Amy Boucher Pye

Tag: Penelope Swithinbank

  • Forgiveness Fridays: “The one person I don’t forgive” by Penelope Swithinbank

    We say we forgive. We ask God to help us forgive. We think we’d done it – phew, we’ve forgiven. But why the niggle? Why, actually, the unforgiveness that rears its ugly head? What are we holding onto?

    Oh, how I love this post from Penelope Swithinbank. Please, don’t miss it.

    I wish I could tell you that I have learnt how to forgive. That over these past few years there have been lessons learnt from each of the hard places. I thought I had forgiven – the Christians in the church who sent the vitriolic hate mail; the woman driver of an out-of-control car that, as I watched, ran over my mother and ended her life; the man who bullied my husband so much that it made him ill; the Conservation officer who even now is causing us so much stress and headache with our house.

    And all that is only the tip of the iceberg. It’s been a long tough ride for several years.

    I know I need to forgive. To forgive and go on forgiving. Isn’t that what Jesus said we were to do?

    A lack of forgiveness can be one of the main blockages in our lives – holding grudges, not letting go of our rights, allowing distances to grow between us and those who have offended us. It happens in churches, it happens in relationships, it happens in marriages. And it causes a distance not just between the individuals concerned but between us and God. Because if we do not forgive others, the Father does not forgive us. Matthew 6:14–15 says very clearly, “If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father will not forgive your sins.” (NLT)

    But I have forgiven them, God, I argue with Him as I walk across the field, dodging the puddles and stomping through the mud. I do forgive!

    I saw that driver across the courtroom and I forgave her – she hadn’t planned to go out and run over someone that day, and her life is in ruins – so I asked the judge to grant her mercy. And the local planning officer – I sat in that meeting and prayed, prayed, prayed for blessings on her even though she seems so unreasonable.

    Isn’t all that proof of my forgiveness, Lord? So why are you allowing all this mess and hurt and pain in my life right now? Why are my prayers not being answered? After all we’ve done for You, God – nearly 40 years in Christian ministry with all its ups and downs and joys and sorrows; following your calling on our lives, giving up so much for the privilege and blessing of full-time Christian service; how could you let all this happen to us now?

    It rains and the sun comes out and there is a rainbow in front of me as I’m nearing home. It pierces me, the realization that it’s not all those people and situations that I have to forgive again.

    Yes, there is still unforgiveness in me. But it’s GOD I can’t forgive.

    I’m blaming Him for allowing all this suffering. For not answering my prayers the way I want him to. I can’t forgive him for the traumas and the deaths and the ongoing unpleasantness.

    And Matthew 6:15 runs through my mind again. Forgive. Literally, let go, or give up your right. The word translated as forgive is one that means: Yes, you may have complete justification in demanding recompense; yes you do have the right. But let it go; give it up. You are owed something – but let it go. Regard it as having been paid in full.

    And I hear Him say, “Come to me – I know you’re weary and tearstained and blaming me. But you have my undying love, always, all the time. I’ll take everything you’re carrying, all your brokenness and pain, all your sorrow and heartache. And in return, my Grace is pouring over you, in and through it all. You are my beloved daughter and I love you more than you can imagine. This all will pass but my love for you is for ever and ever.”

    Lord, I need your help to be a forgiving person. Help me see the great love and forgiveness you daily bless me with and from that may I love and forgive others – and you.

    Penelope is an Anglican priest who writes, blogs, mentors others (mostly through Spiritual Direction), contributes to Daily Bread Bible reading notes, and speaks on conferences and retreats. She has just retired from running a small retreat house and now is able to spend more time hiking, reading and daydreaming. With grandchildren on both sides of the Atlantic there is also quite a lot of travelling to be done. She can be found at  http://www.ministriesbydesign.org

     

  • Home of the Heart by Penelope Swithinbank

    No Place Like HomeI’m delighted to welcome Penelope Swithinbank to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series. I knew of Penelope before I knew her, for she and her husband arrived at my former home church in Virginia shortly after I moved to her native England. They now run a gorgeous-looking retreat centre that I long to visit in the beautiful English countryside. We most often “see” each other online now, and I so appreciate Penelope’s wise and gracious insights. Her post had me smiling and tearing up.

