There's an art to sitting
with someone in their pain.

There's a quiet art
to letting the shape of it
form in the quiet,
in closed fists
in cloaked words,
in short gasps for intervention
and to resisting the urge to intervene
with anything other than a tear.

There's an art to it I'm sure.
But sometimes it takes a child
sitting with a grasp of charcoal
to do it justice.
---

There's an art to sitting with my pain.
There's a dark, quiet art
of letting the shape of it
envelope me, hold me,
squeeze me til the breath of it is gone
and I can fill both lungs afresh,
deep and light in the shade,
by the song in the brook,
the song from up river.

There's an art to it I'm sure,
cos I get stuck mid-breath,
mid-cry.
I can't hear the voices in the water.
I gasp alone, circular breathing
the snot and the dust
and I'm left choking again.

There's a dark art
and it fills my canvas,
charcoal on white,
with a corner given over
to a faint grey light.

But I can't hear the brook.

god is not a proper noun.
It’s more a job description.
Jesus is very different:
god embodied in a person

So, don’t go exploring
a systematic doctrine.
Begin with seeking out
a person worth discovering.

There was a little boy
who was so sad and so scared
all he could do was be grown up all day
(or as grown up as he knew how).
That was how he could
keep wading through the sadness and
climbing over the scariness
while keeping his eyes on the important stuff
while keeping his mind off the sad and scary stuff.

But eventually he got to end the day, and
that’s when he turned off the light and laid down.
That’s when the sadness and scariness grew louder -
so loud that his eyes couldn’t stay on the important stuff,
cos they were closed.

In fact, it was in his sleep
that the sad stuff and scary stuff grew more important
and the other stuff
(you know, the friendships and the purpose-ness),
well, that became like a dream
– and not a good dream.

The weird thing was that
the more he lay with his eyes closed, and
the more he got to rest his eyes
on the sad and the scary,
the more tired he got and
the harder it got
to lift his eyes and
to lift his feet and
the easier it was
to roll away.

If that had been the end of the story,
then it would have fed the sad and scary
and the boy would have never got to
lift his eyes and
lift his feet ever again.

So, we can’t let this be the end. Cos if
‘it will be alright in the end’
and it isn’t alright yet,
then it’s not the end, is it?

So, let’s all write some more.

You said no heart has imagined,
but you gave a few hints
of a massive mansion, a river
and a fruit tree with 12 varieties,
spouting monthly.

You said we couldn't imagine
what you've got prepared,
but I can't imagine anything beats
a Coronation Chicken sandwich,
with Branston,
on a warm summer's afternoon
with friends and laughter
and Monty's head
resting hopefully on my knee.

You called it paradise
and you mentioned wine.
If that comes with a new body -
one that doesn't protest
to a fine Merlot
then that'll be fine with me.
That would be paradise.
That'll be heaven indeed.
So long as you don't forget
the Coronation Chicken
and the pickle.

It's not that I hold my zeal in check.
It's always burning in my gut
coming out in different forms
as befits the ocassion:
compassion with tears,
generosity with wine,
challenge with disappointment,
each tempered with discernment,
watching my Father
and what's on his mind.

And yes, on this ocassion
that called for the grip of a whip,
for upset tables
and upset temple authorities.

They had taken their eye off their Father
and missed the whole point
of God's temple.
They had replaced prayer with profit.

I'm always zealous
and, yes, sometimes it's right
that I shout its fierce light.

Sometimes they need to be reminded
of just whose house this is.

"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee.
Mary was there with Jesus
and she nudged her son: 
'The wine has finished. This - is - not - good.' 
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'. 

And Mary said 'Listen to your mother.' 
And Jesus sighed.

And Mary told the servants, 
"Do whatever he tells you." 
Then Jesus saw that it was no use arguing. And he said, "let the jars be filled with water". 
And they rolled the stone jars in front of him.
And then Jesus said, "Let there be wine". 
And they poured the wine.
And it was so - very - good.

And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this, 
and she whispered to Jesus: 
'This just the start you know.' 
And he did, - and it was. 

There was a mother's faith 
and gallons of glorious wine. 
And there was a mother's smile
at the sight of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom 
with this original third day miracle. 
A sign of things to come.

And there was a party and singing 
and much laughter, 
with the Son dancing with his mother
into the evening - a Fine Third Day.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his clear voice, one I knew I knew,
seeking me out, drawing me in
from the dark.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his broad shoulders as he lifts me,
carrying me back to good pasture,
back home.

I place my faith in the battered shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders forgiving enough to haul a cross,
strong enough to bear my full weight
whatever the cost.

Yes, I believe in the shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders broad enough for every black sheep,
strong enough when we are lost
and when we are weak.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus –
throwing his arms welcome wide
and lifting me into this embrace,
safe from all wolves and the thickest of thickets.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus
betraying His Father’s family trait
of rescue and acceptance.

I believe in the good shoulders of Jesus.
That’s where I place my faith.