Tuesday 31 March

It's Day 16 and, despite it having rained all day (at times it has been POURING great heavy drops that have made us feel even more marooned within our house) I am glad to report a good day. Manu has spent every spare moment with her nose in a book, and Keziah has been exploring online employment options.

I wonder who else has been struck by the flow of creativity that, like the rain hitting my window this afternoon, has been unleashed during this time of being otherwise restricted? It makes me think of the art processing I have facilitated during retreats - give people a time limit, or restrict them in some other way, and all kinds of inventiveness rises to the surface. Too much time, too many options, and we seem to second-guess ourselves or fritter away the opportunities.

Tim's lockdown birthday presented us with a creative focus. We made 50 pieces of bunting out of anything that was available, including the veggie burger packaging! Each piece included a photo of him on one side, and a word describing or affirming him on the other. It was fun to see how long it took him to take in all 50 birthday flags. I'm guessing they will be a fixture of our sitting room for a while yet.

Keziah's creative offering for Tim's birthday was somewhat more classy than my recycled cardboard bunting. She made a beautiful photo book from a selection of adventures spanning the last 5 decades.

Of course, there has been plenty of baking ... bread and rusks, birthday cake and black bean brownies, and all kinds of meals designed to keep us healthy and nourished, not to mention engaged around the dining table! The vegetarian/vegan reality in our home means more creativity is needed and today I made vegan cauliflower cheese. I wouldn't say it was my best creation, but I experimented with thickening the sauce with pureed sweet potato and all in all it was a win.

Rain notwithstanding, the garden offers plenty of opportunities for creativity. This little gate and garden sculpture, with the new planted raised beds beyond, have been a celebration of creativity that we have all enjoyed. Even the non-gardeners among us! 

Creativity makes us feel channelled rather than restricted, and makes of the world a landscape of possibilities rather than a place where we are denied our preferred choices. Where is your creativity finding space to flow these days? What have been your most enjoyable creative experiments, your unexpected wins, your won't-be-trying-that-agains?! 

Monday 30 March

It's Day 15. We've been waiting for news of further restrictions to be implemented by government, and the ways they might impact on us. I'm just hoping we will still be able to walk the dogs.

In the meantime, the days continue as normal. If you can call it that. For half of the day, I felt like I was fighting a sort of lethargy that made me want to stop everything I was doing and go to sleep. In the end, I did just that - passed out cold on the bed for 2 hours, missing a call from my best friend in the process. For the other half of the day, I was in online meetings (maybe that accounts for the fatigue, come to think of it).

At some point, a colleague asked me what feels different about the ways I am engaging with people during these days of lockdown. Even ongoing conversations in online spiritual direction do feel different, somehow. I tried to describe how it feels, that the energy in my body is moving around at a faster vibration than normal. (I don't want to sound weird, but then, this is a weird time.) And as I settle into conversations, I realise that these days I am feeling very small in the grand scheme of things. The boy with the five loaves and two fish was surely better off than I feel. What do I have to offer, really?

It is strange to be confined to these rooms when, laid out before us from our sitting room window, we can see a valley and a city that is experiencing so much heartache. Why are we the ones sitting at home? Why are we so limited right now, so unable to do much in the way of help?

As I sit with that feeling, of frenetic energy mixed with a sense of powerlessness, I am reminded that I can only hold what I have been given. And the way I hold my portion does matter, it does make a difference. In fact, for each of us, the weightiness of this period in history can teach us that, while we carry our part of the weight differently, every hand is needed. The way I traverse this time is significant - how I am a parent and a partner during this time of confinement; how I engage in my circles of influence to bring about positive connection; how I prayerfully support those on the frontline; how I use my words to encourage and build faith - it all matters.

So I don't know what you have in your lunchbox. Maybe you feel solidly provided for with five loaves and two fish. Or maybe, like me today, your picnic is a little on the thin side.

How would it be if we all just offered what we have, crumbs and all? Do we believe that God is able to work something wonderful with these few loaves?

Sat/Sun 28-29 March

It doesn't always make sense, the way loss and grief grab at our hearts. Days 13 and 14 have been our most 'connected' days in terms of video calls and messages, and yet I have felt the isolation most this weekend.

It's been Tim's birthday. A time of celebration that ought to have included friends and family members, has instead revolved around the four of us and these four walls.

The girls and I sure did try our damndest to make it memorable, and I think we did a good job. While many of the gifts failed to arrive in the post, the photo book that Keziah created arrived quite miraculously, far in advance of the date predicted by the website. There were so many sweet, bunting-draped moments, and I'm grateful.

Getting all Tim's family on a shared Zoom call was one such sweetness; hopefully the first of many calls like it. And yet somehow the chats with family, while precious and lovely, failed to touch that part of my heart that whispers, 'You're alone.'

This particular lie has always presented me with an uphill battle. As far as I can tell, we all have these echoing untruths that penetrate our hearts from childhood on. Mine has always been centred on aloneness and having to take care of myself. Out of commitment to my wholeness, no doubt, in this last season God has permitted several years of aloneness that have pressed me beyond the genuine experience of being alone and into an experience of belonging with him. How can it be that a time of relational aloneness could invite me to more deeply experience my inclusion in God? I can only tell you that it has.

This pandemic-driven time of isolation somehow pushes me again into that still sticky mess of second-guessing and wondering. The place of unmet need in my heart can become a minefield, unless I continue to allow God to meet this legitimate need for inclusion and belonging. Instead of wondering who else is in touch with one another, or why so-and-so hasn't called, I have to turn first to the relational reality of God and then, having grounded myself in that reality, I can move towards others from a place of abundance instead of lack.

Over this weekend, I was struck by the phrase I heard a couple of weeks ago: each of us is supported by thousands of unseen others. From the people who picked, roasted and delivered the coffee beans for my morning coffee, to the family that built the house we live in; from the people who stock the shelves in the grocery store where we buy food, to those who collect the rubbish we put out at night.

