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My fellow writer, and much-appreciated critique partner Leonie, said it’s ‘a lovely story with strong imagery, sad and hopeful at the same time.’ No AI went into the writing of it. The words are handstitched by me.

As to what it’s about — maybe you read my post on historical men’s shoes two months back? I did some research on women’s shoes at the same time. I might do a full newsletter on the topic later. Meanwhile, I listened to a local historian talk about superstitions on the nineteenth-century Australian goldfields. The mention of hidden shoes caught my ear. (Figuratively 😜 You wouldn’t want to catch the hefty boot below on your ear or anywhere else.)

The women’s shoes in the story were inspired by these:

And here’s the short story:

Until next month, blessings and best wishes. If you liked the story, I’d love to hear back from you.

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Like most things, the World Cup has an intriguing history. I mean the actual cup — the prize that symbolises victory. Trophy-making is a pretty obscure art form, but it gets moments of glory.

The first World Cup competition was held in Uruguay in 1930. Only 13 teams competed. The trophy (pictured above) was designed by a French sculptor and medallist named Abel Lafleur (1875-1953). By medallist, I mean that Lafleur was a maker of physical medals. But interestingly, he was actually a competitor in the Olympics, and not as an athlete. In 1932 the summer Olympics had a sports-themed arts category, and Lafleur entered the ‘Sculpturing, medals and relief’ event.1 His entry was a ‘football plaque’.

Personally, I’m not surprised his plaque didn’t win. Lafleur is said to have been influenced by Art Nouveau co-founder Jules-Clement Chaplain, another medallist. You can see that in the graceful lines of ‘La Bain’, above left. But by 1932 art styles were changing. Cubism had made an impact, and the woman on the football plaque is kind of clunkier and less fluid.

Ditto the figure of Nike, goddess of victory, on the first World Cup. She’s inspired by the famous winged Victory of Samothrace in the Louvre, as is the Rolls Royce statuette. But Lafleur’s Nike is much more square and static. (Still better than body parts!)

The Coup du Monde was 35cm (14”) high and weighed a hefty 3.8kg (8lb 6 oz). With that amount of metal in it, the trophy was not solid gold. Instead it was gold-plated silver, with a lapis lazuli base. It became known as the Jules Rimet cup, after the man who organised the first competition.

What happened to the Jules Rimet cup?

Why am I saying ‘was’? Isn’t there still a World Cup trophy?

Not the same one. When Brazil won the World Cup competition for the third time in 1982, FIFA regulations let them have the cup for keeps. But it’s more complicated and controversial than that. The cup lived a risky life.

First Theft Attempt

In 1938 the World Cup was won by Italy. So that’s where the cup was, stored in a Roman bank, when the Nazis occupied Italy. The Vice-President of the Italian Football Federation did not trust the treasure-hunting Nazis, so he withdrew the Jules Rimet cup from the bank and tucked it in a shoebox under his bed. The Gestapo did come looking for the cup. But somehow the Italian footballer put them off the scent. (You really wonder how. A lot of grappa, to help distract them?) FIFA didn’t get the cup back until 1947.

Second Theft Attempt

In 1966 the trophy was on exhibition in Westminster, UK. While Sunday church was on downstairs, thieves jemmied open a cabinet, and walked out with the cup. Scotland Yard launched a massive investigation. A ransom demand arrived for £15,000. The police arrested the petty crim who turned up to collect the ransom. But he didn’t have the cup.

Panic stations at FIFA. The English FA secretly ordered a replica made.

Then, amazingly, a London dog with the cute name of Pickles found the trophy under a laurel bush, while out on a walk. Nobody knows how the cup got there. Anyway, the dog got FIFA out of its pickle, you might say. Or it earned its laurels 😁.

England went on to win the 1966 tournament. But was the cup kissed by the English captain the real thing? Or the replica? Nobody is sure.

Third and Final Theft

After Brazil’s 1982 triumph, the Jules Rimet cup went on display in that country’s Football Confederation headquarters. Not for long. Once again, the temptation was too great, and security too slack. In 1983, another locked cabinet was easily defeated by a crowbar. This time, the cup wasn’t recovered. Although the base turned up in FIFA’s basement three decades later (in 2015).

Some think the cup has been melted down. But the cup’s silver is worth only about US$8,000 in today’s prices. I wonder if that comparatively small amount was worth the risk to the thieves. Perhaps it’s sitting in a cupboard, in a subúrbio somewhere in Brazil. Mostly forgotten, but sometimes fondly dusted off, like my kid’s trophies. Because in the end, it’s what they stand for that matters most. The object is a symbol of all that effort, of the triumph of teamwork, training and talent over mud, cold and a worthy opponent. It’s the human element that gives the trophy its real value. Victory and glory appeal to us deeply. Sometimes more than our comfort.

That’s it from me this month. I don’t generally write a lot about sport. It gets more airtime than I’m interested in already. Imagine if your favourite author or artist got half the coverage your local football team does… But I enjoy the excellence and energy of the World Cup. And I like the stories in sports history. (See here for Surprising stories from the Early Olympics and the Olympic memorabilia in my backyard.) Hope you do too.

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Here’s hoping for lots of brilliant goals, whoever hoists the cup.

