Tom writes:

We’ve been having conversations recently at one of the chapels I work with. Conversations about a bench. This bench is outside the chapel, on our property, ideally located in a place where people walking by, as they do, might choose to sit down and take a little pause, a little breather, before carrying on their way.

The reason we’ve been talking about it is that it needs some restoration. We’re all agreed that work should happen, but the challenge has been that some were not keen on directly replacing the text written on the bench. For, on the bench, is written some text. Whoever wrote it was familiar, I would suggest, with one of the older translations of scripture available. For it reads: “Come ye apart, and rest a while.” (A shortening of Mark 6.31.)

More than one of our folk suggested, not unreasonably, that to come apart was not understood today as it once was. Indeed, one person wryly noted that coming apart was precisely what the bench was currently doing itself! As part of our conversations, we did consider whether simply removing the bench would be appropriate. This suggestion was swiftly dismissed – the bench is a part of our mission. A very small part, admittedly, (no-one is expecting the bench to be the centre of a great revival) but nonetheless it is a gift to the local community, a place, a space, a point on the landscape where a pause is possible, where someone can rest, and think, and talk, and pray in the midst of whatever journeys, physical or otherwise, they are undertaking.

The opportunity to do this is a truly open gift. Neither the bench, nor the community of faith who offer its use to the wider neighbouring community, makes any request other than a willingness to cross the threshold of the church property. You don’t have to be religious, or spiritually inquisitive, or a seeker of faith; you can be happy or sad, in company or on your own, heading somewhere specific or just wandering around: whoever you are, wherever you’re at in life, if you want to sit down then the bench exists for you.

And the opportunity to pause, to spend time resting, recovering and recuperating, is one of the opportunities Lent offers. We don’t often see it like that. We see it as a time of putting down things we’d rather keep hold of, or picking up things we’ve mistakenly let go of. In other words, we see it as a time of effort. Yet within that opening reminder that we are dust and to dust we shall return, is a reminder that we cannot obtain grace through our own efforts. Within that opening reminder that we are to turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ is a reminder that we are called into relationship with one whose yolk is easy, and whose burden is light, and who calls us apart to rest a while. I’ve often mused on the strange juxtaposition of the call to carry our crosses alongside the call
to carry a yolk that is easy. I’ve never found any kind of solution to its seeming paradox. But I’ve learnt to trust that by resting in Christ there is strength to do far more than we could possibly imagine.

So, the bench will be repaired and repainted. The words will be updated (“Come aside, and rest a while”) but the invitation will remain the same: come, sit down, whoever you are, wherever you are in life, however you’re feeling, and pause for a moment in the busyness of the world – and perhaps, just perhaps, while sat beside a building that stands for God’s presence in the world, you might come to feel the great love God has for you, and the peace that only God can give.

Find out more about James at https://wearejames.com/

Jane writes:

When I sat myself down to think about the FF this week, I had half a plan. Then my mind wandered, and I got stuck in a vortex of walking songs.

I could have walked 500 miles or have been walking….
Back to happiness
In the rain
Or on sunshine
In boots of a certain kind
Like an Egyptian
On broken glass
Or even on the moon

You get the picture. It’s a theme that has fascinated lyricists everywhere for years and years.

Still, choosing what I already had on my mind was ok because it lives in great company. It’s a song from the musical Carousel, but it is also an anthem for football fans and sung by thousands (largely in Liverpool
thanks to the Gerry and the Pacemakers version from the 60s). It tugs at the heartstrings wherever it finds itself in earshot.

Now … take care, I’m about to give a plot spoiler ( I don’t feel too bad as the original production of Carousel was in 1945, but you know how complex the world of culture works). Someone in this story, who is pivotal to the plot, dies, and this song is designed to bring comfort in grief.

I guess that may be the reason my dad chose it for his funeral. That, and the footy connection, a game he adored both as a fan and a hospital radio commentator. This song has, in its v. simple and limited lyrics, a recognition that life is complex and stormy. That no one goes untouched by its ups and downs, and that deep loss is inevitable. It tries to paint a picture of a possible positive outcome with its overriding message of hope in its chorus.

Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, Walk on with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone, you’ll never walk alone

It seems somehow fitting too for this Lenten season, which is of course a time of reflection and wondering – or indeed wandering in deserts. It encourages getting back to basics with who we are, often by denying ourselves the things that get in the way. It encourages us to step out day by day. It brings us to a point of death and grief in a story that has stayed around for 2000 years in the world’s psyche, and it seems a bit hopeless.

The golden skies in both the song and the Easter story are not always obvious for us, somehow unseen. Yet we can hold on to the fact that our faith, our people and our God are accompanying us on life’s journey and that might give us just enough hope to reach a different, and more positive, place. Hope is always a bit of a mystery concept for me, but if we can hold on to the sense that we are not in things alone and that we
can draw on the “hive mind” of groups and communities out there, then we may move forward in tiny steps.

Those communities that encourage, not diminish. Those that love, not hate. Those who support without judgment. Those found in church or beyond its walls. Walking alone is not a thing you have to do. That bit is not just hope, but reality, and it builds possibilities.

Walk on today, for hope is never very far away in all sorts of forms, and maybe if you’re in a good place, take a walk with others who need a companion to embody that hope.

As the song says, Walk On.
.
You can find out more about Carousel here
https://rodgersandhammerstein.com/show/carousel/

You can find out more about Gerry Marsden here
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerry_and_the_Pacemakers

You can find out more about some of the supporting groups here
https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/peer-support-groups/how-to-
find-a-support-group/#England

or here

Our local support services

Fidge writes:

We start our Lenten journey with a song that’s a bit of an earworm, one that you’ll either love or hate but either way, the chorus will no doubt repeat in your head all day! I’m hoping that indeed, it may accompany us throughout the season of Lent- but more of that later!

Lent begins with an invitation to turn. We often hear that as “giving something up.” But what if Lent was less about deprivation and more about direction? Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club” might seem like an unlikely companion for the journey to Easter, yet at its heart, the song tells the story of someone turning towards a life that feels true, even when expectation disappoints. And perhaps that kind of turning – risky, honest, courageous- is exactly where Lent begins.

This song starts with a turning. A daughter leaves home and chooses something that doesn’t meet the expectations she was brought up with. She knows it will be misunderstood, but she goes anyway.

“I know you wanted me to stay
But I can’t ignore the crazy visions of me in LA
And I heard that there’s a special place
Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day.
I’m having wicked dreams of leaving Tennessee
Hear Santa Monica, I swear it’s calling me.
Won’t make my mama proud, it’s gonna cause a scene
She sees her baby girl, I know she’s gonna scream
God, what have you done?”

In the leaving of home and expectations, she discovers something essential about herself. She realises she isn’t losing at all; she’s waking up to a life that feels fuller, more alive and unapologetically hers. She doesn’t become someone new; she simply begins to live a life more fully than before. And perhaps that is what Lent is for- creating enough space to notice where life is quietly inviting us to turn and live more fully.

Perhaps this Lent, the song “Pink Pony Club” is an invitation to step into the life we are called to live. Turning doesn’t always need to be dramatic, but rather and more often, a slow awakening. A recognition. Permission to follow the call we may have been feeling all along.

I suggested at the start of this reflection that the chorus line “I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club” may accompany us throughout Lent. Perhaps we might sing or hum these words as a prayer- to remind us to keep turning, keep waking and keep dancing towards the truest version of ourselves.

Find out more about Chappell Roan at https://www.iamchappellroan.com

Lent begins next week, and, as has become customary, we’re going to follow a little Lent Journey with a weekly word to focus on. We’ve called it ‘Room To Breathe.’

So during Lent 2026, we’ll be:

• Turning
• Walking
• Pausing
• Opening
• Receiving
• Becoming

Gill writes:

There’s a line in Life in a Northern Town that I always notice — ‘They sat on the stony ground…‘ It feels like a memory that you can feel too. I picture it like a still from a black-and-white film. A world that you half-remember, even if you never lived there.

Nostalgia does that. It wraps the past in warm light. It edits out the harsher edges. It makes yesterday feel safer than today.

