You

First of all, my apologies for the radio silence. Most of you who read this will know that it's been a tough few months, and at times it's been physically impossible for me to update this blog. There have been other times however, that I haven't written because there's been too much going on in my head or heart, or it's been too intense. And that has been a mistake. The whole reason I started this blog was to remind myself, and others, that when things are looking down, even when your life seems like it is in teeny tiny little pieces and you can't see how you can ever put it back together, there is always something to be thankful for. I stand by that, because I genuinely believe it. That said, knowing that in your heart and really seeing and feeling it for yourself are two different things. 

You would think that the darker it is, the easier it should be to see even the faintest glimmer or light. But there are places where the darkness feels literally all consuming and the light seems to have less of a chance than a snowball in hell. To accept that is to underestimate the light. There is nowhere it cannot shine. And before I write about any of the myriad other blessings that have continued to turn up even when I thought the darkness was winning, it is imperative that I say thanks for the most important one. 

You. In no particular order:

Emma C, who has been praying and texting and loving me every single day - and letting me know. 

Tim D and Jane S, who it is not an exaggeration to say saved my life. 

Nadine G and Narissa R, who have been faithful, loving friends for quite a while now, and whom I know will always be there for me. Thank you for standing by me. 

Egle, my darling, multi-talented, fun, loving, loyal, amazing friend. Thank God for you.

Zoya, endlessly patient with me and so giving. Hooray for the scary meeting! You and Hassan are generous and hilarious :) And please tell Hassan I want another sing-along. 

Marcus S, nothing can replace the weekly coffees and putting the world to rights, and I hope we can resume them soon! But that's the least of what a good friend you've been. 

Rupert S, my fellow foodie, you might be the most entertaining person I've ever met, and that's helped a lot in the past couple of years. Your discipline and talent are an inspiration.
Zainab A, my soul sister. You have helped me grow in my faith so much.

Siobhan G, you have the biggest heart, and how you make me laugh :) And thanks for coming to church with me. 

Shanon S, omg, where to start? Possibly with the day we took a bus to Denmark Hill?

Amy M, I'm so glad we found each other :) Tea, prayer, long chats, a good laugh and so much more. You're beautiful, outside and in. 

Liz W, so intelligent and so caring. You and Amy will make wonderful lady-vicars! Coffee, hugs, scandalising men at the next table trying to have dinner, Knitterati...the list goes on. 

Bex W, you've been a star. All the sharing helped me work so many things out, and I'm sure BT was v sad when we switched to Skype!

Till A, thank you for the music, and the friendship. You know, I hope.
Rosie W, for lunches by the river, chats with horsies, and a very special weekend at Wantage. 

Elizabeth S, how wise you are. 

Robert C, isn't it lucky you didn't mind that a strange woman randomly insisted on hugging you? And you may be the most naturally talented knitter in the world. Ever. 

Jack D, my brother in Christ :)
Rowan A, you are so gifted, and so giving. And you appear to have a hollow leg...

Polly P, one of the v v v few people who talks as much as I do!

Adam and Hubert, whom I know will always be there, any time, no matter what. Even though I hardly see you!
Wendy T, thanks for reminding me that if DHS can't kill you, nothing can!
Tracey C, you are such a strong woman, and I am SO glad you are on my side. You're the best thing Welsh Boy ever did for me! And Tina P-J is a nice bonus :)

Alyshea K, guaranteed giggles, need I say more?

Sister Barbara Claire and all the amazing sisters at Wantage, who bless everyone they cross paths with so much love, prayer and such a safe, peaceful space.

I've probably missed out a load of people, but that doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm a ditz. 

It ain't no crystal stair, but you've got to keep climbing

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

                                                            -Langston Hughes, "Mother to Son"-

Giving up, and taking on

At the beginning of this Lent, like so many Lents before, I thought long and hard about a) whether I should give something up, and b) if so, what? Now I don't have that conversation with myself because I don't want to give up something I enjoy, but it has always seemed hollow to me to, for example, give up chocolate for the sake of giving something up for Lent. Not that I take any decision involving chocolate lightly! The presence of chocolate in my life has probably been a major contributing factor to my not whacking someone over the head when they enraged me, and chocolate is definitely part of the glue that helps to mend a broken heart. In my world anyway. 

But the point is, if I am giving up anything for Lent, why am I doing it? Like so many Christians around the world, I have done it in the name of fasting - almost without thinking about it. We sacrifice something as part of the process of remembering the sacrifice Christ made for us. But there came a time when that, in and of itself, began not to sit very well with me. It was not going far enough - by which I do not mean that there was not enough "suffering" in the equation; it was simply that I felt there was another step which I needed to take for this to be a meaningful exercise. 

And I think what was making me uncomfortable was this focus on giving something up, as if that was where the buck stopped. I give something up, I've done my bit? No. I give something up to remind me of Christ's sacrifice - yes. But what does His sacrifice mean? Why did He do it? What implications does that have for how I live my life? Now we're on to something. 

So, what is really important, to me, is my relationship with the living God. That sacrifice was made so I could live, which means for me, Lent is about taking a good hard look at what God really wants us to be doing, how He really wants us to be living. 

