Re-prioritising prayer

For nine years, during my time at Carrs Lane and slightly beyond it, I was committed to a routine of public prayer; in person and later online. In fact, for much longer, because our time in the Philippines was certainly rhythmed around prayer, and to a lesser extent there was a culture of daily reflection time at Corrymeela. Further back, in the privacy of our own home, we had also tried to instil such a rhythm to shape our days. 

And every day, I showed up. Of course there were interruptions and odd occasions where I couldn't but generally, day after day, I showed up. I put myself intentionally in that space. I paused to be still. 

And I knew, as I have written about here more than once, it mattered. 

With varying degrees of success, I found a rhythm that worked towards the end of last year, but thus far in 2023, it is something I have failed to really re-establish. And while I couldn't pinpoint, on any given day, exactly how; over time, I think I am feeling the effects. I think it is a factor in feeling more drawn into and dragged down by the enormity of the world's problems. I think it is a factor in finding it harder to let go of the things I cannot do and in getting the right balance of those I can.  

And so I am reminding myself that waking up to prayer is infinitely better than waking up to a rather depressing twitter feed and an email inbox I never feel fully on top of! The importance of good company and of laughter I wrote about in my previous post are parts of the solution. This is the other bit.

Some people will have made Lenten commitments which are now drawing to an end. I didn't this year, but I am making an Easter one. I am away for the next week, walking Pilgrim Cross, which will be a valuable breathing space, and on my return I am reprioritising prayer. Not at the expense of anything else, quite the contrary. I believe it will help me reprioritise everything else as well. I believe it will help me be the best possible version of the person I am trying to be. 

Just the weekend I needed

I have always aspired for this blog to be a relatively honest reflection of life: not the sugar-coated version of reality that social media so often unhelpfully presents. So in that spirit I admit, last week had some tough moments where I felt distinctly disheartened about the state of the world (or more specifically, British politics around the issue of migration).

It probably didn't help that due to the Birmingham bus strikes, I spent more time at home than I usually would. I do like having my own space and generally quite enjoy my own company but I am definitely an extrovert and I probably had too many days with too little people time; and while I had plenty I should have been getting on with, that meant I had lots of time to read, watch and listen to analysis about the government's new anti-refugee plans. It feels important to keep abreast of these things and many of those whose analysis I was following shared my perspectives on the subject, but nonetheless, too much of it can get a little draining after a while. I know only too well the impact of these repeated, hostile announcements on people I care about very much. I am also well aware of the risk of the knock-on impact on me.   

I'm not always very good at accepting or acknowledging when I am finding things difficult, but I admit, parts of Thursday, particularly, were really quite hard. However, in the afternoon I went out for a walk in the sunshine and then a friend called round, both of which definitely helped perk me back up.

And then it was Friday. There were still no buses but I hadn't entirely put life on hold. While the meeting I was supposed to be going to ended up being a slightly abortive trip, a combination of limited transport options and deliberate choice meant it involved two decent length walks in fairly attractive parts of the city: mostly in bright spring sunshine and managing, fortunately, to completely avoid the worst downpours. I also met up with three different people for a cup of tea, delicious lunch, a walk and curry for dinner respectively, all of whom are people whose company I value, and I appreciated the chance to chat and catch-up. It was just what I needed. 

It had long been on the calendar that my mum was coming to visit at the weekend. Mutual friends also came round on Saturday afternoon and the house was full of conversation and noise and mess: exactly how I like it. In the evening we were at the Hippodrome for the live show of 'I'm Sorry I haven't a clue' which was exactly the sort of clever silliness anyone who knows the show would expect and I laughed all evening (and got a free kazoo, what's not to love!). It would have been hard to find a better tonic. It was a late-ish night followed be a lazy morning, and then out for lunch with my sister and her partner who were also in Brum for the weekend. By the time I got home mid-afternoon, apart from a few bus tickets to sort for another week of school, the laid back feel continued, and I even finished off a jigsaw puzzle. 

For three days, I mostly didn't scroll through twitter, I mostly talked about things other than politics (and when I did, those conversations were supportive and helpful), I mostly switched off. I spent time with people I value, who probably had no idea how much their company boosted my spirits. And thus it was that I was back ready to face another week. The news hasn't got any more upbeat; the struggles I watch some of my dearest friends experience haven't become any easier ... but it'll take more than a particularly evil Home Secretary to crush me.

Hope is ...

During our residential last week we had a lot of fun, but we also shared and heard about difficult subjects and were reminded that the political climate can feel hostile, disheartening and overwhelming. We wanted people to go away inspired and full of ideas of how to speak out and to stand in solidarity with people seeking sanctuary. Doing so is important, but not always easy; and looking after ourselves and one another is crucial. Awareness of the struggles and challenges is essential: but so is holding on to the hope.

So instead of spending our final session considering campaign actions or writing to our MPs, we thought and shared about hope and wrote poetry together.

Most of the poetry I share on my blog is written by me but this isn't, or not mostly. It is written by teachers and chaplains and young retreat centre volunteers and by people seeking sanctuary from all over the world. It is written by people who love words, and people who struggle with them, people who are full of hope and people clinging to hope by their finger nails. 

