Book of Dad

I was amused to hear a report on Radio 4 this week about three men who travelled from London to Glasgow to leave 3,000 blank postcards in railway stations, shopping centres, restaurants and bars.  They were from the company 'Book of Everyone' and the postcards they left behind were stamped and addressed to their office.  The stunt was part of a project to allow children of all ages to send anonymous messages, 'What I never told my dad' to their fathers in order to create a personalised Father’s Day book.

Responses ranged from shocking secrets to poignant tributes:   'I fancied the woman you had an affair with'; 'I’m pregnant and, yes, Dave is the dad'; 'The weird smell in your office wasn’t mice – it was me peeing behind the desk'; 'Dad, I know you are on Tinder'; 'Dad, I voted Conservative'; 'I’ve tried to find a husband to match up to you and failed.'

It got me thinking.  I know someone who might want to confess to peeing behind the curtains in the assembly hall of a certain Holywood Grammar School; someone who snuck out and went to a night club when her parents thought she was in bed; someone who sat in the cinema every afternoon instead of going to Tech; someone who was not allowed to go to the pictures so said he was visiting a friend called 'Bugsy Malone.'

But that would be telling tales.  My own confession? 

'I took off all my clothes for the boy across the road for comics.'

You see we couldn’t afford comics and it seemed a fair exchange to my eight-year-old self at the time.  Looking back, I was fortunate that my naughtiness didn’t end in tears. Well, actually it did.  I never got the comics!  What amazes me to this day is how my father knew to come over the road just after the event and why he told me never to play there again. I thought he was totally ignorant of the bad influence.

Experience teaches that parents know rightly, although I am still uncovering secrets from my own offsprings' pasts.  I found out years later that when my eldest daughter burnt her hand on the way to her first A level exam, it was not in fact her sister’s fault.  An accident with a box of matches was blamed when the minx was actually smoking in the car and caught a falling cigarette in her palm

I am in possession of a Book of Dad – my dad.  A few years before he died he wrote down all of his war memories and I typed them up into a treasured volume which we called 'One Man’s War.'   He was a wireless operator flying in Lancaster bombers and his account includes details of no fewer than thirty-two bombing missions over enemy territory.  

Stuttgart, Kiel, Paullae, Stetten, Russelheim, Frankfurt, Leeuwarden, Essen…he records a long list of European towns where he and his crew dropped bombs.  Although their targets were mainly in industrial heartlands, however I think of it I cannot escape the fact that my father was responsible for the deaths of many people.  When you drop bombs on someone’s head you cannot even call it 'indirectly' responsible.  He did it and was proud of it. 

On one occasion he bailed out of a burning plane – thankfully not over enemy territory.  Sitting on the edge of the hole he promised an invisible God that if he got out alive he would become a believer and serve him for the rest of his life.  He survived and became a preacher and a fisher of men.  We didn’t have a TV for most of my growing up and when we finally did get one we were definitely not allowed to watch the silver screen on the Sabbath.  Yet I can recall coming home late one Sunday evening when I was in my teens to discover my father glued to the box.  He was watching the film The Dambusters and reliving his days of terror seated high in the Astra Dome with 100 Squadron.
 
What strikes me now is that my father was only 18 when he joined up.  He spent the next four years flying both during the war and afterwards in India, Burma and Ceylon (Sri Lanka) with Transport Command.  Most wars are fought by teenagers – they give their best years when others are going to university or starting careers.  When he was demobbed he left with his civvies, a meagre gratuity and memories of comrades lost.
 
I still meet people who found life through his preaching and his loving pastoral care. He died too young 30 years ago, but he is still my hero.  In the words of poet, Wendell Berry, I am 'the inheritor of what I mourned.' My dad has shaped so much of who I am and he is still here in every moment when I struggle to overcome and to become who I am meant to be. I wish I had half of his courage and determination, but he is always before me as an example of what it means to fight the good fight and finish well.

So what would I say to him now, on Father’s Day?  Thank you for fighting for me, long before you met my mother or knew my name.  Thank you for surviving and for showing me what it means to be wholly dedicated to hope.  Thank you for being such a shining example of godly kindness and generosity of spirit.  Thank you for introducing me to Jesus, in whom you now sleep.  Oh, and I did find a husband to match up to you – another wonderful dad.

