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Dad’s trees

One of my favourite photos of Daddy and me, June 2016

Dad’s Trees

Trees everywhere,
Gold, red, pink, yellow, brown, green
Leaves, leaves and more leaves.
We talked about trees every day.
On every journey.
In the house.
His trees,
The two outside his window,
McKees trees in the distance.
The day they came to trim his trees.

He loves trees, (I have always loved trees)
I never knew he did too, until this year.
Trees, it’s a constant conversation.
Those 11 days of just me and him.
In the middle of the caring,
In the middle of the frantic trips to the hospital,
As we drove in the car,
As we journeyed together,
We talked about the trees.

The vista opened up on the M2 towards Toome.
Somedays we could see Slieve Gallion.
Others, she was covered with a veil of cloud,
Hiding, sleeping, wet and grey.
Like Dad’s mind.
Still there, but days where it’s hidden and veiled.

On that same vista a thousand trees.
Sparkling in the sun, golden, tarnished bronze.
Dad’s memories, sparkling, golden, tarnished,
Ebbing and flowing, more ebbs than flows now.

This man beside me,
As solid as the trunk of the strongest tree.
‘My person’, before I ever watched Greys.
My rock.
My place to run and hide in the crook of his shoulder.
The first person to truly love me,
Accept me, Adore me.
He has always reflected Father to me.
Dad’s love, a shadow of Fathers.
Dad’s love poured from where he received His.
To grow up known and loved is a measureless gift,
My heart is full of golden leaves,
That will never perish.
Treasures that will endure eternity.
That will not be burned up.
My dad’s love for me is eternal.
My Father’s love will never end.

As his mind disintegrates like the fallen leaves,
His love remains, cast like leaves in gold.

A M Scott 11 Dec 21

Life Update Dec 2025

December 1st marked the start of a new role, with a new boss, in a new but familiar setting. I began my role as Associate Pastor at the wonderful Armagh City Vineyard, assisting my dear friend and exceptional Pastor, Lynne Archer.

If you had suggested this 6 months ago, I would have had many reactions, but none of them would’ve been a yes. However, God had other ideas, and Jesus has gently and with much patience led me to this place to serve in His church. Because it would seem that this is indeed His idea and not just ours, I find myself full of anticipation at what he might have in store for this little church, in the Ecclesiastical capital of Ireland, Armagh, and what he plans to do in us all along the way.

We have been attending ACV since Easter Sunday 2024, and we have found here a lovely, simple expression of God’s church that we want to be a part of. It’s not a shiny, loud, or attention-seeking community; instead, it is a humble, peaceful, and authentic family made up of, not surprisingly, humble, peaceful, and authentic people who love God and desire to love people the way He does.

When I realised that God was inviting me to serve him again in a more formal way, I took some time to discern before making the decision. What did that discernment entail? Obviously, prayer, but also seeking the wisdom from some close friends who had walked with me through the harder years of my life and ministry. I welcomed their questions with curiosity, I received their reservations and encouragements and accepted them with equal weight. I actively pursued God as I received Spiritual Direction. I saw the recruitment process as an opportunity for discernment, both for myself and the Board and Leaders of ACV. And in the end, we all concluded the same thing that “It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us” (Acts 15:28). I was offered the role after interviewing and promptly handed in and worked my notice.

I hope to write more on here in the next while. But for now, I wanted to share my news and some photos from Sunday when Lynne, the Leaders of ACV, my family and friends prayed and anointed prayed for me as I begin this new path. I was especially moved that Jason and our 3 boys stood behind me, a very visual display of the support that I have from them. I am determined to walk this path with Jesus, at a slow pace, from a place of rest and communion with Him, and expecting some fun along the way!

Glory, glory Man Utd & loss

Last weekend was the FA Cup. Man U were playing Man City and I’ll be honest, instead of watching I went shopping with mum. Poor supporter, my husband would say but there’s a couple of painful reasons not to watch.

Firstly Man U have been pretty disappointing this season and I couldn’t face the prospect of being beaten by the smug blues from the same city. Secondly, and more poignantly, the FA Cup brings up so much grief and loss that I find it hard to be around.

