Immanuel

This Christmas the one word I have kept coming back to is "Immanuel", the name given to Jesus in Matthew's account of the virgin birth. But the verse in the gospel is a quote from the old testament scriptures. 

Isaiah chapter 7 tells a story from around 735BC when Ahaz was king of Judah. Israel is divided and the northern kingdom is marching against Jerusalem in order to tear apart kingdom of Judah. God speaks to the prophet Isaiah and tells him to go to Ahaz with a message. Ahaz is told to not be afraid nor lose heart, and then God tell him to ask for a sign. However, Ahaz refuses saying that he will not put God to the test...
Then Isaiah said, "Hear now, you house of David! Is it not enough to try the patience of humans? Will you try the patience of God also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel." Isaiah 7 v 13&14

It seems a strange sign for God to promise in the midst of the battle. And stranger, yet, when you consider that it was not fulfilled until centuries later. But the more I have looked at this story, the more parallels I see between the struggles faced at time of Ahaz, the story of Jesus's birth and life, and the state of the world in which we now live.

This may not seem a very Christmassy poem, but this is Immanuel - God with us. Here and now.

You are with us here.
Here, where the wars rage
and nations quake with fear
divided
and broken
once-united peoples
fall.
Here, where treaties are debated
and signs are offered
tested
and rejected
with pious purity
man lies.
Here, with the forgotten people
seemingly insignificant for centuries
silent
and unnoticed
gathering on the margins
of faith.
Here, with the virgin
meek and mild.
Here, with the child
broken and rejected.
Immanuel.
You are with us here.

Shoreline #3

I see you.
Recognise the shattered remnants
of protective shells cast aside,
See paltry mountains rise and fall
overwhelming you as you slide,
Note the sculpted trail of contours
formed by paths you’ve tried,
Burrowing deep beneath the layers
silently you hide.
But I see you.

Shoreline#2

Beneath the sand of Swansea Bay is a layer of blue clay. Twenty five years ago it was barely visible - I recall a field trip as part of my civil engineering degree where we all donned wellies and trekked across the sand to dig holes and study the stuff. Nowadays it lies exposed in lumps moved along the shoreline.

Lifted from your bed of slumber,
you embrace the change.
Smoothly moulded
by the movement
of the rolling waves.
But tides do turn
and shunned by sea
you return to shore.
Tumbling slowly over land,
unwittingly exposed.
Embedded here
remains the debris
of your journey’s end.
Sands will shift
and you will rest
hidden from sight once more.

Shoreline #1

I have always found the coast fascinating. Memories of geography field trips and family holidays to the southern coast of England where over the years I observed the power of the sea eroding the land, as rocks crumbled and the paths I walked on as a toddler sank beneath the waves. Then I moved to south Wales and observed a different set of processes, the sand shifting around the bay causing dunes to rise up one end while exposing bedrock and clay at the other. And an awareness of the increasing battle between nature and mankind as bulldozers regularly redistribute the sand back along the beach, and the sea deposits along the beach the rubbish we have let pollute it.

I walk along the shore almost daily. Often my eyes are drawn to the open expanse of sea, and it inspires me. However, this week I decided to challenge myself to write a number of short poems that focus more on the shore itself. This is the first.

Along this boundary
between fluid movement
and solid ground
you will find the scattered pieces
of what was
and what will be.
Hope
and heartache
lie exposed
by ever changing tides
as man and nature
draw their battle lines.

Held

As the global pandemic continues, I am aware of the widely differing thoughts, opinions and approaches that surround me; news reports and analysis all seem to contradict and, at times, I find myself unsure which way to turn as I question what is true, and how best to protect those I care about. It is easy to end up feeling alone in trying to make sense of it all.

Last weekend I was reminded of a poem I wrote for the Presence Project on the theme of Protection. It was based on Proverbs 4v6:
"Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her and she will watch over you."

