The Unwritten and Untold

The one story I seem to tell people the most from a trip I made to America in 2012 is a small episode at a sandwich shop I visited in Chicago. It was lunchtime and the queue was long. I thought I had plenty of time to get my head around the menu and work out what to have. I was so wrong. At the front of the queue, around 30 or so feet in front of me, was a cashier standing on a counter, loudly asking for people’s orders. I quickly realised she would soon be calling out to me. I panicked. This is not normal for me! I don’t want to shout my order, I have NO idea what I want and I am very shy – and British! I quietly hoped she would skip by me. She didn’t, obviously, and so I pretended I didn’t hear her. It didn’t work – it just annoyed her. I turned to her and timidly asked for a bit more time. She obliged, though this was no ‘take your time’ gesture; I knew she would return to me pronto. So I quickly picked a sandwich. I don’t think it was the best on offer, but time was short; careful deliberation was a no-go. I made my order and shared a relieving smile with the lady behind me who seem to sympathise with my predicament.

I always enjoy telling this story. And I have shared it with many people. On the same day I visited the sandwich shop I also went up Willis Tower and took a million photos of ‘The Bean’. I also sampled some AMAZING pizza. But I rarely talk about that. I instead tell people about what happened when buying a sandwich. On reflection, I wonder if this fits a broader pattern. Many of the stories I relish telling and hearing the most are often not the big and spectacular, where something particularly significant happens. Instead they are those small and seemingly insignificant happenings – a good few of which, at the time, can be on the annoying and awkward side. But these are stories, I think, which we all find especially easy to identify with and perhaps offer a more unique insight into us – our perspective, character, personality, feelings. And because of this, like the nudging of the first domino, it are these quirky stories that are oftentimes the prompt for others to follow suit and share their own similar tales.

There are a few other stories I frequently find myself sharing with others. There was the horribly awkward, blushingly-red incident as a waiter, where I dropped a piece of chicken in front of a table of wedding guests. It was painful. Still, the wedding guests had a good laugh. There was the routine train ride where I happened to be sitting next to another Christian. I realised this from a book he was reading. Too scared to begin a conversation with him, I took out a clearly Christian CD and conveniently placed it in his eyesight. It worked a treat. We chatted and, as my stop neared, he kindly prayed for me. There were the tourists in Cambridge who sheepishly approached me whilst I was waiting for a friend, convinced I was Prince Harry. They took some convincing to believe otherwise. And there was the plane journey in which very-tired-me sat next to very-talkative-stranger. After talking for a bit (pre-take-off) I put my headphones into my ear, assuming the chat was over. But that didn’t stop her – she was still in full-flow. I couldn’t help but smile.

Oddly, it are these stories that have got me excited as the new year gathers momentum. Our days are largely more ordinary than extraordinary. But many of the stories we tell our friends at the pub or over the family dinner table or whilst driving with friends – both now and the years to come – are the ones written in the ordinary. They are not momentous, life-changing or particularly revelatory. They may only last the briefest of minutes and, at the time, be painfully awkward. But in them we find a treasure that makes them worth sharing with others – time and time again. This year and beyond, God-willing, are many more pocket-sized moments that have yet to be written and so waiting to be told – one, two, twenty times. I have no idea what they will look like, but knowing that they could happen at anytime puts an added sparkle into each day.

After they have happened, I can’t wait to share them.

And I can’t wait to hear yours, too.

The Endless Wonder of Christmas

Photo by Gareth Harper on Unsplash

Another lunchtime, another trip to Sainsbury’s to pick up a few bits. But shortly on entering an aisle filled with dazzling Christmas decorations led me astray. What particularly caught my eye was a wooden star that lights up when switched on. At a not unreasonable price of £13 I took the plunge and bought it, figuring it would sit rather snug in my otherwise Christmas-less looking room.

Later on over dinner I replayed this minor episode to my family. It prompted a comment from my Dad which quickly felt significant in light of the dawning Christmas season. It was this: “It’s amazing the things you sometimes find when you’re out and about looking around. You just never know what you might come across.”

