Thirty words (3)

This is the third and final instalment of my June challenge of writing thirty words every day. So here we are, thirty vignettes: inspired by the last month of my life, by conversations and encounters, and by my imagination.

Part 1 

Part 2

And these: 

21st June

The pain of separation. A deep ache of gnawing uncertainty enveloping the heart. Anxious, disorientated, numb. But fingers curl tight around a sliver of hope, determined not to let go.

22nd June

Disordered words scribbled across a tattered page. Disordered thoughts scattered in a distracted mind. How do we find order in this chaos? How much does it matter if we don’t?

23rd June

Sometimes every inch is an effort, sometimes miles fly past. Sometimes each day seems to last a lifetime, sometimes weeks flash past. But the wheels, and the earth keep turning. 

24th June

Sometimes, you just want to curl up under the covers for a while. That’s ok. Provided you remember the shape you make is always a comma, never a full stop.

25th June

The sun smiles down from bright, cloudless skies, and the earth heats up beneath it. But the best kind of warmth comes from inside, and we usually call it love.

26th June

How often we resist the pull and possibility of newness for fear of wasting what went before. But autumn leaves which fall from trees aren’t wasted, they are making way.

27th June

A simple air, hummed absent-mindedly; a catchy chorus sung out totally un-self-consciously, poetic words, infiltrating the soul. This is music, with the power and beauty to sustain and change us.

28th June

Ethereal early morning light bathing the earth. Cool freshness cradling the promise of heat. Foliage still gently caressed by dew drops. The precious quality of a new day just beginning. 

 

29th June

Lives carefully stitched together from those parts of ourselves lived out loud in vibrant colours, and the deeply hidden secrets traced in fragile silver we scarcely dare whisper to ourselves. 

30th June

The shadows shift, and at times it seems the light fades; but then the clouds crack open, pierced by a shaft of light which reminds us, all will be well.

And so, tomorrow, another month begins. 

A willingness to listen

I lead daily prayer a lot, but it's not often I get to lead a Sunday service at the Church at Carrs Lane. When I do, it usually involves paint ... but that doesn't work so well in online worship, so this time, it didn't.

The Old Testament lectionary reading for today was the story of Abraham's non-sacrifice of Isaac (Genesis 22:1-14), a story I think is particularly rich on all sorts of levels. Too rich, and too deep to address everything in one five minute reflection. Anyway, I thought I'd share my reflection from the service here too.  

At the beginning of this story, Abraham knows what God wants of him. He understands there will be a huge cost: a commitment of time and physical energy, but above all a huge emotional cost. He says yes to this call of God and sets of on this journey.

And then, at a certain point, after much of this emotional and physical energy has already been expended, God says, Stop. I require something different of you now.

We don’t know, the text doesn’t tell us, whether Abraham had completely misunderstood the original call: there is a strong part of me likes to think so, I struggle with the idea of God that God would demand child sacrifice; but perhaps actually God did need Abraham to engage with this, albeit destructive, aspect of the community in which he lived, of the culture which surrounded him.

I wonder whether it matters which is true: either way, what we do know is neither God nor Abraham condemn themselves or each other for the journey, the expenditure of energy and emotional angst which has brought them to this point. All of this is held as part of the story with no value judgment cast.

I wonder whether what really matters, what makes Abraham such an important father of faith for three major world religions is his willingness, both here and in other stories about him, to continue to listen, to be open to changing direction, to setting off on new paths.

This is a story from an ancient culture so far removed from our own and yet I wonder whether, in fact, it speaks more deeply into and about our own experiences than is immediately apparent.

I wonder whether many of us have in fact had, or even perhaps are having, parallel experiences. I hope, I really hope, that no-one listening to this feels God has asked them to sacrifice a child. But I hope, too, many of us feel God has called us down paths which have cost us something: towards things which have demanded our time and energy, demanded our emotional investment. I hope, many of us have been willing to respond to those calls, to set off on those journeys towards those mountains.

I wonder how easily Abraham heard God say stop. From this distance it is easy to think, well of course, any hint that he should not sacrifice his child he was going to leap at. I wonder whether it was  really that simple. I wonder how tempted he was, given all it had already cost him, given the emotional investment in this path he was on, I wonder how tempted he was just to carry on along that path, I wonder how tempted he was to close his ears to whatever other messages God might now speak.

I wonder how tempted we are, sometimes, to do the same. To be so invested in something, to know so definitely that the journey was sanctioned by God that we close our ears to the whispered voice that might say stop. I require something different of you now.

