…Once upon a time, there was a nun who was a governess to a lonely widower and his seven children. She stopped being a nun and married the widower, and the family became famous for their beautiful singing…. So that’s it…the countdown to Publication date, TODAY 19th May 2023 is complete. Each day for the past 52 days there’s been a teaser for each short chapter. Thank you to everyone who sent in photos of Tea and Jam and Bread, just brilliant to see so many different ways to take a picture of one of life’s simple pleasures.

Each chapter is inspired by a song, a character, or a snippet from a scene; all of which show us something different about God’s love and the life we are invited to live, by faith. To discover more you’ll just have to read the book, either by asking your local Library to stock a copy, or buying a signed copy on my website shop/ or supporting your local bookshop/or online shopping too. So many ways to get your own copy of The Sound of Musings

The post The Last Chapter, number 52: ‘A Good Story’ by Farmer Dick Kent; who always makes time for a tractor break and well-deserved mug of tea. Without Dick and other farmers who grow wheat to make bread and grow fruit to make jam – none of these ‘jam and bread’ photos would have been possible! first appeared on Bryony Wood.

The post Chapter 47: A Safe Haven, and Tea with Jam and Bread by Judith Dawson in Sunny France first appeared on Bryony Wood.

The post Chapter 31: The Lonely Goatherd with Tea and Jam and Bread by Becky Partridge first appeared on Bryony Wood.

Roller coaster, up up, higher, faster, faster still

Stop the world I want to get off.

Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

Got to go. Got to keep going.

Why?

If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well,

Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today,

 Silent screaming. 

Prove yourself. Be better, be the best

Why?

No such word as ‘can’t.’

Must keep going…

The spring relentlessly turning, tighter tighter.

Climbing up the glass mountain…slipping, sliding. 

              Stop…

Want to.. but how..?

One day…Unknown trigger…Run for cover. No choice.

Despair. Lock the world away. Cowering in a corner.

It hurts so much.

Oh GOD help me, find me. Hold my hand, pull me free.

The spring has sprung. The coil is broken.                            

Snapped.                             

Broken brain. Broken heart. Family shattered.

Not one step further, not one step more,

Ease the pain…Hold me Lord.

‘Help’,  is all I can say.

There’s a light. Shining through the mire.                  

Glimmering– is it the end of the tunnel?

Friends; throwing lifelines,  being anchors, some swaying with the wind.

Like a flower opening, slowly, petal by petal.

Stigma to the Light.                                        

Colours – cautious, carefully, unfolding, revealing bright, brittle beauty.

Turning to the sun. Bathing and relishing it’s warmth and light.

Turning to the SON, relishing His warmth and peace.

Restored, renewed. Replenished. Learning to live again. Slowly, surely.

Son worshiper. Light in that darkest place.

A heart filling,  fit to burst, Joy uncontainable, grace unbounded.

                 Peace immeasurable, knowledge steadfast,

                         The wheel has stopped, new life begins.

The post Son Rise first appeared on Bryony Wood.

Unforgiving slashes of rain chill the hot tears on my cheek.

Head down, hands stuffed into shallow pockets I am wandering the streets because I cannot bear to be at home nursing well developed anger and despair. With leaden steps, I drift towards the parish church, past that row of cottages that look so pretty in the daylight, but are now silent and dark.

The ancient wooden doorway offers some hope of shelter as oblivious friends snuggle blissfully in their cottagey cocoons.

Alone in the musty, dusty porch I curl in the corner away from the wind and rain, sitting amid plastic coated parish notices. Drips of water run down my neck; flippin’ raindrops on flippin’ roses. Huh! My shoes squelch after trampling through unseen puddles.

The hurried scuffle coming from the far corner shoots a wave of adrenaline. My eyes strain to see whose furry territory I am invading. Actually, after the initial instinctive panic and peering, I can’t care enough to find out.

I am supposed to be at the peak of my life, young enough to change the world and old enough to know how. I am supposed to be happy and successful, but my grubby halo slipped and strangling every word I have given up saying.

All I wanted was to be a nun or saint.

How did it all go so wrong?

