Five years

Last month marked 5 years since Stories of Hope and Home became a reality. In some ways, it doesn't feel anywhere near that long, but in other ways it has already far surpassed what I dreamed it might become. 

Our exact start date is somewhat disputed... wass it the moment the vague idea was voiced aloud, the writing of the first version of our constitution, the day we opened the bank account, designed the logo, set up our social media accounts, got our first grant, or held our first meeting...? One way or another, in autumn 2019, Stories of Hope and Home came to be and by March the following year we had welcomed over 30 different participants, visited multiple schools, had several trips and parties and our first slightly bonkers residential in Wales. The tone had been set, a family was being created. 

I have said many times since that if anyone is thinking of starting an organisation focused on building community which relies on spending time together over coffee and cake, then starting six months before a pandemic may not be the ideal time ... but then again, we are still here and still going strong, so maybe it was. 

As 2020 turned the world we knew upside down, our little community supported one another through some difficult days and survived to tell the tale of the zoom era. And then with risk assessments endlessly written and rewritten, as restrictions allowed we came back together: first outdoors, then 2 metres apart, and finally with hugs allowed once more. We have never looked back.

We have shared anger and frustration as we have watched a hostile system get ever harder to face, we have created safe space that has held many tears. But we have also laughed loud and laughed often. We have danced together and built beautiful friendships. We have shared hope and joy. We have welcomed many newcomers into our fold. We have engaged with thousands of children and young people, educators and others and gently (and at times less gently) challenged perceptions and misconceptions. I am convinced we have played a part in creating change. We have become a charity, published a book, performed on stage. We have eaten so much good food and drunk an uncountable number of cups of tea. Together we have done many incredible things, and touched many lives. Of all of it, I think the greatest achievement is that we have created a community that such a diverse group of people describe as their family. 

In early September, well over a hundred people turned out to celebrate together. I looked around a room filled with good food and friendship, filled with noise and mess and a fair degree of chaos, filled with joy and laughter and a palpable sense of community, filled with people from all over the world who I know face unimaginable struggles and yet who get up and keep going, people who have the courage to speak out and make a difference, people who look out for and care about one another, people who have allowed me to be part of the most incredible family.

Among the things I did in preparation for the celebration event, was spend time looking back over the preceding years. Whether or not it was the best use of time, I spent many happy moments scrolling back through old photos and adding up past statistics. 

Statistics are only ever going to tell a tiny part of what has been, and continues to be a beautiful story, which is mainly told through snippets of shared experience, but nonetheless...

(Almost all of these numbers are already out of date!)

I think it is ok that I am more than a little bit proud of what that germ of an idea has turned into. 

My heart is full. 

And there is so much more still to come.

Getting back on track

It has been a good while since my last blogpost: September came and went without me writing anything here. A quick scroll back told me that April 2017 was the last time I didn't publish anything for a whole calendar month so it is certainly high time to polish off this one which has been a work in progress for a good while.

Needless to say, I have been busy (there is at least one other, also half-written post, to follow about some of that): but not exceptionally so by my standards, so that only offers a partial explanation for not putting pen to paper (or cursor to screen). I do know, more or less, what the explanation is, so we'll see whether this attempt to express it succeeds where my previous attempts to force the words to coalesce into something coherent have spectacularly failed.

Summer 2024 was a complicated mix. It was filled with loads of wonderful, joyful activities, with trips and visits and parties, with good food and lots of dancing. It was also marked by both good and bad news for people I care about, by hard conversations as well as jokes and laughter, and significantly, by the eruption of far-right, anti-migrant violence which rocked the country and deeply affected the communities I love.

In the midst of all that, in mid-August, I had a really lovely week in France staying with very dear friends. I was in need of a break, and I switched off, far more successfully than I had though I might manage. We did a few sort-of-touristy activities, but mostly I read good books, ate good food, and chatted endlessly about both silly and serious subjects, spending time with people I love very much. 

And then I came back.

I came back to an overflowing jobs list, populated with the things I expected to have to do, the inevitably unexpected additions, but also the things I had promised myself I would get ticked off before I went away but hadn't because everything had been put on a back-burner to deal with the fall out and impact of the riots.  

What I needed was a burst of productivity to get back on top of things, but instead I found myself feeling paralysed and overwhelmed, and lacking my usual motivation. Not to say I achieved nothing, but I definitely didn't feel like I was doing what I needed or wanted to achieve. As a person with a universal reputation for boundless energy, that hasn't been an easy thing to admit, even to myself. And while rationally I could tell myself this was not, perhaps, surprising, given how heavy the year had been; part of me definitely also felt like I was failing, not able to do what I "should".

To some extent, the life I have chosen means this is a reality I will always have to live with: I will never be able to do all that needs to be done, meet all the needs I would like to meet, solve all the problems I would like to be able to solve. Generally this is something I have made my peace with and a tension I manage relatively well: but for a few weeks in late August / September, I really struggled. There were tears in both a Birch staff meeting and my Stories supervision, as well as more than once on my sofa. I read up (again) on burnout and vicarious trauma, recognising elements of both in how I was feeling. The absence of blogposts was another symptoms of the space I was in: writing is often one of my ways of processing thoughts and emotions but my attempts to put this or anything else into words in the midst of it came to nothing. 

It was a tough few weeks: something I knew at the time but perhaps recognise even better now, from the other side. Because now? Now I am very much back on track, and I am grateful for the many things that have helped, including:

• I thrive on variety and would hate for every week to look exactly the same, but even I had perhaps hit a point where at least some semblance of return to routine, with a few fixed points has been beneficial. 
• I forced myself, at the point when I least felt like it, to re-establish, again, my routine of fairly regular morning prayer, something which always helps my equilibrium, in ways I can never explain. 
• At least some of the jobs in my jobs list, including some of those that I don't particularly enjoy have been successfully ticked off. There are still too many jobs to do, some of which I am inevitably still putting off, but it is back to feeling within the realms of achievable.
• I have also made conscious choices to take time off: ignoring the call of the jobs list and reminding myself not to feel guilty for making space for doing things I enjoy. 
• Stories of Hope and Home celebrated its fifth birthday with an incredible party and in the midst of the running around, I was able to pause and appreciate all this little project has achieved.
• A few weeks into the new academic year, every school age child in the hotel where I offer support to families is now in school: offering a sliver of normality for both them and their families.  
• Most of all, perhaps, I am surrounded by an incredible, supportive community around me who, knowingly or unknowingly, have played an important part in keeping me going and restoring my spirits.  

Onwards!

Answers (8) - the return

Several years ago, our amazing Goddaughter Lydia gave us a jar of questions as a Christmas gift. For over a year, they generated lots of reflection and discussion, as we, and whoever happened to be living with or visiting us at the time thought about one each week or so and shared our answers. Over the course of many months, I shared my own answers here. 

For whatever variety of reasons, we fell out of the habit of answering them before the 'still to be answered' pot was empty. Both jars, the 'done' and the 'to do' have sat on a shelf ever since. I had always had the intention to return and reflect on the others and when I was recently looking for something to inspire me to get back into doing a bit more writing, I decided they might be a suitable prompt.

