There’s a sensation which sneaks up on you in key moments.
An unnoticed lightness of breath. A slight tension in your abdomen. A slowing of time which comes not from focus and attention, but from waiting.
When we're young it perhaps is most keenly associated with Christmas Eve. For all that there's been a flurry of activity, tidying the house, preparing for relatives, cooking, baking, and the wrapping of last minute presents, there comes a moment of quietness which lingers. For the adults it may perhaps be called the calm before the storm. For the kids, it's that paradoxical excitement which prevents them from sleeping even though they know that for Father Christmas to fill their stockings they must swiftly and efficiently fall asleep (or feign sleep convincingly!).
For me, birthdays have often been a similar experience. As much as I dislike making a fuss about my birthday, that quiet countdown to midnight and becoming one year older has always been a moment of anticipation. The physical ticking of hands may have been replaced by the ever changing count of digital clocks on phones, but that subtle sense of anticipation still sneaks up in my bones.
There have been many moments of anticipation in life which have been good, and a number which have been nail bitingly tense. Some have had the insidious relaxation of resignation.
I remember waiting at school for my parents to pick me up on the day when Dad never came. I had my first piano lesson, something which I had been excited about for several weeks, and a family friend took me instead.
I remember the clock ticking down as on the television the scrum pushed ever closer to the line, but the defence was holding firm.
I remember stepping off the train with a grin to greet my Dad only to catch the depth of seriousness behind his unsmiling eyes as he gave me slightly too tight a hug.
I remember walking past smiling friends and those who were quietly fiddling with their jumper sleeves as they held brown envelopes.
I remember stepping to one side, into a moment of quietness with a friend to pray for the events of the day.
I remember waking up before anyone else and walking along the bay side path, taking in the fresh air of a beautiful September day and knowing that this was the day.
Glimpses in time to moments big and small which nevertheless anchored themselves in my memory, became a part of my internalised mythology; those stories and ideas which we use to tell ourselves our stories of who we are, where we have been and where we are going.
The day my sister was born.
The Rugby World Cup moments before Wilkinson's drop kick goal.
The moment a planned visit turned into the last time I would go and see my grandfather before he died.
The morning we collected our A-Level Results. Good enough, but not great.
The hour before our Ordination to the Diaconate.
The last time I would wake up as a bachelor, taking a moment to reflect and prepare before the wonderful busyness of our wedding day in Sweden.
Each of these moments were in their way turning points.
Anticipation meets with hopes and fears to become expectations; those moments where we gamble with ourselves how something is going to go, and whether for good or ill.
Writing these words I find myself feeling those familiar tingles of anticipation. It feels like Christmas Eve, yet it has been Christmas Eve for a while. There's been a lingering complexity which has undergirded much of the last couple of weeks. How does one make plans when so much is unknown and yet when plans still need to be made? As much as we might feel like we are the main characters in our own stories, we are often secondary yet significant players in the stories of others.
Team meetings to review and plan still happen. Routine deadlines crop up and need completing. Anticipation of time off means working harder to not only catch up and be up to date but also to get ahead of the curve. There's the balance between getting things done well and getting things done well enough. The irony that if you had no time pressure you would achieve things to a reasonable standard in less time than doing things twice; first to produce a minimum viable product, and then again - time permitting - to complete the finished thing.
In the case of funerals, it means over planning. “Here's plans A through E”.
Funerals, for me, are an interesting point of reflection for balancing being the main character of my story to being a secondary character in someone else's. It's true that in all forms of ministry the minister despite being the focal person is not the primary object of the service; in an ideal world the minister becomes faceless as through their offering of prayers, of readings, of teachings, people are able to see through their efforts to the larger picture and reflect on their own relationship and standing with and before God. This is especially true of the minister at a funeral. It is not for the minister to be the focus of attention. The role of the minister is to hold the space. To direct it. To shape it. To nurture attention so that the memory of the deceased is honoured, the family and friends are supported, and God is preached and glorified. At best the minister should be remembered as having done "a good job". They certainly should not be remembered for making it about themselves, nor for making a gaffe such as using the wrong name for the deceased throughout the service (or at all)! That last one is a real risk in a week with several funerals happening, as life stories can blur and blend and keeping straight in your mind which person with two daughters has the two daughters called Angie and Bryony or Abigail and Brianna.
