Adulthood

Back in 2009 (in my pre-blogging days!) I started a new job as a primary teacher at an international school just outside Paris. It certainly had its challenges, but among the joys was making close, lasting friendships with some of my colleagues. Part way through our time there we were honoured to be asked to become Godparents to the then 8-year-old daughter of one of them. 

We moved on from St Germain en Laye after two years, but the friendships formed there have remained an important part of our life. 

Fast forward to 2017. After plenty of prayer, reflection and conversation led us all to think it was the right thing to do, we welcomed our then 14-year-old Goddaughter to come and live with us. It was always going to be something of an adventure, most of all for her, but for all of us. It was bound to be challenging in parts. But, like many adventures which involve a leap of faith into the unknown, it has proved to be a most beautiful one.

She discovered Birmingham city-centre living. She negotiated starting at a new school and then a new college. She interacted with all sorts of different folks. She made friends. She learned to cope with our somewhat unconventional life. She became part of our family and enriched our lives.

And now, just like that, she's an adult. Legally at least. As much an adult as anyone is at 18.

It is another important milestone on a journey. 

I'm not going to write at length about the journey that has brought her this far, and the journey that lies ahead. That's not really my story to tell. Suffice to say, I am very happy that I get to be a part of it.

Thank you.

A bit of art

Happy New Year!

For me, as for many who work in academic cycles, September is synonymous with new beginnings. This, much more so than January, is when I mark the new year. 

Most of the significant changes: of jobs, of home, of projects, in my life have taken place over the summer. Not all summers, of course, have involved such major changes, but it has always been the time of stopping, taking stock, starting again. This time last year I had just left my role as ESOL co-ordinator, had significantly cut my hours at St Chad's Sanctuary, and was in the process of trying to set-up Stories of Hope and Home. That all feels a very long time ago! 

This year feels somewhat different, unlike any September that has preceded it, possibly ever. 

I've been trying to reflect a little on why. It's not like I had the whole of last summer off: I ran a series of slightly bonkers family days out which were wonderful but certainly involved no small amount of effort. I did lots of paperwork and rounding off tasks to hand over my role in the smoothest possible way (the colleagues I left behind should probably be the judges of how well that worked out) I wrote a constitution, opened a bank account, dreamed dreams about getting a new project off the ground. Its not how hard I am working that feels different this year.

And equally its not like I haven't had opportunities for fun activities over the summer this year: there may not have been any significant travel nor big group events, for obvious reasons, but that hasn't meant I couldn't do anything fun. I have been lucky enough to have several trips away, even if each has only been brief. Lockdown easing definitely allowed a shift from preceding months. Logically, I can point to plenty of things that marks the summer out from the rest of the year.  

And yet, somehow, it just doesn't feel like I've had the same shift in routine. I am aware some very deliberate choices have contributed to that. They are choices I stand by and about which I have no regrets. Every other year, we have taken a summer break from the routine of prayer, whereas this year morning prayer has continued throughout the summer: a reflection of the fact that it has felt an important anchoring point for me during these months, even more so than usual. In other circumstances, Stories of Hope and Home might have taken a summer break but both maintaining the online contact with that group of people, and taking advantage of the opportunity to actually meet each other felt hugely important and valuable (for me as well as them).  

And so, September has somewhat crept up on me. Normally, this is the time for formulating plans, dreaming dreams and making things happen. But the year ahead still feels so full of unknowns, so vague and completely "unplannable" Normally this is also the time for getting back into routines, getting back to normal, but while there are glimmers that some of that is beginning to happen, the idea of returning to "normality" any time soon seems rather unlikely. 

Of course, I can see plenty that will be able to keep me busy in the coming weeks and months: including both returning to routines and building on new possibilities. I can identify exciting potential even in this new strange reality we seem to be stuck with for the foreseeable future. I hope I will be able to grasp some of those opportunities. No doubt you'll hear about them here!

September is a time of new beginnings, and change is always unsettling. I guess I'm acknowledging that this year feels unsettled in very different ways to usual.

Time together and time alone

At some point, perhaps, I'll write a post that has nothing to do with covid-19, or lockdown, or the strangeness of 2020. But not yet. There is still too much to say on the subject, still too much to process and try and make sense of.