Today is World Poetry Day, and the beginning of Spring. There could be no better day to share this piece, written collaboratively on that day.

Hope is…

Hope is a mix of colours

Hope is green like new growth and signs of life in springtime

Hope is baby-blue like the beautiful sky filled with clouds before the sun shines

Or after a storm when the dark clouds have finally passed

Hope is sky blue, bright and without limits

Hope is yellow, like a field filled with buttercups and sunshine

Like the daffodils that remind us winter is near its end

Hope is dazzling yellow like the first rays of sunshine at the end of a long dark night,

Like the sun that each day rises again, announcing the beginning of a new day

Hope is yellow and promises to return to everyone’s life

Hope is orange like beautiful summer flowers

And like the sun setting on the past and rising on the new tomorrow

Hope is orange because when you can see the sunshine you have hope

Hope shines bright like coming out of a tunnel and seeing the light,

Hope is white like a lamp glaring and bright like a spotlight that shines through the dark, guiding and encouraging

And sometimes hope is black like the night sky scattered with stars

Hope is golden and shimmery, elusive but oh so precious

Soft, bright light like the day between the darkness

Hope is a brightly shining rainbow, an array of different colours

Hope is like a mountain range, steeply gradiented, but level at the top

firm underfoot, offering support;

Like a journey, hope is many-sided,

It has its ups and downs and guides your path

Hope is round and bright like an unending roundabout leading us to forever happiness, destroy lingering fright

Hope is malleable and strong,

It is the ocean, inescapable and powerful, a true force of nature

It is like fresh waters that everyone surely needs

Hope is wide and hard like the sun battling through a thunderstorm

Hope is shimmering and infinite like the stars in a dark night sky

Hope is soft and smooth like the calming effect of stroking the feathers of pigeon

It is cushioning yet firm like that old teddy bear that is hard to the touch but brings comfort inside

It is soft, warm and all-encompassing like a gentle embrace, never letting go

Hope is soft and gentle like a hand leading and helping us carry on

Hope is heart-shaped, soft and tender like meeting ones family again with love

Warm and fuzzy like a family meal where everyone belongs together as one

Hope is star-shaped, hard with a soft centre like a chocolate-covered caramel

Or soft but with a steely-hard core like fluffy candyfloss around its wooden stick

Hope is flexible and static like 6 and 9 depending on the angle you are viewing it

Hope is intangible but noticeable,

It is large and has no limits,

Unshaped and uncoloured like freedom.

Hope is fragile yet strong depending on so many things beyond my control

Hope is the generator of emotions and the basis of the charm of life

Hope is the sunlight that you can find in the day

and the moonlight in the night

Hope is a lighthouse

A light in the darkness

Hope is believing, is having faith

Hope is expectation, desire, and trust

Trust in the process

Hope is optimism

Hope is a consistent motivation

Hope is powerful

Hope is strength

Hope is not letting go

Hope is the key of life

Hope is a thread

Hope is an outstretched hand, a guiding companion

Hope is beautiful

Hope is ours to be shared

The second greatest gift one person can give to another, and the greatest is love

Hope is the only thing that shines, a point of light in everyone’s mind, among all the bad things, all the darkness

Hope is life

And hope is a lifeline

Hope is a journey to the future

Hope is

Anger ... and the antidote

Not content with the dreadful anti-refugee laws they introduced last year, the government are at it again with their even more hideously awful Illegal Migration Bill, which they seem to be determined to rush through parliament without proper scrutiny despite widespread concerns about its legality (not to mention its morality).

I am not a lawyer, so I am not going to comment on the legality of it, instead I'd point anyone who wants a legal analysis to https://freemovement.org.uk/what-is-in-the-illegal-migration-bill/

Considerable discussion has revolved around the impracticality and unworkability of the proposals, but I am not going to comment on that, either, because for me at least that is a side issue to what is wrong with it.

Legality and workability aside, the new bill, and the rhetoric that surrounds it, heralds a dark day for the moral compass of our nation. 

Those who seek sanctuary on our shores are among the world's most desperate people. Those who entrust their lives to the hands of people smugglers wouldn't do so if they thought they had any other choice. Those who enter by "irregular means", who risk their lives on a small boat across the channel, who face the fear of hoping fake paperwork will get them over the border, would not be doing so if they felt they had any other option. 

They have suffered more than I will ever know or imagine. They have left behind an entire life to start again with nothing but their character and their resilience. They believe in a Britain which upholds human rights, dignity, safety and freedom: I wish I still did too. They make up in total approximately 0.6% of the people currently residing in the UK. They are, it seems, an easy target. 

The new bill strips almost all rights and protections from this tiny group of people. Anyone who arrives on our shores by a means deemed irregular as of last week faces a lifetime of perpetual limbo; couple with the threat of deportation to a country deemed "safe". The ever-lengthening processing times of asylum claims means I have see the destructive impact of prolonged uncertainty. The idea of that continuing indefinitely as we as a country refuse to assess the validity of someone's need for safety and commit to offering them the sanctuary they require is simply appalling.

