This is not how things are supposed to be

2020 made me ranty. 2021 has made me stroppy...... or grumpy, or just a bit fed up with it all. This is not how things are supposed to be. Whilst the light is at the end of the tunnel ahead, we're still in a tightly packed tunnel of pandemic and we're still waiting, frustrated, for everything to become a bit better, a bit more in person really.

I was stroppy walking on Sunday between releasing our online service and meeting on zoom frustrated at yet another Sunday online, ranting a little about how this, this present time is not what I am called to as a minister. I am called as a community builder, which is why I didn't train in cyber, and although I can pick up the simpler not all singing all dancing online stuff easily, I am not buying the 'forever online' mantra. 

My stroppy walking was aimed at God. Taking inspiration from the Psalms and Lamentations of scripture where reality is laid before God I laid how I was feeling before him. God called me to minister in this place so strongly, yet here I am, living on my own in a pandemic and trying to minister in an environment that is so alien, each day is a new thing learnt. As I reflected on my call, a robin hopped across my path. 

Now, if you know my story, you might have heard me talking about robins and the encounters I have had on the journey. On my first trip here, God spoke to me through a robin playing in the rain - if that robin could enjoy itself so much in the rain, surely I could move here. When considering my second trip here and deciding to come, the moment(ish) I decided to come a robin sat singing right in front of me in a tree. 

So on Sunday, as the robin hopped across my path I said to God - 'come on, that's a bit of a cheesy way to remind me of my call isn't it?' So I walked a little bit more and there, what was in my path, but a robin, a different one, plumper.... then another.... and then as I walked on the sun was trying to find a way out of the lingering fog. I stood and watched, reminded that despite the unusual times, God is still here and God calls me now - not to how things used to be, or even necessarily to how things will be, but to right now, he calls me.

Over lockdown and semi-lockdown and should-be-lockdown-but-isn't as worship services have been shut or a open yet stressful, finding space to be with God has been different, yet slightly familiar. It's in the standing in the trees looking at the birds that God has been speaking - feet rooted to the ground as the roots dig deep into the soil to find their nourishment, birds singing God's song over me and reminding me that life, community, joy continues.

I've been reminded once again this week not only of my calling, but of God's presence - that he is here amongst us and he is our safe place, our sanctuary, our one constant who stays stable amongst the chaos. He made each one of us and however much we feel inadequate or ill-equipped to do what we are doing now, he looks at us with pleasure, because we are here and we're trying..... and it will get better, he promises us that. 

"Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green.”  Jeremiah 17:7-8

   

 

The singing won't stop

I miss singing with other people. I miss hearing others voices as I try and sing with them. I miss being part of the beautiful sound a choir can make when singing together. I miss singing in worship. I miss hearing the congregation sing in worship. I miss the uplift of singing, the community building nature of corporate singing, the joy that singing with others brings. 

My well being has been affected by not being able to sing with other people.... and it's been too long. I sang Silent Night with my support bubble on the doorstep on Christmas Eve and it felt slightly naughty and definitely weird in a 'I'm not used to this' kind of way. Singing is good for the soul and I miss it and want it to be normal not weird. 

A number of articles have been coming out about how maybe we might use this time to move away from corporate singing in worship, that because we can't sing together, we might focus on other ways of worshipping, and our worship will be enriched. Well, yes, I get that.... and that's great. I'm all up for creative worship - once I get my creative on I'm unstoppable.... and I value words and art and creating stuff in enabling me to worship (not dancing so much, but that'd be my awkwardness more than anything else), but I particularly value singing, and not just because I like it, but because it feels integral to my being. When I read those articles and the comments about them, I just wanted to cry (and sing). 

I believe singing is something that God has created me to do, and, although I can sing on my own, not being able to sing with others leaves something lacking. There is an uncomfortable rhetoric around that God is using the pandemic to change the way we worship to move away from singing.... God might be helping us to get our creative juices flowing, but I'm not sure he's really working towards stopping us singing corporately when we can......  

Singing and songwriting has always been key at times of crisis and re-orientating - read some of the stories behind the hymns that have lasted the test of time and you can hear that. Amazing Grace, written by John Newton as he recognised his culpability in the act of slavery but also the forgiveness he received as he turned away from his wrong ways. It is Well with my Soul was written by Horatio Spattford after a fire had destroyed his business and his wife and daughters had lost their lives in a tragic ocean accident. Augustus Toplady wrote Rock of Ages after having to find shelter in a gorge in a storm.... and the stories continue..... just look at all those Psalms.  

Spirituals helped enslaved people express both their Christian values and the hardships of slavery - full of hope for the future under impossibly difficult circumstances - hope of going home, hope of freedom, hope of far better than what they were experiencing. The stories told through blues and folk music speak of journeys and hardship and heading onwards and fighting on.... and there'll be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover.

