I thought the machine was playing a cruel trick at my expense. The screen read: “Would you like to print your complimentary first class tickets?” I pressed yes before it could change its mind and start laughing at me in the middle of Cardiff train station. Even the guard who checked the small orange tickets said it was a genuine first class reservation. I asked him why on earth a machine would take a likeness to me. I won’t tell you what he said, but it was a reference to machines taking a liking to humans. (Dirty boy).

Anyway, my Grandad walked me to the train and helped me with my bags as I ventured back to the North West of England. As I sat on a huge deluxe chair sipping a free cup of tea and nibbling on a delightful biscuit, I saw that I was the only one doing so. The men in suits who were scattered around the first class travelling chalet didn’t even bother with their free beverages. They had been first class their entire lives. Their mysterious charm and melancholy exposed my chavvy efforts to devour my refreshments. I felt out of place. I had not paid for my first class ticket. I had not earned the right to be served by the train conductor who usually gives me a hard time for getting on the wrong train. In fact, first class customers don’t even get their tickets checked it seems. I was the towny that got away. The village idiot who had vexed the king. The clown genius. (Ok I’ll stop now).

The trees flew passed me as they so often do on train journeys. I had felt this sense of cheating the system many times before as a Christian. My efforts to bring glory to the Lord have often left me ashamed to call myself a Disciple of Jesus. I have often said that my behaviour doesn’t bring glory to God. My life is certainly not one which people look at with a sense of awe. Holiness usually falls through my fingers as I constantly fall short of Jesus’ perfect example of how to live this life.

I smiled as the conductor asked me if everything was ok. “Yes” I replied. And I meant it. You see, despite my long, drawn out battle with sin, doubt and faithlessness, Jesus speaks loudly over my life. With the scars in his hands and feet, seated at the right hand of God, he says: “Alex, at just the right time, when you were still powerless, I died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But I demonstrate my own love for you in this: While you were still sinning, I died for you. Since you have now been justified by my blood, how much more shall you be saved from God’s wrath through me! For if, when you were God’s enemies, you were reconciled to him through my death, how much more, having been reconciled, shall you be saved through my life! Not only is this so, but you also rejoice in God through me, the Lord Jesus Christ, through whom you have now received reconciliation.” (Romans 5:6-12 para.)

Its not about my failures, its about my faith. And though my faith is often exposed as a tiny molecule dripping down a train window, it is a faith in Jesus.

Peace.

My eyes are bloodshot. This working week has been the most challenging of my life. The man who holds my “journalism career” in his one hand, delivered a blow to my head with his other. This working week I have been asking myself those life questions which wake you up at 2.47am and force you to the living room for a brew. I have been guilty of worrying this week.

As I sat at home after being told I wasn’t a good enough journalist to complete my training, I filled the flat with noise. It’s weird how I try and squeeze out any struggles with my television, the kitchen radio and youtube. My flat become like a poor man’s version of Dixons. It was only when my head hit my pillow that I was faced with the reality of silence.

I sat at the edge of my bed and stared at some scripture scribbled on the back of my door. “Be Still and Know that I am God.”

I lay back and allowed those words to fill my mind which was chewing on the hurtful mantra spoken by an old journalist hours earlier.

In a tearful moment of clarity I knew what had happened. For a few days I had believed the lie which  has been lapped up by countless men before me. The lie which softly says: “Career is more important that character.”

I asked myself if I was taking solace in God as an excuse for not trying hard in my daily life. My bloodshot eyes answered that for me nicely.

I slept straight through.

Jesus tells us not to store up riches on Earth but to invest in a kingdom which will last forever.

I laugh at how serious I take myself sometimes. My big important career. Yeah right. If our careers develop but our characters stand still, we will become souless beings pointing to our suits and ties like trophies as our hearts slip away like a child suspended from school.

Jesus does not care about my career anywhere near as much as he does my character. And amen to that. Because apparently I’d make a better clown than a journalist.

Peace.