Let me take you back to May 1977, I’m 5 years old, obsessed with my dad, who was obsessed with Man Utd, which meant I too was becoming obsessed with the red devils. I remember cuddling up to dad on the sofa on the Saturday morning of the match. The TV coverage started at about 10am I think. Talk of what the teams would be eating for breakfast, footage from outside the hotel. Rumors of which designer would be making their suits. More coverage of the team bus and eventually the teams emerge from the hotel, in shiny new suits with red carnations in their lapels! The helicopter footage following them to Wembley and the crowds all along the route. Then the warm up on the pitch, commentators speculating on the final team selection and predicting the score. All the while I had a hundred questions for dad – who’s that? where are they going now? Why are they doing that? He patiently answered them all. Mum brought us tea and treats, maybe we had lunch at some stage, but the whole day revolved around the sofa, the TV and Man U. And us, together.

It’s getting close to the match, the teams have come down the tunnel, assembled on the pitch, mascots and all (I always dreamed of being one of those). And then the bit I don’t think I will ever be able to watch again – the full stadium singing Abide with me. Every time dad and I watched a FA cup over the years it made me choke up with tears. There is something about that song and a stadium full of people singing it.

That’s why I chose it for daddy’s funeral. It was my memory filled goodbye, of the countless times we’d sat together and heard it sung. But at his funeral the reality that him and I would never again sit side by side as we listen to the stadium fill with ‘I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?I triumph still, if Thou abide with me,’ had not sunk in.

It has slowly after 2 years later finally sinking in. The loss of him has grown more acute, that I can’t kiss his cheek or put on his coat and cap ever again more heartbreaking. I made it home on Saturday for the second half of the match and I got to celebrate Man U winning another FA Cup just like they did in 1977, but this time without my beloved daddy.

I made Jason watch the 99 documentary with me this week about the time Man U won the treble. True love right there – a Liverpool supporter having to sit through the glory days of Man Utd. He knew I wouldn’t cope watching it on my own. I wanted Dad with me for every minute of the series, so we could chat about it and he would remember a million details I’ve forgotten or never noticed in the first place.

There is a realization more than ever that Man Utd and Ivan are so inextricably linked that I can’t think about one without grieving the other. I will never be able to walk down Sir Matt Busby way, get fish and chips from Macaris chippy, or see the wee men selling the match day badges, or jostle through the turnstiles at Old Trafford without Ivan. My heart and legs would never carry me, the weight of grief too much for them to bear.

I’m learning, slowly, that grief comes in many different ways, through the often unexpected things, but it comes none the less. A wise woman advised me 2 years ago that the important thing is to let it move when it does come, not to push it down, or try to swerve around it, but let it move through you.

So weirdly, thank you Man Utd for winning the FA Cup and for the memories from 99, you helped me and grief to move some more this past week.

My mental health and me

In 1982 aged 10 my mental health broke for the first time. There is a reason they used to describe episodes or periods of bad mental health as ‘breakdowns’, to my 10yr old self my mind, actually, my whole self just broke one day. It didn’t feel like a gradual decline, something broke and I couldn’t, and more frightening for me, my parents couldn’t fix it. I can identify this episode as debilitating anxiety. My mum took me to our GP who accused her of wrapping me in cotton wool and prescribed adult antidepressants (48 hours later I was in intensive care). I have very vivid memories of those couple of days in hospital, my granny holding my hand and a doctor sitting on my bed telling me that my mum and dad couldn’t make me better I would have to fight this on my own – I remember quietly thinking, “he doesn’t know I’m not on my own me and Jesus will do this together.”

It was a slow heal which I don’t remember much detail of, except I’d talk to an adult who would then explain to my parents what was happening, but no one told me. Dad and Mum where amazing at caring for me and I got stronger.

In my mid teens I would have described myself as melancholic but not depressed. It suited the music I liked and the clothes I wore. I do remember a couple of times were my mood was low for longer periods but I put it down to hormones and teenage angst.

