Category Archives: Uncategorized

You Talked Of Soaring

Gently you hatched me from my toughened shell,
Into the nest of your accepting love.
You countered my fear with ‘all will be well’,
And raised my head to see the skies above.
You talked of soaring when I feared the fall
And helped me to dream of my own first flight.
You preened me and my fledgling wings withal,
Tended my darkness with your quenchless light.
Never satisfied til I spread my wings,
You comforted me out on to the edge,
All the time secretly cutting my strings.
O, how silently you fulfilled your pledge
To honour and protect me til I grew;
Then with a jump you showed me how one flew.

Written on Tuesday 10th July 2018, reflecting on what my wife had done for me in preparation for her death.

The Mountain Journey

The Breakthrough by Donna Bolam

You plan the journey and study the maps,
You speak to experts and check your bootstraps,
You pack your bags and predict the weather,
To ensure that you keep it together.

But there’s no preparation like being on the terrain,
Where the wind is erratic and the landscape, inhumane,
The darkness disorientates and knocks you from your route;
Where directions get disrupted and your instincts go mute.

But even this uncertainty can be prepared for,
You can take the diversions as chances to explore.
Inner storms, however, disrupt at deeper levels
Your secure sanctum is inhabited by devils.

I scream my stomach into my mouth
And sting my eyes with salted tears.
The breath I pleaded to give her
Is lost in my throat and suffocates.
The pressure in my skull, a form of comfort,
The searing pain, a distraction from the ceaseless desert inside.
All the platitudes and clichés gives a stab of selfish temptation,
They solicit me to lose myself into the solitary abyss.
“Leave me alone!”
“I can’t give you the words you don’t know how to say!
I don’t have them, so stop silently insinuating I am secreting them!”
“This pain is unique and you will never know!”

Your pain may be particular but never unique,
Share your pain because it’s pain and it makes us all weak.
My child, help is at hand if you have the eyes to look,
My son came to find you when you felt your most forsook.

And my son knows this country well for he has journeyed through.
Made this inner wilderness a home and shares it with you.
He conquered that controlling demon, that herald of death;
He fought him with everything even to his dying breath.

The path may be fearful but you can pass,
There may be darkness but it will not last.
The wind rages, bites but there will be peace.
Here can be a place where your strivings cease.

Written Sunday 8th July 2018 two days after my wife died.

The Taste Of Resurrection

Resurrection by Bonnie Bruno

O, the taste of resurrection
Is surprising in its normality.
It does not impress itself
Upon the senses,
Nor forces itself to the front.
Rather it infuses through all
And permeates the palate
In drawing out the goodness
Of the corruptible ingredients.
It is in the beauty of the usual,
The wonder of the common place.
It shines through the stained glass
Of ordinary and regular.
Like salt, it collaborates with bland,
Supporting them to shine afresh.
In new ways that which was boring
Becomes a delicacy.
Resurrection power exerts itself
Not to overpower but to empower,
To bring life to dullness,
Colour to drab.
It works through other
And refuses to take centre stage alone.
Resurrection is elusive,
For it will not be seen solitary,
Solo or unescorted.
You see it hidden
In the elegance and grace
Of things which we don’t call heaven.
It is comeliness itself.
It is an aspect attached.
If you’re not looking for it
You will not find it,
But once you’ve glimpsed it
You’ll never lose it.

Written whilst in hospital during the final days of my wife’s life on Friday 29th June 2018.

In The Long Watch

In the long watch of that dread, darkened night,
New depths of waiting I unwelcome find.
As uncertainty continues to fight,
It’s caustic mist fogs and makes me blind.
I hold her hand and pray once more,
Conflicting petitions spluttered to God;
Worn tropes I’ve heard a thousand times or more
Crashing together forming phrasings odd.
Expectant well-wishers form a background
Reminding me of my forgotten cue,
But the lines are not so easily found
As, muddled, I venture far out of view.
But here I find new wells to sustain me,
Clandestine beauty for my eyes to see.

Written in the early morning on the day my wife died on Friday 6th July 2018.

