Many years ago, a man called Nicholas heard of a family who were in serious and crippling debt which was going to have devastating consequences for all of them. The story goes that he took a bag of gold coins and threw them through an open window. The account goes onto say that they landed in a stocking or a shoe and from that act of generosity came the legend of Father Christmas.
Today is St Nicholas’ day, a day to remember about generous giving. Yesterday I was reflecting on that old question of what we want for Christmas. No doubt many children have made a list for the modern-day Father Christmas of what they want. Others of us will be making our own lists of what we must get for the festive season to be right. “Have we got it all?” will be the cry of many as they look at over crammed shopping trolleys.
Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with being prepared and having lovely things to eat and drink over the festive season as we hope to meet up with those who we love. There’s also nothing wrong with the excitement that children have as they open their presents or pillow cases on Christmas Day. I personally LOVE seeing the new bicycles or scooters being taken out for a test run on Christmas afternoon.
But what the story of St Nicholas reminds me is that generous giving should be a way of life, not just for Christmas. The Bible talks about how God loves a cheerful giver and it’s true that to give is more blessed than to receive.
This is the tough bit though and I’m hesitating over writing it as it’s challenging me too. Generous giving isn’t just about handing over a bit of cash to a charity now and again – although with most charities struggling, it’s not a bad idea if we can and aren’t already, to take up regular giving for our particular favourites. It can also be about how we can give to others of our time and of our gifts.
I can’t count the times that someone else’s generosity of time or support has helped me – a phone call at the right moment, a walk and gentle conversation across the top of the Wiltshire fields, cake and coffee over a lunch hour. Generosity doesn’t have to be a grand gesture – a quiet supportive text can just as well be the bag of gold coins thrown through the open window – but it is rooted in love.
As the slightly revised Christmas version of one of the most famous bits of the Bible says: “Love is kind, though harried and tired. Love doesn’t envy another’s home that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens. Love doesn’t give only to those who are able to give in return but rejoices in giving to those who can’t.
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, golf clubs will rust, but giving the gift of love will endure.”
There’s a lovely old hymn that starts off: “Looking upward every day, sunshine on our faces, pressing onward every day, toward the heavenly places”.
It came to mind this evening, as I walked up the steeply sloping field, with the sunshine gently warming my face. It was a shorter walk than normal – I’m on call for work which means my usual go-to walk and halfway point destination was slightly too far off. It’ll keep for another day.
There’s an old joke about the child who shouts: “Are we nearly there yet?”, when the car has only just got out of the driveway. And sometimes I wonder whether those who I’ve ‘persuaded’ into going walking with me are tempted to shout the same words as we get into the sixth mile.
These walks – for me – are genuinely more about the journey itself than the final destination. I’m fascinated with where the various paths on my map are going to take me and quite often a diversion is based on the simple question: “I wonder where that path goes?”
Each walk I take is an adventure waiting to happen. The animals I see and the bird song which accompanies me along those miles, the discovery of landmarks I didn’t know about and the people I meet – it’s all right up there as a mini adventure.
And each time I go out I walk a little more briskly as my fitness increases and when I come back, I’ve got a new batch of memories to mull over and be thankful for, which exercises my mind and soul.
That old hymn, by the way, continues on. It exhorts us to receive kindness more gratefully each day that passes and be more ready as time passes to forgive those hurts that can cause us such pain. The best verse – and probably the most challenging – is the one that encourages us to take that journey a little more thoughtfully.
Leaving every day behind Something which might hinder; Running swifter every day, Growing purer, kinder…
International Happiness Day has come round again everyone. Let’s pin a smile on our faces and put our best happy face on and tell everyone: “Don’t worry, be happy”.
No, don’t worry, I’m not convinced either. Anyone can pin a smile on their face and walk out of the door into the world wearing a look of happiness while anxiety and guilt fight it out between them inside their heart.
The idea of a day which might suggest you have to be happy regardless of what you’re going through can hold up a dreadful mirror to highlight what’s unhappy about our own lives, be it the awful inconsolable pain of grief, struggles with mental health, serious illness, the loss of a job, our families going through times of great trial. And that’s before we even mention a virus that has wiped out everything we ever thought we had or knew.
In those situations, an encouragement of, ‘Don’t worry, be happy,’ can really hurt. I will never forget the awful, dreadful painful hurt of a work colleague saying to me when I was struggling: ‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’ ‘How do you know it hasn’t?’ was my grief-stricken response.
Now, as then, it’s important to remember that while happiness is a great thing, it needs to be shared & promoted sensitively. In the midst of grief, disaster and darkness, cajoling someone to be happy can feel like a fierce smack in the face.
But the kindness we still need to receive and give at a time when people seem to define happiness as tearing each other apart or giving another kicking to those who already find themselves in the pits of despair is perhaps more accurately what international happiness day should be more about.
None of us can force happiness upon others any more than we can manufacture it in ourselves, and neither should we. But sometimes the knowledge that someone else has cared enough to call, to message you and ask how you are, has sent you a ridiculous joke or a funny cartoon, or a stranger has left a message on a pebble for others to know the truth about how we are loved, can put a tiny spark of light into a place that seems so very dark and gently lift a crushed spirit.