Life hurtled into my twenties and by 2000 I was 28, married and we had 3 children under 3 – a newborn, an 11mth baby and a 2yr 8mth old toddler; and we moved into a brand new home as the littlest was being born. Very soon after Matty and I came home from the hospital my mind broke again. This time as an adult I found it even scarier. I had the life I’d always dreamed of and prayed for yet the dark sadness and despair was suffocating. I remember crying when Jason left for work and counting the hours until mum came at 2pm so I could have a nap for an hour and then counting the time until Jason came home from work and find me crying again. I sat at my kitchen table one day with my mum and aunts and I felt I was outside the patio doors looking in. I have never felt as utterly a failure as I did at that time. I know it was the postnatal depression lying to me but when your mind is broken you it’s so difficult to decipher truth from lies. I found that disorienting, truth had always been my compass and I could no longer read the dial. My health visitor was an angel sent to care for me. I have thanked God for MD many many times. She recognised the depression that was overtaking me and rescued me. She took me into the doctor’s room sat with me as I talked to her, they reassured me about the medication that I should try and MD visited me every week for 6 weeks. Her kindness and support were invaluable.

This time the recovery was even slower – 18mths before I felt like myself again and another year on the medication before I was strong enough to slowly come off it. Jesus was very near this time too, but I had less fight in me and I was quieter with Him. He didn’t seem to mind though. On my many bad days, my prayers consisted of 2; in the morning it was “please help me get up,’, the evening was ‘thank you I made it through today.’ Jason was amazing he’d work all day including a 3hr round trip, come home and bath 3 tiny boys and get them ready for bed and so much more. My mum, dad and aunty Kay would be on hand to help with the boys so I could work part-time, do groceries on my own, grab the odd coffee and the occasional date night.

Church was my sanctuary and the place I couldn’t hide. Numerous Sundays I wheeled the double buggy back and forth and wept, and wept, in a safe place where I was supported, loved and never judged. I’d never known a church like this where I could openly weep, where people leaned into my despair instead of turning away. (Forever grateful A&K and CCV).

My mind and soul were slowly healed and I grew strong again and busy with the business of raising boys and soon planting a church ourselves. My mind was healthy. Sure there was stress and strain from time to time. Yea there were seasons of striving and pushing too hard – but that’s what leaders do. Then in 2015 I felt my wheels starting to wobble. “I just need to stop the whirring hamster wheel” I’d hear myself tell people when they’d ask ” how are you really doing?” Or the tears that were too close to the surface I put down to hormones again. In the autumn I hit a wall. That doesn’t quite describe it, but my mind broke again. This time the anxiety was back, but it had crept in so slowly and gradually that I didn’t even recognise it until I’d fallen apart. Back on medication and with counselling, I began to recover. This time I needed to lean on my very close friends as well as my family. Being that vulnerable was difficult but very necessary, I wouldn’t be well without asking for help. There were times when I was sinking so low and then I’d feel the rock beneath me – you know like when you’re swimming in the sea and you put your foot down and you can’t feel the bottom and you panic (or maybe that’s just me) a wave would come and sweep me out and threaten to pull me under but every single time when I stretched my foot out the ground was there. My Jesus, my rock and hiding place was there. In the darkest moments when fear was gripping me I’d pray, “teach me to sleep in the boat in the middle of the storm Jesus, you say we’re going to the other side so teach me to trust you enough that I can rest in your love rather than listening to the storm feat and anxiety.’

Now here I am in 2019. I’m still on medication. Last summer the anxiety spiked again but I’m learning to tame it rather than fight it all the time. Fighting is exhausting, taming is a regular practice. Taming looks like adding healthy practices to my life that have made such a difference – daily time with Jesus, a weekly Sabbath and regular holidays have become my lifesavers. Unapologetic naps, learning to say no and asking for help are essential too. I used to hear pastors speak about “working from rest instead of resting from work” and I’d honestly want to throw something at them but I’m slowly getting it.

Why am I talking about this now? Because I want to open the conversation for you to talk about your mental health brokenness or to have the conversation with someone you care about who you have concerns for.

First thing please please see a medical professional, take someone with you if it’s too difficult to go alone. I am so very thankful for the medical professionals in my story who have helped me.

Secondly don’t do this on your own. Gather your people. Be vulnerable, honest and ask for help.

Thirdly (and definitely not last) invite Jesus into the centre of it all. He will never look away from pain or brokenness he always leans in.

