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Dayspring

O Oriens,

splendour lucis aeternae, et sol justitiae:

veni, et illumine sedentes in tenebris, et umbra mortis

 

O Dayspring,

splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness:

Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

 

Dayspring

21st December. The shortest day of the year.

The darkness of this crazy world is all too vivid, as, too, is the darkness that so many individuals have to live with.

And I long for that rising hope – that dayspring of life and light – not just for me, but for all those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

 

‘I believe that the Christian life is a reorientation, a turning eastwards and upstream, towards the source of life and light that is always flowing towards us.’ – Malcolm Guite

mountains sunrise cropped

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Poetry Writing with Year 8

Our poem of the month from Clare Shaw, poet in residence for the BASPCAN 2018 Child Protection Congress

Poetry Writing with Year 8

Caitlin thinks Jackie Kay

switched on the Blackpool lights.

No, I say, that’s Peter.  Now tell me

one thing about your room.

Ellie glares from the back row

and Emily won’t meet my eye.

 

It’s the coldest day today

by far. The mountains are black in the dusk

but the lake is sunset, my arms are wings

and the water is fiery with frost.

I come from a town full of smackheads,

he tells us, but my house is boss.

 

If someone reads out

they’re showing you what’s in their heart

and you must respect it.

I come from the forest, she says,

I come from the back of the co-op

and the sea is a road

 

and the moon is a candle. Miss,

no-one plays music in our house.

No-one leaves home

unless home is the mouth of a shark

and I’m lost, my street is dark.

and I come from the sea,

 

I come from pizza,

from chicken nuggets, I come from

the Xbox and telly

I come from a town of useless parents

and on the North Sea, the waves are roaring.

The seagulls are children, crying

 

and though the stars are shining

there’s nowhere to shelter from the rain.

This is what’s in my heart

and you should respect it.

I come from silence, he says.

It’s the only music I hear.

 

To find out more about the congress, read other poems by Clare, or to book (hurry, Early Bird bookings close at the end of December), please go to our website: https://www.baspcan.org.uk/congress-2018/

 

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And another chapter begins

When Lois and I married – nearly four years ago – we both felt quite strongly that we had been brought together for something more than just our own joy. We have been so wonderfully blessed over these four years: with companionship, fun, the love of both our families; with friends; with a home and all its comforts; with good health and with opportunities to encounter beauty, goodness and wonder.

chapel 1

And, along with all this, a developing dream: a dream of something we could build together; of a place of beauty, stillness and peace in the midst of all the busy-ness of life; a safe, sacred space where we, together with others in community, could offer hospitality of heart and hearth to anyone who might be looking for a little breathing space.

And now we are here – at Breathing Space, on the outskirts of Coventry; a little haven of stillness. A place that we are making our home, as we unpack boxes and shuffle furniture around. A place where others can come and share the beauty, retreat from the pressures of everyday life, and, perhaps, encounter something of the Divine.

Garden 1

As I gaze out at the garden, with its profusion of shape and colour, even at this time in the grey damp of December, let alone with the sharp, frosty, sun-lit mornings we had when we first arrived, I am filled with gratitude and wonder. Watching the birds flit around the garden, or rise to the tops of the trees, my spirit, too, soars and I feel blessed.

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A chapter closes

Osborne Road: A chapter closes

Two days from now we will, for the last time, close the doors of our home in Osborne Road. A new and exciting chapter in our lives is beginning, full of hope and possibility. But for now it is a time of saying goodbye, of reflecting on all that has passed in these past 12 years, and of closing the chapter of this phase of my life.

It has been a good 12 years: years of love and joy, and the warmth of family life; years of energy and achievement; years, too, of hardship and struggles, sorrow and grief. Nevertheless, they have been good years.

As I wander through the house, memories pop up – some expected, others catching me by surprise.

In Joe’s room, rainbow-painted, now empty and still, I think with pride of my amazing son. I feel the crushing warmth of his hugs each time we meet. I remember the early morning walks to Manor Park School; I hear his first squeaky attempts to learn the tenor horn, his wonderful recitals of excerpts from Shakespeare and the Lord of the Rings (masterfully delivered in a Star Wars style). I can smile now at the memory of coming upstairs to find his bunk bed ladder protruding through his bedroom door after one particularly frustrated tantrum. And I duck, once more, under his pull-up bar – a last reminder of all his circus skills and his incredible unicycle ride.

I sit on Esther’s cast-iron bed thinking of all her friendships and fall-outs; of long, giggly sleep-overs, playing bop-it into the night; of the anguishes of being a teenage girl. I feel a deep surge of love as I think of all the heart-felt conversations we’ve had, and the depth of emotion I felt seeing her in her wedding dress.

My own room carries the strongest emotions. The bed I’ve shared with Helen and now with Lois. That same bed where I’ve lain in anguish in the dark of the night, or watched the Eastern sky brighten through tear-filled eyes. The serenity of a little painting – a lone figure walking through a gentle, shadowed wood.