In utter weariness, I close my eyes and remember.

Green hills, blue sky and sunshine, someone running across alpine meadows, dancing with arms outstretched and singing surprisingly well. Was that Julie Andrews or was it me? Memories mix with dreams. It seemed so simple back then; be a nun, find my purpose in life, possibly discover a rich husband, love his children and above all, run free across mountains wearing a dress made out of curtains. Blissful childhood naivety gone sour. I had tried singing about my favourite things, but things still felt bad, really bad. I had attempted to climb every mountain but that just led to exhaustion, my confidence levels were so low that I had no grain of confidence in me– or anyone else for that matter…

The Sound of Music was more than just a film when I was a kid looking for inspiration and meaning.

I soon grew up from being a mere eight-year-old to a wiser ten-year-old when nuns and edelweiss became so boring. For a short while Maria, the singing nun was upstaged by Joan of Arc, she was a proper Heroine, with a capitol H. Much more gratifying than a curtain-wearing nun. I had even been to France. I was a fickle child and went from the singing nun to a burning heroine and developed new aspirations to be like Joan- because we shared Saint potential.

Taking tips from my Ladybird ‘Book of Saints’, I listened out amid bedroom teddies and Osmond posters to the silence, hoping to hear a voice from God. I practiced being tied to the stake. Well, not literally tied to a stake, but standing in front the mirror, bravely ignoring imaginary flames licking my body. Ten years old and dreaming of God’s call. Dreaming I might be special.

‘Saint Bryony’ had a most satisfactory ring.

The memory fades and now in the cold corner of a village church porch, in the cold reality of failed relationships and generally failed life, there was no heroine to inspire, no hero to save me. Saint Joan had long been relegated to gather Ladybird dust on a forgotten shelf. Maria’s mountains and meadows, and distant childhood dreams of being ‘someone’ had all vanished in a cold, bitter clutch of reality. Thirty years old and hiding in a doorway. Disillusioned, depressed, and divorced. Not special.

Not a saint by any stretch of imagination. Just rubbish, discarded and lonely.

Moreover, it was all my fault. I’d not played the game by the same rules that Maria or Joan did.

I had tried so hard to be good. Actually, for some time I’d tried really, really hard to get things right, but just couldn’t make the grade. There was clearly no hope of being a saint. I would even struggle to qualify for basic sinner status.

They had followed God’s plan, Maria and Joan. I had ignored him.

God had never spoken to me; I guess he was, is, so disgusted with me that even in his church, there would be no comfort.

Looking back, am I surprised how some very deep instinct must have been beckoning me to find this place to shelter, to this place of all places?  Although instead of finding a warm, fuzzy sanctuary, all I heard was a mocking, cold, mean voice telling me how pathetic I was; how nothing could ever be right again. I wallowed in my own misery while the church clock ticked and clunked round another chimeless hour.

Tick tock clunk…Tick tock clunk…

They say the night is darkest just before dawn.

That night, before the sun even thought of waking up, the slowest dawning of hope started to stir in the pit of my being.

From somewhere beyond the walls of a church porch, a quiet sense of gentleness seemed to whisper hope into a lost and broken heart. Something promised a glimpse of peace. A warm blanket of reassurance gently rested around my shoulders, tucking in well beneath every goose bump. Lingering sobs quietened and I lay back against the stone corner. Was that a dot of light somewhere at the end of this tunnel?

Surely, there was something I could do, to make a fresh start?

Fingers curling in anticipation of action… feet starting to twitch ready to step forward…Dawn breaking through into the darkest night. Something I could do to determine a new beginning? Find a way to climb out of this black hole?

And slowly, ever so slowly, I began to formulate a plan. Something needed to kick start my emotional rehab, to make proper retribution, be find a suitable punishment to make amends, and show this God, who was somewhere beyond my reach, that I was seriously sorry.

That’s was making the presumption Maria and Joan’s mystical God was actually real.But drastic situations called for drastic solutions.

I would give up taking sugar in my tea and coffee.

The post 1. From Saint to Sinner first appeared on Bryony Wood.