Over recent months our experience of human contact and interaction has, for the most part, been completely transformed. Normality, as we once knew it, has been turned on its head. Things we didn't perhaps even realise were part of who we are and how we relate to the world and one another have been stripped away or called into question. 

And in that space, perhaps, some of us, have learned something about what we want and need from ourselves and from those around us. As the months of lockdown have dragged on, I have found myself with contradictory cravings: for more time together and more time alone.

I am an extrovert. There is no question of this and I come out strongly as such on all sorts of personality tests. People who know me will not be surprised. 

I have been exploring and to varying degrees living community life for the last nine years. Our life at Carrs Lane is a highly peopled one with people coming and going and sometimes staying all the time. Almost 600 people have passed through the doors of the flat in the last seven years and, while some have been but fleeting visitors, with many we have built sustained relationships. 

I have always had people-orientated jobs which place human relationship at the very centre of their raison d'etre.

It is, perhaps, unsurprising that since March I have craved  more real human contact. And yet, despite my desire for human relationship I can identify a certain lethargy which has meant the reality of how well I have kept up contact with friends and family may not quite have lived up to my intentions. I am extremely grateful for the technology which has made maintaining relationships possible: but, like many of us I can also acknowledge its limitations. It is also a very long time since I have gone so long without encountering anyone new and while I value the existing relationships I have, this too feels like a gap. 

So yes, I was more than ready for the easing of lockdown which has gradually allowed more real human encounters to become possible. I am very grateful for the ways in which, through the summer, that has been the case. Opportunities to meet up with family and friends; re-establishing face-to-face meetings with the Stories of Hope and Home group: these have been very good things.

What has been, perhaps, more surprising, even to myself is that, in a strange way, through this lockdown time, I have also found myself craving time alone. It has taken more self-reflection to identify and acknowledge this to be the case and think about why. 

I suppose I have come to realise that while human contact has been extremely limited, that which has existed has had a certain intensity to it. Ours won't have been the only household thrown together much more intensely than we are used to. While the blurring of boundaries between work and not-work between home-space and work-space have long been blurred in my life, lockdown has intensified the challenges of delineating both time and space. 'Switching off' (perhaps literally!) and 'getting away' (not literally!) have felt more difficult when the same physical and virtual spaces are places of both work and relaxation. The prevalence of virtual gatherings has also brought an intensity to our human interactions which is very different to "real" face-to-face encounters, as 'host' in many of these spaces, that is perhaps especially so.

Whatever the reasons, I have discovered in myself a need for, and appreciation of time alone, even in the midst of my cravings to return to the days when I can surround myself with friends (and strangers). Through the summer I have also been grateful for opportunities to meet this need. I have recently returned (not quite as recently as when I started writing this post) from a wonderful two days in the peak district entirely on my own and if I didn't entirely manage to switch off from digital communication, I did better than I can usually manage at home.

I have no intention of universalising my experience, although at least one conversation with someone else has suggested I am not alone in living with the paradox of these contradictory feelings. I am sure we will each have experienced the challenges of this time differently, and as we emerge into the so-called "new normal" will be seeking different things in response to the challenges we have experienced and needs we have identified. Perhaps understanding and acknowledging our own needs and responses, and really listening as others do the same will help us all to be kind to one another, and ourselves, as we try to transition towards the months ahead.

Lockdown highlights

OK, I admit ... parts of the last few months have been pretty tough. I know the same is true for many people who have been dealing with both global and personal crises.  

Knowing that there are lots of other people who have it far worse has, at times, helped me to have a sense of perspective. But it isn't always helpful either ... because if you're having a bad day, feeling guilty about it because you "shouldn't be" does not, I can attest, make it any better.

A better strategy, for me at least, has been to focus on and recall the good stuff. The gratitude diary I kept in the early weeks of lockdown certainly helped. 

As we at least partially emerge form lock-down, I thought I'd look back and pick out a few of the positives of this strange and unsettling time we are living through, focusing specifically on those things which have not only been positive during lockdown but which (probably) wouldn't have happened without it. 

