Category: A Sabbath Journey – Peter’s sabbatical, 2014

One of my fondest memories of childhood was of family holidays joining my aunt and uncle at a wonderful lodge by Llyn Cregennen in North Wales.  We would bundle in, together with our cousins and what seemed like dozens of random friends, relatives and strangers for a week or two of fun and games, laughter and beauty.  I loved those carefree days of running down to the little stone boathouse and rowing across to pick bilberries on our ‘Wild Cat Island’, returning with purple hands and faces to tuck into a scrumptious tea; or racing up and down ‘Breakfast Mountain’ to earn our platefuls of bacon and eggs; or, on more adventurous days, trekking up to the top of Cadair Idris, then, tired and footsore, settling down to an evening of communal stories or games. 

But one of the real highlights of those holidays was the washing up.  Now I’m sure that, once upon a time, I was a normal teenager, and made as much fuss as anyone about doing the dishes at home.  Not so at Cregennen.  Somehow, Uncle George had transformed this mundane chore into a time of real community, as we took it in turns to join the rota, with half a dozen people of all ages in an impressive production line: stacking, washing, rinsing, drying, putting away.  As the enormous piles of dirty, greasy plates seemed to seamlessly work their way through the process, jokes would be told, songs sung, and adventurous tales recounted.  And a seed was sown which has stuck with me over the past 40 years.

So now I have, once again, found my fulfilment: standing at the sink at Ngatiawa.  A mish-mash community of 20-30 people (I’m not entirely sure how many people are actually here, and I’m not convinced anyone really knows) generates a lot of dirty dishes.  So there are plenty of opportunities to roll up my sleeves and stick my arms in.  Once again, there is a tremendous sense of community as we eat together, share stories, laugh and joke, get to know each other.  Then perhaps join in as Matt, hot and sweaty from dealing with the sheep, strikes up a Beatles’ song, or duck, as 13-month old Jonah decides to share his meal with everyone else, or chat about our various journeys, or wander off into our own individual musings as Jess puts some mood music on the CD player.

I’d thought I might write some deep, meaningful, spiritual blog today.  But after a day just relaxing, talking with others, sitting in the sun with my feet being washed by the cool, clear waters of the Ngatiawa river, and joining in the simple daily rhythm of life, I’ve decided that maybe something as basic as washing the dishes may be where my true spirituality lies.

Do you, then, Lord,

rise up to meet me

as I run to meet you?

Since I have not the strength to scale your summits

unless you stretch out your right hand to me

whom your hands have made,

rise to meet me…

and lead me in the way of eternity,

that is, in Christ,

who is the way by which we journey,

and the eternity which is our journey’s end.

Blessed Guerric of Igny

I have been in New Zealand less than 3 days, enjoying the rest and refreshment of the start of my sabbatical.  So far I’ve walked along the waterfront at Mangere Bridge and Herne Bay, wandered through the lush rainforests of the Waitakere Ranges, buried my feet in the warm black sands of Karekare, and splashed through the cool waters of the Tasman sea.  I’ve tasted wines and dined sumptuously at the elegant wineries of Waiheke Island, enjoyed a lasagne with my cousin Nikki and a bottle of wine with the lovely Lois from Servants, and introduced (as you do) the president of ISPCAN to the past president of ISPID over a budget meal in a tacky Thai restaurant.  And watched the sun rise gently over the lapping waters of Blockhouse Bay (nearly getting trapped by the incoming tide in the process).

And now I’m sitting with a cup of tea, my journal and my laptop, feeling totally relaxed and at peace with the world.  Still.

Stillness is not so much an absence of activity as a presence of mind,

an attitude of heart.

It is breathing deeply of the vast sea air,

and gently savouring the intense aromas of a glass of Pinot Gris.

It is bending down to marvel at the diamond beauty of a raindrop

captured in the opened palm of a delicate plant,

and allowing your eyes to roam over the timeless expanse of the rich, deep rain forest.

It is appreciating the love expressed in a friend’s embrace,

and the pain of tears at a triggered memory of Helen.

It is joining in the laughter and fun of a meal shared with friends,

And sitting quietly before the solitary silence of a candle flame.

I’m sitting on the slow train from Bunbury to Perth, contemplating the strange beauty around me.  There is only a slow train, twice a day, trundling through the coastal bushlands of Western Australia.  They stretch away to the East, over gently rolling hills, through to the incomprehensible vastness of the Australian interior.  Miles and miles of arid scrub and meek eucalyptus, their flaky trunks, gleaming white, brown, salmon and umber in their own fragile shade.  Closer to the line, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle crop away at the ochre-dry grass, patiently ruminating, while occasional ibises search expectantly with their long curved beaks in the sparse marshy pools, and the hot sun burns in its endless southern sky.

It is a harsh, raw beauty.  One that screams out at you: ‘you must fight to survive!’  This is not a place for the timid.  Life is here to be lived.  Fast.  This slow, bumbling Bunbury train doesn’t really fit in; trundling gently through the sultry afternoon heat.  No.  If you want to get by here, you live life fully.  You play, you party.  You join your beach-bronzed mates at the surf club, or for a beer by the pool.  And if you do get burnt, you bounce back quickly with a fresh covering of green when the next rains come.

‘I said, “O for the wings of a dove,

that I might fly away and be at rest”,

I yearn to flee to the mountains,

to make my dwelling in the wilderness.’

So I really have done it: stepped out of the clutter and busyness of my life at home; left it all behind for a while, and stepped on that plane.  At least temporarily, for 3 months.  Setting it aside and taking a rest; a vacation.

Vacare Deo: Being free for God.

And here I am, sitting outside on the verandah and Colette and John’s place, enjoying the cool stillness of the Australian morning, just occasionally interrupted by the wild screeching of parrots, but otherwise peaceful, quiet.  With tropical birds singing their morning chorus, cicadas chirruping, and the gentle rustle of the breeze through the eucalyptus trees.  A new year.  A new start.  A fresh beginning on the journey of my life.

There is much to look back on in my journey so far: my growing years – out in Hong Kong – learning, growing, developing – through school and university; my family years – life with Helen, our wonderful marriage, bringing up Esther and Joe, Cambodia and our ongoing journey with Servants, my developing career; and then, these past three turbulent years – the roller coaster ride of Esther and Joe’s amazing achievements, their moving away from home, the Land’s End to John O’Groats cycle ride, my stroke, Helen’s death.  The sudden emptiness. Silence.  Anguish.

Then, slowly picking myself up again.  Learning to walk again this labyrinth of my life.

This time, even more than before, dependent on so many others to support and hold me.

A new year.  A new beginning.  And time to step aside.  To pause and reflect.  Full of wonder at the mystery of life.  Full of gratitude for all the blessings I’ve known.  Full of hope for the future – wherever that journey may lead me.

Vacare Deo.