gut honest faith

Month: July, 2014

The brave little Tailor

Savile Row, London England. The place where Kings and Princes get their suits made. That holy of holies, gathering Hollywood Stars of all culeur. Elderly and aspiring youngsters squat on tiny tables, with utter patience, fixing that one button hole. The button hole having to last throughout the entire Academy Awards, with HD Cameras showing up any kind of imprecision.


Oh, beloved Savile Row, the place where I was holding the white linen suit, wiping my hands what felt like every two seconds so as to not get any stains onto the expensive piece. Marvelling over the meaning of diamond dust in a suit, making it cost triple or even more than one made of “regular” material. Number twelve, the door underneath that number that saw me slip out in secret at night to get a particularly bad mistake fixed, so as to not risk loosing my head.


That little row which has always, and always will focus on understatement rather than flashy exterior, on skill rather than Marketing. Taking time to teach me to stitch a straight line, three month nothing but stitching that straight seam. Via hand. It took me two more months learning to sew a straight line on a machine. The machines? Old School as you have ever seen old school. Hundred years and more. Rusty, yet durable. Grandeur hidden in detail.


Every seam to serve a purpose, every millimetre of utter importance. My head tailor was judging in half millimetres, I dont even know what that is in inches. So many seams coming together, if only twenty of them are one millimetre out, the jacket looks jagged. Not a good look, not even for Mick Jagger. Oh, there is not much in the natural that excites me as much as a well crafted jacket. It is worth every penny, and will be a companion for a live time if well looked after. 


Maybe it represents something sought in vain around me, as things have shorter and shorter life spans. Understatement, that beautiful notion. I know, and its all that matters. I dont have to shout it out to the world. Something of durability, quality and longevity. The suits made on Savile Row satisfy a longing in me, that of being rooted. Nothing is quite as rooted in tradition and history as a bespoke suit. 


I want my life to be like a Savile Row suit: of slow and unexcited manner. Actions that matter and serve a purpose. Things that take a long time to get them right, but in the end they will be with me for a live time. Funnily enough, while I was on Savile Row, my live was its complete opposite, all about now, here, satisfaction. Sometimes called Hedonism. Inside though I felt this longing for more depth. Next time when you see a flashy Goth dressed in Latex trousers, with pink hair and a dog collar around her neck, think that maybe all this is just hiding a bespoke suit. That suit is just still in the making, so, give them time just like making a suit takes time. None of us are quite finished yet.


From me to you

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lil encouragement for your day

Today is the greatest

I predicted to be rich by this time of the year, and I am. Yes, I am beginning to view myself as being satisfied, full of choices and abilities rather than someone who is defined by what she lacks. This to me are true riches.

Having worked in the luxury sector for most of my life, I know too well how the pursuit of wealth can lead to true poverty. People can not even enjoy the smallest amount, as, compared to others, they do not measure up.

Others see it as their main aim in life to impress others. So it was that the richest woman of Poland felt the need to impress ME by waving about her black AMEX. This is truly absurd, how an insignificant sales girl can trigger wafts of jealousy in an incredibly wealthy person. And I have seen this over and over to the max.

The business owner of the last establishment I worked at owned around 650Million Euros, no small amount, yet she in particular saw it as an accomplishment to make an impression on the sales staff. Not something I would attribute to being rich.

Having money and being rich are two very different things. Our detective casually said this to me, and I truly believe it to be thus. Nothing is more draining than keeping up with the Joneses. On the other hand, being generous to the Joneses makes one truly rich.

Seeing myself as being blessed has done more in making me rich than any amount before ever has. I have lived on less than 5Euros a day, which, in my country, is considered to be below the povertline, and I have had days of having 30 Euros at my disposal. The amount did nothing in how wealthy I felt, or, better, how satisfied.

Being satisfied is a true measure of being rich, and, this year has brough with it a true change of perspective. Money is neither evil nor the solution to all problems, yet it can bring with it either of those things. Keeping my heart free from falling into the trap of believing that the holy grail is somewhere out there has been my key to being truly rich.

So, this year has made me rich, but in so many more ways than I had hoped for.

Lounge sluggard

Yesterday, hubz and I spent in PJs, not talking to anyone apart each other. It was the seventh day in a run of several very exhausting days. In total, we have travelled over 2600km in what was less than a week. Most of which felt as though we were walking them. And the Lord rested on the seventh day, and so did we. 

Hamburg to Berlin, via train, in the heat, AC is still a foreign concept here in Germany. The next day, flying to London. The trip through London took longer than getting there. Hubz carrying most of the luggage. My hero. Yet still, did not change the weather conditions. It was scorching hot.