The photos that Keziah used in Tim's birthday book span five decades. And they tell the story of a thousand intersections, people whose lives have intersected with ours - with whom we have laughed, and learned, and grown, and grieved. As John Donne famously wrote, No man is an island. If this time of chaos proves anything, it is this. We are all more interconnected and more interdependent than we care to believe.

This morning, we joined the online service of our home church in Exeter, England. There are people in the congregation who knew us when we first left the UK in 1998 to make our life overseas. And it moved me, somehow, to see their faces as we sang, and prayed, and spoke together. In this unexpected season, we are experiencing a shared reality in a way that we never have since leaving England. There is a bonding and a relational closeness that feels more touching than when we were all just trying to have empathy for others' experiences that were not ours.

Could it be that during this time, the Spirit of God might address within us those long-held yet erroneous notions of truth that actually keep us from experiencing fullness of life in the ways he intends? What are those repeated lines that run through your mind when you are under pressure? In what way do they reveal places of wounding in your life that might, even in this season, be offered a new measure of healing? Let's pay attention to these messages our hearts bring to our consciousness. There is deep goodness to be mined, if we are willing.

Friday 27 March

It's Day 12 and like any other Friday, we gather with friends to celebrate Sabbath, this invitation to stop our own striving, our own attempts to figure things out for ourselves. Instead, we take on this inner posture that is strikingly counter-intuitive: we rest and we lean in to the One who acts on our behalf.

Our times are very informal, as befits any good Friday evening. And we have the habit of taking communion together around the table (I realise this might sound strange to those from a formal Christian tradition). I love this gift of rehearsing our shared story in such a tangible, physical way. I relish this invitation to metabolise the reality of God and, as we swallow bread and wine, to be infused with the grace we so desperately need.

Our particular way of offering and receiving these reminders of Christ's life is to pass the elements from one to another around the table. As I receive from my neighbour, we look into one another's eyes and he says, 'Remember the King.' Ever since we joined in this practice, I have often found myself tearing up at the strength of this simple reminder to REMEMBER. In the midst of ordinary and distracted living, or when experiencing loss, or as we pass through turmoil, it is powerful to remember the true story of which we are part. And to remember the King of it all.

Since we aren't able to be together during these Fridays of confinement, we have been meeting over Zoom. Instead of passing the cup around the table, we take it in turns to speak the name of someone in the group, then wait for them to ready themselves by dipping bread in wine. As best we can from three different households, we hold one another's gaze and speak these words: Remember the King.

Three little words whose inside, as C.S. Lewis said, is bigger than its outside. Held within these words is an epic drama that tells us what is most true about us. More real than what we see on the news, more real than the conspiracy theorists direst predictions, more real than the experience of loss and disequilibrium inherent in these days of fear and isolation, more real than consequences to employment and economies ... this story of which we are part is the long and convoluted story of the King being made known. A King who is redeeming all things to himself and who is at work to bring about redemption even now.

Tim and I have been listening to a song of Andrew Peterson's, more or less on repeat. It seems so very fitting for these times. If you have a couple of minutes now, please do listen to this beautiful and heartfelt prayer.

Do you feel the world is broken? 

Do you feel the shadows deepen? 

But do you know that all the dark won't stop the light from getting through? 

Do you wish that you could see it all made new? We do. 

Is all creation groaning? 

Is a new creation coming? 

Is the glory of the Lord to be the light within our midst? 

Is it good that we remind ourselves of this? It is. 

Does the Father truly love us? 

Does the Spirit move among us? 

And does Jesus our Messiah hold forever those He loves? 

Does our God intend to dwell again with us? He does.

Is anyone worthy, is anyone whole? 

Is anyone able to break the seal and open the scroll?

The Lion of Judah, who conquered the grave. 

He is David's root and the Lamb who died to ransom the slave. 

He is worthy, He is worthy, 

Of all blessing and honour and glory,

He is worthy of this, He is!

If anything feels true right now, it is that all creation is groaning. When we get still enough, when we quieten the voices of news and social media, we become aware of the wordless ache of the world for healing and wholeness. This is the groaning Paul speaks of to the baby Roman church, when he says:

The creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but ... in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption ... For in this hope we were saved. 

Do you wish that you could see it all made new? Is there an ache somewhere deep inside you, an ache that is without words? Then I have three little words for you: Remember the King!

Thursday 26 March

Day 11 and the novelty is wearing off. I say that without meaning to imply that all this feels anything like normal, or that I am coping with it like an old hand. No, in fact, I sense that perhaps my emotions are only just beginning to catch up with the real state of things.

Perhaps, if you are one of the main caregivers in your home, you might identify. Or maybe if you are an Enneagram 3 (and know what I mean by that). I think of myself as someone who is quite intuitive about other people's feelings. Also, when I have a sense of my own internal landscape I am pretty good at describing what I see. But the truth is, I can spend a lot of my life relatively out of touch with how I am actually doing. (If you ask me how I'm doing and I pause, with a slightly puzzled look on my face, you'll know why.)

If you're a parent, you know that this can be part of the job description: put your own feelings on hold because you have others to take care of whose well-being, in this moment, takes precedence over yours. That's what it means to be the adult in the relationship, you think of them first. That's as it should be.

I guess that explains the lag. You know, the delayed onset of emotions. And maybe it explains the emotional spillage, when all of a sudden tell-tale splashes of sadness, or frustration, or even fear disguised as anger sort of slosh out. It makes me think of a phrase by Douglas McKelvey:
'As I am a vessel, let me not be like a sodden paper cup full of steaming frustration, carelessly sloshing unpleasantness on those around me.'

