Christmas is a construct
We've been listening to lies
There's no reindeer in the stable
Santa wasn't any Magi

Jesus got no Christmas stocking
He had nothing to unwrap
The Kings, they turned up later
And that manger was cold and damp

Christmas is a construct
There was no snowy frost
Joseph wasn't draping tinsel
He wasn't rushing up the shops

And Jesus wasn't quiet
He kept them all awake
Like any other baby
He didn't sleep til daybreak

There were no holly berries
No mistletoe or ivy
No pine tree in the corner
At that first nativity

But that sudden choir of angels.
The promised ****** birth
Yes, all that really happened
God did send peace on earth

There's much we have constructed
Even more that we've left out
But Christ remains in Christmas
That's what it's all about

God coming as a child
God reaching down with favour
God with us. Yes: Immanuel
Our promised Christmas Saviour.

It only takes a small cut
  It only takes a soft word
in the right spot
  in the right ear
to sink deep
  to sink in
and scar for good.
  and bring healing.

Not joy in a bottle, but Joy in a manger.
Not tied with a bow, but wrapped a lot tighter.

Not dependant on snow, the turkey or gifts.
But Joy that out-lasts the toys and the myths.

Not under a tree or mistletoe sprig.
But Joy that stays longer and seeps down deep.

Not dependent on feeling or temporary cheer.
But Joy from a Saviour who will always stay near.

He's the Joy who outlasts.  
Joy who gifts meaning.
Joy gifted from Heaven.  
The true Joy of the season.

Before Christmas
there was Christ.

Before the sleigh.
Before the conifers.
Before candles.
Before the paper decor.
Before Christmas became
about lesser gifts.
Before basted turkeys
and Santa myths.
There was Christ.

Before he became the suffix
to the festive.
Before he became less Christ
and more Chris.
Before we suppressed his divinity
and took away his dignity.
Before we replaced him
with a capital merry Me.
There was Christ.

Before Christmas, Christ gifted himself
and took the part that was key
to making a mercy path back
(by way of a much starker tree)
to His eternal city.
Where the crowns aren’t paper.
Where the feast lasts longer.
Where Christ is rightfully King.
That’s where the true party will begin.

Lord of life,
Lord of breeze, of warmth and softest light
Lord of song and answered cries
Lord of long days and sleepless nights

Lord of rest
Lord of this sacred space to reflect
Lord of this gifted stillness
I confess you caught my breath

Lord of promise
Lord who gifted this anointed child
Lord of mercy, of goodness
I weep in the sheen of this just-fed smile

I breathe a quiet celebration (lest they waken)
and marvel at this wondrous sight
I wonder at this crowning moment
and whisper thanks for this new life

I pledge my life to raise my child
to teach the wonders of your kingdom
I surrender now, done and done
and pray they grow in strength and wisdom

I thank you, Lord, for this new life
and wonder again in mid-elation
how Mary contained her cradled delight
while swaddling the first-born of your new creation

Not too rushed
Timed to perfection
Esmee defies
accepted convention

Highly acclaimed
Deeply loved
Esmee embraces
a kiss and hugs

Deeply rooted
Highly adored
Esmee savours
her first long yawn

Her father's reach
Her mother's voice
Esmee combines
warmth and joy

In pride of place
At home at rest
Esmee sleeps
her family blessed

I sympathise
I suffer

I empathise
I feel

I identify
I reflect

Be like Pooh!
Gorge you way through
the gospel til you are full.
Relish its sweetness.
Feast on its goodness.
Let it so stain your lips
that your friends will insist
that your appetite is insatiable,
that you are incapable
of living any life
that is not fully sweetened
by the honey of the gospel.

How relaxed are you with the prospect
of the quiet that heralds her coming?
How comfortable are you
in her subtle company?
How much do you give her time,
make space for her conversation?
How slowed are you in her presence?
How attentive to her movements?
How attuned to her voice?
How empathetic are you
to her wanton sisters:
intuition and instinct and expansion?
If you are wise
you won't refuse them.

How do you like your tea?

I smiled.

Assam strong.
A dash of skinny milk.
And a view across the Thames.

The curse of incuriousity
is accusation
that you lack care,
that you fear answers,
that you seek quiet
in place of truth.

Flee incuriousity,
pursue truth
no matter how well hidden,
how well disguised,
how painful to hold.