In no particular order, here are five which came to mind:

1) Cycling confidence 

I've owned a bike for years. It has cluttered up the hallway in the flat ever since we moved here, but been used very rarely. And then the city closed down around us. Public transport use was banned or at least strongly discouraged. And we were only allowed out for an hour a day. On foot, you can't get very far in that time, so if I wanted to get beyond the city centre I was going to have to get my bike out. That motivation, coupled with empty streets which definitely boosted how safe I felt, was what I needed to get back on my bike. I am so glad I have. I have really enjoyed getting out and about on my bike and, now that my confidence, and the habit, is established, my hope and intention is it is something I will continue with.

2) New ways of praying together

The routine of daily prayer I am committed to at Carrs Lane is of great value to me. I have tried, and often failed, to explain why and how many times. One of the things, though, which at times has been a struggle, is not being able to find ways to really share it with others. There is something very special about committing to a routine of prayer. There is also something very special about knowing you are praying with others. As the decision was made to lock the doors to the building, we needed to find new ways to continue this aspect, the being open to praying with others part which has always mattered to us. Cue live-streamed prayers on facebook and suddenly, a community of people praying together every day. Not being in the same physical space has not detracted from this sense that, in a way we have never known in all our time here, we have found a way to have a sustained community prayer with others. I deeply appreciate it, I hope the others who are part of it do too. 

3) Attentiveness to my locality

In the strict early days of lockdown, options for getting out were, as we know, very restrictive: but, for me at least, certain positives came even from this. Knowing my outdoor time was strictly limited made me prioritise enjoying it. In "normal" life, as was, I generally get out and about, with lots of walking built in to my normal routine: but it took lockdown limits for me to commit to ensuring I went out absolutely everyday, come rain or shine. Walking (and cycling) became less functional, more enjoyable. I learned (albeit imperfectly) to be more fully present in the moment, focused on the activity and the surroundings rather than my brain always whizzing ahead to the next thing. noticed things which I've undoubtedly passed many times without ever seeing. Repeating the same walks and cycle rides regularly meant I watched the seasons change before my eyes: I noticed different flowers bloom and fade along the canals; I saw buds and blossom come and then go, I watched families of ducklings grow up. At the same time, limitations on travel further afield has also meant I have explored parts of Birmingham I've never really visited in my time here. Perhaps none of this should have needed lockdown, but it did. Hopefully, however, they are lessons learned that won't be quickly forgotten.

4) The book of the blog 

It's true that, in theory at least, this project didn't need lockdown to come to fruition. But every other time I've thought about doing it, it has remained just that, a thought. Whereas this time I felt able to carve out the space to actually put the necessary time into the editing to make it happen. I am, as I wrote in a previous post, extremely pleased with the result.   

5) Flowers in the foyer

There is, something deeply satisfying about growing things. We have always had a few houseplants on our windowsills. Early on, we tried to grow things on the roof but the seagulls always had other ideas. But when lockdown arrived, and the building was closed to the public for the foreseeable future, we suddenly had lots more space to play with. The space behind the full-length glass windows in the foyer are, it turns out, perfect for growing things. Admittedly, I probably would have tried to get hold of dwarf sunflower seeds if I'd known just how tall the ones I found in a random packet were going to grow, but I have found it very pleasing to watch seeds germinate, poke up through the compost, and finally flower. I wonder whether, when the building reopens, I'll be allowed to continue my little gardening efforts ...

Life in Lockdown

A few weeks ago, I was interviewed by Nick, the URC synod evangelist, about life at Carrs Lane during lockdown.  In church circles, I guess we are fairly unusual, and because of that, some might even suggest, vaguely interesting. While many people have been discovering how to 'live church' away from their church buildings for perhaps the first time; we have spent even more time 'in church' than usual.

There was, of course, a specific agenda and audience in mind. The context was for it to form part of a series, sharing good news with and from churches about lockdown. A lot of what I said was fairly rambling and incoherent. When talking about the Stories project and the other ways in which I have tried to stand alongside asylum seekers and refugees through this period, I feel like I failed to properly communicate the great joys and benefits ... for them and for me. There is much that is left unsaid.

It is, I suppose I am saying, far from perfect as a reflection of the last few months. But it exists as a record of a conversation (albeit edited) at a particular moment in time and hey, if its out in the big wide world of the internet, I guess it makes sense for it to be shared here too.

Seven Years

It is seven years since we moved to Birmingham. Maybe not exactly today, but this summer marks spending seven years in a place I have come to love as home.