Winter

embroidery

January & February can be low months. The fun, energy of Christmas gone. The dark days turning but not so you’d notice. Cold and more often than not damp that seeps into your bones. Money all spent. Hoking in the back of the freezer and larder for dinners. Slowly slowing down, and then bottoming into a slump.

My mind too wants to slow down. It aches for rest, instead, I feed the need to keep driving it. I can let my body rest in this season, but my mind I keep on whirring, but the cogs are creaking from the dark and cold too it seems. Slow down, slow down, please slow down they plead. In my haste, I’m losing the details that embroider my life. I see the fabric and folds but miss the delicate stitches and beads. When I slow it’s as if another layer to my life appears. I see the golden band of light that stretches between the land and low lying grey clouds. I hear the little birds chattering and fighting over the nuts in my back garden. I notice the softness in my son’s eyes almost hidden by his fringe. A whiff of aftershave from India that transports me back to our sacred place. There are hidden layers to my favourite songs – its as if the producers have added another track or 2 to the arrangement when I wasn’t looking. Thread and beading of life that I miss more days than see in the hollow of the year. In the hollow of winter’s past I’ve driven myself on through it, powered up, or I’ve crashed and numbed it with sugar and Netflix.

In the hollow of this year, there are treasures to be seen, touched and tasted. Slowing down does not equal dumbing or numbing. Slowing down is an invitation to experience the layers of life we miss in the rush.

Women Part 2

women-prints

Nov 2017: North India

I read an article recently by a man for other men. The writer described a conversation with his girlfriend and how it broke him. She asked him if he has ever walked home at night fully alert and prepared in case he might be sexually attacked? Had he ever consciously not gone somewhere in case he’d be sexually harassed there? Did he purposely give off “don’t come near me signals’ in case its seen as an invitation for harassment or assault? This boyfriend was heartbroken and awakened.

I used to think that I was just over anxious about rape or attack. I can be prone to catastrophising and anxiety so I thought it was just me. But I have realised that most women are aware that we are physically weaker than 1/2 the population. We are instantly at a disadvantage. We don’t walk in a quiet place with 2 earbuds in, so that we can hear if someone approaches out of sight. This action plan is barely conscious it lies under the surface like a well planned and prepared risk assessment. Every new place we visit or different scenario we find ourselves in we write a new one in our head & file it away. Now I know not all women and girls live like this. But to some extent or another, this is true of most of us. We tell our young girls & women once independent to not walk home alone. We advise them to only use registered taxis. We urge them not to put themselves in vulnerable situations with people they don’t know. We have taught our boys to look out for their female friends when they are out on a night out. And they do – and they do it not because I have drummed it into them but because they know the dangers too. They have seen their friends harassed. We have all heard the stories of girls too drunk to know what was happening to them, never mind consent. It makes me anxious to hear of young girls hanging out in places stalked by older boys where underage drinking takes place. And this is in rural Northern Ireland. Not in a village in north India, or in some college town in America.

The prevailing idea that girls and women are available for sex whenever a boy or man might want it is widespread. Not all men, please hear me, lovely trustworthy men, I’m not talking about you, but you too are aware of the locker room chat and WhatsApp/Snapchat so-called banter.

Our bodies are rarely seen as our own. They are viewed as the property of the beholder. I chose to dress modestly, firstly out of respect for my marriage. My choice. Not at my his husbands insistance. Secondly, before I was married I did not feel as safe if I wore something more revealing. Why? Because I feared it would be interpreted as an invitation for harassment. Again this was my choice, I chose the easier path of less resistance. I didn’t want to have to stand up for myself or get into any sort of confrontation, so instead, I chose to hide a little. To play my femaleness down a bit for fear of too much attention. Even as I write this I feel ashamed of my lack of courage, to fully embrace me. I hate that my default is to hide like a very tall person who haunches over, I back off, I withdraw, I make myself less than. It’s often a defence mechanism though sometimes it feels more like cowardice. I was awakened to the inequalities faced by women among my Indian sisters now I ask us all to take courage on behalf of them, girls and women everywhere.