Embrace it
and save yourself.

I had a spell in the library.
It wasn’t a long one,
but it’s never the length of the spell that matters.
It’s the work that goes into it.
It’s the focus,
the book work,
the practice.

I had a spell in the library.
It was magic.

I'm a Believer.
A by-faith walker.
One foot placed
in front of the other.
A member of the worldwide
inter-generational ancestral
family of Believers.
Proudly considered
to be God-botherers
on account of us being
persistent in prayer
on all ocassions.

I'm a Believer.
I'm a disciple-maker.
I'm a get-fully-wet baptiser.
I'm a church planter.
I'm an "in spirit and in truth"
God-of-Jacob worshiper.
A not bow to caesar.
A faith keeper.
A some-might-call-me dreamer.
A vision se-er.

A full-armour take-a-stand-er.
A full alert perseverer.
A last to leave-er
when things get tougher.
An endure-er of oppressors.
A refuser to fear.
A hunger-er and thirster.
A kingdom builder.

I'm a Believer.
A seeker of truth.
A keeper of peace.
I'm with my brothers and sisters,
followers of Jesus,
who for the joy set before him
pioneered blood, sweat and tears
with a faithful to the very end
belief in the Father,
raised full of life, and ascended,
to be our heavenly interceder.

I'm a blessed Believer
in Jesus, our Messiah.,
He is my Lord and Saviour.
Amen.

What did Jesus do?
He asked questions,
expecting answers
(and questions).
He was not expecting
to end the conversation.

don’t look at me like I don’t belong,
like me and my kind arn’t welcome
I’m no immigrant, I’m Kingdom-born
with equal grace-rights, a citizen

I've got God’s eternal leave to remain
so it don’t matter where I’m from
I’m access all areas, V-I-P,
unaffected by any referendum

you and me, we’re blood family
and He’s declared we’re all welcome

I have several names.

My first was the name
my mother wielded,
but she later conceded
I had an earlier name,
a longer name
that my father gave me,
a name borrowed
from the long dead,
the name authorities
would know me by.

And later, you adorned me
with shorter, snappier names -
names loaded with love
names that could be sung
and in which I took comfort
and pride.

When as a student I arrived,
wheeling cases through customs,
I saw the linguistic gymnastics
reflected in their eyes
but I kept silent and smiled,
lest they felt they fell short
lest they sensed that I found fault
in their command
of each element of my name.

But the truth is I hold
my true names elsewhere,
in my place of song and friendships
far from these shores.

I have several names
and accumulate more each year
as I spare acquaintances
the shame of verbal stumbles.

I have several names,
but I know who I am
with you.

Obstacles are inspirations
Hurdles are made for jumping
Walls are built to climb
There's no need for hesitation

#noexcuses

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that there’s a path just beneath the current uncertainty.

My faith is a step, a one step at a time
not much of a leap, but me taking his hand with mine.
My faith is a day-by-day holding,
a minute-by-minute treading
of my boot in his footmarks left for me as a blessing.

My faith is choice that needs repeated repeating,
a daily seating at his feet,
it's not a fleeting feeling,
it’s a morning and evening both-knees kneeing.

My faith is a decision and decisions were made
to be made,
so pray,
take him at his word and take the next step,
but don’t be surprised if it involves you getting both feet wet.
Cos that is where you’ll find Jesus
at the point you find yourself out of your depth.

My faith is the certainty that gives me clarity to see
that whatever my path,
my God has gone before me.

I am more than
the traces I rub against,
the dust I've gathered,
the crumbs in my pockets,
the mud on my shoes,
the dirt under my nails,
the gritty sleep in my eyes,
the deep wax in my ears,
the grease in my hair,
the bruises I carry,
the scars I bear.

I am almost the songs I sing.

I want to express my indefinite joy
that you've settled indefinitely.
Joy that needs no further permission.
Joy that carries no expiration. 

You and yours are definitely loved.
You and yours are definitely valued. 
And you are all definitely welcome. 
Indefinitely.

You can't heal under a mask
Wounds need air
So do secrets
Both are hard to hide

The dead are still wriggling.

I thought I'd stamped hard enough
Twisted my heel long enough
Been vicious enough
To render their meddling
Null in their void
Enough to create them sterile
In their bequest
To bestow a double portion
Of pain.

