Why do the best letters always come from prison?

This Thursday I went downtown to the Desmund Tutu house (across from the college), for a bible study I joined. Desmond Tutu house was started by Peace Study students at Bradford college. It sits right next to Treehouse Cafe', a fair trade coffee shop. Both places host all sorts of social justice related events. Soul Space, a church we joined a few months ago, hosts the bible study there every week. The group is made up of all different sorts of people. I've met people from all over the world at Soul Space, including: Germany, North Korea, Japan, Gambia, Sierra Leon, Canada, Brazil, and Kenya. Anyway, this week our bbs leader Andrew (who studied theology in Glasgow), brought up a really interesting line from one of Oscar Wilde's letters. Wilde wrote this letter while in prison. Apparently he had been betrayed to the french government by his lover. This deeply hurt Wilde. So, he wrote the man, telling him how much he loved him and asking him to do the right thing - giving him a second chance. He compares this moment of possible redemption to the life of Jesus.  He says this:

"Those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful moments... Mary Magdalen, when she sees Christ, breaks the rich vase of alabaster that one of her seven lovers had given her, and spills the odorous spices over his tired dusty feet, and for that one moment's sake sits for ever with Ruth and Beatrice in the tresses of the snow-white rose of Paradise. All that Christ says to us by the way of a little warning is that every moment should be beautiful, that the soul should always be ready for the coming of the bridegroom, always waiting for the voice of the lover..."

("Those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful moments..." - What a beautiful thought! Begging the question, why do the best letters always come from prison?)

The best part is you don't have to be a Christian to appreciate this thought. We all know what a beautiful redemptive moment looks like. 

They vary from culture to culture and family to family. Old people, young people, gay, straight, white, black, etc... everyone can be a part of what Wilde's talking about. It's the moment when someone realizes how utterly thankful they are, and in a moment of perfect appreciation, decide to pass the love they've been given by God onto someone else.

In the Qu'ran, Allah is always letting people into to heaven for last minute small acts of mercy. Apparently lots of religions know what God is like...

I don't know what else to say about this, except that I hope you pour your next bottle of perfume on the beautiful feet of someone you love. 

Jesus has saved you for such moments as this...

"Oh! What are men compared to rocks and mountains!"

Although there's probably a thousand things I love about each day here in England, Fridays have to be my favorite! Every Friday, Angie, her husband Malcolm and their dog Nellie, take us on long nature walks. The city can look so grey and dirty that I actually forget how beautiful England is until we get out into the hills and moors. No wonder every classic English novel I've every read (2) takes 3 chapters to describe the setting. The countryside is like a whole different world to the one I know. Everyone says "hi" to one another. You can cut through private fields and farms to get to another path, and that practically takes you through some one's kitchen. I'm not sure the term for a thing like this; Trust? You can't trust anyone in the city. Last year one of the girls purses was stolen from right beside her feet while they sat in their living room. Apparently, someone slightly cracked the door open and reached their arm through. This would never happen in the country- on this continent or any other really. Yet, in the US it seems like we're particularly concerned with private property. God forbid your dog takes a whizz on someone elses lawn, you'll be slapped with a lawsuit so fast your head will spin. 
Not so here.



The English countryside is so beautiful. There's something so natural and freeing about walking where only a few go to wander. For me it's like a free therapy session. 

I step into the cool fresh air,

my lungs expand,

veins, once bursting with hot sticky blood,

become pools of clean flowing water.

Eyes closed,

sunlight  plays on my eyelids like a ballet,

soft shadowy figures floating like fall leaves,

dancing the dance of freedom.

I use the time to clear out some head space. Problems seem simpler somehow, the world  is still. I can't think with life's distractions- it's like I'm standing in a room, facing a hundred TV sets all playing different programs, and I have a bad case ADHD. It seems, we need nature just as much as nature needs us.

Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran wrote, "Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair." Donald Miller wrote about this in one of his books; Native Americans believe the spirit of God is in the wind and water. He thinks this is a beautiful thought, because then you can swim in Him... and feel His hand brush across your cheek... Even if you're not the spiritual type, you'd have to admit there is something sacred about nature. I've seen mountains so huge and imposing that my breath suddenly catches in my chest, until I have to consciously remember to breathe out again. I love the feeling of being stopped dead in your tracks by wonder. I see this in the kids all the time; In Islam they talk about the trees holding heavenly spirits, and the stars being angels in disguise. Even just being children, they gasp at the silliest things! I swear, the other day they saw a bird swallow a spider whole, and it was all they could talk about for 5 hours! 

