Fear steps in,
into that gap between hearing and believing, seeking to fill that space, undermining belief until believing is turned away and faces fearing the worse and settling for less as the truth fades into the distance.

Jesus steps in
into that gap between fear and hope, and smothers the fear with an over abundance of reasons to believe in this offer to receive a power-over-death level of life that drowns out the crowd of unbelieving commotion until he sees resurrected hope get up on her own two feet and step into your grateful arms.

Jesus steps in and fear finds it has no place here.

It took a little time to get this old, but it wasn’t hard.  
It was rather just a case of taking one day at a time and not letting the day that is yet to come dominate the day that is.  Each day is sufficient to fill the time we have and cramming in that which has yet to have its allotted time will just cause angst.

It took a little time and that’s how you should keep it – little.  Don’t let any one moment inappropriately inflate, lest it lord over the moment you have in front of you.  So, whether this year amounts to a 10th of your life span, or a 40th, a 50th, or (as in my case), a 60th, give it equal honour.  Let it have its moment in the sun.

It takes a little time to build a life.

I’d make a lousy leaf.

I couldn’t happily leave my tree, my family, my home.
I expect I’d be one of the last, holding on, looking down
and nervously watching my siblings.

Seeing them heaped and occasionally lifted
to fly, to dance in a whirl of excitement
– free of past commitments.

Maybe then I’ll gather my brittle courage,
eyes clenched shut, ready at last to jump
and to let go, into the unknown.

Only to find myself kicked around by ignorant children
who have no appreciation of the journey I’ve been on to get here.

Oh well, this is a new season.
There’s no going back now.

I look into her face, curiously more familiar, more frequent now on her departure. And particularly more prominent in profile.  
I look into her face and see the easy smile that comes with age and with the assurance of knowing herself and her place in the bigger scheme of things, particularly in the scheme of relatively earthly royalty and the ultimately heavenly King.
I look into her face and recall it in prayer at her husband's funeral, and imagine it now at rest, in darkness and in joy, in a brighter light.
I look into her face, on my pound coin, in the corner of my letter, on the street bill board, on the front of the paper, on every channel, an image etched in my mind's eye, a loud echo of a lifetime of consistency and service.  
I look and then in a prayer thank her God and my God for gifting us this servant queen, who lived well and only fell once she had done enough to help ensure others' lives were better for her being there.
And I pray for our king, that his long apprentiship in her firm serves him well and serves us well as we walk on together, into the unknown, in thanks for the service of leaders.

I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.

My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him

secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers

but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,

and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff

and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.

Stories with my dad.

This is a love word
that might someday make its way
into a song or perhaps a letter

This is a love word
that’s short of a sonnet
but is written with honest tears
and the signature tightness in my chest
that I’ve grown to trust
as coming straight from the heart

This is a love word,
son.