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.

Friday 13 March

It’s Friday. Over the past few days we’ve been wondering what steps the Spanish government will take to respond to the rapid spread of the Corona Virus. We’ve been receiving daily emails from Manu’s school this week, assuring the parents that they are working with the kids to control the spread of germs through hand-washing and the use of anti-bacterial gel. They - and we - have been waiting for the government’s decision on school closures, which has seemed inevitable.

We’re surprised, frankly, that the school has stayed open as long as it has and even considered keeping Manu home despite the lack of official decision. Then last night we had heard that all schools will be closed from Monday. Manu headed in this morning to collect her books and learn how the online platform will work, through which the kids will continue classes.

While Manu was at school, I met with Debbie about the training in spiritual direction we had planned to host. We took the difficult and yet only viable decision to postpone the program. It will mean a lot of people having to cancel flights and risk losing money and it feels disappointing and sad; we’ve been working towards this for months. The only thing to do is choose to trust in the only One who is not surprised by this pandemic, and the only One who can ultimately work goodness out of the chaos. As John Lennon said, if it’s not okay then it’s not the end.

Later in the afternoon, I have an online call with someone in Serbia whom I see monthly for spiritual direction. We talk a bit about the virus, but it’s certainly not the main topic of our conversation. I think to myself how fortunate I am that, if push comes to shove, much of my work can take place online. Who knows, maybe even more people will appreciate someone to chat through how they are feeling in the face of these unusual days.

When Manu gets home from school, we prepare for our usual Sabbath meal with friends, aware that it might be the last one in a while. We don’t hug as we usually do, but still set the table together, stand at the grill, check phones periodically and after the meal sit around the fire pit, talking about people we’re responsible for who are stranded in different nations, trying to get back to Spain or to their passport country. We talk about the closure of our local outreach centre, and how the food bank will manage to support the immigrant families who depend on this help to feed their families. I find myself super-conscious of every sniff and sneeze, suddenly we are more aware of our desire to protect one another.

That night we hear that from 8am on Monday, the Spanish government is implementing a State of Alert. We’ve been watching the news from Italy and this move is not unexpected. Nobody is completely sure of what it will mean, but it looks like rationing of essentials is likely, as well as restrictions on moving around. All this is mulling around in my mind as I go to sleep.

Negative Space

Dear friends of South Africa

Eight years after leaving your shores, I wonder if I owe you an apology. I’m not sure I ever thanked you enough for the way you welcomed us into your space, for the way you made room for us. The thing is, I knew enough to recognise the sweetness of great friendships, the affirmation of open invitations into people’s hearts and homes, but at that point in my life I didn’t realise how rare are those gifts.

I do remember riding my moped over Boyes Drive one bright morning, looking out onto the seascape to my right and, just as aware of the fynbos covered hillside to my left, telling myself to savour this moment. Deep inside I knew that this wonderful synergy of knowing and being known, of beauty and grit, of colour and contrasts, wouldn’t last forever. And it didn’t - it was ours for a few short years, a gift that I couldn’t completely fantom until it came to an end.

So, thank you for sharing your friendship so easily. Thanks for being inclusive, for always being willing to add another steak to the braai, to pour another glass of wine, to pull up another chair to the table. I’m grateful that even when we were the ‘extras’ we were made to feel like we belonged. I have particular memories in my mind, of standing around the fire with people we’d just met, or being invited to share a neighbour’s pool, or weekend home. This generosity of spirit is rare and beautiful, and it changed us.

It changed our expectations and, right now, I’m not sure if that was a good thing. But I’m holding onto the hope that it will be good, some time soon.

Thank you that you never allowed our foreignness to be a reason to exclude us. You never asked us how long we were staying, in order to gauge whether it was worth your while to seek our friendship. You willingly translated for us the subtle complexities of life in your brave and beautiful nation - as far you understood them yourselves - and never made us feel disqualified from participating in the unspoken rules of engagement.

And thank you for reciprocating the friendship we sought to offer you. I realise now that this is the secret ingredient of all successful relationships, that both parties must share a desire to engage and be willing to put effort into the connection. Thank you for the text messages on weekend mornings, letting us know in a low-key way that if we wanted to join you for a hike, or a picnic, or a coffee, then we could. Thanks for the amazing camping trips, and the evening visits to theatre or music events. Thanks for making us feel that you wanted to be with us; that’s pretty damned precious. 

