There’s a line and we’ve crossed it.
Coming to Canada. Part 1.
Moving to Canada was never part of our plan. The Lord Jesus had other ideas. In January 2014, Charlotte, my wife, stopped her GP locum and I finished working with the dear saints of Barclay Viewforth Church; our time in Edinburgh was drawing to a close. We had formed a buying group and were seeking to purchase a 14 bedroom retreat centre on the shores of Loch Tay. A treasured mentor was selling his home, and Charlotte and I had such fond memories of the place. Here we would take a step towards realising a dream that had long gripped our imagination, that of establishing a retreat and training centre patterned after the ancient Celtic Christian centres of Iona or Lindisfarne. A place of prayer, discipleship and mission, rooted in the life of the church, planting new churches in the fulness of time.
When we left for New Zealand, to take part in New Wine summer conferences there, our life was in boxes. We had moved out of our flat, all ready upon our return to move to the central highlands. “The best laid plans of mice and men…”
Midway through our time in New Zealand, we had a Skype call with a rather sombre faced leader of the buying group. Two of his friends independently got in touch, sharing that they had had warning dreams. The core theme present in both dreams was that now is not the time for his company to invest in property. Additionally, other members of the buying group were nervous. What would the property market look like after the Scottish Independence Referendum? They all sensed that now was not the time to invest in real estate in the highlands. With that, the plug was pulled. The deal vanished into the ether.
I don’t want to airbrush out the painful parts of this time. I was in something of a prophetic tailspin in the wake of this dissolved deal. We had mentally moved into that house. What was that whole process about? Lord, how did we misinterpret all that we sensed you were saying? If I can’t hear correctly here, how can I know that I hear from you at all?
When visiting Nelson, in the North of the South Island of New Zealand, I snuck away from Charlotte and friends and had some time in the city’s cathedral. In this vaulted space, I felt so small, so fragile. The tenderness and the discipline of God drew close. It came with a sense of being known, being looked at. In that loving gaze, there came a thought where two seemingly contradictory ideas held together, perfectly as one.
“Well done! You had faith for 1.2 million pounds to see the dream that I’ve placed in you come to life. And you need to know that I am jealous for my glory and I will share it with no man.” In that latter part, I saw the image of a hunting dog not walking to heel, instead, running frantically out in front chasing the quarry. I realised that I too had not been walking in step with the Holy Spirit. We were trying to bring about this vision in our own strength, driving it forward, rather than being drawn into it (a key theme of discernment that I have learnt and so appreciate from Ignatian Spirituality). And that feeling of drivenness was exhausting.
Later on during our time in New Zealand, I found myself in another cathedral. The Cardboard Cathedral in Christchurch. It was a makeshift building erected in the wake of the devastating earthquake that tore at the city (and its cathedral) in 2011. To enter the building, I moved through an art installation outside made up of painted chairs, signifying the 185 lives lost in the quake. Passing by the painted pushchair (stroller) was particularly heart wrenching. Inside, with its large cardboard pipes for ceiling beams, and a wooden sprung floor that looked more at home in a wedding marquee, the building felt fragile. I sat in the stillness before the altar and began to pray. My thoughts turned towards home, to the highlands and the deal. I asked two questions, that Mike Breen had taught me were central questions in discipleship: What’s the Lord saying to me? And what am I doing about it?
As I settled into the first question, there came this question in response,
“Howard, do you trust me?”
“Yes Lord, I do trust you. I ask you for the ability to trust you more and more.”
What’s the Lord saying? Do you trust me? What am I going to do about it? I’m going to trust you, Lord Jesus.
The upshot of the deal collapsing was that Charlotte and I got to experience something of our ancestral trait of wanderlust wandering. En route home to Scotland, these two Celts visited friends in San Francisco before heading north to explore Canada. While in California, we paid a visit to Bethel Church in Redding. It so happened that there was a prophetic conference whilst we were visiting. The last night was particularly blessed. We must have worshipped for an hour, singing to the Lord in a deep sense of His joy. Just before the offering was uplifted, I asked the Lord Jesus what he would like us to put into the basket. The figure that I heard in response shocked me. It was more than two-thirds of the funds earmarked for the remainder of our trip through North America. At that rate, under our own steam, we would barely make it home to Scotland. To test this, I said to the Lord that He would need to put that same figure into Charlotte’s mind, as this was too big a decision to make on my own. Amidst the joy of worship, I turned to Charlotte to ask if she had any sense of what we should give. Looking up at me, she smiled and said she had just felt moments ago the Lord share what we should put in the offering. It was the same figure.
“Howard, do you trust me?”
“Yes, Lord. Here we go!”
Perfectly choreographed, at the close of this conversation around financial planning, the worship band broke out in spontaneous song (who am I kidding, that whole set felt spontaneous!). Stephanie Gretzinger, one of the worship leaders, sung out a simple refrain,
“There’s a line and we’ve crossed it. Some might say that we have lost it, but we have found our joy in following You.”
We crossed a line. With gladness, the said amount was offered up in worship. It all felt so fragile. And yet, ironically, we both had never felt so alive. We were about to learn what it is to be drawn by the living God into His purposes, His way. And looking back now in the kindness and wisdom of hindsight, I bless His name for warning dreams, and deals that vanish like a mist.