Bless this house

A few years ago I was introduced to the Epiphany tradition of house blessing. I can't remember who it was I heard about it from, but I remember we did it a couple of times towards the end of our time at Carrs Lane.

For those unfamiliar with the idea, you mark the threshold to your home with numbers representing the year in question and the letters CMB, which are the initials of the names which legend has given to the Magi who visited Jesus: Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar; but also the initials of  the Latin phrase: Christus Mansionem Benedicat.

In both 2022 and 2023, Epiphany arrived at a point when I had relatively recently moved into a new home. The tradition of blessing the space, felt particularly pertinent in a particular way. A gesture of dedicating the space I was going to make my own, to being a space in which I, and others might feel blessed and beloved of God. 

This year the context is a little bit different. I have been here for a year, have made this space feel like a home and already made many happy memories with many different people. For myself, and I hope for others, it has already been a place of blessing. There was, this time a looking back in thanksgiving as well as looking ahead in hope. And there was a heartfelt prayer that this space might continue to be a blessing for myself and for all who cross its threshold. 

There are all sorts of versions of the prayers and blessings that can be used but the common thread which runs through many of them is about Christ being present in the offering of welcome and hospitality. The blessing is not of the bricks and mortar as such, but of the spaces within. The spaces where encounter is possible, where memories are made, where safety is found, where refreshment is offered, where tears and laughter are accepted, where love is shared. 

I feel incredibly privileged to have a safe and comfortable home where I am very happy. I feel that comes with a level of responsibility to make good use of it. Rededicating it, as the new year begins, to being a place of refuge and welcome, of peace and of joy, for myself and for others, feels like no bad thing. 

Twelve days

Several days ago, someone said to me that they thought it was "too late to say Merry Christmas" ... I, on the other hand, while I don't tend to get into the Christmas spirit too far in advance of the day itself, do like to fully embrace the concept of Christmas as a whole season which only gets started on the 25th. I don't think I have done a bad job of making the most of the twelve days, and I know I am incredibly privileged to have shared it with so many wonderful people! 

On the first day of Christmas...

Although actually, I feel the 24th needs inclusion too, which was when the Christmas festivities really began because otherwise I don't get to mention crying literal happy tears over hearing someone had just got their refugee status; or a really fun evening of Karaoke classics, a late night with friends, and a sleepover. 

Christmas day started early because as both sleepovers and Christmas are very exciting the children were awake predictably, (but not unreasonably), early. I was right to think I wouldn't need to set an alarm to get the turkey in on time or get to church. After church it was all hands on deck for dinner prep and if some of the "help" wasn't entirely helpful, it was a fun communal activity! The rest of the day consisted of dinner and the accompanying conversation gathered round the table, the excitement of gift-giving and opening, plenty of music and games, and even some painting in the evening.

We weren't quite as big as a crowd as I'd initially anticipated, but my heart was full as I shared the day with some of the people who really matter to me. Christmas is often talked about as a time to share with family: and I feel incredibly blessed to count all these wonderful different people from different places as part of mine! 

On the second day of Christmas...

By late morning, my guests had dispersed and the house was suddenly very quiet. I was torn, at that point, between going out to make the most of what was left of the few hours of daylight or having a nap. The nap won! And then there was a substantial amount of tidying and reorganised which filled up much of the rest of a very laid back sort of a day. 

On the third day of Christmas...

It was the Stories of Hope and Home Christmas party day and, aware that even some of those who have been in the UK for really quite a long time would never have shared in many of our British Christmas traditions, I somehow got it into my head that it might be nice to have Christmas dinner ... for a large, and largely unpredictable, number of people. As being considered completely mad is never something I have shied away from, I ran with it and, if I do say so myself, it was a wonderful success. I spent all morning preparing: I don't regret it for a moment. 

The house was full of a wonderful combination of people which brought together old friends, including those who hadn't been around for a while, and newer group members. There were conversations and laughter and community. There was news being shared, friendships renewed, new acquaintances established. At the height of the festivities I counted 28 people (although 8 of them were quite small!) squashed into my house, which probably isn't really big enough for that many people but it really didn't matter. It was loud, chaotic and messy.... and utterly beautiful. 

On the fourth day of Christmas...

It was the first of our Birch Holiday Club days. Lots of activities shut down during this holiday, understandably so, but as we had the option to do so we were keen to go ahead with something for the families we work with: it is even harder during school holidays to be cooped up in a hotel room than it is the rest of the time. 

The weather being particularly grim probably accounted for fewer people coming out than we might have expected but there were still enough people to fill the hall with laughter and fun. It was a day where I was once again struck by the juxtaposition of joy and struggle. In the midst of giving out chocolate lollypops and watching children learn to hula hoops and trying to gently ensure there were no major arguments about exactly which children would hold my hands or sit next to me on the bus, there were conversations about, among other things, homelessness and home office interviews and the accompanying distress. There was laughter, and there were tears: and there were hugs for both. 

After dropping the families back to the hotel, I met a friend for a cup of tea, feeling only slightly self-conscious about still being dressed as an elf! I love the big gatherings with lots of noise and lots of people but I really appreciate these opportunities for more focused one to one time and the chance for deeper, more meaningful conversations.

On the fifth day of Christmas

I spent a chunk of the morning planting spring bulbs into my garden. Having cleared (with a lot of help, I definitely can't take most of the credit) the very overgrown garden I arrived to, the much more fun part of planting things could begin. I bought these bulbs a couple of months ago, back at that point in time when you are supposed to plant them but, you know, life, busy-ness etc. Having read something that said you can still plant them up until December, I got them in with a day to spare! Now it's a waiting game to see if it was in fact, too late, or whether they will add a splash of colour in spring. 

Another day, another party, although just to mix it up, it was a birthday rather than Christmas this time, and I wasn't hosting or in anyway responsible for anything other than turning up! And just like that my youngest nephew is four, ... and my oldest is now much taller than me which is somewhat disconcerting!

This was with Matthew's side of the family. I am acutely aware that when long-term relationships breakdown or change shape it is often these other extended family relationships which are also put at risk. I am extremely grateful to everyone who has been part of ensuring that this still feels like my family too. 

On the sixth day of Christmas

I headed to Burton for my family's Christmas get together. It was the first time for a very long time, several years, we think, that all of my family (to clarify, I mean parents siblings and associated children, not extended family beyond that which is probably, realistically, never going to happen!) had been together in one place: although with my brother's wedding fast-approaching, it'll be happening twice in less than a month. 

There was lots of food and lots of noise! We also played a couple of games, including a sports quiz (not my speciality!) in which I even managed to get more than one question right, much to my surprise! And even a family photo in which I think everyone is looking in the same direction and smiling. 

Once I got back to Birmingham, a friend came round for the evening and in between plenty of good conversation, we watched Incendies which is an excellent film (though not an easy watch) 

On the seventh day of Christmas

I went to Shrewsbury for the afternoon for a long overdue catch-up with a very good friend. Greeted by a beautiful rainbow from the train window as I arrived, it was grey and overcast but the rain mostly held off, meaning we could spend the best part of the afternoon wandering around chatting until dusk drew in and we stopped for a cup of tea and a crepe. 

