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Now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace

In the early hours of this morning my father, Stephen Sidebotham, died in his sleep, after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. The past few years have been upsetting, as we have slowly watched him lose his memory, his deep, engaging personality and his joy in life. Dad found the past few months of Covid restrictions confusing and upsetting, and it was particularly hard over the past three weeks as he was in hospital and we were not allowed to be with him.

We are grateful, though, that on Thursday, he was moved to a local nursing home and we were able to sit with him through yesterday and into the night. Before leaving him last night, I read the day’s compline, with Psalm 139 – one of his favourite Psalms, and listened to Rutter’s The Lord bless you and keep you.

Although these last weeks, months and years have been incredibly difficult, I am so grateful for all that my father was – to me, to my Mum and my sisters and the rest of our family, and to so many people both in Hong Kong and here in England. I remember, with love, the wonderful conversations I had with my Dad over the years – for his encouragement, wisdom and deep love, for the clarity and deep humility with which he helped me explore my own faith and life journey; the joy and inspiration I felt as a young lad as we, together, worked in his carpentry workshop, building items of furniture, a trainset, a canoe and sailing boat, and all sorts of items for the house and garden; the family games and outings; the pride (and awe) I felt as a youngster seeing my Dad, in long, flowing robes, leading services, preaching and teaching at Christ Church and St John’s Cathedral in Hong Kong; and his absolute devotion to and dependence on my Mum – ‘she who must be obeyed!’ I remember him speaking with such gentleness, grief and love at Mei Ling’s and Helen’s funerals, and the pride and joy that just overflowed whenever he saw or spoke of any of his grandchildren.

We will miss him, as will so many people whose lives he has touched – sometimes in ways he didn’t even know. And we will always remember him with gratitude, joy and love.

Now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace.

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Walking the road with tears and a twinkle

My faith does not provide answers to all the questions, or a complete and rational explanation for life, the universe, and everything. Nor does it guarantee a perfect, unambiguous and carefree way of living.

But it does give expression to the wonder and gratitude I so often feel, and to the questions, the grief, the anger and the longings of my heart. And it gives me hope, a sense of purpose, and a framework for living.

So, in spite of – or perhaps because of – all my doubts and uncertainties, my scepticism and frustration, I keep walking this road with both tears and a twinkle in my eye.

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Some further reflections on life and death

Last week our dear friend Arlene died: peacefully in her bed on a Sunday morning.

Eight years ago my wonderful wife Helen died: suddenly and unexpectedly at the airport in Manila.

Both of them had lived good and full lives, were deeply loved, and had brought a lot of love to a lot of people. Neither of them ‘deserved’ to die so soon.

I have been thinking a lot recently about life and death. And I’m very pleased to be alive. And healthy, loved, and with a meaning and purpose to my life. I am pleased to have more time in this life with Lois, with Esther and Joe, with my friends, my family, my work and all that I’m involved in. Not that I’m afraid of dying. While I have no wish to die prematurely (I still have so much I want to be and to do with this life, so many relationships I want to enjoy) or to have to suffer, and I have no desire to leave Lois, Esther, Joe or anyone else feeling bereaved, I think I can genuinely say that when the time comes, I can embrace death.

If the faith that has meant so much to me throughout my life is true, then I truly can look forward to ‘meeting my maker’ – to knowing fully, just as I am fully known; to being embraced by love itself; to being set free from the pain, the mistakes, the troubles of this world; and to experiencing resurrection – and the promised new heaven and new earth in which there is no more death or mourning or crying or pain.

In the week before she died, Helen seemed to have glimpsed something of that promise; she spoke of a deep sense of her own belovedness. And in a strange way, she seemed to sense an invitation to join in that eternal dance of recreation.

So, although the pain of losing Helen, and the grief we feel over Arlene’s death are no less because of it, it isn’t hard to picture both of them dancing together in that new creation.

And what if it is all a delusion? What if I’ve got it all wrong and there is no God, no resurrection and no new creation?

I do wonder that sometimes, and I have to accept that is a possibility: after all, I can’t prove that my faith is true.

But if that is the case, then really I have lost nothing, and gained everything anyway. Whether I die tomorrow or live another 40 years, I know that I have lived a full, fun and meaningful life. This faith has given me meaning and a purpose to my life. It has given me a focus for the gratitude and wonder that I feel: gratitude for the love I’ve known, for the many blessings that have marked my life; wonder at the beauty, truth and goodness in our world. The narrative of the Bible has provided a frame that seems to make some sense of life, provides a realistic perspective on the suffering, violence, lies and greed that trouble our world, and above all, provides a hope that this suffering isn’t the way things are meant to be, and that ultimately there will be an end to all that and an overturning of the way things are. And, for me, seeking to follow the life and teachings of Jesus has, I believe, both enriched my own life and been the motivation to seek to bless others and leave this world a better place, even if only in a tiny part.

For whatever reason, or lack of reason, I seem to have once again been granted a new lease of life, and I am really looking forward to whatever lies ahead.