The trouble is in this crisis, the crisis has stopped us expressing our hope in song alongside one another, and it makes it harder than it already is. 

Songs and singing are associated with time and space. This song got me through, we sang a lot of this song at that time. 10000 reasons was the song of my ordination year, sang at every ordination but one reminding us all of the goodness of God, Waymaker the song of my first year in New Addington and will always remind me of the first wedding I took here. The Father's Song, a song that has kept me going when I have had doubts in my own abilities, will now be forever shared with Angela who died far too soon as she contracted Covid and couldn't fight it - yet she knew that God has always been there and enfolded her with eternal love (I would have loved to be able to sing it to her). 

We sing to worship, we sing to remember, we sing for wellbeing, we sing to protest, we keep on singing - it's a way of expressing who we are and what matters. And singing with other people makes it so much better. 

I look forward to a day when I can stand next to someone, many people, and sing my heart out, where I don't only have to hear my own voice and the track played through zoom and where all the intertwining of voices, in and out of tune will make a beautiful sound. The pandemic is pausing singing with others, is pausing singing in worship, but it will begin again.... 

And, when we're allowed, try and stop me..... the singing won't stop.

Facing the muddy path (happy!? new year)

"Mud, mud glorious mud. Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood. So follow me, follow. Down to the hollow and there let us wallow in glorious mud"

There is something about mud. If I was a hippo I would love to wallow in mud. That mud has been put there for a reason. That mud has been put there so that hippos can have fun and enjoy the moment. That mud being there makes the hippos appreciate the clean(er) water of the river when they have their daily wash. 

There is something about mud. It's slippy and slimey and there is the continued fear that you are going to get stuck. There are the 'this mud is going to go over the edge of my shoes' diversion through the brambles moments and the 'will my shoe extract itself moments'. 

Apart from in the hollows, mud is unique to a time and situation - it doesn't go on forever, so despite the secret enjoyment in its clarty glory, in moments of mild peril, the knowledge that dry ground is just around the corner makes the mud easier to deal with. 

My knees ache this morning because it's particularly muddy at the moment. I went for a walk yesterday and one of my biggest victories was not falling over in the mud. My shoes almost got stuck, the splashes of mud went a long way up my trousers, my coat is covered in mossy mud from squeezing through the oddest thin person styles you have ever seen and I have cuts on my hands from diving into the brambles to avoid the glorious mud. 

I ache beyond my knees this morning as we come to the end of 2020, a year where, since those first two carefree months, it has been like walking a long path of clarty mud with an end promised, but no idea of when we will catch more than a glimpse of what that end looks like. I ache in body and mind and soul. It's not been the glorious mud that the hippos enjoy because there has been no time (or inclination) to wallow and enjoy the qualities of the mud - this has been the kind of mud that if you stop you will sink - to keep our balance we've had to do some kind of socially distanced dance not around but over the patches that threaten to suck us down. 

Even the most thrive in a crisis people are exhausted by this constant walking through clarty mud. 

It's New Year's Eve, so time to look back and look ahead. It's New Year's Eve and the feeling of wanting to get rid of the horrors of 2020 is strong, but the knowledge that this path laden with mud continues to lay itself before us makes us want someone to invent a new machine that will help us glide across and away from the mud and not have to face the entry to 2021 with the fear of entering Mordor. 

How do we face the unknown of what's next? This is not the time to get excited and play in the mud, but that image of the clarty mud might get us somewhere. 

We need to take it slowly, put each foot down gently, don't rush. The only way we will avoid slipping is testing out the path ahead and we have to do that ourselves - gently. If we are fearful, we need to pause for a moment and breathe and gather our thoughts. If our grips on our shoes are not good enough right now, then stopping for a moment to re-equip is not time wasted. If when we put our foot down it sinks into the clart, our gentle steps will mean we can lift it before it gets stuck. 

We need to adapt, take a different direction for a while, reshape ourselves when we have to climb a stile that has more mud at the bottom and involves some kind of circus performer contortion to get through. Things will look different for a while. That doesn't meant that different has to become normal, but it does mean we have to deal with it in new ways. We might get stuck in the brambles but those wounds will heal and hurt less as time goes on. If avoiding getting stuck means a 2 mile detour, perhaps taking it can only be the best option. 

We need to take what is offered to help us through. If that's being given a break but that break means sitting on a cold, mossy rock, then take it - even if you can't switch off from the mud that surrounds. If that's being given shoes that don't suit, wear them for a while and try and thrive in the uncertain tasks ahead - we're not all made to re-train in cyber but we can try the best with the training available - incessantly being online is not forever. If it's an injection we know nothing about, but is the equivalent of the machine that will help us to glide over the mud, then get that arm out and offer it for puncture - ignore the stories that send you down a deeper muddier path and trust in the narrow stile to a better, less muddy field.