This morning, after an emotionally draining online meeting, I returned to the activities of a family cooped up together for the eleventh day straight and the cup tipped, you know? The overspill wasn't directed at anyone in particular and wasn't especially nasty. But it made me aware that there are emotions sloshing around in my cup that I haven't really been able to process yet.

I had read somewhere that in times of crisis, when our bodies are struggling to adjust to the onslaught of stress chemicals, it is good to do something with your hands. I believe this is the same kind of 'ex-forming' that any sort of physical exercises achieves for us, but reserved for a time when you can't really muster any desire to even go for a walk. Anyway, I picked up a piece of sewing that my daughter had started and never finished and, wouldn't you know it, it worked!

In case you're wondering, there are things to learn from my discombobulating day:
1. When you're caring for others, you might find yourself putting your own feelings on hold.
2. Your body will hold onto those feelings for you as long as it can, and then some of it might slosh out.
3. When it does, don't panic. It's just a reminder that you have some feelings that need your attention.
4. Doing something focused and physical can help your body find its equilibrium in the meantime.

The day got better. The sun was shining when I walked the dog. Keziah made mint tea with the mint growing in her newly established garden. I heard from a couple of friends. And then there's the fire pit because, well, everything is better when viewed from beside a fire.

Wednesday 25 March

It's Day 10 of lockdown here and we are obliged to stay home until at least 11 April. The last couple of days I have been thinking about the tension between having a routine that creates a sort of ‘container’ for these days confined at home, and going crazy with the dullness of repetition. It could very quickly feel like Groundhog Day over here!

As I’ve mentioned, on weekdays our days are built around Manu’s school timetable. We start the day together over breakfast and devotions, we scatter to our various activities and then reconvene to touch base at her break-time, sharing a snack and a quick football kick around on the patio. Then, after more solo time we have lunch and the girls hang out, or get outside (it’s been raining a lot). The afternoon session is followed by tea-time, piano practice, dog-walk, some reading aloud or a game, supper and reading or screen-time.

There’s variety but a lot of sameness. So how to ring the changes sufficiently to stay sane? I don’t know about you, but my mood can take a nose dive if there is too much of a mundane feel to my days. I need variety, things to look forward to and, if possible a little adventure here and there!

Here’s 5 things that are helping me right now:

1, Physical exercise that is different every day.

I already have a habit of working out at the same time each day, but I am REALLY missing running outside and the way a good run helps me to mentally and emotionally reset. So, instead of doing a workout program where there is a lot of repetition, I have chosen one that is planned so that every day is different. Somehow moving my body in different ways each day, challenging myself in different ways, helps my mental stamina when it comes to the parts of the day that feel samey.

 This is my 'wish I could run' face!

2. Creative celebrations.

I heard of a team that connected on Zoom and asked everyone to come in fancy dress! Other friends have declared Fridays ‘Fancy Friday’ and, even though working from home are dressing ‘fancy’ on Fridays. We have gone green for St Patrick’s Day and, since that was a Tuesday, are now choosing a different colour for every Tuesday of the lockdown. Upcoming we have Tim’s birthday - I’ll have to keep plans for that hushed up for now - as well as pyjama days with a family sleepover in the sitting room, and a four course dinner party (for four)! Celebrations break up the monotony of days that are otherwise repetitive.

Green for St Patrick's Day

3. Switch things up.

This is a time for breaking the rules somewhat, you know? Like eating cake for breakfast, or getting the kids out of bed after lights out for an impromptu dance party; playing cards in bed on Sunday morning, starting a water fight, or afternoon sex. True, there are limits to how crazy we get to go just now (I’m trying to avoid drinking gin in the mornings, for example, haha) but rather than getting into a rut, these are days to intentionally do the unexpected once in a while. Lean into your spontaneity within the confines of you own four walls. Christmas in April, anyone?

Impromptu dance party

4. Inhabit all your space.

We are fortunate to have quite a bit of space at home and we are trying to use ALL of it. It doesn’t matter how small your home, there are ways to live in the space differently to the ways you normally do. Hey, if people can play live music from their balconies, maybe we could also have a fire pit there, or a tent in the garden? Create a reading corner by putting cushions and draping fabric in the hallway (fairy lights are always good), or set up for date night on the driveway. We have been having ‘sundowners’ on the patio, date night on the balcony, fireside fun in the backyard, exercise class in the hallway and art-making in the laundry room. Somehow living in the space creatively helps to break the feeling of sliding into the mundane.

Date night

5. Do something for someone else.

Every day we need to turn our focus outward. All this being-at-home malarky could make us very insular very quickly. Apart from the people in other places we are praying for in the mornings, we are having fun hanging things on our neighbours’ gates: a jar of homemade marmalade, a loaf of homemade bread, a little note to say hello. We’ve dropped groceries outside friend’s homes, or left them a meal. Such small things, I can’t say we’ve sacrificed anything to do it, and yet even staying in touch with different friends by WhatsApp or FaceTime brings the outside into our home. Hopefully it’s a blessing to them and it sure helps to add interest to our day!

I realise the whole ‘routine versus boredom’ thing is only relevant to those of us who are not unwell, and who are not working as health care workers or in essential jobs. Still, if this is your reality then I hope these thoughts help.

Tuesday 24 March

Day 9

Monday 23 March

It's Day 8 and being confined to the house feels more challenging when it's pouring with rain outside. I don't know, perhaps it's a mercy since it discourages most normal people from being out and about. But for me, it makes the house feel more restrictive somehow. It's been raining the entire day and the forecast is for rain all week.

So now, not only am I checking my phone for news updates, social media tidbits and for podcasts to listen to, but for weather forecasts too. I don't know about you, but the temptation to be constantly checking my device is wearisome and drains me of positive energy with which to engage the day. I am realising that I need to be more disciplined than ever about keeping margins of 'disconnect time' to safeguard sanity and relate well with the rest of the family. While being in crisis mode gives us the illusion that more information will help us, often the opposite is true.

