Thanks for making it REAL

Those Facebook '2014 round up' things are a great way of summarising the year in pictures. But only after publishing it did I realise that it's actually not all been plain sailing. There have been many happy times - this isn't a 'woe is me' blog.

But to ignore the reality of the more bitter moments is to wallpaper over the reality of life, and pretend we live in a Disney film. And as much as I would like to do that sometimes (hello John Smith), it's not true and it's not helpful.

So much of this season can boil down to a pressure to be happy, lighthearted and suddenly forget the normal ups and downs of the last 364 days. We don't help ourselves or others by doing this.

So here's how my year really looked:

2014 was Sunday roasts with friends. Coffees in the city; yellow flowers, Ben & Jerry's and a solitary to-die-for brownie at the end of a rough day.

Job interviews, life admin, wedding prep with invites, découpage and jam jars. Playing keys for the first time in church and doing life with home group. Ecstatic dancing to good news and prayers graciously answered. Goodbyes and all the loss that comes with it. Turbulence and turmoil, new homes and IKEA flatpacks.

Weddings and gatherings and new homes. The cementing of friendships through laughter, prayer, occasional tears and always tea. Discovering that the things you've longed for don't look how you expected them to. The rearing up of old beasts; good friends, chocolate, and a LOT of patience. Brokenness, openness and sheer gritting of teeth.

Walks through Greenwich park in the sunshine and watching Morris Dancers on the heath. The walk from the boys' house to our flat. The loss of dear ones, friendships, and a silver ring somewhere in west London. Waffles, fancy dress and awkward cookies in Hyde Park.

Street food on the Southbank; Monday nights with Tingley; reunions with many wonderful people I'm blessed to call friends. Roadtrips with Lydia and getting acquainted with east London. A thawing out and a going deeper. Bridesmaiding for two really special ladies in my life; new friendships, fireworks, poppies.

Thank you to everyone who made this year REAL in all its joys and imperfections.

Here's to the next...

But why is it Good....?

Out of few inevitable things in life - y'know, death and taxes - a lesser known inevitable is the fact that this one-carriage, thrice-daily train across the Welsh border will always smell of wet dog and Monster Munch. But the sky is blue, the sun shines, it's the beginning of the 4-day Easter weekend.

I'm excited about going home, seeing my family, and I am definitely excited for 4 days of rest and my mother's roast lamb.

I'm trusting that this visit, and the beautiful countryside, will be a healing time. All is not well in my heart. Two weeks of goodbyes, packing, cleaning, moving, living out of bin bags and attempting to make sense of a new job have left me bruised and drained. I have nothing to give. And in the hubbub of my self-centred chaos, I barely hear the whisper of Easter approaching. I feel completely disconnected to what it means for me; yet aware that it's for people feeling just like me today.

In a brilliant book I've been reading by Shauna Niequest, she comments that one of the central messages of the gospel is the cycle of death and rebirth; beautiful sunshine and then rain; losses and new beginnings. She also commented that change is hard, and that if we fight it, it can break us. I read that, some weeks ago, sitting in the sun, thinking 'Well... Yeah, course'. What else is new?

And yet, as I stood dejected in my bare, bin-bag-filled room, I realised that fighting against the change, rallying against it in my heart rather than being open to the new things God might birth, was exactly what I had been doing.

So what does this have to do with Good Friday, with God himself taking on all our sin and pain and loss and destroying it? Well, (as ever), it means there's hope. The hope of rebirth. Things can and will get better. Hurdles can be overcome; joy can be clung to. Death is never the end of the story, and though we might wait 3 days or 30 years for the rebirth, the new hope - it always comes.

One Year On: Things I've learnt.

Today marks one year since Hannah and I arrived at our new home in south-east London to start the next stage of life. I cannot get over how much has changed since then – cue some emotional nostalgia.

We arrived in the middle of the Olympics, the whole city revelling in sun and sporting success. The playlist of those weeks was Emeli Sande and Florence & The Machine. We were introduced to Blackheath and watched Usain Bolt's 100 metre win on a sunny evening on the heath with locals.

A whole year on, I think I’ve learnt a few things about myself, the world, London, and life. I thought I’d fill you in....

1.      People DO (occasionally) smile on the tube. In fact, a man did actually speak to me once. But he was American, so maybe that doesn’t count. Similarly, in the early days I informed a colleague that I relished smiling at strangers on the tube – and that some actually smiled back. I was bluntly informed that “That’s cos they think you’re mental”. Well, at least she was honest. 

      Another thing I’ve learnt is that a morning commute essentially means you will be forced to share a highly un-British and uncomfortably small amount of space with complete strangers. This inevitably results in the unsociability that pervades London transport: the only way you can get through a train ride with your face in someone else’s armpit is to avoid all eye contact.

2.      After a whole year, working near travelling past the London Eye, South Bank and Westminster hasn’t got old yet. But having to shove through huge crowds of tourists all taking the same shot of Big Ben did, really quickly.

3.      I can manage a whole month living alone in a new city, without being found half-eaten by Alsatians (a concern at one point – see here)

4.      One of the most valuable things for getting settled into a new place is good friends and family to show you round – thank you Emily and siblings.