In the process, I found a post that had been in my drafts folder since early 2020 (back in those pre-pandemic days if you remember them!) with the last few answers I wrote at the time. Clearly, all the answers represent my reflections at a particular moment in time: for some, those answers would change little over time, others are more of the moment. Life has moved on since spring 2020, but before kicking off with new answers, I am going to publish them here as they were written at the time, unedited, but with annotations.

35) Is home a place or a feeling?

These questions were written long before first the play, and then an entire project, grew out of the question "what is home?"... I could probably write an entire essay in answer to this! 

But in short ... both, and neither and a multitude of other things besides. It is a feeling: but it is something more definite, more concrete than that too. It is affected by geographical location too, but not defined by it. People are a significant, perhaps the most significant, part of it too. 

After many, many more conversations and creative activities reflecting on this very theme, as well as two house moves in the intervening years, I still pretty much stand by what I wrote back then. There is something about a sense of belonging, something about a sense of the freedom and safety to be who I am, something about community and hospitality, something very nebulous as well as something solid and concrete. 

36) What is one food you couldn't live without?

At first I opted for cheese, because I do love cheese ... but then someone else said bread and that felt like a pretty good call too! 

In reality, what I would most want to 'not live without' is variety: taking out any individual food stuff would, I guess, be something I could adapt to far more easily than having to eat the same thing all the time. 

Hmmm, yes, this answer wouldn't have been much different if I was presented with the same question today either. 

37) Which has been the best phase of your life so far?

I think this one is turning out pretty well to be honest. There are plenty of challenges to life in Birmingham, and I'm not denying there have been a fair few struggles in the last six and a half years; but on balance, life feels like it is in a very good place. 

Someone else who was sat round the dinner table with us when we were discussing this one, said, this one is good, but I'm expecting the next one to be even better ... we vetoed phases that haven't yet happened as an acceptable answer, but actually, it is a pretty good way to live life! To live with the belief and hope that however good life is right now, there may be better things ahead.

I look back with great affection, for instance, on my time at university and other experiences I have had, but life has continued to grow in richness since. It doesn't take away from how amazing those experiences were to acknowledge that life is now richer and better. It saddens me when people say "school is the best days of your life" ... I mean, I get the encouragement to appreciate what you've got and to make the most of the opportunities, but I do feel very sad for those who, later in life, hanker after something they had then because they feel trapped in a less happy life now. 

I think I would still say "this one", or maybe more accurately would again say "this one" ... I think it would be fair to say there was a bit in the middle that wouldn't feature on my 'best phases of my life' list, but right now, life is once again, very good, and continues to be enriched by the people and experiences I am privileged to encounter. 

38) What is the most exciting thing that has happened to you in the last year?

For me, this was an easy one ... without a doubt, starting the Stories of Hope and Home project has been the most exciting part of my year, watching something that started as a vague idea take shape and grow has been amazing. I remain excited to see how it will develop further.

We are about to celebrate Stories of Hope and Home's fifth birthday so it was strange to look back at this answer when it was only just beginning and I had no real idea what it would become! four and a half years on from writing this, though, so much about this project continues to excite and energise me!

So the Q and A is back*, picking up where it left off at question 39 ... watch this space!

(*For how long I can't be sure. While my intention is to work through all the remaining questions over coming weeks, its not entirely unlikely I may not manage to stick at it, we shall see)

The value of a life

Just over a week ago, news broke of a luxury yacht sinking in the Mediterranean. One person was confirmed dead, six missing, all of whose bodies were later found after extensive complex searches.

For several days it dominated the headlines. One of the days, when I checked the front page of the BBC news webpage, it accounted for the top six stories.

No-one, including me, is denying the tragic loss of life and the devastating impact on the family and friends of those who died. 

And yet, and yet.

By the end of May, in the Mediterranean, 880 deaths of people seeking safety had been recorded this year (so far). That statistic is likely to be an underestimate and will have increased significantly since. Many are never found, most never identified. 

There are no painstaking searches for bodies, no endless analysis of what went wrong, no interviews with families and friends. There are, mostly, no headlines. 

There is no recognition that each of those 880+ people is an individual human being with their own character, their own hopes and dreams, their own communities who care about them, and their own stories cut tragically short.

I know people who have made that journey.

Clearly, the people I know are those that survived, although many witnessed en route that others did not.

They tell stories threaded through with darkness, suffering, loss and fear. But they also tell stories imbued with hope and resilience. They tell stories which are fully human.

They have arrived here carrying their gifts and skills, their different personalities, and their dreams of rebuilding a life and contributing to the societies they are learning to try and call home. They carry, in many cases, terrible trauma, but they carry too an irrespressible zest for life.

I believe our communities are immeasurably enriched by their presence, and that our world is the poorer for the loss of all those who didn't make it. 

I believe their lives were / are worth as much as that of a millionaire and his friends.

It's hard to explore these subjects without the risk of it being misinterpreted, but it feels important to try. To at least ask the question as to how we got to a place where some lives are considered to be worth so much more than others. 

And after that 'starter for ten', to dare to ask how we might at least move in the direction of understanding that "All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights" (Universal declaration of human rights, Article 1) and then begin to act accordingly.

https://www.statista.com/statistics/1082077/deaths-of-migrants-in-the-mediterranean-sea/

Love is how we rebel!

On Thursday 18th July, Stories of Hope and Home took to the stage at Birmingham REP theatre with our latest performance, "Love is a Rebellion". As soon as the REP told us that the theme for their community festival this year was "Love and Rebellion" I knew we would be in our element! 

Early explorations of "what is love", "what is rebellion" and "where do they come together" generated some truly incredible discussions. As we started to devise what form our performance would take it became clear that the group wanted the focus this time to be on life in the UK asylum process. Much of what was shared spoke to where people were at and what they were feeling during what has been a particularly difficult year. As we began to shape the piece, we had some exceptionally challenging, but powerfully cathartic conversations about what the home office want from those trapped in its clutches. They did not hold back, and if anyone wonders how aware people seeking asylum might be of the the intentions and impacts of home office policies, the answer is they know exactly what it is all about. But we also reflected on the many gestures that help people to survive in the face of a hostile system. We explored how, in a system designed to divide, isolate and exclude, love is an act of rebellion.

For the first time since the very first play I facilitated which precipitated the creation of Stories of Hope and Home, this was an entirely 'in-house' creation (apart from some wonderful support from the tech / stage team at the REP on the day itself). There was a bit of overlap with those involved in devising and performing last year, but it also involved many who were new to the group and who came to the fore in expected and unexpected ways. It was, importantly, very much "us." 

In the midst of many moments when it felt quite hard to see how it would all come together, little by little a structure and script emerged. It was simple and understated: but didn't shy away from the challenges the participants wanted to share. Music was added: a piece of gentle background music ... but to those in the know, the hold music for Migrant Help which all those in the system, and all those who have walked alongside them have listened to for many more hours than they'd like. We also wrote the closing song: words drawn from our shared conversations, and with thanks to our very talented young volunteer for a catchy tune. It looks set to become something of an anthem for the group. 