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter - when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?"

                                                                                     -Isaiah 58:6-7-

So, I am giving things up in order to make room for something else. I am trying to give up the things that are getting in the way of my relationship with God, and to take up things that bring me closer to Him. 

I will give up chocolate that is made on the backs of the working poor, that enslaves children and puts them in dangerous working conditions. And I will take up Fairtrade chocolate. 

I will cut down on Facebook time. And I will take up a pen and a piece of paper, and write a note to someone I love, to an old friend, to someone sick or someone lonely. 

I will cut down on TV or whatever else I use to distract myself. And I will talk to my granny with more attention, take up stronger relationships, give more time to prayer. 

I will try to give up resentment, and I will take up love. 

I will try to give up shame and guilt, and I will take up my inheritance as a child of God. 

A Japanese-American, an Indian and an Irishman walk into a Tokyo karaoke bar...

I'm sure you've all heard about the earthquake that hit Japan on Friday afternoon. When the news broke, we happened to be watching CNN - one of those hysterical American political "debates" between a gun-toting soccer mom, a political blogger who appeared to have no knowledge whatsoever of foreign policy, and an actual reasonable expert who looked increasingly embarrassed to be part of the who circus. But I digress. 

I have friends in Tokyo, and so I sat there, glued to the screen for hours, watching buildings crumble, roads break into chunks like so much peanut brittle, and people - afraid, hurt, worried for loved ones, or just wondering how they were going to get home now that the bullet trains had ground to a halt. 

With no public transport available and the roads in chaos, most of Tokyo's workers, students and tourists resigned themselves to the long trek home, or at least towards some kind of transport in the suburbs. I wondered about my friends, J, R, and P, who I know work at one end of the city and live at the other, a pain of a commute even when everything is running smoothly. 

For this story to make sense, you need to know a little about out heroes. They met at MIT as undergraduates ten years ago, where they all did some incredibly complicated degree involving computers. J, a Japanese-American, is an amazing artist. R, originally from India, is, so they tell me, an outstanding computer programmer, and with his business nous, Irishman P could very well be the next Donald Trump, only nicer and better looking. Together, the intrepid three have been in Tokyo for the last year, working the computed game design market and aiming to set up their own company. 

Anyway, on Friday afternoon, J, R and P set out on the long walk home. They had been going for five hours when they got fed up and decided it was too cold and too dark to proceed. They looked around for somewhere to spend the night, and realised they had stopped on the threshold of a karaoke bar. Well, when the universe extends you an invitation like that, how can you say no? And so it was that a Japanese-American, and Indian and an Irishman walked into a karaoke bar in Tokyo...

The bar was already full of salarymen who'd had the same idea hours ago, if the number of empty beer bottles lying around was any indication. The arrival of fresh entertainment was greeted with gleeful shouts of "boyband des-ne!", giggles and guffaws. Before they knew what was happening, the mic was wrenched from the slightly desperate grasp of a middle-aged middle manager who had been subjecting the bar to a very morose rendition of My Way, J, R and P were (gently) pushed up onto the stage, beers appearing miraculously in one hand and mics in the other, and the boys found themselves performing The Osmonds' Crazy Horses, quite a bit of the Backstreet Boys early material, a Motown medley, and finally, a life-affirming I Will Survive to which the entire bar sang along. 

The next morning, the erstwhile bar flies did what they could to help one another on their way. The next few weeks, or months, are going to be anything but fun and games for the people affected by the earthquake and subsequent tsunami. But I give thanks for the resilience of the human spirit, and for the fact that these people were able to snatch some joy from a situation that was anything but. As long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive. 

MZT

This is my cat - Mao Ze Tung, also known as MZT. The other names I have for him are so silly that even my family give me weird looks when I talk to him. He died today, of kidney failure, after fifteen years as one of the family. 

MZT came to us as a stray kitten. He just turned up in the garden one day, and as we kept feeding him, he kept coming closer and closer, trusting us more and more. Eventually, he moved himself into the house, onto the sofa and into our hearts and he just never left. He was always free to come and go, but he chose to stay. 

We adored this cat, and my granny spoiled him. He didn't eat cat food, oh no. At 8.30 every morning and 6.45 every evening, MZT would turn up and sit expectantly before the oven in which fresh fish was being grilled for him. On the weekends, he would get fresh grilled prawns as well. If he wanted to sleep in the living room, we had to turn down the lights and the volume of the television so as not to disturb him. 

I am so sad he's gone, but I can't be sorry, because I know he was beginning to suffer. All his life, he was in perfect health. He never had to go to the vet until 6 months ago, when old age started to catch up with him. He was still beautiful, sleek and glossy on the outside, but things were deteriorating on the inside. This time, MZT was at the vet, yet again, and we were thinking we might have to put him down. He so hated drips and all the other treatment, and it was hard to watch him losing his dignity. But he just slipped away, before granny could get there to say goodbye,  and when the vet called Granny told her not to revive him. It hurt, but it was the right thing to do. You can't hold on to something and make it suffer; because we love him, we had to put him first, and that meant letting him go. 