It was good to be reminded, once again, that I am not alone and I don't need to rely on my wisdom to get through this. I am held and supported - by friends, family, and by the One who is above all. So I am putting this here today (along with a cute picture of my puppy because that always helps!) in case you too need reminding that you are not alone.

In arms secure we are cradled
Nurtured here with hidden strength
Whispered through the fearful night
Mother’s words
our comfort.

Stepping out we seek our own paths
Weighty teachings laid aside
Deaf, we turn to walk away
Forgetting,
we are exposed.

Wandering lost through desert lands
Until enfolded in your shadow
Experience and insight entwined
Father’s truth
our shelter.

Drawn together in shafts of light
Illuminating the darkest corners
Watching over one another
Brother’s wisdom
our protection.

Blessing

These past couple of weeks, I have thinking about Blessings - partly from reading John O'Donohue's Benedictus and partly due to the new A Blessing chapter just released by the Presence Project.

 

This week, as my children return to school, I have also been thinking about routine. I like patterns, I like to have structure in my day, to divide things into manageable chunks (and to be able to achieve something within those periods). And I have always found something attractive about the monastic way of life, not that I have any desire to be a monk/nun, but the idea of a regular pattern of drawing aside for prayer and worship - matins, lauds, prime, terce, sext, none, vespers, compline - marking the passing of time throughout the day with an awareness of God's presence. The blessing I wrote below has arisen from this idea.

 

May you wake to the sound of singing as day dawns,

a chorus of praise rising from creation,

And know that you are surrounded.

 

May you feel the warmth of the sun on your face as you rise,

the gentle kiss of your heavenly mother,

And know that you are loved.

 

May you pause in your busyness,

at intervals throughout the day,

cease your toil,

and lift your head.

May your eyes be opened to the wonder of life,

bestowed by the creator on his created,

And know that you are included.

 

May you not hesitate to lay aside your doing as dusk falls,

rest from your striving and simply be,

And know that you are accepted.

 

May you lie down with tranquility at the end of the day,

cradled in your heavenly father's arms,

And know that you are safe.

Jacob's fight

I have always loved the passage in Genesis 32 where Jacob wrestles with God. As a teenager, I was always struck by Jacob's determination not to let the man go unless he blessed him. I wanted to be that person – knowing what I wanted and not giving up until I got it. Then, a couple of weeks ago, an Anglican clergy friend of mine mentioned the passage as being the reading for that Sunday (and made reference to the hymn Come, O thou traveller unknown by Charles Wesley) and I found myself looking once again at the passage. However, this time I saw a different story: I saw a man wrestling not from a place of strength and determination, but from weakness; Jacob is afraid and alone, about to meet his estranged brother who has every right to kill him, but rather than take flight, Jacob fights – fights with the feelings within himself, with his God, and with acknowledging who he is. The story ends with Jacob overcoming (both God and man), but the wrestling does not leave him unaffected.

In this place of fearful loneliness
I must wait,
to face the consequences
of past mistakes
the paths of deception and regret
I’ve walked.
There is no running now
no hiding
from the pain I caused
the brother I cannot repay-
A thousand gifts
could still fall short.
The debt may cost my life.

In this place of overwhelming dark
you find me,
wrestling with my very self
the endless doubts
and questions
of what I’ve done.
Holding on
to hope unseen
wounded,
but never giving up,
You challenge me
to acknowledge who I am,
and embrace my life.

In this place of dawning light
you bless me,
call me by a new name
redefine who I can be,
for I have struggled
and have overcome;
In my weakness
I find strength,
the courage
to limp towards the truth,
Where I meet mercy
running to greet me,
and offer me new life.

When the tide recedes

A colleague and friend died the week before last. I got the news while I was walking on the beach. It was cancer not coronavirus. Either way, her death might be considered just another statistic. But for those of us that knew her it certainly is not - it is real, she is gone, and we will miss her.

The more I have listened to the news in the last few months, the more angry I have felt about the statistics. Coronavirus is killing people not numbers - these are real individuals whose lives had real impact to those around them.