There is particular significance to this for me because it means Birmingham is now the place I have lived longer than anywhere else in my life, overtaking the place in which I spent my distinctly less happy and less fulfilled teenage years. 

If we weren't in the midst of a global pandemic I'd undoubtedly have considered throwing a party to celebrate, sharing the occasion with some of the many who have been part of the journey to making this place home. Hey ho, 'tis not to be this time: a slightly rambling blogpost will have to suffice by way of marking the moment!

It doesn't feel so very long ago that I was accustomed to being told by others that my addresses needed their own page in their address book because there had been so many of them. I have certainly gone through phases of changing location at frequent intervals: following the next opportunity to other parts of the country or in some cases, the world. Some I still return to at intervals, some I guess, there is a strong likelihood I will never even visit again. Many, perhaps all, are rich in the memories who have shaped the me I am today.

But here we are, in Birmingham: seven years and counting, with no plans to move on from this place any time soon. Initially my love for Birmingham took me somewhat by surprise. The sense of connectedness to this place which gradually crept up on me, likewise. But I have discovered a new appreciation for the semi-solid foundations I have built here. In a way that has perhaps never been true before, I have put down roots and built community and connections which tie me to a geographical locality. Where once I feared that these kinds of ties would feel restrictive somehow, here, I have discovered that they don't. 

I could probably write at length about the host of interrelated reasons why Birmingham has held me in a way that nowhere else has: but I suspect most or all have probably made sufficient appearances in a blog post (or several) in the intervening years and don't need to be repeated here. 

This is not a post which intends to pretend that Birmingham is perfect: I would be the first to admit that it isn't. Nor am I declaring that I have found somewhere I will settle for ever: who knows what the future might hold and where it might take me. But it is an acknowledgement, I guess of my sense of connection and attachment to this place. 

One thing is certain, I don't believe that staying here for so long (by my standards) means that life has somehow become static, nor that I have lost my desire for newness and adventure. That which in the past I have found by switching location, I have continued to discover amidst the new opportunities and new encounters which have continued to enrich my life here in this place. 

The adventure continues. Here. For now at least.

The pictures of the words (3)

And just like that, another month draws to a close. 

Here is the third and final instalment of my July artistic challenge, illustrating these texts and following on from this one and this one.

The pictures of the words (2)

This is the second series of pictures illustrating the "thirty words a day" which I wrote during the month of June. I have, as I promised myself, picked up my paintbrushes (almost) every day. So here are the next ten images to follow on from these ones. 

The pictures of the words (1)

As I said, I quite enjoyed June's creative project of writing thirty words every day, so when that ended I wanted to come up with something equivalent for July. For my follow-up challenge I decided that each day this month I would produce a painting to represent the corresponding day's words. I'm being realistic, so they're quite small, who knows, like with the words, maybe some of them will spark something bigger at some point, maybe they won't.   

I think part of this setting of challenges is a bit of a quest to cling on to, or salvage, some creative energy from something of a sense of lethargy I can feel in myself and sense in others. Don't get me wrong: I am still keeping pretty busy, and as lockdown is gradually lifted I am revelling in the possibilities of real human contact it offers. But I am also aware that at times I am struggling to find the energy to do things which either I know need to be done, or know will give me pleasure if I make the effort to. I am sure I am not alone in this. 

Some of this is undoubtedly entirely natural. Behavioural sociologists warned from the start we would only be able to cope with lockdown for 12 weeks. Uncertainty is always tiring and whatever the recent relaxations of the rules, this is still not the normality we are used to. I am a natural extrovert, I draw my energy from being with other people and compared to the heavily peopled existence I am used to, this last few months have been very, very different. And then, this is, in the calendar in which my brain still operates, the end of the year. There is nothing new to me, or anyone else who has ever been involved in education, to a sense of exhaustion creeping in by mid-July. 

But normally, it feels like it makes more sense: though part of my brain is telling me it is fine to acknowledge this spring / summer has been just as tiring as any other, part of me still refuses to admit that sitting at home for four months can possibly be particularly draining. And normally, there's a natural process for overcoming it, a summer break, a shift in routines, ... this year, the exit strategy feels much less clear-cut.

