And so he sang .......

The decision had been made - he was to be the boy who sang the solo at the beginning of the service.  He was confident, well trained and had a lovely voice. The only concern of those around him was that the virulent cold that was doing the rounds should not reach him. His delighted and proud parents gave him every support. Even his little sister, who adored him, understood that this was special. His school friends thought it a bit odd that he should prefer singing to football, but at least he joined in a kick-about when he had the chance.

The evening of the carol service arrived. The candles all over the church were lit and there was a busy hum as the congregation began arriving from the car park and on foot. The bells were ringing out to the village and beyond. An air of expectation grew as the church filled, people greeted each other, extra places were found in odd corners and sidesmen hurried to source more hymn books. Then the bells stopped, the congregation hushed – and in the stillness a clear, young voice floated through the church and the worship began.

In another land a young boy, with tears streaming down his face, was scrambling wildly over the rubble in an effort to reach the basement where they had left his sick sister.  He had been out with his mother searching for food and water in the bombed-out town but the snipers had spotted them and his mother was dead. His father had been forced to join the fighters and the family hadn’t seen him for many months. Once the boy had found his way back he gathered up his little sister in his arms for warmth and comfort for them both. The candle stub had gone out. There were more shells and heavy gunfire. Planes could be heard overhead and then there was silence - a long, long silence. The little boy did not know how long had passed, only that he was cold, hungry, very anxious about the frail bundle at his side and terrified of the responsibility now resting on him.

Suddenly there was shouting and the noise of people slipping and sliding over the broken concrete, iron beams and piles of stones. The little girl heard them and started a distressing moan. The boy held her close knowing he could not flee, and the only thing he could think of to give her comfort, was to sing. She always liked that. The UN Aid workers searching the ruins called out to each other,

‘It’s deserted, the poor souls are all gone or they’re all dead.’

Then they heard it - the beautiful, clear, pure sound of a boy singing.

In that scene of utter devastation there was life and hope.

Choices - aaahhh!

I can’t put it off any longer I have to visit a supermarket again. My measure of success regarding a visit to this mind-numbing establishment is the number of aisles I can do before a cloud of apathy, mixed with an urgent desire to escape, overwhelms me. It’s all those choices one has to make at every turn, when all I want is to grab the items on my list, put them in the trolley and head for the checkout.

The cloud appears on the horizon as I enter the car park. Should I take the first space I see? Try to get nearer the building? Reverse in for a quick getaway? Park front in so that I can actually reach the boot to put the bags in?

Next it is the choice of trolley. Basket? High level? Small volume? With child seat? Maxi dump truck? I usually go for the small one in the vain hope that it will act as some kind of restraint. I take a deep breath and enter.

I stride, blinkered, past the magazines stand, and dive up the first aisle before I chicken out. In fact this is the easy bit, I can give most of the fruit and veg a miss as I visit my local Farmers’ Market and Farm Shop. Although I still end up with a special offer avocado and two bright netting bags of satsumas. Two aisles down fifteen more to go.

Turn the corner and I’m faced with a scene from a horror movie- shelves and shelves of CHOICE.  Before me lies a choice of hundreds of items, many of which I don’t even recognise. Choice of size, choice of brand, choice of flavour, choice of health features, choice of celebrity endorsement, choice of colour, hi-fat, lo-fat, no-fat. The cloud is lowering and the struggle begins.

Then we hit the labelling challenge. Grateful thanks for ‘education x 3’ since one has to run through from nursery to college depending on the product. For some items you don’t need to read at all just look at the pictures, graduate through Key Stage 1 to evaluate the relative merits of the different shaped tea bags, on through SATs Maths 4 to work out three for two, one third off and two for one and a half. Finally you need A – level chemistry to break the code on the ingredients list in fine print on the crumpled part of the packet. Round the corner the dreaded ‘bogof’ looms – do I really want that many……The cloud is definitely closer and bigger. As for date stamps and ‘best before’ – is that before or after freezing?

Next there is the question of ethics.  I reach out for an item I recognise, only to be brought up short with a brand name associated with some unsavoury behaviour in the developing world. I can’t possibly sort through the other fifteen choices so give that one a miss altogether.

I do have some apathy busting strategies which I employ, though they have a habit of embarrassing my daughter if she is with me – but come to think of it that enhances the effect  - child abuse? Making eye contact every time I bump into the same shopper because they initially set off down the first aisle when I chose to go up it. Randomly advising a hesitant shopper to choose the brand with the brightest label. Driving through the slimmest of gaps between opposing trolleys adding up penalties for touching.

Time to head for the check out –where I am met with one more choice! What is the art of choosing a check-out without: yours being closed for lunch just as you finally reach the till; being stuck for half an hour whilst a very senior citizen gets in a muddle with her PIN or being landed with the chap from the job centre on his first day? If I hide half the contents under the twelve pack loo rolls can I go to the ‘10 items or less’? I am completely engulfed by that cloud.

Escape at last – now, where did I choose to put the car?

