Some days...

Some days I wish I was a beach hut attendant or a postman or a gardener
(yes, ha ha if you've seem mine)
or worked in a bookshop or the library
or was childminding again
or was a long distance lorry driver
or a hilltop hermit
or doing what I do but 60 years ago
and in the country
where I could plod around the village like an Agatha Christie vicar
and not seem to worry so much about structures and visions
and could drink lots of cups of tea
(er, well some things don't change)
and frown a bit when the old ladies start gossiping
(though I suppose if I was an Agatha Christie vicar
I might need to worry about murderous neighbours...)
and I suppose I wish I could have a glimpse ahead
to see if I did any good
and if the days when it's a bit of a struggle
are only pages 43 to 45 in the biography someone writes about me one day
where the huge struggles seem to pass very quickly in the big scheme of things
And some days I wish my default was 'that was ok'
and not 'I am a failure'
or the assumption that someone else would be so much better
because I know that God sees in me
what I often miss
but that doesn't stop me worrying
that I am killing his church
running low on imagination
or forgetting that God
can do so much with or without
my feeble efforts
and yet he lets me share the journey.
Some days I have to remind myself
to put the right shoes on in the morning
not try and put His on by mistake
but pick up my faithful old boots
and keep plodding
keep seeing
the beauty of the autumn colours
keep smiling
at the thought of the people who share this ride
keep laughing
at the humour of humanness
keep believing
that God is at work
keep trusting that all will be well
just because he says so.