We played around with movement and actions. Many of the on-stage interactions reflected keenly observed reproductions of their own lived experiences. Key cast members fell into place, other roles were gradually filled and endlessly switched around. Confidence grew and people stepped up in ways they might never have thought possible, which is always a very beautiful thing to watch and be part of.  We had, probably predictably, our first full run through with the complete final cast just three hours before the performance. But carried by energy, enthusiasm and a fair amount of talent, it worked, if I do say so myself, exceptionally well. 

Our previous performances have been to audiences of school children but the timing meant that wasn't possible this year and for quite a while we had no idea how much of an audience we would have. We knew that the experience of being on stage would still be incredible for the performers but it turns out we needn't have worried, as we had a brilliant turnout. One of the most special parts was that, having reached out to as many different charities and organisations in the sector as possible, a good proportion of the audience was made up of other people seeking sanctuary, and feedback from them suggested there was something beautifully beneficial in them seeing stories which resonated with their own experiences shared and celebrated on stage. Others in the audience spoke of being given shocking and important insights into a system and its impacts that they had not realised was so cruel and destructive. We are now talking and thinking about how we find ways to take what we believe was a truly special performance to a wider audience.  

Most important of all, it was clear that, despite the sometimes challenging subject matter, everyone on stage had a huge amount of fun, both in the preceding months and on the day itself. It worked, because it reflected the lived experience of this incredible community of people: in the challenges they face, and in the community we build and the ways we are together: that love is indeed how we rebel!

20 years

20 years (and a few days) ago, I graduated from Lancaster University and got married. It marked the end, and then the beginning of hugely significant parts of my life. 

Although my degree officially took four years, if you take out the year in France and work out the maths on just how short university terms are, I actually only spent a total of 99 weeks at Lancaster University, the equivalent of less than two years ... and yet it very definitely changed who I was. I learned quite a bit about English and French, a fair amount of which I have since forgotten, but also a whole lot about life. I found my tribe, found my joy and found myself. 

I graduated and got married two days apart (because why wouldn't you do all the dressing up in one go?) My memories of graduation day are fairly hazy: of the two, the wedding was by far the more significant and memorable event. It was, if I do say so myself, a very good wedding and an incredibly special day. I am still proud of the ceremony and party we created, of the things we prioritised and included, of the parts of ourselves we put into the day. I also remain very grateful for the community of people it brought together around us. 

The photo of the 300+ people who helped us celebrate, which includes many, possibly even most, of those who formed our communities at the time, is still on my wall, and still brings a smile to my face. There are quite a number of people in the picture who remain hugely important to me, as well as many from whom I have drifted apart and some who are no longer with us. In many ways, it still seems strange to think just how many of those I now count among my community don't feature in it: although I suppose it should be no surprise that in twenty years so many more people have come to be part of the many overlapping circles in which I mix. I am still adapting to a much newer reality that we both now have people who are really significant to us who are complete strangers, unknown to the other.

The day itself holds a special place in my heart, but, of course, it was always about much more than just that. For many of the years between then and now, my marriage shaped the places I (we) went, the things I (we) did, the adventures I (we) had, the causes I (we) fought for, the families I (we) are part of, the friendships I (we) built, the communities I (we) created, the lives I (we) lived ... the person I have become. There were challenges too, for sure, but there are very few regrets. I stand by my belief that my marriage enriched my life in immeasurable ways, something for which I will always remain grateful. 

Life has moved on, in all sorts of ways, since 2004. I am not the person I was then, although firm foundations for who I would become had certainly already been laid. Probably 20 years into the future, I will be just as different from who I am today. Society has long since left behind the days when people's lives might have mostly looked very similar twenty years on: with the same 'job for life', in the same locality, amidst the same friendships and community. I, and many of those I know, have lived in different places (including different countries), I have had multiple jobs, I have lost contact with people who mattered to me, just because our lives have drifted in different directions, I have been welcomed into or helped create new communities around me. I've attended different churches, been part of different social groups, explored different interests, developed different skills. 

Almost every aspect of the life I live looks different: and for the most part that is widely accepted and even celebrated. The 'what comes next' doesn't devalue the 'what came before'. I love Birmingham, but I am glad I have had opportunities to live in Paris and the Philippines and on the stunning coast of Northern Ireland before landing up here (for now). I describe my current work as a vocation, but see / saw teaching as a vocation too. My new friendships don't detract from the previous ones. These aren't necessarily things I walked away from easily or painlessly, but I accepted life was taking me in new directions. It has taken me time to accept that it is ok to see changes in relationships, even married ones with binding vows, in the same way too. 

Even though I am now well settled into another new phase of life, and even though a few short paragraphs could never hope to sum up everything my marriage gave me over many years, it feels appropriate to note and mark the passing of such a significant anniversary.

Dancing in the storm

With my previous blogpost having been entitled "after" the tsunami, you may notice that with this one I'm referring to being back in the storm. It is not a mistake: because although though that specific wave has subsided, I don't think it would be appropriate to suggest that the storm has passed for those subject to the hostile environment.

They, we, are still in the storm. But they, we are still dancing in the midst of it. 

The week before last was refugee week.

For a number of years it has been one of the busiest weeks of my year. This year, I would say, in terms of busy-ness, it stood out less. Not because it was any less busy, but because the previous weeks had been equally full-on, and the next few are looking relatively hectic too! 

What did set it apart though, was the sheer joyfulness of it. 

Don't get me wrong: the challenge and struggle were never far away. We did three school visits, all of which involved the sharing of difficult stories. We did three performances which didn't hold back from acknowledging the reality of the hostility faced by people seeking sanctuary in the UK. I still spoke with lots of individuals struggling with specific issues. There were still tears.

But there was also laughter.

And there was poetry and song, and the confidence of standing on a stage and knowing that your voice is being heard. There were reasons to celebrate, and excuses for parties with plenty of good food and friendship. There were signs of support and solidarity, in the sunshine and in the rain!. There was the building of community, the sharing of time. There was forgetting about it all and having a bit of fun.

And thus, in the midst of the storm, we danced! 

I reached the end of the week tired, but reminded that, joy, too, is a form of resistance, and, just as we said and sang: love is how we rebel*.

I did intend to write this more than a week ago, and therefore before the election which has perhaps also given us reasons to be tentatively hopeful, so this post really isn't about that, although there may be others to follow that are!  

* Love is a Rebellion is our performance at Birmingham REP this year, written and performed by Stories of Hope and Home it promises to be a wonderful show and if you are in Birmingham (or nearby), and would like to join us, you'd be most welcome! https://www.birmingham-rep.co.uk/whats-on/stories-of-hope-and-home/

After the Tsunami...

