A Tribute To Children's Day

There is one day in the church year when it is completely fine to stand at the front and pick your nose.

It is completely fine to play air guitar with abandon and it is completely fine to dance a rhythmic yet mainly uncoordinated dance. 

It is also completely fine to have a rugby line-out and to have a huge rugby audience cheer when the ball is caught.

It is completely fine to sing totally out of tune, very loudly and also to do this only for the chorus because they’re the only words you remember, so for the verses you wave at your granny instead.

There is one day in the church year that we call Children’s Day.

For ragged edged people which is often parents.

‘I feel like this,’ I sighed, inspecting the ragged soft toy dangling by one tatty ear between my finger and thumb.

Jazzy the rabbit.

A sorry sight indeed after years of ownership. Still undoubtedly a boy’s most beloved possession but sadly no longer ‘plush’.

I cannot imagine a time when Jazzy, as forlorn a creature that he is, will not be loved. I’m no longer officially permitted to put Jazzy in the washing machine in case he doesn’t make it out again intact – my maternal outcry at the lack of hygiene falling on stubbornly deaf boy ears. (Unofficially however, without owner permission, Jazzy has danced with spin cycle death but that’s between you and I.)

Jazzy has been loved ferociously ever since he came home from the maternity ward, tucked in amongst the blankets with his swaddled owner. He has been loved so much that he haemorrhages stuffing. Denuded by years of childhood companionship, there isn’t a tuft of fur left on his floppy body, his nose has been partially rubbed off and he is coming undone at so many seams.  

Parenting can leave you feeling a bit like this. Much needed and much loved but worn out.

Some days, it might feel as if we’re splitting at the hem. Our stitching unravels and we become frayed and tattered at the edges. Human love does that. It rubs us raw. It makes gaping holes and everything inside spills out. It makes a mess of us, makes demands of us, day in and day out. Sometimes we’re weary to the point of exhaustion and our own love gets a bit shabby. It might feel by the end of the day that we have little left within us to give. A voice inside begins to whisper, ‘you’re not enough’ - ‘not wise enough’, ‘not strong enough’, ‘not good enough’.

Feeling hollowed out one day, God’s timing brings a reading of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians to a close with a final reminder of these verses.

 ‘I pray that you will understand the incredible greatness of God’s power for us who believe in him. This is the same mighty power that raised Christ from the dead and seated him in the place of honour at God’s right hand in the heavenly realms.’ Ephesians 1:19-20

And a needle is threaded. A stitch is sewn.

We are not left to simply put our collar up, cast our eyes to the ground and wait for the difficulty to pass. We are reminded that the power that raised Jesus from the dead is the same power that is within us and if that is true, if that is what we believe, it makes a difference.

It means that here is the power that makes us enough. It is the power that redeems every mistake and failure. It is the power that resurrects what is dead and makes it new. It is the power of the One who is always strong enough, wise enough and good enough.

It is the power that can re-stuff us with love every morning. The power that stitches and hems us together again.

Death tears and rips love apart.

Grace mends and renews love.

Parenting is not the only ragged edged place to feel the tension.

Perhaps all of life is lived in the tension between flawed love and perfect love.

On the days when we feel the tension, may we pray Paul’s prayer for one another.

Sunday Slippers

On reaching Sunday morning at the writers residential weekend, Lucan, Dublin.

The Sunday light filters into the room, distilling and gently evaporating the unease of previous days. The door lies open, allowing the tension to escape with a long mental exhale. The classroom becomes the sanctuary. Morning worship begins with a relaxation of spirit and slippered feet under the table.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to church wearing your slippers before,’ I comment with a smile, as my shoeless companion settles herself on the seat next to me.

We all stood on holy ground during our time of devotion that morning. Spring’s warmth and brightness blending with praise and gratitude, pervading the atmosphere with the sweet aroma of worship. Ground on which to tread lightly and reverently.

I think of the slippers on the feet of the person beside me, symbolic of being at home, feet treading softly and under the family table. We are members of the extended family of Christ, unfamiliar with one another and yet a church of spiritual relatives gathered together for a brief time, feet resting at the hearth of God’s home fire.

Home is where you feel comfortable enough to kick your shoes off and just be yourself. You slide your feet into warm, comfortable slippers and sigh with relief. This is my abode, my place of rest. This is the fireside I choose.

Home is where God’s spirit lives and moves. Heaven is everywhere. It streams in through doors and windows on morning sunbeams, filling the hearts of brothers and sisters in Christ.

The Holy Spirit softly moved among us, welcoming us as we stepped into worship. A writing people offering their words to God, the great author and story teller. We sang the story of redemption. We read our confession aloud. We penned our prayers. We listened to the Word, exploring his metaphors. The things of everyday life communicating truth and speaking of the Kingdom of Heaven.

And again the slippers, reminding me that it is possible to be at ease and at home even when physically distant from where we normally live, work and go to church. Even in a place where we are being challenged or stretched, where we are being asked to live out the tension of doing something we find difficult, there is a whisper in the ordinary evoking the joy of home.

Later in the day, we each return to the place we came from.

Another week passes. A fresh Sunday morning dawns and while I don’t go to church in my slippers, I go to a place where I’m surrounded by family. I go back to the people who waved me off in prayer on the road to Lucan a week ago. We sing in praise and glimpse our forever-home as feet again rest together under God’s table.