So, for now, I will take each day as it comes, grateful to be alive. I will continue to grieve over the loss of those I love and over the ongoing ugliness, selfishness and violence of our world. And I will continue to appreciate beauty, goodness and truth wherever I may find it. So that, whether my life from now is short or long, I hope I shall have lived abundantly.

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Getting a grip on my heart

Our bodies are amazing things. (And I’m not just talking about my ‘perfect specimen’ of a torso, although I will continue to milk that for all it’s worth). All those years studying anatomy, physiology and pathology at medical school have instilled within me a sense of wonder at how it all fits together and works so effectively day in, day out.

Until, of course, something goes wrong. But even then it is incredible how the body warns us of impending harm, compensates for any damage, and manages to heal itself, with or without the assistance of the doctors, nurses, therapists and others.

When I had my TIA in 2011, I was a bit slow off the mark, and it was only when I was in hospital and a junior doctor was taking a medical history and examining me that it slowly dawned on me that the symptoms and signs I was displaying were those of someone who had had a stroke. Fortunately, by then, I was already on the mend and so was able to fully appreciate the wonderful healing hand of nature as I gradually found my speech, and then slowly regained the sensation and movement, first in my arm and then my leg. What a wonder to discover afresh the marvel of my own hand with its opposable thumb; to regain awareness of one complete side of my body of which, during the stroke, I had been totally unaware; to be able, once again, to actually articulate the words I wanted to say…

This time round, I was more on the ball and had worked out what was going on within minutes of the onset of the first symptoms. That was shortly after 8am on Tuesday 17th December. It was a cold, crisp morning and was cycling to the station to catch a train to London. As I cycled up the hill in Allesley Park, I realised that my chest was feeling a bit tight and I needed to slow down. I’m not a fast cyclist at the best of times, but I had to drop right down to my lowest gear and crawl up the hill. The tightness eased a bit as I reached the summit and cruised down the other side, but even so I was aware throughout the day that not everything was right.

I think I had expected the symptoms to be a bit more obvious – this was just a dull, gripping ache and a very slight shortness of breath – as though I’d been running a cross country race on a cold winter’s day. But it was enough to convince me. So, having confirmed that it wasn’t just going to pass off, I booked in to see my GP.

Not that it stopped me keeping active – with the help of Esther, Rob and Joe, I was able to build our labyrinth in the run up to Christmas, and carried on with gardening and building our new terraced garden. But I did find I needed to slow down. Sweeping up leaves was the most obvious and I found that after a couple of sweeps I needed to pause to get my breath back – not a particularly good sign.

I think Lois quite appreciated the slower pace on our walks, without me steaming ahead on all the uphill bits. But the combination of daily symptoms taking longer to wear off, and being precipitated by even quite gentle exercise was enough to convince me that all was not well.

And then it all seemed to reach a tipping point. Lois and I had been leading (somewhat ironically) a well-being day for clergy on the theme of quietness and rest. That evening the chest pain came on without any exertion and seemed to stick with me, keeping me awake for most of the night. So, having concluded this was now unstable angina and not a particularly safe state of affairs in which to remain, off we went to the hospital. The junior doctors seemed a bit sceptical as I continued to look well and my ECG and cardiac enzymes were all normal, so I was actually quite pleased when a brief episode of going grey and sweaty that evening shook them up a bit.

The best bit of course was having my angiogram. It is quite a strange sensation having something moving around inside your heart, but great being able to see it all on the monitor above you. And when the radiologist injected the contrast medium and I could clearly see the blockage of my left anterior descending artery (yes, enough of my medical school anatomy was still there) my immediate reaction was ‘YES! I got the diagnosis right!’

It was good, though, to see my heart pumping merrily away with a nice restored left anterior descending artery after the stent had gone in. It is an amazing organ, the way it just keeps going so faithfully. And now, with a new lease of life, perhaps it will start behaving itself again.

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Why am I (still) here?

It is a fine, crisp February morning. I am sitting at my desk, looking out on the garden at Breathing Space. Outside, a large family of long-tailed tits vies with other (blue and great) tits, robins, a chaffinch, and some gold finches for space at the many bird feeders scattered around.

A week ago, I was sitting in the assessment unit at Walsgrave Hospital with nothing like the same inspiring view.

I have now lived through two life-threatening incidents, both of which could have been fatal. Eight and a half years ago, while cycling from Land’s End to John-o-Groats, a mini-stroke caused by a carotid dissection put me in hospital with a loss of speech and paralysis of the right side of my body. Last week, it was unstable angina caused by a near-complete blockage of one of my main coronary arteries. On both occasions I have been up and about and back home within days.

So, with all that in the background, and feeling good to be alive and at home, I walked our labyrinth on Sunday. And as I did so, the question came to mind:

Why am I still here?

The obvious, pragmatic answer is because I just happen to be living in the UK in the early 21st century. As a result of which, I can enjoy all the benefits of a functioning health system, advances in medical care, and a National Health Service which, for all its struggles, continues to provide excellent health care, freely accessible to all, and delivered by competent, compassionate and caring staff. I am one of the privileged few – something I don’t ever want to take for granted.