I come to our spare rooms – rooms which have seen so many good friends. Housemates and visitors from around the world. People who have shared something of our lives. Too many to mention, but each someone who has brought their own unique blessing.

In the lounge I think of cosy evenings by the fire; of gatherings with friends, shared bottles of wine. I reflect on deep conversations with Lois, as we share our dreams and wonder at our blessings. I think of our Holy Trinity community – of all the love and support of so many friends; people who have shared our joy and our tears. Those memories continue as I move to the kitchen and recall shared meals, cups of coffee and lively celebrations. Family games of Settlers and Scrabble.

And so to the last room, to sit at my desk. A place of inspiration as I look out on the garden in the morning sun. I hear Esther and now Lois playing the piano. I wrap my arms around Helen’s shoulders as she sits at her desk engrossed in her work. I sit, silent, in my little ‘chapel’, my haven of peace at the start of each day. And I wander into the garden, where children and teenagers alike would bounce on the trampoline, or swing and climb on the climbing frame, now an empty skeleton, holding its memories. I see Neo tearing down the garden in chase of squirrels, or with Trinity as puppies scrabbling and bouncing on the grass.

The memories are good. They sit comfortably as part of who I am. This has been a good home and 12 good years.

I have said my goodbyes and I’m ready to move on, into this next inspiring chapter.

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Pilgrim: a journey of discovery, part 6

VI            The Abbott

With a little trepidation in his heart, the pilgrim knocked on the Abbott’s door. He need not have worried. The door was opened by a warm, jovial man, his white beard and hair encapsulating a smiling, wrinkled face. Something about that face suggested that here was a person who had lived through deep pain. But, far from leaving him bitter or broken, that suffering had somehow been transformed into an even deeper compassion. This was a man who knew his own belovedness, and that rich assurance spilled over in love and care for others.

‘I was wondering when you might come and see me.’ Gently placing an arm around the pilgrim’s shoulder, the Abbott led him to a couple of comfortable chairs set over by a large window looking out over the monastery grounds.

‘I didn’t want to bother you father, but I have so much to try and think through’ the wanderer began. But as he looked into the Abbott’s wrinkled face, he felt as though all that he was bursting to say just melted away. It was as though the Abbott knew and understood it all already.

‘Only you can make your choices,’ the old man said, answering the question that was burning in the pilgrim’s heart. ‘Each of us must walk our own road, creating our journey as we go along. There is no right or wrong way, just your way: the path you choose, and what you make of it.

‘I am not going to tell you whether you should stay here or go. But one thing I will tell you: whatever you choose, to remain or to leave, you will not be alone.’

 

When, an hour or so later, the pilgrim got up to go, he did so with a heart full of peace.

They had talked in that time of many things, and as he stepped over the threshold to go his way, he did so carrying the Abbott’s blessing: of love and joy, hope and peace.

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Pilgrim: a journey of discovery, part 5

V             Brother Tim

The pilgrim didn’t know how long he had sat there in the pew, nor when it was that the young monk had come, silently, to sit beside him. It could have been just a minute or two, or it could have been hours, but to the pilgrim it didn’t matter. It was as though time itself had ceased to hold any meaning or power in the presence of a stillness far greater.

They continued to sit in silence, side by side in the pew. The pilgrim did not feel in any way uncomfortable, nor did he feel any need to speak or explain himself. It was as though – though they had never met – there was a bond of understanding between them.

After some time sitting there – again, he knew not how long – the young monk gently said, ‘would you like some food? We have all eaten, but we set some aside for you.’

The pilgrim looked up with gratitude and nodded. He had been so unaware of the passage of time, or how long it had been since he shared that mug of coffee and freshly-baked muffin with Brother Mattheus, but now, at this fresh invitation, he realised just how hungry he was.

The new brother led him back through to the refectory. ‘My name is Brother Tim,’ he said, ‘Our food is simple – just a bowl of soup and some crusty rolls – but it is always good. We normally eat in silence, but as the others have all gone about their afternoon tasks, please feel free to talk or not, as you wish. I’m in no hurry to do anything this afternoon, so afterwards, if you’d like, I can show you round the grounds, or you could join me in the pottery where I’m working on a pot – it’s a gift for my little sister who is getting married next month. But here we are. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll go and get your soup.’

Although this brother had been talking as they walked to the refectory, it had been a very natural, gentle conversation, with none of the pressure of speech the pilgrim had found in Brother Mattheus.

 

The pilgrim ate his soup in silence, savouring the nourishing goodness. When he had finished, Brother Tim once more extended his invitation to show him round the grounds.

They spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering round. The afternoon was warm and bright; occasional clouds drifted across the blue sky. As they walked, they talked: each sharing something of his life’s journey, as though they were long-lost brothers catching up on years of separation.

The pilgrim found himself laughing and smiling as Brother Tim recounted little anecdotes of life in the monastery. He, in turn, shared much of his life: the ups and downs, the joy of love, and the grief of parting. They spoke, too, of some of the darkness of their world, and the pilgrim found in Brother Tim a kindred spirit who had wept over some of the injustice and violence of this broken, hurting world.