A Sonnet For The NHS

The ceaseless tone that tells that meds are done
Calls out to nurses full of love, full-stretched
But quick as lightning sure of foot they run,
Each one on the stately monument etched.
The over worked and under paid clichè
Too soon upon our lips for truth to ring
Too comforting to challenge those who say
That worth can be measured like everything.
These faithful friends from four corners serve us
With tireless strain they wash, comfort and feed
Oft praised, extolled, lauded for their service
Critiqued by others for unproven greed
Still human and mortal, fragile and free;
Shows how powerful their compassion can be.

Written for the 70th anniversary of the NHS whilst I was staying in hospital on Thursday 5th July 2018.

We Walk Through The Wood

Walking Through the Wood by Daphne Poiro

We walk through the wood,
You and I.
Sometimes side by side
Other times, single file.
The overgrowth that lines our path
Often encroach on our fellowship
And force you to follow me,
Or me, you.
The journey is long,
The wood, large.
When night arrives
It is scary
And the end is both near
And far, simultaneously.
But we continue to walk
By a different light;
A light of instinct
And of trust.
A light that glows
Even on the darkest paths.
Yes, we walk through a wood,
You and I
And our gentle Light
And there is no one
I’d rather walk with.

Written whilst in hospital with my wife a week before she died on Friday 29th June 2018.

But If Not…

Help me to pray,
“But if not…”
In my struggles,
Overwrought,
A depth of faith
“In our God…”
Who can deliver us
And our feet, shod
With the gospel
Of his peace:
A trust in him
That will not cease.

Help me to pray,
“But if not…”
When prayers unanswered
Draw my thought
To fear, “O king…”
Of whatever form
And I panic
Within the storm.
Deeply sleeps
My King, my Lord,
In the tumult,
Seems safe aboard.

Help me to pray,
“But if not…”
When I feel
I am forgot.
When my heart
Demands from you
My deep desires
Of what you should do.
You have been
And always will
Be my comfort,
My soul to still.

Help me to pray,
“But if not…”
When all is lost
And hope is shot.
My love for you
Does not depend
On what I see
Or comprehend
Of how you comply
To my fallible will.
So be my comfort
And my soul to still.

Help me to pray,
“But if not…”

Written as I began to transition from praying for healing to preparing for the death of my wife on Wednesday 4th July 2018.

Trust

My heart in the wild by AnneMarie Foley

Trust is waiting without distraction.
Trust is ‘not doing’ with intention.
Trust is an internal pursuit
Without external vision.
Trust is a form of knowing
Through total indecision.
Trust is travelling
Painfully upstream,
Trust is a rupture
Of a profound pipe-dream.
Trust is spiralling down into darkness
Yet perceiving a lifting into lightness.
Trust is watching torment convulse uncontrolled,
Allowing it its death-throws as it takes a stranglehold.
Trust is a weapon, illogical to domination.
Trust is an avoiding of quick-fix adulation.
Trust is the gentle reassurance,
A husband’s comfort through endurance.
Trust is sitting, silent, seeking.
No need for words or speaking.
Trust allows the other to play
Knowing your turn will come one day
And that there’s a time for things.
Trust, in the discord, sings.

Written as I watched my wife struggle to fight an infection on Sunday 1st July 2018.

Gloaming Sucks

Waking in the gloaming
Not knowing whether morning is nigh,
Or night is about enter;
Straining the eyes
For any clue, big or small
Seeing phantoms of signs.
Every movement
A potential indicator of stages to follow
As we wait for increasing darkness
Or light.
Gloaming sucks.
Bring on the night
Or morning.

Written as I watched my wife struggling to fight an infection in hospital during sunset on Friday 29th June 2018.

A Grief Prepared

Written for The Big Bible Project on 28th April 2012.

Her beauty comes from a deep reservoir of wisdom, simplicity and character. Yes she is, in my subjective opinion, what our culture would deem ‘attractive’ (if we pay any attention to such things) but this pales into insignificance at the un-nameable, indescribable and mysterious ‘sparkle’ in her eyes. Oh that I could paint in words the sight of those silvery wells, the blue-ness that is ever changing, swirling and dynamic! Or to describe the sensation of the dissipation of fear, anxiety or concern when you gaze, for one moment, into them.