Even fairies would have envied this fairytale wedding. My good friend Tom, a guy I lived with for six months, got married to a lovely girl called Sophie last week. She is from a place called Bath, and Tom rarely has a bath. To quote the vicar: “These two are the opposite of each other, but God knows they are the right person for each other.” I cried like a puppy when he said that.

The mansion in which they wed overwhelmed me and my bread-stealing flatmate Paddy. We headed straight for the champagne table after the service. And after that we hit the oldest pub in England for some “Real ale” not this lager tripe. There was so many overwhelming moments last weekend I could have churned out a million blogs, but there is one that sticks out.

Tom and Sophie follow Jesus. For me this makes the whole wedding thing a different kettle of fish. I’ve been to a load of weddings, but when the bride and groom are glowing during the songs of worship, something inside me snaps. I guess it adds a lot more to the vicar’s words of “God’s plan for our lives.”

The problem with public places is that you can’t really hide. So when I stand alongside non-church going friends, I always get really worried they’re going to think I’m one of the abnormal freaks that get carried away with this whole God thing. This started to happen at the wedding. I saw the faces of a few non-church going friends as people started to sing passionately about Jesus. My stomach started turning. I guess this happened because up until the age of 16 I did not put my faith in Jesus and I know exactly what people are thinking.

And then it happened. My bread-stealing flatmate Paddy lifted his hands in worship. I looked at the bride and groom in the hope they would calm his passions not to freak out the those who were not used to this sort of thing.

And as my eyes darted around the room, it hit me; hold on, here we are celebrating the wedding of two people who follow Jesus. I follow Jesus. I love Jesus. The things he has done in my life cannot even be compared to anything else. In fact, if we were created by a creator, then to respond in thanks is a normal thing. Though my bread-stealing flatmate was one of the few with his hands raised and smile a’growing, he was perfectly normal. There is not one atom of my character that believes we were not created by God to have a relationship with him.

I lifted my hands. And why not. I’m sick of feeling ashamed of my love for my creator. And yes it makes atheists uncomfortable, but when they talk of meaninglessness I don’t mention a word. I sit quietly like someone who has no opinion though my Jesus died on a cross outside Jerusalem to set the world free.

My only regret is that I didn’t jump up and down in the wedding. I should have taken a flag and a tambourine.

I tried to calm my Fiat Punto down, but after an artic lorry cut him up on the way to Blackburn, he flipped. He was sounding his horn and flashing his lights; it was carnage. He was so infuriated that I was forced to take an alternative route to work for fear that my car would drive itself off a cliff.

The scenic route offered serenity in the bucket load. A Lancashire sun was rising over the village illuminating the freshly laid road ahead. I even whispered a prayer of thanks for the day. (I repented on my Punto’s behalf and meandered slowly through the outskirts of the town.)

As my wheels glided innocently passed a local primary school, Tiny Tim, a class later-comer, was approaching the pavement about ten metres in front of me. Though he was only 3ft tall and had been on Earth for around seven years, he knew I wouldn’t be able to stop in time for him. And so he stood, upright off the road like a good boy.

But nooooooooooooooo a lollypop man has other ideas. A rush of blood to his brainless head causes him to step right out in front of my 27mph moving vehicle and he held his fluorescent sign out like Gandalph’s wand…”YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Emergency stop. The Adrenaline, terrorising my previously calm mind, kicked in and I pulled off the most monumental braking maneuverer this side of the equator. I didn’t even think about what I did next. Before I knew it I was parking my now livid Punto next to larry lollypop and vacating my vehicle. I walked up to the man, who may as well have had horns, a white hood and a tattoo which said I hate Alex Willmott, and I asked him one simple question. “Are you aware how stupid that was?”

He looked me square in the eye with an annoying sense of peace. I then felt a tugging on my suit blazer just to the left of me. I honestly thought I was having a heart attack due to the fury which was now setting up camp in my soul. I looked down expecting to see my arteries running away from me, but there was Tiny Tim, standing like a toy soldier.

He smiled. I frowned. He smiled more. I couldn’t frown more or I would have strained my face. He spoke: “Sorry Mr, I crossed without looking. My fault.”