    “Shrimp for supper,” I announced to my hungry husband. “Same recipe as that one I tried in the States last week.” I think he started salivating. We had visited our American grandsons in America, and I’d found a new recipe which we’d loved: skewered shrimp. Now I wanted to recreate it in Wiltshire, and had eagerly pounced on a packet of shrimp I’d spotted when shopping.

    Time to cook; I’d soaked the bamboo skewers in preparation and slit open the defrosted packet. Out tumbled tiny, tiny pathetic pink things. Not the large succulence I was expecting; these were miniscule. Lots of them to be sure, but far too small to be threaded on to skewers.

    And then I remembered – we are two nations divided by a common language. What England calls prawns are what America calls shrimp, and they are huge in the States and tiny in the UK. I should have looked for ‘jumbo prawns’ or ‘tiger prawns’ in England. At least I had remembered that zucchini are courgettes and summer squash merely the yellow ones.

    We ate shrimp and courgette risotto for supper. It was edible (just) but not what was expected, and a poor substitute.

    IMG_2263Same word but different meanings. And I had forgotten my translation skills. The years we spent living in the States should have reminded me of the need for interpretation. I used to dread using some word in a sermon that might be perfectly normal and acceptable in English, but have an entirely different and unsuitable meaning for my American congregation.

    “Let’s make a list of differences,” Patti exclaimed enthusiastically, as we told each other about trunks and boots, pavements and sidewalks, bonnets and hoods. A gloriously correct Southern Lady, Patti found paper and pen and drew a line down the centre (center!) of the page. She wrote at the top of the left hand column: “English” and listed trunk and sidewalk and hood. Her pen hesitated at the top of the righthand column and she turned back to me. “So what do YOU speak?” she asked, bewildered.

    Two nations divided by a common language, said George Bernard Shaw.

    And then there’s “home.” Where is it? What is it?

    American granny.
    American granny.

    When we lived in Virginia, despite the fact that we were ‘having a blast,’ and following the Lord’s calling to minister there, I often had moments of overwhelming grief. I would wander into my elder daughter’s bedroom and stand there sobbing, knowing that she was thousands of miles away in the UK at university and that my son, also in England, was now married and would never join us to live in the States.

    It wasn’t place I was missing, but people, family. When we were all together, whether in England or Virginia, that was ‘home.’ Eating together, laughing, sharing memories, sharing griefs and joys. Enjoying one another’s company.

    And now, with family both sides of the Atlantic (the younger daughter married a Virginian!) I have one foot each side of the Pond. Where is ‘home?’ And whichever side of the Pond I find myself, half of me is missing what, or rather who, is on the other side. I miss the company of my family.

    English granny.
    English granny.

    Cue a sermon illustration, of course. My preacherly mind wonders which one to pursue – the language of heaven, the homeliness of heaven (oops, homey-ness for American readers) …

    But it’s people, family, relationship, which impacts most, I think. Home, for me, is both America and England. I want to live in both, at the same time, holding all those I love around me forever. I could happily live in either – or both. Wherever my family is. I long for their company. But two-thirds live in London and a third in Virginia. When I’m in one place, I long for the other.

    12321125_1354507351320861_7219847649783684369_nAnd what about heaven? Do I long to live there too? With my church family, with the communion of saints, with the Lord forever. Do I long for the company of heaven? Com pane: with bread, eating and sharing in the feast that will be ours in heaven.

    “And then there will be one huge family reunion with the Master. So reassure one another with these words.” (1 Thessalonians 4:17–18. The Message)

    Bet the prawns – or shrimp – are larger there, as well.

    198b2f766493faf1a3cefecd1944f17d12392014_10204452113176744_854142529839352345_nPenelope Swithinbank is the Director of Ministry for Ministries by Design. She is an ordained Anglican priest and a trained Spiritual Director. She is married to Kim and they run the Vine at Mays Farm, a Christian retreat centre in Wiltshire. Penelope and Kim have 3 grown and married children and 6 grandchildren. She loves reading, the theatre, walking the dog and looking after her grandchildren on both sides of the Atlantic.