I thought they were dead
And gone.
I was wrong.

everything I ever did
all that I ever wanted
everything I still regret
- all this my song lamented

everything I can become
all that my future holds
everything that lies ahead
- all this my God unfolds

I see Beauty
Brighter when clouded,
Bolder when challenged,
Brilliant when questioned.
I see Beauty
Burnished by affliction
Blossomed with age.
I see Beauty
In you.

The boys are all about the cheeses,
the platter, the crackers.
The girls are all about double cream.
The thicker the better.

The boys select the cheeses
that are bluer and smellier.
The girls stick with tiramisu
with a coffee chaser.

It makes no difference to the bill
which each year gets pricier.
They add a charge for the ambiance,
no matter what we order.

I'll brush my teeth before I die.
I'll shave and shower
and empty my bowels.
I'll put on a pair of my comfy underpants,
select the good socks,
slip my feet into my birkenstocks
and wrap myself in my father's heavy dressing gown.
That will be enough for my Maker.
And for the poor sod
who finds me in my arm chair.

But I'll be sure to leave
my bath towel on the floor.

I can't speak for the others.
I can only reflect on my own thoughts and the heat of my own discomfort.
I can't speak for the African woman who wept beside her oversized suitcases on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, I can only consider her tears and what they did to my own heartache.
I didn't speak, but I reached over after several minutes of communal silence and placed a man-sized tissue (clean and unused) on her lap.
Before I was back in my seat, she had taken it and covered her face in her grief and the tears came again.
The grandmother across from me got up next and placed a red stripped mint in a twist of cellophane on the woman's skirt.
The dad who stood in the doorway, like he was dressed for the beach, followed, leaving an offering of a capri-sun.
The child in the buggy looked up at his mother and she smiled encouragement to him as he offered his Spider-Man, pressing it to the woman's hand.
And as she unveiled her face and saw the offerings, she laughed, brief and wet, but with a smile that stayed. She hugged Spider-Man, nodded and then with a mother's sensibility to a child's needs, handed it back with thanks.
After a moment she found my eyes, and mimed a request for a fresh tissue and then in the silence she settled for her journey as we all looked away, dutifully silent.

a hug is a huge thing
a something that can envelop
can cause me to well up
can burst through my well built up defences
and knock down fences
that have stood the test
of time-honoured conventions
that respected my distance
and even admired my stiff upper prevention
of anything like a display of affection

a hug is a long held committing
a massive undertaking
that leaves a long-lasting indentation of serious loving.

A hug is a huge thing.
We need a hug.

The testimony of grey hair
supported by statements
from notable strands
on both earlobes
and more hair on my face
than on my head
are proof enough
that with great age
comes great capillaries

Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros
Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S
But I can point to a surer way
to ensure you’re dressed for success

No matter how long you’ve spent
Adjusting your silks and laces
No matter how hard it was
to talk him out of his lairy braces

Whether you selected a Windsor knot
Or your favourite velvet bow tie
[A bold choice, Toby.]
I can share some well-worn wisdom
By which you should always abide

I know a dress code tested by time
Simple words to which we should hold
Simple but essential for all of us here
So let’s check we’re all properly clothed

Next time you’re walking down the red carpet
And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’
There's no need to look for the neckline label
Don’t waste your time with checking

Every day you both put on Christ
You kit yourselves out with the King
Knowing this is all that you’ll need
For whatever the day will bring

But like royal robes or battle armour
His garments come in layers
Put them on in careful sequence
Buttoned up with tailored prayers

You begin with feather-lite Compassion
Laced with silken Kindness
It’s followed by soft Humility
A garment that’s forever timeless

You add to this tough Gentleness
That’s core to the Saviour’s style
With a lining of weighty Patience
So you can each stay versatile

You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed
With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness
You set the dial high enough
To remove past creases of grievance

Now, some might think this will be enough
That that is ample fussing
But there’s one remaining layer
That you know isn’t worth you rushing

Over each of these rich garments
to keep them all in place
you put on the strong bond of Love
like a long full-body embrace

Then whatever the weather or season
on each and every occasion
You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing
You’ll never need alterations
*
You may have heard it said
And with Thanks we can affirm
Some fashions do remain timeless
And this one's designed for long term

I let Fast Fashion pass me by
I choose a slower way
I watch the needle drop right down
And I while away the day

I choose the Slowest Fashion
The one grandmother wore
I now knit at the slowest pace
With no desire for more

I knit and purl to my content
This is my path to peace
But don't ask me to knit for you
This one is for my niece

Is the nose ring new I wondered
as we hugged and exchanged a kiss
Surely I would have noticed
If she’d had a nostril pierced

Has she had her hair re-tinted
Is that something I’d have missed
I’m sure I would have noticed
if she’d had a nostril pierced

I'm drinking in her smile and laughter
There’s little better than this
I know I would have noticed
If she’d had a nostril pierced

Could I check a recent photo
When she dips a salty chip
Ha! I knew I would have noticed
If she’s had a nostril pierced

“Love the new ring, darling.”