So I'm lucky. Every Friday I walk, pray, and like a child witnessing a bird swallow a spider for the first time, stand amazed at God on earth. May you get back to nature. And may God speak a word of peace to you, "...in a way that sneaks in and subverts your current living until you find yourself coming to life with vivacity and freedom of movement, with the sparkling, flammable words dancing in your soul, 'I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive...' until tears spill down in belief (David Crowder, Praise Habit)."

The One we wanted but couldn't have...

Since arriving last August, we've had some unique opportunities to be the hands and feet of Jesus in Bradford. All of which have been special and memorable.
I'm sorry to post this so long after the actual event, but maybe I needed that time to process it. Two Sundays ago, our choir was invited to sing at the Annual Bereaved Parents service, which is held in Bradford Cathedral. 

Bradford Cathedral
Photo: Marie U.

This service was the 15th time it's been held, and the second time our choir has been invited to sing. We sang 5 songs throughout the service. I really liked the music our director Angie chose. I feel like sometimes people who try to deal with grief in music, end up being so overwhelmed with the task at hand that they settle with cliches and goofy analogues. For instance, there's always lyrics that include "going towards light" or, heading down some metaphorical tunnel. Instead, our songs said things like, "God we're looking for meaning in all this! We've lost so much!" -which I think is powerful because they remind us that life doesn't give us easy answers and sometimes it's ok to call God out. 

Stain glass window
Photo: Marie U.

The last few songs were a bit more hopeful. They talked about  creating communities of care,  where people could be honest about all the junk their tragedies have left inside them- because they've certainly got a lot of junk to deal with now. You could see it in their faces. You know that look people have after they've lost someone? Like something that used to be their whole world got taken away, and now they're left with this deep cavernous hole where it should be? At first I thought the depressing part was that they were forced to be reminded of it on this particular day. Then, of course, I realized this is probably something they think about every day anyways.

I probably shouldn't have, but I stared at each one of them as they came in, trying to imagine if they'd lost a son or daughter. Was it cancer or a car accident? Did they get to say good bye? Was it a year ago or just last week? Some people shared their stories, or just shared thoughts that helped them cope with it. But how do you cope after losing a child? It's the most unnatural thing I can imagine. I thought the priest made a good point during his speech. He reminded us that if you've lost your parents, you're an orphan. If you've lost your wife you're a widower, or oppositely, a widow. However, there is no term for a person who has lost a child. Why is that? His thought was that there is no term big or deep or wide enough to rap itself around such grief. If you've lost a child we simply have no words for you -  your loss has no definitive term and yet your loss does define you. So people did what we've come to do for these kinds of things: They lit candles, said prayers, wrote cards to their lost children. I read a few of them afterwards. Some were to young adults who died in their 20s and 30s. But one in particular stood out to me, it said, "To the One we wanted but couldn't have." Obviously this was someone who lost a baby. I almost cried thinking about the person who lost this baby. They don't have any good memories to hold onto because they were taken too soon.

Remembrance Candles
Photo: Marie U.

I know all of this is horribly depressing, but that's life sometimes isn't it? Today one of the kids told me there is an earthquake in Pakistan. I pray it's small, but you never know. One sure thing?  People will be in pain tomorrow. The obvious question is, where is God in all this? Obviously this question has been tossed around for centuries by some of the most brilliant minds on earth, so I won't presume to have an answer - let alone answer it in a blog! I can only say if what the bible says about God is true, than God is with the hurting. It says over and over again in both Testaments that when we cry out, God is listening... he understands. And God certainly understands bereaved parents. I wondered that day if anyone in the cathedral looked up and saw the crucifix: A symbol of God's consolation with them. A way for God to say; me too.

Stained glass
Photo: Marie U.

"We're all in our rooms when the darkness falls, and we must make an effort to come outside and look each other in the eyes, or if the night still covers and we cannot yet see, we must reach out our hands to feel the lines on each other's weathered faces and fumble to feel and trace our mouths as they speak words of shared understanding and longing. And in our embracing, sparks of praise will splinter in the darkness like fireworks."

-David Crowder, Praise Habit

2011

The Journey 

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save. 

~ Mary Oliver ~