Another, equally pragmatic, answer would be that (in spite of some rather dodgy cardiovascular genes) the healthy, active lifestyle I have led has made me resilient to these fairly major knocks to my health. While I haven’t attempted any other long-distance cycle rides, I do keep active and manage a reasonable amount of gentle exercise several times a week; I eat and drink in moderation; and I have never smoked, so perhaps I am still moderately fit. Indeed, in spite of a bit of middle-aged spread around my waist, the ECG technician last week described my torso as ‘a perfect specimen’! Admittedly, that was in the context of wanting a model on which to teach a student how to position the ECG leads, but I’m happy to accept the accolade.

But of course, neither of those answers really get to the heart of the question.

I have pondered it frequently over the past few days, and I’m not convinced there is any really meaningful answer.

It doesn’t make sense to put it in terms of merit: if, somehow, I had done something that meant I deserved to go on living, then it implies that my wife, Helen, who died unexpectedly eight years ago, somehow didn’t deserve it; and that makes no sense.

Another way of looking at it would be to conclude that God (whoever or whatever God may be) somehow ‘hasn’t finished with me yet’ or has some further purpose for me in this life. To me, that seems both theologically and psychologically suspect and doesn’t fit well with my perception of who God is. It seems to me that such a conclusion conveys a very utilitarian view of God, who only values us for what we contribute, rather than loving us for who we are. That puts a lot of pressure on me to go through the rest of my life trying to figure out what that purpose is, and living with the worry that if I don’t get it, God may suddenly decide to take my life away.

So, putting aside those philosophical/theological musings, I rather like Snoopy’s approach to the questions of life and death:

And, with that perspective, perhaps the question is not so much, ‘Why am I still alive?’ But ‘How will I live the rest of my life?’

I think, perhaps, I need another wander round our labyrinth with that…

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Superheroes

Zach and River are two amazing, inspiring and – at times – beautifully cheeky youngsters whom I had the privilege of meeting for the first time a few weeks ago. In this video, created by their equally inspiring parents, Jess and Tim, Joel McKerrow (one of my favourite poets of all time) highlights, through the lens of Zach and River and 12 of their friends, how we all perhaps have unique gifts and challenges, and how each individual can be a superhero.

Well worth watching.

To all the children who are different…

To see more videos from Jess and Tim, click on this link to

Ordinary Extraordinary

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The father of the groom

Tomorrow my son gets married.

Joe.

  • My young lad who was brought us such a complex mixture of joy, laughter, frustrations, tears.
  • The smiling toddler who could charm the socks off anyone and drive his parents to distraction with his outrageous tantrums.
  • The enigmatic schoolboy who could reach dizzy heights of performance and achievement, yet waste hours playing mindless computer games.
  • The intrepid unicyclist who powered from one end of the country to the other.
  • The budding thespian who would have us all in fits of laughter with his unique blending of Shakespeare, Star Wars and Lord of the Rings…

So I, a proud and (at times) perplexed father can look back over the past 23 years with love and gratitude, and look forward to seeing how this next stage of his life pans out.

 

Of brides and grooms

Two and a half years ago, my daughter Esther got married. What a different experience that was. Esther, in her bubbly, outgoing, organised way, had everything in hand, had discussed all the plans with me as they unfolded, I felt engaged and involved, a part of the proceedings. The bride, quite rightly, is the centre of all attention. As her father, I had my feelings of overwhelming emotion and pride as I walked her down the aisle and ‘gave her away’. I had my moments of nostalgia and fun as I gave my speech as the father of the bride. I had my fatherly feelings of nurture and protection: would Rob really be good enough for my daughter? Would he truly love and cherish her? What joys, challenges and adventures would life send their way?

With Joe’s wedding, everything somehow feels very different. It’s not just their different personalities, but somehow Joe and Rebecca seem to have just got on with the preparations, and I, with the exception of the occasional dip into the paternal wallet, have been somewhere out of the loop.

Tomorrow, all eyes will be on Rebecca, and rightly so. She will be the one walking down the aisle, on her father’s arm, the centre of attention – a beautiful, bubbly, fiery, red-haired bride (they do say that men tend to find something of their mother in their choice of partner!). Joe, by contrast, is almost an appendage – a bit of a sideline to the main show, important, but not centre stage.

And the father of the groom?

I will have my moments of emotion. I will still feel a mixture of pride, joy, wonder (is he really good enough for her? Will they truly love and cherish each other? What joys, challenges and adventures will life send their way?) But I will do so very much off-stage, cheering them both on, wishing them every blessing in their new life together.

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I am going to start living like an artist

Art is not

just an expression of beauty:

soft, green pastels

watercolour meadows on misty hills

leading me to lie down by peaceful waters

and rest.

 

It is an expression of truth

in its brutal reality,

cruel brutality.

The darkness that surrounds

the anguished cry of a mother separated

from her child;

the screams of a young man on a waterboard;

the groans of our mother

earth ravished, exploited.

My pen and my brush

longing for justice

when there is none.