After all, there really isn’t enough darkness in the world to put out the light of just one candle, rainbows form in the fiercest storms and the love of a friend or the kindness of a stranger can bring a quiet but very real happiness in an unexpected place.
“Lent is a snowfall in the soul. Just as snow makes us see our landscape in a different light, making us renavigate our environment and wonder at the sight of our own breath, so Lent invites us to distil, reimagine and remember the fragile miracle of our own self.” [Mark Oakley, Reflections for Lent, Church House Publishing]
Whatever you may have decided to give up for Lent, it’s not a bad idea to look at taking up something positive in its place. Times of reflection whether listening to music, walking or a good long run are just as good for our souls and hearts and minds as giving up those things that – perhaps – might be seen as unhealthy physically and mentally.
Lent can be a time that asks us to live life in a way it’s really meant to be lived, in the pursuit of what’s good. Anything that causes us to stop looking out for each other and to focus more on ourselves is not healthy.
I asked myself the question this morning about what I would find hardest to give up for Lent. It made for an uncomfortable few moments as I was reminded of a conversation I had only a couple of days ago with the decorator currently redoing part of my house. A throw away line about the amount of ‘stuff’ I had – has made me look up and look around and realise it’s time to make some very tough decisions.
We’re really not the sum total of the stuff we have. The love of money being the root of all evil is often quoted but less mentioned is the love of stuff which can equally leave us in a comfort zone we need to be shaken out of.
Even writing this is making me uncomfortable, but saying it out loud is going to be part of how I deal with my unhealthy love of stuff. “But I love these books” is my wailing cry. “Oh really? So when did you last read that one [points] or that one [points again] or that one?” is the unavoidable response. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with books, nothing at all. There is something however wrong with holding onto books that you’re never going to read again and which you’re holding onto because they’re yours and you want to be able to see them and know it’s there. Like a comfort blanket in fact.
I wasn’t going to give up anything for Lent. Instead I was going to focus on a positive aspect like thankfulness for what I have. It seems though for me at least that those two sentences inexorably now belong together. Beware of the questions you ask yourself – you may find an uncomfortable truth that will take courage to even face up to, let alone deal with.
A love of anything that isn’t focussed outside of ourselves can be unhealthy. It can give us what C S Lewis refers to as “Dragon hearts”. One of his characters became a dragon after sleeping on a dragon’s hoard of treasure thinking dragon thoughts about keeping it all for himself. I don’t honestly think I’ll become a dragon but I really don’t think I want to risk it. Do you?
I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so much like a pilgrim as I have during these first weeks of 2021. It’s partly because I’ve found the faith journey a little more tough this past year but it’s also because I’ve taken on a virtual, but real pilgrimage. Inspired by some of my far more fit and committed friends, I’ve decided to walk from Lands End to John O’ Groats. I won’t be as quick as the marathon runners or the serious power walks but I’ve committed to walking the distance – all 874 miles of it.
It seemed a vast distance when I began back on 1 January and there’s a reason for that: it is a vast distance. And yet, as I walk the miles around and about where I live, clocking them up against the virtual journey, it seems hardly possible that I’ve now covered just over 200 miles. No doubt I’ll still be walking the distance for some time to come – long after others have finished and collected their medals
But it’s become a bit more of a pilgrimage with every day that goes by. I take more or less the same route every time, expanding it as the days get lighter and the ground gets drier. While the route remains more or less the same, the view and the scene before me does not. The sunrise is never the same twice, the seasons are starting to gently change from Winter to the glorious new life of Spring that cheers our weary hearts.
Even in the starkness of the winter days, the bright colours of the berries on the shrubs and bushes and the chests of the beautiful cheeky robins would bring a smile to my face. The first daffodils are bursting into life, the woodland is carpetted with snowdrops and crocuses are shouting: “Ta dah” wherever they’ve put up their multi-coloured flowers.
And of course, there are the people. People who are turning from indistinguishable wrapped up shapes into identifiable individuals who are making their own pilgrimages. There’s the cheerful family with Baxter-the-Dog-Who-Likes-To-Say-Hello, the mask-wearing man whose labrador would be a great addition on the wing of any rugby union side and the runner who’s working on her fitness in all weathers.
Where I live is incredibly friendly even while strictly observing social distancing. We share our views on the weather – “that biting wind across the fields always gets you” “It’s nice the ground is drying up even if it feels like concrete in places” and “Excuse my dog, she’s just so nosey, it’s embarrassing.” We meet as friends even though we’re strangers because we share a common purpose – an early morning journey.
We take different routes but our paths often cross and when they do, our cheery greetings to each other warm our hearts and leave us smiling as we carry on our respective treks. We’re all pilgrims trying to make a journey which sometimes can be back breakingly uphill while at other times we have the wind at our backs and it seems easy to almost glide along the pathway. I love the silence of the early morning when it feels like I’m the only person in the world but equally I love those moments when I come across someone else making their way across the paths.
It’s not good for us to make a journey totally alone. Being cheered on, whether it be from the sidelines or from the one walking alongside us, helps to make the trek less wearying. Sharing the journey, whether it’s the glorious highs or the heartbreaking lows, whether it’s for a short time or longer term, can be what helps to keep the pilgrim keeping on.