5.      No matter how cold it is outside, when on board a train you will need to remove almost all clothing to avoid sweating profusely.

6.      A good thing about our location is that people often want to stay over for the night. Guests include: Mim, Shepka, Luke, Fran & Miller, Lydia, Hannah, Tingley & Pete, Becky and Colette. Fortunate guests of Chateau Cope-Randerson will have become accustomed to Hannah’s ridiculously loud coffee maker, and my loud singing in the shower (actually, my loud singing full stop).

7.      Don’t dress up in a dragon onesie in front of your boss – unless you decide you care more about having fun than getting a promotion. Ditto, dalek costumes.

8.      The best place to go and think about the Big Things of life during your lunch break is Parliament Square. Even if it’s sleeting and 2° outside. Parliament Square is also a brilliant setting for a motivating walk to work – walking along past statues of Churchill, Abe Lincoln and Nelson Mandela really gears oneself up for a day of e-mails and stapling.

9.      On that note – unless you do a grad-scheme or ‘get lucky’, your first job out of uni will likely be occasionally interesting, but often boring. Once you start, you will realise just how little you know, and how young you feel (although dressing up as a Dalek probably didn’t help my case). The more you learn, the more you’ll realise your ignorance. But God has been showing me this year that it’s not what I do but who I am doing it for.

10.  The only way to walk in central London, is quickly. If you’re not going to walk quickly, get out of our way.

11.  In addition – something about London makes me more impatient. And perhaps, people generally. Maybe it is that Londoners have become so used to accessing whatever so quickly – materials, food, transport, entertainment – that even a brief wait is too long and perceived as an inconvenience.

12.  Google maps, Google maps, Google maps. Forget the London A-Z. This little treasure was the one thing that (usually) stopped me getting completely overwhelminghly lost in London, and the one thing that means I turn up to vaguely the right event venue at vaguely the right time.

13.  Going to church on your own for the first time is really daunting, even if you’re a Full-On Extrovert. Be especially friendly to the people who turn up looking awkward and new-ish. Unless you stay in the same place your entire life, one day it will be you.

14.  If your flatmate comes home excited after a wedding, chances are she got engaged whilst she was away.

15.  Don’t travel through central London, on your own, on New Years’ Eve. You will be forced to traipse up and down the Strand following policemens’ directions and be immersed in a shoving crowd of drunk revellers all trying to get home.

16.  Living with a hyper-organised person will, on the whole, make you more organised. Lists can be useful. Planning can be fun. (Oh gosh, who have I become?) Living with Hannah means making sure the toilet lid is kept down at all times (except, when you’re using it) and the DVDs are alphebetised – Richard, take note.

17.  In a similar vein, the past year of living with Hannah has also taught me that: 1) salad can be a tasty meal (provided it involves meat and the word ‘Epic’ is placed in front);  2) One can apparently never have enough couscous; 3) Made In Chelsea is ridiculous, but also shamefully addictive; 4) if your flatmate rearranges the entire living room furniture, the world does not actually end; 5) Don’t Ever Touch Hannah When She’s Hot; 6) The only way to plan a wedding 18 months in advance is with multiple spreadsheets.

18.  Things I have taught Hannah: 1) Spontaneity CAN be fun; 2) If I go too long without a hug I am prepared to chase her around the living room until she gives in; 3) I will happily shout ‘HANNYBEAR, WAIT FOR ME’ in public if I want to embarrass her at any point; 4) The Guardian is a normal newspaper and not only for hippies; 5) I am remarkably calm in a panic situation, say, when the brakes stop working whilst Hannah is driving.

19.  Working in central London will expose you to people who have a lot more than you and people with a lot less. Trying to remain content in every situation is difficult but valuable.

20.  Trafalgar Square is a fantastic location for a game of Where’s Thea.

21.  The journey between London and Birmingham is not all that long and completely worth it when there are lovely people to see at the other end.

22.  If the landlady tells you that your flat is in a quiet neighbourhood, what she means is that you won’t speak to your neighbours all year (except a fateful evening after the first day of the new job where upstairs’ flood leaks through to your flat). You will, however, be sharing a neighbourhood with people who get arrested under the terrorism act, and a man who enjoys blasting a single reggae song from his penthouse at bizarre times of night.

But I guess more than any of this, the most important thing I’ve learnt over the past year is that God is so incredibly, immensely faithful. He had to ‘throw me out of the nest’ (so to speak) for me to fly. A year ago, I was bewildered, daunted, fearful, and totally doubting what I was doing here (read my blog here). My mum pointed me to Exodus and the Israelites’ doubting God’s purposes for them after Egypt. I was forced to hold on and trust that God had a plan in this. Being dragged (kicking and screaming, as it sometimes felt) to London, by God, was exactly what I needed to get stronger, grow and have loads of exciting adventures. I’ve seen for myself that God can bring us out of the valleys, that he is the one who ‘restores my soul’. It was by being thrown so totally out of my comfort zone that I have flourished and come to really full-on love life again.