I have written the following poem for those left behind.

When the tide recedes
and we are left with echoes of what was
Look upon the ripples in the sand
Stop
See the salty pools of tears
the broken fragments left by
forty thousand
empty shells
Listen to the voices carried by the wind
angry cries
too little, too late
we never had the chance to say
Goodbye.
When the storm has passed
and the hope-filled rainbows have faded
Remember how this moment felt
Pause
And mould from this gritty clay
something of lasting worth
Sift the fragments
Find the pearl.

Moments of Now.

We're now in the sixth week of UK lockdown. In my crazy house, with my husband, 3 (almost) teenagers and 2 student lodgers, there have been some lovely moments and some really tough ones.

My mothering instinct has meant that I have wanted to make everything okay for everyone all the time, but that was never going to be possible. Everyone has different perceptions of this "space" we've been given and different ways of reacting to it. But more than that, we've needed to recognise that those perceptions and reactions vary for each one of us from day to day, and moment to moment. Trying to predict how we will feel tomorrow is impossible.

My eldest son and I have had many conversations about how different time feels now, and how we're both feeling about the different days and moments we find ourselves living in. This poem grew out of one of those conversations.

In this interlude
between what was and what will be
time takes on a different shape,
The linear progression of days halts
and we find ourselves here
living in the unpredictable moments of now.

Moments where time slows
to a leisurely amble in the sunshine
and we joyfully embrace this new rhythm,
Hear the music formed by the inclusion of the silent rest,
Wander in deserted spaces,
Blow dandelion clocks to check the time.
Our world is at a standstill,
and creation breathes.

But there are other moments
when there is no respite from the timelessness,
and our breathing space becomes a suffocating vacuum,
We strive to fill the hiatus with activity,
surround ourselves with a sea of distant faces,
familiar but barely connected.
Our world is unrecognisable
and creation weeps.

Pausing in the gap
between the breathing and the weeping
we glimpse the promise of tomorrow,
recognise that all moments pass
and we need not fear
accepting the unpredictable moments of now.

Daisy

Spring is my favourite time of year - buds appear on the trees and flowers start to bloom. My children think I am a little crazy, but I especially look foward to the daisies appearing in the grass. I find a lot of joy in making a daisy chain. It's a fleeting work of art, as the daisies wilt so quickly. But perhaps that's part of the joy - realising that nothing lasts for ever.

Today I made a daisy chain, and wrote a light-hearted little piece for your amusement.

Whatever you're thinking or feeling in the midst of this coronavirus pandemic, remember this: it won't last forever.

Daisy, Daisy, I weave a chain or two,

sitting in the sunshine

two metres away from you.

It won't be a normal springtime,

going out is now a crime.

But we’ll be safe,

if we have faith,

stay home, and wash our hands too!

In between

About six weeks ago I started to write a poem. The week had started with a couple of days where I had stayed at work late and found myself cycling home as dusk was falling. I remember noticing the amazing quality of the light and sound of birdsong around me... but it was cold, as February often is, and as the lights in the surrounding houses turned on one by one, I found myself choosing to rush home to my own electric brightness rather than stop and fully take in the natural light and birdsong.

However, on the Friday evening I found myself walking the dog at dusk around the lake in our local park, and I became aware of some bats that were flying from tree to tree. This time I stopped, and I watched the bats for some time. It was magical, and I began to think about the wealth of life that we overlook by rushing from one thing to another and not appreciating the in between spaces in our lives.

Ironically I didn't finish writing my poem in February as I was too busy rushing about from one thing to another.

But today, I found space and decided to finish writing the poem.

The world is a totally different place today compared to six weeks ago. The words I wrote back then seem to have a different meaning now, in the middle of the COVID19 lockdown. But I wonder if maybe they were always meant for now.

In between my waking and my sleeping
the day lies open
offering me everything or nothing;
a wealth of possibilities,
and a gaping void.