I was back early evening, in time to see in the new year with more good company, yet another good meal, a little bit of dancing, some very impressive and slightly mad fireworks and a glass of fizz.  

On the eighth day of Christmas

For the first time during the Christmas season, and without looking back to be sure more than likely a while before that, today was the first day which I had entirely to myself. After a lie-in and lazy start to the day my house had the most thorough clean it has had for quite some time, which sounds rather dull but it was also quite satisfying. 

I'm wary of new year's resolutions. I do understand that this, somewhat arbitrary moment of the passing of time is as good a time as any to reflect, to look back and look ahead, to set targets and dream dreams for the months ahead, but resolutions are too often, it seems to me, rooted in a sense of having to do or be more than we already are, that somehow the person we were last year isn't quite good enough for the one to come, and I'm not sure that's always helpful or healthy. With all of which proviso, my aspiration for the new year is to try and build a bit more creativity back into my life so, just in case it comes to fruition, watch this space for more poetry and paint.

On the ninth day of Christmas ...

Today was very definitely a work day: and not in the organise a fun party sort of sense. I didn't have a particularly early start but was at my computer and making a concerted effort on admin for the majority of the morning.

The weather was particularly unpleasant but I did have to brave the rain because I had arranged a meeting in the city centre. It was partly social, but it was also partly very much not as we looked through home office paperwork and I helped, as far as I could, look at next steps and offer what I could in the way of reassurance, love and support. These blurred edges and ill-defined boundaries are very much the reality of how I live my life. There are challenges to it, of course, but on balance I wouldn't have it any other way.  

In the evening, after a week off last week, we restarted our regular bible discussion. It may still be Christmas, but the routines of normal life are gradually re-establishing themselves too.

On the tenth day of Christmas ...

Today was a mixture of intense but beautiful and, well just intense, frankly. I spent several hours at one of the hotels helping people in the morning, while trying to offer support via whatsapp message to a couple of other people in difficult situations, including trying to get my head round how and why a family with a young child had been made homeless and no-one seemed to be offering any helpful solutions.

In the afternoon we took just over 30 children and adults to the REP theatre. Getting everyone there had its challenges but we made it! Apparently, it is a spectacular show: in order that as many people as possible could benefit from the REP's generosity I didn't actually get to watch, but I did have a very welcome cup of tea and delicious lemon drizzle cake before accompanying people home again. The feedback was overwhelmingly positive so definitely well worth the effort!   

My final task of the evening was to proof-read a UCAS personal statement. I have, in the past few years helped many children to find school places, but he and his sister were among the very first: they prompted the development of that part of my work at St Chad's Sanctuary, something I have subsequently taken into my role at Birch. Back then he was a shy and silent eleven year old with barely a word of English, and now he is preparing to head off to university: there is something really quite special about seeing people grow and flourish. 

On the eleventh day of Christmas

It was the second of our Birch family activity days today and although it was still cold, we were much luckier with the weather than last week meaning we could take at least partial advantage of the incredible outdoor space at the venue even if it was rather muddy in parts (although I think for some of the kids that all added to the fun!) 

The generous hospitality of the church community providing a full Christmas dinner for everyone, and being able to sit down and eat together was very special. The connection with them dates back to when I did a number of family trips from St Chad's Sanctuary to this same place several years back: and I had quite a lot of fun looking back at old photos and remembering some of those very joy-filled days.  

There is lots we can't do or change or make better for these families but looking around the hall today and watching everyone having fun, smiling, laughing, chatting, creating, playing, enjoying ... I am reminded time and time again that this too matters and makes a difference.   

On the twelfth day of Christmas

I was out of the house shortly after 8 this morning: my earliest start for a while. We had been offered a small number of tickets for a 10am showing of Little Red Riding Hood at the theatre: it felt like something of a minor miracle that I had made it to the hotel, gathered people up and we made it with time to spare. Days like yesterday with big crowds of people are a lot of fun: but sometimes it is nice to spend time with smaller groups too. 

After spending a bit of time back at the hotel doing a few more admin bits with people, it was back to the city centre for the first Stories of Hope and Home session of the year. We had been offered some money for a Christmas treat for the group and the request that came back was to go ice-skating so that was  this afternoon's adventure. Those of us out on the ice may not have been particularly highly-skilled at skating but we had a lot of fun ... and I think those watching probably had quite a lot of fun too! It was lovely to see people grow in both proficiency and confidence. Everyone went home happy (and in my case at least slightly achy!) It was an excellent way to arrive at twelfth night.

And that's not the end of it either. 

Tomorrow, I will mark Epiphany and the wisemen will arrive at my nativity scene, and on Sunday we will be celebrating Orthodox / Eritrean Christmas. 

I have recently adopted the tradition of leaving Christmas decorations up until Candlemas, because I think there is something to be said for sparkly lights through the dark days of January, but no-one needs a daily update on my life for that length of time so I'll call it a day here! 

Reading List 2023

Last year, I started keeping a list of the books I had read. The list continues:  

• No Friend but the Mountains - Behrouz Boochani
• Birmingham: It's not Shit: Fifty things that delight about Birmingham - Jon Bounds, Jon Hickman and Danny Smith
• Goodnight Mister Tom - Michelle Magorian
• Under the Almond Tree - Laura McVeigh
• The Finkler Question - Howard Jacobson
• The Forgotten Life of Arthur Pettinger - Suzanne Fortin 
• The Northern Monkey Survival Guide - Tim Collins
• The Mammoth Cheese - Sheri Holman
• Hidden Figures - Margot Lee Shetterly
• The Time Keeper- Mitch Albom
• Still Alice - Lisa Genova
• French Children Don't Throw Food - Pamela Druckerman 
• The Resurrectionist - James Bradley
• When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit - Judith Kerr
• Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy - Tim Moore
• Stand Up Ferran Burke - Steven Camden
• Gilead - Marilynne Robinson
• Attention All Shipping: A Journey Round the Shipping Forecast - Charlie Connelly
• Gangsta Rap - Benjamin Zephaniah 
• Demon Copperhead - Barbara Kingsolver
• The Island of Missing Trees - Elif Shafak
• Mrs Dalloway - Virginia Woolf
• Small Things Like These - Claire Keegan
• The Women of Troy - Pat Barker
• The Keeper of Stories - Sally Page
• The Last Family in England - Matt Haig
• The Silence of the Girls - Pat Barker
• The Possession of Mr Cave - Matt Haig
• The Chalet School Christmas Story Book - Ruth Jolly and Adrienne Fitzpatrick (Ed)
• Blood and Gold: A Journey of Shadows - Mara Menzies
• Double Vision - Pat Barker

There was also some poetry but you don't (or I don't) read a whole book of that, as such, so they didn't make the list; plus there were a number of children's picture books in the mix which I haven't listed, although Michael Rosen's The Sad Book is definitely worth a mention, as is all-time favourite The Night Before Christmas which I read as a bedtime story to the children staying over on Christmas Eve, definitely as much because I wanted to as because they did! 

Having just finished the last of the ones above, yesterday I started reading On Heroes and Tombs by Ernesto Sabato, but that one is really for next year's list. 