Going Back and Looking Forward

Last week I got my official letter confirming that I've passed my probation period at work. PRAISE GOD! Before I moved to London, I was weirdly detached and calm about the move: yes it was scary, but ultimately two things could happen: "Either I will be fine, or it'll be awful and I'll have to move back home'. Looks like (for the present at least), it is the former, and that really is purely by God's grace. I'm no longer a 'newbie'; and its strange that London is becoming day-to-day for me. It's bizarre to think that when I arrived at my job three months ago, London was enjoying the Indian summer and the 2012 games; I complained about the heat on the trains and watched Usain Bolt triumph sitting in the evening sunshine on Blackheath.

I've spent the past few weekends travelling back to Birmingham for birthday parties and hen parties. 'Going back' is always interesting: I felt overwhelmed and emotional as I glimpsed the university's clock tower from the train; and it was beautiful time spent catching up with my friends.

The memories aren't wholly great, though, and I haven't been away for long enough to forget the sometimes very bleak times of the past year. I can go back, and remember; and rejoice that God pulled me (very much kicking and screaming) from a place I'd been so happy, in order to move me on to a fresh place, with dozens of new challenges but also new chances for recovery, joy and development. He's been so incredibly faithful.

However, a little voice accompanied me as I walked around the familiar streets I still regard 'home', which possess so many sweet (and some rather more bitter) memories. The voice says: how long? How long will you be peaceful, plateau-ed, strong, 'well', in your new place? Yes, things aren't always amazing but I'm managing, I'm coping. This is, though, at least partly a survival technique: I'm in a new place with a job to do and rent to pay. I can't get too comfortable- I can't allow the fear to take over. I suppress the thought, how long before I properly get used to things and my fear rears its head? How many more times will I have to move and throw myself into new scary challenges just to ward off my anxieties a few more years?

Whilst this concern should not be ignored, I have to once again refer back to my previous post on surrender. I can't know the future and I can't actually control it. I'm very much in my Father's hands. This doesn't make me a robotic, fatalistic automaton, incapable of decisions or free will; it just reminds me that I am actually not independently in control. And again, this isn't a cause for fear but for joy, as the One who is, is so incredibly powerful and loving. Who knows what the future holds for me? All I know is that things are okay at the moment.

Walking in the Dark

Sometimes being here feels wonderful and exciting and I can’t believe God’s blessing in bringing me to this place and blessing me with a job. Other times, like today, I wonder what on earth I’m doing here. God, why did you bring me here? Why did you take me out of the place I knew, from the people I loved, to set up camp in this random place where transport never stops and the orange smog never clears? And why bring me to something I clearly can’t do, with challenges beyond my reach, struggling out of my depth? What’s wrong with me being in on Your plans?

   

The wisdom of my incredible mother took me to Exodus, where it didn’t take a lot of reading or praying to see myself reflected page after page in the fearful, cynical Israelites. They change their mind more often than the British weather. One minute they’re praising God for getting them out of Egypt; the next they’re challenging His decision to ever get them out in the first place. So it is with me. I prayed for a job and a new direction. God gave me a job and a new location. I told him I couldn’t do it. He gave me a friend to take the step with me. He gave me incredible family and friends. He provided lovely people at a good church. He heard my friend’s prayer and put not one but two Christians in the place I work. He answered every fear of the last weeks. And yet after one yucky day, I hear myself say to God, ‘What were you doing bringing me here?’ And turning on myself to say ‘Why did you ever think you could make it?’ Just like the Israelites, I spent last year moaning to God that I didn’t have a job and didn’t know what to do and needed Him to make radical changes in my life. Now that I have a job and a new direction, all I can do is moan at God that He took me from a place I was apparently so happy in and put me in a job I find challenging.

   

The interesting thing about the exodus from Egypt is that even though the Israelites cry out to God for freedom, they have no way of attaining it; and the minute they get a taste of it, they’d rather go back to the known, even if that means turning their back on freedom.

I totally get this. Even if the present state is mediocre or paralysing or ridden with anxiety or holds you hostage- it’s a much safer option than flying into the unknown, even on the promise of your God. Or so I would see it. Surely, however, we’re  most safe when we are relying fully on God and where He wants to place us, even if it feels more risky than our own known prisons. This reminds me of my favourite lyrics, potentially ever, from Brooke Fraser’s ‘C.S Lewis Song’:

-          “‘cos my comfort would prefer for me to be numb / than enjoy the impending birth of who I was born to become”

My comfort is a lot better off knowing exactly what restrictions, strongholds and barriers surround my own life. I’ve got used to living with them. It’s far more frightening to trust God and believe that He is the one who can bring us into more freedom.

Similarly, this move means growing pains and effort and tiredness and emotion; a lot more bother than I would have had if I’d stayed where I was. Instead of complaining that God has brought me out here to sink, or thinking that God won’t be bothered with me now that I’m not involved in full-time Christian ministry, I have a choice, a leap in the dark. I can choose to believe that He’s brought me here and, just as with the Israelites, He will graciously hear my unfounded complaints and choose to bless me despite them.