This liturgy from Every Moment Holy - only slightly modified - is so very appropriate for these days:

A Liturgy for Those Flooded by too much Information

--by Douglas McKelvey

In a world so wired and interconnected,

our anxious hearts are pummelled by

an endless barrage of troubling news.

We are daily aware of more grief, O Lord,

than we can rightly consider,

of more suffering and scandal

than we can respond to, of more

hostility, hatred, horror, and injustice

than we can engage with compassion.

But you, O Jesus, are not disquieted

by such news of [Corona] and terror and war.

You are neither anxious nor overwhelmed.

You carried the full weight of the suffering

of a broken world when you hung upon

the cross, and you carry it still.

When the cacophony of universal distress

unsettles us, remind us that we are but small

and finite creatures, never designed to carry

the vast abstractions of great burdens,

for our arms are too short and our strength

is too small. Justice and mercy, healing and

redemption, are your great labours.

And yes, it is your good pleasure to accomplish

such works through your people,

but you have never asked any one of us 

to undertake more than your grace

will enable us to fulfil.

Guard us then from shutting down our empathy

or walling off our hearts because of the flit of

unactionable misery that floods our awareness.

You have many children in many places

around this globe. Move each of our hearts

to compassionately respond to those needs

that intersect our actual lives, that in all places

your body might be actively addressing

the pain and brokenness of this world,

each of us liberated and empowered by

your Spirit to fulfil the small part

of your redemptive work assigned to us.

Give us discernment

in the face of troubling news reports.

Give us discernment

to know when to pray,

when to speak out,

when to act,

and when to simply

shut off our screens

and our devices,

and to sit quietly

in your presence,

casting the burdens of this world

upon the strong shoulders

of the One who

alone

is able to bear them up.

Amen.

Sat/Sun 21-22 March

 This first weekend of lockdown has dragged on a bit, frankly. I thought I'd enjoy the chance to lie in but was wide awake at 6:30 on Saturday morning, my mind busy with thoughts of the wider world. This weekend we heard that it's likely we have at least three more weekends of staying home, and I think that is an optimistic view.

It is good to have the weekend routine feel markedly different to the weekdays. It's helpful for us all to continue to have a sense of 'work days' and 'non-work days.' So, we have had two main approaches to staying sane and at home this weekend!

Number 1: Physical Activity

Manu and I began Saturday morning by joining my sister's husband and daughter (he's a personal trainer) for his Boot Camp workout live on Facebook. It was a great HIIT workout, made even better by Manu proclaiming that she thinks I am the fittest person she knows, even fitter than her PE teacher! Notwithstanding the limitations of her acquaintances, this made my day. Big shout-out to Mark and Eden Joy for helping our Saturday start in such a fun way.

Manu clearly got quite amped up by our joint workout, because she then spent a further hour devising challenges for herself in the backyard. She created a chart, listing challenges from super easy through to 'nearly impossible' and gave herself points for completing them.

Clearly, it always pays to have various bits of kit lying around - the boxing bag (along with gloves three times the size of her hands), weights, a trampoline and a skateboard all made it into her challenge series!

Needing a challenge of our own, Tim and I both decided to complete 5km runs today. Given the fact that we can only take the dogs out for short walks (anything more and we risk a fine from €600-€30k fines, or 4 years imprisonment for a second offence) this was problematic. My solution was an audio book and endless loops around the backyard, up two flights of stairs through the house and back down! It took a while but I made it to 5km. I am starting to dream of a treadmill ...!

Number 2: Celebration

I believe wholeheartedly in the discipline of celebration. That is, choosing to celebrate the small things even when (especially when) it flies in the face of apparent reality. So, as well as celebrating a successful week of homeschool with pizza and a movie on Friday, today offered the perfect celebration opportunity: Mother's Day. Never mind that it is Mother's Day in the UK, not Spain, we embraced it!

The girls painted cards, wrote their sweet messages, and laid on a beautiful pancake brunch. Keziah is absolutely brilliant when it comes to creating these special moments, and never fails to write essays of tiny handwriting that melt your heart! Manu's missives, on the other hand, are unforgettably hilarious:

"So let us not dwell on what we can't do,

but on what we can do."

P.S. It's my quote but it could be different:

"I would if I could but I can't so I won't."

(Also mine.)

We laughed, we danced, we made and ate delicious food, we played games by the open fire. And, just to keep things real, we watched Netflix, separately in our own rooms. Because, you know, needs must ;-) 

Friday 20 March

It's already Day 5. We've had an entire working week confined to the house and it doesn't look likely to end soon. News from Italy is dire and I can only imagine that Spain will follow along similar lines. The original directive that spoke of a two week lockdown only ever seemed a starting point and I don't know anyone who thought this would be over within a fortnight. Schools are now giving 11 April as a possible end point, and I imagine that is being said for the sake of the kids.

So what to do? When days stretch into weeks and you are home with the same couple of people, leaving only briefly for groceries or dog-walking, and then only individually ... there is a great need to contain the days within some sort of structure. It makes me think of a canal, with its sections of waterway interspersed with locks that regulate the flow of water. Without a routine, we'd be in a river that has flooded its banks, water sloshing everywhere and no way to helpfully direct it!

Like any good Brit, my morning starts with tea! I love the fragrance of the tea leaves, the familiar rhythm of measuring them into the pot, adding boiling water, leaving it to stand. Such a simple joy.

 The tea comes with me back to the bedroom for what is, for me, the most delicious part of the day. While the house is quiet (come rain or shine, Tim is always on the balcony upstairs at this time) I relish the uninterrupted time to read, journal, reflect and pray. During the chaos of these days, this feels more vital than ever. In these morning moments, I remind myself the greater truth beyond the latest news updates; I ground myself in the unchanging and yet ever responsive reality of God. This is a time to reflect on how our unusual situation is affecting me, and a time to bring to mind people in other places who we care about.