Christmas Poems, a brief history

I am not sure yet whether there will be a new poem for Christmas 2023. There isn't yet, but if it happens in the next few days, it wouldn't be the first time I've written one before the end of the Christmas season rather than before the start. I haven't been particularly inspired to be creative recently, so there's a very good chance it might not, and although there's a little part of me that will be slightly sad if I don't come up with something, I'm also not going to beat myself up about it.

I have been writing a poem every Christmas for a long time and several pre-date this blog. If for no other reason than this is a more reliable place to keep them for my own record than my hideously disorganised documents folder on my computer / hard drive, I decided I'd put them all in a post here. Their length was, at least partially, determined by the fact that most years I shared them in Christmas cards, until the busy-ness of life and the price of stamps put paid to that tradition!

I think, despite the recent lack of inspiration, I write better poetry now than some of these early examples, but what strikes me is how the themes still resonate. The very first one I wrote, it seems, was calling for peace in Palestine. Almost 20 years on, it could have been written today. Others, similarly, address social issues which have not gone away in the intervening years. My writing has developed, global "civilisation" it seems, not so much.

 

Christmas Poem 2005 – Dreams of Peace in Bethlehem

Bethlehem, holy city, where love came down,

Once surrounded by the angel throng;

Now trapped and stifled by a concrete wall

And bullets have silenced the angelic song.

Songs of joy and peace were once so near

Now the city lives in silent fear.

But there is still a whispered song of hope

Upon this green and troubled hill,

And this is still a holy city,

Where the suffering servant suffers still.

So this Christmas spare a thought for their pain,

And pray that peace may soon come to reign.

Christmas Poem 2006 – You do it unto me

Born into homelessness and poverty,

The first things you knew were darkness and danger.

Victim of violence in an occupied territory,

Forced to grow up, an outcast and a stranger.

Where are you now, oh Christmas Christ child?

In the sanitised stable of a nativity set

Pushed to one side where the gifts are piled,

Forgotten and ignored amidst the credit card debt.

But The Christmas Christ child is still with us here on earth:

He’s here in the poor, the abused, the refugee.

Is he welcome here among us as we celebrate his birth?

For “What you do to them” he said, “you do it unto me.”

Christmas Poem 2007 – A future of hope

In a sanitized stable with a warm orange glow

Well-dressed proud parents put a baby on show.

A nativity scene with saccharine smiles

Makes it easy to hide from the real-life trials

Of that first Christmas night in the cave of a stranger

When a baby was born into darkness and danger.

And what was the message that baby came to proclaim?

A future of peace and freedom from pain.

But around the world tonight it’s like the first Christmas still

As children grow up hungry while we eat our fill.

So tonight as we celebrate a refugee’s birth.

Let’s share his message with everyone on earth.

Stand up and be counted, let our voice be heard to say

That each child deserves a future, one which starts today.

A home to be safe in, enough food and an education

And let’s make this Christmas a real celebration.

Christmas Poem 2008 – A light to the world

A flame flickers faintly in the darkness

A fragile light alive in the night

Winds of change and news of the future:

A breath, shaping this light.

I can let the wind extinguish this flame

Deny my voice and give in to doubt

Close my eyes, turn my back and be silent

And so let the flame go out.

Or I can let the wind be a challenge:

Whatever the messages it may bring

Can fan the flames of inspiration

And let my hopeful soul sing.

A breath can turn sparks to powerful flames

Can let hopes and dreams be unfurled.

Stand up, speak out and burn brightly:

I will be a light to the world.

Christmas Poem 2009 – Peace that’s an advertiser’s dream

Peace on earth was the angel’s song

And to us all goodwill

And where do we search and where do we find

This peace that’s elusive still?

Inside the golden wrapper of a chocolate bar,

Curled up by a mock-Tudor hearth.

Hidden in the pages of a holiday brochure,

Or bottled up with luxury bubble bath.

Is this what was meant by the angelic voices?

Singing for a peace that’s an advertisers dream.

Or was their vision of something deeper?

Through which a glimmer of hope might gleam.

Where is the comfort in a holiday brochure

When you’re gazing on your bombed-out house?

Not much help from chocolate or bubble bath

When you’re grieving for your children or spouse.

So what of peace in far flung places?

What of peace in war-torn lands?

What hope of a peace that’s borne of justice?

Will we reach for a stranger’s outstretched hands?

Can we talk to each other? Can resources be shared?

Can the guns be laid down and the bombing cease?

Can the whisper grow louder than the advertisers jingle?

And can our Christmas carol be a real call for peace?

Christmas Poem 2010 – Do we really want Christ in Christmas?

To put Christ back into Christmas

In the media, is an oft heard cry

They want the cute, smiley baby,

And blond-haired angels in the sky

But do they know what it is they’re wanting?

Have they thought what they’re asking for?

Who is this Christ whose Mass it is?

And what would it cost to restore?

The Christ whose return they’re requesting

I’m not sure would quite fit their bill

He wouldn’t be dressed in a respectable suit

Or tut-tut that the area’s going downhill

The Christ who’s the true Christ of Christmas

Is the one who stretches out open hands

Who welcomes the foreigner, the stranger, the poor,

With society’s outcasts he stands

He mixes with those whose lives are messy

Who don’t fit in society’s neat plan

In the midst of the unlovely, unlovable, unloved

By his life saying, “yes, with love, you can”

So let us all make the same call as they do

For Christ to return to our world

But the media might get more than they bargain for

When the true kingdom of Christ is unfurled.

And then there's all the ones since the blog started which I decided I might as well gather up here too:
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2011/12/gift-of-christmas.html
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2011/12/why-should-we-celebrate-christmas.html
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2012/12/glimmers-of-hope.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-song-of-prophets-and-angels.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2014/12/on-2nd-day-of-christmas.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2015/12/glimmers-of-christmas.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2016/12/this-is-joy.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-innkeepers-song.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2018/12/christmas-poem-2018.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2019/12/christmas-poem-2019.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2020/12/where-there-is-doubt-christmas-poem-2020.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2021/12/the-light-shines-christmas-poem-2021.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2023/01/christmas-poem-2022.html

Submission, but not submissive

This week, for the fourth Sunday of Advent, the lectionary invites us to read the story of the annunciation. Last time it came around, three years ago, I wrote a reflection. I still stand by what I wrote then, and this is, in some ways, the continuation of it.  Like all the texts we read this time of year, this is a deeply familiar one and there is probably nothing to say that has not already been said (which doesn't going to mean I'm not going to add a fair few words of my own to the conversation.)

The annunciation scene opens with the angel greeting Mary, “highly-favoured one”. I know I am not saying anything new, but I think it bears repeating that this greeting, the acknowledgment of Mary as highly-favoured, comes first. God’s blessing already exists. It is not earned. It is not consequent on her choices or actions or response. I do not believe that it would be withdrawn if Mary had said no.

And I believe this to be true for our own lives too. Whatever we are called to, and I am in no way detracting from the reality of that call, the nature of being beloved of God, of being “highly favoured” precedes and is not dependent on anything we might do in response.