Don't get me wrong... I too would like to stop the boats. I don't want anyone else to drown in the channel. I don't want anyone else to have their sleep disturbed by flashbacks full of fear. I don't want anyone else to say that even though to stay meant certain death, they wish they had never come. But this is not the way to do it. 

And so I am very angry, and deeply sad, and somewhat afraid about the direction the country I want to love seems to be headed. 

And yet, and yet ... 

The Monday before last, as Braverman and Sunak put the finishing touches to their speeches ahead of launching the bill in parliament the following day, I was in the community hub at the REP theatre, gathered around a long roll of paper, pulling together ideas for a play. We shared stories and we laughed a lot. We contributed suggestions and ironed out creative differences. I watched as people who I had known to be hesitant and hidden presented their ideas with such clarity and confidence. I revelled in knowing that this show, when it comes together, will be entirely their own ideas in their own voice. 

The Monday just gone, as the second reading was rushed through parliament this week, I was in the midst of three wonderful days away with some of the most incredible people I know. We brought together people who had never met who left three days later as friends. We played probably the most hilarious games of Uno I have ever experienced. We shared stories and experiences: the incidental and the profound. We sat down and ate together. We offered a safe space to hold tears and lots and lots of laughter. We wrote poetry. We learned from one another. We braved the rain and enjoyed the sunshine. We created "loving chaos like a family" (not my words).

I will keep being angry. 

But I will keep finding joy and hope too.

All of them are needed to play my part in building the world I believe in.

Snow day!

Today was due to be a relatively busy day: a school visit, followed by the stories group, together with making sure everything was finalised and ready for the next "Festival of Encounter", and packing for a weekend with friends I haven't seen since 2019.

And then Birmingham woke up to a covering of snow which called off first the school visit and then the stories group (although as it turned out, by the afternoon the sun was out and the snow well on the way to disappearing).

I could, or possibly even should, have used the unexpected extra time to catch-up on the never-ending admin overload. There was a bit of that thrown into the mix, but mostly, I didn't.

Instead I built a snowman. 

And then got my painting stuff out for the first time in weeks. 

There are still emails that need to be answered ... but there always will be. On balance, I think it was a very good use of the day.

Why it's all worth while

I was about to start this post by saying 'the last couple of months have been exceptionally busy', but stopped myself on the basis that it was definitely going to be a misuse of the word exceptional, when there has in fact been nothing out of the ordinary. But it has been busy nonetheless: which is not a complaint, it is simply a fact. I wouldn't want it any other way.

In the midst of said busy-ness it can be easy to get caught up in the ever-lengthening to do lists and nitty-gritty of the everyday. It can be easy to focus on juggling multiple things at the same time or diving straight from one thing into the next. It can be easy to dwell on the enormity and unsolvability (which might not really be a word!) of the overarching issues. 

It can be easy to forget to pause and to prioritise. To forget to celebrate the precious little moments shared and appreciate the baby steps forward. To forget to remind ourselves what we are doing and why. 

Because yes, the last couple of months have been busy, and yes, of course there have been some struggles and frustrations in the mix, but they have mostly been busy with very many beautiful things, including, in no specific order: 

• Birthday cakes and candles
• Being alongside people in the nerves and excitement of first days at school
• Early morning starts accompanied by beautiful sunrises
• Phone calls and zoom calls and the connections they enable 
• A bit of DIY, a lot of sorting and tidying, and a house very much feeling like a home
• The laughter, tears, anger and hope of sharing stories with new groups of people in new place
• A cathedral filled with prayer and unity, and the connections that make it possible
• Reading good books
• Messages to and from all sorts of people and the holding of the relationships to which they witness
• Plans made, paper work done, spreadsheets updated, expenses paid  
• Witnessing or becoming aware of lots of little gestures of welcome by lots of different people just quietly getting on with doing their thing
• Finding school uniform that fits, and watching children and young people wear it with pride
• Taking a young person on their first ever train journey and knowing that on their second ever train journey they managed just fine on their own
• A bit of editing and proof-reading, and a bit of watching people grow beyond the support they once needed and start to trust their own abilities and make their way in the world
• A space to pray in gold, and green and purple
• Meeting new people, and scratching new countries off a map
• Cups of tea and conversations: the silly, the superficial and the serious 
• Down time and in between times of doing not very much
• Schools saying yes again and again
• Finding a place in a new faith community, and space for deep reflections with an existing online one 
• Hearing long-awaited good news for people I care about
• Every number in every column adding up as it is supposed to
• The anticipation of new projects as they start to take shape
• The words "report submitted on time" appearing next to our entry on the charities commission website.
• Board games and card games and associated fun and laughter with different groups of people
• Sharing in good news stories and being entrusted with more difficult ones.
• Lots of painted faces and the smiles behind them
• Staying connected with and reconnecting with friends 
• Opportunities to cook and eat and celebrate together, creating chaos but also community

The pausing matters. The remembering matters. Because this, and so much more, is why the busy-ness is, in fact, all worth while.