The scene replayed in my mind and looking back, the lollipop man might just have saved this kid’s life. I glanced back at the man who smiled sheepishly at the lad and told him to get to class. I returned back my car and took a long hard look at myself.

We are usually angry before we set off. And that’s a problem. I am angry because I think I deserve more than what life gives me on certain days.

Philippians 4 vs 6. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. “

After hanging out with victims of an armed robbery I got into the car and headed back to the newsroom. The car was freezing, like a penguin’s pocket, so as soon as the engine kicked in I whacked the heating on. Taking a deep breath and glancing over the Pennines, I carried out a task I had done a thousand times before. I turned the radio on.

Why is this in the opening chapter of my blog for this Easter weekend? Get this gentlemen.
The BBC Radio 1 presenter introduced a song as if he was waiting for me to get into the car.
As soon as I had pressed the on button he said this: “And number six in the updated chart show is Delirious with History Maker.”

There was so much wrong about this sentence that it forced me to put the car back into neutral and delay my journey back to the office.

This song was released in 1996, and is one of the many worship songs written by the most well-known Christian band to come out of the Twentieth Century. As I checked my pulse and wondered why on Earth a 14-year-old worship song, which had been sung in churches up and down the country, was being blasted out at number six in the UK chart, I cast my eyes back over the Pennines.

It was one of those moments which reinforced the idea that every passing moment in your life is a chance to feel alive again. I opened the windows and allowed the cold Lancashire air to fill the car and take the smell of rotten milkshake away temporarily.

I said a quiet prayer for the families in the terraced street I had just spoken to who had been left distraught after hearing one of their neighbours had been robbed at knife point in his own living room. I took stock of my life in the duration of the song which featured as a key anthem in the soundtrack of my Christian journey.

I stopped caring about why it was on BBC Radio 1 and just fixed my eyes on the snow-sprinkled mountains in the distance.

This week we remember the death and resurrection of Jesus; the hundreds of prophecies he fulfilled in the events we now call Easter. And though no one of can fully understand the secrets of the Cross and the mystery of the resurrection, I can testify with all my heart that Jesus is the hope of this generation.

Please, take a minute to glance at the lyrics of what may even be the number one on Sunday’s chart show, its a song called History Maker, by a band once called Delirious. Be encouraged.

Is it true today that when people pray, cloudless skies will break, kings and queens will shake?
Yes it’s true and I believe it, I’m living for you.
Is it true today that when people pray, we’ll see dead men rise and the blind set free?
Yes it’s true and I believe it, I’m living for you.
I’m gonna be a history maker in this land, I’m gonna be a speaker of truth to all mankind
I’m gonna stand, I’m gonna run, into your arms, into your arms again.
Well it’s true today that when people stand, with the fire of God, and the truth in hand
We’ll see miracles, we’ll see angels sing, we’ll see broken hearts making history.
Yes it’s true and I believe it, we’re living for you.

I am more impressed with Eddie Izzard than Usain Bolt. Don’t get me wrong, Bolt is the fastest man on Earth over a short distance, and if I broke into his house and he was in, I would be in a very tricky position if it came to a foot race. I’d probably have to knock him out before my getaway. Anyway, Eddie Izzard ran 43 marathons in 53 days. They say you should take 26 days to rest after one marathon. He had never ran before the first one. It’s not really possible to do what Eddie did it.

People are wowed by those who sprint, but humbled by those who endure. The crazy thing is, Jesus talks about this. I have seen a lot of people take a fleeting interest in the message of Jesus before moving on to something more shiny. The more I read the scriptures the more I see the long distance runners changing the world whilst shooting stars fall after a few seconds under the spotlight.

Ok enough with the metaphors. These last few weeks endurance has littered our TVs and radios with sports relief challenges and marathon men. Coupled with this new phase of endurance, I have recently taken some major steps with the most testing battle a man can face. Golf.

