Mountain Huts and the Slipperiness of Joy

At the time I couldn't work out what to write about climbing Mount Mulanje. It felt like something profound and beautiful had occurred, something worth writing about, but I wasn't really sure what it was. I realised today [last Friday] that I knew what it was all along - it just didn't seem 'deep' enough to write about.

It was this: sitting around in sleeping bags on a wooden porch, drinking sugarless tea and eating plain rice out of a big pot, exhausted and excited, with friends.It was the feeling of walking a long, hard day together, and then sitting down together to breathe, and be tired together, and laugh, and listen to arty acoustic music off someone's ipod. There is honestly no more beautiful thing than to be able to relax with people you love.

But here's the thing - I'd been trying to relax with people I love for years - a hundred days and nights and a hundred different parties. But rarely, maybe never, has it felt like those evenings in the mountain huts. And I reckon it's because that experience - the real peace of friendship - is one of those frustrating slippery things that disappears when we look for it, but seems to turn up unexpectedly when we're concentrating on something else. At parties, or going out, I've always been so intent on having a good time that something inside me is tense. I'm so keen to enjoy my friend's company that I can't just be with them and love it for what it is.

But on the mountain, it was different. We were there to climb a mountain. And it had been a hard and beautiful day and tomorrow was going to be harder and more beautiful, but in between there was this incredible, wild-flower growth of gentle, unshakeable, love. We were truly comfortable in each other's company. We could talk about nothing at all or the meaning of the whole universe and in a way in made no difference. Because whether we were spooning for warmth or shivering outside with someone having a fag, we were together. And it was good.

And the happy ending is that I found this again recently. The other week I was helping to run a kids' camp thing with some mates from various churches all over the country (cool, non-posh bits like Wigan and Sunderland). And it was properly exhausting. But the snatched moments, after the kids had gone to bed, or in the kitchen, or when we were really supposed to be working - the stumbled upon minutes of delightful togetherness - were just beautiful. I love those people, and I love them so much better because we have done good, hard work together year after year. I trust them. I enjoy them. I laugh at them. It's friendship how I reckon it was built to be, and it's epic.

Five shiny things I've stumbled upon...

I had a read through my old notebook from Malawi today (I still haven't finished, there are two big notebooks and I've read about five sevenths of one). But as I was reading I came across some bits that I really liked, and I don't think I've blogged previously! So I thought I'd give you a little highlights package - apologies if any of this makes no sense out of context to anyone other than myself.

Number One.
I’m watching Michael play catch with the kids. And it’s a beautiful thing to behold. The delight in these kids faces just to get a throw to them from “SIR!” (or “SALA!” for the younger ones) is just awesome. The joy is infectious, and Michael is messing around doing stupid dances and throwing dummies, and it makes me think of what heaven is going to be like. The best Father ever playing with his kids. And I like that thought a lot. Because on that day, I’ll get to be one of the kids.

Number Two.
How awesome is a sunrise? How glorious are the stars at night?

But what if they were just a picture, a shadow, a pale reflection of a greater glory? What if they were waiting to be replaced by the Star of David, by the Son?

“The sun will no more be your light by day,
nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,
for the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your God will be your glory.”
What if every night of weeping and every day of toil in a too-hot sun melted away at the sight of a greater light? What if darkness and pain finally fled, never to return?

“Your sun will never set again,
and your moon will wane no more;
the LORD will be your everlasting light
and your days of sorrow will end.”

Number Three.
THERE IS NO ONE ON EARTH WHO NEEDS ME.
This is never going to change.
All I ever am or ever can be is a bringer of good news.
A mirror.
A window.
A volcano.
A remember of old songs sung by our great grand-mothers and fathers.
A metaphor.
A likeness.
A child.

Number Four.
“But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect.” 1 Corinthians 15:10. Jesus, it’s a beautiful mystery that your grace is effective. I love that you are so powerful and awesome that even your acceptance brings transformation. Even your forgiveness provokes repentance. That is utterly beautiful. That by loving us as we are, with such intensity and beauty, you transform us. Your grace is not efficient –it does not aim at this effect – but it is effective. What is the aim of grace? Maybe it has no aim, it is more essential than that, more personal. After all, what is the aim of love? It has effects, it has consummations, but no aim. No intention. It just is. Your grace just is, before, and beyond the entirety of the universe. You are the Alpha and the Omega. And like a great, great mass it bends the whole of space-time around itself, so we come closer to you.