Women Part 1

Oct 2018

It has taken me the most of a year to post this, and in many ways, I might only now be processing it 11 months on.  Here is part 1 from my scribbled musings. I’m hoping to return to our friends in India early next year.  If you’re the praying kind of reader please pray for my precious friends there.  Life is hard and a life of faith is becoming more dangerous.

strong women

Nov 2017

Standing on a worn path in the middle of fields; garlic planted in neat square sections in front and behind.  The small village to my right.  The air is hot, my clothes are sticking to me, the smells are a mix of dry dust, buffalo and open drains.  To my left is a small wooded area where the buffalo have been moved from the village, there is a wedding this weekend.  Walking towards the buffalo’s new pad I remembered my visit last year to this village and I begin wondering if this was the same wooded area pointed out to me as the toileting area for the village, used by the villagers until the new toilets that Regener8 supplied had been installed.  Even as that question rises in my mind I am dodging buffalo pats on the ground.  In fact, one of the regener8 buffalo must have sensed we were admiring him and decided to prove the health of his bowels by emptying them as we carefully walked past.  2 of the buffalo have been supplied by regener8 micro-financing.  The owner of one of them our guide and he is very proud.

My companion and I begin a conversation about the inequality between east and west the rich and poor and what we can do to help bridge those gaps.  The overwhelming needs are so evident.  We talk about some of the complexities of development.  And as we dander back across the path through the garlic field we move on to women and girls.  My heart begins to burn hot with passion, injustice, anger, and frustration. I quickly find we are on the same page.  He is the first man that I have talked to who is as much a feminist as I am, and a self-proclaimed one at that.  He turns to me and says “Here’s to strong women. May we know them. May we be them. May we raise them.”.  I ramble as the words that I want to say get lost in the bubble of emotion in my heart.  Inequality for women anywhere is unacceptable.  He reminds me of the salary statistics back home where women earn on average 18% less than men.  I talk about patriarchy in the church.  I tell my friend about how God broke my heart for women first in India and the horrific inequality that they face, but then he continued to break my heart everywhere I see it and to the place where I can no longer accept it anywhere.

I can still see the sky, full of dusty smog, the air in that area that weekend the worst in the whole country.  I can taste the dust at the back of my throat making my voice hoarse.  I hear the helplessness rise in voice.  How can we turn this tide of misogyny so ingrained in this country’s culture, where it is a dangerous thing to be a girl or women. Misogyny is treated with such normalcy here and with contempt back home.  If I start to talk either I am often shushed by humour, the subject is swiftly changed, or I am faced with downright disbelief that this exists in the West.  My dear sisters in places like India used as an argument to prove misogyny in the west could not exist because our lives are not like theirs. The subtle face of misogyny flatly denied.

 

 

 

Wisdomeats : Chicken Shawarma

4G8A5943

Since the beginning of May I have been part of a fantastic lifegroup lead by my friend Sam.  I won’t try to distil all the information she has shared with us about food, our bodies & health.  I have a complicated relationship with food so it feels vulnerable every week to put myself in a place of loving, informed challenge.  Last night was our social night and Sam had asked her husband Roger to make his homemade burgers for us (AMAZING I should try and get the recipe off him!), he was delighted to thinking that they’d the the usual 8 of us, instead Sam being Sam invited not just us but our entire families which ended up closer to 30 people! It was such a great night especially because they are incredible hosts and live in the most beautiful spot in the middle of Northern Ireland, on a farm, right beside a river with the Sperrins in the distance. I wish I had photos to share but TBH this post is a last minute idea because I promised I’d share my chicken recipe from last night and then had an unfortunate accident with my phone and some water.  Beauty, community and great food – the perfect combination for a great night. Here’s the recipe….