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What historic Iranian technology does Donald Trump (and most of the world) use almost everyday? Find out here. Come on a well-shod stroll into the history of men’s shoes.

Why shoes? I just got a new pair for Mothers Day. Then I started researching historical styles, and I was carried away — much like the girl in Hans Christian Anderson’s ‘The Red Shoes’. After all, the human race runs on shoes! Like many everyday objects, footwear styles are loaded with meaning. Shoes say a lot about their owner’s lifestyle and aspirations. (All puns in this newsletter are fully intended. Much spit and polish goes into these posts. 😊)

Medieval Sharps

Most of this post is about early modern European shoes. But so you know where they came from, here are some noble French lads in the late 1400s:

A very sharp look. Called ‘krakows’, or ‘poulaines’, these medieval marvels were the ultimate in pointy toes. No, they were not practical. The men who wore these didn’t have to labour in the fields — that was the point. 😉

They weren’t comfortable either. Archaeologists discovered that the incidence of bunions (big toe deformities) increased fourfold, to 27%, when krakows were in.1 Ouch.

By Henry VIII’s day, shoes were back to blunt.

And still flat. Like bedroom slippers, to our eyes.

The Iranian Innovation

The stirrup had already come to Europe via Central Asia, some centuries back. (Possibly from China.) Stirrups made it much easier to fight on horseback — riders could stabilise themselves, and so shoot or fight much better in the saddle.

What do stirrups have to do with shoes? This: by the end of the medieval period, Persian riders had found a simple way of keeping their feet from slipping in the stirrup loops — heels. It worked. Shah Abbas (1588-1629) commanded the largest cavalry in the world.

The courts of Europe were impressed. Heels became a symbol of elite masculinity in Europe too. The shoe below is a boy’s, not a woman’s.

Like pointy medieval poulaines, these shoes are literally for the well-heeled. Think English cavaliers and the court of Louis XIV. That’s the look — swaggering and showy. But it didn’t last into the modern era.

Away with Foppery - Huzzah!

The next cycle of fashion, shoes included, was helped along by the French Revolution. Donning aristocratic dress was positively dangerous, in France at least. Then, as Napoleon swept through Europe, the male look turned decidedly military. High heels were passe, although as part of shoe structure, heels were here to stay. The nineteenth century was the hey-day of the boot.

England’s war hero, the Duke of Wellington, (pictured above), had a new, practical style designed by his shoemaker. His boots were so well known they came to identify him.

A couple of decades after the Napoleonic wars, military influence waned. Boots disappeared under trousers. Mostly.

No gentleman wanted to be mistaken for a member of the lower orders because of his shoes. So boots got shorter. Shoes shifted closer to modern styles, with fancy variations on the way.

At the end of the Victorian era, we get to a half shoe with a built-in canvas sock:

This isn’t a style for horse-riding, marching, or manual labour. It’s a style to look stylish. Even for cats, as poet T.S. Eliot humorously imagines:

The Importance of Shoes

When the Duke of Wellington listed shoes first, second and third on his materiel list, he didn’t just have a footwear fetish. Shoes were essential equipment. Leatherwork and shoe-making were a critical part of the nineteenth century economy.

Leather was the plastic of the day. ‘If we look on the implements used in most mechanical trades, on the structure of a multitude of engines and machines… even the substance of our carriages, what do we see but… leather?’2

So Who Made Mens Shoes?

If, like me, you’ve read a lot of fairytales, and you thought shoes were made by “cobblers”… not exactly. Cobblers were bottom of the industry, cobbling together old leather for shoe repairs. ‘Cordwainers’ were the pros. Apprenticed for years, they were experts in leather cutting, shoe shaping, stitching and finishing.

In 1841, there were 28,000 shoemakers in London. It was the third largest profession, after servants and general labourers. More than clerks (20,000) and brickmakers (6,500). Journalist and reformer Henry Mayhew calculated that about 2000 of the 28,000 total were master bootmakers, who employed the rest. The best of them could turn out a quality shoe in a day. Uppers were commonly sewn at 18-22 stitches per inch, but on exhibition pieces the sewing could be as fine as 50-60 stitches per inch.

But as the Industrial Revolution took hold, the supply of labour in the city swelled. Factories began to compete with custom-made shoes. Mayhew interviewed ‘an intelligent member of the West End trade’:

The Manufactured Reputation behind an Exclusive Brand

About the same time as Mayhew was writing, a young Cornish shoemaker set out to make his fortune in London. He was permanently lame, after badly breaking a leg doing farm labour. Yet he walked the 300 miles from his home to the city. When he got there, nobody would employ him. So, around 1849, he set sail for the colony of New South Wales, Australia.3

The young Cornishman was in luck. He arrived in time for the start of the Gold Rush in 1851. Like everyone else, he took himself to the diggings. Like most people, he found very little gold. But he did discover a big demand for stout shoes. He went one up on the Persians, and innovated an extra feature into his shoes. He made the heels with a hidden cavity. On the lawless gold fields, these shoes were very handy for stashing gold finds — to give crime the boot, so to speak.

By 1854, the young shoemaker had left the goldfields. He had enough capital to start a business in Sydney, importing shoes as well as making them. This is where his name appears on the public record for the first time.

His ‘experience for a number of years in London and Paris’? That doesn’t fit what we know of his life story, as I’ve outlined it. John Lobb’s claims appear to be a fabrication, as hollow as his boot heels.