'We are what we have lost.' (Wendell Berry)

Jesus Sings Swing

 

Although church bells ring out on the hour (twice) in this remote French village of Lasbastide Esparbairenque on the Montagne Noir there are actually no chapels open for mass on a Sunday, or any other day, and no priests.  I am staying at a creative retreat called La Muse which is an arm’s reach away from a quaint twelfth century church, but the door is bolted and the ancient clay bell is still.  The one we hear ringing through the valley day and night is on a timer.

 

Imagine, then, my surprise when I saw a notice in the village (no traffic and no shops) for a Gospel Swing concert at the church of St Térèse on the hill.  I walked up in the glorious evening sunshine, through the sweet chestnut grove, the path soft underfoot, its flowers strewn in an inflorescence of catkins.  

 

 

 

It was dark inside, the thick walls providing respite from the heat.  How strange that I a northern Protestant should be cosseted away in a Catholic chapel on the Glorious Twelfth.  The walls were busy, cluttered even with icons and pictures and to one side there was an alcove with a huge stone baptismal font, the water basin covered with one of those white crocheted nets your granny sets over the milk jug.    The ceilings and walls were a riot of colour, as if children had been given free reign with paintbrushes.  A rainbow arched high above me meeting the glass chandeliers which plummeted from the ceiling.  And candles everywhere, standing tall and to attention, like the soldier on the wall in a suit of armour, just back from the crusades.  Why is it that all the statues and figures in the carvings are carrying something? A lamb, a sword, a staff, an infant, a cross. 

These are the symbols stolen from me by the Reformation.  My mission hall mentality is starved of imagery and imagination.  Yet this week I am walking in the ‘forest glades’ and ‘lofty mountain grandeur’ of the old hymn.  The hummingbird hawk moth gathers nectar from the butterfly bush outside my window.  I find solitude by the river; I draw water and solace from La Source.  My soul is restored. I did, however, recognise the hard wooden pews with the brass stamp of ownership.  I wondered if the Famille Pagés minded me sitting in their seat.

 

 

The concert was late starting. Behind me I caught a sweet whiff of apéritif from the English tourists. The choir when it emerged was robed – scarlet and gold satin.  A blind pianist felt his way skilfully up and down the keys, and we were off.  The choir mistress was exuberant, as choir mistresses are, parading up and down the stone paved aisle, taking the solo or the descant and encouraging her small band of singers to hearty hallelujahs.  Her rendition of Ave Maria brought me out in goose bumps as the exquisite notes reverberated round the stone walls.  The concert delighted and amused me, especially when the choir mistress and pianist donned huge afro wigs before singing a number from Sister Act. For the most part they sang in English, familiar tunes if unfamiliar pronunciation. 

It was about half way through when I noticed him.  He was standing just behind the sopranos.  As they raised their hands in praise, so did he.  He didn’t seem to know all the words but he was wearing a similar robe and he smiled beatifically when they sang his name.  Life-size and carrying nothing, Jesus stood with arms wide in welcome – for the swingers, for the tourists and for the lone Irish woman in the third row who was happy to see him there.

Pleasant Places

Anna Maria Island is a long sand bar nestling on the west coast of Florida.  It is a paradise of white beaches, shell-selling shops, quirky restaurants and coffee houses.  Endless sun and endless coffee.  Apart from one spectacular electric storm with fabulous rain we have had two blissful weeks of rest and relaxation in the sweltering heat. 

We deserve it.  We have put up with each other for 35 years. On 19 July we celebrated our anniversary with a free trolley bus ride to the northern end of the island and a quiet meal at the Waterfront restaurant.  The speciality there is fried green tomatoes, pronounced with a southern drawl on the second syllable.  Yum!  The server was English but he avoids words like potato and tomato because they betray him as a blow-in.  Cool air circulated around us, so much so that I had to go outside to warm up between courses.