So he's been buried under lime tree he loved to laze under, surrounded by the best flowers in the garden. And although I want to cry for my loss, I am so thankful for the fifteen years of love and laughter MZT blessed us with by choosing to stay, for as long as he could. 

Knitterati

Every Tuesday afternoon, Knitterati meets in the Waterloo chaplaincy. We sit, we knit, we drink tea, we chat, and we make terrible jokes and fall about laughing. At Knitterati, there will always be someone to make you a cup of tea or coffee, and to teach you to knit if you don't already know how. You can rant about whatever is currently infuriating you, and the knitting circle will embrace you. Literally. It's an excellent place to let off some steam, and boy do we ever. J, our chaplain, must feel like she's in charge of a roomful of very naughty, highly caffeinated and over-sugared children. And indeed she is. Which is not to say there is no room for adult conversation. It's just that we tend to cover a wide variety of topics. It must be the only place aside from Radio 4's Woman's Hour where you get discussions on everything from root vegetables to torture over the course of the same session.  Today, for instance, the conversation included knitting technique, sex, religion, food, the role of social networking in modern politics and warfare, relationships, pigeons (disposal of), the augmentation of the Maltese air force, moral philosophy, literature, tweed, vocations and hats. I kid you not. And I've probably left out quite a lot of material. But you get the picture. Anything goes, because Knitterati is a safe space (will all the knitters please stop giggling!). 

Usually, the demographic Knitterati attracts is mainly female - don't throw a hissy fit S, I did say mainly! Today however, was a special day. We had two, count them, two, men present, besides the usual chaps who happen to be passing through, or who have already embraced knitting (we only have one committed specimen of the latter and he is precious to us). These rare creatures were D and RC. D did not knit, but with his magnificent moustache, his tweed, his Indiana Jones hat and his sense of humour, his entertainment value is a significant contribution to any gathering. 

RC however, was a triumph. RC is one of our sacristans, and a couple of us spent quite a bit of time over the weekend trying to persuade him to come to Knitterati and have his life enriched. And he came! He didn't condescend, he didn't mock us - no, he learnt to knit! And may I say, he is a natural. He mastered the basic stitch in about 10 seconds, produced a professional-looking square, and even cast off with only a minor mishap. RC might be the quickest student we have ever had.

The point of all this is that Knitterati is not just a knitting circle. It is a place to unwind and have fun, and it is an oasis of positivity and peace in the midst of a very stressful world. I am thankful for J's original (inspired) idea, and for all the ladies (and gentlemen) who make it what it is - a blessing. 

6 lbs 9 oz

I was at a friend's birthday party when the call came at 7.30 pm last night. My friend, R, was in labour. It had started around noon and now the contractions were getting closer and stronger. Much stronger. It was time to rally the troops. 

My supremely understanding friend, A, was lovely about me bailing on the rest of the night. Her unselfish response was, "Oh my god, you're friend's in labour, you *have* to go!" followed by advice about the best bus to catch to the hospital. So off I went, honoured to have been asked to hold R's hand at this special, special time. 

Let me tell you a bit about R. She married J when they were 20, and they've been trying for a baby for the last 20 years. They have tried everything, including as many courses of IVF as they could afford. The money ran out, but the hope didn't. J in particular has been a rock, supporting R through every up and down, every twist and turn of the emotional rollercoaster you ride when you're desperate to have a child and it's not happening. These people would have loved any child that came into their lives, biological or not. And over these last 20 years, they have fostered a number of children. They have never adopted because J is a soldier, currently on active duty, and his being away so frequently and unpredictably has made adoption difficult.

R and J have wept over this, and their hearts have been broken, and R, certainly, has seriously questioned her faith. She has found it hard to hold on to a God who has not seemed to hear her plea, who has not seemed to heal her broken heart, who has seemed so far away for such extended periods of time. But she knows that God has been there for her, especially through J, who for so long carried his own sorrow so bravely, making it his priority to be strong for his wife. You only need to be around R and J for five minutes to know that if he could, he would carry all her pain for her. 

Anyway, about 10 months ago, it happened. Just like that. Out of the blue. At the age of 39, R conceived, naturally. She didn't find out until 8 weeks later, when J had left for another tour of duty. And so we come to last night. This long-awaited miracle was taking place, and J was not there to see it. He was not there to rub his wife's back, to pace the hallways, to ask silly questions, to have things thrown at him by a woman who really wants some painkillers NOW. 

At 11.28pm, 6 lbs 9 oz of kicking, screaming life finally arrived. And J wasn't there to welcome his daughter into the world. He should have been the first person to hold her, but instead, he is in a war zone. 

This baby didn't get a name until we could get hold of Daddy on the secure satellite phone, at about 6 am this morning. J said he had the perfect name for her, but he wasn't going to tell anyone until she got here. J has been allowed to get away with this because he generally has good taste, and it was felt he could be trusted not to name her something catastrophically awful, like Fifi. He wept with joy for this child, so longed for, so loved for such a long time, even before she got here. 

She has been named for what she represents, for what sustained her parents while they waited for her, for what they hope will guide her through her own life.  

Her name is Faith.