The Water's Edge

A small naked child stands and stares, toes just in the water, so much water and all moving at once. He has never experienced this before. There is no sense of danger just one of wonder. What is it? Where is the other side? He suddenly sets off running in the shallows, his head thrown back squealing with delight. He turns and runs back again and turns again, revelling in the present sensation with no thought for the future, no confusing choices, just absorbing all that the new world of today is offering.

The young professional stands on the edge of the cliffs, the wind blowing in her hair, as she looks out over the calm blue sea. The sun is glinting on the surface making ever-changing patterns. A distant ferry makes its way towards the blurred horizon. The world of testing, exams, interviews, arguments and decisions is finally finished. Now she is about to launch out on her own life full of excitement, anticipation and independence.  She just needed a return visit to the sea she loved, to breathe deeply and enhance the inner conviction that she has chosen the right path.

There it is at last – the seashore. He has finally reached the shore after incredible hardships and harrowing experiences, and at great cost not only to himself but to his family who belong to the wrong tribe in his war-torn homeland. He has heard rumours of the perils and dangers of the sea crossing. He is once again scared and homesick but he now has no option but to continue. He has heard that he is not wanted on the other shore but for him it is too late – he has no choice he must go on.

The moon shines with great clarity on the surface of the water defining a bright, inviting path across the black rippling velvet. Standing on the quayside gazing out on the scene the middle-aged man sighs with satisfaction. He has achieved a childhood ambition born of many hours watching others as they prepared for a race, a day trip or a week’s holiday, on the water. Now he has a boat of his own. There was something exhilarating about being on a boat on the sea in fine weather or even foul. He relishes having to make choices, manage and co-operate with the sea, at the same time knowing he could never control it. No job, however challenging, quite matches this.

Huge curving waves crash up the beach, and the stones rumble as the water draws back before the next onslaught; the storm has passed but the sea is still angry. The senior citizen watches from the safety of the promenade, and dreams and remembers. She pictures the sea as life with its storms and its calms, its long swells, its adventures, chances, choices, triumphs and tragedies. She knows that, like life, the sea must never be taken for granted but that at this moment she is able to enjoy both life and the sea.

Boxes

Yesterday, while delivering the Parish Magazine, an elderly  gentleman handed me a small yellow box with coins in and no label. It was a collecting box for the Children’s Society and I promised to pass it on. This started me thinking about boxes.

‘A box’ most usually suggests cardboard or plastic but not always. Who has not got a special box, an object full of memories or beauty or both - one of marble, jade, stone, shells, ivory or wood inlaid or plain with swirling texture?  Perhaps there is a tin box in the bank or in the garage – a relic of the war or of a first-aid course before ‘health and safety’ deemed it unsuitable. No, not all boxes are cardboard.

Boxes come in all shapes and sizes and custom made boxes are all very well but, when the original function has been fulfilled, it is the subsequent use that can fire the imagination. Also it is now that cardboard becomes a mine of possibilities whereas plastic is banished as boring and unadaptable. To those with young, flexible minds and small agile limbs a large box becomes a castle to defend, a den for secret meetings, a home for tea parties, a ship to sail, a plane to fly or a tunnel to explore. To smaller boxes add glue, paint and cellotape and the world of rockets, monsters, space ships, magical landscapes and the Exterminator will appear.

When the student, the young professional and the family take over the cardboard box it morphs into an amazing variety of ‘storage facilities’ in different guises:

The re-location assistant - ‘That’s the last one, the car is full to its roof,’

The Tardis - ‘Here are a few things I haven’t got room for in my new flat.’

The museum archive - ‘You can’t get rid of that! I remember……’

The ‘Parents’ Revenge’ - ‘I was sorting things out in the loft and thought you’d like to have them.’

The toy chest - ‘Well they’ll be useful when the grandchildren come along.’

The mobile library - ‘I haven’t read them yet but I will.’

 The hold-all - ‘Just put them in and I’ll get round to sorting them out some time!’

The resource centre - ‘You never know those things might be useful one day.’

Then, later in life when it comes to moving, down-sizing or perhaps death, the long forgotten cardboard boxes re-appear.

In a darker place there are those who can’t downsize any further than a doorway and then the box, especially a cardboard one, assumes a different role. One small box might hold all that is left of a previous life while another helps to provide insulation from the physical cold if not from the cold indifference of passers by. A row of wonky cubes is all that defines a private space in a hostile world where those with nothing congregate.

But remember the little yellow box with its slit in the top? That box and the many boxes that call on the compassion of human kind - they will lead to the opening of other boxes providing food, blankets, water pumps, books, nursery equipment, drugs, building materials and much more. They will open up hope, renewal and a better future that will equal any excitement, awe and happiness that accompanies a box at celebration time.

And when all is done there is the re-cycling bin in which the box will be contained!