I am hesitant to speak too soon, but it seems the Rwanda plan, which has dominated my life in recent weeks, in terms of time, energy and headspace, may be dead and gone. Even if / when that proves to be the case, it has left a trail of devastation in its wake. When people have asked (or assumed) that the news of its demise must have come with a great sense of relief, and also a lessening of the hectic pace of the past few weeks, my response has been measured: yes, of course; but also, well no. 

I was in a meeting recently where someone described those few weeks after the Safety of Rwanda Law passed as having been like a tsunami. It seemed a very apt image. The damage in the moment was immense, but now that the wave has passed through, the clean-up operation is also going to be long and slow and difficult. We will be picking up the pieces for quite some time.

Some of that 'clear-up' is entirely practical. It is no secret that I am never the best at keeping on top of admin and my email inbox, but I am sure that I am not the only one now playing catch-up on a million 'not urgent' tasks, some of which have grown out of the response to the Rwanda plan itself, many more of which are a backlog which have built up and now acquired a certain urgency by having been even more neglected than usual. I know I now need to make a concerted effort to get my to do list back down to a manageable length ... but the clear-up after the wave is about much more than that.

It is also about the significant emotional impact that the last few weeks has had: on those at risk of the Rwanda plan, on those who were or are detained and those who saw it happen to their friends, on all those subject to immigration control even if not specifically at risk of Rwanda who were remined again of the cruelty of which these systems are capable, as well as on those of us trying to offer support in the midst of all the awfulness. Like the interminable jobs list, none of that is just going to go away. This too will take effort and energy and time and intention to begin to heal and rebuild. It will take care and conversation and community and the creation of safe spaces. And there will still be sore spots and scars that need to be acknowledged and held. 

And then, after the wave of destruction and the clear-up, there is is the creation of space to reflect on the 'what next'; on how we rebuild, how we build on the movement of solidarity and continue to fight against the hostile environment. Like many others, of course I greeted with joy the news that the Rwanda plan might be finished. We need to celebrate the victories, big or small. But my celebrations remain tentative, and not only because it isn't yet guaranteed. If this one particular facet of the hostile environment is on its way to being dismantled, the policies and rhetoric of hostility are not going away any time soon. The scapegoating and criminalisation of those who simply dared to seek safety began long before the Rwanda plan had been dreamt up, and continues apace. Marginally less bad can still be utterly awful for those trapped in this system. Taking an emergency response and turning it into a sustained movement for systemic change will take time and energy, but it will be time and energy well spent.

So yes, of course, I am very glad the wave has subsided. But the work still goes on!

Resilience and rest

Following on from my two previous posts, I knew I wanted to write something about, in the midst of all of the stuff, how we, or at least I, strive to look after myself too. 

My refrain to others around me the last few weeks has been "marathon, not sprint": I have been repeating it as much for myself as anyone else. I know I need to still be standing tomorrow, and next week, and next year. I know I have more to do, give, be that I can't if I get broken at this stage. And yes, of course I have my moments of feeling utterly overwhelmed and there are occasional tears: I don't ever want to get to the stage where I can remain entirely impassive and unaffected; but on balance, I'm doing ok. Even if it doesn't always seem like it from the outside, I think I am in fact reasonably good at looking after and out for myself. I live life to the full and often stretch myself to my limits: but I do also know where those limits lie and generally don't cross them more often than I can cope with. 

I wrote in my previous post of the many things community looks like, and the many beautiful expressions of it I have seen and been part of in recent weeks. On a personal level it has also looked like a whole lot of people looking out for me too: people who have checked in, people who I know care and worry about me. People who have been there with supportive messages and conversations, with cups of tea and glasses of wine, with invitations to relax and have fun and with hugs on demand. I am very grateful to them / you all.  

So I was all set to write a post, about how, individually and collectively, resilience and rest matter, and the different ways in which I try to build them into my life and create rhythms and realities that work for me but what I planned to say has now been slightly derailed / reconfigured. 

This week, we re-enter ordinary time in the church, the coming Sunday's gospel reading is Mark 2:23 - 3:6 and it has fallen as my turn to prepare something to say for our Tuesday bible discussion group. It has proved to be a reminder, should I need one, that the lenses through which we read these texts are so often strongly influenced by our current context and experience.

In the story, the disciples pick and eat corn from the fields as they walk and then Jesus heals a man's withered hand. Both take place on the sabbath, and Jesus uses them to challenge the rules of what is and isn't allowed. I am sure there have been, and will be, times when I would read this text as a comfortably reassuring reminder that we are not called to a blind following of restrictive rules and that faith is something mor active and dynamic than that. 

That is not, at least initially how I read it this week. I'm never afraid to sound mildly heretical, and on first reading this time around I was, frankly, a bit irritated with Jesus. In the story he asks the question, what is lawful to do on the sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?"

 

I aspire for my life and my work to be about doing good and bringing life. I am not pretending I do so perfectly or consistently, but I am trying to do my little bit. In many ways, these things are the very hardest from which to 'take a sabbath', to recognise the need for rest and recuperation. I have had to learn that it is ok to stop, even when the stopping means that good and important thing may not get done. I have had to learn to switch off, even while acknowledging it is a luxury those I support don't have. These have been hard learned lessons, and continue to be something which takes conscious discipline. I definitely do not need Jesus to tell me that I can give up my sabbath as long as it is to do good. I need to hear that it is ok to stop doing good, too. Fortunately, my inner voice, which may or may not be of God, continues to say exactly that, even if it is a whisper I have to consciously make space to hear.

And no, I don't want a strict set of rules: either external or self-imposed, by which to live the sabbath, but I do also recognise the value of doing sabbath well; and while Jesus may have had a point, in our current context and culture, I wonder if he'd have been trying to convey a different message to his audience. 

We (I) live in a society that has made a virtue of being constantly busy: where having something else on is considered a valid reason to not accept another commitment but just wanting time off isn't. We may have made a joke of the idea of turning down invites because "I'm washing my hair" but it does play into a deeper reality that just stopping and doing nothing isn't considered reason enough. While there have been certain positive steps in recent years, with looking after ones own wellbeing being increasingly recognised as valid, there is still a deeply embedded culture of 'busier is best'. I have no doubt that this culture contributes to my own struggle with building in 'sabbath time'. But it is not the only thing. 

My life, like many peoples, is made up of many, many blurred boundaries: of space and time and people. In many, even most, ways this suits me exceptionally well. I know I would hate (and know I would be spectacularly unproductive) in an office job with set hours. I like being able to choose what I do, and when I do it, but it mans there are no hard and fast lines drawn around what counts as work time. Technology, and the communication it facilitates, is both blessing and curse. The people I work with are also my community: they are the people I socialise and celebrate with. I enjoy their company and some have become people I count among my closest friends; but in many of these relationships I still fulfil a role of offering support where it is needed. I would not change any of this: but I acknowledge that it means working harder to identify the best ways to find sabbath in its midst.