True of a trip to the shops, true more so of the Christmas story, a narrative familiar to most of us: busy angels, worshiping shepherds, curious wise folk, an unexpected and bizarre pregnancy, the inn, the stable, a guiding star, a baby. It’s the story of endless nativity plays, the picture of a thousand Christmas cards, the song of all those familiar, countlessly covered carols. We know the story by heart, even if the details are sometimes taken for granted. Three wise men and a donkey? Don’t be so sure.

But what I’ve found more and more over recent times is that by taking time to look at the stable story with a little more attentiveness and curiosity, it’s amazing what we might just come across. 

It still astounds me to think that Mary was a teenager when the angel appeared to her (believed to be somewhere between age 12 and 16). Not only that, she was from Nazareth (‘Can anything good come from there?’ someone in the Bible asks). Think about all of this for a moment: this young peasant girl, just taking in another normal day, and an angel drops in for a chat. That in itself is big news. But then there is the news the angel brings: she will give birth to Jesus, “Son of the Most High”. How did she feel in the moments after the angel departed? What did she do? Probably took a long lie down before doing anything else! Whilst she knew that Jesus would fulfil a big role, did she understand the extent to which he would radically shake the whole world? They’re the kind of questions that can, if we allow it, unleash a wave of awesome reflection.

Or what about faithful old Joseph? He looks to be a bystander on all of this, seemingly on the fringes, ready to quietly divorce Mary because of how people may perceive her unexpected pregnancy. But then an angel appears and tells him to halt his plan. Joseph’s got a role to play — and a big one at that. I can’t but be inspired by Joseph’s gentle, understated loyalty. And for him to be told that he is not to be peripheral in the unfolding drama but pivotal to it is a thought soaked in encouragement for anyone feeling as though they are on the sidelines of life.

Then there are the shepherds. Oh, to have been a fly-on-the-wall in the moments leading up to the angelic arrival! They were out there at night. It was dark, quiet, probably a bit dull and boring. But then a bright, brilliant light, the landscape changed in a thunderous instant, and with it news that something big is going down. Wow! I mean, what is going through their minds? How did they feel to be one of a select, privileged few to be told of this monumental happening? What looks did they exchange with each other? A baby? Wrapped in swaddling clothes and in a manger? A saviour? “Say what now?!” Before the news can sink in the angel is joined by “a multitude of the heavenly host praising God”. They must have pinched themselves to check they weren’t dreaming. Even on the most routine of days God can show up rather unexpectedly.

Advent is traditionally known as a time of waiting. There’s waiting 10 minutes in the queue at the supermarket (annoying, right?) and there is waiting 400 years. That’s effectively the amount of time between the last prophecy about the coming Messiah in the Old Testament and the birth of Jesus. I like to reflect on Simeon and Anna, two people mentioned in Luke’s gospel. Simeon was a devout man who had long waited for the promised Messiah. God had even told him that he would not see death before Jesus came. As for Anna, she was an 84-year-old widow who fasted and prayed day and night in the temple as she waited for Jesus. Their place in the pages of Scripture — and the opportunity they had to see Jesus face to face — is a beautiful reminder of the way God honours devotion to Him. If only a camera was available to capture the moment when the worn and worked hands of these two faithful saints touched the smooth, infant skin of the young Jesus…

This year it’s the magi (or wise men or kings) who’ve struck a particular chord with me. I’ve gotten so familiar with how they are portrayed in modern, western culture that I’ve failed to take a look around their story. One of many stories within the story. Some people regard the magi as astrologers or astronomers, people who studied the distant, glorious skies. Why did God bring them to the stable? Why did God use a star? I’m still working on all of this, but the sheer mystery of it all just astounds me. Next time you see me, do ask how I’m getting on.