Sometimes, the journey is less about the destination and isn’t even about the road travelled or the route taken but who we met along the way and how we met with them when we did.
I will weep when you are weeping; when you laugh I’ll laugh with you; I will share your joy and sorrow, till we’ve seen this journey through.
One of my friends made me laugh out loud this morning. I sent him this photograph of the first daffodils I’d seen in the “wild”, as it were. He responded: “Spring? Already? Do the unions know about this? I guess they must do, because the daffs have come out in support.”
As I carried on my walk, still smiling, it struck me that there was something more to what my friend had said. I turned back to look at the daffodils, the first ones in their group, providing a bright splash of colour against the grey and chilly morning. Despite the chilly east wind, despite the predicted minus temperatures, despite the breeze which knocked them to the ground, the daffodils are determinedly still doing their thing. It doesn’t matter to them if it snows or rains or blows a gale, these intrepid flowers keep going with their task.
It was chilly, not necessarily the bitter cold that we associate with the very cold winter days but chilly enough for me to upgrade my gloves to the thickest pair I own. The few walkers I met out on their own walk were also wrapped up warmly and one even commented to me that it was a “bit fresh out”.
And yet, it wasn’t enough to put us off our respective walks. The man with the labrador who can catch and run with an old rugby ball in a way that we both agreed was missing from the England side yesterday. The woman with two dogs who walks the same loop of pathway as me but in reverse and with whom I laugh about us being creatures of habit.
We all keep doing our thing and it matters. One of my friends who is a chaplain quoted on social media earlier something about how the good that we do can leave a lasting legacy that we may not even know about. Another friend and I were talking about how hard it can be to keep going in these difficult days when hope seems to be a tinier word than the promise we want it to be.
The daffodils are a reminder of why it matters to keep doing what you’re doing. Even if you can’t see it for yourself, you have no idea how you might be helping others to get through a particularly dark patch. Asking ourselves why we bother to do what we’re doing is not necessarily the right question. The better question could well be, whether what we’re doing may well make someone else’s difficult path just that tiny bit more bearable. After all, the people who planted the original daffodil bulbs could never have known how much they would cheer the hearts of all those who saw them in the years to come…
A few years ago, I came across an African proverb which said: “However long the night may last, the dawn will break.” Over the years, I’ve watched thousands of sunrises with others and on my own, both at home and abroad, in sadness and in quiet joy. Not only were the places I experienced them different, but also the ways those sunrises made their appearance and also the way I received them.
Each of those sunrises was different. Not one was the same. I never knew when I got up what I would get but all I did know was that the promised sunrise would come. This morning, I overslept slightly and raced out of my house to see what actually turned out to be the best part of the day. The red sky in the morning did signal the old shepherd’s warning about the incoming snow and sleet and rain.
And for a few moments, the sky was lit up with the reds, oranges and yellows against the gentle blue of the dawn that precedes the sunrise appearing. My walk paused several times to appreciate the fact that however long the night might have been, the dawn will come.
On my walk, I met one of my neighbours who was also out appreciating the bright start to the day. Just 24 hours earlier she was preparing to have the vaccine. She admitted that she’d had her doubts about it but her family had persuaded her and now she was gracious enough to admit that she was glad she’d listened to them and overridden her fears. “I know there’s a long way to go,” she said, “But I feel like I’ve taken a step nearer being able to spend time with those I love.”
Some churches will have either marked Candlemas Day or be looking to mark it over the next couple of days. It’s an event which marks the moment when the baby Jesus was officially introduced into his community at the local temple and draws the curtain on the Christmas season. No doubt it was held with the same joyful feeling as Christenings, Dedications and Naming ceremonies are held.
In that community was a man called Simeon, who had waited years for a promise to be kept. He knew that one day he would see and meet a very special child, a child who would bring the light and love of God into the world. Every day he went to that temple, probably wondering if this would be the day and possibly being disappointed that it wasn’t. And yet, back he went again every day in hope and expectation that the promise would be kept. And suddenly here it was. The promise was being kept right in front of his eyes.
Simeon’s night had lasted a very long time, but he had believed that the dawn of promise would come and when it did, his heart must have been very full.
I have no idea how long this night will last, but I am sure that the dawn will eventually come and with it a day that I hope fills our hearts too. We’ve all lost too much for it to be a carefree party, but I do believe there will be a quiet moment as we all stand and appreciate the dawn after the night which appeared to be never ending.
In 12 months of dreadful weeks, to say this is a truly dreadful week for so many gives some perspective of just how bad it has been. There are too many broken hearts, too many painful gaps in lives and too many well-loved missing faces. Recent losses, losses this week, losses in the last year, last decade, last century – they can all be just as raw and painful. And one hundred thousand is a milestone that has made all of us swallow hard. This is a long dark and pretty grim night we’re living through.
The light may still shine in the darkness but it seems very feeble and hardly able to make a dent in it. I was thinking that on the darkest bit of my walk this evening, where my tiny smartphone torch only just about cut through to show me the mud. The light still shone but I was very aware of the darkness that lay beyond.
