good friend who stuck by me and kept me strong and sane. I also had an older sister who had her own room and privileges and I would often visit her in the out of bounds 6th Form quarters, hiding behind the curtains when the house mistress came knocking on her door.

God gave me the desire, a deep longing, to help others who were suffering from depression. The husband of a good friend of mine visited me in hospital and shared his struggle with depression and I found it so helpful to be able to relate to a person who had walked a similar path. I knew then that I had to start a group for people with depression.

The group, GLAD (God’s Love Against Depression), stayed active for about 6 years. We met once a month, sometimes more often, at one of the group member’s houses, and shared our struggles, taught a little about God’s love, and prayed. Word of mouth worked well and sometimes we had 15 people in the group, while other times there were 5 of us. Sometimes I got someone from another organisation or a counselor to come and share, but mostly God showed me what to talk about, often an extract from a radio programme I had heard that had impacted me or a book. I never was a good teacher but somehow God always equipped me with exactly what I needed to touch others and help myself in the process. As time went on the ‘regulars’ in the group developed a strong bond. Those were some very fond memories, and great excitement. The ‘newness’ of being a Christian was still so fresh then.

The numbers eventually dwindled, and God released me from the group. By this time I was led to a mothers prayer group at my children’s school which met once a week. I kept going, week after week, praying for my kids and the school, and my passion for prayer was ignited. As the children moved on to different schools I started prayer groups in their schools, and helped others start up. There are now close to 20 Moms in Prayer groups in schools around Barbados. I was wondering what would happen when my kids went away to school, I could not imagine not meeting to pray, so I started a group to cover the college/overseas kids. When women come together to pray truly amazing things happen. There is the added bonus of close friendships that have come out of these prayer groups – a true blessing. I have plans to share all the answers to prayer experienced within the groups in a series of books or devotionals.

In these posts so far I have revealed a little of my life, rather concisely, and it has been a good reminder for me and has helped with my inner release. I apologise for not giving you more, or describing fully some things. Perhaps it is time to release more? You deserve it, after all, you have come this far.

It seemed like forever, but I was just over 2 weeks in the psych ward being treated for post-natal depression, another 2 weeks staying with my parents, before I was ready to return home to my normal routine. Thankfully, the children were too young to have been affected by my separation from them. For me, the time away from my baby during that early bonding period was enough to cause me to feel guilt in later years. I remained on anti-depressants for 2 years. I would need them again many years on, but that’s for another time.

My recovery was faster than most. I had the support of an amazing husband and family, a few close friends, a Christian psychiatrist and my new Living Hope. Those close to me could not quite grasp my new found ‘religion’ but put it down to a passing phase caused by the trauma of my illness. I looked for a Bible study and found two to attend. I eventually started attending church regularly. I remember being so excited about what I was learning and people I was meeting, but I never could get those close to me to share my excitement. I sensed their discomfort and relief when the subject was changed. Eventually I stopped talking with my family and friends about my new relationship with Jesus. I almost led a double life, doing life with my church friends, and doing life with my BC friends (Before Christ). It was hard for my husband to adjust to the change going on within me, but time and prayer and love took care of us as a couple. Now he likes knowing that I am praying for him and I have perceived ways that Jesus has subtly and gently moved him closer to him, in our now 25 years together.

My journey with God has been turbulent, joyful, confusing, intimate, distant, uptight (on my part), up and down, crazy … but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. To think God chose me! I never thought it was possible to enjoy a close relationship with Jesus. Now, I could never imagine a life without him. One of the prison releases I am hoping to tell you during these 31 days and beyond is that my courage has built up enough to tell people. To share Jesus from my heart. Up to yesterday, I had the chance to share a bit of myself with an acquaintance. Instead of telling him about what really makes me tick and be excited, I downplayed my world, and gave him a brief answer of what I had been up to. The fear, the tiny still voice held back for so long, is on the brink of shouting.