A Tender Shoot From Mud.

As I look back into my younger years, I could I ever forget those midweek evenings when I groaned inwardly at the thought of going back out after a busy day's work. Especially during the late Autumn or throughout the Winter when everything outside my apartment window was shrouded in dark, misty gloom, or the air pitted with a light but consistent drizzle, or the air biting cold from a north wind. And so I leave behind the warm, smug and homely environment, wearing a thick raincoat and leather gloves for a twenty-minute cycle ride to our local Baptist church, to pray.

Bracknell Baptist Church of the 1970s.

Only a small proportion turned up at those midweek meetings, compared to the building being full on a typical Sunday morning. Yet I felt obliged to go, anyway. Whatever the motives were back then - if it was because I wanted to believe that I was "spiritual" or because the rest of the church would have thought that I was just a Sunday "hanger-on" rather than an active member, or simply because it was the right thing to do as a Christian - or even believing that God would have been displeased with me for not exhibiting proper commitment.

Yet, in some of these meetings, I felt my spirit lift to the heights of sheer ecstasy, the exuberant feeling of being so close to God. But there were other meetings when I felt just bored out of my wits and wishing that I was at home or somewhere else. Although I tend to blame myself during those "dead" meetings, whether there was unconfessed sin lurking within, or whether I have nothing to pray about - which was usually the case - as there was no known sick person or anyone struggling, either which would have encouraged intercessory prayer. 

Being such an immature Christian didn't stop or impede me from reading the Bible, and that included both the Old and New Testaments. Understanding the overall picture might have been difficult from time to time, but one particular feature which stood out with remarkable prominence in the Bible, other than Jesus Christ himself, was the city of Jerusalem. And so, early in 1976, I made plans for an independent trip to the Holy Land specifically to visit this fascinating city, after backpacking Italy and having already gained some experience in lone travel. As such, I became the talk of the town, both at church and at my workplace. But, despite how impressed I was with those magnificent ancient ruins of il Foro, il Colosseo di Roma, and I scavi di Pompei, nowhere in Italy could match the exuberance of walking through those medieval streets of Jerusalem Old City, the Mount of Olives, and physically tracing the very footsteps Jesus must have taken.

Back at the church, a new kind of meeting was developed by the leaders, the house-group, which replaced the old prayer meetings. I thought that was a brilliant idea, as this had something of a resemblance of the early church under the administration of the apostles, especially Paul, which met in private homes. Having visited the ruins of private homes in Pompeii, this gave me a good idea of the environment in which the early church met. On any Mediterranean Summer's day, the spacious atrium, with the impluvium in the middle, a pool positioned to capture rainwater to supply the household, could have been the perfect setting for such a meeting, maybe as many as thirty people, all sitting or even reclining in a circle surrounding the pool. On cooler days, any of the larger rooms surrounding the atrium would have been ideal.

Our house-groups were a smaller version of these ancient Roman and Greek meetings, as most established churches here in the UK have too many people for all to meet at any one house. Therefore our church was divided into several midweek house-groups scattered around Bracknell. Each member attended the group nearest to where he lived, as each group was identified by the name of the district in which it was located. For example, the group I attended was known as the Hanworth house-group.

Was the most important feature of any house-group the coffee and biscuits at the end of the meeting? Maybe it was for me. And I think here I'm serious! The American definition of fellowship - "Coffee and Doughnuts" - at last, began to percolate into English churches, perhaps having crossed the Atlantic Ocean by visiting churchgoers returning home. And I'm pretty sure that any psychologist or sociologist would agree, that the way into a person's heart is often through his stomach. A small group meeting at a much warmer, cosier and homely environment than the formal, cold, spacious church building, would far more likely to turn nodding acquaintances into strong friendships. Thus, the opening up of the heart and sharing any issues not shared in a formal church environment, along with two or three engaged in private prayer, are all likely to encourage strong brotherly unity.

Atrium of a house in Pompeii

Even after the end of the Sunday service, nothing can be more beneficial than to remain behind for a while to greet one another, whether it's by a handshake or even a hug, and to share in each other's welfare, and if one is experiencing any form of struggle or hardship, to encourage or even engage in private prayer and Bible exhortation. Such building up of the faith is needed when feeling under a threat of any kind can leave both the giver and the recipient in a better state of mind. And with a hug, especially, is not only beneficial to the spirit but also does wonders to both physical and mental health.