We need to hold onto the hope that this is not forever. The clarty mud will end, perhaps slower than we might have liked, but there will be a moment sometime soon when sitting on the sofa watching Gilmore Girls (or your choice of comfort activity) having had a long hot bath with none of that aching is not just a possibility but a reality. 2021, I hope, will bring the beginning of that process soon. We will have stories to tell, we will appreciate one another more, we will have a lot of healing to do and a lot of trauma to process, but it will come. There is light and it shines in the darkness. 

May your 2021 end better than it will begin. 

“If you’ll hold on to me for dear life,” says God,
    “I’ll get you out of any trouble.
I’ll give you the best of care
    if you’ll only get to know and trust me.
Call me and I’ll answer, be at your side in bad times;
    I’ll rescue you, then throw you a party.
I’ll give you a long life, give you a long drink of salvation!”  

Psalm 91:14-16 (MSG)

You are not Superwoman [or Superman]

You are not superwoman [or superman]

This is your advent [daily] reminder to give yourself a break.

As I walked into my kitchen today and it was, frankly, a mess, and I was once again disappointed with myself. I had to remind myself, once again, that I am not superwoman. I asked myself whether I was too tired to tidy up because I was busy or was I just lazy (I mean, noone else is coming in my house, so why bother) and then reminded myself that I wasn't superwoman. 

As I put together my online service today and wanted to spend hours making and editing a video I reminded myself that I am not superwoman. I am only one and as only one I can only do what I am able to do, and what I am able to do I can do the best I can. 

But what I am able to do is not just about capability, it's about being careful too. 

Advent and Christmas is turning out weird this year and the tendency amongst many of us will be to overcompensate by doing wackier and more time consuming things. A lot of us have decorated that little bit earlier, church leaders are getting their creative on but then spending hours and hours doing stuff that although is going to be great, is beyond the limit of what they can do and keep healthy. 

The reality in 2020 is that we have all at some point got to the point where we have had to say, well actually, enough is enough, this is going to break me..... yet we continue to overcompensate for the lacking of 2020 by driving ourselves into the ground. The reality of 2020 is we probably all need a few months off to deal with everything that 2020 has thrown at us and 2021 doesn't sound like it's going to be simple. 

Advent calls to us. Be still, wait up, take care, there is more, just hang on a minute. 

You are not superwoman [or superman], you have limits, and what you can do is not about capability but taking care too. 

Advent calls to us. Just hush a while, put that thing you are carrying down, stop telling yourself you are not working hard enough, sit still and wait, because the one who changes all is on his way.

"Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain. And the glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all people will see it together....." Isaiah 40:5 

Living in the waiting

It's hard isn't it, 2020? Even with the hope of some sense of kind of normal ahead, the now is just hard. Some days are easier than others. Some days you find yourself sat sighing, wanting to curl up in a ball and for someone to make it go away. Some days your reactions are quite unexpected to the small things that you would normally let pass you by. I'm on one of those days. 

I decided I would dabble in a quiet day. I was going to do it properly, but my brain wouldn't stop thinking about my sermon about peace and I wasn't going to find peace until I began to write it.... so instead I listened to the led sessions and thought a little bit and intertwined it with writing the most badly constructed sermon sentences ever where I couldn't even extract the meaning myself when I read it back.  

It was an advent retreat - a focus on waiting and hope and advent things. As I sat listening I was stumped by the encouragement to think back to January and February - what were your hopes then? we were asked. Hopes dashed are so hard to deal with and the question threw me into a headspace I didn't want to be. I've spent so much time helping others walk through their own loss and look ahead with hope, I realised that there are things that I have lost that haven't emerged at all yet and have the potential to kick me over when I am least expecting it. 

My hopes for moving forward got stopped by the process of lockdown reorganisation. My hopes of walking the Thames path by fears of crowds not wearing masks on the train. My hopes of things changing by everything changing. 

It's not like God hasn't been continually reminding me that there is hope, that things will get better, that this isn't forever - the things he has been doing even in the last few days have been a very real representation of what the phrase 'my cup overflows' in Psalm 23 means. 

But it's just that it has been hard. We're often told to live in the moment, but we're always also told to look ahead and make plans - where will you be in five years time? What are your plans for Christmas? What are your ambitions and hopes for the future? 2020 hasn't been a year of planning, it's been a year of reacting, and in it all, at times, I've felt like I've lost my way. 

Yet God still says, I have called you, I have chosen you, I will lead you by the hand. And I want to ask where to? 2020 has no signposts, just boulders and road closures.  

Today I asked and God answered with this:

"Maybe my desire right now is for you to simply be all you are called to be in the current moment"

As the waiting of advent is all too real this year, perhaps in the waiting we might lean in and say OK then, and be.   