Your friendship was a great affirmation of who we were, made us feel that we were more than we were, somehow. We spent a decade with you and now, incredibly, it is almost a decade later. I can honestly say that, elsewhere, we have yet to find anything like the generous, spacious gifts of connection you so willingly shared. Do I feel diminished? Yes. Does the echo of your faith in me still sound in my soul? For sure. 

If the past eight years feel like a liminal space to me, then it is a transition to something deeper, and if not more full then certainly more filled with longing. Thank you for being part of the formation of desire in me - desire for connection, for soul hospitality, for belonging. If, for a time, I have inhabited the negative space spoken of in art and photography - the empty space surrounding an object - then it has worked to bring into sharper focus the gifts of friendship, to define the place of community in our lives, and to mark out the true value of connection.

It’s true that you cause me to know what I miss. You also cause me to know what I want. And for this, I thank you.

Undiminished

I’m thinking about my friend, she’s walking the Camino over the next few weeks. She’s approaching 60 and has a lifetime of adventure, risk-taking and getting-out-there that makes this opportunity to hike daily through Lent alluring and exciting. All that living out of back-packs, sleeping in strange beds, and meeting new people should be like falling off a log for her.

Then she finally paid attention to some pain she’d been having in her knee, and the scan showed a tear in the meniscus. Ah, sweet reality; this could scupper expectations. Her initial reaction was unsurprising, after these years of activity and soldiering on. This news would not be permitted to impact on the plans she’d laid: she’d said she’d walk the Camino, a certain number of kilometres each day, and walk it she would!

It’s not often that we are like swiftly turning kayaks when it comes to our expectations and plans. More like great ships of the ocean that take time to shift orientation, inch by grudgingly given inch.

Anyway, all this got me thinking about ageing - the way we frame it and the way we engage it. Had my friend been on this hiking adventure decades ago, in her twenties say, she may have suffered a few blisters, the odd aching muscle from hours of shouldering a back-pack, but youthful strength and capacity could be depended on. In this sense, ageing can feel like a diminishment, a reduction of what was previously possible. Physical limitations might mean that she walks fewer kilometres each day than she planned, or even that she is unable to complete the entire route. 

The Camino is about more than checking off the kays, though. It is world famous as being a pilgrimage, an opportunity to traverse challenge and setback, to reorientate one’s inner being in some way, and to journey to sacred places within oneself. 

In this sense, I wonder if the hiker in her twenties is at a bit of a disadvantage. Physical strength causes us to be self-reliant. Yes, the trail is long and yet it feels well within our capacities. Yes, we might bemoan the odd blister and rejoice in the experience of camaraderie and endurance, and yet our learning can only go as deep as the depths we are ready for in this stage of our lives. While all experiences teach us, and all reflection is good, our stage of development limits our ability to engage this inner growth. Quite simply, as in any good game, we have to pass through all the stages; we don’t get to skip them. 

When we embark on these journeys at a more mature age, then, are we not in fact enlarged by the experience of years and therefore able to go deeper into this invitation to reflection? Learning to reflect on our limitations, and our reactions to them, can become a treasure trove of gifts. Limitations - and our struggles to acknowledge and embrace them - invite us to accept the reality that we are not the masters of our own fate. We have dreams that are larger than our capacity to fulfil them. We have ego that resists unwanted identities that we are forced into at moments of limitation. To become ‘the slow one’ when we have always been fast, or ‘the one who gave up’ when we have always pushed through, or ‘the one who cried’ when we have prided ourselves on being upbeat or stoic. 

These moments, unsought-for as they are, can become the very things that crack us open to new ways of being. To become new in some area of my life, I have to first recognise that the old way is not serving me so well anymore. And so often, it is only when I face my own limitations - physical, emotional spiritual, relational - that I am willing to admit to this truth.

There is such grace in having navigated several stages of life’s journey, and learned a few things along the way. As we find ourselves approaching some new difficulty, we might say “Ah, I think I’ve been somewhere like this before.” We know that we will come through whatever it is, and that we will be enlarged in some way.

May you have grace to face your limitations with a reflective heart. May your years be honoured for the ways they have enlarged your soul. May you offer the world around you something deeper and sweeter as you continue to hike along life’s trails.

Spring Shake-Out

I am sitting on my bed with darkness still shrouding the valley beyond the window. Yet I am aware that the air outside is filled with the chirruping and whistling of all kinds of birds as the waken to a new day. I found that I have the option on my phone to choose this sound as my alarm; it’s so much more gentle to wake up to the sound of birds than to some ghastly claxon!

