Steve Page the elder
Sat with real pleasure
Eating his birthday cake
He took a large bite
And got a great fright
He'd swallowed his tongue by mistake.

Steve the poet sat at his desk
Steve the poet made a great mess
All of his pencils and all of his pens
Couldn't help Steve make a stanza of sense

The two of them staggered in
and flopped onto the worn sofa.
Neither spoke.
Neither tried.
They were just grateful for another day.
An earned break
A pause poised at their tipping point.

Chaos rose with a broken smile,
raising a slow arm,
'See you tomorrow'.

But Order was already asleep.

and not long after I caught a glimpse, just a glance
I saw colour and shape
as a half-heard voice brushed my fist,

or it might have been a piano chord, soft and gentle,
but only lasting half a moment.

whichever it was, it felt old,
like an empty hospital chapel or an unfinished letter

and when I turned to check, expectant,
it had changed
– so much so that I wasn’t sure it was what had called to me at all.

By some deeper instinct I only took half a step,
not daring to drop another tear, or form my question
– and over the course of a longest heartbeat, it re-emerged,

first the chord, followed a beat behind by the scent of the past
and the orange zest bled through the haze like a long-held breath.

I found I could breathe
and turn into its embrace

and the world left me in this grace.

I know it’s all-encompassing, but you know something?
it’ll pass, and we’ll move on
and we’ll try to forget the moments when we thought we could all be goners.

We’ll look forward, quote verses about new things and we’ll be assertive
and we’ll trust God for the future, post memes on our computers
and it is right that we do this with honest good humour

but let’s not waste this season by simply surviving,
simply grinning and bearing, and us hiding our crying.
Let’s not miss these moments, these weeks and months
when it's more honest to pray with tears and sobs,
asking for answers to our cries for life,
for the lives around us,
- for those who have died,

for our sanity cooped up and us barely coping,
our routine getting worn with daily repeating
without much needed hugs and with limited ways
to meet and to sing and to share our long days
with more than these same four walls

Pause

– don’t forget how this felt for you,
cos that's the way we seek his truth
and be better able to rely on him
next time our lives lose their rhyme and rhythm,

when (let’s be honest) our faith gets wonky,
and each one of us alone can be tempted to worry

and sink inside.

Let’s be honest with him and next time
our vision may be better aligned
and we’ll look to him and rather than hide,
we’ll stand that much straighter, knowing our God is so much greater,
our God is wider and higher and untold deeper
and he has this frail life in his two pierced hands that are so much bigger.

I know it's all-encompassing,
but you know something,
he is all Father,
all Creator, all Redeemer
and the all-encompassing more Grace-giver

He is the one holding it all together
and he wants to walk through this grief together

with you.

So, turn down the news,
make some space, seek his face
and let’s pray.

'I hear the Father say,

"Your patience indeed is shallow
- but my restive child, rest and pray,
find in me your refuge,
I am all you need today."

The Lord is harbour. He is anchor.
And once this season passes,
once the channels open
He will be our compass

and we will sail.'

When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.