Just because the darkness seems so huge, is not a reason to give up, but it can be daunting. In a dreadful week with its reminders of tragedy and travesty, both recent and longer ago, it can be hard to see where that light shines.
But it does.
It shines when the exhausted nurse takes time to hold the hand of those who are lonely and afraid and sick, when the homeless are taken off the streets and into shelter and when the tired and scared refugee is given a hand to step to safety.
It shines when a friend says a kind word or a gently encouraging comment, when a bunch of strangers donate a stack of food to help those who can’t make ends meet and when we hold others in our hearts and prayers when we know they can hardly take one step more.It’s at those moments that the light truly shines, however tiny its beam might be.
I’m not sure whether we will ever truly shake off the grim darkness. Maybe we need it there to remind us of the terrible alternative if we choose to not shine our light. As it says in the old hymn we used to sing long ago: In this world of darkness, so we must shine, You in your small corner, and I in mine.
Day 24: On the final day of Advent – yep, only one more day til Christmas Day – Charles Dickens reminds us that being thankful, putting the needs of others before our own gain and caring for those around us is the kind of love that lies at the heart of the age-old Christmas message.
On this Christmas Eve, on the final day of the #AdventCalendar, there is no other quote or song I can give you but this:
‘Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world…
And so, as Tiny Tim said, ‘God bless us, every one!’
Thank you all for taking this walk through Advent with me.
Day 23: I’ve just grinned very loudly after reading a post that said: ‘Your Christmas gift is me. That’s right, I’m renewing our friendship for another year.’
And yet… it’s a gift that will last way beyond many of the presents that will be opened in just two days time, it’s often covered by a lifetime guarantee and in the main, you won’t be keeping the receipt in case you need to return it.
The bond of friendship is not easily broken. There are friends on here that I don’t see very often and some I’ve not seen face-to-face in years and yet I know – as I discovered with Jilly a few years ago – that when and if I do meet up with them it’ll be like there was never a gap.
Over the weekend I put the finishing touches to a review of the year 2019 film. No, I’m not putting it up until New Year’s Eve so you’ll have to wait and see… This year hasn’t been the easiest in many ways – too many friends have gone too soon in 2019 – but equally the film has shown me that abiding friendship is a large part of #10000reasons
Thank you to everyone who’s walked with me in one way or another across these 12 months. At the risk of quoting Muppet theology again, ‘Wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas…’
The first Christmas was simply this: love and the gift of love and the sharing of that gift. It seems appropriate then that to say I’m putting you all on notice that my gift to you this year is renewing our friendship for another year. I hope that you’ll all reciprocate that gift both with me and each other and I look forward to another 12 months of love, light, laughter and malarkey, but I suspect mainly malarkey.
Day 22: If yesterday was Panic Saturday, today is probably Stressed out Sunday for many of us.
For me, it’s the busiest day of the year. Two carol services, some final choir and musician rehearsals, making sure I’ve got all the right music ready for the right bits.
This morning I’m looking at a pile of carol books, some extra words for the songs I’ve added, just carrying out my fifth recheck of the Powerpoint for tonight’s carol service to make sure it’s all there and in the right order.
In between that there are other things to sort out – which presents need to be delivered on which day and have I put all the remaining Christmas cards in the right bag? And don’t forget to pick up the turkey tomorrow and all the various other bits that are needed for dinner on Christmas Day.
Having a Things I Must Do to be ready is list is fine. Being ready isn’t a bad thing. Making sure everything is done on time matters but it isn’t the end of the world.
Being a slave to a To Do list creates stress all of its own. Ticking off the things on that list almost becomes obsessional.
My rush to get things kickstarted this morning came to a complete standstill when I suddenly realised that the sun I’ve missed so much over these rain-filled days was quietly doing its thing and appearing over the town where I live.
Everything stopped as I watched it come up in its own time and in its own way creating gentle beauty as the orange, red and yellow crept across the sky. I so very nearly missed it because I wasn’t looking up but thinking about all the things I need to do.
Don’t get me wrong: stopping everything just to stare at the sky doesn’t serve as a reason not to do anything. There are people coming to tonight’s carol service who would be slightly surprised if I said I’d watched the sunrise instead of being ready. Being prepared for a big event matters, but let’s not take our eyes off what’s important.
What we do need to factor in during these final few harum scarum busy couple of days, is those moments to stop, to breathe, to listen and just be. Without them, the rush of Christmas might overtake us making us miss its real point. We might miss those who need us, those who look to us for help, those who need the reassurance of our love, all because we Need to Get Things Done.
Let’s have our lists by all means but let’s not be so ruled by them that our hearts forget how to sing.
Day 21: Winter solstice. Shortest day. Halfway out of the dark. Or as one of my friends’ children have been explaining very loudly several thousand times already today to her: Four more sleeps…
Whatever you like to call it, this is the moment when the hours of daylight are outweighed by the hours of darkness. Where I live, the sunrise was around 8.10am and the sunset will be just after 4pm. Yesterday, we were looking out the office window and the dark, dreary rainy day and longing for some light. Someone pointed out that after the Shortest Day, the days would get lighter which is probably the best way to look at it.