The point of all of this is that it is amazing — amazing! — what we will come across when we see beyond tradition and familiarity and filter, to spend time taking a closer look into the heart of this significant, magnificent first Christmas. In doing so you just never know what you might find. This has been my discovery each Christmas in recent times, with something new always emerging from the old, well-rehearsed story. And it’s never just head knowledge. The detail, the revelation, goes deep into my heart. It speaks to my world, our world, and unfailingly it lifts me. It’s endlessly, tremendously alive. An eternal wonder.

But should we be surprised by this? After all, this is an event, I believe, that actually happened. And it happened because of a God who is love. In the person of Jesus Christ God humbly descended to the mud and mirth of our broken world to become Emmanuel, God with us. Let that settle deep: God with us, God with you. Some 33 years after his arrival, Jesus died and rose again, for the whole world. This means he is still alive today. He is still Emmanuel, still God with us. 

So of course the first Christmas can never be regarded as a mere happening. It was earth-shatteringly unique. The life of that first helpless cry from the baby Jesus lives on today. Everything about the nativity story is soaked in weighty, majestic love. There is nothing about the shepherds and young couple and gifts and Bethlehem and the star — and every other aspect of the story — that is incidental. Each was part of a beautiful tapestry of moments each carefully, thoughtfully considered by God. We can never plumb the depths of God’s being. We can only ever know so much. He is God, after all. Can we then ever plumb the depths of the Christmas story? I don’t think we can, which means there is always something to find, always something to speak into life’s seasons and questions. We simply must be curious enough to look for it — a bit like the wandering magi. 

This Christmastime I’ve again enjoyed walking the odd shop or two to see what gifts and goodies I will unexpectedly find. But much more exciting than that is the invitation to again take a closer look at the story and stories of that first Christmas. No matter how many times I come, and no matter how familiar the broader narrative feels, there always remains something wonderful to discover…

“But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.”  (Luke 2:19)

Happy Christmas!

xxx

Letting That Something New Find You

I read recently in the Big Issue that the band Years and Years formed after the bassist overhead the frontman singing in the shower. I love that. It reminded me that sometimes life’s best moments and biggest breakthroughs find us rather than the other way around. Too often I feel like I must chase everything, from the perfect moment to the opportunity that will unlock a dream. There is so much merit in this, don’t mistake me, but aligned with this is remembering to be still, doing the normal and routine, and letting that something new find us.

I think about sipping a glass of white while watching a random movie that gets me dreaming again. I think about walking into a pub where the rugged brown beams, musty smell and gentle hum of punters offers the perfect snug away from the bashing outside rain. I think about looking out of the window before settling into bed to see the moon looking bright and big, seemingly just for me. The perfect goodnight. I think about the holiday I took with a best friend, where little and hilarious things happened which have and will always make only us laugh; a thread that will forever weave through our friendship. I think about standing in front of Charles River at some late hour looking at the Boston skyline, my earphones playing a song which reignites that something in me again. I think about putting out the washing or sitting on the loo and an idea comes which later blooms into something so much more. I think about walking the busy path beside the peaceful lake with a friend, the surroundings informing our words and helping shape another new memory. I think about reading a book which makes two hours feel like twenty-minutes. It is that good. I think about the gift of chocolate that provides the perfect antidote for a blah day. I think about sitting with friends around the campfire on the beach, sharing stories old and new. I think about the Indian takeaway I had with a bunch of people I never met, one of whom I quickly discovered shared my taste of comedy. The nerves fled and I was suddenly lost in an exchange of Karl Pilkington musings. Our friendship never looked back.

It is funny looking back on these moments, because I didn’t go into them expecting something special to happen, or at least what I expected to happen, but something does; conversations, work, decisions, circumstances and God conspiring towards something good and surprising. I go to the loo out of necessity – and what a nuisance it often is! – and yet I do not go in expecting to later rush out so I can jot down a new thought or idea before forgetting it. But that happens. Conversely, I look around town searching for a perfect spot to sip coffee and read, and yet so often I cannot and it stresses me out. Paradoxically, the moment often finds us when we have stilled our striving. I guess if we could replicate all our best experiences and most significant breakthroughs, and have the ability to manipulate every moment to our idea of perfection, the moments would cease to be special. Like the best of gifts, it is oftentimes their rarity and unexpectedness that causes us to leap. And so we treasure them all the more in our heart. We are all the more thankful for them. We are all the more determined to savour them when their time comes, for we know that when life returns to what is painful and hard and wearisome we will be so glad that we did. No regrets. And through all this, it stops me from getting too satisfied and too comfortable in this world. The good moments of life are often fleeting. Here today, gone tomorrow. This is not home. Home lays beyond the years I walk earth’s fragile ground. It is where I will discover and hold the moment of all moments, where my heart will never cease from leaping. I can’t wait!