Today I find myself thinking about a team mate who was visiting Morocco with her dad when Spain declared a State of Alarm. She will ride out the lockdown from there, while today her dad will travel 6 hours to Marrakech where he will try to get on a flight for Americans seeking repatriation. There is no guarantee he'll make it, so I add my prayer that he will.

For the longest time, a morning workout has been part of my routine and now I need it more than ever. I use an online platform with hundreds of program options and this week I started one that was shot live. While my body needs the purposeful activity, I also need the positive and fun vibe that is so evident in the room as the cast workout. These workouts are keeping me positive and help me to feel that, rather than 'wasted time,' our days in confinement have intention and, if nothing else, I can stay fit!

 I shower and make sure Manu is getting ready for school. She is delighted to be able to attend school in her PJs! Her timetable runs from 9:30 to 4:30, so her morning is relaxed enough for her to read in bed before she gets up. This makes for a happier girl!

At 9 all four of us gather at the kitchen bench for breakfast and a family devotion. We use the brilliant book of modern liturgy called Every Moment Holy - I have been amazed this week how appropriate a liturgy for 'waiting in line' or 'experiencing road rage' has been for living in lockdown (they hadn't thought to write one for that eventuality!). We read a psalm each day and pray for those we know who are sick, or vulnerable.

Then it's time for the school run, which has been drastically reduced from 50 minutes to a quick hop from kitchen to bedroom!

Time for me to do some work and mornings I use for desk-work. This week I have been rearranging a training course that would have been starting in May - now moved to November - as well as doing some writing related to our organisation's response to the pandemic. I would normally have been doing some work on a personal study project but I have found it difficult to focus on that this week. I am grateful for a couple of calls with co-workers or young leaders based in other places - it's good to hear how they are doing and to keep focusing on ways to respond positively when circumstances are out of our control.

We all stop to share Manu's mid-morning break time - although honestly, we are simply the providers of snacks that she scoffs in between racing around on the patio with a soccer ball, or playing swingball. The poor kid is missing more opportunities to MOVE and these 20 minutes must not be wasted!

 Later, I am on lunch duty. I have never loved the obligation to cook every day that family life entails, but these days it feels grounding in ways that are good. Again, we gather from bedroom, den or garden for 20-30 minutes of chatter around the food. Away from computers, news feed and social media, these are the moments that feel the most normal, the most real in a surreal world.

In a normal week, I keep afternoons for spiritual direction. Wonderfully, these sessions can continue uninterrupted by the abnormal circumstances in which people find themselves. In fact, we are all even more in touch with our desire to be accompanied by someone who will listen well and help us to find God in all the crazy. Today I connect with a woman who lives alone; I can't imagine how isolating that must feel. Like all of us, she is grateful she has a dog so that she is permitted to go out for short walks.

Manu finishes school at 4:30 and, while she enlists her sister in running around with her, I take Bracken out for a walk. We can only go out one at a time and I find myself missing the chats that dog-walking usually makes possible.

It's Friday and our usual routine includes a Sabbath meal shared with friends. I love this bookend to the week and so we find a way to check in with one another from our 3 different homes. Although it's strange to be sharing this time online, instead of around a table laden with food, we lean into the familiar rhythm of our family-friendly liturgy. We share communion and can't stop ourselves from trying to sing our regular song, although we are all out of time and end up sliding into laughter. There are a few tears - we miss and are concerned for these special friends.

At 8pm the evening is punctuated by the sound of applause as neighbours come outside to express their support for the hard-working medical staff. It is a moment of connection and solidarity at a time when it is easy to feel cut off from the rest of the world. The neighbour whose house adjoins ours says hello from her balcony, thanking us for the bag of lemons Tim had hung on her door.

These are days for slow cooking: making dough from scratch, slicing ingredients over a glass of wine. By the time the applause has died down, the pizza is ready to come out of the oven. We carry the baking trays with us to the den, where the girls drape themselves over the floor and sofa in their usual weekend movie-night fashion. We have been saving Beauty & The Beast for tonight, a sort of reward for navigating the first week of homeschool for Manu (she's a big fan of Emma Watson, of Hermione fame).

And then it's time for a book, and bed. I have to stop myself from returning to social media at night, a surefire way to disrupt my sleep. We turn out the lights and prepare for another, all too similar day, tomorrow.

Thursday 19 March

It's Day 4 of lockdown and everything is slightly surreal. Within these four walls, one could believe that life continues almost unchanged. The daughter who said she would NEVER want to homeschool is getting on with online school in a more or less cheerful fashion. And the man who needs to get out of the house at least 6 days out of 7 in order to swim, hike or run is managing to find movement in gardening, and weight-training, and the odd stair-running challenge.

It's true that I am cooking EVERY dang day and, never one for the mundane routine of domestic chores, I am somehow finding a sort of grounding in this repetition of preparing and sharing food in the middle of the day, when we are usually scattered. And yes, we have to take ID with us when we go out of the house, even to walk to dogs. And only one of us can go out at a time (we heard that people have been fined for having more than one person in a car, even). Yet, perched here on our hillside, we are in other ways quite separated from the realities in the town below.

Only when we go out for groceries does it become obvious how weird everything is. In the supermarket there are security personnel enforcing the approved distance between those shopping, and at the checkout there is tape on the floor to mark where to stand in the properly punctuated line. The store staff are masked and gloved, wearing an air of tension that betrays the way the last days have worn them down.

The streets are eerily quiet and feel like the set of some dystopian movie. It feels strange that the symptoms of hayfever have begin to kick in; surely such banal realities should be suspended at such a time? It's tempting to view the people who are out with suspicion: do they have a valid reason to be out of the house?