"It's been 14 years now, dad
Since I had my nose first pierced.
You really would have noticed
It's not something you could have missed."

Sunshine on an autumn day, then wet and windy
The smiles of a new born babe, and the clock strikes three
The comfort of fresh baked bread,  but fresh out of cheese
Melodies holding beauty, until tambourines

Is nothing sacred?
Is nothing enthralling?
Is nothing worth sacrifice?
Is nothing worth fighting for?

I clench my battered fists
I shift the weight of sword and shield
I feel the press of brothers in arms
I cheer in chorus
I know the answer
It has always been, 'Yes!'

I left my other soul
in my late marriage
I'll be more careful with this one

I keep my spare soul
safe with my neighbour
in case I lose this one

My old soul has worn thin
letting in the cold
but also the sun

My first soul was reliably robust
This new one feels more fragile
and needs holding with care

My soul and I buried our differences
We now spend time focused
on what we have in common

Do not rise gently into the dawning light.
Young bones should relish the pause before break of day.
Let your teenage bones embrace what remains of the night.
Rage, rage against the alarm of light.

Find what you love
Live it, hold it like a long note
Behold it like still-wet art
and it becomes beauty to you.
It becomes magical.
Like family.

Decision to leave
Permission to enter
Right to remain
Hope for peace

I practice the art of receiving art
Not grasping it , not seeking to utilise it
Rather relax-sitting, receiving it
Recognising God's gifting of it
But happy to let it rest
where I can better meet it,
just beyond my practiced insight.

Learn from our Mother Tongues
Dance to our Sister Tongues
Laugh with our Daughter Tongues
and look to our yet-to-comes

After a while they tell us.
We're being held at a signal.
But being held doesn’t feel like this.
When I'm held
I feel warmth.
I feel connection.

Here I feel placed on hold.
I feel a coldness, distance.

I'll wait for a fresh signal.

Love is a loaner armchair
Low enough to relax me
Built to embrace me
With arms that support me
While I return to my book
And sup hot tea

The cycle breaks us
unless we break the cycle.
After each turn,
each tumble
we'll see the markers
for an exit.
It'll be our choice
whether to take it.
It'll be our choice
whether to chance
another circuit.
But never doubt
it's our turn to pick.

Seeds or Stones -
whatever you hold,
lay them down.
Let your hands unfold.

Once in a while take a rest
from pursuing well-being
and practice your ill-being,
a time for holding your heart
in its sadness.

Then, when next grief springs up from the darkness,
you may be better equipped to bear the weight
and to use the now more familiar tools to shape,
to form your pain into something that includes a hand hold.

You will then have something that maybe slows the unfolding,
the unravelling that would come with uncontrolled mourning,
something that allows you to carry it with less stagger
as you walk through your trauma, and, while you're no less sadder,
you may have greater access to that part of your heart,
that side of your grey matter that allows more focus
on where, in time, to lay that burden down.

After a while of enjoying
the greens of the trees
and the mottled breeze,
I let the view sink in
then fade into the long view,

After my heart settles,
that's when I focus on the sapling,
stark in its youth.
I wonder about the speckled leaves
and the cracked bark,
then I follow the flow of the branches,
taking each in turn,
eying each branching to each tip.

It's then that I realise
there's one branch
that holds onto 2 severed,
lesser limbs.  

They look like they are attached,
part of the whole,
but the truth is they are detached,
precarious perhaps,
but enjoying wider movement,  
a greater degree of freedom.

Should I release them?
Should I lay them down to rest?
Or root for the deceit?
Leave them holding on
for as long as they can?

Then the breeze rises
into a gust,
and the choice is taken away.  

That's when I find myself weeping.

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
the 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,
sprouting 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.