And then there is this question, straight out of the gospel "is it lawful to do good, or to do evil?" One doesn't have to look far to find the suggestion that, where evil exists, and when we look around us it is ever-present, that to fail to do good is already to do evil. So wherein lies our right to pause and look after ourselves too? A couple of weeks ago I found myself responding to a friend who said "I should have been there" by trying to reassure her that no, she shouldn't. It was ok, right even, that she had not been there, even if that meant the situation didn't have as satisfactory a resolution as it might have done if she had been. On another day, those words, said out loud to someone else, could just have easily been the ones I told myself. When it comes to mundane admin tasks or replying to emails, anyone who has ever had to chase me will know very well that I don't find it so difficult to stop and not get them done! But when it comes to those things which feel like they will genuinely effect other people's lives and with which they need help, the things where I ask myself, 'yes, but if I don't ...': those are definitely the times it is harder to switch off. The resilience part of the blogpost title at least partly relates to this: the gradual learning to find ways to manage doing what I can, while also dealing healthily with what I can't or don't. The learning to know that other people can and will pick up the pieces too, and that even if they can't or won't or don't ... that I am still not called to do it all. 

Despite these challenges, I have learned to build sabbath time into my life in lots of different ways. My frequently lapsed and frequently reinstituted routine of prayer; days out and weekends away; time spent with friends and time spent alone; creative interludes, cooking nice food, and sitting on the sofa doing very little at all; not (or not always) feeling I have to explain or justify why something might have taken longer to complete or reply to than it 'should'; days, including work days, where I make a decision not to set an alarm, ... the list goes on. 

My version of sabbath probably looks very different to anyone else's, as well as looking different to what mine has looked like in the past, or will in the future. And that is ok. Maybe, now that I am past my mild irritation at what I read as Jesus' slightly unhelpful intervention, that's the point he too was trying to make. He does go on to say that the sabbath was made for us, not we for the sabbath ... he does not actually question the reality or value of the existence or principle of it. Maybe the point is that we can be the "Lord of our own sabbath" too. I am doing my best to find ways to do exactly that.

And so here we are. Bank holiday Monday. And I refuse to feel guilty that I am sitting in my pyjamas as I write. 

Rwanda (2)

It is perhaps somewhat ironic that just 24 hours after writing my previous post, I was catapulted into what was, even by my standards, an exceptionally exhausting week on both a practical and emotional level. 

I wrote a post about Rwanda when the idea was first raised, way back in 2022. I stand by everything I said then, and more. The 'Safety of Rwanda' law received royal assent on Thursday 25th April. The following Sunday a Guardian article revealed the intention to immediately start detaining people in preparation for removal, taking away the last vestiges of hope that the law wouldn't be acted on quickly, or at all.

If detentions were beginning, we knew that one of the places people would be most at risk was the home office reporting centre. Many people seeking asylum, and others who are subject to immigration control have a regular reporting condition, meaning they have to attend the home office centre to sign to say they are still here and still co-operating with the system. It is, at the best of times, a degrading and scary experience. With the threat of the Rwanda plan, those feelings were hugely amplified. If this was happening, I was not the only person to feel very strongly that was where we needed to be. 

Within hours of the article, a flurry of WhatsApp messages, much sharing of information, finding and creation of resources and the setting up of a rota meant we were ready to be on hand by the following morning. Whatever else the last couple of weeks has thrown at us, it has included an incredible showing of solidarity, and shown the value of being able to be flexible and responsive. What we would be able to offer the next day wouldn't be perfect, it would need to be refined as time went on, but we would be there.

The following morning I (and others) were outside the Home Office reporting centre by 9am. We were aware of the risk of whipping up further fear, but on balance, we knew people were already terrified, so helping people to be informed and prepared felt like the right response. We were still vaguely wondering / hoping that this could be a false alarm. It didn't take long to know it wasn't, as we realised that some of those going in were not coming out. 

I spent over twelve hours outside that building that day. During the week that followed, I lost count of the number of hours I worked, and the number of incredibly difficult conversations I had. Everything I have learned about having challenging conversations, about having to say no or not make promises I can't keep, about reassuring without offering false hope, were put to the test. 

In between there has been a lot of trying to keep on top of accurate information in a rapidly changing landscape where what seemed to be true on day might be different by the next; and attempting to disseminate that, and other, information and some gentle education for those who wanted to help but knew they had a lot to learn along the way. There is the building of a movement drawing together a diverse community of people who really care, coming from all sorts of different overlapping but not necessarily entirely aligned perspectives.

As if that wasn't enough there were also all the complexities of handling the media, the home office and the police in the mix too. 

And of course the rest of the world didn't stand still and the other demands didn't go away. Holding in tension the need for an emergency response to a specific situation and the need to continue offering the ongoing support for those facing all the other ongoing hostility and aggression of the immigration system has also been part of the picture. Building the sustainability of both will continue to be something to wrestle with.

The detrimental impact of these policies, and their implementation on those affected (and those who aren't but fear they might be) and those who care about them is significant. The fear in these communities and individuals is palpable. It will force people to disappear into places where they are at risk of destitution and exploitation. The acute mental health impacts will be felt immediately, and continue to be felt far into the future. I fear people will, literally, die. 

There is so much that we cannot do or promise. But I am also confident that almost everyone who has gone into our local reporting centre in the last fortnight has done so with a piece of paper with key information in their pocket and having seen a friendly face outside, hopefully giving them at least a vague understanding that there are others fighting for them who don't want this to be happening. When we can't do it all, sometimes we have to focus on what we can, and find ways to let go of the other. 

When the information-sharing with those reporting gradually morphed into a solidarity protest on that first day, one of the chants was "Tell me what community looks like: this is what community looks like".  And in the midst of some very, very dark days, it has looked like a lot of different, beautiful things: from being present on the ground alongside those who need it most to a whole lot of messages in support, from colourful banners and endless printing and copying to offering space to store materials, from lawyers fighting court cases, to individuals and organisations translating and sharing information in every way they can, from all important spreadsheets to donations of bottles of water and doughnuts, from lively chants to gentle conversations. And a whole lot more. On a personal level, it has also included lots of people checking in to make sure I am ok too, and hopefully me doing a bit of the same for others. Many many people, in many many ways are standing in solidarity. 

Much as I wish it didn't, this law exists and this government seems determined to implement it. But there are still ways to support, and ways to rebel: and all of them rely on an underlying willingness and ability to remain hopeful. So while I am not overly optimistic, in the midst of all the reasons why I might, I refuse to give up hope.

All the stuff. And all the other stuff.

It is hardly news to say that I have thrown myself whole heartedly into the good, the bad and the ugly of the migration sector and, specifically within it, the reality faced by those seeking sanctuary.

It is a reality which I will, fortunately, hopefully, never be able to fully understand, but I have walked alongside people enough to know it is a reality which is very, very hard and one which is constantly getting harder. On both a macro scale and a micro one, there is always, invariably, just one more thing. One more challenge, one more trauma, one more barrier placed in the way. 