However…without these long winter nights we’d never fully appreciate that moment when the days are filled with light, without the dark dreary rain clouds, we wouldn’t fully appreciate the beauty of the rainbow, without the short days, we might not fully enjoy the long days when the sunset seems to take a long and leisurely stroll across the sky.
Facing the dark days isn’t easy. SAD syndrome is a reality for many people. The days of trudging through the rain seem arduous and unrelenting.
And yet… however long the winter, the Spring will come – I see it’s hope and promise in the green shoots that are starting to come from the snowdrops, crocus and daffodils in the garden which quietly wait their moment to burst into full and flowering life.
Later, I shall no doubt light the tealights that bring a warming glow in more ways than one and enjoy the beauty of the Christmas light that fills my living room. It’s a reminder once more that however dark the moment, there’s never enough darkness to put out the light of just one candle.
The light of the world is coming. Just four more sleeps.
Day 20: Christmas is a time of traditions. A time when we do the same things, buy the same things, go to the same places. A lot of those traditions are enshrined in the years gone by, while some of the seasonal habits are those that have been created by us. Some of those traditions bring their own stresses – have we got all the things that the various members of our family will ask for while they’re staying with us? – while others will bring smiles to our faces.
Some of us have films or particular programmes that we watch or listen to as part of our Christmas countdowns – King’s College Cambridge Nine Lessons and Carols is one of mine on Christmas Eve. What might seem slightly bizarre is that my other Christmas go-to is the Muppet Christmas Carol.
And yet, at the heart of both is something age-old and glorious. As Dickens himself puts it: ‘And therefore, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that [Christmas] has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!’
I’ve just returned from going carol singing with some great friends who over the years I’ve shared a lot of Christmas traditions with. We’ve had the usual laughter – ‘Yes, I think I’ve got all the pine needles off the back seat of my car where I had the Christmas tree but you might want to go careful’, the person who turned up to ‘borrow’ some things from his parents and ended up being seconded into the choir and the usual ‘How many people can we get on a doorstep for a selfie?’ moment.
But then there was the moment when a room full of people at sheltered accommodation sang heartily and with good cheer along with us, the moment when we video-called the family who were too unwell to host us and sang carols with and for them, and the couple who at the last minute hosted us with generous helpings of mince pies and other yummy treats.
I’m not sure I totally agree with all the theology of the Muppet Christmas Carol but this evening I genuinely feel that ‘wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas.’ I wish all that love for each one of you and hope you find it this season but just as importantly, we make time to give it too.
Day 19: I heard a man described today as the most frightening person someone had ever met in the whole of their life. People were quaking in their boots when they had to meet him or have conversations with him. The person who was telling me this story had gone a little pale, presumably because of some of the memories they had.
When the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come takes Scrooge to hear accounts of a man who had recently died, it takes him a while to realise the people are talking about him. The shock as he sees that people think the only warmth about him was the blankets he’d died in and even those he thought were his friends were only interested in who’d got his money.
I’ve sometimes wondered whether people who appear to be constantly unkind in word or deed, or who intimidate others know that they are like that. The man who inspired only fear in his staff and colleagues; the snide woman who constantly undermines those around her, the man who pushes others out of the way to get what he wants – do they know they’re like it? What happened along the way to make them lash out at others in the ways they do?
I don’t know.
But I do wonder that somewhere there’s been a lack of love and light shown or experienced in someone’s life to turn them to the darker corners.
If that is the case, then perhaps we need to work more to spread love and light, kindness and warmth to those we meet along the way. We won’t always get it right but none of us will perhaps ever know how our kindness at a moment when someone really needed it will turn them from the darkness…
Day 18: There’s a word in Welsh that has no direct translation into English. There’s actually no one word or phrase that sums up what it means. That word is ‘hiraeth’. Sometimes Welsh people use it to mean homesickness, but even that’s too simple.
Hiraeth is about a real longing, implying not only missing home or even a village, town or city but a time and an era, or a person. It can also refer to a kind of homesickness for something that may not exist any longer.
Sometimes I wonder whether it’s less a word and more a feeling or emotion. I feel hiraeth sometimes for the Christmasses of my childhood when family and extended family all got together with grandparents at the heart. Sometimes it makes me sad, remembering those who have gone on but most of the time it reminds me of who I am and where I belong.
Hiraeth isn’t always about a place although my beloved Wiltshire always tugs at my heartstrings when I travel through or return to it. I’ll never tire of the Salisbury Plain, the sunrise over Westbury White Horse or the beauty of the hares running across the download. This is where my home is. This is where my heart lies.
But it’s more than a place – it’s those friends whose warm hugs make me feel like I truly belong and the family who will always accept and love me wherever I’ve been and whenever I come home.
And while there will be a lot of fun as we exchange gifts and cards over the coming days, it will be the love and laughter that far outlasts event the most costly gift. And that will be a priceless reminder of the value of hiraeth.
Day 17: On the floor of my lounge is a tattered old bootlace to which is tied the top from a old packet of cat biscuits. It’s seen better days and I’ve just reminded myself that I need to find another bit of cat biscuit packet to tie to the top of it as it’s looking a little worn.