His grandson said Lobb was ‘wily enough for anything’.4 Somehow, from the other side of the world, Lobb obtained the shoe measurements of the Prince of Wales. In 1863 he crafted the Prince a magnificent pair of handstitched boots, and sent them back to England by sailing ship. The Prince was impressed enough to grant a Royal Warrant to the maker.

With that honour up his sleeve, John Lobb bought a ticket back to London in 1866. No doubt to the astonishment of London competitors, he set up shop in the prestigious Regent St, and hung up his shingle: ‘By appointment to HRH the Prince of Wales’. (Have a close look at the window arches below).

To this day, John Lobb’s firm is still serving the most exclusive of clientele. Most of us don’t get to wear their creations. But even our everyday shoes are the product of centuries of craftsmanship and innovation. If the shoe fits… you’re wearing history.

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The moon has always stirred human longings. What can beat a full moon for loveliness? Or moonlight’s uneasy shadows for eeriness? Here’s a post to transport you to the moon and back.

Let’s start in Ancient Greece. A Homeric hymn lavishes praise on the moon goddess:

Tell of the long-winged Moon… Bright Selene, having bathed her lovely body in the waters of Ocean, and donned her far-gleaming, shining team, drives on her long-maned horses at full speed… She is a sure token and a sign to mortal men…Hail, white-armed goddess, bright Selene, mild, bright-tressed queen!
(7th to 5th century BC, trans Hugh G. Evelyn-White 1914)

Whatever the moon is called — Selene, Artemis, Diana, Cynthia or Chan Juan — it’s almost universally a symbol of beauty.

Just as often, as in William Blake’s etching, it reminds us of the unattainable. There is something about the moon’s ethereal light that makes us melancholy. ‘With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies’, wrote English poet Sir Philip Sidney, in about 1582.

Shakespeare used the moon as a symbol of change and unreliability. In the famous balcony scene, Romeo is about to swear ‘by yonder blessed moon’, but Juliet stops him:

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circle orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.’

(Oo, what enchanting assonance! And those murmuring ‘m’s and ‘n’s…)

In Henry IV, Falstaff suggests to the Prince that they act under the moon goddess’s auspices. He is up to no good:

Let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon, and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

Similarly, in Alfred Noyes’ deliciously Gothic ‘The Highwayman’, from 1904, the moon adds to the atmosphere of danger and foreboding:

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

I learned ‘The Highwayman’ in primary school, and I still love its driving rhythm and melodramatic flair. It’s a tragedy, over which the moon rides high. Find it here, if you’d like to read the whole tale.

Alfred Noyes was a late Romantic. Romantic era poets loved to moon about in mythic allusions and lunar melancholy. Keats wrote a whole epic poem, ‘Endymion’, about the love of a shepherd for the moon goddess:

…‘Tis She, but lo!
How chang’d, how full of ache, how gone in woe!
She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness
Is wan on Neptune’s blue: yet there’s a stress
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,
Dancing upon the waves…

It’s 4000 lines of rather fulsome, be-spangled poetry. A bit OTT.

Emily Dickenson, in comparison, is sparse, strange and striking. In ‘The Moon was but a Chin of Gold’, maybe she’s being humorous. Or maybe she’s not?

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago—
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below—

…Her Bonnet is the Firmament—
The Universe—Her Shoe—
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—
Her Dimities—of Blue—

(Her what? Dimity was a lightweight cotton fabric with cords or ribs running through the cloth. As far as I can discover, the cloth was used for bedlinen, and underwear. So I think that Dickenson is saying the moon wears the sky next to her skin. It is a rather unsettling juxtaposition — homely and celestial at the same time. I can’t tell if she’s joking.)

Half a century later, T E Hulme strips the moon of mythic status, or human likeness, and brings it down to earth, caught in the trees. But I think there’s still something poignant about this moment, a fragility, of something about to be lost, as the balloon floats away or bursts…

Above the quiet dock in mid night,
Tangled in the tall mast’s corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child’s balloon, forgotten after play.
(’Above the Dock’, 1912)

Moving further forward into the twentieth century, Keats’ Romantic sentimentality totally disappears. Sylvia Plath wrote a poem called ‘The Moon and the Yew Tree’:

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God…
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls…
She is bald and wild…

So heavy, all those alliterative ‘d-d-d’ sounds. It’s a bleak moon, the one that filters into Sylvia Plath’s mind.

I would rather not leave you there. Let me finish instead with a famous Chinese poem, which manages to bring longing and loveliness together in one paradoxical moment.

In 1076, under the full moon of Mid-Autumn festival, Chinese poet Su Shi wrote ‘Prelude to a Water Melody’. He was thinking of his faraway brother, celebrating the festival in another province. Chinese poetry is near impossible to translate into English because the original is so compact, but here’s my best effort:

People have grief and joy — we part; we meet;
The moon is dark or bright, round or incomplete;
In this world, perfection is hard to reach.
But let men wish for forever;
A thousand miles away, under the moon together.

May the moon call you to higher thoughts too. Until next month!

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P.S. Thank you to the readers who joined me for the Lent series. We were a select group, but I always appreciate company here!