In a different way to that which is the case for people living within the reality of its impact on their own lives, walking alongside people seeking sanctuary absorbs much of my time and energy. There are days that are full of joy and hope, and days which are much harder, but certainly my days are very full. All of this a choice I have made, and a choice I do not in anyway regret. It is challenging, frustrating and utterly heart-breaking. But it is also life-giving and utterly beautiful.  

Even within this narrow area of activity I am frequently aware of how much I still don't know or understand, and how much needs to be done that I am unable to do.

But this post isn't really about that stuff, its about all the other stuff.

It is about the fact that every time I look up and look around, I am constantly reminded that there are a million other issues too. And all too often, I am reminded that I am not doing anything about them at all. 

Some of them are issues I have engaged with more actively in the past. Others not so much. 

As a student, my first real awakening into social justice issues was through the trade justice movement, and I know unfair trade continues to destroy lives and livelihoods across the majority world. Trips abroad educated me further about global inequalities and their impacts. 

Later, I was involved in campaigning within the peace movement: against nuclear weapons and against the arms trade as a driver of conflict and destruction. Now a genocide is being committed in Palestine and other conflicts continue to proliferate, many of which aren't even considered newsworthy enough to make the headlines, despite the daily death tolls.

Living in Birmingham City Centre for several years I was daily confronted with the issue of the number of people experiencing homelessness. And the impacts of the housing crisis extend far beyond just those actually sleeping on the streets to all those living in precarious, temporary, exploitative accommodation. 

The area I now live in is best known as the home to Birmingham's prison: I am well aware that the justice system is deeply flawed and prison systems hideously broken.

Minority communities continue to face exclusion and abuse and if, in certain areas, there have been positive advances that do need to be recognised, many still experience daily micro-aggressions and others, such as the trans community, are watching hard-won rights being eroded and abuses increase. 

Birmingham City Council's declaration of bankruptcy has been followed by the announcement of devastating cuts to public services which will inevitably have the greatest impact on the poorest and most vulnerable residents. 

We are on a collision course towards catastrophic climate climate change and total environmental collapse which may well end civilisation as we currently know it and is already wreaking havoc in many parts of the world. . 

And that's just some of the ones that immediately spring to mind. There are many others.

I am not doing anything about any of these things. 

I know that they all matter. I am grateful to those for whom any of these, and other issues, are where they place their passion and energy.

A lot of the time, caught up in the things that fill my days, I admit to giving limited thought to how I could / should respond to or engage with all these other issues. When I do find myself thinking about it, mostly, I feel able to justify the value in what I am doing and make peace with the reality of all the stuff I can't do. I also understand that none of these issues stand in isolation and that often, our attitudes and actions in one area do, indirectly, impact on others. 

But of course it isn't always so simple. There is, at times, guilt, and self-doubt, and questioning whether I have my priorities right: whether there is more, or different, stuff I could or should be doing. There are not easy right and wrong answers to such questions. Saying this, or writing it down, isn't about beating myself up for the stuff I am not engaged with; on the contrary, being able to acknowledge what I am doing, and what I am not, what I can do, and what I can't, matters. Acknowledging and letting go feels far healthier than trying to pretend none of this stuff, or none of the internal questions about it, exist. 

Because that making peace isn't necessarily automatic. It doesn't just happen. It involves a certain amount of reflection and even, at times, conscious discipline. It continues to be something I wrestle with. I do not do it perfectly all of the time, but generally, I think I am doing it ok. 

This blogpost has been an unfinished draft for a very long time. It still feels fairly unfinished in some ways, but perhaps that's quite appropriate given the subject matter it is attempting to communicate.

The potters wheel

A few weeks ago I did a pottery wheel taster class at a small studio in the Jewellery Quarter. 

I learned quite a lot, including that using a pottery wheel is, I would say, harder than it looks (and I'm not sure it looks particularly easy anyway!)

My first attempt was fairly disastrous and by the end of the workshop, my finished bowl was very far from perfect.

But it really didn't matter. The end result wasn't the point.

I know that being creative is, for me, a really valuable way to relax and I enjoyed turning my hand to something different. I loved the feel of the clay between my fingers, and the process of creating something with my own hands.

I would definitely do it again.

I was recently able to pick up my bowl which, in the interim had been glazed and fired. And even if it was always more about the process than the product, I am, actually, really happy with how it has turned out!

Sometimes we belong

At the Northern Leg reunion, back in the autumn, the theme we agreed to explore through our liturgy this year was something to do with what it means to belong, or not belong, and the comfort, and challenge of how we feel about inclusion and exclusion, our own, and that of others.

In preparation for the week itself, throughout Lent, I have been sharing some reflections helping me (and hopefully others) consider what it means to belong (or not to) for ourselves and for those in the world around us. Whether or not any of the words I have written have spoken to anyone else, I have very much enjoyed the reflective and writing process. And for what it is worth, I am sharing them here too.

Week 1

I invite you to think about the communities / places where you "belong" and that sense of belonging is something you value; and the communities / places you "belong" but about which belonging you feel slightly uncomfortable.

Week 2

I invite you to think about the communities / places where you feel you "do not belong", whether that is by your choice, or by other people’s. I invite you to think about the times and places and ways which feels challenging, those that feel freeing, and those that uncomfortably straddle the two.

Week 3

Reflecting on our own experiences of inclusion / exclusion is important, but so is looking beyond our own experiences to those of others. I invite you to think about who our society excludes, perhaps digging a little deeper, beyond those who immediately spring to mind. I invite you, if you dare, to allow yourself to reflect honestly on who you personally, consciously or subconsciously, struggle to include.

Week 4

I invite you to reflect on how we can create communities of meaningful inclusion for those who are excluded, marginalised and on the edges, of our communities and societies. Is tolerance enough? Is integration to be encouraged? What does it mean to be truly inclusive? What does it take for everyone to be able to say "I belong"?

Week 5

You may have seen this poem before: it is the only one of this series not written specifically this Lent. I wrote it a few years ago and it has been posted on my blog previously as both a text and a spoken / video version, but it seemed fitting to share it as part of this series. 

I invited Northern Leg to reflect on the ways in which we feel we belong to this little community, and the role we each have to play in helping others feel they belong too: but I guess the same process of reflection could equally apply to any of the other communities to which we feel we belong. 

And that's it, because next Friday we will be wending our way to meet in person and the reflections and ponderings will move from the virtual world to the real one. 

There may be further reflections on the theme to follow here post-pilgrimage. Or then again, there may not. Watch this space. 

The end of a saga

This week I finally received a refund cheque from the company who supplied the energy to the flat where I lived prior to moving here.

It is fifteen months since I moved out. I have been waiting for it for longer than I lived there.

The irony is, that the previous property had a prepayment meter.

As a general rule, those on prepayment meters pay more for their energy, even though it is generally the poorest who are more likely to have to use them: it is one of many examples of the poor being penalised for their poverty (although I am certainly not saying that applies to me.) 