The cheeriness of the birds outside my window tells me that spring is well underway here in southern Spain. I like the way I am becoming familiar with the incremental steps that move us towards warmer weather here. First, of course, is the almond blossom, that joyous herald of new things. The earliest blossoms to bloom, these delicate white flowers are hard to miss once they get going and now they cover the countryside in a way that yells springtime! 

Then we begin to see a slice of sunshine across the far side of our balcony. All through the winter, the balcony remains in shadow, the angle of the sun never permitting it to create even a small puddle of warmth and light. We miss the way the sunshine can light up this space, with its perfect view across the valley, its comfy chair and basket of books. And then, after many months, we spot it: the sun is back! It has become strong enough to make its mark again on our personal balcony sundial, which tells us that spring has arrived.

There are others things I am aware of in this season. We leave the windows open more often. We had the last fire in the grate without noticing we wouldn’t need it again for many months. I’m close to exchanging my now too-warm slippers for the flip-flops I’ll live in throughout warmer seasons. We’re filled with the urge to clean the patio, to clear the garden of weeds, to make space for ourselves outside. All across our residential area, families are painting and pruning, renovating and renewing in this warm window of time between too cold and too hot.

It’s hard to miss this feeling of new life. It’s like there’s this great sky-written invitation to shake out the shadows of the winter months and dance with fresh air freedom. Does my spirit feel it too? The old way of things is giving way to new life, do I feel it? There’s a shaking out, a breathing deep, a desire for action, to straighten things out so that we can inhabit this new life with all the joy of those singing birds.

May the blossoms bud on your branches. May the light of the sun slice through the shadowy places in your life. May a new song find its way to your lips and may a fresh wind enliven your heart. 

Words matter

For the second time in a month, last Sunday I stood in church with my two daughters while we sang about being sons of God. It could be that this happens more often in Spanish, a language that doesn’t easily permit us to fudge it when it comes to gender. Still, it got me thinking.

Now, I know we all make excuses for the masculine-oriented way our language for the spiritual life has come about. We talk about what was culturally appropriate in the days scripture was written, so that actually it is so much better that I’ve been made a son than if I were a daughter because that is more honouring. You’ve heard that one? Or we talk about translation and the limitations of language, and the fact that we just have to pick a gender and stick with it, so there’s nothing wrong with using the male pronoun, or talking about ‘mankind.’ It’s not personal, it’s just practical.

And yet, here I am, standing with my two daughters and asking them to get excited about the fact that they are sons. Do you see my deep concern here?

I want them to know that God is for them, that he is inviting them ever more deeply into this wonderful life of relational connection, where they will learn how to be fully themselves in the context of trinitarian love; where within their community they will learn what it is to make their unique contribution to the world, as they learn to walk with and be empowered by the Spirit of God. Am I, then, to present this wonderful life in God as being predominantly masculine in nature, oriented towards those who are male, who are sons? Is this the invitation God himself offers them?

Hear me when I say this: I will never, for all eternity, be a son of God. I will always and forever be a daughter of God, forever female. I will love and glorify him in myriad ways and my femaleness is not incidental to that; I will take my place as a co-heir with Jesus, ruling and reigning with him as part of his Church. And I will be female. 

And Father, Son and Spirit are heartily pleased with this. It is good. Not only that but it is the only possible thing that could be good.

I grew up in church. I’m not here to write about male leadership or male eldership, or how the Church functions in all her geographical or denominational guises. We are stumbling towards the light, and we still have some very dark corners. But I do think that along with functions in the Church, we would do well to seriously consider the way we put language to our faith. It’s not because I want all this to ‘sound fair’ or to ‘be inclusive.’ It is because we are failing to communicate anything close to a true picture of the gospel of Jesus when we tell half the population that they are sons of God.

Mothers, daughters, wives, women, friends: this good news of the kingdom is for you. It is about you being caught up into the fullness of God, who is reflected in both male and female and is so much more than either one alone. There is nothing less brilliant about your light because it is female in nature. This is not something we need to fight for, or protest about, or go overboard in seeking to redress the imbalance. It simply is truth: the heart of God conceived female as part of the expression of the divine. And within that love and wholeness, you will be living out of your strong and beautiful femaleness forever. 

Now, who can write a song about that?