I am with you always, even to the end of the age.
Matthew 28:20

That’s Jesus speaking, post-resurrection. We are still in ‘always’, even though it sometimes feels close to the end of the age. He is still with us.

I won’t be with you always. This series of Lent reflections has ended. You will have noticed that I got the timing wrong 😝. I did start on the right day, and post for 40 days in a row. But I didn’t realise that Sundays don’t count, so we still have a couple of days to Good Friday. If you are disappointed or wanting to fill the gap, I suggest you go back and read any posts you missed (full list here). Better still, read the Easter story in one of the Bible’s four gospels.

You are welcome to sign up for my monthly emails/posts, if you haven’t already. They’re less Biblical, and more focussed on history and historical fiction.

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Thank you for joining me on this road to Easter. I didn’t really write this series with the intention of reaching lots of people. Posting every day has indeed been a discipline. Some of the Old Testament passages were rather dry. Knowing that somebody is reading has helped me keep writing. I felt that every day the Holy Spirit has impressed some thoughtworthy idea on my mind. He came through, thanks be to God. 😊

What a view it will be, at the end of all things. See you there, if not before.

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Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’… They still did not believe it because of joy and amazement… While he was blessing them, he left them and was taken up into heaven. Then they worshiped him and returned to Jerusalem with great joy.

Luke 24:36, 41, 51-52

The road to Easter does not end at the cross.

The road to Easter does not end with hardship, sadness, sin, pain, injustice, uncertainty, darkness or disillusionment. The road to Easter does not end with Jesus’ death. The road goes through all that — through the cross to Jesus’ resurrection, to his triumphant return to life.

The road to Easter ends with life, redemption and the defeat of evil. It ends with amazement, with peace and blessing, with worship and joy.

How wonderful. All praise to the God who has done all this. All credit to our living God! What joy and what glory are at the end of everything!

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When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him there, along with two criminals dash one on his right, the other on his left. One of the criminals hurled insults at him: ‘Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other criminal rebuked him. ‘Don’t you fear God? …We are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, truly I tell you today you will be with me in paradise.’
Luke 23:33, 39-43

It amazes me how Jesus finds the emotional strength to consider others, even as he’s in excruciating pain. You’d think all his energy would go into resisting the desire to call for escape, as the first criminal says — ‘God, get me out of here!’ Yet Jesus has spoken to the women who mourned for him on the way to the execution ground. Now he speaks to a criminal crucified with him.

By the criminal’s own admission, he deserves the death sentence. He’s got no grounds to appeal to Jesus. But he’s got nothing to lose either. Unlike the other criminal, he doesn’t direct his fear and pain into anger. Instead he recognises who Jesus is, and asks only to be remembered.

In reply, Jesus does better than that. He tells the criminal that, by the end of the day, Jesus will take him into paradise.

These are Jesus’ next-to-last words. His final words will be to entrust his soul to God — the first commandment. Here is the second commandment in operation — love your neighbour as yourself. Dying for us is a huge, infinitely great, act of love. And even while he’s dying, Jesus has room for the personal touch – the gift of mercy and hope to a guilty man. It’s so generous and merciful it makes me cry. Nobody is beneath Jesus’ notice.

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Moses said to Aaron, take your censer, and put fire on it from the altar and lay incense on it and carry quickly to the congregation. Make atonement for them, for wrath has gone out from the Lord; the plague has begun. So Aaron took it, as Moses said, and ran into the midst of the assembly… He stood between the dead and the living and the plague was stopped.
Numbers 16:46-48

I have watched Lord of the Rings with my family many times. This story from Numbers reminds me of Gandalf facing the monstrous Balrog with his staff: You shall not pass! Here in Numbers, the antagonist is not a monster. Instead, the people of Israel have (once again) taken issue with instructions from God passed on through Moses. It has become a confrontation between the people of Israel and God himself. There’s no real contest. God is winning, with the plague running rampant through the population. We can’t resist what God has put in place, try to come up with our own religious system that suits us, and expect things to be fine.

At this moment, Aaron grabs his incense burner, a symbol of the whole God-given system of sacrificial atonement, and runs into the disaster. Aaron stands between the living and the dead. It works. The plague stops. Atonement is the solution for the most egregious of sins.

Why include this reflection in a series leading into Easter? Because, as well as reminding me of Gandalf, this verse reminds me of Jesus. On the cross he hung suspended between life and death. His crucifixion is atonement completed. His cross stands between the living and the dead, and we can choose which side of him we’ll stand. He is the difference between life and death for us.

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Now at the feast Pilate used to release for them one prisoner for whom they asked. Among the rebels in prison, who had committed murder in the insurrection, there was a man called Barabbas. Mark 15: 6-7

You know how this story ends. Barabbas is released instead of Jesus, despite Pilate’s half-hearted effort to swap them over.

Barabbas was a murderer. But he was also a political prisoner. He would not have been the most despised person in Jerusalem’s jail. Some of the Jewish population probably saw him as a hero. His violence was committed in the name of a cause. He had been involved in an insurrection against the ruling authorities, so presumably he and the other rebels wanted the colony of Israel freed from the Romans. The Romans were no nice guys. They were invaders and colonists. Their rule was repressive— crucifixion was their invention. Barabbas is not so far removed from protesters today who resist oppressive regimes, some with more force than others.

