Gill writes:

I don’t know about you, but it feels to me like there have been too many moments recently when the world feels as though it’s holding its breath. This past week has been one of those — on Wednesday, for example, when I woke early and immediately checked the news. It seemed like Armageddon was less a metaphor and more a possibility. In those moments, I think we are confronted with a real question of faith: how do we live fully, love well, and hold onto joy when everything around us feels so scarily fragile?

Last summer, my husband Rob and I found ourselves caught between grief and celebration in a way we hadn’t quite anticipated. We had travelled to Sheffield to see Paul Heaton (supported by The Lightning Seeds and Shed Seven). It was a proper nice occasion – catching up with friends and full of anticipation. Then the call came.

Our dog, Brontë (who was in boarding kennels), had to be rushed to the vet. Her back and her rear legs had given way, paralysed without warning. The conversation with the vet was one of the hardest we’ve had. We made the decision — the one that no pet owner ever wants to make, and we made it from a distance; unable to be there and hold her. We had to trust Hayley, the wonderful owner of the boarding kennels, to be the hands we couldn’t be; to be with Brontë, speak gently and let her know she was loved.

For a moment, we genuinely didn’t know if we could face going to the gig. It felt almost wrong to be standing in a crowd, waiting for music, when our hearts were filled with grief. But our friends were there. We had the tickets. We were a couple of hundred miles from home. And so we went.

And then Shed Seven took to the stage and played ‘Let’s Go Dancing.’

The song isn’t the gentle, reassuring ballad that it hints at. There’s an urgency to it, and a cry for the moments when the world is falling apart around you, and probably the only response is to grab hold of someone you love and move. Let’s go dancing while the world caves in. It feels like there’s something almost rebellious about that, and standing there that evening, with grief still raw, it meshed so relatably for me in that moment. A reminder that joy is not the absence of pain. Sometimes joy is the most courageous thing we have left to offer.

All evening, we sang until our throats were raw. We danced. We laughed through tears, put our arms around each other, and raised a glass to Brontë Dog. It was messy and joyful and grief-stricken and alive, all at once. And it was, I think, exactly where we were supposed to be.

It strikes me that Jesus understood this. He could have spent his last evening in solitude or in sorrow — and who would have blamed him? Instead, he gathered the people he loved around a table. He broke bread, he poured wine, and he was entirely present in that fragile, fleeting moment. The Christian faith has never pretended that joy and grief are opposites. They sit together at the communion table. They show up together at the graveside. And apparently, they dance together at football grounds in Sheffield on warm spring evenings.

Brontë, like all dogs, had no interest in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s worries. She lived in the moment with an uncomplicated enthusiasm. Every walk was the best walk. Every greeting was the greatest greeting. Every sofa was made especially for her to lie on. In a way, I can’t help think that she was, perhaps, more faithful to the spirit of the Gospels than most of us manage to be!

Nearly a year on, she lives on in our memories — and in the small but persistent lesson she left behind. When the world feels heavy, when the news is bleak, when we don’t know what tomorrow holds — be present. Be with the people you love. Hold them close. And if you can, if you can hear music and you can see lights, let’s go dancing

…

Find out more about Shed Seven at https://www.shedseven.com/

Kristie writes:

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.

Find out more about Kate Rusby at https://katerusby.com/

Sally writes:

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?

Find out more about Natalie Merchant at https://www.nataliemerchant.com/

Mandy writes:

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.

Find out more about Travis at https://travisonline.com/

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