 

ingredients:

8-12 boneless skinless chicken thighs (or Chicken breasts fillets)

marinade:
5 tbsp light olive oil/coconut oil/?
5 tbsp lemon juice
6 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp chilli powder
1 tbsp paprika (i prefer smoked but any will do)
2 tsp ground cumin
6 tbsp thick natural yoghurt

how to:

  • whisk together marinade minus the yoghurt – then add yoghurt and combine in a large non metalic bowl
  • add the chicken thighs and cover well in the marinade
  • marinade from 30mins to 8 hours in the fridge (as long as possible)

to cook you have options:

  • OVEN – preheat oven to 200C place chicken in a oven tin in a single spread out layer and cook until starting to crisp and brown around the edges.  turning ½ way (approx 35-45mins).  test in the middle to make sure there is no pink.
  • BBQ – put the BBQ on and make sure it is very hot.  BBQ the thighs in a single layer spread out, turning a couple of times but not too often until they are crisping on the outside and cooked in the middle.  (the time will depend on your bbq)
  • add salt and pepper just before cooking

serve:

  • Serve with herbed pomegranate cousous
  • dried couscous, add salt cover with boiling water with an extra centimetre of water on top.  cover with a plate and leave to one side for 5 mins.  Add mixed chopped herbs (mint, coriander, parsley), pomegranate seeds.
  • Flatbreads/pittas/chapatis
  • mixed roast vegetables –
    • peppers, red onions, corvettes, feta cheese, whole garlic cloves, in olive oil, oregano, salt and pepper – cook in oven at 200 for 20-30mins.
  • or potato wedges & salad
  • After the chicken has rested for 15 mins slice and place on a serving plate.

*when my phone recovers I’ll update the photo with my own chicken pic I promise!

5 things we wish we’d known 22yrs ago

Love is a verb – in fairness to Jason he did try to tell me when we were dating that love was a choice more than a feeling. I was horrified and told him it was the most unromantic thing I’d ever heard. I set myself a challenge to prove him wrong. He did fall head over heels for me shortly after but continued to prove that love is a verb, a choice, an action right up until today. The feelings of love ebb and flow and circumstances, mood and notions have an impact. But when we choose to love from an act of our will it’s a solid thing that lays a foundation for the harder years which will come.

Keeping the rules and being a good Christian does not equal happy ever after and a handsome Prince on a horse. That is definitely more Disney than scripture. What my faith in Jesus for all those years did do though was teach me to recognise when God shows up because I know who He is. Marriage has taught us that when He promised to never leave us He meant it. That when He told us that no circumstance in heaven or earth could separate us from His love we could totally trust that as truth. When the storms in our life have raged; storms of heartbreak, grief, disappointment and sickness have broke out against us we have found that God is our solid foundation and our faith in who He is the house that we find ourselves safe in.

Promises are easy to make but hard to keep.
We stood 2 very young 24 &25 yr olds and took our vows with seriousness and hope before God and those we loved. We meant every word, but what we didn’t know is that those promises need exercised daily to remain true. That even when you break them they don’t have to break beyond repair. Promises are mendable, that’s as long as you want to mend them. Just start keeping them again and the fibres of the promises are strengthened. Like broken bones they mend with time, patience and care.

Our family of 5 would be EVERYTHING
We had absolutely no idea just how much we’d love being parents. 18 months after the first dance Caleb made us Da & Mama. Before he was born we wondered if we’d love him enough – how crazy that seems to even write. The moment we heard his heartbeat in utero, saw the first scan and held him in our arms our hearts where his forever. Then with Micah we worried that we wouldn’t have enough love for 2 – again the craziness of that idea, all over again we got a whole new heart full of love for Mickey. And then came our gift of grace Matthew Jack 11months later making his big brother Micah an Irish twin! We never dreamt that we could love 3 tiny humans this much. As the lads grew into each stage I would announce “oh I love this stage” until eventually I realised I loved every stage with them. Now as young adults we love this stage too. Our family is our sanctuary. When we are hurting, lost or worn out it is the safe place we run too, circle the wagons and we draw each other close. We look at them now and we can’t believe these amazing humans came from us. Young men full of compassion, creativity, resilience, intelligence and strength.

Intimate equals vulnerable
We entered marriage wide eyed and crazy about each other. The intimacy we hoped for though was 2 dimensional. Disappointment and heartache lead us to raw, fully open, vulnerable truth telling that healed our wounds and lead us to discover an intimacy that brought us to tears. There are no short cuts or hiding places. True intimacy of heart, soul and body requires trust that is given and cherished. The person we go to for accountability for everything in our lives is each other. We made this promise early doors and we keep it still. Vulnerable, open and honest accountability equals intimacy in our marriage.

Our Soundtrack Chelle loves Jasy Playlist