Should there be a risk that I'm portraying church life as so sugar-coated that the elders are infallible and everything has always been hunky-dory within the fellowship, I thought of sharing a time I spent at a certain house-group around the 1980s. The fact is, as we're all prone to err while living in a fallen world, no church is perfect, and I have never expected any church fellowship to be perfect, yet, by God's love, grace and tender mercy, he's aware of my frame, along with those of all other Christians, and indeed, I, for one, have found myself to be in a dire situation, but again, I have learned since then not to feel any grudge towards anyone who may be prone to err.  

At the Hanworth house-group, one issue which our group leader seemed to have enjoyed was to divide us into several small groups and send us into the streets, door-knocking, with the intent of presenting the Gospel to any occupants who answered the door. This door-to-door tactic is the same used by Jehovah's Witnesses, and what's so dispiriting was that often the householder just didn't want to be disturbed in the evening if, after a day's work, wanted to spend time with his family or to watch an important or entertaining programme on television. Therefore, the risk of the door slamming shut at our faces, or receiving some hostile response, was very high. At least I can say that the typical Jehovah's Witness recruit is thoroughly trained by a senior member before allowed out into the streets. 

Just to divert here, and that is, door-to-door "evangelism" is not taught in the New Testament, nor does the Bible endorse such a practice. Rather, it's a misinterpretation of Acts 2:46 and 5:42, where Christians met in different houses (and nothing to do with door-to-door). These people who met in these houses were already believers, and visitors, such as the apostles, were invited into each house to teach, exhort and encourage. That is a far cry from the stress-inducing knocking on stranger's doors whilst fully aware of the chance of a hostile response.

But despite such mistakes made by the leaders or elders, or the unnecessary stress imposed by misinterpretations of Scripture, meeting together had always been very important in the life of a Christian believer. So much so, that many throughout history had put their lives at risk. For example, London was under the affliction of the Great Plague between 1665 and 1666. This plague killed around 25% of the London population (as compared with the 0.2% of the population under this present coronavirus pandemic.) During that time, while infection gotten from rats was rapidly spreading, many churches remained open despite the dangers, and they were all filled with worshippers, who also gave moral and encouraging support to each other during the plague. 

So says an article by Christian Concern and posted by a friend on Facebook. By comparison, our greater knowledge of the pathogen, and how it's transmitted from person to person, has caused panic to spread across the land, ushering national lockdowns, including the closure of all churches. Therefore, missing church attendance, physical worship and fellowship, including body contact, is like living in mud. Indeed, I didn't agree with everything Christian Concern came up with, including a hint that salvation is gotten by works of bravery rather than by grace through faith in Jesus Christ, and a further hint, through another misinterpretation of Scripture (Revelation 21:8) that all cowards are most likely to be shut out of heaven, nevertheless, there were some good points brought up by the article, namely, that the churches of the past who remained open and welcomed worshippers during a severe plague - was a great credit to the Christian faith.

With the present situation of lockdowns, self-isolation, and no Christian daring to call or be welcomed at another Christian's home, no church meetings, no body-contact, the feeling of loneliness - especially among singles, even a telephone call is an extreme rarity, and so the Christian life resembles a patch of mud, an area where nothing grows, but instead, liable to suck in any foot which steps onto it, making any attempts to walk across as an energy-draining effort which saps all goodness from the leg muscles and thus impedes his journey to his destination.  

But modern technology has sowed a seed into the mud, and the seed took root and a green shoot of a tree springs up. This sapling represents Zoom, and I for one is thankful that it now exists. For not only through my laptop which I can tune in to our virtual services each Sunday, but to a certain extent, we can interact at a Zoom meeting straight after the service. Likewise, there is a Zoom prayer meeting held every weekday morning, and I join this meeting through the computer screen. At least, right now we're able to talk to each other and communicate, which makes a big difference.

But as the sapling is still surrounded by mud all around it, there is still none of this face-to-face intimacy of a physical meeting, but I guess I need to be thankful to God for allowing technology to flourish at the right time in history through man's brain which God has originally created.