And I do absolutely believe that this, the annunciation story is the story of a response, a choice: to accept or to decline the invitation, the challenge, the promise. Perhaps the God who exists out of time did already know that Mary would acquiesce, perhaps. But I don’t think that means Mary wasn’t free to make her own choice. This act of incarnation relies on Mary’s cooperation. She chose to say yes. She could have said no.

The church often focuses on the many ways in which humanity “needs” God, but perhaps speaks less about the possibility that God needs us too. But for me, the story of the annunciation, is the story of God needing, or choosing to need, humanity. The outworking of the incarnation, of God becoming present in the world in this way, is only possible with human agreement. Perhaps that too remains true today: that God can only be made incarnate in the world, again and again with the cooperation of humanity. I wonder if we shy away from this idea because deep down, however challenging we find it to get our heads round the idea of an almighty God, the idea a vulnerable one, reliant on our fragile humanity is something we struggle to get our heads round even more. And perhaps we shy away from it because deep down we are not really sure if we want to accept the responsibility that comes with it.

The other thing that I wanted to reflect on, which is perhaps in some ways related, is the image we have of Mary in this scene. I think, generally, we have a picture of a very submissive Mary, head meekly bowed as she accepts the angel’s instruction. A quick google image search would certainly suggest that’s how it has mostly been portrayed down through the ages. It is there in the lyrics of the angel Gabriel carol “Gentle Mary meekly bowed her head”, but it is not there in the biblical text.

Despite their shared root, I think there is quite a difference between submission, and being submissive. And I think that in Mary’s submission to the will of God, there is nothing that implies she is, or becomes, submissive.

I like to think instead of Mary looking straight at the angel with fire in her eyes as she accepts this mission. There aren't many artistic interpretations which show this, and I don't have the talent to draw or paint the picture in my head... but I’m not sure I believe Mary looked down at her toes. I don’t believe this was a whispered, “ok, I will,” I believe it was a much more feisty, “ok bring it on!” 

Mary doesn’t have a major starring role in the gospels, but she does have a speaking part, and she does have a voice. If we listen to that biblical voice of Mary, I think we find it is quite different to the one that has been culturally created ever since. I suspect we would do well to scrape away the layers of medieval paint and Victorian values, and to rediscover this Mary who submits but whose voice is never submissive. The Mary who dares to question God’s messenger, and who at times challenges and even defies God. The Mary who actively chooses to play her part in the incarnation story, and who does so willingly but not naively.

I wonder if we are called to this kind of submission too: a submission that is chosen, that is a shared responsibility with God and which we are allowed to approach with our heads held high. I wonder how such an invitation feels?

Staying put

Here we are in December again, ushered in with seasonally appropriate freezing temperatures and even a smattering of snow. 

Needless to say, I have as ever hardly started getting my head round Christmas yet, despite commercial Christmas having been underway for a month or more already.

I am however, reflecting with gratitude on the fact that this December, I am staying put. For both of the past two years, I have moved house in December and I am very glad not to be doing so again this year. 

It perhaps means I will have less excuse when I arrive at Christmas woefully under prepared, but nonetheless, in the midst of everything else already in the diary for the next month, I am really rather looking forward to not adding packing boxes and shifting furniture into the mix.

My gratitude is, really, about much more than just not having to face the hassle of moving again (although that is a significant plus!). It is also about having a beautiful home where I feel happy and settled. I know that having this space is an immense privilege which comes with a responsibility, and also a desire, to use it well.  

Both for me, and for others, I want my home to be a place where productivity is possible, but where there is also space to simply be. I want it to be a place of peace and refuge. I want it be a place of welcome and hospitality. I want it to be a place of friendship and love, to be a safe space which can hold both laughter and tears. 

I hope I have begun to create such a space over the past year and I am looking forward to continuing to do so in the weeks, months and years to come.

The year that was 22/23

By the time they are published, annual reports are always distinctly out of date. 

But of the many admin jobs I face, putting together the Stories of Hope and Home report is one of the better ones: going back over the events and achievements of the past year, pulling together and summarising the highlights. It is a chance to reflect and rejoice in all that has been possible: and against a backdrop of a very challenging external environment for those I work with, so much has been. A report such as this can only ever tell a tiny part of the story, so much of which can't be summed up in words, pictures or statistics, but hopefully it captures something of the joy, resilience and hope of this incredible community.   

The other related bit of the job, compiling the annual accounts for the charity commission is distinctly less enjoyable. That said, I confess to a thrill of satisfaction when the figures all added up correctly and balance across the ongoing spreadsheets, the bank statements, and the final report. 

So here it is, a celebration of Stories of Hope and Home, 2022 - 23, shared here as much for my own records in the future as for your interest! 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-hTM8NmP-NK1p1Ow8SVau0ZhyFM-WSpU/view?fbclid=IwAR18_16xE05X-JpvDgh1WQe_VAzaqR1UhVg9OLUilJr3ieajgpMWWEe9VOE

*            *            *

I can take far less (by which I mean none) of the credit for the writing of the Birch Annual report, and a much smaller share of the credit for the work of the organisation which I share with some incredible colleagues, all of whom are doing amazing things. But it is another organisation whose work I really believe in, of which I feel extremely privileged to be a part, and whose work also deserves to be known and shared. There are challenges to our work, but knowing that we do so alongside others who share the same commitments and values, within an organisation which trusts and supports us, most definitely helps.

https://birchnetwork.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Birch-Network-Annual-Report-2022-23-1.pdf?fbclid=IwAR0hPtNJ97vwjX-ytv1QbEbCuvEbAQoalMvFZsbxxT_-8RZFZ8XczaqJjAg

The gift of the ordinary

At the church I currently attend, last Sunday (actually, now, the one before because I hadn't got round to finishing this, but my point still stands) was announced as "the fourth Sunday before Advent" in the lectionary, following on from the "twenty-something after Trinity". This way of naming Sundays isn't new to me, but I was remined of it, and aside from being in denial about how quickly Christmas is approaching, I baulk at it.

I want ordinary time back, please. 

I know there are other denominations where ordinary time still exists, and others still where it never has. I also know that even in my church it is only the nomenclature which has changed, this is, really still ordinary time, still liturgically green. 

But names matter. And I believe we need the ordinary. 

Don't get me wrong, I think we need special and unique and extraordinary too. I am very much in favour of marking special occasions, of finding ways to celebrate and ways to acknowledge suffering. But not all the time. I think we should also be prepared to embrace and enjoy the ordinary. I don't think we have to pretend everything has to be anything other than, well, just, ordinary.

If we didn't know it already, surely 2020 taught us that we actually do want and need the ordinary; the dull, humdrum reality of the familiarity and normality of every day life. 

The various versions of a gratitude diary I have kept periodically have always been about reminding me to focus my gratitude and joy not on the big things, but in those little every day moments. They haven't been about trying to find or create something special to happen each day, but rather about seeking out or just recognising the positives in my everyday normality. Some days they are harder to find than others, I know, but every day holds things within it that are beautiful and precious. Ordinary things, in ordinary times are also a gift. 

In terms of the church embracing ordinary time, though, for me, it goes deeper than that too. 