And so with this in mind, do chase, do knock, do push, do craft and do graft. But do also leave room for the unexpected and unaware, because sometimes the best moments and biggest breakthroughs will come once your shift is done for the day and it is time for that something new to find you.

Do You Ever Wonder...

Do you ever wonder how many photographs have been taken that included you without your knowledge? Maybe one ended up on an Instagram feed, or perhaps in an advertisement or newspaper or a friend’s official wedding photo collection? I don’t mean in a creepy or dodgy way. Just photographs we happened to be in or were taken for some artistic merit. I’ve been thinking about this having read a few pieces from The Guardian’s fascinating ‘That’s me in the picture’ section. It’s a question I like to ponder because we will never fully know. But more than that I like to think it speaks of a bigger, more significant, reality. How many times have we turned up in another person’s life in a way unbeknown to us? To us we’ve simply been going about our 9-5, when in fact somewhere along the way we’ve said or done or given something that’s prompted them to get their camera out. A moment to frame and put on the mantelpiece of their life. In a world where information and knowledge about almost everything and anything lays at the click of a button, it’s nice to have a few unknowns, such as these, that pave the way to imagination and mystery and romance…

“Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” – Hebrews 13:1-2

Timely Words

Sometimes the words we need to hear come from the most unexpected places. I had just arrived to work and was heading into my office. Just outside, high up on some scaffolding, was Ray, a delightful, salt-of-the-earth chap who was doing some maintenance work on the building. I first met Ray the previous week in the toilet, immediately hitting it off after he made a comment about “feeling lighter” as he exited a cubicle. And so with my head raised we exchanged good mornings before he began talking — or rather shouting given his high vantage point — about the need to take breaks, particularly in roles that require sitting in front of computer all day. I concurred. And then he made a remark that hit me square on. To this day I am not sure what prompted it because it didn’t quite fit the context of our conversation — or if it did I, still waking from my early morning slumber, missed it. But anyway his words were: “Don’t beat yourself up too much.” Little did he know that I had been doing exactly that on the long 40-minute drive to work. The comment stayed with me all day, a tender and graceful refrain to the barrage of unwanted thoughts and recollections that were threatening to overwhelm me. So for toilet chats and timely words — and my new friend Ray — thank you God.

The Man in the Bookstore

Ah, how pleasant it is to lazily explore the streets and shops and sights of a new place without the demands of time and work. On one July morning I took to Lisbon’s streets. Having filled up with a splendid cup of coffee (for a mere €1), I popped into a shop offering a substantial collection of Ports (I’m no Port fan but I had gift-buying duties to fulfil). I exited and continued along the street. There was little to excite until I arrived at the entrance to what appeared to be a small bookstore, inside of which sat a large desk piled high with books. Normal enough for a bookstore, though in this case the desk, with a man behind it beavering away doing something or other, also looked to be where people paid for books. Plenty of books on offer, it seemed, but minimal space to put them all. It was a quirky-looking scene that, to my mind, brimmed with character, busyness, history, life. I couldn’t help but enjoy it. The books were all stories in their own right, but it was the story that informed this setting that caught my wondering imagination. I wanted to stop, take it in, grab a picture. But it felt weird to do that. I could have done the more sensible thing of walking in for a browse but I didn’t. I am not entirely sure why not. I think it may have something to do with wanting to keep the scene shrouded in some kind of mystery. So I walked on. It even feels weird to be writing about such an uneventful happening. You will have probably switched off by now. And yet in ways I cannot adequately put into words, it inspired something. It’s lovely to see what comes into focus when we let our eyes roam. And even more lovely is the multitude of different impressions such sights can unexpectedly leave on us.

