Swimming in Mustard

 

I have this picture from the epic Scott the Painter on my wall. I like how the detail of the hands mirror the ripples on the golden liquid. I find an immense sense of comfort when I realise that I do not have to row.

In the interest of full disclosure, I ordered it as a present for someone and it did not arrive in time, my fault entirely. I benefit from the fact that it now sits in my house. I have spent more than a little bit of time, staring and contemplating this image. I think it’s beautiful.

Anyway about a year ago, a small child asked me why I like that picture. I did not want to tell her. The mystery of art is discovering why you like it for yourself. So, I ask her the question, what does it remind you of and what do you think about, as you look at it?

Swimming in mustard is the only answer I can achieve. I giggle and mutter something about God holding me and me not needing to try. The moment passes.

She visits a few more times this five-year-old who has a way with words. The picture remains on the wall and is never mentioned.

These past few weeks have been tough, personally, financially, and relationally. Difficult, is the best way to describe them. She arrives to visit in a bundle of energy and questions! There’s a reason that I’ve written a little song where she is crowned ‘most curious girl in the whole wide world.’

We have been swimming and she’s a little tired, so I make some pizza and relax next to her on the couch. Part way through eating her pizza, she looks up and says, entirely unprompted

‘You know, God’s holding you wherever you go.’

She resumes eating pizza, as if this profound statement is as commonplace as cornflakes. I suppose that is how I want it to feel.

The point is that often, so much of learning, looks like seeing art and swimming in mustard. We get so much wrong, and that is how we learn. If the moment of unlearning had not occurred, the moment of real impact on my soul would not have occurred either. We are so quick to reach the solution, the correct answer, the resolution. Sometimes, I think we need to remember that we are held. That might just encourage us to swim in mustard a little bit more!

The Way of Water

You don’t have to be around me very long to know that there are two things I love. The happiest Serena is by the sea, when she is by the sea she likes to find pieces of discarded glass. The kind of piece that has been shattered and then softened by the salty sea waters. A sunny day by the seaside, and beach glass, happy Serena!

Recently, Serena had an opportunity to play on a beach by the sea in Norfolk. The game we played was to try and get caught in every single rain shower that occurred between 11:30 and 2:00. Serena was successful. Including a drenching shower that managed to soak her in the fifty metres across the car park to the toilet. 

The coastline was an incredible example of the power of the sea. I had been on that beach, some eight years earlier and sat in a cafe that was now eroded. You could see at the top of the cliff, imperceptibly at first the persistence of water made its unique mark on the landscape. 

In between showers, I searched for beach glass. I found none, instead, I discovered a rock. There was a hole in the centre of the rock running all the way through from top to bottom. 

And this is another reason to love the seaside. If the nature of light is soft and effuse, then the way of water has a rhythmic tenacity, a metronomic consistency, that claws at concepts. It pours itself into long-held, solid ideas. Imperceptibly at first, drop by drop, the way of water imprints itself into the rock as a source of refreshment. The rock above is on my windowsill, near where I sit to write. I have placed it there to remind myself that anything can change with time and consistency. Water is never hurried, it has its way. Persistent tenacity, gentle and soothing, is the way of water and the way of love.

The Final Sign of Christmas: Trees

I have left the tree till last, mostly because I did not know what I wanted to say in this blog. There were so many ideas, but in the last few days with the changes and disruptions to our already disrupted plans for Christmas. The message has become clear in my mind. 

There was another reason that I left the tree to last; growing up the tree was the last decoration to arrive in our home. It was the sign that Christmas was finally here. Our family always had a real tree. When the tree arrived and began to die; it was a sign that the festivities really started to live. The Christmas chocolate was opened. Suddenly, the Christmas cheese was not off bounds. The tree had to die so that the festivities could live. 