The man had the fillet or the filet, of course.  His starter was a work of art – a stacked Caprese salad.  The Americans go in for stacking, especially pancakes. How can one person eat a whole pile of pancakes?  This was a vine-ripe tomato, sliced and layered with huge basil leaves, incredible Mozzarella di Bufala made in Sarasota with imported Italian curd, no less, topped with capers, homemade balsamic vinaigrette and extra virgin olive oil.  For effect it was skewered to the plate with a robust length of rosemary.  The scent was delicious and there was enough to share.

I suppose that’s what we have been doing for 35 years. Sharing. Did we know what we were getting into when we were 22?  Of course not! We were young and once we had finished university getting married was the next thing.  We have always been thankful that we waited for marriage.  We belong to each other, exclusively.  Body and soul.

In our early years of parenting there was one rule that our children remember well.  Mum and dad’s bed was for mum and dad – only mum and dad.  We decided this before we were married – advice given to us by a sage counsellor.  Our children knew that even when they were ailing, a sojourn in the marital bed would be brief and that they would be returned to their own bed before daylight.  We enjoyed the Christmas morning family romp in our bed as well as anybody, but the children recognised that there was always a special place between the man and me where they could not go.

In recent years our nest has emptied and filled briefly and then emptied again.  With three daughters married in four years the fledglings have definitely flown.  Still they return with alarming regularity, spouses and now grandchildren in tow.  There is no question of downsizing just yet – where would everyone sleep at Christmas? In between high days and holidays, however, a silence has descended.  Sometimes we pause to listen to the space.  It is the calm after the storm of raising a family.

A neighbour told me recently that the man and I would have to learn how to talk to each other again.  It is not an easy transition back to just the two of us.  We have grown familiar with each other’s ways.  What once seemed endearing can now be irritating.  For instance, in spite of the fact that he is left-handed he insists on setting his glass to the right of his plate and then draging his sleeve through his dinner. Annoying or what?

Soon people like us will be exhibits in fun parks or zoos.  Here sits an old married couple – a species that is almost extinct. So why then am I still married? Because there is no one in this world who makes me feel safer and more loved than the man who shares my bed.  35 years ago he pledged to love me no matter what and he has been faithful to that promise.  It has not been easy to love me – I can be morose and unpredictable, but he has been steady as a rock and is one of the most generous and romantic people I know.  I love you.

Together we have weathered life’s challenges: the deaths of four wonderful parents and three unborn babies; loss of employment; change of careers; building a house; moving continents; raising four children; studying for post graduate degrees; several horrible burglaries, two of which took place when we were in the house.  On and on it goes.  Life’s vagaries with lots of love and laughter thrown in.

Our family is our greatest joy.  The love we have for our daughters and son has expanded to include three sons-in law and two delicious grandchildren.  Two more are on the way and we are delighted and excited. 

This weekend we will separate for four weeks. The man will don his bass guitar and go on tour here in the States with Robin Mark and I will return to NI briefly, before flying south to Port Elizabeth to be with my daughter at the birth of her first baby.  Joy upon joy.

But first a pause.  None of this would have been possible if a skinny boy had not gently pulled my hair before I got out of the car and kissed me passionately when I was just 17.  It’s strange to think that no one else has kissed me since.  Have I missed out?  No.  His kisses still thrill.

So a heartfelt thank you to the man for meaning it when he promised to love and cherish to the end.  This week we toasted to 30 more years – with champagne, his favourite.   I feel that I have earned the right to pass on some words of wisdom to my children, and anyone else's children, in the early years of marriage:
·        It’s much harder to connect, really connect, with another human being than it should be.
·        Selfishness gets in the way.
·        Learn to listen.
·        Love well.

Love is not for the faint-hearted.  There is only ONE way to love well:  Decide to be patient and kind. Don’t be jealous, boastful or rude.  Get over yourself and choose not to take offence easily.  Forgive quickly and do not keep a mental list of past mistakes.  Do not be pleased when something goes wrong, but get excited about what is good and true.  If you have someone to love always protect him, trust him, hope for the best and never, never give up. (1 Cor 13)

On our wedding day my father read a verse from Psalm 16.  It has been our watchword ever since:
‘The boundary lines have fallen for us in pleasant places, surely we have a delightful inheritance.  We have set the Lord always before us; because he is at our right hand, we shall not be shaken.’  Amen to that!