I think there is great value in the church calendar witnessing to and celebrating the importance of the ordinary. For me the great beauty of the incarnation story is that it is a story of God's presence within the ordinary. That it makes real a God that is found in the every day: in human relationships and human realities, in shared meals and shared stories.

I believe in a God who is present in the ordinary. Of course God is present in the big newsworthy events too, in the high points and the low points of our individual and collective human existence. But God is also present in our every day and I fear that in squeezing out ordinary time we risk squeezing out the reminders that this too, maybe even this above all is where God belongs, where God is incarnate, where God is with us. 

And that, (though I doubt the writers of the lectionary are listening) is why I want ordinary time back, please. 

Getting away

A couple of weeks ago I went to Dorset for a few days. By the time I got to it, it was a break that I recognised was somewhat overdue. It may have taught me a valuable lesson about building in down time before I get to that point (but it'll probably be a lesson I have to keep learning again and again, we'll see) 

I'd never been on holiday with my mum and sister before (well, obviously, I had been on family holidays as a kid but that's a bit different), but they seemed genuinely ok with me gate-crashing a trip they had planned before they knew I'd be free to join them. And it was lovely: to spend some quality time together, to share some more serious conversations but also, mostly, lots of laughter. 

The few days were also shaped around lots of other catching-up with relatives and family friends, at least some of whom I hadn't seen for a very long time. There was some re-establishing of relationships which, in the busy-ness of life had somewhat been allowed to drift. 

The best description of the holiday is that mostly, we ate lunch, at length, in good company. 

There was lots of chatting. There were many cups of teas and an excessive quantity of snacks. There were a few games and plenty of time reading a book. 

For an October minibreak in the UK, even the southernmost part of it, we were incredibly lucky with the weather. Sandwiched between rain on the way down and after we got back we had four days of beautiful sunshine.

It meant that while there was plenty of time comfortably curled up back at base it was also perfect for short walks in beautiful surroundings and even an opportunity to paddle in the sea (very briefly, it was October after all!) My holidays are usually defined by where I can get to on public transport but this time, because we travelled by car, there were no such limits, which opened up different possibilities of places to see.  

Politics was banned as a topic of conversation, and while I can't say we stuck to that completely, I definitely spent less time than usual thinking about the state of the world. 

I deliberately didn't pack my laptop. I didn't check my emails and responded to fewer messages than I usually would. 

I didn't set an alarm each morning. 

I switched off. I managed, mostly, not to feel guilty about it.

It's not how I would want to live my life permanently, but for a few days it was perfect and exactly what I needed. 

I came back to a very full inbox and a long jobs list ... but feeling rested and refreshed and ready to face them both.

In The Shadow of the Trees

In June 2019, an ESOL class from St Chad's Sanctuary performed "Home", a performance that was the catalyst to the creation of Stories of Hope and Home. The interruption of a global pandemic as well as the evolution of other parts of the project meant it was July 2022 before we put on another major performance piece, "Refugee: What do you know about me?" at the REP in conjunction with Welsh National Opera. 

There was no three year wait for the next performance as we were back on stage this July. Again at the REP but this time with a mainly "in house" production. 

There was a little bit of external support with the script from Stephen Camden, the wonderful writer we worked with last year, a bit of support with the movement, and a lot of support with the tech from the incredible team at the REP, but without a doubt one of the best things about this year's performance was that it was very much the group's own creation. 

As "In the Shadow of the Trees" came together, it told the stories they wanted to tell, in the ways they wanted them told, structured around a format they wanted to use. Every idea it contained: the overarching themes and all the little details came from people within the group. Creative vision, writing and performance talent, collaboration and leadership skills emerged, sometimes in unexpected places. I was there throughout and honoured to be part of it. I held space, prompted and encouraged. I typed up scripts and turned up with requested props but overall there was very little of me in the performance, exactly as it should be. 

And it was beautiful!

There was deep joy in watching these people I care about flourish and grow. To see the confidence with which they communicated ideas and brought others along with them. To see their stories, so often sidelined, placed quite literally centre stage and treated with the respect they deserve.

Back in July, we shared the performance with hundreds of school children (and a motley collection of others) and now we can share it with you too. While it will not be the same as watching it live, we are delighted that the REP have shared the filmed performance online so we can reach an even wider audience with a performance which is, if I do say so myself, wonderful!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVMAazIwlNI

A Refuge is ...

The first Thursday in October is National Poetry Day. This year's theme was Refuge so obviously (with thanks to my mum who noticed and pointed it out well in advance), it was something I was keen to invite Stories of Hope and Home to explore. 

We produced a short film and wrote poetry reflecting on the question "What is Refuge?" Both were a collaborative effort between many members of the group, and we were really pleased with how they turned out. 

We shared them with local schools of sanctuary inviting them to engage in exploring the theme too, and it seems appropriate to share them here, as well. (If I'd been a bit more organised, I'd have done so on National Poetry Day. I'm not so I didn't.) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JopdUpW2Urw

A Refuge is – A poem by Stories of Hope and Home

A refuge is

The sound of birds singing in the summertime

And the wind blowing through the trees in the limitless hills

It is raindrops and running water

It is the kettle boiling

It is family laughing, children playing, friends chatting

And my mother’s voice

It is the bustling sounds as I sit by the river in my city

And the gentle breathing of a loved one as I sit in quiet companionship

It is the sound of music

As well as the sound of silence

I found my refuge and it sounds like an echo of myself

The song of my dreams

A refuge is

The taste of warm milk late at night and buttery porridge in the morning

And milky hot chocolate, sipped while chatting with friends

It is sweet, silky honey,

And bread, freshly baked

It is the first sip of juice as we break the fast together

It is wiggly noodles slipping over my tongue

And my mum’s home-cooked food

It is meals shared with friends

It is sea salt on my lips

And the taste of my voice as I sing this victory song

I found my refuge, and it tastes like British cake

And a cup of tea

A refuge is

The sight of a colourful garden filled with beautiful flowers

And a blanket of snow making everything white and clean and silent

It is all the greens of nature

And it is the horizon over the sea

It is the sight of a good friend’s face after a long absence

It is stepping off a train to see a familiar place

It is watching the happy ending of a movie

It is everything I see in my dreams

And then seeing my dreams coming true

It is the sight of a bright future

I have found my refuge and it looks like the first ray of sunlight

Banishing the darkness of night.

A refuge is

The smell of a garden filled with lavender beneath the evening light

And of the first rain in the autumn falling on dry ground

It is freshly prepared coffee

And my dad’s mint tea

It is the smell of a Salvadorean Christmas

It is woodsmoke and incense

And a blue scented candle

It is steam rising from pots and pans

It is delicate flowers and sweet strawberries

And a perfume that fills me with memories

I have found my refuge and it smells like my mother’s kitchen

Where I am always welcome

A refuge is

The feel of comfortable feet in my favourite walking shoes

And of fresh water splashing on bare feet with the sand between my toes

It is hot sun on my skin and wind ruffling my hair

It is a warm bubble bath

And a baby’s cheek

It is the feel of being wrapped up in a snuggly blanket on a cold winter’s night

It is my soft cosy bed

And Fresh, clean pillows under my head

It is the feel of my tummy aching from real laughter

It is the feel of freedom

I have found my refuge and it feels like the hug of a loved one

Holding me safe enough to close my eyes

I have found my refuge

It is a place where I feel I belong.