Barabbas resorted to deadly force. He is a contrast to Jesus. Jesus doesn’t even protest. He allows injustice to take its course, once that course is set. He lays down his own life, rather than taking someone else’s. He puts his trust, not in the strength of human effort, but in the power of God.

It isn’t always wrong to take political action. Jesus overturned the temple tables in protest. He spoke plenty of times about the ways the priests and Pharisees oppressed people. But he didn’t target political institutions. He targeted the hearts of individuals. He didn’t take down the Romans or the Pharisees, he took down all our sin.

In the midst of today’s political turmoil, I should set my hopes not on the hero of the hour, however brave or justified their protests, but on Jesus.

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Then Peter began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear, ‘I do not know the man!’ Immediately a rooster crowed. Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken: ‘Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.’ And he went out and wept bitterly.
Matthew 26: 74-75

I find this one of the most painful verses in the Bible. Peter is so humiliated and so disappointed with himself. He comes face to face with his own cowardice. He loves Jesus, He cares about him, or he wouldn’t be there at the high priest’s house, to see what happens to his leader. But his love is not enough to overcome his instinctive, self protection, and he lies, three times over.

These verses get me because I feel for Peter’s failure. And because I’m pretty sure that would have been me too. Jesus needed to die for Peter. Good intentions are not enough. Even with good intentions, we get frightened into betraying our own integrity. I’ve done that in conversations with people. I let Jesus down — I hide what I really think; I don’t stick up for my deepest values — in ways I am ashamed of. Jesus needed to die for me too.

I thank you, Lord, that you know me and you still love me. Thank you that you died to pull us out of the pit of guilt and humiliation we walk right into.

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The Lord is my shepherd… He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Psalm 23:1, 4.

The Lord is my shepherd. He is looking after me, protecting me and leading me.

Where is he leading? Lovely, green pastures, yes. But that’s not all. He also leads me into the dark valley of the shadow of death.

Paths of righteousness aren’t all sunny, bright and hopeful. Sometimes I’m going to feel the cold hand of death clutching at my heart. It doesn’t have to be a physical threat of dying. It is also the bleak grief of losing something – a home, a person, a hope. It is the pain of seeing sin in someone I love or trust. (Or myself.) It is hearing a friend’s unfixable suffering. All of those are shadows of death, cast over our lives. They darken our days.

Jesus has also walked through the valley of the shadow of death – that’s what Easter is all about. He knows the way. As He enters Easter week, the road gets harder and darker for him. The shadows are gathering. The path ahead is no fun — it is terrible. He knows that. But He also knows the way. And He won’t give up on his sheep. I need fear no evil, because whatever I walk into, He is there with me.

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Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness…
Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him and He will act…
Do not fret over the one who prospers in his way, over the man who carries out evil devices. Refrain from anger and forsake wrath! Do not fret; it tends only to evil.
Psalm 37:5-8

There’s plenty of wrongdoing and ‘evil devices’ in our world to fret over. Every morning the news brings one worrisome or grievous act after another. Closer to home, we are impacted by local government decisions, a selfish neighbour, a difficult family member, or an untrustworthy workmate. I could wish (I have wished) I were somewhere else. I might actively take steps to remove myself from the situation.

When global circumstances get grim, as at the moment, it’s hard to escape the whole world. At times like this, fear gnaws. There’s not much I can do about the circumstances. It’s easy to get resentful or angry at the people causing them. I could – I have! – criticised and complained.

Psalm 37 is not telling me evil-doing doesn’t matter, or has no consequences. But it is saying to hang in there. Dwell in the land God has given you to work. Don’t up stakes and move because there’s trouble. This isn’t blindly hoping things will be ok. I’m not called to trust in a rose-tinted optimism about human nature. I’m called to trust in God. He will act.

Sometimes being faithful means not reacting, except by trusting God. For me, this might look like talking less about the wrongness of others, and more about the rightness of God. It might look like keeping on going, as cheerfully as possible, where I am. Sometimes, the way to follow Jesus is to not to go anywhere.

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Moses said to the Lord, ‘Why have you dealt ill with your servant? Why have I not found favour in your sight, that you lay the burden of all this people on me? Did I give them birth, that you should say to me, “carry them in your bosom as a nurse carries a nursing child, to the land that you swore to give their fathers?”... I am not able to carry all this people alone; the burden is too heavy for me. If you will treat me like this, kill me at once, if I find favour in your sight, that I may not see my wretchedness.’
Numbers 11:11-14

I woke up feeling a bit low this morning. I have no physical reason for it. I got a good night sleep. I think I’m just feeling the pressure of another to-do list today. I’m a bit discouraged, because caring about people and for people can be work. Some of it seemed to get nowhere last week, like the time I spent preparing a Bible study for people who pulled out on the day.

So these verses caught my attention. I am only feeling the responsibility of a handful of people. Moses had a million or so to look after.

One of the things I noticed was the tenderness and care of the metaphor God uses to describe Moses’ responsibilities. He tells Moses to carry the people of Israel in his bosom as a nurse carries a nursing child. What sweetness, intimacy and protectiveness. This responsibility is one of love.

The next thing I noticed is that this was a difficult baby. Many parents know what it is like to nurse a child with colic or teething issues. The baby wails themselves to sleep only to wake up again minutes later, arching their back and thrashing out with their fists. It’s heartbreaking. And that’s what it was like for Moses, trying to get the Israelites across the desert.