It has nothing to do with skill, strength or power. It truly is all in the mind. And after you swing and miss the first 7 million balls, the temptation comes over you like a wall of burdens. No man should have to stand so vulnerable on a driving range in front of 20 professionals wearing one glove. Everyone I speak to about my recent progress in Golf say the same thing. “Yeah man that’s really good. It’s a great game but well hard. I played once but I was awful. Didn’t bother again.” Some of my mates spent hundreds of pounds on clubs but gave up because they weren’t very good at it. (These clubs will become my property in the near future).

Like some crazed freak I use these faces of those who quit Golf to pump my concentration after I spoon a ball 20 yards over the fence. I will not quit. Not because I’m super strong, or as focused as a leopard, but because the theology of Eddie Izzard is 100% proof. How does perseverance work? It works like this: Wake up, have a wash, eat some breakfast, do the thing worth persevering for, eat some food, have a sleep. We cannot persevere tomorrow. Only today. And if everyday you wake up, have a wash, eat some food and persevere, the years will pass and looking back on your life you will see that you have finished the race.

Consider these epic teachings by Jesus who persevered more than any living thing. In Mark’s account he said this: “Some people are like seed along the path, where the word is sown. As soon as they hear it, Satan comes and takes away the word that was sown in them. Others, like seed sown on rocky places, hear the word and at once receive it with joy. But since they have no root, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the word, they quickly fall away. Still others, like seed sown among thorns, hear the word; but the worries of this life, the deceitfulness of wealth and the desires for other things come in and choke the word, making it unfruitful. Others, like seed sown on good soil, hear the word, accept it, and produce a crop—thirty, sixty or even a hundred times what was sown.”

For those of you who have not yet encountered “The word” then for the next hour or so have a read of the book of Mark. Endurance pays off. For those of you who have encountered “The word” then for the next hour or so have a read of the book of Mark. Endurance pays off.

Today we endure, because tomorrow isn’t real.

Peace.

My friend Mak is an engineer. He is currently working on a airship which flies itself. Get a load of that…it flies itself for crying out loud. I can barely dress myself, and this machine will be able to fly all on it’s own. Last week my laptop starting ringing like a mobile phone. I opened it up and my Dad’s face was on the monitor and I could hear him speaking to me from Bangladesh. It was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. For a second I actually thought my dad had infiltrated my mind and was taunting me through my laptop. They call that technology Skype, but I call it the Matrix.

In less than eight months it is claimed that a group of London scientists will have invented an alcohol which has all the pleasurable aspects of a normal bevvy, but absolutely no detrimental effects on the liver or the mind. I have just rammed a nasal spray canister up my nose because I have a cold, and though it has only been 15 seconds since I used it, I can now breathe perfectly. Gents, there is no denying it, the human race has technology in a head lock and is ramming it into new leagues every single day.

But we still have one major thing in common with the sloth. We have no clue what is going to happen in ten minutes time.

The technology to predict what is yet to happen does not look like surfacing in our lives anytime soon. In fact, though we can order food through a computer and get it delivered to our front door, if just 1cm of water falls onto the road leading to your house, and that water freezes, you won’t be getting your pizza anytime soon. Human beings have conquered space travel, but still cannot tackle a little bit of ice on the road.

On Sunday night I bowed my head with my Christian friends and we prayed for our futures. Usually when I pray for my future I ask God to guide me to new things. New house, new car, important things like that

But as I read more about Jesus I am struck by how many times he tells his followers not to worry about what’s coming next.

Though it is true our fast-food culture blatantly urges the individual to sign up for things now, it also whispers “Be afraid” and “What if”. Adverts about what will happen if you do not buy into something are on the rise. I have recently been told that my skin will wrinkle, my hair will fall out and the windscreen on my Fiat Punto will crack, unless I hand my money over now.

So I worry about my future. Even when I pray I worry about it. And then I realise I’m not actually praying, I’m babbling. When I talk to God about my future I sound like I don’t really trust him. I emphasise certain things to make sure he hears them properly. Like God has a hearing difficulty or something. “My God is great, deaf as a post but still great.”