Number Five.
Hope changes everything. Does it actually change the things themselves or just how you experience them? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Hope is strong. To live in hope is to go without fear into a future that is not clear. It is to walk forward with arms out and eyes open – anticipating beauty. Hope is not telling your mum and dad what you want for Christmas. Because you know they know you so well and love you so much that if it isn’t what you want it will be better.

To pray in hope is to love God enough to know that he probably has a better idea.
To live in hope is to know that we are characters in a story that we are not writing. But the writer is a good writer, and the story is a good story.

Of course there will be moments of drama, of pain, of struggle, of anguish – but no good story is all happy ending. And the ending is coming, and it is good. It has already been written. It was born in tears and built with scar tissue, but the golden city awaits.

A Dad and a Daughter

I'm supposed to be doing a workshop this week about 'Why do we pray?', and I sat down the other day to try and plan it. What came out of my head however, was a story. I read it to my brother and he said, "You should blog that." So I did. Enjoy.

Once upon a time there was a Dad who loved his daughter. He loved her very much. But she made him very sad indeed. She made him sad, because she never talked to him. When she came home from school he would always be waiting for her, sitting in the kitchen with two cups of tea, one for her, one for him, hoping to hear what had happened that day. But every day she walked in, picked up her tea, and went straight upstairs to her room, or into the living room to watch TV. He would cook dinner each night and sit down with her to eat – and he could see from her face that some days she really liked the food, but she never told him that it was delicious, not once.

And every year when it came to her birthday, he would make the most beautiful gifts for her. Once he spent weeks carving a present for her out of wood, another time he planted a whole garden of flowers just for her. And every year he would give her the gift, and she would take it, and almost always she would play with it, or admire it, or show it to her friends, but she never looked into her father’s eyes and said thank you. Not once. Sometimes he wondered if she even knew that it was him that had given the things to her. Sometimes he wondered if she really knew he was there at all.

One day she burst into the house in floods of tears, make-up smudged all over her face, and her Dad was so upset, he ran out to her to give her a hug, but she just ran up the stairs to her room and slammed the door. Her Dad went slowly upstairs after her, and stood for a long time outside her door, listening to her crying, with tears of his own running down his cheeks. And then he grabbed some paper and wrote a little note:
I’M RIGHT HERE, IF YOU EVER WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
SO MUCH LOVE, DAD
and slid it under the door. And he sat down on the floor outside her room and waited. It got very late, and very dark, and he couldn’t hear her moving or crying anymore and he knew she was asleep, but he kept waiting just in case. Until eventually he fell asleep himself, curled up on the carpet.

But as dawn broke the next morning something new happened. As his daughter woke up, and came out of her room, she noticed him. She saw him lying there on the carpet and wondered why her Dad was lying on the carpet outsider her room. So she bent down and shook his shoulder gently. As he opened his eyes, she asked:
“Dad, why on earth are you sleeping out here?”

And he looked at her, and he smiled the biggest smile he had ever smiled. His heart beat faster and he felt like if he’d had a tail he would of wagged it.

“Dad?”

She looked at him closely and he looked back at her.

“I was waiting for you. I thought you might want to talk.”

As she looked at him she could see that his eyes were red, and his cheeks had that weird wet look that only comes when people have been crying.

“But, you’ve been crying, why were you crying?”

“My daughter, I was crying because you were crying. And because you didn’t want to talk to me about it. You were upset and I didn’t know why and I wanted to help but you didn’t want to talk to me about it. And I could have helped. I could have listened, and I don’t even just mean that I could have actually done something, I could have actually fixed it. But I was crying because you wouldn’t ask me to fix it. I was crying because you wouldn’t ask me anything, because you never want to talk to me about anything. Because I wasn’t sure you even knew who I was. Because I missed you. Because I love you.