Moses wasn’t doing anything wrong here, but the whole situation is too much. He’s had it. God does provide a solution in the section that follows. He instructs Moses to pick a team of 70 men to help him. He also provides the meat that the Israelites wanted so badly it precipitated this crisis. Moses’ problem is addressed for the moment.

But I’ve read this story before, and I know there’s more serious trouble ahead. Moses is about to have his responsibilities extended by 40 years. Hard work, serious disappointment, and low moments are part of the journey of faithfulness. Moses does get there in the end! With all the people of Israel, even if it is the next generation down.

Father God, thank you that you care for your people as tenderly as a mother or a nurse. I pray you would encourage the pastors of my church when their ears are full of our discontent, when their workload is burdensome and their heart is heavy. Give them a supportive, effective team. Bring all the people of your church safe to the end of the road and the promised land.

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When Moses entered the tent of meeting to speak with the Lord, he heard the voice speaking to him from between the two cherubim above the atonement cover on the ark of the testimony… ‘Speak to Aaron and say to him, “When you set up the seven lamps, they are to light the area in front of the lamp stand.”’ Aaron did so… The lamp stand was made of hammered gold from its base to its blossoms… exactly like the pattern the Lord had shown Moses. Numbers 7:89-8: 4.

I have just read through a very long section in the book of Numbers, which lists all the offerings and sacrifices made at the dedication of the tabernacle. Obviously, the dedication was a significant, costly spectacle. The culmination of it all is when Moses goes into the newly consecrated tent of meeting. After this build up, I wondered what God was going to say, when he speaks in this holy, special place for the first time. I wished I could be Moses, to be in that place and to hear that voice.

I was a bit surprised at what God says. It doesn’t seem to be anything grand, but simple instruction about a lamp. The lampstand must matter.

Exodus 25 says that the lamp stand was made with six branches out from a Central shaft, each topped with almond-flower-shaped lamp cups. That made seven lamps in all. Not 12, the number we see a lot of in the book of Numbers, counting the 12 tribes of Israel. But here there are seven lamps, representing all the earth, which was completed in seven days in the Genesis account. Jesus tells us says in Revelation 1:19 that the seven lamps represent the seven churches, i.e. the entire Christian world.

I imagine what the inner sanctuary must have been like with the lamps lit. The inner space is windowless, dark. The air is still. A thick curtain blocks light, movement and sound – all the outside world. In front of Moses is a large candelabra with seven burning almond blossoms. The flame is reflected from the petals, down onto a golden table. Unlike an Egyptian temple, there are no paintings, no hieroglyphs, no carved figures. Only the seven lamps and their flickering reflection on the polished gold of the altar. A silent and utterly holy moment.

I wish I was there…

But I am. Being part of Jesus’ church means I’m represented in the tabernacle lamp. My life is oil, burning before God’s altar. If that wasn’t good enough already, then I remember that at Christ’s death the curtain was symbolically torn. Sanctified by his sacrifice, I can go into the inner sanctuary. Every time I close my eyes and pray, I am in the most holy presence of God, where light shines on a golden altar, where He listens, and He speaks.

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This child is destined to cause the rising the falling and rising of many in Israel.
Luke 2:34

I think of God as very stable. His nature is unchanging, so somehow I think that he doesn’t like change. I think of him as slow to act. He certainly takes His time, from the limited point of view of my human lifespan. Centuries of prophecy and Old Testament history unfolded, while God was gradually getting the pieces in place, before the Christ finally came.

I guess in our secular environment it’s easy to get infected with the general vibe that God is absent from the world – if not non-existent, then non-interfering. At the very most we tend to ask for a bit of tinkering with the details of our lives. I don’t think of him as seismic, down at my level.

But God created the cosmos, which scientists tell us is still on the move. He created the laws of physics that allow for Formula 1 and crazy fairground rollercoasters. He created cycles of degeneration and regeneration. He created the wind and the weather. He must like gear-shifts, reversals and change.

The verse today is from Simeon’s prophetic advice to Jesus’ parents. It tells me that Jesus came to shake things up. He rattled the established order. He told an adult Pharisee he needed to be born again. Jesus said he was a stumbling block that the self-righteous would fall over. His death tore open the curtain to the temple’s inner sanctuary. He said the first would be last, and the last first. He likes to flip the script

I have underestimated Him. He is dynamic. And He isn’t finished yet. There’s more rising and falling to come!

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Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices – mint, dill and cummin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law – justice, mercy and faithfulness.
Matthew 23: 23

Mother Teresa once told a US senator, ‘God did not call me to be successful; He called me to be faithful’. I really like that. In one way her statement is freeing. It’s also challenging. As a twenty-first century Westerner, I have the value of success programmed into me.

I am not called to produce measurable outcomes for God – X amount of mint dill and cumin – however satisfying it might be to measure out the little things. Nor does God require me to clock up hundreds of conversions, life-changing contributions, or spectacular answers to prayer. Jesus isn’t saying to the Pharisees, or me, that contributions don’t matter. They do, and we should keep them up, Jesus says in the next verse. But they’re not as important as justice, mercy and faithfulness. I am called to justice, mercy and faithfulness.

