Finding a place

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 15/10/11

Among missionaries

I feel like an artist

Among artists

I feel like a fraud

Among activists

I feel like a project

Among projects

I feel bored.

Day Three

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, July 2011

Some stories only make sense when you know the ending. Beforehand the plot seems to have a life of its own with characters appearing and disappearing, scenery changing, time jumping and random strangers cropping up and saying things for no apparent reason. But then, when the final chapter kicks in, suddenly things start falling into place. A mystery is solved, then another and another until eventually all the threads weave together and you can see the whole picture.

I guess, if by some miracle, you were watching the Creation, it could well have been similar. Day one, light and dark. Day two, earth and sky. Day three, land, sea, plants and trees. All that green, all that mud, all that water. Why? What’s the point? But if you hung around, waited, watched the transforming of the land, the appearance of creatures and finally, of man and his mate, you’d understand. It was for him, for them, the apple of his eye.

Jesus lived his life in the shadow of the cross. He knew what was coming. God and him had been planning it from the beginning. Abba and the Word. So when he came here, he knew why. And everyday he handed his will over to the Father. Not a victim but a willing volunteer, free to take up his life and lay it down at his bidding.

When he read out his mission in his home town, his community were not impressed. What’s he doing? Who does he think he is? Doesn’t he know the rules? And instead of rejoicing with him, they hurled a hurricane of ridicule and tried to push him off a cliff. But Jesus was no fool. He saw beyond their words and disapproval and just walked straight through them and went on his way. 

We may find ourselves among those who don’t understand us. We may feel tempted to argue with our critics, to justify ourselves and edge nearer to a cliff. Or we could just keep walking. Keep going. Keep creating. Keep doing what we’re doing. And respond instead to what we know to be true.

But then, day four, the sun and moon giving a pattern to the day. And day five, birds and fish. Living things to fill the skies and seas. Day six, animals and people.

Living By Faith?

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, April 2011

Not only is it expensive being poor but to live a life of intentional poverty, you have to be rich enough to choose.

It looks good to have chosen to be poor. To have had the luxury to look at all the options. But what if you have no choice? What if you’re born into it with the odds stacked against you before you’ve even begun? What if you long to travel, be creative, to waste time praying, to write? How do you find that still small space when you have to work just to keep going, go out to keep connected, write emails to stay in touch?

It’s like trying to move forward with a hand pressing into your forehead, pushing you back. The effort is wearying and it’s hard to back off and retreat.

Feeling vulnerable, insecure, no back-up, misunderstood, forgotten, weary, emotional, heavy, fat, unfit, tense, uninspired, bored, depressed, lonely, cut-off.

Longings:

To walk out of my house into a safe open space, uncrowded, natural.

To have designated time and the right support to write, create and pray.

To live among others of similar mind and purpose.

To share stuff and not be hassled by money.

To be connected to and part of something bigger than my own “ministry’.

To feel at home and settled.

Man Prayer

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 2011

A man who’s stable and resolute. Who knows his mind and isn’t easily swayed. Who’s strong and supportive. Who doesn’t shy away from conflict and suffering and grief. Who’s funny and light of heart but who takes the important things seriously and thinks things through. Who practices forgiveness and is not embittered of heart. Who’s kind, compassionate and generous. Good to talk to and can stay in the present moment.

Picture of Malaga airport (Dec 1995!) – waiting for the matching bag. Last one there. Almost giving up hope. then, finally, it arrives and it’s the most natural thing to pick it up, walk out of the airport and be on our way.

Missing Voices

Phnom Penh, 19/01/11

Women and the Kingdom

A call for a tender revolution

It’s not that women aren’t there.

It’s not that their presence is not seen or felt.

It’s not that they’re not working or praying

Or fighting or holding hearts to heaven

Hastening His return.

Women are there.

Some standing strong

Faithful and resilient.

Some sitting down

Listening and longing.

Some bent low

Broken and bewildered.

And some, if not many

On their knees

Where they think they should be,

Out of habit and humility,

Tradition and contrition,

Custom and conditioning,

Out of obligation and fear.

So is this the time

For a tender revolution?

A time for minds to be unconformed

For knees to be dusted,

Feet to feel the earth,

Bodies to rise

And songs to be sung?

A tender revolution

That’s not aggressive

Or focused on rights

Or demanding

Or an angry surge

Bursting from wells of bitterness.

Instead is it a time

For a gradual awakening?

Of light slowly leaking,

Peppering the earth,

Glimpsing beauty

And sparkles of jewels

Emerging from hidden places?

Of sorrow rising

In the hearts of men

Over voices

They have missed

And longed for

Without knowing

In their doing what

They thought to be right?

Is it a time to look to Jesus

Who knew what it meant to lift up

And welcome women?

Never patronising or fearful,

Never assuming superiority,

Never undermining.

Instead seeing broken hearts

Through holy eyes.

Meeting boldness

With humour and ease;

Challenging and surprising,

Esteeming and loving,

Wildly approving

With fierce and forgiving purity.