I need to get real about what Jesus says about my future. Talking to his followers in the account of Matthew, he says:

“Your Father knows what you need before you ask him…
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

I need to stop babbling like a drunken clown and start trusting.

One of the tricky things about grief is that it lies to you. It tells you that when you encounter loss, you have simply been left with nothing. That your hands have been emptied and what once was, is now no more. And it is that terrifying thought of a life without the seemingly one thing that lit up your life which disturbs the soul. Don’t get me wrong; the pain is real, the swollen bloodshot eyes which attract sympathy from strangers is real. The sense of hopelessness which sits on your chest as you lie in bed at night and wraps itself around your waking moments is real.

A close friend of mine had to accept something really difficult this week. Like me, he has four men in his life whom he goes to when big decisions have to be made. They don’t know each other but they all follow Jesus. They very rarely give him the same advice but this week they all said the same thing. They softly told him that the girl he was once poised to propose to, who has recently told him to leave her alone, has gone for good. They told him she was no longer his beloved. They told him the time has come to man up and accept the painful reality.

When he told me about this he was crying and smiling at the same time; like a crazy man. I told him he looked like a crazy man and he soon stopped crying. I tried to express my deepest sympathy for my friend but he then placed his hand on my left shoulder and said: “Alex, pipe down for a second, because I have learnt something wonderful today which might even make a blog for you”. I laughed and told him it would never make my blog but to tell me anyway.

He said: “Alex my brother, accepting this rejection has been horrible. However, I am guilty. I bought the great lie which haunts every man who gets told it’s over by the woman of his dreams. I believed that my life experience bag I carry in my heart had been depleted. But that’s not how God works brother. I took a good long look at my heart and though it has been dump tackled onto the concrete, the bag inside is full! Its full!!! There are lessons in there which were not there before I met her and they are imperative lessons I needed to learn to become the man I was born to be. Lessons on what love is, what romance is, what sacrificial loving looks like and most importantly how to trust God’s unique plan for my life. And I trusted him when I was with her so I can trust him now I’m single. He hasn’t changed Alex. He isn’t worried about my future so I shouldn’t be. He filled my bag with priceless lessons through meeting, dating and losing my beloved. The sun will rise tomorrow brother, and I will be able to use those priceless lessons in my day. I need to man up and leave her go now.”

Tears were now streaming down my face as I smiled back at my friend. (But he didn’t tell me I looked like a crazy guy.) There is no formula to deal with loss. But there is truth. I think Jesus was right when he said the truth will set us free. And he didn’t just mean free from sin. I think its more than that. I think truth helps us to cope in a mess despite the temptation to sink.

Consider these wonderful truths in the book of James 1 v. 2-4. “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

The bags in our hearts are being filled by God through the good times and the bad. And what is it for? It’s for God to see us on our last days on this planet and say those words to us: “My child, you have persevered and you are now mature and not lacking anything.”

My friend told me if I could do a shout out to Mark and Lucy who helped shared the above verse with him. I told my friend I was a serious journalist and not some punk who allowed trashy shout outs to litter my precious blog.

Peace.

Within ten minutes of arriving in London, I found £20 on the floor. I knew it would be a good weekend. As I strolled down Great Portland Street to meet a good friend I had not seen for years, I saw a homeless gentleman sitting up against a red letter box. He looked like Bob Dylan.

I asked him if he had eaten, he said no. I nipped into Tesco and bought him a cheese sandwich and a bottle of Lucozade. He smiled and for a minute I thought he was Bob Dylan.

I enquired if he was plugged into a local church – but he wasn’t. But then he told me that he did however meet up every week with a group of Christians who “made sure he was alright’. He guessed I was a Christian and showed me his bible. He held it like a trophy. I smiled and left him to devour his sandwich paid for by the poor sod who dropped £20 earlier on.

Five hours later I was humming Bob Dylan songs in London’s most prestigious nightclub (according to some fancy magazine).