I am not one for being inactive; the need to be busy and to have a sense of purpose is core to my very being ... but even I can sense the creeping risk. Recognising, acknowledging and at least to some extent accepting this has not been easy. I have every sympathy for those who speak of struggling to get up in the morning, for those who have drifted away from online communities even though they know the sort-of-human contact would probably ultimately help, for those who haven't been able to face leaving the house today or even this week. I have less sympathy for the elements of it I see in myself.   

Maintain a routine, getting outside each day even when it is raining, continuing to feel I have a role in offering support to others, keeping in contact with friends ... these are the things that are ensuring I don't spend even more time than I already do scrolling through meaningless social media posts! Forcing myself to pick up my paintbrushes each day this month will be another.

Originally this blog post was only really going to say what it says in the first paragraph. But maybe the rest needed to be said too. Anyway, here are the first ten painted pictures, matching these first ten word pictures: 

Isaac the Beloved

When you can't find the hymn that quite says what you want, clearly the solution is to write one, no? 

This is "Isaac the Beloved", to the well-known tune of Be thou my Vision / Lord of Hopefulness; which mostly wrote itself on a walk around Birmingham's canals. 

Isaac the beloved was Abraham’s dear son

How could God ask him to give up this precious one?

Was there sadness and anger before he said yes?

Did he know God was with him, even in his distress?

They walked to the mountain, they walked side by side

Did he know what was happening as his hands were tied?

But still in that moment, in the depths of the pain

Still daring to listen, so God spoke again

God said to Abraham “do him no harm”

Where bloodshed was threatened, a moment of calm

Where sometimes we falter, unsure what we must give

A promise is whispered your God wants you to live!

But what of that message, had he misunderstood

Or had God changed her mind about what was now good

As we journey to discover what we’re called to do

It’s the daring to listen that allows something new

Sometimes we listen, sometimes struggle to hear

As the voice seems to change with the passing of years

But dare we still listen to what God will say

And dare we still follow when she changes the way?

(Written for the church at Carrs Lane service which I wrote about here)

The book of the blog

Several times in this blog's history, as various milestones in its existence have rolled past, I have considered the possibility of getting a printed version of it. Like with photos, while there are many advantages to digital records, there is something inexplicably different about the tangible 'hold it in your hands' version of things.

The latest milestone was in early May when I published my 300th blog post, and I decided that finally investing some time in editing a printable version of my blog might be a good lockdown project to get my teeth into. Whereas in the past it has never got beyond a vague idea, this time, I committed a bit of time to making it happen.

So I researched blog book websites (realising in the process that I have written A LOT of words in the last 9 years, and some sites are certainly better suited to volumes less substantial than mine was going to be!) These sites do a lot of the work, but I wanted to have some editorial control and chose intorealpages, one that offered that possibility.  

Admittedly, there were some minor formatting frustrations: straight text posts transferred across really easily; poetry, not so much!) but with a little bit of assistance from a very helpful person on the other end of an email address, and quite a number of hours, it was done.

On the whole, it was an amazingly enjoyable process: rereading and reliving adventures from the last nine years has been a really fun way to spend a significant number of hours. I smiled over people and events scarcely thought about for a long time, I recalled much which had long been consigned to the cobwebbed recesses of my memory. In places I could see how my thoughts and reflections have developed over time, in others, the strands of "me" that are still very much the same and run throughout. I watched myself grow.

Individually printed hardback books do not come cheap. And even after all the hours of editing time, when it came to the final moment of pressing the button to order it, I did wonder whether it was really justifiable to spend so much on something which I acknowledge to be be simply an extravagance. But I did it anyway. Yes, it's a luxury, but it is also the product of, over the years, a lot of thought, and time, and effort, and creative energy. It stands as a tangible record of nine years of life hopefully well-lived.

 

From then to now there was an interlude, as I tracked its progress through printing, dispatch and failed delivery. And then, yesterday, it arrived. I don't often await packages with quite so heightened a sense of anticipation ... and I am glad to report it completely lived up to my hopes. The quality is excellent (of the product, others should be left to judge that about the writing I suppose!) and there is something deeply satisfying about seeing this very professional looking version of something that is entirely my own work. Perhaps that's mainly about ego, I don't know, but for now at least, I'm not going to analyse too much, I'm just going to enjoy it.

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.