There’s this peace… yes ‘peace’ is the word… emanating from her always. This is not to say that she is never stressed, panicked, impassioned or whatever the opposite of ‘peace’ is. She possesses an acceptance, a foundation; a belief that shapes her, that directs her actions and her responses to all that life throws at her. She has attained at the tender age of 25 a deep understanding of a narrative, a story, which explains that ‘sparkle’.

My wife has always been ‘broken’, weak in the eyes of the world. With chronic C.F. (cystic fibrosis) she has always had an ‘abnormal’ life of medication, physiotherapy, visits to medical experts, probing, testing. She has always had the curse of death named over her. When she was first born, the hope of surviving past adolescence was small. When she finally reached that age, due to advances in medicine, her hopes of prolonged survival were improved, but with all chronic illnesses, her mortality is never far away.

The ‘curse’ of Death is a powerful one, one that cripples a person from ever attaining fullness of life. It’s a curse that our society is particularly stricken by; our crematoriums are always on the outskirts of populated areas, they are places only visited on the rare occasions when someone we know dies. People rarely witness or engage in the process of dying and death. The burial of a loved one is now paid for financially and delegated to professionals who hide all the difficult and ‘offensive’ parts of death from us. Even before we die we seem to spend our lives staving off the inevitable end. We want to be younger, we hide our difficult aging relatives and we praise those who maintain a ‘younger’ lifestyle.

But then it happens… We face it. We look into the cold stare of mortality and we buckle. The responses are many and diverse but maybe the one, for me, that is a) the most common and b) the most upsetting: “Death is nothing at all…” This poem, a classic in funeral services and an edited version of a larger sermon, suggests the best response to death is to ignore it, be strong in the face of it by not bowing to its demands that you weep or cry. So where is hope? Where is the power of the resurrection? The resurrection is seen in the narrative, which frames my wife’s existence.

Christ’s death and resurrection marked the conquering over death. What does this mean? That death no longer exists? No! Clearly not. The power of the resurrection doesn’t destroy death to the point of non-existence but does something far more powerful. It redeems the death event into one of blessing rather than curse.

I talked, in the past, about redemption not in terms of hiding the scars or removing them but rather changing the pain association of them into things of celebration; signs of weakness becoming signs of victory. Death, in the redemption of the resurrection, becomes the important agency by which we receive ‘new life’. ‘New life’ is the gift of resurrection. In order to claim this we must experience death.

The narrative that my wife lives within is that death is no longer a curse, something to be avoided or feared but rather an important event towards gaining ‘new life’ but not just at the moment of biological death. She experiences death now and, because it is no longer feared or avoided, she embraces more of life.

But this too is platitudes; an opiate of a different kind.

No. Within this narrative also we are able to embrace the wonder, the fragility, and the reverence of life (to quote Albert Schweitzer). It forces death to step into the light of our experience and  be acknowledged. The misty unknown stretching before us is stared at and we call it what it is. We cry, but we now own our tears as a process of grief and we articulate to ourselves that the pain of separation is real but necessary and is now under the sovereignty of God. We can talk openly about it. We can laugh at it. We can proclaim, “Where, O Death, is your sting.” More than that. We stare at it and it now brings us to appreciate the power of life, to see, maybe for the first time the beauty of life. Not in an existentialist “Drink and be merry for tomorrow we die,” but in a realistic seeking of the life that is hidden; our eyes opening to see that the ‘life’ we thought we had is nothing but dry death. ‘New life’ is something wholly other than that. It is seen in my wife’s eyes; resurrection life.

So when my wife dies, I will cry. I will cry until my eyes sting and I struggle for air to sustain my weeping. I will, after my energy is spent, stare into space contemplating memories. I will catch myself holding onto her belongings for a moment too long, which then will grow, inevitably into a minute, an hour, a day? All this is part of the process and I will name it all. I will speak out the truth

She is gone and I am not afraid.