A quick shower, and off on foot to a conference. The same routine the following two days, the third day more travelling to Ascot, oh it was marvelous, darling. Sunday back to Berlin, off to church, then back home, grabbing a suit case filled with dirty laundry and back to Hamburg.

Very jet setting, darling. A german ad for hair spray comes to mind. Drei Wetter Taft. Looking perfect, no matter what. Yet, we looked far from perfect. Sweat was dripping down all imaginable and unimaginable places.

Back in Hamburg, after 16 hours jet setting, we rested our bones, clothes, make up (me) and all. Only to get up ten hours later, bad breath and all. And thats when our sabbath began. Staying in PJs, lying on a king sized bed, only interspersed with trips to the fridge and to the bathroom. A whole twelve or eighteen hours of pure lounging around. 

Appropriately, this was the Bible verse of that day

By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that He had done.

winning ticket

He hands me a bowl containing an apple. I take the fruit and, upon having a polite bite from the dusty flesh, I notice some paper sticking out. The innitial disgust is pushed aside and curiosity is taking hold of me. 

Upon pulling it out, I find it is a lottery ticket. The shop keeper winks at me, knowingly. As in a daze, I exit the shop, headed straight to the next lottery place. The anticipation I feel is overwhelming. Something in his face told me this may very well be significant. 

And, true to my hopes, the ticket turns out to be not just any winner, but the jackpot winner. The biggest ever euro jackpot, in fact. Amazement takes a hold of me. I have seen this scenario unfold before my inner vision a million times, and now the millions are real. 

Money however is not all that real, it is trust in paper and coin form. And, obviously, one can trust the wrong people, as one does constantly. Similarly, one can trust in things that wont hold true to their word. There is not much more to money than that. 

Oh, but there is. Gifts to the woman who has helped me during my time of unemployment. A house bought for my parents. Vacations for the hubs parents. A gift to my former boss. Sponsored children from Uganda, Thailand and other places. 

And a trip down the north coast of the US during Indian Summer, eating cray fish sandwiches and visitin dutch country. Staying in little cottages and writing my books. Past New York City to New Orleans, on a river boat trip. Off to Texas, getting a boob job. Yep, unashamedly superficial. 

Back home, buying the flat, the dog, the cat, the kitchen aid. Off to training the dog. Starting a business, and another one, and yet one more, franchise for Magnolia Cupcakes. Giving random gifts to church. Yep, all that happens once I walk into that shop. Guess I will be taking trips in unpredictable weather more often from now on.

Leave of absence

My Darlings, I have been mighty silent these last few days. Well, first, the cable of my computer broke, and things got very tricky. Then we tripped to another capital, and then another capital to be terriblz busy, so there has not been so much time. 

Watch this next year, its what Ive been doing the past ten years of my life



Can’t touch this

Honestly, this post will not be frilly and cute, so, if you find certain things hard to stomach, you should stop reading now. For a certain amount of censorship applies to the written word as well. Or does it?

Hard core realism is viewed as progressive anddesirable in any sort of art form. Nan Goldin, a photographer, became famous by photographing drug addicted prostitutes. The movie The Wrestler, was praised for a lack of a happy ending. Van Gogh, too, started his career painting that which existed in the realm of the otherwise unseen: poor people, unable to get a painter to capture their misery, were his subjects. That is one of the reasons he did not get off to a great start. No one really wanted to pay money for something that no one really wanted to see. Misery and suffering. Yes, dear Van Gogh was painting the working classes, the invisible people at the time.

Pieces of writing in ancient times were incredibly pricey. Not everyone was able to read, and only a few, privileged emperor mostly, were able to afford a scribe to pin down that which they deemed worthy of attention. Mostly, it turned into a heroic tale. The regular suffering of those who were victims of a war or a famine would not be retained on pieces of papyrus. Similar to those painters working for Kings and Queens, only freeze framing that which the Kings and Queens deemed worthy. Fancy interior, well decked out emperors and piles of status symbols were squeezed into a frame.

Now, in light of all this, the writings of the Old Testament, capturing the suffering of single few individuals throughout, is something I would consider hard core realism. Eye witness accounts , similar to those very valuable ones written down during concentration camp atrocities, without which most people would have never people to which extend cruelty was being executed therein. unfortunately, some people still don’t accept those horrendous going-on’s as true, but that is another story.