September: Exploring Film

Generally, I don't watch many films (or much TV), although in recent months I have done so perhaps more than in the past. When I do, I tend to turn to animated kids films or gentle comedy. As far as I recall, the last film I watched that I chose for myself was Fisherman's Friends, which gives you a sense of the kind of thing I'd usually go for.  

But recently I've been watching quite a few different films with a friend who has introduced me to various ones I probably wouldn't ever have watched (and some I might have actively avoided) without his introduction and encouragement. 

None have been the light and fluffy fare I usually stick to. But I have enjoyed all of them or, if in some cases enjoyed isn't exactly the right word somehow, I am glad to have watched them. 

In the past six weeks or so I have watched: AI, Never Let Me Go, Flatliners, The Butterfly Effect, The Whale, Triangle, Parasite, Everything, Everywhere, All at Once, The Hours, The Fountain, Black Swan

In many ways they are quite different to each other: they certainly wouldn't all sit within the same genre, although I suspect some would defy easy categorisation. What they have in common is that they all, in very different ways, deal with complex themes and pose interesting questions. They all wrestle with trying to understand what it means to be human. They have all made me think.

I have long trusted in the possibility of fiction revealing deep truths about who we are. I have read many books which explore the complexities of life and relationships. I guess it should be no surprise that film is able to do the same. 

It has been a lesson that I should perhaps be more brave in my film choices: I am open to recommendations.

On foot

I do quite a lot of walking.

Sometimes purely for pleasure. More often, it is simply my mode of transport to get from A to B.

During lockdown, with public transport off-limits and the desire to get beyond the city centre overcoming my apprehension on a bike I started cycling again. Throughout the covid restrictions, and for a decent stretch of time afterwards cycling became one of my main modes of transport but I have certainly fallen back out of that habit.

I'm back to using public transport without really thinking about it and spending a lot of time on buses (and at bus stops) but I also go a lot of places on foot. It takes a lot longer than cycling but despite (or in some ways because of) that generally, I've realised I prefer to walk. I don't wear / carry a step counter, but if I did, I suspect I would rack up a good number of steps over the course of a week.

On a purely practical level, when I lived in the city centre, almost everywhere in the city (and, frankly, beyond) was accessible by taking just one bus or train; making public transport almost invariably the quickest and easiest way to get pretty much anywhere, and I rarely gave hopping on a bus much thought. Where I live now, a combination of not always totally reliable bus routes and a fairly swift walking pace means it in't always quite so clear cut. There are various places I need to get to in the course of a day / week where going on foot contends for being as quick (and infinitely less frustrating) that the public transport alternatives. 

I could turn this into a post about the need for better, more reliable and more joined up public transport if we are to encourage people out of private vehicles, but that's not what I set out to write about so I won't. Because if practicality is a factor in why I go quite a lot of places on foot, it certainly isn't the only consideration. 

I love my work, am passionately committed to what I do and therefore generally work hard. It is probably no secret that I am not good at boundaries and my work and home life bleed into one another. Mostly that I see that as an incredibly positive thing: my life is immeasurably enriched by the people I share it with. I also really appreciate the flexibility of my employment which allows me to work my hours at the times that work best for me and for those I support, but it does mean I am not always brilliant at switching off from my responsibilities. I have forms of relaxation that work well for me, but I am frequently surrounded by the temptation to 'just do that one more thing'. 

My work is rich and varied but there are some overarching realities. My work is very people-centred and I spend lots of my time with other people: often in person, and also in between times via frequent digital communication. I also spend a lot of time in front of a computer or phone screen. On the bus, the temptation is to still use the time to catch up on emails or to scroll through social media. There are advantages to that, avoiding it from feeling like dead, wasted time. When I am walking, though, while I do occasionally reply to messages or speak on the phone, generally not so much. Time walking is, generally, time spent doing just that. 

Walking to get somewhere feels like a productive and valuable use of time; but at the same time provides important downtime and breathing space in my routine. It feels justifiable ... it is an easy way to give myself permission to stop, close the laptop, take a break, and yet comes with the combined benefits of fresh air and physical exercise as well as offering valuable headspace. Walking is my time to reflect and get my thoughts in order. Many a blogpost has been partially composed in my head in the streets around where I live! 

Mostly I walk alone and while I am very definitely an extrovert, I have learned to value and appreciate this personal space and the time out from my very peopled existence. It is, more often that not, my time for me. Having said that, recently I have also walked quite a bit with friends too and this is time I value and appreciate too. I believe the conversations we have when we are walking side by side with someone are, often, different to those we have when we sit downface-to-face. Alone or together, reflecting on my own thoughts or sharing thoughts with someone else, walking works for me. 

There are plenty of examples of how walking is built in to my routine but my standard Monday morning routine sums up some of what I'm talking about. While some people might have the personal motivation and commitment to get up and out just for the sheer pleasure of it, I am under no illusions that I probably wouldn't. But most Monday mornings I go to one of the hotels where I support families, and have to be there in time to give them bus ticket money before they set off for school. It is about a 40 minute walk (each way). The route takes me through a park and along a greenway as well as along bits of residential streets (and across some very badly designed road crossings). By 9am or not much after, I am usually back at home with a cup of tea in hand. I am fully awake and ready to face the week, I have already achieved something on a very practical level as well as having had the best part of an hour and a half of exercise. I don't always appreciate the early alarm, but I recognise it is a very positive way to start the week.

For these, and other reasons, I will keep walking.

Hope, the bird and the sewer rat

When people ask me how I am I generally, probably like most people, answer "I'm fine, thanks, you?". If I elaborate it tends to be with the many things that I've been keeping busy with and with all the little joys that keep me going. And it is true. I am fine. A lot of the time, I am much better than just fine. There is much about my life, a life enriched by beautiful experiences and incredible people, that I love very, very much.  

But (it was obvious, was it not, there was going to be a but) at least twice recently I have somewhat unexpectedly found myself in tears (I remain grateful that I have safe spaces in which that is ok). I know I have had days where my patience has frayed more quickly than it should. I know I have had days of being less motivated, more tired. 

I wrote a couple of weeks ago that it is ten years since I started volunteering, and later working, with people seeking sanctuary. The first blogpost I ever wrote about the subject talked about hope. There was always trauma and challenge and struggle, but hope was very much the word that summed up my experience of being among these amazing, resilient people. Their hope that their lives would get better, mine that I could be part of helping make it so.

It is no secret that the context has changed considerably in recent times ... and sadly, definitely not for the better. That vibrant hope with which people arrive is being drained from them by a system which seems purposely designed to destroy them. Watching traumatised people lose, quite literally in some cases, the will to live is very, very hard. And I watch, knowing they have survived so much and yet it is the British Immigration System which is tearing them apart, which is telling them they are less than human until a point where they start to believe it to be true. And I watch, knowing that there is little I can do to make it any better, knowing that this is already how things are even before the worse excesses of the latest legislation have been felt. 