When the Lads Get Together

A month previously I wrote about the boy in every man, that relief from daily responsibilities to allow that secret desire to be fulfilled, especially if there's nobody around to see you. Thus, for example, in a line of police constables standing military-style to attention, their serious and straight faces perfectly hiding those childhood cravings - such as that longing to try out that newly-installed helter-skelter slide at the nearby children's playground. Or to ride a shopping trolley down the steep hill late at night, or best of all, during an executive's meeting, to leave a whoopie cushion on the chairman's seat.

Or a female reporter in a bit of a downcast mood alighting from the train at London Euston Station at about the same time as another train also pulling into the terminus. That other train was painted red and windowless throughout, and on its carriage were the words in giant lettering: Her Majesty's Royal Mail. It was then when one of a couple of male fellow passengers who sat close by at her train, then exclaimed in a typical American accent, and in all seriousness, Wow! I never knew the Queen gets so many letters! Without a doubt, the reporter made her way to the office in a brighter, merrier mood.

This masculine trait. What makes us men so different from women? When I consider some of the greatest comedians in my time, all men, such as Tommy Cooper, Benny Hill, Dave Allen, duo Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise, Harry Worth, Steptoe & Son actors Wilfred Brambell and Harry Corbett, along with the star of Till Death Us Do Part, Alf Garnet, played by Warren Mitchell, among others, all of them long dead but memories of their performances endure. Cooper's failure as a stand-up magician is typical. On one occasion he asked a volunteer in the audience to lend his wristwatch, with a promise that by his magic he would receive it back intact. So he placed the wristwatch under a handkerchief and then beat it with a hammer over and over again. Then he began to wave his hand over it, making some chant, until with final abracadabra! he lifted the handkerchief - only for the broken bits to scatter across the table. 

Of course, anyone in his right mind would have recoiled at the sight of somebody's precious property smashed to pieces in such a casual manner. But instead, the sketch was meant to make us all laugh, and we did laugh, the whole nation watching the stint on television - laughing at an act which at all other times would have merited wrath from the owner of the broken item. As such, I tend to believe that the wristwatch was a mocked-up fake specifically made for that part of his performance.

Therefore I do wonder whether humour is a predominantly masculine characteristic, although as I write this, two female-based comedies immediately come to mind. One is The Vicar of Dibley, played by Dawn French as Rev Geraldine Granger, and Keeping Up Appearances, with Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet) played by Patricia Routledge. But in the first comedy, there are five men in the cast, while Hyacinth's beleaguered husband Richard shares her stage. It's such programmes which seem to endorse my opinion that an all-female comedy cast remains non-existent.

In the world of sport, this masculine culture, at least in my younger days, couldn't be made more manifest than in boxing, wrestling, football (soccer) and rugby football, and even cricket, perhaps regarded as the gentleman's game. Rugby, also once known as rugger, was and still is, a very masculine-based sport. Even in comics, where cartoons of rugby players were portrayed as muscular hunks locked in a scrum, were known to say to a passing child who was amused at the oval ball, that this is rugby, a real he-man's game. And so at school, during the Winter months, we as boys played football and rugby while the girls concentrated on hockey and netball. At school, not a single pupil or teacher ever thought it plausible for girls to partake in male-based sports.

Therefore, when someone in our church at Ascot had sent an email to all members inviting us all to watch England versus Australia World Cup Rugby quarter-finals this morning, I was keen to delay my Saturday morning coffee at Starbucks to join the predominantly male group who had also come to watch. Cheers roared whenever England scored a try, followed by the conversion, while the one try scored by the Australian team was greeted with silence. The final result was England: 40 points, Australia: 16.

The game we watched: England v. Australia, 2019.

This was not the first time either. Earlier this year, my good friend Dr Andrew Milnthorpe invited me to watch football with him among a small group at the Kerith Centre, Bracknell's church. Although, like with rugby, I enjoyed watching the match, on both these occasions it was the fellowship with other believers which made the difference. As such, I strongly believe that men in every church should socialise together as men.