A Thought On Prayer By George MacDonald

What a treat it is to happen across some hearty words first thing in the morning. Like a sumptuous breakfast (but better) they can help bounce us out of any early morning blues and into the day’s adventures. Yesterday morning I came across a terrific few lines on prayer by George MacDonald. Here they are for anyone else looking for a spring in their step this summer Saturday morning…

“‘But if God is so good as you represent Him, and if He knows all that we need, and better far than we do ourselves, why should it be necessary to ask Him for anything?’ I answer, What if He knows Prayer to be the one thing we need first and most? What if the main object in God’s idea of prayer be the supplying of our great, our endless need — the need of Himself? … Hunger may drive the runaway child home, and he may or may not be fed at once, but he needs his mother more than his dinner. Communion with God is the one need of the soul beyond all other need: prayer is the beginning of that communion, and some need is the motive of that prayer … So begins a communion, a taking with God, a coming-to-one with Him, which is the sole end of prayer, yea, of existence itself in its infinite phases. We must ask that we may receive: but that we should receive what we ask in respect of our lower needs, is not God’s end in making us pray, for He could give us everything without that: to bring His child to his knee, God withholds that man may ask.”

Encore

It was a late autumn day and I was in Oxford with my parents. We had just enjoyed a sumptuous late lunch at the cosy The Eagle and Child – the public house famed for hosting the The Inklings literary group – and were walking through the city’s busy streets back to the car. En-route we passed the deceptively large Blackwells Bookshop (the store is a lot bigger than its exterior suggests). It was a bitterly cold day, so the offer of a warm haven to browse an endless supply of books was a welcome one for us all. We quietly ventured in and were immediately greeted by a selection of books on The Inklings. How apt. Following a brief browse, we headed downstairs to the theology/Church section, host to a vast array of books. Whilst giggling through the section’s more light-hearted titles (there is a lot of mileage in church humour!), I noticed my Mum secretively asking my Dad to look at a book she had spotted. It didn’t take me long to work out her game. She was in the CS Lewis section (my favourite writer) and Christmas was near. My Dad returned to me a few minutes later, likely to “distract” me, whilst my Mum made straight for the til, mysterious book in hand.

Christmas Day arrives. Amongst the sea of wrapped gifts is one that is clearly a book. And a very thick one at that. I excitedly unwrap to find a volume consisting of five titles written by CS Lewis, all of which I have not read. Good job, Mum. Included in the esteemed collection is Prayer: Letters to Malcolm, the last book Lewis wrote and the one I had been itching to read for months. I immediately got to work on it and within a month of Christmas I was done. As its title implies, the publication brings together a set of letters penned by Lewis to his imaginary friend, Malcolm, on the discipline of prayer. It is a wonderfully creative way of discussing the subject, here serving to bring out a delightful mixture of theory, practice and affectionate wit, not to mention the odd rant. It brims with personality.

In one letter, Lewis describes his “festoonings” of the Lord’s Prayer, or what he also calls “the private overtones I give to certain petitions.” I found the below excerpt particularly helpful:

“But now, more than that, I am at this moment contemplating a new festoon. Tell me if you think it a vain subtlety. I am beginning to feel that we need a preliminary act of submission not only towards possible future afflictions but also towards possible future blessings. I know it sounds fantastic; but think it over. It seems to me that we often, almost sulkily, reject the good that God offers us because, at that moment, we expected some other good. Do you know what I mean? On every level of our life — in our religious experience, in our gastronomic, erotic, aesthetic, and social experience — we are always harking back to some occasion which seemed to us to reach perfection, setting that up as a norm, and depreciating all others by comparison. But these other occasions, I now suspect, are often full of their own new blessing, if only we would lay ourselves open to it. God shows us a new facet of glory, and we refuse to look at it because we’re still looking for the old one. And of course we don’t get that. You can’t, at the twentieth reading, get again the experience of reading Lycidas for the first time. But what you do get can be in its own way as good.