It was breathtaking and so were the prices. I didn’t fit in at all. I was surrounded by tory boys with expensive haircuts and pink shirts. I felt like an undercover miner looking for revenge on Margaret Thatcher for closing down the Welsh Valleys. I only kicked off once though. It was after being charged £2 to keep my coat and bag in the cloakroom. “That is a scandal” I said. “This is the best club in London” he said. “Its got nothing on Preston’s Wetherspoons” I said. The security guards glanced over at me. I didn’t say anything else.

As I stood in the 6th floor heated gardens overlooking the nation’s capital, illuminated by night light, starlight and moonlight, I became aware of something which had been niggling at me for about two years.

It was this: I have no interest in earning copious amounts of cash. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be seen in fancy clubs by women who laugh the same, dress the same, eat the same and dance the same. I couldn’t give a toss about the latest Paul Smith range of after shaves. Nothing inside me wants to be known as a friend of the celebrities. I don’t want some idiot pretending to be my mate by kissing me on the cheek whilst splurting out how good I look.

If the best this world can offer is yuppy utopia, then it can shove it right up its arse.

Get this: in the toilet of this a-list club I was told by a stranger that I wouldn’t find anything better. He said, “this is what it’s all about bro.” As I washed my hands under the silver taps I looked at him in the mirror, square in the eyes, and said “no it’s not”.

You could offer me a lifetime membership at this place and I would still choose to spend my Friday nights with my bread-stealing flatmate Mark talking about Jesus. And why? Because the best of the British is farcical compared to the message of Jesus, who says to be free, and free indeed. He says do not to be slaves to culture, do not bow down at the cloakroom of the famous, do not orgasm at the idea of being liked by pretty people with fluffy hair.

Jesus says plant yourself on his promise. Root your heart on the Scriptures and give yourself to loving your friends ferociously. The sight of the homeless Bob Dylan tucking into his lunch, and the knowledge that this week a group of Christian brothers will meet with him to express love, IS what its all about. That’s life to the full. That’s where joy can be found. That’s where freedom can be seen. That’s where hope can be held.

Do not be deceived.

When a chiropractor says “I’m going to cuff you to the bed and manipulate you” something inside you wakes up. When they continue to inflict a wave of pain on your lower spine and diagnose you with a defected joint, book you in for an X-Ray and tell you the condition is “most interesting”, something inside you starts to get a bit scared. “I hope it’s not serious” I said.

I drove from the surgery two inches taller and tried to think about something other than the possibility of having an operation on my back. So, I thought about my imminent MOT which was scaring my Fiat Punto so much that the car was shaking. All the time. “I hope its not expensive” I mumbled to my dodgy gearbox.

On my return home I received a text from a French friend about Wales’ biggest game of the Six Nations tonight. I thought about how much it was going hurt if I saw us get beat by the blue-shirted bread lovers. “I hope we score early” I said.

As I caught a glimpse of my “hopeful” face in my interior mirror, I noticed that when I hope I frown a lot.

Why is that I “hope” for things but what I actually mean is this: My life is not floating my boat at the moment and there’s a few things that need to happen before I can take a big sigh and start to think happy thoughts. When my X-Ray comes back clear, my car passes its MOT, and Wales hammer the French, well then, and only then, can I stop frowning. Then, and only then, I won’t need to hope for anything else.

The other day I sang a song about Jesus. It was weirdly apt for my week of false hope. The first line of the song hit me between the eyes reminding me that the the things of this world WILL pass away. Cars, spines, rugby, frowns, jobs. The whole lot. It’s not going to last.

Check the first verse out of this hymn about Jesus.

In Christ alone my hope is found, he is my light, my strength, my song;
This Cornerstone, this solid Ground, firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace, when fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My Comforter, my All in All, here in the love of Christ I stand.

Where is my hope? In my job which is here today and gone when the company wants to save some funds? In my body which fails on impact? In my car which sounds like Gollum retching?

If it is, then I’m in a spot of bother. Jesus is quite clear about this world. Though he died for it, gave his spirit to it, and is coming back for it, he tells all his followers not to put their hope in it.

In Christ Alone.

The interest rate is a lot higher.