When Abraham heard that voice say stop, I wonder if he felt like it wasted all of that energy, all of that effort, all of that time, all of that emotion. I wonder whether we ever struggle to listen to a God who is asking something new, for fear of wasting all that went before.

But Abraham dared to listen. He dared to respond. He dared to change direction. And in doing so it did, ultimately, offer something infinitely better, infinitely more beautiful. I wonder whether, if we are willing to keep listening, to hear God sometimes ask us to stop and change direction, we too will discover something infinitely better, infinitely more beautiful.

You can watch the whole service, which also includes music and singing from friends with far more talent than me, and contributions from some very cute children, here:

Thirty Words (2)

For the month of June I set myself the challenge of writing thirty words a day. Only thirty. Exactly thirty. Part 1 appeared here, this is the second instalment.

11th June

We tell stories because we are made of stories. Snippets of stories, scribbled on crumpled scraps. Shards of stories with jagged edges, but which yet create a kaleidoscope of colour.

12th June

Poppies waver in the wind. There seems such contrast between their fragility and the firm solidity of those November ones. I wonder if, in this remembrance, we have, somehow, forgotten.

13th June

This is hope. Tiny seeds lie buried, hidden and seemingly inert. And yet, almost imperceptibly, in the dark of the dirt, something grows, bursting with the potential of new life.

14th June

Filled with foreboding, a storm approaches. Eerie light suffuses gathering clouds. Thunder rolls overhead. But the raindrops dance into puddles and a bridge of colour is splashed across the sky. 

15th June

Sparkling with life, shimmering with hope: imagination captures the light of new possibilities. Settling only for brief moments, she flickers just beyond our reach, urging us to follow her lead.

16th June

Sometimes, despite trying to listen, we struggle to hear. Sometimes, we can’t understand why the message seems to change. Sometimes we just have to trust there is a way forward.

17th June

However trapped we feel by mundane reality, imagination allows us to soar beyond it. Whether we imagine the impossible or what might somehow become: is this what makes us human?

18th June

Look up. Vivid blue interrupted by wisps of white. Granite-grey, heavy with unspent rain. Soaked in orange, tinged with pink as the sun rises and falls. Midnight-dark, scattered with stars. 

19th June

How can we tell when what we do, give and are is, in fact, enough? Who can we trust, when not ourselves, to tell us we are, in fact, worthy?

20th June

Doors. Ways in and ways out. Some flung wide open, others resolutely closed. Hardest, perhaps, those apparently open, which we approach, only to find ourselves banging heads against one-way glass.

I'm quite enjoying this process, so am already looking ahead to what I could set myself as a creative challenge during July. I'm open to suggestions for a new idea!

Stories of Hope and Home (3)

Once again a significant period of time has elapsed between posts on this subject. Admittedly, in the interim, there was this one I wrote on the project's blog, but while it is still 'me' it has a slightly different feel and nuance to writing here.

But this week is Refugee Week, so it feels like as good a time as any to reflect on where the project is now, not least because, although it officially came into existence last August, and really got underway in October; in many ways, refugee week last year was the beginning of the journey for what was to become Stories of Hope and Home. 

Exactly a year ago, my wonderful class from St Chad's Sanctuary performed a play, courageously sharing their stories with over 400 people. It was exhausting ... and truly, truly amazing. By the end of that day I knew, "more of this!" and Stories of Hope and Home was what came of that conviction. 

I don't think I could have predicted, a year ago, where it would be right now. I mean, to be fair, none of us predicted a global pandemic that would turn all of our lives upside down. None of my early descriptions of what I hoped the project would become included trying to sustain a community entirely online. 

But there are a whole lot of other things that I probably wouldn't have fully predicted either:

A series of successful grant applications which have not only made the project feel sustainable, but have offered external affirmation of the value that is to be found in this project and its aims.

The participation of thirty-five people from twenty-one different nationalities, and the building of a community which, in its diversity of culture, religion, language, age, gender... is a parable for how life can and should be. The building of a community who care deeply about each other but who have remained open and welcoming to newcomers, because they know what it means to be made welcome. 

Having spoken, despite the possibility to do so being cut short in March, to over 450 school students (and their staff) ranging in age from year one to year 13, and in settings including state schools and private ones, mainstream, special education and alternative provision, and to have witnessed some truly transformative conversations taking place.

Pulling off a genuinely wonderful residential trip.

To have produced some utterly beautiful creative writing, digging deep into the depths of the human experience. 

Of course, there are things I probably could have predicted too: I knew we would tell stories and share experiences. I knew that we would share lots of  good food. I knew there would be occasional tears, and lots and lots of laughter. I knew there would be friendship and care for one another. I knew there would be some teaching, but that I would learn more that I taught. I knew I would receive far more than I would give ... I knew the participants would struggle to understand how that is the case.  