In between daylight and dark
dusk falls.
Through the gathering gloom
I journey homeward;
flickering lights
call me to safety.

But in the darkness
I pause.
And recognise the invitation
to step
into this unknown,
this in between space.

In between activity and stillness,
there is a different life.
In between the traffic roar and silence,
birds sing a twilight melody.
In between sight and blindness,
bats dance with freedom.

In between my waking and my sleeping
I pause,
recognise the invitation
to embrace
this different life,
this in between space.

You saw me

This week it feels appropriate to share a poem I wrote a while back...

Sometimes I feel like I am not really seen by the people around me. Sometimes I don't want to be seen. Sometimes I do, but then doubt that what might be seen will be accepted. Hiding is easier. Honest relationships are hard.

Sometimes I am glad that there is someone who always sees me. And is the truth.

You saw me
unformed in my mother’s womb,
a pure bundle of possibilities.

You saw me
lying naked and exposed
in a world beyond my understanding.

You saw me
run with faltering steps,
speeding unprepared into confusion’s abyss.

You saw me
standing tall while flailing inside,
drowning in the silent fear of failure.

You saw me
broken.
torn open.
until with dawning truth

I saw you
gently walk with unfailing clarity
to cover my misshapen perceptions
and re-form me.

Candlemas

Growing up a was aware of the church celebrations of Christmas and Epiphany, but after that there seemed to be a long period of dark winter nights of nothing until Lent. However, in recent years I have become aware of the celebration of Candlemas. February 2nd, 40 days after Christmas, 40 days from birth to the day when Mary was allowed to enter the temple, offer sacrifices and be cleansed from her impurities.

The account in Luke 2 vs 22 - 38 mentions Mary's encounters with Simeon and the prophet Anna. I have always wondered how Mary felt on this day. And in the days preceding it. In many ways she was an ordinary girl, to whom extraordinary things were happening. Encounters with angels, an unplanned unusual pregnancy, a birth miles away from the family and home. The bible tells us of her faith and humble acceptance. But I imagine that at times Mary just longed to be normal, longed for predictability. I imagine her coping with all the emotions that accompany dealing with a newborn infant - joy at new life, struggles with lack of sleep and feeding worries. And I imagine her approaching the temple that day feeling a little relief at being able to follow the normal jewish traditions... and then she is reminded again that the life she holds in her arms is far from normal. But this life has come to bring life -unpredictable, but abundant life for all.

Blessed beginnings
humbled by His holiness
I open my hands,
my heart,
my womb
to his will.
Called to journey
lonely road to stable bed
I trust in his plan,
his way,
his revealing
of his son.

But there are days of doubt,
of fearful darkness creeping in.
Days when I long for normality,
for things to be as they were.
But they will never be.
All has changed.

Presentation and purification
traditions observed for generations
I am renewed,
refreshed,
reminded
of his promises.
Waiting ancients
approach the holy child
I open my ears,
my eyes,
my arms
here is the Light of the World.

All will be well.

Epiphany

Yesterday we returned to "normal" life. I went back to work, the kids went back to school, and our Christmas decorations were packed away and returned to the attic for another year.

And, in doing so, I was reminded of a poem I wrote this time last year:

On the twelfth day of Christmas the wise men come to call,
And she lays the baby Jesus in bubble-wrap, crib and all,
Switching off the lights, she takes the bare tree down,
The wise men stand and watch, on their faces a frown;
Gifts are discarded and the tinsel is packed,
And she wonders why Christmas always ends with this final act.
Is this now our epiphany: that the Christ can be packed away,
Sealed in a box, hidden in the attic for another day?
After such a long journey, did the faithfully shining light,
Simply just vanish or get extinguished by the night?
As she looks to the future and ponders the past,
She finds herself longing for a hope that will last.
So on the twelfth day of Christmas the wise men come to show,
To all seeking a home, the safest way they know.