At times they just walked in companionable silence, or sat in the shade, enjoying the gentle murmur of the brook and the song of the blackbird in the tree.

They were still sitting there when they heard the bell calling for None. ‘Come my friend,’ said the monk, ‘I’ll race you back.’

And they did. Picking up their sandals and shoes, they sprinted back across the meadow to arrive, breathless and laughing, at the chapel door.

 

‘Teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart.’

The words of the Psalm, chanted by the monks, seemed to reach right down to the core of his being. As the prayers continued, the pilgrim’s mind wandered back over the day he had spent at the monastery: of the brothers he had met, and their very different characters; and of his own life’s journey. He reflected, with regret, on some of the bad choices he had made, and wondered, with gratitude, at the blessings he had known. And he pondered where his journey might lead him next, or even whether he had, indeed, found his destination – right here in this monastery.

Afterwards, he went with Brother Tim to the pottery, where he marvelled at the young man’s creativity – how he took a lump of clay and, working it on the wheel, gradually fashioned it into a pot of great grace and beauty. Their conversation had ceased now as Brother Tim, his sleeves rolled up, stood fully engrossed in his work.

Eventually, deeply satisfied with the work he had created, the young brother allowed the wheel to spin to a halt. The two men stood, side by side, enjoying the beauty now crafted before them.

In a strange way, the elegance and simplicity of this earthen pot seemed to reflect, for the pilgrim, the fullness of this monk’s life, and he started to share with the brother some of the thoughts he’d had while sitting in the chapel. ‘Should I stay here, do you think?’ he hesitantly asked.

The young man chuckled, a sparkle in his eye. ‘I think it’s time you met the Abbott’ was his gentle reply.

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Pilgrim: a journey of discovery, part 4

IV            Sext

Before Brother Mattheus could go any further with his tales of the monastery, the bell started tolling for chapel. Mattheus showed the pilgrim where he could go – either to join in the chapel prayers, or, if he preferred, to wander round the monastery or gardens. The monk then scurried off to join his fellows, leaving our pilgrim alone in the refectory, pondering, and listening to the steady, low toll of the bell. Dong… dong… dong… It seemed to call him, stirring something deep in his stomach.

The pilgrim made his way to the chapel and sat in a pew at the back as the monks filed in, softly chanting their reverence to God.

After the service was over, the pilgrim continued to sit, appreciating the silence and the still coolness of the place. Something about the simplicity of the Sext liturgy had touched him – as though some deep mystery were present in the very stillness between the words. He sat there in silence, relishing the sense of presence; feeling no need to understand or explain his experience, but just to live it, fully, now. As he sat, he felt an incredible sense of peace, of lightness in his being, such as he had never known before. Unbidden, gentle tears trickled down his cheek and an easy smile came to his face.

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Pilgrim: a journey of discovery, part 3

III            Brother Reginald

Brother Reginald was an austere man: tall and solid, and always immaculately turned out with his neatly-pressed habit carefully arranged with symmetrical tucks on either side. His face, cleanly-shaven, was stern and thoughtful, yet somehow gentle, as though the passage of time had softened what might otherwise be considered harsh, demanding features.

Brother Mattheus spoke to the pilgrim of the brother in reverential tones, with deep love and a sense of awe at this brother who was clearly so different from him. Brother Reginald spent most of his days in silence: reading in the library; wandering the cloisters deep in thought; or on his own in his reading room, working away at his books and papers.

He was working, Mattheus said, on a grand theorem to explain human behaviour and the Divine image.

Brother Reginald had been away to study psychology and sociology as well as the usual disciplines of theology and philosophy. He often travelled – to grand conferences amid the towering colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, or to meet with other great minds in universities across the country and throughout Europe. He had even travelled once to Rome, to present his thesis to a panel in the Vatican.

Brother Reginald also represented the public face of the monastery, often accompanying the Abbott on civic duties in the regional town, or meeting with visiting dignitaries or theologians who came to use the monastery’s great library.

Brother Mattheus spoke respectfully about how Brother Reginald could always be relied upon to know how things should be done. He knew the rule of the order by heart, and followed it assiduously. Brother Reginald was punctual to a tee, and if one of the young novices stepped out of line, or did something not quite according to the book, it was Brother Reginald who would gently take him aside and explain to him the way things should be done.

Brother Mattheus dropped his voice to a whisper. And with a mischievous grin on his face, told the pilgrim of one time, while he and Brother Reginald were themselves novices, when Brother Reginald had spoken out in the middle of a chapel service, disagreeing with something the Abbott had said. A sharp intake of breath from all the monks had greeted this interruption, but the Abbott, unperturbed, had heard the novice out, told him that he had made a very good point and that he would love to discuss it further following the service, then carried on with the liturgy as though nothing had happened. Mattheus recalled how, after the service, Brother Reginald had been mortified, hardly believing that he had done such a thing, and how, since that day, he had never spoken again of his misdemeanour. Nor had he ever, to this day, put a foot out of line with the many rules – spoken and unspoken – of the monastery.