The word itself is revealing. Nostalgia comes from two Greek words: nostos — homecoming and algos — pain. It literally means the pain of wanting to go home.

In the 17th century, nostalgia was considered a medical condition — a kind of homesickness that made soldiers physically ill. But the home it longs for is rarely a real place. More often, it’s a feeling. A time we can’t return to. A version of ourselves without all the ups and downs of life.

I’ve been reading Alexei Navalny’s memoir Patriot, and he makes a sharp observation: authoritarian leaders often trade in nostalgia. They promise a return to national greatness — a restoration of a world that was supposedly stable, ordered and morally clear. But as he notes, that world never really existed in the way it’s remembered. It’s a myth dressed up as a memory.

Nostalgia can be politically dangerous because it tells us the best days are behind us.

But it can be spiritually dangerous too.

Christian faith is not built on returning to a golden age. Scripture is astonishingly forward-facing. ‘Forget the former things,’ says Isaiah. ‘See, I am doing a new thing.‘ And in Revelation: ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’

Not restoring. Not rewinding. Not returning.

New.

There’s a difference between remembering with gratitude all that has gone before, and living in (and for) the past. Israel remembered — constantly — but always as a catalyst for movement. ‘Remember you were slaves in Egypt…’ not so you can go back, but so you can live differently now.

Sometimes when we say we long for ‘simpler times,’ what we really mean is we long for when we were simpler: our younger selves, when we were less aware of the world’s fragility. There’s something pastorally wise in naming that the ache for ‘simpler times’ is often grief for our own lost innocence. That kind of honesty can help us to reframe such longing. It acknowledges that the ache is real, but that the approach to it might need adjusting.

Nostalgia can feel to us like a gentle, harmless, even cosy place to be. To question it, especially with others, can seem mean-spirited and rude. But maybe by questioning it, asking why we are yearning for the past, is a way of protecting hope (yes – one of my favourite words is back again). We’re saying: we are not people who live facing backwards.

And it could be argued that that’s deeply biblical.

God is not found in an imagined golden yesterday. God is found in the wilderness ahead, and in the messy, frustrating present that you find yourself in. In the unfolding. In the becoming.

It’s funny, I guess, when you reflect that the Bible is a collection of stories from the past. Ancient words, ancient worlds. But the Word itself is not trapped there. It speaks. It moves. It breaks into the present tense. The gospel is not ‘once upon a time,’ rather it is ‘the kingdom is at hand.’ The same Spirit that hovered over creation hovers still — over this moment, this choice, this unfolding now.

Of course, the past will always sing to us. It will always sound warmer than today. But we don’t live in a northern town of memory. We live here. In this unfinished place. With all its cracks and possibilities.

And perhaps the bravest thing we can do is turn our faces forward and set them like flint.

Jane writes:

I love film, and if I could guarantee that I wouldn’t spoil every film for future viewers I’d be much more productive around sharing my views. Spoilers are not my happy place!

In late December, I went off to see Sentimental Value. A bilingual Norwegian film, and at the time I remember saying this – “Went to see Sentimental Value today. It was quite hard going in places, but it had a real depth to it. The soundtrack appealed to me too”

That is absolutely true. The soundtrack did appeal. It was varied but really gave the film a vibe, and this track jumped out. I’ve listened to the soundtrack again since quite a lot, but this track is the one that draws you into the narrative of the film, but the tone of it too, and that’s more about the overall sound than the lyrics. In fact, the driver for sharing here at the Friday Fix at all is more about how it made me feel than what it had to say.

It’s the quality of a voice. It’s the slightly ethereal quality created by the strings and the mood of the jazz line. It’s the progress the track makes from a standing start. It’s where it leaves you.

Often our world relies on what people have to say. The narrative. The spin. The speech. The declaration. The lie. You can though, often just get a sense of what is right or wrong, or truth or lie, from the look or the unspoken. The moment of absence or the urgency of breath. The aura of a moment.