The Hospital 

Against the backdrop of the festive decorations twinkling across the river stood the large, brightly lit building with its wards, theatres, stores, consultation rooms, reception areas, x-ray department, pharmacy and a warren of seemingly endless corridors, closely resembling a thriving, orderly termite mound. There were people everywhere. There were doctors, surgeons, nurses, physiotherapists, assistants, administrative staff, porters, cleaners, meals ladies all in their different coloured uniforms and none, carrying the instruments of their profession round their necks or in their hands. Many were bustling, busy and purposeful, some were chatting, others waiting, all part of a complex machine and driven ultimately by the desire to help and to heal.

There were wheelchairs, wheeled beds and specialised cots; monitors, complicated equipment plugged in and flashing and banks of computers; drug trolleys, drip bags and trays of food. Everything was there to support the patients who were in wards, in theatres, waiting in queues and shuffling down corridors. The building hummed with activity - the steady buzz punctuated by beeping screens, ringing phones and the clatter of shoes on tiles.

A steady stream of visitors - family, friends and others made their way to the entrance. They moved around the hospital some uncertain of where to go, others old hands, some bearing gifts, others bringing the requested items to make the stay more acceptable. Their faces showed hope, worry, relief, anxiety, excitement, despair or happiness. This ‘termite mound ‘ was there to mend, to heal, to build, to ease a passing and to bring new life into our world.

Creating a grim silhouette against the glare of the bomb blast in another, distant part of our world, stood another hospital – or what was left of it. For the present most of the building still stood and lights glimmered from some of the windows. There were theatres but only half in use, there were wards but these were overflowing with the ill and injured lying on beds, on stretchers and on the floor. There were miles of corridors but many were cordoned off and doors locked to hide the devastation on the other side. There were people everywhere. The chaos at the entrances created by young men and old pushing and pulling their way through the throng carrying their stricken relatives and friends, searching for anyone in any kind of uniform. Confusion filled the air. Sirens wailed, people shouted, cries and groans came from every side.

Doctors and nurses tried in vain to restore some order but the urgency of the crowd overwhelmed them. The lights flickered and dimmed causing more panic. Further into the building the exhausted surgeons struggled on. Patients or their supporters pleaded but there was nowhere for the nurses to turn - the drug trolleys were bare and the few dressings were running out. Visitors hovered everywhere, their faces full of anxiety, hope, relief, despair or blank masks. The hope was because the doctor had operated and spoke of a future, the relief was for the child who was not dead, the blank stares could no longer face reality. The present task of this place was to help others to survive, to patch up, to keep going and to wait for sense, help and peace to arrive.

The Snowman!

Snow  kept on falling. The unusually cold weather had been sweeping across the region for several days and people in the towns were struggling to cope. For those in the camps it was yet one more horror to be borne. Children with pinched faces and unkempt hair stood around in groups staring un-seeing, their eyes and minds no longer able to absorb the sights and sounds around them. One small boy, wearing a thin, inadequate jacket, cotton trousers and plastic sandals scooped up a handful of snow and threw it half heartedly at a mound of snow against the wall of the shelter that counted as home. It had not been thrown towards anyone - they had all seen too much of that for real. The snowball sat on top of the mound making it look like a short fat snowman, and one of the boys gave a thin laugh but there was little jest.

Just then an Aid worker came along between the shelters asking if anyone had seen a toddler wandering around lost. She had been missing from a family in the next row since the night before. But there were too many people, too many children all struggling to fight the cold and the hunger in their own families to notice a little stray one.

The curtain that acted as a door to keep out the wind and snow was pulled aside and the small boy’s mother called out for him. She needed him to look after the baby whilst his brothers were sent to scavenge for something to burn on the fire, and she went off to queue for food before the light failed.  The snow had stopped at last. As he entered the shelter he looked up to see the plastic sheeting roof was sagging. In the light of a flickering lamp he saw that the pan on the simple stove was empty. He went back outside to fill it with snow using the snowball he had thrown on the ‘snowman’. As night fell the family ate the meagre ration they had received, huddled together for warmth and tried to fight off the nightmares, and sleep.

During the night the weather finally changed, the temperatures rose dramatically and the snow turned to rain. As they woke at dawn they saw that the roof had held.  The foul smelling plastic matting fuel on the fire was replaced with some real wood they had found the day before. Then the little boy was sent out to fill the pan with the melting snow. Going through the curtain he turned to the snowman and stopped. The snow had partially melted and protruding from the mound was a tiny hand.

In another country.

The rain was beating heavily against the window-pane as the couple sat in the warm kitchen eating their breakfast and reading the paper, with the radio on in the background:

- The heavy rain is set to continue for the next two days and more flood warnings have been issued by the Met Office.

- The refugee crisis in the Middle East continues and it is estimated that nearly two million people are now displaced. The large camps set up by the various aid agencies are said to be overwhelmed………..

‘It is a terrible mess,’ commented the man, replacing his mug on the table.

‘Surely, there must be something we can do,’ replied his wife in frustration and with a hint of anguish, ‘Oxfam, Save the Children - something!’