And as he spoke she could see that there were new tears running down his face, and she could feel new tears on her face as well.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said, “I never – I didn’t – I didn’t think. I didn’t think there was any reason to talk to you. I knew you were there, I knew you did all those things, all the presents and everything. I knew it, I just didn’t really think there was anything for me to say. You knew I liked them, you could see that. I’m sorry I just didn’t think about it. I never knew... I don’t know. I suppose, I never knew, how much you cared.”

And so, since she had run out of words to say, he hugged him tight. And he hugged her back. And from that day onwards the daughter and her Dad talked about everything. Every day she would come home and sit down with him and tell him all about what she’d been doing, and how she was feeling. And then she would listen as he told her stories of his own life, and gave her advice and wisdom. And some days he would share her happiness, and some days he would share her sadness, but every day they would be together. And every night at dinner she would look him in the eye and tell him just how great the food was, and what bits were her favourite, and every day – especially her birthday – she would say thank you for all the things that he did. And her Dad loved her very much. And it made him very happy indeed.

I'm not in Malawi anymore.

I’m not in Malawi anymore. But I am in my grandparents’ back garden. And it is, much to my surprise, beautiful. The sun glitters on the dew, and the birds dance in the still, blue-white English sky. There’s a mossy stone sun dial, a lopsided bird-feeder, a huge great apple tree heavy with fruit. And yeah, maybe I can’t give God all the credit for this place like I could for Mulanje plateau, or the lake, or the rolling bush, but then again maybe I can. Because God created birds, and flowers, and the kiss of dew, and apples, but then, even better, he created my Grandpa – and he created him with the imagination and dedication and patience and creativity and skill to grow this garden. And isn’t it the mark of the greatest genius to be able to inspire brilliance in others?

This has, actually, been a big part of what it’s been like to come back for me. I’d love to write you a blog about how horrendously materialistic and wasteful and lonely the western world is – and if I thought about it I could probably generate quite a bit of material – but that hasn’t been what I’ve noticed coming back. I haven’t had time to notice it, I’ve been too busy spending time with wonderful, wonderful people. People are awesome. They’re funny, and loveable, and loving, and they do nice things and say interesting things and do stupid things. And sometimes, just sometimes, they understand. They take a beautiful moment and they dance in it with you. I’m getting pretentious now but I’m just trying to express the incredible privilege we have in other people. And when people ask me what the best thing about Malawi was, it turns out the answer is “the people I got to love”.*So now in just the same way I discover the best thing about being home is not any of the stuff I had been so eagerly awaiting: fresh milk, my awesome shower, bed and no mosquito net, carpets, cars with less than seven people in them, cheese, cheap fruit juice, transport that works... The best thing about being home is loving and being loved by my family and my friends and Rachael. It sounds a bit silly because it’s so simple but it is that simple.

The one challenge that I am struggling with a bit, is not being lonely often enough. At Chimbowe, there was a lot of time where I didn’t really need to do anything, and no one was really around, and I could go and sit on the back step, or walk somewhere, and properly spend time with God. I could sit down and talk to him about how I was doing, and tell him what was hard and how I was messing up, and ask him to help me and ask him to change the world. I could read about Jesus and listen to what he was telling me, I could try to find the challenge, I could ask him to help me help him, I could remember what I was born to do and who I was born to be. I loved that time. Sometimes it was boring and flat because I was tired or distracted or whatever, but other times it was the most beautiful, most profound, most exciting bit of the day. And I haven’t really found the time for the last few weeks, and I miss it. I just wrote in a message to my friend that it feels a bit like when you’ve been with someone all week but you’ve been too busy doing stuff or with other people all the time and not once have you sat down and had a proper chat. And it’s great, you’ve had great times, but you kind of miss your mate. It happened last summer when Rachael came with my family to see Dad’s family in Northern Ireland – we were all together all week and by the end I was really missing Rachael! It’s like that.

Anyway, the last thing to say is this. I’m going to keep writing, and just hope that a few of you want to keep reading. I know I’m not in Africa anymore, but I’m determined to live a life worth blogging about. So, perhaps good bye, but hopefully, au revoir.

 

*That includes Jesus, who I grew to know and love a lot more. And in fact, the best times I had with my friends were whenever they asked me questions about my Best Friend, and I got to share him with them a little bit. Footnote over.