In my experience, a hotline to the voice of God is really hard to come by. It is, though, sometimes easier to get a sense of how to connect to the holy through a sound. An overwhelming feeling of what to do. An insight from culture or a friend. Some passage of a book. You get my drift. Even biblically, people relied as much on signs and wonders, or dreams to find their way as they did the clear instruction.

I wonder what this tune might reveal to you today, just by playing it and not overthinking it. What does it show you that you need? Maybe somewhere between time and space, you’ll find a way to connect to the holy, to be free. (The track has one of those funk jazz interludes that goes on for a while, and it’s really worth it in my view. After all its 9 minutes long in its entirety!!! Proper FF value for money.)

Terry Callier has now died, but you can find out more about him here https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Callier

You can also find out about Sentimental Value here https://www.imdb.com/title/tt27714581/ – although if I were you, I’d go see it and avoid the spoilers. It will be doing the rounds, I’m sure, after all its Oscar nominations.

Marc writes:

I’ve recently started listening my way through the 1001 greatest albums in the order that they’re offered to me by the generator at https://1001albumsgenerator.com/. So far, I’ve had a mix, including Muse and Radiohead, Cat Stevens and Little Richard. It’s meaning that I’m being introduced to old favourites, and new classics, unfamiliar genres, and ticking off some of those musical “musts” that so many people rave about.

On the day I’m writing, I’m listening to Public Enemy’s “Fear of a Black Planet” which was released in 1990.

The beauty of this project is that you’re encouraged to listen to the whole album, in order, in the way it was created and intended… It’s not just the single snapshot of the specific release aimed at a hit. And that means I’m encountering the songs that I didn’t just pick up with the masses. This album isn’t one I’ve listened to before, and so there are plenty of new songs for me to meet for the first time.

Tucked in the middle of the album is “Incident at 66.6 FM”. Labelled as an “instrumental” track, it’s a collection of clips from a radio interview and call-in, leading into the next track of the album.

Over the last few years, I’ve been more intentional about recognising my whiteness and educating myself about the impact that has historically had on the world. I’ve tried to read and listen to the lived experiences of those who don’t have my “privileges”. But here’s my confession: when this album appeared on my listen-list today, and when I got to this track, my gut response was to consign the experiences and influences of the album to the past and to somewhere else in the world. I don’t think I belittled the realities of the experience being sung about, but I definitely, and shamefully, thought “that was 1990’s America” and, in my thinking, implied that the injustices were then and there.

It was only momentary, but it was enough for me to need to apologise for. I’m trying to change myself and my thinking, but just like with the system, the issues run deep, and it needs to be an ongoing and intentional work!

Because it’s not just there. And it’s not just then. It’s here, and it’s now, and it’s just as deeply ingrained as ever. The issues are more than I can understand, and whilst we might pretend that we’re better than we were, whilst we might have more EDI and JDS and Unconscious Bias training, we’re still blind to the more subtle ways in which our prejudices have hidden themselves in the way we engage with the world around us.

It’s not just then. It’s not just there. It’s here. And it’s now. And I don’t understand it all. I’m not qualified to speak of the pain and the real experiences of those who have been hurt.

But I am committed to being better, doing better, to reparation and repentance, to solidarity and truly celebrating and recognising dignity and worth and working towards a world of justice and righteousness to which God calls us.

What I’m most sure of is that it starts with me continuing to listen, and to notice how uncomfortable listening to the stories, experiences and voices that this album represents makes me. I need to hear, and really hear, those voices and the cry of the Spirit within me towards the better story of God’s gospel for humanity and step out of the way of that gospel becoming a reality, until I am both asked and given permission to take my place alongside others in the future story of justice.

You can find out more about Public Enemy at https://www.publicenemy.com/

We’re on the hunt for Friday Fixes — the thoughtful, the hopeful, the half-formed, and the holy-in-the-ordinary.

Have you got a short reflection on a song that inspires, provokes or reveals love, justice, mercy..? It doesn’t need to be clever or polished — just real.

If you’ve ever thought, “I wonder if this might be a Friday Fix?” — this is your nudge.

Drop us a message to fridayfixmail@gmail.com if you’d like to contribute. We’d love to share your voice.