In the past, Ascot Life Church did have a men's social group. Here, a group of us, numbering up to thirty people, meeting at an Indian restaurant roughly every six weeks. Most of us were married men which, by getting together, can discuss topics related to men, which included big changes in our Sunday service venue. It was at this restaurant where I heard for the first time a proposal to move our morning service from our own venue to the Paddocks Restaurant at the racecourse, a room with twice the capacity to accommodate our church which is growing in numbers. It was also during this move when Ascot Baptist Church became Ascot Life Church.

Other activities included meeting in a pub. Yes, I know, how "worldly" can we get? There are Christians who frown at the idea of visiting a pub and consuming alcohol. But having a discussion, even on serious issues, over a glass of ale is very different from binge-drinking when the consumer staggers out of the pub, stoned out to his wit's end.

Then it's the walk in the park. Virginia Water, with its large lake, is a popular venue for Summer walks. Back in the Spring, a few of us had a long walk through this area. This opened up the opportunity to touch on various issues. Also enjoying a privately-owned sauna with two or three other men at the host's home, along with a fry-up, while at another venue, having a swim in a garden pool, all to encourage interaction, where fellow believers can open up their trust to help solve personal problems or share with each other life's difficulties and the best way to handle them.

But it's the men's breakfast which I always attended. There were two of them. The rather well-attended one at Christ Church, Virginia Water, was regularly visited by my father-in-law, who always invited me whenever he attended. The other was our own men's breakfast held at Ascot. It was sad that dwindling support eventually caused this Saturday event to cease, as was the case with Virginia Water.

I believe that these Christian men's social get-togethers do have a part in spiritual development. According to my own experience, to go out with a group of lads actually enhances a marriage. Experience indicates that the wife who allows her husband to go out with the boys is generally happier than the wife who restrains or even henpecks him. Paul the apostle favours the wife who is happy to let her husband socialise with his Christian brothers when he writes:

Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Saviour. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.
Ephesians 5:22-24.

It's during these social meets, spiritual advice can be passed. But whatever cases which arise, and there are a great many, the bottom line of them all, Paul continues:

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loves the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. In the same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. 
Ephesians 5:25-28.

By reading this portion of Paul's letter, which I have quoted only in part, there is far more emphasis on the husband loving his wife than the wife loving her husband. In fact, the apostle does not even instruct the wife to love her husband, but only to submit to him. He didn't need to. Women have a far greater natural tendency to love than men. Most likely due to her maternal instincts in giving birth and rearing her child, while the husband's principal role is in his productivity, to provide for his household.

Therefore I, like all other men, must work and make a conscious effort to love my wife. And the kind of love for her which is also honourable to God is enriched by the Holy Spirit who dwells in both of us. With my beloved suffering a physical disability - she can only go outdoors in a wheelchair - plus her recent cancer and the chemotherapy which caused her to lose her hair, my love for her and my devotion to her remains as strong as ever. And the source of such love comes from the Holy Spirit.

Jesus himself had said that when two or three of us are gathered in his name, there he is in the midst of us (Matthew 18:20). Therefore we can assume that he is here with us - although there are plenty of times when it doesn't seem that way, nevertheless, it doesn't change the facts.

A group of Christian men socialising together. And among them, Christ dwells through the Holy Spirit who dwells in each one of them. And to be together to watch a rugby player tackle his opponent to the ground in a major championship game - yes, we can handle that.

A Deafening Silence in Reading...

One of the joys of retirement is that I can just jump on a train during the middle of the week instead of burdening myself down on my daily work routine, whether it's to satisfy my employer or to ensure that the fees from every client I serve are keeping my bank account topped up. Both forms of employment - working for a boss (12 years) and working for myself (35 years) adds up to 47 years of useful employment and, I hope, a worthwhile contribution to society. 

According to the conversations I had with a number of former clientele, I have found that the 47 years of my working life is generally longer than those who work in the professions, the latter which begins after leaving University at around 22 years of age and retiring at sixty on a private or work pension, making the pro's working lifespan of 38 years. And as for me to retire at 63 instead of the compulsory 65 years of age for State Pension eligibility was mainly due to health. My cardiac procedure has made carrying heavy equipment by hand difficult enough to reduce the five-day working week to three-day for the last three months before retiring in early Autumn of 2015.