Understanding your place in the hierarchy of needs at a funeral takes a degree of self-awareness. In a sense you are in charge and what you do and say is what they will get and hear. Yet it's rarely the big event happening in your own story of your own life whereas for the widow(er) and family this is the turning point which plays an undoubtedly instrumental role in shaping their stories of how they handle the grief and loss of someone who has been a significant factor in their life's story. The loss of a mother, of your last remaining sibling, of a school friend, of a comrade, of a child is something which is beyond the words which any minister can say. Yet it is the privilege and duty of a minister to step into this scene of their story and to say the impossible; to point towards the memories of the person they knew and grieve, to point towards a sense of hope in darkness, and the God to whom no element of the human experience is foreign or alien. For in Christ Jesus, God knows what it is to be human. God knows what it is to grieve. God knows pain, and he knows the bitter sting of death. More than this, he knows it for us. He knows it so that we might be reconciled. He takes our human experience into his own sense of self in such a way as to overcome in his flesh the consequence of sin. By his supreme love and mercy, God the Father raises Christ the Son from the tomb to eternal life, and offers us the same Holy Spirit which has achieved this life within Jesus so that we might be his sibling, co-heirs to the glorious inheritance of the riches of God's eternal being.
Ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear any evil for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me, and surely goodness and loving mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
These words are not simply ancient words preserved for aesthetic fortune cookie like purposes; they are in the truest sense of the word possible: Poetry. Images and metaphors which point us into the constancy of the truth which beats at the heart of the universe; that God has made us in his image and has committed himself to us beyond what any reasonable person could imagine or comprehend. In this, we find not just hope but meaning; the anchoring of our stories within the personal story of God himself.
To be the minister who steps onto the stage of grief and points to this hope is to be a minister who understands that they are not the be all and end all; that in the midst of their own lives there is a beauty in service which is of immeasurable value - and some of that value lies in being forgettable. It's not about us.
There was indeed a great sense of anticipation in this last week leading up to that funeral. Yet it was held within the context of a greater sense of unknowing. For the moment of turning, of change will soon be upon us.
Moments of change bring up questions of expectations. Those who join me for evening prayer regularly will know that I have become fond of introducing a moment of silent prayer after petitions for the world, the Church and our community with the words:
Let us, in the quietness of our hearts, hold before God the fullness of our hearts; our hopes and fears, our dreams and our anxieties. Let there be no corner which is unknown to you Lord, take that which needs changing and transform us, take that which needs strengthening and give us courage, and always keep the eyes and ears of our hearts open to hearing and seeing your will for us in our lives.
I certainly have hopes, and I equally have fears.
Questions which I have asked and learned to answer for myself I had to revisit and learn to answer again when it came to marrying my wife, and in a similar yet different way had to revisit and learn to answer as well when it came to being ordained a priest in the Church of God.
And now, now I have to ask some old questions and some new questions as that sense of "Christmas Eve" builds over the last few days and weeks, and tingles within my chest tonight.
What I do know though is that just as God knows how to grieve, he knows how to love. The eternal reality of God is not about a life which begins at death, but from conception. John leapt in Elisabeth's womb at the presence of Mary. In placing my hand upon my wife's stomach my heart leaps when our baby moves.
Who will they be? What will they become?
How will I be? How shall we do our best together for them?
Holding these questions and more in my heart before God I know the beginnings of the answer:
Love.
Rejoice, and hope, and love.
Trust, and pray, and love.
In tiredness, in adventures,
in calmness, in chaos:
Love.
For now though, I watch and I wait with that sense of anticipation deep within my bones for the moment is coming.
The moment where everything changes.
A few days after writing this piece our Son
Alfred Samuel Thorp
was born.
And indeed everything has changed, to the glory of God.
With every blessing,
Samuel S. Thorp
Congratulations Brother! Hope all is well with your wife and your son. Blessings to you!