I have been really struck by that idea. We kill something so that something else can live. What else in this disrupted, distorted, and sometimes a devastating year, have I had to kill off, and what things have lived because of it?
I have killed off expectation so that being at peace with reality has a chance to live.
Killed off perfectionism, so that progress can be celebrated.
Killed media consumption, so that creativity has a chance to live.
Killed time with family, so that other people can live.

In many ways, the Christmas trees and their dropping needles that fill our homes with delight are a fantastic precursor to the second half of the story. You know the one, where someone had to die so that everyone else could live. 
I have had fun writing these little thoughts about Advent, thank you for joining me on the journey.
Merry Christmas,

Serena

The Signs of Christmas: Angels

Jack saw angels and not the kind I would ever wish to meet. He was close to seven years old and was entirely comfortable with the fact that he had seen angels outside his house, protecting him and his family. The young boy described them as sword-wielding, radiant beings who struck holy terror everywhere they went. They were not the slightly odd Barbie dolls that we put on the top of the Christmas tree. These creatures meant business. 

The dictionary definition of an angel says ‘an agent or messenger of God.’ When we look at this in the context of the Christmas narrative their role seems to be to explain that our protagonists should not be terrified, even though some horrifically terrifying event is about to take place.

That is how they announced themselves each time in the Christmas story.

Do not be afraid, you’re thirteen and you’re going to have a baby.

Do not be afraid, you’re fiancee is pregnant

Do not be afraid, you are going to be the first to see Emmanual.

Do not be afraid, you need to flee your homeland to protect your child.

Cast your mind back to the beginning of this year and consider what the angels, the sword-wielding messenger, might have said to you:

Do not be afraid, you’re going to be separated from your loved ones

Do not be afraid, your way of life is going to be drastically altered

Do not be afraid, homeschooling for six months is awesome!

Do not be afraid, you’re going to be unemployed 

I guess we would have run a mile; questioned everything, and found ourselves meditating, even fixated, on the end of those sentences, not the beginning. 

This week as we look for angels as a sign of the arrival of Christmas let’s take a minute and remember to stay in the first part of the sentence. And, whatever the new year brings, do not be afraid.

The First Sign of Christmas: Lights

Those December days when the darkness lengthens. When the world never quite seems to wake up. Cloud upon cloud upon cloud. Endless grey and then, you spot them. One house then another. A tree, a lighted reindeer. Until the streets dance with light, on the dullest December day. 

I do love them, but they have always seemed a little odd. We put lights outside our house and then go inside, close the curtains and have another mince pie. Oblivious to the spectacle we have created outside. Christmas lights in the gardens and windows of houses are the most other centred behaviour in this self-centred culture and season. Lights are the one thing that we do each year that is almost entirely for our neighbour. It is a generous act, that says, this darkness will not have the last word. It is an act of rebellion against selfishness. It requires the sacrifice of time and electricity for the benefit of others. Beyond a glimpse, as we rush inside, laden down with shopping bags, we scarcely see the lights on the outside of our homes.

Could it be that this, our first sign of Christmas, is the closest to the real meaning of Christmas that we will explore on our journey? A light in the darkness. A light in the darkness, entirely for the sake of others. A light in the darkness, to prove that darkness will end;  all the darkness that there ever was will be swallowed by light. Put your lights up with fresh abandon this year. Brighten the day for someone else and look for space to be like a light everywhere you go this season. 

Here is a short piece I wrote about 9/11 for a writing competition. I had 500 words so some of the detail is left to your imagination. ENJOY

Driving Whilst The World Changed 

Remember when airports were fun? When travel by airline was a delight? No restrictions on water or shoes? When the longest line was for the duty free, and you didn’t spend hours agonizing over little bottles of conditioner? I do. I remember. 

Claire had arrived that morning. Into my newly familiar world came an old friend. In my exuberance to make her feel part; I was there at the airport. Closer, I was in the departures lounge. Closer. I was at the gate at 6:18 central standard time. I was there with coffee and a croissant. It was a Tuesday, and work beckoned. An assembly to greet the new students, at our new school. But first Claire.