Facing ahead

 

I’ve managed to just sneak in a holiday. It was a holiday that even three days before it began I was unsure it would happen. It was a holiday where I could only see most of my family in almost chance meetings outside trainer shops and gin shops and on very wet walks. It was a holiday of rest and peace full of glorious views and a plethora of rainbows reminding me again and again that this dark cloud hovering will one day disperse and be replaced with the glorious technicolour of life lived in all its fullness. 

Much of my holiday was spent in internet silence with the continuous news cycle replaced by homes under the hammer and Australian traffic police stopping repentant scantily clothed male drivers for not wearing their seatbelts. Whilst the threat of a virus that destroys, divides and conquers was always there in the attempts to escape the shelf emptying shoppers and in the underlying anxiety of facing the unholiday ahead there were moments in the plot line we simply forgot. In our damp cottage surrounded by 1.5 miles of silence we were able to hide from the reality of the story that bites. 

Then in a pause on the journey we waited two and a half hours for the promised press conference and then a little while longer as the graphs that normally fascinate got in the way of the news we wanted to but didn’t want to know. 

Another month and more of hiding, of locking ourselves away, of relying on the internet for all we try and be..... it was not a surprise and I’m quite relieved that some decisions have been taken out of my hands and I’m not angry or upset, just resigned and frustrated as we face uncertainty about endings and trudge into November ready to bed in for the winter. I’m glad it’s come after a pause because the privilege of a pause will help me face it more easily. 

So how do we face this period of gloom ahead? Here are some thoughts..... 

Love. Don’t forget the signs of hope in community that we first saw in March. Don’t forget the neighbour you reached out to, the one who reached out to you. Don’t forget to love. 

Pray. This lockdown is not the same because the schools and colleges and universities are back and teachers and support staff are facing the next month with fear and uncertainty. Pray for them as they are unable to close the door and hide and put themselves in danger each day. Pray for our NHS and all frontline workers. Pray prayers of protection over one another. Don’t forget to pray. 

Give. The emergency support that was available in March is simply not there anymore. Charities and churches and councils are running out of money. Give time - volunteer to help the community. Give space to listen to those who are struggling. Give resources - people still need food and clothes and hope. Don’t forget to give. 

Hide. Having no internet or rolling news is a blessing. It helped me face what I didn’t know about with calmness and less worry. Winter is a time for getting out favourite films and blankets and just being. Don’t feel guilty if most evenings are simply that. Give yourself a break. Bed in. Cry. Lament. Don’t forget to hide when you need to. 

Look beyond. Hope. There is more than this. My holiday rainbows reminded me of that. Hold onto hope of more and better because knowing that this dark cloud will be replaced by life in all its fulness is what will keep us stepping onward in our darkest days. Don’t forget to look beyond.

“Don’t just pretend to love others. Really love them. Hate what is wrong. Hold tightly to what is good. Love each other with genuine affection, and take delight in honoring each other. Never be lazy, but work hard and serve the Lord enthusiastically. Rejoice in our confident hope. Be patient in trouble, and keep on praying”. Romans 12:9-12 NLT

I look out of my window - Psalm 121ish

I look out of my window to the trees turning bronze

Where will my strength come from to face the winter ahead? 

My strength - it can only come from God

He made the trees, the earth they grow from, the water that quenches their thirst, the seasons that turn them from green to bronze to bare wood to pink....

He won't let me fall over, he won't let me down. He won't let a truck drive into me like the missing tree across the road. 

God who watches over me, he won't need an alarm clock - even if he's been up all night, even if I have exhausted him with my crying, my God who watches over me will never fall asleep. He won't even powernap. 

God is your constant watching over you companion, your eyes and ears, he is by your side. He will protect you from anything you face - viruses or injury, nasty talk and gossip, your own insecurities. 

He'll even protect you from the strongest sun, shielding you from the rays that burn. He'll shelter you even from the moon in case the moon is something that hurts.

God guards you from all the rocks that are thrown, from all the little virus laden water droplets that hang in the air, from your own mind that overthinks and worries and is scared... he guards your life which is so precious to him.

He guards you when you leave home and you fear what you may encounter. He guards you when get home and the overwhelming feelings of dread wash over you as you deal with what you encountered outside your front door. 

He guards you when you are isolating. He guards you when you feel alone. He guards you when you fear those you live with. He guards you when you fear your own mind.  

He guards you right now, he will guard you whatever you face ahead. He will guard you always. 

I look up to the mountains, where does my help come from?

My help comes from God, maker of heaven and earth. He will not let my foot slip. He will not let me down. He will not sleep and leave me to fend for myself. He will give me all the strength I need. 

He will help me rest. He will bring me peace.