And now I'm free to board a train to Reading or even to London midweek, which I find more fulfilling than at weekends, which was the norm before retirement. Watching office workers out on their lunch break, dressed in a suit yet, in this present day, minus a tie, which is something unnoticeable at weekends. And also find myself mingling among schoolchildren of both genders in their uniform and all having to wear a tie. A reminisce of my own school days more than half a century earlier, when I had to wear full uniform and tie under the threat of punishment from our P.E. master.

Suit minus tie - Prince William.

By means of a snap decision, I began to stroll casually west towards an attraction which meant so much to me, spanning right back to the late sixties. It was Reading's Central Pool, and after work during the early seventies, I use to go there for an evening's swim, as well as visiting at weekends, which usually get crowded, mainly with out-of-school adolescents, but some adults also turn up, who were mainly parents of younger children, along with a few pensioners. Therefore, serious swimming can be hard done by during the weekend, hence preferring a weekday visit.

However, I wanted more than just lane swimming, and after making inquiries and speaking to lifeguards on duty, in 1972, I joined Reading Life-Saving club, back then the only club throughout Berkshire which specialises in Water Safety. This involves improvement in existing swimming skills as well as learning new skills, both in and out of the water, and an accumulation of knowledge in human anatomy - in my mind, an area of Science which should have been dealt with at school.

As I dwelt into memory, I recalled passing the qualification exam, both practical and theory, just before Christmas of 1972, and about the same time I was converted to Christ. This meant that in 1973, I was able to land a job at Central Pool in Reading as Pool Attendant, joining a team of four people (men, actually) patrolling the poolside. Although spiritually I was a babe in Christ, and maybe that was why I was a proud cock-of-the-walk at the poolside, as being a qualified lifesaver has always been a requirement for the job, with intermittent tests carried out throughout our time there, along with further in-job coaching or brushing up if necessary.

And so this week as I stood there, outside a two-metre high hoarding encircling the site where the pool building once stood. Painted brilliant white and completely free from ad posters and with hardly any graffiti, I sauntered around the outside of the enclosed area, looking for a way to satisfy my burning curiosity of what lies within such an impenetrable barrier. It was when I passed a lampost that I noticed a small peephole directly behind it, but enough to look into a flat, rubble-strewn ground resembling somewhat to a pebble beach. On one side a pile of rubble rising from the site where the changing cubicles and cloakroom use to be.

Oh, it was so sad. Being just outside of the town centre, the pre-war residences of terraced housing predating the 1960s pool building now overlooks the enclosed rubble. With the demolition contractors having already moved out, the area was quiet, deserted, an air of stillness hanging over the site where it once echoed with children splashing and shouting, the raised voice of the swimming instructor booming across the cavernous chamber, the cheering of spectators during a swimming gala, the amplified calls through the tannoy for all with a certain colour wristband to please leave the pool, the slamming and lock-clicking of cubicle doors, the hustle and bustle of people entering and leaving, an occasional child crying along with some adolescent bickering, the constant sound of splash, splash, splash, both from the main pool and also from the adjoining diving pool, above which the ten-metre high platform held a challenge to the nerves of any would-be diver.

Now all was still, all was quiet, a miniature and inaccessible semi-desert on the edge of town, and here am I, wondering what will be built there. I think it will be a block of apartments. Well, I hope so. Because a shining new office block would never hold a candle to the joviality of a year-round indoor leisure facility.

Central Swimming Pool, Reading. Opened in 1967.

Being a day of reminiscence was enforced by the fact that just the day before I boarded the train to Reading, it was my eldest daughter's 18th birthday, the day she comes of age. And that had quite a repercussion for both my wife and myself. Because she, along with her younger sister, was taken from us against our will for eventual adoption, knowing that she had just come of age without us raising her up. She had just turned four when she was taken, and her younger sister was approaching her first birthday. Yet Alex and I will never forget that fateful night of February 2005 when a knock on the door at three in the morning was answered with two Police officers and a social worker barging into our house and running upstairs, then back down with our two sleepy daughters in their arms and my wife left screaming hysterically upstairs.

The next morning we found the silence unbearable. Therefore we kept our hi-fi constantly playing. I was unable to work that day. It was a Friday anyway when most of the week's work was already done. Unable to tolerate the silence at home, I booked a hotel for an overnight stay for both of us in London. It was that evening, at the Trocadero bowling alley near Picadilly Circus, that I burst into tears in public and allowed myself to cry without restraint. Indeed, just as a heavy silence hangs over the site where once was jovialty and bustling life, so an awful silence hangs over our lounge where just the day before was a hive of family activity.