Arriving to study, arriving to be my friend,to be a familiar in this new world. She came down the gangplank exhausted but excited. We hugged. We walked through the airport catching up on gossip from home. Sophie had started university, Chris and Fi were planning their wedding. Claire and I were starting new adventures. We waited for the bags, three of them. We left the airport, unhindered.  

We piled everything into the car and drove,with the top down in a borrowed BMW, into the early September sun. It could have been the start of a movie.It was 6:46 central.I noticed the palindrome,as we drove into the sunlight and reached for sunglasses simultaneously. Green Day was blaring, I hope you have the time of your life. It was a 10-mile trip while the world changed and stayed the same all at once. 

The perfection of that trip would have been lost had I known how to change the CD to the radio. 

Claire’s host family for this adventure were bleary eyed, pre coffee watching the news, greeting an unknown guest. They drew us into the lounge around the various news reports. We paused together and watched the world change. I touched her hand and that moment communicated all the ‘could have beens.' We drove as the world changed.


The image in my head is my dial up internet clicking agonizingly slowly. CNN’s new website, frozen with a picture of plane two approaching tower two.No students had mobile phones; parents started calling. Do you have a terror attack strategy? Our school had been open six days, we barely knew where the bathrooms were located. 

In the assembly that day we talked about new safety procedures before the students had opportunity to understand the old safety procedures. We called parents to comfort, and in a mess of unknown panic, parents cancelled classes. It was Sarah’s birthday; I brought her a Snickers and a Doctor Pepper. The ordinary things in the heart of an extraordinary tragedy. I’ve never greeted a friend at the gate again.

The Sacred Breakfast

The Sacred Breakfast

The sun is awake; but the world is sleeping.
Hair in a messy bun,
No make up on,
and the remains of yesterday's dreams rippling through my heart.

The house is sleeping
and the dog
watches silently.
He is used to this ritual;
this sacred moment.
As if he knows his barks would destroy this moment.
This sacred time.

We sit my friend and I around a kitchen table; usually so filled with life.

Strawberries, yogurt and coffee,
Nothing extraordinary.
She starts and I listen; sharing in her triumphs and laughing with her joys.
Sometimes I ache with her. But today we smile with the sunshine.

We follow a rabbit trail, as only old friends can.
And I marvel at the fact that this woman has known me.
She has known me in my nose ringed, bleach blonde phase;
In my zealous and passionate youth.
She saw me declare God’s word, in a sweaty tent,
and like no other, knows how terrified I was that it would all go wrong.
Our lives look so different now
but those moments defined us
That shared history binds us
This life is for sharing.

I have seen her swell and shrink with children.
and I  prayed for the young life;
that sits on the couch with adoring eyes.
Convinced I am there to see her.
She may be a little bit right.

We have watched seasons come and go;
We have known belly laughs and heart cries.
And the deep groans that communicate with God.

I have seen her wrestle with truth, and fight for wisdom,
She has watched me grieve.

We share the minute details of our lives.
Aware that how we spend our days;
is in fact how we spend our lives.

We have known sorrow,
Grief that could have destroyed our friendship
And yet we chose to protect.
We have grown in kindness.

Our rivers are such different colours;
but the water that feeds them is fresh.


We return to our first topic aware that the clocks ticks on.
I breathe and talk sharing heart secrets letting fences down.

This sacred hour
A central hub for our hearts
We often leave with questions

But in that moment
The sacred breakfast; questions are permissible.

We have shared theses moments for many years now.
We have grown accustomed to our quirks.

A friend and I have shared breakfast together every Friday for the past few months. We have known each other over 20 years and are obsessed with God’s Kingdom and his incredible love for His world. There is nothing special, no formula and no pretense. I encourage everyone to do the same. Find a friend and chat deep… This bread is in the sharing.