Back at home, siblings we don't usually hear from call us. Somehow this shared experience invites connection in a way that floods in Mozambique, or almost fatal accidents in South Africa never did. In spite of this imposed isolation,  ironically we feel more connected with some people than we did before. We are invited to join groups on Facebook and distant friends call or text to check in.

Somewhere in the middle of the twin realities of isolation and connection, and of familial normality and community chaos, we exist together as a family. We bake bread, we read books, we do workouts, we play games, we make love, we play music, we create gardens.

Wednesday 18 March

We decided an hour around the fire pit would be a good idea this evening, so we made popcorn and sat outside for a while. It was a really great way to enjoying being in the moment, rather than being too caught up in news reports and social media. We're more grateful than ever for outside spaces!

Then we joined in the daily applause for all the medical staff working so hard in the hospitals throughout Spain. This is a time of day to feel our connection to our neighbours, even though we are seeing so few of them!

Tuesday 17 March

 Day 2 and we are getting into some sort of rhythm, helped in large part by the fact that Manu continues to follow the school timetable (albeit dressed in her pyjamas). So at 9am we gather at the kitchen bench for breakfast (I am already so grateful for the couple of hours before that when the house is quiet and I can read, journal and workout in peace!). Then we share one of the beautiful liturgies from the book Every Moment Holy. This morning, hilariously and yet appropriately for four people stuck indoors together, I read the one 'for experiencing road rage.'

If my heart were more content in you, O Lord,
I would be less inclined to rage at others.
Let me gauge by the knot in my gut,
the poverty of my own understanding
of the grace I have received
from a God who, loving me,
chose rather to receive wounds
than to give them.
Take from me my self-righteousness,
and my ego-driven demands for respect.
Overthrow the tyranny of my anger, O Lord,
and in its place establish a better vision
of your throne, your kingdom, and your peace.

We are also reading through the psalms and today we pray for three people we know who are sick with Covid-19. At 9:30, Manu gets started with online school and Tim drives to the store to get groceries for a couple who are unwell and not able to leave the house. At their suggestion, he left the things inside their front gate without seeing them, which feels harsh but necessary.

Meanwhile, I get on with writing a piece for YWAM that was discussed at an online meeting of the communication team last night. While the writing goes quickly, it's hard to find the right tone for a time like this. I send it to my team-mates for their comments and, after a quick Zoom call, join the family for lunch. Even though we have absolutely everything we need right now, I find myself far more conscious than usual of how much food we are using, wondering how significant rationing of essentials might become. It's hard to convey this to the kids without freaking them out and, in any case, it would be a tad premature. Maybe I've read too many novels.

In the afternoon, Tim works on building a gate from some pallet wood he had in the shed. The dogs had got into the veggie and herb garden he and Keziah planted last week, digging up a row of chives. He creates a clever little gate to that part of the garden and I find it prettier and less annoying than I thought I would, and can imagine at some point adding a little arch for growing a vine or jasmine.

I don't normally relish walking the dogs in the rain, but today it feels good to get out of the house. I make sure I take my ID with me, as we've read that we shouldn't risk getting stopped without it. I exchange audio messages with my sister as I walk; she's in the UK and restrictions associated with the pandemic are beginning to affect her work.

After Manu finishes her school work, we connect with some friends to celebrate St Patrick's Day together. 

I had challenged the kids to dress in green and one of the boys had really gone to town - not only is he head-to-toe in green, but his face is green too!

It's sweet to catch up and exchange news of how we are all coping with being shut in at home, especially since one friend is home alone. I am not sure, right now, whether to see that as fabulous or terrifying.

After the call, the girls retreat to Keziah's room to watch something together while Tim and I set up a HIIT circuit in the den. It doesn't take long but it's a great way to energise at the end of the day. We had been training for a half marathon together, which was due to take place on 19 April and, inevitably, has been cancelled. We'd been hopeful that even during the lockdown we would be able to head onto the hillside behind our house to run trails but that is clearly not going to be possible. So instead we run up and down the stairs in between squats and push ups. It's not much but it might just save our sanity!

Manu is grumpy and rude before supper and my heart sinks at what it might mean to stay home together for weeks. Then we feed her, and she is her usual chatty and bouncy self ... may all our mood swings be as simple to deal with as that one!

Monday 16 March

Monday 16 March (4:30am)

Scrolling through Facebook and the flood of Corona-related posts, I read one that made me particularly sad. Someone, somewhere in the world of ‘Christian missionaries,’ was wondering out loud how best to respond to having to stay at home, to avoiding others for the sake of slowing the contagion. So far, so normal. The sad part, the part that revealed a breathtakingly disintegrated view of the world, was the part that bemoaned the way that ‘the Devil would be winning’ so long as we can’t get out there and share the Gospel with people for a few weeks.

Please just give me a moment while I hold my head in my hands and rock gently with my eyes closed.

I won’t even bother to get into the obvious, that we are not engaged in a battle where ‘the Devil wins’ if, at times, we are compelled to live into the reality of our faith without simultaneously delivering a four-point message of salvation. We might want to remember that we do, in fact, know who’s won this cosmic and unevenly weighted tug-of-war between good and evil. And while we’re at it, we could take a moment to reflect on the rather exquisite fact that, while we all grumble about being confined to our homes, and face some very real fears about the shaking of the world as we know it, the people of God are marking the season of Lent. We are rehearsing the story of Jesus reconciling both us and all creation to his Father (and ours). This year, as every year, we are intended to get in touch with our need for salvation. Do you feel it?

Anyhow, all this came back to me at 2 o’clock in the morning and got me thinking about being Christian at a time like this, of all the invitations that will come to us in these days. It reminded me of something Zadie Smith wrote, describing the time she visited Tintern Abbey in Wales, that beautiful wreck of a place of worship originally built in the 1100s.