Even putting aside global pandemics and other minor disruptions to our plans, the project probably looks quite different to my original disparate ideas of doing 'something' following on from the play. But while it may not look quite how I thought it might, I like what it looks like now.

In other circumstances, we'd almost certainly have been putting on a play this week. That was always a part of the plan. Needless to say, we're not. Does that matter? Does it mean we haven't achieved what we set out to do? No, I don't think it does. Because I really believe we are doing very good things. and, well, now we're here, there's always next year!

thirty words (1)

My creative output has been distinctly limited recently: best laid plans of writing more and painting more during lockdown have not really come to fruition. The creative spirit, it appears, cannot be forced.

But then, prompted by a conversation with a friend, I wondered whether, in fact, perhaps it can. Not be forced as such, but be worked at. That there is discipline, as well as inspiration. 

So having closed my gratitude diary on Pentecost Sunday, I started a new regular commitment: every day, for the thirty days of June I would write something that was exactly thirty words long. There was, I knew, no point aiming for something too ambitious and setting myself up for failure, but that felt like a manageable challenge. Perhaps some of them will spark ideas of something else later. Perhaps not.

You don't have to read them, but for the record, here are the first ten:

1st June

We call them weeds, dismiss them as unwanted, these flowers growing by the wayside. But these bright splashes of colour, these signs of life, brighten up the monotony of grey.

2nd June

Sometimes there are, in fact, no right words to say. And in that moment of painful silence, what does one offer when we cannot reach out and hold each other?

3rd June

Shoulders hunch against the clinging drizzle as clouds hang, grey and heavy, in the air. But beneath the rain there is a new freshness to the countless shades of green.

4th June

A tongue stumbles over unfamiliar sounds. And yet, those words, stuttered hesitantly, somehow create a connection. Here, in this space where communication makes community possible, a new family is formed.

5th June

When dark glowering skies are threatened, these fragile rays of sun, even if they lack the warmth of previous days, feel somehow precious; and each sliver of blue, a blessing.

6th June

Wherever children’s innocent, unfettered laughter sparkles with the colours of dreams; joy and hope join hands to twirl and dance beneath the rainbow, to the irrepressible tune of life’s harmony.

7th June

The sounds of water should be the stuff of poetry, except, which words truly capture the eternal beauty of roaring waves, gently lapping tides, babbling streams, a tumbling waterfall’s song?

8th June

Remaining on the palette are the unwanted splashes of colour that didn’t make the final canvas. But, weighed down under confused, overlapping layers of paint: perhaps this too is art.

9th June

Like others before us who have built bridges across vast chasms of the unknown: what bridges will we dare to build, and towards which future will we direct their course? 

10th June

We build bridges to open the way towards undiscovered connections and adventures. We build bridges to stretch beyond our limited horizons. We build bridges to bring the impossible within reach.

Gratitude (2)

Some time ago, I wrote a post about how, for Lent this year I had been keeping a gratitude journal.

It is now the end of the Easter season and there seems a certain symmetry to ending this daily record. I am not intending to stop being grateful for the many good things, big and small, which are part of my life. I hope the discipline of consciously being thankful is sufficiently embedded, to be able to set the notebook aside, at least for a time, without losing the spirit of thankfulness it has reminded me to cultivate.

It may not be of interest to anyone else, but just in case the notebook gets lost (which it easily might!) I thought I'd transfer the record here. I've removed all the waffly explanations, all the repetition and the names of individuals, but other than that, this is what I have been grateful for during the Lent and Easter Season 2020:

Sunshine through the windows at morning prayer, 

good news about school places, 

sharing poetry, 

random messages from friends, 

the Birch drop-in, 

coffee shops, 

walks in the sunshine, 

good conversations, 

a grant from the national lottery, 

lunch with friends, 

a concert, 

a lie-in, 

discovering new little bits of green in walking / cycling distance, 

childish enthusiasm, 

junior church, 

dinner with friends, 

primary school visits, 

positive feedback, 

doing something creative, 

a tidy room and a jobs list in order, 

long overdue catch-ups, 

celebrating birthdays, 

being invited to read a book on the recommendation of someone else, 

being trusted by a friend, 

messages about new projects starting, 

a nap, 

watching children I care about grow up, 

the amazing, inspiring women I am privileged to know, 

time shared with friends, 

making plans with others, 

the reassurance of knowing views are shared, 

affirmation from friends, 

impromptu dinner invites, 

fresh clean sheets, 

the Stories of Hope and Home group: individually and collectively, 

being thanked, 

homemade cookies, 

reusable sanitary towels, 

story-sharing and singing with little people, 

the bus driver waiting as I ran to the bus-stop, 

loving and being loved, 

hospitality offered and received, 

being able to support, advise and mentor, 

wasting time together with important people in my life, 

live-streaming prayers and knowing others are praying with us, 

pub trips, 

planning for what remains possible in uncertain times, 

zoom, 

getting my bike out for the first time in forever, 

friendship, 

phone calls just because, 

so many education related things, 

blue skies, fresh air, sunshine

being the right kind of tired, 

seeing people again after a long interval,

family in all its many forms, 

random banter and nonsense, 

BVSC payroll services, 

living in a big building, 

impromptu contact, 

modern technology, 

sleeping until the alarm, 

face-to-face encounters, 

canals and towpaths, 

signs of spring, 

mains electricity, 

school stories, 

poetry, 

empty roads, 

the privileges of wealth, 

Godchildren, 

roast dinner, 

bike-rides and growing cycling confidence, 

lovely but predictably bonkers mums and tots online, 

Northern Leg of Student Cross: those who walk, those who welcome, 

painting, 

finding pussy willow, 

a sense of purpose, 

prioritising getting outside, 

group chats and individual chats, 

leaving the city centre, 

time offline, 

safe spaces for tears, 

traidcraft, 

footwashing, 

beautiful songs, 

feeling supported by colleagues, 

a sense of faith and a community with whom to share it, 

being busy, 

ice-cream on the roof, 

buds and spring flowers, 

watching the sunrise, 

the virtual pilgrimage, 

sunlight reflected in water, 

pretty pink blossom, 

online sessions for school kids, 

a tablecloth with 585 names stitched into it, 

good mental and physical health, 

a comfortable home, 

good food, 

the satisfaction of a deep clean, 

not-pub quizzes, 

google maps, 

thoughtful gifts, 

planting things and the possibility of new growth, 

memories of Christmas day, 

a new laptop, 

thousands of daisies, 

chance encounters, 

the market cheese stall, 

lengthening days and light evenings, 

leaf tea, 

sunflowers growing, 

the NHS, 

the completed We Tell Stories performance project, 

chocolate brownies, 

singing and laughter, 

painkillers, 

the centenary square fountains, 

time and space to myself, 

sunshine after rain, 

watching the seasons change, 

goslings and ducklings, 

the sense of satisfaction of ticking a long-overdue job off a jobs list, 

finding ways to feel connected to others, 

Taize, 

featuring in the Imix positive stories blog, 

relaxing and having fun, 

chalk-art on the roof, 

reduced price stickers, 

City Academy Birmingham, 

good books and the time to read them, 

chocolate cornflake cakes, 

seeing progress in English and watching confidence grow, 

jacket potatoes, grated cheese and baked beans, memories of swimming lessons as a child, 

a spectacular moon, 

warm evenings, 

wisdom and guidance and support received, 

seeing the joy that something very small can bring to someone else, 

brightly coloured flowers, 

Lancaster chaplaincy, 

the kindness of strangers, 

standing outside in warm summer rain, 

learning how places interconnect, 

sharing my love of words with friends, 

cream cakes, 

libraries and museums, 

parcels in the post, 

always having enough to eat, 

space for chatting that embraces both the silly and the serious, 

summer trips with families, 

walking without a specific plan, 

takeaway curry night, 

Eurovision, 

meeting people not through a screen, 

 my blog, 

books that say a lot in a few words, 

meeting someone again in a much better place than last time I saw them, 

bamboo socks, 

a zoom Iftar meal and memories of previous shared meals, 

the first cup of tea in the morning, 

parks and public outdoor spaces, 

being in the moment, 

the early days of summer, 

paddling, 

scotch pancakes for breakfast, 

technology and technical skills, 

duolingo, 

interfaith / intercultural friendships, 

gestures of intimacy and friendship, 

curlywurlies and memories of Lonsdale, 

waking up to radio 3, 

picnics, 

glasses, 

a friendly postman, 

a routine of regular prayer, 

the gift of bringing people together and building community, 

freshly picked strawberries, 

planting bulbs and the memories of the various events and times these were originally bought for, 

bamboo towels, 

cycling and walking infrastructure, 

many shades of green, 

optimism.

Removing the repetition and the named individuals has, I realise, somewhat shifted the balance of what is included: rereading the original record shows it has a very definite predominance of people. It was rare for more than a couple of days to go by without a mention of some of the many people, individually, collectively who really matter to me. Though it isn't perhaps reflected here, this, more than anything else shines through as that for which I am most grateful in my life.