As far as I was concerned, I was paying for my energy up front and, when I moved out, there was nothing more to be done. But, it turns out, these prepayment meters work, at least partially, on estimates, and you are supposed to submit a final meter reading when you move on. I didn't, because it never occurred to me I'd have to. So they estimated my final reading. By this point new tenants had moved into the flat, and there was no way of knowing the actual final reading. Perhaps predictably, they estimated my final usage as higher than what I had paid for. I suspect the estimate was wrong ... I am a very cautious user of energy for both cost and environmental reasons. I was irritated, and argued, but ultimately accepted.

I made the payment by phone. The system glitched, and they thought the payment hadn't gone through so tried again, assuring me that if it was taken twice it would be automatically refunded. It wasn't, and there in began the saga of trying to get it back.

Maybe they assumed I wouldn't even notice the duplicate payment and make the first phone call to ask for it back. Maybe they then assumed I'd soon give up and go away. But I have a bloody-minded streak and I was not going to give up easily.

I didn't really fight this just on the basis of being stubborn though.

I fought it because on the basis of their environmental record and of their obscene profit margins I don't want to be giving energy companies a penny more than I have to.

I fought it because I knew that had it been the other way round and I had owed them money for over a year, they wouldn't have given up pursuing me: I'd possibly have had my power cut off and more than likely ended up with a court summons.

I fought it because although for me it wasn't a huge amount of money and given my level of income and privilege, living without it for the past year and a bit has been, frankly, neither here nor there; that wouldn't have been true if I was struggling to get by on a limited income, and therefore wouldn't be true for plenty of other people. 

I fought it because I can, and because I know that many people finding themselves in the same situation wouldn't be able to. My level of English and level of education gives me the skills and the confidence to know how to fight for what I am entitled to (and I can't deny a certain pleasure in writing a well-crafted complaint!). My level of privilege means I am not constantly living in survival mode so I had the capacity and mental energy to take them on.  

Obviously I'm not naive enough the think that me getting my money back means they're suddenly going to start checking their records and ensuring they refund everyone who is owed money. Maybe it won't help anyone else at all, but it became a point of principle. 

I know in the grand scheme of things, this was a tiny insignificant issue, but it is also indicative of how systems and institutions, and those with power and privilege, can so easily exploit and abuse those they see as beneath them. 

Today, finally, I have that cheque. I am lucky enough not to actually need it and will be donating it to a charity that helps people cope with fuel poverty so hopefully it can do a tiny amount of good for someone who needs it more.

No go areas

 Earlier this week, not for the first time, an MP said that there are "no-go areas" in Birmingham. He was, rightly, quickly condemned for the implicit racism in his comments.

But, coupled with another conversation I happened to have around the same time as my twitter feed was filled with that, I did start thinking a little more deeply.

I may not use the same language of "no go areas" but I am often having conversations with people about how we can open up access to spaces which can feel off-limits. I freely acknowledge there are spaces in Birmingham from which certain groups feel excluded. They are not the same places that Paul Scully is referring to, but for a lot of those I work with, there are all sorts of places which I can walk into and resources I can access that they almost certainly wouldn't. Places where work needs to be done if we are to reduce or remove the barriers which stop people crossing the thresholds. Some of those barriers are practical and financial, but there is more to it than that. It is about places where different people aren't sure whether they will feel safe, or feel welcome, where they don't know whether they really belong. A line which has always stuck with me since I first heard it (and I can't accredit because I don't know whose quote it is originally is: "You might say your door is open, but what does your door look like?" If we are truly going to build a city with no "no go areas" we need to look at our doors.

The Stories group have been made incredibly welcome by the REP Theatre in Birmingham who were relatively recently awarded Theatre of Sanctuary status. At the award giving, one of the Stories group participants spoke about her experience of how this was a place she never felt 'someone like her' would be welcome, that she would never have dared to walk through those somewhat imposing doors, but where she now felt welcomed and included. For her, this once "no go area" has become a place where she feels part of its story, but I am not naive: I know there are all sorts of cultural institutions and other spaces where she (and others like her) don't feel they belong. 

When I was a newly qualified teacher (Dewsbury, not Birmingham, but the point still stands) I remember having a conversation with a very bright seven year old and mentioning university. I still remember the jolt it gave me when he told me that university wasn't for people like him. Higher education was, at least at that point, a "no go area" for him. I don't know the rest of the story, but whether or not he chose to study at university, I hope that conversations and experiences in the interim taught him it was at least an option. 

If Paul Scully feels the same about certain parts of this city, that's very sad. I have far less sympathy for him: I think those of us with power and privilege bear more of the responsibility for making our own way out of our comfort zones, and the energy we put into removing barriers needs to focus on the most excluded and most vulnerable; but perhaps, being charitable, the same principle applies. 

It isn't the only piece in the jigsaw of how we create accessible spaces, but by far the most successful way I have found of helping people cross boundaries into "no go areas" is to go there with them. To hold their hand, literally or metaphorically, as we walk through doors they thought were closed to them. 

If somewhere feels scary or off-limits, the solution isn't just condemnation, or even just telling someone they can cross that boundary: it is to take people by the hand and enable them to walk across the street, across the postcode boundary, through the door, over the threshold. 

On the other side, they might just find they were welcome and safe after all. 

What does the cross mean to you?

I was asked recently (actually, not very recently, I started writing this ages ago, but it's Lent so perhaps now is a reasonable moment to drag it back out and try and make it vaguely coherent): "What does the cross mean to you?"

The question came from someone who thinks deeply about life, someone who grapples with faith and doubt, someone who is constantly seeking meaningful answers about our human existence. It also came when they were going through an exceptionally dark time in their life. For all these reasons, it mattered how I answered. In the space of a few seconds I wanted to come up with an answer that was both honest and helpful. Who knows whether what I said, to a degree, was (I can't even actually remember what I said); but it also prompted me, as these kinds of questions sometimes do, to write a longer, more considered response here.

To be honest, despite being the central tenet and symbol of the Christian faith, the cross is not an image that is the foremost part of my faith: there are other parts of the Jesus story that resonate with me more, other images of God which are more significant in my understanding of God's identity. Around the same time as the aforementioned conversation, in the church's lectionary was the gospel that includes Jesus asking his disciples "Who do you say I am?" to which Peter answers "you are the Messiah, the son of the living God". It is a question, "Who do you say I am?", what is the fullness of the identity of God?, that we used to regularly reflect on in our prayers at Carrs Lane and that I have explored in other ways, times and places too. "You are the Crucified / the God of the Cross" is only one facet of my very multi-faceted answer. 

I think it is partly because I have been fortunate enough to never have experienced real, deep suffering. I fully appreciate that there are people who need this image of the cross more than I ever have, to need this God who suffers alongside, this image of com-passion. 

I think it is also partly because of how much of the theology of the cross I have heard explicitly or implicitly taught which makes me feel deeply uncomfortable and doesn't sit easily with what I believe about God. The cross I believe in, and the theology that accompanies it, is not reflected in much of what I hear or see preached or practiced in the church. I often feel the need to premise what the cross means to me by first ruling out all the things it doesn't: I don't believe the cross was a punishment, substitutionary or otherwise, any more than I believe the suffering endured by millions around the world and down through history is a punishment. I don't believe God willed Jesus' suffering, any more than I believe God wills ours; I don't believe God / Jesus sought out suffering for its own sake any more that I believe we are called to do so when we are called to "take up our cross".   