The weight of that which I carry with those I love has certainly got heavier. Much of that is because of the worsening of their reality. Some of it is also because of the impact of the ways in which relationships have deepened over time and the ways in which I share in their stories and lives. It goes without saying that what I am experiencing clearly pales into insignificance compared to what those caught up in the system are going through; but while it is important not to overestimate it, I have learned that denying the vicarious consequences is also unhelpful. I, like everyone else in the sector, need to take seriously acknowledging the reality and looking after ourselves and one another as well as those we want to walk alongside.

***   

Without a doubt Emily Dickinson's most famous poem is "Hope is the thing with feathers". This was the hope I have often seen and experienced among people seeking sanctuary. The hope that sings in the storm. My life, and the lives of those around me, sang with that kind of hope.

There is another much less well known poem, written much later by Caitlin Seida in response to that one. "Hope is not a bird, Emily, It's a Sewer Rat." It is much less pretty than the original that inspires it. There is a darkness to it that doesn't necessarily make for easy reading. 

There is still plenty of birdsong in my life, but it doesn't always ring quite as loud as it sometimes has. This hope, then, the sewer rat kind of hope, feels more fitting to where I am right now. I am not giving up. I will keep finding hope, keep finding optimism, persistence, perseverance, and, yes, deep joy ... even in the sewers.

(Just to reassure anyone who might be concerned, I stand by the first paragraph: I am, absolutely genuinely, fine. I am, perhaps, having to work a little harder than sometimes to make sure that remains the case. Putting things into words here is one of my mechanisms for processing my reality and ensuring I stay that way.)

The Labourers in the Vineyard

Ahead of our bible discussion yesterday, I had been reflecting on this Sunday's gospel reading, Matthew 20, verses 1 - 16. Like most parables it is a rich text open to various different interpretations and inviting us to reflect on various different themes. It can be explored through the theological lens of how it reflects the kingdom of God and what the generosity of God looks like and how we respond to it. It can be seen as a socio-economic commentary: on the ownership of land and wealth, on exploitative employment practices, on what privilege looks like and how we respond to it. 

But the main thrust of my thoughts this week has related to neither of these things. As well as the reflections themselves it was a reminder of how much our current reality and experiences effect how we read biblical (and probably other) texts and how they speak to us. If this text had come up in the lectionary a few months ago, my thinking would undoubtedly have gone in an entirely different direction. 

Imaginative contemplation is the act of putting oneself into a biblical story and allowing the text, and God, to speak. Like many texts, how we read this one, and what God might seem to be saying to us through it, very much depends on where we place ourselves in the story: and where we place ourselves (or perhaps even find ourselves) in the story very often relates to where we find ourselves in life at the point where we read it.

In the text, there are labourers who work the full day in the field, and others who join them at intervals, including the latest comers who are employed for just the final hour of the day. At the end of the day's work, they all receive the same pay: the standard daily wage. We hear how those who have worked the full day, despite having agreed to work for that wage, grumble expecting more, because the latecomers have received the same; but we do not hear how the latecomers, those who worked only a little, felt about and responded to receiving a full day's wages. 

Leaving aside the economic issues and arguments (I'm sure on another week I could use this same story to write about the value of a universal basic income or the iniquity of zero hours contracts...)

This is the part which has been playing on my mind this week ... How do we deal with reward or credit or praise which feels unearned, undeserved? It was something I was already wrestling with before this text came up in the lectionary, but this seemed to potentially be a frame for exploring it (although the text offers us no answers, except perhaps an acknowledgement of this reality). 

I know myself to be immensely privileged in all sorts of ways, much of it entirely unearned. I am aware I live an extremely comfortable life and most of what I offer to and share with others comes from a place of excess and requires very little sacrifice.  

All of my work, and many of my friendships are among those who have far, far less than me. 

And yet I have been welcomed into people's homes with incredible generosity, where hospitality and good food are offered without counting the cost by people who have to watch their budgets much more closely than I do. I have received gifts which, however small, I know have come from a place of genuine sacrifice. A couple of weeks ago one of the mums in the hotel came over and gave me a small bottle of juice. I could have bought something similar without a second thought. For her, it probably cost more than 10% of her weekly income but she wanted me to have it. I have an ever growing collection of pictures and notes from small children created and offered with deep affection. 

This is not just about those tangible things though.

All too often I find myself in situations where I feel like there is very little I can do to help, very little difference I can make. I find myself saying I'm sorry, no I can't far more often that I would like.  I watch people struggling and suffering and feel powerless to make any meaningful change to their realities. With the continual deterioration of the way in which people arriving in our country are treated, the ever-increasing cruelty and hostility they face and the detrimental effects it has on the people I try to stand alongside, this is more and more my reality. 

And yet overwhelmingly what I receive in return is praise and gratitude. Praise and gratitude which often feels spectacularly undeserved.

Specific situations sometimes shine a spotlight on a more global truth. Recently, I have had quite a lot of interaction with a family who are in an incredibly difficult situation. I have been able to do very little to help. I feel I have failed them in almost every way. I have not been able to give them even a tiny part of what they need. The times I have tried to make even a small difference feel like they have mostly been met by the brick walls of uncaring systems. At times, I confess, I have even ignored their calls because I can't face saying again I'm sorry, no progress, no news, nothing I can do. 

And yet every message I receive, every conversation I have with them is laced with their gratitude for my help.  

The powerlessness to make things better is, at times, very hard. The undeserved appreciation doesn't make it any easier.

There may be times and situations where I can identify with the grumbling servants who have worked all day and aren't impressed by the late comers receiving equal reward. I understand the importance of affirmation, of feeling appreciated for what we do. To feel like our efforts have gone unrecognised and unrewarded is not easy or comfortable. But right now, I find myself very much identifying with those who possibly feel they have received more than they deserve for the little they have done. That is not always easy or comfortable either.

Summer time

Although the summer weather seems to have only just arrived, this week, dominated by sorting out school uniform, school places and school bus tickets, has definitely seen a shift back to a term time rhythm. The sweltering heat might not feel autumnal but there are other signs that a new season is dawning, perhaps most noticeably that the long summer evenings are gone and the nights are drawing in noticeably earlier. Still very busy in its own way, the past six weeks have very definitely had a different feel to them and now seems like the right moment to look back over what the summer has offered. 

Every Thursday through the holidays, Birch ran a holiday summer play scheme for the families confined to living in two of the hotels we work with. While for some people, hotels are synonymous with holidays and an exciting place to spend a couple of summer weeks, when you live with your whole family in one room, with next to no money for treats or trips, they are (understatement alert) not a great environment. After starting with a day trip to the ThinkTank science museum, we then spent the subsequent weeks running sessions at a quaker meeting house. As well as stuff we organised ourselves, loads of different groups came along to run different activities for both the kids and parents. There was always paint and play. Always lunch and laughter. Always a friendly smile and a listening ear. In the grand scheme of things, we didn't solve any of the major problems faced by these families. But for a few hours a week at least, the parents could just switch off, relax and perhaps offload a little; and the children could just be children. Easy as it is to constantly feel we are not doing enough, the excitement every time I arrived at the hotel, the smiles, the warm words, the hugs always remind me that these things do really matter and make a difference.