It might look like a bit of rubbish which should be put in the recycling, but it is in fact the most precious possession in Fergus Cat’s little life. It’s the first toy he ever had when he was taken into foster care before coming here – before that he’d never had anything to play with.
Despite the fact there are new and better cat toys in his home here, he very rarely bothers with them. He is content to play for ages with a bootlace and a bit of a biscuit packet. I’ve just spent five minutes playing with him with it and he’s now making his own amusement with it.
Seeing a cat being happy with so little is a real lesson during a time when pretty well everything you see and hear is about Getting More Stuff. Advent is a state of mind and a state of heart, in readiness for what is to come. It doesn’t need stuff, it needs a quiet reflective attitude.
Yesterday, over lunch, my friend and I were musing about this accumulation of stuff and how as life goes on, you’re actually less bound by ‘stuff’ than you used to be. When Paul says in his letter to the church in Philippi that he’s learned to be happy with what he is and where he is, he means it. He knew what it was to have plenty and he knew what it was to have nothing and he was okay with either situation.
If we continually hanker after what we don’t have, we’ll never be truly happy – there’ll always be something more that we want. Being content where we are with our bootlaces and tops of biscuit packets can be tough, but take it from the cat lying on the carpet gently purring to himself, it’s a good life choice.
One of my friends shared this on Facebook yesterday: ‘The first Christmas was pretty simple. It’s okay if yours is too.’
Day 16: ‘All things come to those who wait’, sometimes seems like a silly proverb because quite patently, they don’t. I think I’ll be waiting a long time for a Jaguar to sit in my garage, or for an appearance at the O2 with Steam Shed or for Fergus Cat to to learn that window blinds are not obstacle courses to play on.
‘I can’t wait,’ is no doubt the cry of children and – let’s face it – quite a few adults as Christmas approaches, but … guess what? You’ll have to, as my mother often told us…
But of course, that’s not what the proverb is getting at. It’s about exercising patience and persistence to achieve something close to your heart.
Patience and persistence can be tough going sometimes though when nothing seems to be happening, when nothing seems to be achieved and when nothing seems as if it will change.
It’s even tougher when it seems some people’s interpretations of that proverb are ‘All things come to those who push everyone else out of the way and don’t care how they get them.’ And it’s made even worse when those pushy people seem to get what they want.
What do we do then? Join the band of the ruthless pushy people trampling other everything to get what they want like some nightmare based on the Black Friday sales? Please, no. There’s enough pushy and ruthless people in the world already.
Instead, I’m going to suggest that we join those who quietly persist and persevere in the pursuit of what is good and kind and hopeful. It might take us longer to receive the things that we are waiting for, but we’ll leave a lot less damage in our wake and – I suggest – will have learned a lot more along the way.
Day 15: Many years ago, a couple of us performed a sketch which was based on a newspaper journalist and photographer attempting to get the front page picture for the Bethlehem Daily of the newly born child. They spent so much time bringing in all the people and the animals into the picture that in the end they realised there was no room for the manger and took it out of the shot. The whole reason for the season jettisoned in a moment.
I remembered that this morning when I was listening to the Archbishop of Canterbury on the radio reminding me that the challenge of Advent is the uncomfortable questions it can ask of us. I’ve said before that Christmas can hold up a dark mirror for those people who don’t meet the qualifications that the modern-day season seems to demand: the perfect family, 24 hours of complete happiness with no arguing, the perfect home, the table groaning with every single food item you can think of and a few you never knew you needed.
There’s a reason why charities and churches work to alleviate some of that darkness by making even more services and facilities available than normal, why one of my friends can’t go out as she would normally because she’s on call for a crisis charity and will be taking calls from people who can’t cope, why others of you carry pagers and will be at the beck and call of callouts, regardless of the day, why others will be working shifts and volunteering in ways that disqualify them from the commercially-driven picture of what constitutes Christmas.
And yet… they are the ones that are closer to the heart of the real love and light that is represented in the Christmas message. They’re the ones looking in the grungy sheds rather than being distracted by the shiny castles. And maybe, however uncomfortable it is, we all need to go looking in those dark places to find those people who are in desperate need of the light but who are too afraid or ashamed to ask.
Day 14: Earlier this year, a new friend and I began an exchange of sunrise pictures on our respective journeys to work. He takes his more or less in the same place while where I take mine wherever on the railway line plays the early morning sky to its best advantage.
And yet, his pictures are never the same twice. The colours are always slightly different, the tones warmer or lighter depending on the time of day.
I never tire of seeing those pictures of sunrise – I can’t really speak for him but I’m guessing from the fact the ‘game’ is still going several months on, he probably feels the same way.
Five years ago I was without a job or any prospect of one. I wasn’t anxious exactly as I truly believed that I wouldn’t be allowed to fall flat on my face, but I was very appreciative in a new way of the line from the Christmas reading that says: ‘The light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overwhelm it.’
I suspect that one of the reasons I love seeing the sunrise and appreciate it so much is partly because of that, partly because it shows up the beauty of the county I call home and partly because of the African proverb which says: ‘However long the night may last, the dawn will break.’
