Strolling

Piano lessons. My favourite activity as I was growing up. That's not exactly the truth. My piano teacher smoked and she used to hit the piano with a ruler if I didn’t play loud enough. She, as well as her house, were the exact colour of mint humbugs. It was not a pleasant learning environment. I was at best an average musician and my dreams of being discovered never came to fruition, even though I always practised with the window open. However, the piano lessons facilitated a 20-minute stroll with my Dad. He would walk me to the piano lessons and walk me home; usually in time for The A-Team. A far preferred activity to piano lessons. In the busy lives of a working family, that time alone was precious. 

Fast forward to August 2012, piano lessons were a thing of the past. again, simple moments with my dad were at the forefront of my mind. Britain was the happiest place on earth, seriously, it rivalled Disney World. I flew into London as the fireworks for the opening spectacle of the Olympic games lit up the sky. Everyone on the plane cheered. I sat in my window seat, head against the wall, heavy-hearted. The next day, as the medals began to fly in, and the world’s attention was on our little corner of it. I faced a struggle of a different kind. A slow race, with an inevitable finish.

9 weeks earlier, as part of his 40-year discipline of daily diary entries, Stoical McCarthy penned, in his shaky left hand, these words: Living with terminal cancer day 1- The air smells sweeter and each breath tastes finer. The garden looks lovely and Carol is cooking chicken. The weather is good. 

These words rob joy from the world. They steal colour; slowly, the way the chemo steals energy, pounds, and the will to live. By the time I arrived for my visit, his size was diminished and his hair was gone. He was a man at peace with God and ready to meet him. As hard as it was, I could not ask God for an extension to this misery. Trusting my good God’s hand I prayed for His timing, His healing and for sweet fellowship during the agonizing waiting. 

Cancer slows everything down. There is so much waiting. Terminal cancer even more. I had time and I took it. We sat in the garden, in the bedroom, in the dining room. We were mostly silent, we watched films, and we spent one full day listening to Mr Trololo. If you are ever depressed look at him on YouTube. There was humdrum and Grace for everyone to do their thing. These were precious days; a privilege. These times are not afforded to all, a time to reflect on a life well-lived. They were filled with joy, remembrances and the ever forgotten life hack to “never go to the supermarket hungry.”

On one of the good days, the last good day; Mo Farah was running 5,000 metres. Dad and I took a stroll. It was the sweetest, slowest walk I have ever taken. A walk past my primary school, and past my piano teacher’s old home. It was our walk. We didn’t discuss the route. We knew it. We knew each other. We were mostly silent. It was sweet. It was us. It was ours.

I stopped a car in its tracks and shuffled my dad across a road. We walked. Arm in arm. Holding each other. Our hearts breaking, and our smiles betraying the truth. We knew; this stroll was the last. The cared for and care-giver roles; they were jumbled at that moment. On the other, side there was a definite switch, but at this moment, it was jumbled.

We arrived home. We watched. Halfway through the race my dad leaps to his feet in a burst of energy and exclaims “I look exactly like Mo Farah” Mum and I fall to the floor laughing; if there was anyone in Christendom, who resembled Mo Farah, less than my Gaelic, emaciated, Father, I would like to meet them. There was joy. There was laughter. There was loud cheering. There was hugging as his race was won.

There was sadness. There were tears. There was laughter. There was hugging. 9 weeks later the words “Well done, good and faithful servant” were uttered from the one who wipes every tear. His race was won.

There was fear, there was anxiety. The Olympics were Brazil’s now and the memory of the last summer games stung a little.

Again, not quite the truth. The sting I expected never came, it's as if the great healer of time had done its work completely. 

There was a stroll. Past my old piano teacher’s house. There was a moment. There was fondness. This new moment was marked with joy that it happened, not with sadness that it wasn’t anymore. There was a victory for Mo and a restoration for me. 

Time is a great healer; but time cannot restore.

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: Songs

Recently reunited with this gem from my childhood. I can remember receiving it when I was about eight years old. I was excited to be playing music that I knew. Songs I could recognise, after the endless scales and exercises of an elementary piano student. My excitement lasted about ten minutes after I got home. The words and melodies were so familiar to me. I could see what my right hand was supposed to play; I could hear how the tune was supposed to sound. But putting those together, with the chords and bass of the left hand and the more than ‘just the melody’ in the right hand’ still took practice. 

My childhood brain was somewhere between disappointed and agitated because something so familiar was also so complex. There were so many more elements, than my childhood experience, of singing the melody to ‘Away in a Manger’ a thousand times. 

Isn’t that also true of the Christmas story? For that is what we sing in these carols and hymns; the Christmas story. There are words that we sing each Christmas that are so familiar. Many of us have them memorized without knowing. We sing them without thinking and our familiarity has bred a little contempt and lost a little wonder. I mean think about these phrases taken from carols we sing each year.

‘Veiled in flesh The Godhead see

Hail the incarnate deity

Pleased as man, with man to dwell

Jesus our Emmanual.’

‘No more let sins and sorrows grow

Nor thorns infest the ground

He comes to make His blessings flow

Far as the curse is found.

These are a little more complex than Baa baa black sheep are they not? We seem to sing them with gusto each year. In our exuberance and excitement, I think we forget the depth and mystery and wonder.

Let’s stand back and forget our familiarity in the songs and find ourselves once again wondering at the beauty of Jesus, pleased, delighted even thrilled to become human and to dwell, live and reside with us, that we might learn the best way to be human. That blessing may flow from us to all humanity.

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. 

An Advent Journey: The Signs of Christmas

 

Day One: An Introduction

 

A place for everything and everything in its place. That’s the key to a tidy home, a tidy mind and a fulfilled life. The problem is things, people and ideas do not like to stay in their place. Christmas is the vilest offender. A few years ago, I was looking for some chocolate coins; to use for an assembly. As I walked into the Supermarket, I was convinced they would not be available. There they were; in the Christmas aisle, in September. The following week, I saw the child of a friend sitting on the couch, looking wistfully into the air. I asked what they were doing. They responded in an ethereal way ‘just sitting here, waiting for Christmas.’ Christmas does not like to stay in its place, and because of that, its potency is diluted.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am all about Christmas. I love it, but I love it in its proper place. I used to love the artificial barrier that Thanksgiving provided when I lived in the states. After Thanksgiving, the community I lived in, went Christmas crazy. However, in the last few years, the signs of Christmas would start to be visible before the last bite of the pumpkin pie had been digested. It would start to spread itself from almost the beginning of September. You would see hints of decorations, and preparations and I just wanted to yell No! Keep Christmas special, keep it in its place. 

Advent, the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, is the season of waiting.

It is the season of patient expectation. 

A season to look and wait for the signs of Christmas. 

The signs of songs, of light, of trees and of angels. 

Join me on this Advent journey as we explore the signs of Christmas.