This is one of my favourite songs from last year. I was lucky enough to hear Kate sing it live, and she introduced it by saying it was written for her teenage daughters as an encouragement for them to become who they wanted to be. She also said what a joy it was to have Barnsley Youth Choir sing with her – and I can hear that joy in this song (and see it in the video!)
There’s a lot on the choices we all have: “You can buy in, you can sell out, you can take time to work it all out” – for me, the taking the time to work it out is the becoming – and all of us at all ages, when we take time to work it out, are in a process of becoming who we want to be, who we think God wants us to be.
I’ve been particularly struck by the line“You can run wild, you can be good, do as you want or do as you should”
It feels like only now, in my 50s, I realise that I have such choices – that being good or doing what I should aren’t the only options!! I suspect that kind of realisation isn’t what’s expected when we focus on “becoming” during Lent. But there’s something liberating about realising that we don’t have to only be a narrow version of ourselves, based around the messages we first received about ourselves as children. My recent reading of some queer theologies has me thinking about how God doesn’t see us as fixed, but continually becoming, transforming into who God is encouraging us to fully be. There’s some necessary unlearning, then relearning to be done.
There’s no set pathway for our becoming – “You can fly high, you can dig deep, cling on or take a big leap”. There are times that in order for us to blossom, we need to cling on securely and dig deep into what grounds us, whereas other times it does involve that huge leap of faith into the unknown. Similarly, “You can let go, you can hold strong, shy as you like or sing your own song, but let your light shine.”
Kate is quoted as saying the song is “about embracing who you are, having faith in your unique gifts, and letting the world see your light. Be strong, be positive, and be kind.” I appreciate that life isn’t as simple as just saying our “shadows will be gone” and am wary of any toxic positivity, but I also see value in remembering that our call is to let our light shine rather than hide it under anything. That’s who I hope we all can become.
It’s a 90s album track you may not be familiar with, but if you listen closely, it’s a masterclass in the humility of being the recipient.
”You’ve been so kind and generous / I don’t know how you keep on giving.“
Merchant, who was in the band 10,000 Maniacs and has had far more US chart success than in the UK, isn’t the one doing the heavy lifting in this song. She is the one standing in the light of someone else’s benevolence.
She is acknowledging that she didn’t get here alone. She is recognising the power of receiving. She is comfortable and happy to note the ways in which she has received.
In our culture, we pride ourselves on being the givers. Giving is powerful; it’s active; it’s in control. Receiving, however, is vulnerable. To receive a gift—whether it’s a compliment, a helping hand, or Divine Grace—is to admit that we are not self-sufficient.
So the challenge to you this week is, are you as willing to receive as you are to give?
There is nothing I like more at the moment than having a bright bunch of flowers in the house.
A crowd of yellow daffodils or a pop of red tulips in a vase makes me smile. I think it’s something to do with colour defiantly revealing itself in nature after months of grey skies and often relentless rain.
As a new season sneaks in, I’m glad to find a song which reflects my current cautious optimism.
The narrator of ‘Flowers in the Window’ at first reflects on past decisions and situations which have led to isolation.
However, a new relationship has changed things. A connection has been made where walls have come down and vulnerabilities shared. Like the writer of Ecclesiastes, they recognise that life does not always feel sunny (“there are many seasons to feel glad, sad, mad”) but the overall feeling that they are experiencing now is that of hope and optimism.
“Wow, look at you now, flowers in the window It’s such a lovely day, and I’m glad you feel the same”
To steal a phrase from CS Lewis, the narrator has been surprised by joy. They weren’t looking for it, but have made an unexpected connection which has led to an unfolding and opening up of possibilities. There is a glimmer of hope and the future feels different.
“So now we’re here, and now is fine So far away from there, and there is time, time, time To plant new seeds and watch them grow So there’ll be flowers in the window when we go”
Life does not always feel as sunny as a bright bunch of flowers. In the hard and challenging times we might long for a glimmer of brightness, a sense that it is all going to be OK.
Maybe at these points it is also OK to pray to be surprised by joy, as small as those moments may be. Even in the wilderness, flowers bloom.
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.
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.
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.
4 years ago, Claire shared this reflection. Some things have changed since then. And some things haven’t. God, however, is still in amongst it all as Claire rightly reminds us.
Claire writes:
I first heard this song whilst I was driving home after work on a damp, dark, cold evening last December. I was listening to Radio 2, a recent discovery of mine. I love the wide variety of different music that is played on Radio 2 – some real good old tunes that remind me of when I was younger out clubbing in my hometown.
After some research, I found that this song comes from a film called ‘The Aeronauts.’ ‘Home To You’ is a ballad that fits into the narrative of ‘The Aeronauts,’ where two of the characters in the film mount a balloon expedition to fly higher than anyone in history.
This hauntingly different voice floated into my car filling me with a mix of emotions. The words of the song and Sigrid’s voice moved me to tears. The words really caught my breath…..
When I don’t know what to say
When I don’t know what to do
There’s a room I need to sit in
Surrounded by my favourite view
When I need a hand to hold
Someone to tell the truth
Would it be okay if I came home to you?
This song could be about so many things – about moving away from all that you know, experiencing loss or depression, or a change in direction. Maybe going through a difficult and challenging time – whatever that may be. But also having that comfort in a place to go to when things are difficult and overwhelming. But this song could also be about positive and good and taking time to appreciate those good things.
We have recently experienced big changes in our family. Our eldest son Jack is in his second year at university. He started Uni during the pandemic – it wasn’t a great start to university life. We resigned from fostering after ten years in August last year. This has been a massive adjustment to our family, and we are glad to have left behind all the stresses and strains that fostering has brought over those ten years. Thomas, who is 14, is enjoying for the first time being the centre of his Mum and Dad’s attention. I am being challenged by my own faith journey of being called by God and following that call with all the demands and expectations that this brings with it.
This song helped me to reflect that when I am stressed and sometimes completely overwhelmed by everything we are expected to do, I just want to retreat from the world, to sit and to crochet. God is my ‘go-to.’ I sit and I dwell with him. I pray. I love to be at home with God. The peace and the hope in knowing God is with me – whatever I go through – his love for me is amazing, breath-taking and overwhelming.
Sigrid sings.
No, I don’t wanna keep on calling
When I’m miles away
And you’re too far away
Oh, but if I need you to remind me
That nothing has changed
Would it be okay, would it be okay for you?
I know I can keep on calling on God and he will be there no matter what. He is my rock and my salvation, and I put on his armour every day. I do nothing in my own strength but with God by my side. We are all broken at times in our lives and God can give us the strength to pick up the pieces and to put ourselves back together, with joy and hope in our hearts.
Jesus shows us by example that it is ok sometimes to retreat in Mark 1 v 35 – “Very early in the morning, whilst it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place where he prayed.”. In Luke 5 again we hear of Jesus withdrawing to pray alone, in lonely places.
And I see the world so different now
‘Cause there’s a place by the sea and that’s my town
Our faith in God can make us see things so differently, and I am glad that God is ‘my town’ as Sigrid says in the words of the song.
The words are here in full for you to enjoy and reflect, and I would encourage you to listen to this beautiful song.
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.’
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.
The Friday Fix 