If this is a time for a tender revolution

Then it starts on our knees:

The young and the old,

The anxious and the bold;

Male and female -

Created in the image of God.

Bowing down to begin

A new and beautiful way

Beyond the limits of

Dream or imagination.

A welcoming, at last, at last,

Of the missing voices,

The missing jewels

That will turn heads and reveal

The fullness of the Bride.

At The Coalface

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 14/12/10

Back at the coalface.

Back in the land.

No longer here just to look.

Instead it’s time

To take up my pick

And start carving out a life

Unearthing hidden treasures

Locked in years of promise.

For now it’s a season of slowness

Of feeling the rock

Of facing the looming freedom

Of living alone.

Already tested in the weakness

Of stomach sickness.

Exhausted by the thought

Of calling for help.

All too aware of no one there

Too soon for an easy community.

Wrestling with weariness and self-pity

The back-of-the-mind pressure

To do, make friends,

Get out there, get on with it.

The imagined demands

On faces far away.

But then a shift in thinking

And smiles of friends appear.

Each one for me,

Not against me.

Like the great cloud of witnesses

Waving their support

Yet with feet planted on this earth

Standing under the same sun.

Here the sky is sparkly and clear

And the land rich and green.

Here the people grin and giggle

And welcome,

Always welcome me in.

Yet still I feel

The unresolved rawness

The repression of a nation’s soul

Still suffering.

Centuries of civil war

Have left their legacy

With tribe against tribe

Friend against friend

Man against wife.

The now you see me

Now you don’t play acting

Of hidden truths

And up front lies.

The overflow of NGOs

Of missions and churches

Of projects and causes

All with different ways and views.

You can feel the unease

The friction and competition

The wariness and caution

The temptation not to trust.

Yet here I am

Standing at the coalface

Grasping at the words

To define this time.

The more I see and hear

The more my head spins.

The more I think too much

The more I delay.

So with pick in hand

I smile at those who sent me

Who loved me enough

To set me on my way

And ask that you might pray.

For Strong Arms around me

Peace deep within me

And release of the Wildness

That will break the rock.

The Mourning After Bon Om Tuk

Phnom Penh, Cambodia 14/12/10

“Bon Om Tuk” is the Cambodian name for the Water Festival which takes place every November when boat races are held on the Tonle Sap River in Phnom Penh to celebrate the reversing of the river’s current and mark the beginning of the fishing season. Thousands flock to the city to support their village or town’s crew and join in the party. This year, however, there were tragic results when a bridge spanning the river collapsed and 400+ people lost their lives.

The water is calm now.

The broken bridge fixed.

The boats that battled back and forth

Long gone.

Up and down the country

Villagers are celebrating victories

Commiserating defeat

Remembering good times

Burying their dead.

Last week we sat here,

Let the crowds pass us by.

Beside me, a small child with his mother

Wriggled and giggled

Dripping orange from his ice lolly.

She smiled beneath her checkered hat,

Crunching on crickets,

All spicy and deep-fried.

Men in their long dug-out boats

Sped by with warrior roars,

Faces full of fight,

Oars like swords.

The yellows and the greens,

The reds and whites,

The blacks and blues.

Tribes let loose to battle it through.

That night fireworks flared

As more people gathered. 

Street vendors cried out

Above the noise and the chatter.

Police patrolled in packs of three

And children weaved, unseen,

Dipping hands in pockets

Running away with freebie wallets. 

We stood unmoved by the river.

The boy and his mother

Gone to join the crowd.

Barges floated by like peacocks,

Their sails lit up

Laughing in the breeze.

Litter at the water’s edge

Danced and shimmied.

And the King in his enclosure

Stood nearby

Smiling at the display.

Further up a bridge was swaying

Full of people

Caught up in the razzle dazzle.

Pushing, squeezing, straining to see.

Not knowing

That soon the wires would frazzle

That soon sparks would fly

That soon they’d lose their footing

That soon they might just die.

That night we left with minds full of spectacle.

Ears numbed by the bangs and blasts

Stomachs heavy with syrupy sweetness

Eyes sparkling and sore

Oblivious to the disaster

Still waiting to happen.

Half asleep in the tuk tuk

That took us to our door.

Today the water is calm

The bridge is fixed

And the boats have gone.

Every now and then

A single flip-flop floats past

And the current, now turned,

Carries it away.

Sitting by water always has a calming effect on me. And when I wrote this poem I needed some calm. The disaster I’d heard about and seen on the news had disturbed me deeply. I’d not been in Cambodia long but the place had got under my skin. And I really felt it when I saw the images of all those people, mainly young people, bruised and battered and laid out, dead. Sometimes I’m not sure if a sadness I’m feeling is mine or someone else’s. Or something I’m picking up in the atmosphere. Whatever, that day I had to write to lift off the heaviness. To join in the collective lament. And to find rest for myself too. The only place where it felt right to do that was the river. Where it had all happened. But where life still went on. Albeit in sharper focus.