We parked, I opened a car door on to the vast silence of a valley. I may not have had ears but I had eyes. I wandered inside, which is outside, which is inside. I stood at the east window, feet on the green grass, eyes to the green hills, not contained by a non-building that has lost all its carved defences. Reduced to a Gothic skeleton, the abbey is penetrated by beauty from above and below, open to precisely those elements it had once hoped to frame for pious young men, as an object for their patient contemplation. It was already an ancient memory two hundred years ago, when Wordsworth came by. Thistles sprout between the stones. The rain comes in. Roofless, floorless, glassless, ‘green to the very door’ - now Tintern is forced to accept that holiness is everywhere in everything.

I wonder at this opening out of religious defences, this emptying from the containment of our small ways of thinking and speaking, so that everything is a lived experience of the life of God. Are we willing for our lives to be greened from the outside in? For the terrible beauty of this hauntingly messy world to be owned as part of who we are - it is, whether we see it or not. Could it be that something of who we are, these living epistles, will be more effectively incorporated into the world that surrounds us when our windows fall out and our doors fall off?

Zadie Smith turns our attention to Wordsworth, who wrote of his sensation on visiting Tintern: ‘That in this moment there is life and food/ For future years.’ Could it be that in our confinement during these days, in our inability to be anything but identified with our neighbours as we queue for food staples, or wait outside the pharmacy, there is something happening that can nourish both us and them? Are we willing to become broken bread, in our prayers, in our identification, in our inarticulate groaning for the redemption of all things?

I was listening recently to the wonderful podcast of Ruth Haley Barton. In her latest episode she had a conversation with Father Ronald Rolheiser, who spoke of the struggle to give away our moments of dying. That is, not only our physical deaths which can become sacred gifts to those we love, but also those moments of dying to our own ability to drive and control our lives.

Could it be that when we are least able to be our usual, action-oriented selves, we are able to be a gift in ways that we are not during those periods that seem to be the most productive? And could it be that we make room for a profound work of God when we enter into the surrender of letting go, relinquishing our usual efforts to ‘make something happen?’

In these uncommon days when we are more aware than usual of being limited, while also being so very connected with those around us, sharing this experience of disequilibrium, may we know the life of God’s Spirit at work in and through us like never before. Perhaps he will work to bring quiet confidence to our waiting, perhaps to help us enter into the groaning of creation, perhaps through acts of selfless kindness that surpass our own fears.

Yes, we need the merciful salvation of God. And no, it does not depend on us.

Sunday 15 March

We thought today was the final day before travel restrictions came into force (as it turns out, we heard someone jogging through Alhaurín got stopped by the police and fined). Anyway, based on that, Tim and I decide to continue as planned with our run training and drive out to the other side of Alhaurín el Grande to run a 14km trail. It was blissful, honestly, to run with the dogs along the hillside contour and to think more about whether I was rolling through my foot, springing with my achilles, and firing my glutes than about hand-washing, food rationing, and spotting viral symptoms.

We return home and, apart from the relative lack of movement on the roads (not completely different to a usual Sunday morning), everything seems pretty normal. Our elderly neighbour is standing in the street under a red umbrella, talking to another neighbour through her gate. Those two watch out for one another, and we have let them know that we can buy groceries for them if they prefer not to go to the store. One of them is a widow in her mid-eighties, so there’s good reason for her to stay home. She just returned to Spain after visiting family in South Africa and I’m wondering if she wishes she’d stayed there.

We have brunch with the girls and talk about loading the online platform for Manu’s schooling, so that she’s ready for tomorrow. We light the fire and enjoy the cosy feel of the house, aware that by this time next week we might be feeling differently about staying home with books and mugs of tea. The cooler weather seems like a mercy; it’s easier to want to stay home when the weather is cool and damp. We hear the kids next door as they play, but otherwise the street is quiet and none of the cars parked curb side have moved in the last couple of days.

Things get busier when friends turn up for a ‘final visit.’ Their eldest daughter needs to borrow paint for a school art project she’ll be working on from home. They also grab an arm-load of books to read aloud together with their four kids in the coming days. After staying for a cup of tea and a chat, they head out in search of a park, hoping that they won’t find it closed just yet. The kids need to burn off some steam and today may be the last chance to do that all together.

Our parents call us, first mine and then Tim’s. My parents are conscious that Manu has been concerned about them and their relative vulnerability to the Corona virus, so they chat with her and try to commiserate with the State of Alert in Spain (the UK seems to be about a week or so behind contagion levels here). Tim’s parents already sent her an audio message and, in a curiously timed administrative moment, they discussed with Tim the details of their Will.

In the evening, Tim gets Manu’s online school platform working and I talk to her about the family schedule. Initially, she doesn’t respond well to the idea that she can’t just roll out of bed at 9:30 in time for class at 9:40 (still in her pyjamas, of course). Thankfully, she rallies relatively quickly to learning that showering,family devotions, and breakfast will still be necessary fixtures of her morning. I can see that it will be helpful to have a family schedule, with shared expectations of mealtimes, quiet times, chores and (please God) time to work.

All this is casting a very different light on Tim’s intentions to release his local leadership responsibilities in order to reflect on what ministry will look like in the next season. Indeed, the training and ministry centre will be closed, as will the local outreach centre. Two staff families and two or three single staff call the former their home, but apart from them there will be no one gathering at the usual meeting or training times. One couple and a young single woman travelled into Morocco a week ago and may opt to stay there rather than try to return to Spain. Most people are confused and unsure what is okay and what is not and, while we continue to support them relationally, it’s odd for Tim not to be making decisions at a time like this.

I think back just a few days. Tim had returned from a 5-day debrief in France, where he had had time to process some of the events of the last 6 years, including the losses involved in a demanding season of leadership. He wanted to also identify the gifts of this season, and we had sat at the local golf course for a couple of hours with that in mind. Over coffee, I had asked him questions and helped him to draw out those things for which he is grateful. We talked of adventures in different nations, and the way our house has enabled us to host people, and shared family experiences. It seems so timely now, to head into these weeks of restriction with gratitude on our minds.