“This applies especially to the devotional life. Many religious people lament that the first fervours of their conversion have died away. They think — sometimes rightly, but not, I believe, always — that their sins account for this. They may even try by pitiful efforts of will to revive what now seem to have been the golden days. But were those fervours — the operative word is those — ever intended to last?

“It would be rash to say that there is any prayer which God never grants. But the strongest candidate is the prayer we might express in the single word encore. And how should the Infinite repeat Himself? All space and time are too little for Him to utter Himself in them once. 

“And the joke, or tragedy, of it all is that these golden moments in the past, which are so tormenting if we erect them into a norm, are entirely nourishing, wholesome, and enchanting if we are content to accept them for what they are, for memories. Properly bedded down in a past which we do not miserably try to conjure back, they will send up exquisite growths. Leave the bulbs alone, and the new flowers will come up. Grub them up and hope, by fondling and sniffing, to get last year’s blooms, and you will get nothing. ‘Unless a seed die…'”

There are moments in books that so captures my imagination and heart, and so resonates with some part of my life, that I read the words at a quicker pace than normal, purely because I am so eager to reach their conclusion. I then read it again, carefully taking each word in light of what I know is coming. Reading the words above was one of those moments, for a variety of reasons. It struck a welcome chord that is still playing as I write.

Monday's Fresh Air

The glorious open road. Trees stand tall either side, the morning sun illuminating their fragile yet magnificent autumnal shades of brown, yellow, green and red. Beyond them spreads green blankets of grass, separated only by narrow lanes. Like the gentlest of rollercoasters, the road I travel on sweeps up and down, left and right, with every rise and turn giving rise to eager anticipation as to what will come next. It never disappoints. I feel like a child excitedly gazing out of the back window of the car, nose touching the window, as they approach their home for the Christmas holidays.

My pace slows at the sign for 30 mph and gradually the sea of trees and grass paves way to stone-built terraced houses, small fields of play and local shops where every customer is greeted by name. The roads are tight and cars regularly line one side of the road. Normally giving way to oncoming traffic is cause for mild irritation; not so here with the opportunity it offers to further survey the quaint surroundings. Soon I arrive in village centre territory, where shops are more common and car parks take on all manner of shape and size. There are no regular car parks here, that I can see.

I quickly realise that I should have researched the car-park situation prior to leaving, to save on stress and maybe a £1 or two. I expect said stress to emerge, but it does not. It must be this place; calm and unhurried. I soon find a cute (and free, I think) spot in front of a set of terraced houses which, quite frankly, I would really like to live in. I picture Christmas mornings and Sunday mornings and summer evenings and snowy nights. Oh, to dream. I vacate my car and walk towards an open space, triangular in shape it seems. I pass a newsagent, where an older chap with a broad smile stands outside in conversation with someone inside. They seem to know each other well.

'Good morning!'he enthusiastically offers in my direction.

'Morning!' I offer back.

That's nice, I think.

I walk on and past a chap sanding the wooden frame of his front window. I anticipate what will happen next.

'Morning!' 

I chuckle inwardly and return the greeting.

I continue my slow walk. Across the road on a bench sits a lady wearing a radiant and contented smile. I come across a coffee shop and, unsurprisingly, peek through its broad windows. Inside looks beautifully rugged and inviting. I promptly enter. Wooden chairs and tables of varying design, colour and size sit uncluttered. A brick wall divides the space, with a large family-size table on the other side. Beyond the table is a fireplace. Music quietly plays in the background and people sit sparsely on its tables. Two ladies sit opposite each other at the far end of the shop, a dog quietly resting in front of them, and to my right on the large table two girls chat. Elsewhere, a couple of chaps sit separately - one next to the window and the other immediately to my left - both drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. I regularly look out of the window as people and car and lorry and cyclist stream by. Amongst the pleasant flow is the lady from the bench - her smile still beaming as she wanders by.