First Day

Mary

I am standing in the garden
My feet damp on the grass
Waiting, watching, hoping
That my love will pass

But he is dead and in the dark
The cloths enfold his face
And I am here and all alone
Longing for his embrace

The mist mingles with my tears
My sobs echo and fade
There is a quiet in this place
But I am unafraid

I do not see him when he comes
I only hear my name
Whispered with love stronger than death
And I can live again

Easter Sunday

My Father's House by Bethany Dawson

Have you ever looked into the pages of a book and glimpsed your own reflection? Of course she denies it’s me, but there I am, peering out from between the lines once in a while. In one chapter I’m licking my finger and lifting crumbs from the table; in another place I am stepping across the room to wipe the top of the record player, unable to resist the lure of dust.

In My Father’s House, as the Hanright siblings gather in the old farmhouse to clear their collected memories, they enter a room referred to as Narnia. In our house, one of the ones in which my daughter Bethany grew up, there is a small room above the return which can only be accessed through a door at the back of the wardrobe. At the time we built that part of the house the children were immersed in the chronicles, so Narnia was an obvious name. It is a treasure trove filled with boxes of books, toys, old clothes and things we might need some day. It’s in the book, and we love that it is because it grounds the novel in our shared family experience.
 

The similarity, however, ends there. That is the wonder of this debut novel. Bethany is able to get inside the head of a middling aged man, accurately portray the heartache of an alcoholic’s family and take the reader right to the bedside of the dying, without having been present herself at the deaths of her grandparents. How can this my child become someone else entirely inside her own head, and when I read, inside mine?

Since the publication of the novel earlier this year, I have been unable to put into words what I feel about this birthing – a kind of grandchild. Not mine in any sense and yet the result of something born in me – a child with a talent. I am amazed and delighted.

The members of the Hanright family come alive in all their raw ordinariness. Nothing spectacular happens and yet we recognise every character trait and flaw. When I listen to obituaries on the radio, or when someone’s death makes the news, it always strikes me that no one bad ever dies: ‘everyone loved them’, ‘they were the life and soul’, ‘so kind and popular’, ‘always a smile on their face’, ‘would do anything for anyone’. We believe that we ought not to speak ill of the dead, but the deathbed scene in this novel is refreshing in its harsh reality. Sometimes death doesn’t fix things.

The characters in this novel are so real in their vulnerability. Robbie the prodigal returns home, where he finds some resolution for his childhood hurts and disappointments. His troubled marriage is all the more convincing because it happens off stage. The sisters are beautifully drawn through the accuracy of observation: Wendy’s jumper ‘hung asymmetrically from her armpits’ and she ‘was striking the potato with the peeler as if it might produce a spark.’ After so many years of silence and reproach between them, the dance of the siblings round each other is nervous and exploratory. The reader is squeezed into the kitchen or the bedroom with them, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. We want to leave them to it and yet we are drawn into their fumbling attempts to connect and make sense of their past because there are damaged and broken relationships in all our journeys. We need to know whether love or judgment wins out in the end.

The language flows with musical excellence, lilting with familiar Ulsterisms: 'give the kitchen a going over'; 'I've never heard the like of this'; 'dusk snuck in and settled in the corners'.  I love the eyes that 'committed to being blue after years of watery indecision' and the cowslips 'openly flirting in yellow skirts'.

Most powerful of all is this novel’s sense of place. The farm and its environs are drawn in such detail that we can smell the mud and mould and taste the staleness of the air and the relationships which came to grief in the house. Up the road, the city waits, ‘Belfast looked more like itself when it was wet.’ Bethany has pulled together the threads of her own places to recreate believable spaces where weeds grow, a cow needs milking and people rediscover themselves and each other. We are there with the characters as they exist in real time, making real decisions and feeling real feelings. There is no jarring happy ending but the reader is left with some sense of redemption and a hope that the future might be better than the past. Larkscroft lingers in the memory long after the closing page.

Robbie mentions the phenomenon of the second novel falling short of the first. We await the next offering in the firm belief that no such thing will be true of this gifted author.

I am the proudest of mothers and commend and thank my lovely daughter for taking me on a journey into all our yesterdays.