The house is growing quiet. It’s time for Manu to go to bed and for the dogs to go out to their kennel. Tomorrow brings with it a new reality: Manu schooling from home, which she always said she would never do, and all of us confined to barracks. For now everyone is at peace, and I am grateful.

Saturday 14 March

I wake up determined to safeguard a little bit of morning space without checking email or online news. This margin helps keep me grounded at the best of times, let alone when the energy in so many interactions is panicked. It doesn’t last long: I have a message from a friend and team member who is stuck in Morocco. That is, she could have raced for the border at Ceuta to attempt to get back into Spain within a small window of time; equally she could have tried to get a flight from Morocco to the United States, where she has citizenship. But instead, she decided to ride out the lock-down in Morocco, staying with good friends there and using the time to practice her Dirija.

Tim decides to draw a bit of cash. It’s not that much - we’re aware that if everyone empties their accounts the banks are fried - but we don’t usually keep any cash to hand and it seems sensible to have some. I go in the opposite direction, heading to the supermarket and kind of dreading the mayhem that seems likely. A week or so ago we bought some extra ‘long life’ groceries, like rice and beans, just to increase the amount of time we can get by without shopping. We need dog food and it would be great to have a few extra staples.

I hate grocery shopping at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times. I park a block away from the store because there are cars everywhere, even though I am arriving in the first 5 minutes of the store being open. I think to myself how smart I was to wear my running shoes, and feel as though I am part of one of those ‘supermarket dash’ events. This makes me smile, and I decide to continue smiling at people - everyone is pretty freaked out and me smiling at them can’t make it any worse. In fact, I end up having more friendly supportive chitchat with these Spanish neighbours than I’ve had in a long time, and that has to be a good thing.

There’s been a fresh delivery of toilet rolls and I put some in my trolley. I feel like a stereotype as I do so, and add some bottles of wine to make myself feel more normal. I am conscious of resisting the tide of panic that has people cramming their trolleys with enough meat to fill a freezer, along with multi-packs of coke. I’ll stick to my rice and beans approach, I think (apart from the fact that it would be weird for a vegetarian to suddenly start buying meat, rice and beans are also easier to store and pack more nutritional punch). By the time I make it to the check out, I’ve been standing in line for a while, every so often exchanging texts with Tim who lets me know he has bought eggs and chocolate elsewhere. His idea of essentials, I guess.

The girls are just getting out of bed when Tim and I return home, converging from our different outings. We eat breakfast and fill the girls in on latest developments, paying attention to the way Manu responds since she has been unsettled by all the Corona-talk at school. She was especially concerned for her grandparents back in England, afraid that their advanced age would consign them to Covid-19 fatality. I had both grandmothers send her messages assuring her of their robust state of health, and that seemed to soothe her fears for now.

Instead of the numbers of predicted fatalities, we talk about what schooling from home will be like. Manu explains to us the online platform they’ll be using, and that they will follow the regular timetable. This seems a bit of shame to me, since she will complete the work much faster on her own than in the classroom. But I am sure it has something to do with maintaining a state of normality for the kids, and keeping them busy while their parents work. I make a mental note to check her timetable and add in our own family rhythms as well as music practices and some physical activities. Manu will miss playing football with her friends and, not for the first time, I am grateful for the outdoor space we have at home for her to kick a ball and run around.

Our Sabbath meal friends message us saying they want to take advantage of being able to drive out to walking trails. Did we want to go with them? Tim and I had just walked the dogs around our usual 30 minute loop, but it’s a no-brainer. We tell the girls to get ready and within 10 minutes are heading out the door again. It’s funny how grateful we are to be able to drive wherever we want, when faced with restrictions that come into play soon.

We all meet at the fuel station 5 minutes from our house. One family fills their tank, while the others wait. Payment is through the out-of-hours bank teller-style window, since the shop is locked. And when Tim buys a sack of firewood, he has to wait while someone comes out - unlocking and then re-locking the entrance - to give him access to the woodstore, now also locked.

Eventually we get underway, driving just a short distance to an off-road trail. We pass a woman who always has her roadside fruit and veggie stand set up at a particular location, and I wonder what it will mean for her livelihood if she is not allowed to sell there.

The walk is great, the kids and dogs lively and wonderfully distracting from our somber mood. They discuss ways around the restrictions on movement, agreeing to text one another to shop for essentials at the same store at the same time, so they can meet up. Hey, whatever gets the teenagers doing errands sounds good to me. We take a few photos, we talk about sharing Sabbath meals via Skype, we don’t hug. It feels weird.

Dropping the kids at home, Tim and I head out to look at a leather armchair I saw on Facebook Marketplace. It feels kind of illicit, although it is still perfectly legal to be driving around at this point. Tim has wanted a leather armchair for his birthday, which is coming up on 28 March. It’s a milestone - his 50th - and by this point I am aware that the guys’ weekend I had planned, with his brothers and some mates flying in from England, will have to be cancelled. I’m hoping the chair is a winner and that at least he will be able to have the gift he hoped for. Whether it is or not, he won’t forget this year’s birthday in a hurry.

We check out the chair while subtly keeping our distance from the Scottish guy who’s selling it. He’s a chatterbox and doesn’t seem to notice or, if he does, is suitably agreeable to our sensible precautions. The chair is great and we get it into the back of the vehicle. The prospect of the 50th birthday being a total anti-climax is averted and I find myself relieved and happy at Tim’s old-age armchair excitement. As we drive home, I wonder when we’ll next drive this road and watch in puzzlement to see that the cable car from Benalmadena up to the birds of prey tourist attraction on the top of the hill is still running. These days seem full of contradictions.