Departing the coffee shop, the adventure continued: a Geordie couple with pugs called Bella and Phoebe, the pub with its ticking clock and cosy snug, a fisherman, the lock where boats rise to greater heights.

It is all so mesmerising and all so new. The roads, trees, hills, tractors, people, cyclists and shops have no doubt been here years. To many, these sights are as regular as the rising sun. But today, their familiar is my unchartered territory. And on this day, I am so grateful to God. Last night, as the weekend closed, I was feeling low. Circumstances were weighing me down and the upcoming week had a familiar look to it which slowed motivation. Laying awake in bed I was determined to do something about it, so I resolved to venture out in the morning to new surroundings.

True to form, I woke-up and the good idea before bed had become an annoying idea when eating a bowl of cereal. I pushed through, though, and I now sit writing these words. As the autumn night begins to settle in once again outside my window, my mood does not follow; the sun is still shining and the upcoming week looks more hopeful. I breathed in new air today and it has done the world of good.

I recently read an article outlining ten ways to find inspiration in your writing. One suggestion was to change your habits, while another was to make time for a walk or run. There is a wider application here. Our days can get weary, painful and familiar. Will the trip to a nearby village, a resolution to run on Tuesday mornings, a different route walking the dog, registering for the weekly book club or a new spot to eat lunch or pray make everything all rosie again? Probably not. But if we let our imagination dance a little and do something different to break free from routine and normal, then the eyes that have dimmed will expand again - even if slightly - at new sounds, new sights, new smells and new people.

Where is fresh air waiting for you today? Go get it. It may just do you the world of good.

The Artist Plays And The People Gather

The delicate and melodic sounds could be heard as I ventured past Bath Abbey and towards the small square where the busker sat. The music was ushering me in. Entering the square, it was clear not only my ears had been drawn in. On the benches that bordered the square, within which the busker played, people sat and soaked in the soothing sounds that filled the afternoon air. Others sat against the walls of the Abbey; others simply walking, going from a to b, some of whom their pace reduced to a ponder by the gentle interruption of the music.

For a minute or five or thirty, the sounds from this gifted and sensitive artist captured the hearts and minds of shopper, tourist, worker and wanderer alike: stilling rushed minds; accompanying lunchtime reading; occupying observing eyes; serving conversation.

The artist plays and the people gather.

I raised a contented smile as the timeless sound of a certain short but very sweet song began to filter from the centre of the square: 'Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world.' Moments like this truly are wonderful. Little wonder the people gather.

It made me think of God.

Orchestrator of evening's rest and morning's fresh hope. Painter of far-away planets and galaxies. Creator of each magnificent star. Separator of the water's deep and the sky's expanse. Designer of hill and flower and rock and desert. Composer of life that crawls and swims and flys and runs. Handmade and thoughtful author of every man and woman. Originator of sound and colour. Begetter of Jesus — the embodiment of perfect love and amazing grace — through whom beauty rises from the ashes and life to its fullest from death. Intricately, magnificently and personally, the Artist works radical and undeserving grace into the fragility, hiddeness and depth of a beloved people. 'Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.'

The Artist plays and the people gather.

To receive, to learn, to know, to adore, to praise, to give, to serve, to bow, to be with - for this and more, the people gather. Oftentimes at Bath Abbey, the fitting backdrop for my meandering thoughts, where a nearby sign declares: 'Where Heaven and Earth Meet.' The Artist does not need a grand building to play and bring heaven to earth - in fact, the Artist plays most excellently in the dust and dirt of our lives - but it does provide a good place to gather. The Artist is playing all around us and people all over the world are gathering. They cannot but gather. If more would tune their ear to hear that most pleasing, unrivalled and lovely of sounds, then like a conglomerate of tourist, shopper, worker and wanderer naturally forming around the artistic skill and heart of a Bath busker, many others could not but gather. The Artist is that good.

On a wooden bench, walking the square or sat up against the Abbey walls, there is room for us all.