So, capturing suffering serves several points, giving the otherwise unaccounted for victim a voice, and thereby making it real. Further, it gives a realistic account of what history was like. It is not just written by the mighty and few privileged but oftentimes, their heroic pursuits are being carried out on the shoulders of the suffering masses. So, it records that which really happened. However, at times, suffering can be glorified, and tirgger copy cat action. How can we make sure, the records serve the first prupose and not the second?

Well, in actual fact, this is almost impossible to do. One can only distinguish for oneself what purpose the watching of other peoples suffering serves. Unashamedly, I do not watch war reports, for there is nothing I can do, and it only depresses me to a point of no return. Am I ignorant for that reason? Some may say so, but I would hope I am not, I am doing it for purposes of keeping me sane. If I see a homeless person suffering, if I am not willing to get involved, there is no ned for me to almost drool over his misery. Yes, you heard right, it is a slippery slope from charity to Schadenfreude and gloating.

So, walking past someone who looks like they are about to die in the hot summers heat, I get involved. I check the scene if he has friends with him to keep an eye on him. I have the phone ready to call an ambulance, I have water ready to share with him, and generally I don’t leave the scene until I am not sure this person is not dying right under my eyes. For that is much more cruel than all the cruelty depicted in movies. Recordings of suffering serve a purpose of giving a voice to those who suffer. One should not forget that it is something about human nature that almost takes joy in someone else being worse off than oneself. And, depending on whether or not I am willing to get involved, I should gauge my involvement. There is no passive observer position. As soon as you observe, you are a potential witness and therefore become responsible. Choose wisely.

Suddenly, Aliens

What if, what if what if? What if, suddenly, the skies would crumble to the sea? What if, suddenly, mountains were falling on my head? What if the horizon were to fold back, tumbling and falling, revealing what we never thought underneath?

I bet to some people from two thousand years ago, looking at the technology of today, it would certainly feel like the apocalypse had arrived. They would believe their world had come to an end, and with it, the world in general. And, in a way, it has.

Watching toddlers handling computers feels like a hail storm on the beach, ringing in the end of the wolrd, and, in a way, it is, the world as I know it has come to an end. Three year olds are not supposed to handle a tablet better than I do, yet they do.

My horizon has been removed and allows me to gaze upon something entirely alien to me, a world beyond my imagination. What will the world look like in fifty years? Will there be time travel? Cloning? The think tank working for the BBC imagines exactly this to be the case. Imagine…

Either way, if something utterly indestructible and familiar remains, how wonderful is that? Even close ones change, their appearance, their motives, their behaviours. What if something or Someone who never changed would be by your side when the proverbial world, which sometimes is nothing more but your world, is coming to an end?

The eternal I am, is, continuously, unchanging, reliable. “I am who I am”, simple, yet profound.


Clueless, that’s what I am. When reading revelation in the Bible for instance. What does it mean? I can pretend I make sense of it, but really, I am clueless.

Clueless, that’s what I am. When believing God for a certain something for years on end and nothing seems to happen in that regard. Ever. Not even once. Then, really, I am clueless.

Clueless, that’s what I am. Wanting to truly understand the depth and width and breadth of God and His love for us leaves me clueless. For how can I really understand someone who is wider and deeper and further than our Universe? How can I really imagine to comprehend His ways, His workings, His thoughts. It is then, that I really am clueless.

Being clueless is not a curse, though. Beginning to see can take shape in knowing how clueless I really am. We’ll take it from there. And, I am so anticipating that day. That day I will no longer be clueless, for I will then no longer


“see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.”


Probably the real reason for my terrible drinking some years back lay in the fact of my constant thirst. Where ever I am, a bottle of water is not far. If I don’t have enough liquid in me, I get really cranky and arsey.

My mum tells a story of me as a toddler, standing in my crib, pointing to the top of the cupboard where my bottle was standing. I crave liquid, and, for some years I was just not wise enough and sought sources of alcohol to fill that need.

Eventually, I took to interspersing my beer consumption with pints of water. I guess that was the opening night of the realisation that really, I had only ever been thirsty.

Sometimes, when I can not sleep very well, I imagine my brain to be of such a considerable size that it simply craves water like others crave beer or cocaine, and thus, I have found the culprit: my genius, obviously. It is then that I can take to sleep like a baby.

And, what puzzles me most is the sentence: I am the living water, who comes to Me shall never thirst again. Will I really never thirst again? How is this understood? Those things, too, keep me busy at night, so the second thing close to me, if only internally, is a brooding over the Word of God, daily, hourly, always.

But those things are not visible, and, benevolently can be counted as Water, so, you will never see me far from any kind of water, period.