It’s difficult to find your way in the dark, no doubt about it and there aren’t always quick fixes. The night has to pass before the morning comes. Five years ago my dark night of unemployment lasted three months. For others night lasts longer and may sometimes seem unending.
But watching those tendrils of orange, yellow and red gently push their way across the fragile blue of the early morning is just a gentle nudge of the hope that dawn will eventually come.
Day 13: ‘No one has ever become poor by giving’, said Anne Frank.
She’s right. Whether it’s time or money or both, whether it’s to those we know or for those we will never know or meet, whether it’s something that gets noticed or not, doesn’t matter.
We are charged to work to make a difference in the bit of the world that has been trusted to us, spreading kindness, love, laughter and light, shattering the darkness wherever we find it.
How it’s done is up to each of us. That it should be done is indisputable. That it is being done is – thankfully – self-evident. The foster and adoptive parents, the workers in the soup kitchens, the cafes, on the streets, in the charities, the quiet working out of grace and love warms our hearts in even the coldest and darkest places.
I’ve known this song for over four decades. It never ceases to touch and challenge me: ‘the creed and the colour and the name won’t matter, I’ll be there.’
Day 12: Social media is a funny beast. In itself, of course, it is neither good nor bad – it’s just a thing. In that regard, it’s like money or the internet generally. It’s how people choose to use it that matters.
I’ve seen a whole load of things in the past few weeks on social media – vitriol and unkindness, challenge and aggressiveness, anger and hatred.
But in the midst of all that, I’ve seen great swathes of light and love on Facebook too – the people who rally around those of my friends who suffer from PTSD and other mental health challenges, those who are up against serious illnesses of all kinds, for whom every day is a battle against things we can’t even imagine, for those who have lost family and close friends. Messages and comments filled with love and friendship – sometimes dressed up as banter – can be the tiny flickering candle in a very dark place.
Those friends in the dark places have been supported by an entire section of the community just going quietly about their business, spreading gentle light wherever they go. And I know that even those friends in the dark places will still make the time to check up on their other friends to make sure they’re okay.
It is no coincidence then that I’ve deliberately chosen this verse from a gentle song that asks us to serve and receive from each other in grace and love.
Day 11: Yesterday, I was having an online conversation with a friend about how too much these days is about looking for a quick fix. Advent reminds us that creative waiting is about waiting for a purpose, being unable to hurry things along because – frankly – you just can’t. A cake has to be baked for a certain time, plants take time to grow, paint takes time to dry. And as we all know, healing of any kind whether physical, emotional or spiritual cannot be hurried.
But the benefits of waiting, encouraging growth, allowing love and light into all our dark spaces – even if we’re fearful about what that might expose – are immeasurable.
Day 10: I admit to being a very impatient patient. I’ve got things to do, work to carry out, carol services to finish off, cards to write. There’s no space in my diary to be under the weather. It’s all very inconvenient… And yet, here I am, under the weather and not getting on with the things that need to be done at the pace that I would usually do them. I feel like I need to be doing, not resting. And yet rest and peace are part of healing, whether physical or emotional or spiritual.
The writer John Bell describes Advent as creative waiting, waiting with a purpose, a time when seemingly nothing is happening apart from a countdown. And yet, when we make space to be and silence to listen, all sorts of things can happen.
My friend David Gray – someone who also understands about being a patient patient – made me laugh when he and I spoke about the importance of stillness in faith a few years ago by telling the story of how the silence he held in a service he was once running appeared to last forever. One of his friends – probably with a twinkle in his eye – gently explained that it had lasted about 20 seconds at most.
We’re afraid of silence and stillness and yet in the run up to yet another busy and very noisy Christmas, it’s what we need most of.
In that conversation, David also said these powerful words. I appreciate not all of you have the same faith, but I think you’ll understand the meaning behind and the purpose of them.
Day 9: None of us likes to feel vulnerable. None of us likes to be in a place where we might get hurt. But how else can we live, unless we live life in all its fullness, the highs and the lows, the beauty and despair?
How else can we appreciate the rainbow without the rain?
Day 8: I once interviewed Terry Waite, the man who was kept hostage in solitary confinement for many years in the Lebanon. We talked about hope, light in dark places and how the most important part of you is kept safe. This is what he said to me about how he regarded what his captors did to him – I still remember it even though the conversation was nearly a decade ago.
Day 7: My paternal grandmother always said that nothing is ever wasted. She’s not been wrong yet but that doesn’t make the road we’re sometimes stuck on any easier to trudge. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a man who died because of the road he chose to take, because he wasn’t afraid to stand up for what he believed in and because he recognised the importance of not being afraid to do what’s right. His words always carry great authority for me.
Day 6: ‘It is the season of the heart, a special kind of sharing, the ways of love made clear.’
Day 5: It’s not the day I had planned if I’m honest but it’s been filled with kindness. The ambulance crew who came to my aid, let me watch the sunrise out of their vehicle window and who made me realise I was properly poorly and not wasting their time; the triage nurse who dealt with me gently and carefully, and the other medical staff at the Royal United Hospital who overwhelmed me with their kindness. And you, my amazing friends on here who kept me cheerful during a long and pain-filled day by making me laugh and just generally brightening my day with your concern and warmth, I can’t tell you how much your kindness mattered too.