What was it that caused our beloved daughters to be taken away for adoption, against our will? It took months for us to find out. And a friendly Psychologist revealed that which we were totally unaware of, although I have heard of it before. Two friends of mine, both with very high IQs, have it. Asperger's Syndrome.

I was too embarrassed to look at the world with open eyes. My hatred of our original social worker, Wendy, remained intense for months to come. How my pent-up rage and desire for revenge remained unfulfilled! Her arrogance, her atheism and her sense of personal, social and ethnic superiority were beyond a joke. She was even astonished that I owned a mobile phone and rendered us as far too stupid to understand what it means to be online on an Internet website. Too bad that in those days we did not have the Internet, even though she still expressed surprise that we owned a desktop computer.

Fortunately, she was given a month's notice to clear her desk soon after our daughters were taken, having been refused to renew her contract. But even long after she had gone, both my rage was thunderingly loud and the silence in the house was equally deafening. It took quite an effort to sit down before God and ask for the ability to forgive Wendy for everything she had done to us. This was made more difficult by the fact that she wasn't around anymore, and therefore unable to sit down and talk it all out. But forgiveness for her did come. It was later that I learned that by forgiving Wendy in her absence is doing myself great favour. The day I forgave Wendy was the day I was set free from the anger for my own sake, and not for her sake.

But knowing that I have Asperger's Syndrome has answered some mysteries in my life which had always puzzled me. For example, at school, why wasn't I good at team sports, especially in football and rugby? Why had I never felt a sense of team belonging? And at any social meeting, such as in a restaurant or bar, why am I usually the quiet one?

And in a church environment, I do find "fellowshipping" difficult. And I don't mean coffee and doughnuts. Such refreshment is the easy bit. What I do find difficult is interrelationships, especially in a small group.

And I can relate a good example just over a week ago. At a local church, there is a monthly informal group meeting for all those in the fellowship who have an Apple computer or those who are interested in such a brand of technology. First of all, I don't own an Apple computer, the laptop I own runs on Microsoft (did I get that right?) But even if I did own an Apple, the meeting would still be outside my realm.

But in recent weeks, Google had decided to close the Google+ account, which was connected to this Blogger page. Therefore this group decided to centre this month's meeting to the loss of Google+ as I will also be personally affected by it. So, for a one-off, I decided to attend.

There were nine of us, most were around my age, but I sat next to Dr Andrew Milnthorpe, a good friend of mine and a regular attendee of the group. He was the only one who helped me feel a slither of a welcome. Otherwise, I felt lost there. And I think that it was not that I wasn't welcome. Instead, they did not know how I should feel welcomed. Their knowledge of computers and its software is well above my realm of understanding.

But I am convinced that the bottom line cause of this isolationism is not that I'm too stupid to understand technology. Rather, it's down to having Asperger's syndrome. The inability to communicate.

10-metre high Diving Platform, Central Pool.

Asperger's Syndrome is a result of the Fall and the inherent sinful nature as a result. But it's not earned by wilful sinning. Rather it is a genetic defect which occurred at conception. It is not even inherited by either of my parents. I have a younger brother, a good businessman, and he does not have Asperger's Syndrome. Neither has any of his three daughters. I was the unlucky one.

The loss of our children brought great distress to us, but there are three positive outcomes. First, instead of running away from God, we ran towards him, calling out for help and to be filled with his Holy Spirit. Secondly, we relied on each other's strength to support each other and by making our marriage strong and robust. I'm happy to say, with all honesty, that disagreements between us are extremely rare. We enjoy a strong, loving marriage, especially since my beloved had lost her full mobility caused by the stress brought by the loss of our daughters.

And thirdly and no less important, we chose to forgive. Especially forgiving Wendy and setting us free from the emotional perils that would otherwise eat us up.

In Reading, there was life and bustle at the Central Swimming Pool. Now there is silence. At home, there was once life and bustle among our two daughters. Now also silence, but like in Reading, the bustle of daily living can only be revived by rebuilding on the firm foundations after the removal of all the rubble which occupied our lives.