There have been other events and activities to take the families along to as well, or to encourage them to participate in, including some lovely sessions for younger children at the library run by Birmingham REP and a fun day out at Birmingham Festival, the celebration of the anniversary of last year's Commonwealth Games. 

Stories of Hope and Home has also switched into a different rhythm over the summer. The lead up to the end of term had been exceptionally busy: in the last half term alone we had done 11 school visits, we were involved of lots of different activities in and around refugee week and of course there was the preparation for and then performance of In the Shadow of the Trees. 

So apart from needing to build in some much needed time to catch up on all the neglected admin tasks, we probably all needed a few weeks with a more relaxed feel. We were down to one session a week instead of two anyway due to venue availability, and in practice what that looked like was spending a few weeks giving over our Friday afternoons to a variety of creative activities. We turned our hands to painting, and collage, and needle felting, and beading, and friendship bracelets. There were, of course, as ever, many cups of tea and plenty of cake. And while our hands were occupied there was space, to be together, to deepen friendships, to chat about the significant and about the inconsequential. 

Towards the end of the summer we also headed off to Kintbury. It is the third time we've been there for a summer residential trip, each of which has been very special in its own way. As ever we were met with the warm welcome and generous hospitality of the centre team and for the third year in a row we were blessed with fabulous weather (well aware that our luck might run out some point on this one!). This year, in contrast to recent residentials it was just us; instead of another opportunity to share stories with others, we built in time to reflect on our own stories: what they are, and how, why and to whom we tell them. There were some structured reflective sessions, plenty of organised fun and lots of time to relax and enjoy the surroundings and one another's company. It was a truly wonderful three days. 

And now here we are, September. Ready for another year. Bring it on!

100 (with a mention of 10 thrown in)

Last week, Stories of Hope and Home welcomed its 100th sanctuary-seeking participant (not counting the numerous accompanying children, who can certainly feel like they are just as numerous on occasion!) since we started almost four years ago. While it is just another number, in some ways it feels like a significant milestone.

Some of those who were there at the very beginning are still actively involved. Many more have joined over that time and become active and committed members. Others have perhaps only come along once or twice or stayed for a time and then moved on or drifted away. Some have become people I count among my closest friends.  

They have come from all around the world and, they have, like me, made Birmingham their home. They have all added something to the rich tapestry that is the Stories project, and the rich tapestry that is my life. 

Together they, we, have created something beautiful which stands as witness to the possibility of loving, supportive, open, diverse and genuinely inclusive communities.  

Because although they are united by the common struggle of seeking sanctuary, they are also all very different to one another. Each brings their own culture and background; their own experiences, lives and stories. They bring their own interests and opinions and ideas. They bring their past, their present and their hopes and dreams for the future. They bring their own characters and personalities; their faults and failings as well as gifts and skills. They are a community of people who I love: but that doesn't mean they are by any means perfect, any more than I am. They are deeply, fully human. 

They are the individuals that our current government and media would generally prefer us never to think of as such; never to know in all their messy, beautiful humanity. So yes, I am taking note of passing this 100 mark: but I am doing so remembering that this is, that they are, so much more than just a number. They are a truly beautiful community of people I am very privileged to have met.

*          *          *

The other milestone I am marking around now, is that I moved to Birmingham in summer 2013, meaning this September it is ten years since I started volunteering at St Chad's Sanctuary. Little did I know when I first turned up with the vague idea that being a volunteer English teacher could be a suitable use of my time and skill set just how transformative an impact it would have on my sense of vocation, leading me so many amazing adventures, such incredible friendships and a life immeasurably enriched. It is right that I have moved on to express that vocation in different ways and places but I will be eternally thankful to the Sanctuary community, and above all to my students there, for inviting me to set out on this wonderful journey. 

It hasn't always been perfect, or by any means easy. I have seen things that have wracked me with sadness, anger, guilt and a sense of utter powerlessness in the face of human suffering and the cruelty some people are willing to inflicted on the most vulnerable. But I have also seen hope and resilience, dignity and grace, joy and generosity, compassion and mutual support, and the beauty of humanity. I have shared so much good food and so many cups of tea and conversations. I have laughed more than I have cried. I have the most amazing people I can call my friends. I have learned more about the world, about other people and about myself. I have understood more about what it means to be community and to be family. I have understood more about love. 

I am grateful to have been invited into this space. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

What I've been writing instead

I haven't written much on here for a while. 

This isn't exactly unusual. Any cursory glance back through my blog will very much show that, apart form the very first year of it, content always comes in fits and starts. So perhaps I shouldn't be surprised but, rightly or wrongly, I have had something of a sense recently that I *should* have things I want to write. Maybe I thought I would write more over the summer when a change of schedule would create spaces to reflect. Maybe I feel like I want to have the words to explain and explore current realities and experiences. Maybe I am yearning for more creative energy than I currently have.

Anyone who knows me knows I rarely run out of words and yet, somehow, at the moment, though I have plenty to say, I don't seem to quite have the right words to say it. It is a strange place for me, as a great lover of language, to find myself. 

Perhaps it's partly because quite a bit of my writing energy this summer has gone into writing other things. The Stories of Hope and Home annual report is well on its way to completion (watch this space in the next couple of months) and I've made a concerted effort on writing multiple funding bids which will, hopefully, if other people can see as much value in what we are doing as I can, help to put this little charity on a more sustainable footing. 

It will surprise nobody who knows me to hear that the admin parts of my job are not high on my list of favourite activities. It is testament to how much I believe in my work and want it to succeed that I do mostly more or less manage to keep on top of them. Having said that, while that is very much true of the daily grind of recording expenses or noting down attendance or replying to emails, actually, writing the annual report and funding bids does have its enjoyable side. 

They offer a chance to step back, to identify and celebrate all we have achieved so far. They make me pause to find the words and numbers that at least partially capture the impact of what we are doing. Of course, collating data can only ever tell a tiny part of our story. So much of what is of the greatest value is indefinable and cannot be contained in a quote or a statistic, so much of it is there in the little comments and conversations, in the almost imperceptible changes we observe. Nonetheless, this process does make all the record keeping feel worth while as those 'ticks in boxes' through the year add up to reminders of the reach and breadth of all we have done together. The evaluation forms and feedback, while they can't sum up the project in its entirety, stand as reminders of who we are and what we are doing and why it matters. And, if I do say so myself, so much of it is good!

They offer a chance to look ahead: to dream dreams and consider the potential for what might be possible in the future as this project born out of a play and a vision in 2019 becomes increasingly established. To consider direction and priorities, to make sure we feel like we are on the right track and that this project continues to meet fulfil a need.  

They offer a chance to remind myself, should I need it, and to share with other exactly why I believe this little project has such great value. And for that reason, whether or not any of them result in any money (which hopefully they will) they are words well spent.

Adding colour

My creative energy ebbs and flows, but even when I am not brimming over with ideas, and have to remind myself to pick up a pencil or paintbrush, I know that doing something creative always makes me feel better. Knowing the theory doesn't always translate to actually doing it, obviously.

And when it does, the creative output doesn't always look the same. 

Sometimes it looks like this.