Home now and I need some serious sleep. But I can’t finish this day without posting the latest photo from #AdventCalendar and it really can’t be any other one than this.
Day 4: ‘If I can help somebody in this world of ours, then my living has not been in vain.’
Day 3: ‘So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up.’
Day 2: When all seems hopeless, there’s hope that will shine light into the darkest place.
Day 1: If Advent teaches us anything, it’s about the importance of waiting with a purpose, in hope and expectation. And that light – however small – always wins the battle against the darkness. So, here’s my contribution to the #AdventCalendar collection. No chocolate here though, sorry.
‘When you feel safe at home you can go to any other place on earth and never forget where you really belong, nor be separated from the love that will protect the most important part of you wherever you are and whatever happens to you.’
(Adrian Plass)
Recently I took on two rescue cats. I wasn’t going to do this. Not yet, anyway. I’d only recently lost my beautiful Chloe cat and I still miss her, and her sweet nature around the place. However, Faith and Fergus had a bit of a rough start to their lives. They deserved a better life and for their sake, if not my own, it seemed only right to bring them into my house and give them a home.
It isn’t easy. They’re easily scared and will run away if you approach them from the wrong angle. On the first few days, the wrong angle seemed to be defined as ‘don’t come near us or we will run off.’ Equally, they didn’t come to be fussed over or try and get anywhere near me in the way that previous cats have done. Instead, they took up residence behind the sofa in a way that was reminiscent of how I’ve watched Dr Who, or Six Nations matches or World Cup Cricket matches or the Ashes. Or frankly, any sporting occasion when England feature.
In fact these cats hid anywhere they could. My friend Tom told me not to measure success in terms of days but weeks and maybe even months. I listened and determined to be patient.
And then at the weekend, Faith escaped out of the patio door and ran down the garden before I could do much about it. My heart sank and continued to sink as the hours went by. I found her but in a place I could hardly reach her, let alone persuade her out. My only hope was that she would find her own way home. I held onto that, refusing to think of the alternative.
Twelve hours later, a special cat trap borrowed and set up and I was still no closer to retrieving her. Fergus meanwhile, was explaining why He Was Stressed And Needed More Biscuits to Treat Himself With. I’d given in to him and had put biscuits out. As I did so, I saw in the darkness outside the door, two bright green eyes staring back at me. Hardly daring even to breathe, I ushered a protesting Fergus (But They’re My Biscuits And I Have An Important Meeting With Them) out of the dining room and opened the patio door. Faith ran away and was nowhere to be seen. And then she appeared again, on top of my shed. As I sat and watched, hardly daring to breathe, she dropped down and walked nonchalantly into the house as if nothing was wrong. And made for the biscuit dish.
Somehow, after less than a fortnight, Faith seems to understand that Home is where the Biscuits are. There’s a long way to go for both of them, but this morning, I found them both sleeping on the landing – a very open place where there’s nowhere to run and hide. I’m taking it as a sign that they’re beginning to feel this might be a safe place. Home hasn’t always been safe for them. Home isn’t always safe for us. Home isn’t always a physical place but it is the place where we feel safe to be ourselves.
When we leave the place where we feel safe, it can leave us feeling very scared and vulnerable. And yet, when we know where we come from, either literally or figuratively, and – more importantly – know we can go back there and be safe with those we love, it can make a sad or frightening experience appear less overwhelming. Belonging matters. Isolation and loneliness can make the business of living unbearable.
Home is where the biscuits are. Where you can sit on the windowsill and watch the world go by without being threatened by it. Where you can chase each other round and round and up and down the stairs without being shouted at.
But home needs to be somewhere you know where you belong, to know you can return there and be accepted you just as you are, to be welcomed and loved. And forgiven. However long you’ve been away.
Yesterday, over lunch, my friend and I were musing about this accumulation of stuff and how as life goes on, you’re actually less bound by ‘stuff’ than you used to be. 
It’s even tougher when it seems some people’s interpretations of that proverb are ‘All things come to those who push everyone else out of the way and don’t care how they get them.’ And it’s made even worse when those pushy people seem to get what they want.
There’s a reason why charities and churches work to alleviate some of that darkness by making even more services and facilities available than normal, why one of my friends can’t go out as she would normally because she’s on call for a crisis charity and will be taking calls from people who can’t cope, why others of you carry pagers and will be at the beck and call of callouts, regardless of the day, why others will be working shifts and volunteering in ways that disqualify them from the commercially-driven picture of what constitutes Christmas.
Five years ago I was without a job or any prospect of one. I wasn’t anxious exactly as I truly believed that I wouldn’t be allowed to fall flat on my face, but I was very appreciative in a new way of the line from the Christmas reading that says: ‘The light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overwhelm it.’
Those friends in the dark places have been supported by an entire section of the community just going quietly about their business, spreading gentle light wherever they go. And I know that even those friends in the dark places will still make the time to check up on their other friends to make sure they’re okay.
We’re afraid of silence and stillness and yet in the run up to yet another busy and very noisy Christmas, it’s what we need most of.
Tractorgirl66 