It’s faithfulness I’m thinking about here. Justice and mercy are principles, that show up in decisions, so I infer faithfulness is too. Faithfulness is not an emotion. Faithfulness isn’t drumming up feelings of love or worship. Faithfulness is me turning up to worship to church on Sunday although I wanted a sleep-in. Faithfulness is loving my spouse because I promised to, even when I don’t feel he’s listening to me. Faithfulness is praying for the well-being of every reader of my stories and posts, whether I not I get likes or sales.

Let me remind myself: faithfulness is weighty. My faithfulness matters more than my success. Faithfulness is success.

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There is a LOT of historical fiction out in the world. With a LOT of variety in style and content. What to choose?

If you know what you like, you’re less likely to waste time reading books that don’t do it for you. So I thought it might be useful to describe the different types of historical fiction available. Even if you’ve been a long time fan of historical fiction, I hope there are some new gems in here, or old favourites to revisit.

I’m not analysing by setting, so much as style and content. I have included both old and new novels. As a history junkie, I don’t believe newer = better. Let’s start at the top, prize-wise:

1. Literary Historical Fiction

Literary fiction prioritises language and ideas, sometimes (frequently!) to the detriment of story. Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco is often given as a prime example. Set in a medieval monastery, this novel feels like literary theory in monks’ robes and gilt lettering.

Another prize-winner, from my end of the world, is Kate Grenville’s The Secret River, about the confrontation between Australia’s convicts and indigenous people. Beautiful prose, but the narrative winds slower than the river.

To my mind, there are better literary historical fiction reads. Like: the Wolf Hall Tudor trilogy by Hilary Mantel, The Leopard by Giuseppe Lampedusa, and Beloved by Toni Morrison.

2. The Classics

Most of these novels were not historical when they were written, but they’re certainly historical to modern readers. I think the classics are best approached as entering another culture — you’ll find much to surprise and delight, but you have to remember past expectations of fiction were different. These books are lo-o-ong. Like historical costumes, their vocabulary and grammar is elaborate. They take a bit of getting used to, but they say deeply interesting things about humanity. (I could go on. Perhaps I will, in a later post.)

3. Historical Romance

Inspired by Jane Austen, these stories have become a whole genre on their own. Georgette Heyer started the genre off in the twentieth century with her swashbuckling dukes and witty maidens. Historical verisimilitude has been merrily tossed out the stagecoach window, in pursuit of passion and improbable adventure. They’re fun, but most are more fantasy than history. Bridgerton belongs here.

My favourites are the ones that have a solid historical story to go with the romance.

Want to try a historical romance for free? Click the promo below. I’ve got a short story in there too:

4. Historical Crime & Thrillers

Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie shot this genre to prominence. Like the nineteenth century novelists in the category above, Conan Doyle and Christie originally had contemporary settings, but the stories feel historical to us.

Nowadays you can find fictional sleuths digging up corpses in every era, from Roman to colonial. Like romance, it’s a huge field (with a lot of dead bodies!). I like C.J. Sansom’s Dissolution, which is similar to a faster-paced Wolf Hall — lots of murder and murky Tudor politics. In the equally cut-throat setting of imperial Rome, Lindsey Davis’ Marcus Didius Falco is a wise-cracking, disaster-prone private investigator. From the other side of the world, circa 1900, Toronto’s Station House 4 entertains a global audience, in a 19-season(!) TV series. (That will give you about 300 hours to watch. Plenty.)

If crime is your vibe, take a look at these historical crime and thriller novels, currently available for free:

5. World War (mostly II)

The ranks of Resistance heroines and female spies are now thicker in fiction than IRL. The World Wars create instant high stakes and high drama potential. I suspect the era is also relatable for us because our modern world developed out of it. We recognise the technologies and the social developments (e.g. women in the workforce, immigration, social mobility). This category has plenty of highly popular, gripping reads. The Holocaust fiction subset has a couple of my favourites:

6. Feminist Retellings

In recent years, historical fiction authors have made considerable efforts to redress past inequities around gender and colour. Strong female protagonists abound. So do stories about the women behind famous men or famous events. Great.

However, these novels often have an aftertaste of ideology. I strongly disagree with the moral positions many of these books now land on. I am tired of mean white men tropes. I do NOT think it is good for women to kill in revenge. I think ‘finding your voice’, as a woman’s ultimate life-goal, is self-absorbed. I think a future without men is misanthropic.

OK, enough of the rant. Let’s move on, to…

7. Historical Fantasy

Think Gothic vibes with supernatural zing — cursed houses, mages in top hats. Is this historical fiction? Iffy. But if dual timeline counts (below), and Regency romance counts (above), so do these books. The light-hearted ones are really fun. The darker ones are really creepy. Not such a big genre, but I do enjoy them.

8. Mythic Retellings

Man vs monsters, man vs the gods, man vs man. Women vs all the above. Novels like Madeline Miller’s Circe turn ancient classics into modern fiction. David Malouf’s Ransom, in which King Priam goes outside the walls of Troy to beg for his son’s body, is short but deep and moving. Homer and the ancient bards knew how to tell stories. Their vivid characterisations, epic conflicts and powerful storylines undergird some masterful retellings.