With that preamble aside, the cross does still have a place in my understanding of God: certainly the answer to the question isn't "nothing", even if it isn't always the part of my faith which is front and centre, and even if it isn't something easily expressed or explained. Like all words and images, anything I can say in answer to this question will, I know, fall short of encapsulating the incomprehensible mystery that I call God. At some point I have to stop trying to wrestle the uncontainable into words that will hold it, release those words to the world, and hope it sort of says some of what I want it to.

For me, the cross is primarily a symbol of the depths of love of which God is capable and of which we are called towards: not because suffering is ever willed or wished for by love but because it is the unintended consequence of great love. 

We suffer because of who and what and how we love. 

The cross is not about seeking suffering for its own sake, it is about loving to the point of being willing to suffer with or for those we love. And I believe we are called to this great love, which will inevitably hold within it great suffering. I believe this is what it means to go to the cross: to love so deeply, so fully, so completely that we will experience the grief and suffering of ourselves.  

The whole incarnation story: birth, life and death reminds us that, however much we dress it up in theological language and fancy images, God's love for humanity isn't something theoretical and ephemeral. It is deeply real. The reality of that love doesn't start or end with the incarnation of God in human form: it is eternally true, but our little human brains struggle to grasp it. We still struggle, even when it is turned into a deeply human story, but it offers a glimpse we can perhaps begin to try and understand. The incarnation story, and inherent within it the story of the cross, makes visible God's love for humanity. In the incarnation God says "I love you so much I want to be you". On the cross God reminds us "I love you so much that this pain which you inflict on one another, you inflict it on me." The cross is a symbol that while suffering is not willed or wished for by love, it is an unintended consequence of both great love and of its absence. God feels the pain of the cross because of his deep love for the humanity that inflicted it and on whom it is inflicted.

Jesus died on the cross because something: political power, religious bigotry, a desire for order, ignorance, herd mentality, fear .... or all of the above, veiled the possibility of the love that would have prevented it. It stands as a reminder of how often the same continues to be true in the deeply broken world in which we live. It is a symbol of the depths of evil of which humanity is capable when we turn our backs on love. But it also makes visible how much that hurts. Far worse is the bland indifference to suffering. The things which should hurt but don't because we have lost sight of the relationships, the connections that would make us weep for the pain we witness. The cross is our reminder that God is never indifferent to humanity's pain.

If we believe in a trinitarian God in which the fullness of God is present in all three persons, an incredibly complex thing is happening on the cross which reveals something of God's, and our, identity. God is simultaneously both experiencing the physical pain of dying and the emotional torment of watching the one he loves die. As God both dies and watches the one he loves die, helpless, or choosing to be helpless to intervene, the cross bears witness to the suffering both of our own pain, and watching the pain of another we love. It reminds us that God's com-passion is deeply present in our experiences of both.

When Jesus cries out "My God, my God why have you forsaken me" he calls out both from and to his own deepest self: he expresses a sense of abandonment even by his own essence and being. Perhaps those who have experienced intense physical pain or emotional torment can understand that more than I can. When he later says "into your hands I commend my spirit" there is a sense in the coming back to God of the coming back to self: a reminder that when we find ourselves, deep within we find the essence of God. It also offers up a mystery we perhaps know to be true even if it one we can never understand: that even though our deepest suffering is the consequence of how deeply we love, the response to suffering isn't to close off to that love but to open up to it even more. That even from the depths of a suffering that we only feel because we have loved deeply, we still have the capacity to trust in love. 

For me, then, more than being a symbol of hate, suffering and death... and I acknowledge it is all three, the cross is an inspiration for life, a witness to why life is worth living. Not because of the resurrection, but in and of itself. This love which is the root of suffering is also the same love which enriches our human experience. The cross stands as witness that love is present and love is possible. That we can hold the other close enough that we will suffer with and for them, and that it will hurt, but it will be worth it.

Not a Christmas Poem

As I said in this post, I have written a Christmas poem every year for many, many years. And then there was this year, when I didn't. I made a conscious decision, relatively successfully, not to be frustrated by it, but that doesn't mean I haven't given any thought to the matter. .

The last poem I wrote (excluding those I have facilitated / collaborated on with Stories of Hope and Home) was the previous year's Christmas poem, published just a few days into 2023, so this is not a recent problem. The odd line or phrase or vague idea has flitted through my mind at intervals, but whether due to a lack of inspiration, or head / diary space, or discipline or all of the above, they went no further. Some made it on to scraps of paper (or the digital equivalent) others not even that.

There has also been very little art recently either, nor in fact most things that feel like they would have needed any degree of creativity. I signed up for a course of writing prompts through advent with the aim of trying to recapture some creative energy ... and failed to complete a single one. After a while, I stopped even opening the emails.

Some of this is about actual, objective, busy-ness. I do not regret the time and energy I pour into my work (although I do wish there weren't quite so many emails!). I put much of my energy into sustaining relationships that matter to me, however imperfectly. I have turned a house into a home. I have juggled many different balls: I have let some of them drop, caught some by the tips of my fingers, but kept many of them in the air.

But I am not naïve. I know this is not really, or not only, about objective busy-ness. If that was all, I could waste less time on social media and pick up a pen or paintbrush instead. I know this is also about the energy it takes to wrestle with the right ways to respond to a society and world that is on a collision course with destruction. I know it is also about watching people I care about struggle and suffer and choosing to use my energy to try and walk alongside them. I know it is also that there are no words or colours to easily capture much of what I see around me.

Beating myself up for not being creative isn't going to solve any of that, but I do believe that finding little spaces where I can find a creative spark is also part of the solution. So a couple of Sundays ago, I carved out some time. I attended a Writers HQ writing retreat, set myself a goal of "having something on a page" and spent the day doing just that. It was fairly self-indulgent, and weirdly tiring, but very satisfying.

There were glimmers of ideas, at least some of which might turn into something. Some might not, and that's ok. In the midst of the "something on a page" there was the beginnings of a poem, about there not being a poem. A couple of weeks on, it is ready to be shared.

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes

To neatly capture

The sentiments of the season

No words

To celebrate

The word made flesh

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes

To neatly capture

The suffering and the struggle

No words

To adequately witness

To other people’s pain

No rhymes

To break through

the overwhelming tide of tasks

No words

To somehow sum up

The chaos and the conflict,

The brokenness of our world

There were just empty pages

Resolutely blank

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes

To neatly capture

The families and the friendships

No words

To adequately witness

To the sparkling of the lights

No rhymes

To break through

The ebb and flow of conversation

No words

To somehow sum up

The chaos and the community

The rebuilding of our world

There were just empty pages

Resolutely blank

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes,

No words.

But the Word was present

And made flesh

As well as empty pages

There was God

Resolutely alive.