Biblical fiction is closely related in its ancient setting and supernatural elements, but it’s so different in tone. Bible stories have a rich history in western art and music. But most current fiction offerings are pencil sketches in comparison. In popular Biblical fiction, the historical setting is often hazy at the edges, and the characters aren’t too complex. The few literary novels in this genre disrespect the Biblical texts. The sex and violence of Christos Tsiolkas’ Damascus, for example, are grimey (and that’s understating it). Please change my mind! Tell me if you know a great book I should read.

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9. Dual Timeline

Dual timeline novels give you two stories for the price of one. Sometimes a modern character investigates the past — very often she finds a dusty box of letters, and the quest for past secrets begins. Other novels are sprinkled with timeslip magic, so the main character is whooshed back several centuries. People of the Book is a variation of this structure, which goes into the stories of people in the history of a manuscript, through multiple eras.

I haven’t yet found a dual timeline novel in which I was equally interested in both timelines. Usually the modern one is a bit bland, and one timeline or other is underdone.

10. Blockbuster Epics

Historical epics have dropped down bestseller ranks somewhat since late last century. But new blockbuster stories are still being published. Epic novels have a big cast of characters, and are often about the clash of armies, nations or cultures. And the older ones are very readable.

That’s it — the 10 major types of historical fiction! And some of their best examples.

Feel free to disagree with my liberally sprinkled opinions! I’d love to hear any favourite books of yours I’ve overlooked. I’m planning to cross-post this list on my website later, and I’ll gladly take your suggestions into account.

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The Lord watches over the sojourners… But the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.
Psalm 146:9

This morning I took my younger son to the airport. He’s off on a long-anticipated first trip to America. I expect he’ll have a great time.

But…the US is a big place. It’s not the same as home. Some of its ways of doing things, like the gun laws, cause me disquiet. Perhaps I’ve watched too many thrillers and heard too many crime stories. ‘The way of the wicked’ translates all too easily into scenes in my head. I expect there will be times when my son and his girlfriend are in unfamiliar territory and out of their depth. When they’ll be vulnerable to things going wrong.

So I find this line from the Psalms comforting. Along with other disadvantaged people, (orphans and widows are mentioned), God has a particular eye out for the ones who don’t belong. He watches over the foreigner, the traveller, the immigrant and the transient.

In contrast, those who are so confident of their ways that they disregard the well-being of others — they’re the ones who have something to worry about.

This isn’t to say that my son is perfect, even though I love him 😊. But it does mean that God sees him when I don’t; God knows where he is when I don’t; God knows what is going on when I don’t. He is taking care.

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And Mary said, my soul magnifies the LORD… For he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. He who is mighty has done great things for me. Luke: 46-49

If I were Mary’s mum, I might have sharp questions about the ‘great things’ in store for her. Mary was a teenage girl, pregnant out of marriage, when that was socially unacceptable. Mary stood to lose her reputation, her friends and her fiancé. No mother wants that for a daughter. It might have felt, to both Mary and her mother, like her world was ending. Perhaps Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth to escape the local social stigma, and heal from the heartbreak of her expected loss of Joseph. From a personal standpoint, these are not great things.

But in her statement here, Mary is conscious of being part of a bigger picture. The great thing that God has done for her is to give her a pivotal role in history. She’s only one person, nobody rich, famous or powerful, just a woman of ‘humble estate’. But God has seen her, and intervened miraculously in her life. He has overshadowed her with the Holy Spirit through whom the world was created, and created new life in her.

I’m not Mary. Her unique part in the history of the world has been played. But, according to the New Testament, the Holy Spirit has come into me too, and birthed new life in me. Jesus is in me, as he was in Mary (spiritually, not physically!) So I too, and anyone who believes in Christ the Saviour, can say these words with Mary. The Lord has done great things for me as well.

I’m thinking of it like this – each one of us is a puzzle piece in a giant jigsaw. With Christ in me, me and my life reflect something of God’s character. Even though, like Mary, my estate is pretty humble. I’m a little puzzle piece of Him, but not the whole picture. Put me together with everyone else, and the epic story of redemption is writ large. If I wasn’t in it, the picture would be slightly smaller, with one less detail. But I am in it. This is how I magnify the Lord.

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We all with unveiled faces are looking as in a mirror at the glory of the Lord and are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory. This is from the LORD who is the Spirit. 2 Corinthians 3:18

As I get older, I understand more how some Christians can look forward to dying as an escape into heaven. I can’t seem to shake off various minor but annoying aches and pains. I feel my energy levels drop. Heaven seems great in comparison. Of course heaven is going to be fabulous. It’s worth looking forward to.

But this verse is in the present tense. We are being transformed now, Paul writes. He’s not talking about a far-off future. Something of Jesus’ incredibly beautiful character – his magnetic love and awe-inspiring sacrifice, i.e. his glory – is showing up here, in me. Unbelievable. And it’s a process that this life helps to work in me. Life is polishing my soul. As I trudge forward, looking at Jesus as the end goal, bits of Him are going to reflect off me.

Paul’s writings in general remind me how we’ve only got one shot at life here. I need to make the best of it. I don’t know in what way the Holy Spirit is going to show up in me today. I don’t know who is going to see the image of Jesus in me, not because I am such a good saint, but because the Holy Spirit is miraculous. I am not wonderful but He is. And this is really something to look forward to, before I get to heaven.

I say: great! Go for it. Do your best Lord!

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