Dear friends,
It’s been a while since I wrote to you, hasn’t it? Sadly, a few life events have meant I have struggled to put pen to paper for a while. Somehow though, the warm weather we have been experiencing has lifted my spirits, despite the fact I don’t cope very well in the heat.
The summer is in full flow isn’t it? In Britain, summer can be a bit unpredictable. One day we are searching for the sun cream, and the next we are looking for a jumper and wondering whether it is too early to put the heating back on. But whatever the weather decides to do, summer often brings with it the hope of a slower pace. An in temperatures we are experiencing this summer, slow is all I can manage.
Summer is great though, isn’t it? The days are longer. The gardens are growing. Some of us may be looking forward to, or have been on holiday, enjoyed family visits, days out, or simply the chance to sit in the garden with a cup of tea and no urgent reason to move.
There are usually fewer meetings in the diary—which, I suspect, is a blessing most of us can agree on!
Summer invites us to slow down. To enjoy what is around us. To notice the beauty in ordinary things.
But life doesn’t always follow the seasons. Sometimes the sun is shining while our hearts are heavy. Sometimes the flowers are blooming and the birds are singing, while we are carrying sadness that nobody else can see. And sometimes, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary summer day, we find ourselves remembering someone who is no longer with us.
This year has brought several painful losses into my life, and I wanted to share something of that with you—not because I have any great answers, but because I believe church should be a place where we can be honest.
We don’t have to arrive on a Sunday morning with everything neatly sorted. We don’t have to pretend that we are always cheerful, strong, or full of faith. Some weeks we come with joy. Some weeks we come exhausted. Some weeks we come carrying questions. And sometimes we come simply because we need to sit quietly among people who know our names.
In March this year, a friend’s 30 year old daughter was killed in a serious road accident. There are some things for which words feel painfully inadequate. The death of a young person seems to turn the world upside down. We think of all the things that should have been: the birthdays, the celebrations, the plans, the ordinary moments that would have become precious memories. We find ourselves asking questions that have no easy answers. Why? How can this have happened? What do we say? And perhaps one of the hardest things is knowing that there is nothing we can say that will make the pain disappear.
In May, we had the heartbreaking loss experienced by a friend of my son. They have known each another since they were two and a half years old, so he is someone who has been part of our lives for almost as long as my son can remember.
He and his partner were expecting their second child. At seven months, they learned that their baby’s brain had not developed properly. They had to face the unimaginable pain of losing the child they had already loved, hoped for, and imagined into their future. It’s sometimes tempting to measure grief by time—to think that we grieve most deeply for those we have known the longest. But love doesn’t work like that. Baby G was already loved. There had already been hopes and dreams. There had been plans, conversations, and the quiet imagining of what life would be like. His little life mattered and was precious. And his loss is very real.
Then, in May, a friend died suddenly at the age of just fifty after suffering a catastrophic stroke. Fifty! It feels far too young. It is far too young. When someone dies suddenly, there can be a strange sense of disbelief. One moment they are part of the familiar landscape of our lives, and then suddenly we are trying to imagine the world without them. We remember conversations. We remember laughter. We remember little moments that may not have seemed important at the time but now mean everything. And perhaps we think, and I know I did, “I thought there would be more time.” That sentence has stayed with me. I thought there would be more time for coffee and chats, for laughter and fun and for the things we meant to say.
This year has reminded me again, painfully, that life is both precious and unpredictable. That can be a frightening thought. But perhaps it can also be an invitation. An invitation not to wait. To phone the friend we have been meaning to call. To visit the person who has been on our mind. To say thank you. To say sorry. To say, “I love you.” To make time for the people who matter. And perhaps to worry a little less about whether the house is tidy enough, whether the washing is finished, or whether we have managed to tick everything off the list. The washing will still be there tomorrow. It won’t mind waiting.
But the people we love are not things we should always assume we can put off until later.
The Bible is wonderfully honest about grief. It doesn’t tell us that people of faith never feel sad or confused. It doesn’t suggest that trusting God means always having a smile on our faces. The Psalms are full of people crying out to God, asking difficult questions, and wondering where God is. Psalm 34 says: “The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I have found myself returning to those words. What does it mean for God to be close when our hearts are broken? Perhaps it doesn’t mean that God gives us an explanation. Perhaps it doesn’t mean that God takes away the pain. Perhaps it just means that God doesn’t leave us alone in it. Jesus himself wept when his friend Lazarus died. That matters. Jesus knew that resurrection was coming, and still he wept. He didn’t tell Mary and Martha to cheer up. He didn’t say, “There’s no need to be sad.” He stood with them. He shared their sorrow and He wept.
Faith doesn’t mean that we never cry. Hope doesn’t mean pretending that everything is fine. We can say, “This hurts,” and still trust that God is with us. We can say, “I don’t understand,” and still pray. We can grieve and still give thanks.
Perhaps that is what church is for. We’re not a collection of people who have all the answers. We’re a community learning how to walk together. Sometimes we carry one another through prayer. Sometimes we carry one another through practical kindness—a meal, a card, a lift, a phone call, or a cup of tea. And sometimes we carry one another simply by being there. We don’t always need the right words. Sometimes there are no right words. Sometimes it is enough to say, “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” Perhaps that’s one of the ways God comes close to us—through the kindness, patience, and presence of other people.
As we continue to journey thought these warm summer days, I find myself noticing things differently. A sunny morning feels like a gift. A cup of tea with a friend feels more important.
The sound of laughter seems somehow more precious. A walk, a shared meal, a conversation at the church door, these ordinary moments are not really ordinary at all. We’re not promised endless days. But we are given today. We are given this moment. We are given the people around us.
So perhaps the invitation of summer is not simply to fill our days with activity, or to feel guilty because we haven’t managed to do all the things we planned! Perhaps it is simply to notice. To notice the beauty around us. To notice the people beside us. To notice those who may be struggling quietly. To notice the gifts that are already here.
This year, I will carry these losses with me. I will remember a young life taken far too soon. I will remember a baby who was deeply loved. I will remember a friend whose life ended much too early. And I will give thanks—for lives that touched others, for love that remains, and for the people who walk beside us when the road becomes difficult.
Perhaps you are carrying something too. Maybe it is a recent loss. Maybe it is a grief that has been with you for many years.
Maybe it is a worry you have not spoken about. Maybe it is a change you never expected or wanted. Whatever you are carrying, I hope you know that you do not have to carry it alone. May our churches be places where there is room for the whole of life—not only the joyful stories, but the difficult ones too.
May we be gentle with one another.
May we listen carefully.
May we be generous with our time.
May we remember that a kind word can make more difference than we realise.
The summer sunshine does not remove sadness.
But perhaps it can remind us that light still reaches us.
And perhaps hope is not pretending that there is no darkness.
Perhaps hope is trusting that darkness will not have the final word.
May God hold close all who are grieving.
May God comfort those whose hearts are broken.
May God strengthen those who feel weary.
May God bless the memories of those we have lost.
And may we be given the grace to treasure one another—not someday, but today.
With every blessing,
Go well
Karen
It’s been a while since I wrote to you, hasn’t it? Sadly, a few life events have meant I have struggled to put pen to paper for a while. Somehow though, the warm weather we have been experiencing has lifted my spirits, despite the fact I don’t cope very well in the heat.
The summer is in full flow isn’t it? In Britain, summer can be a bit unpredictable. One day we are searching for the sun cream, and the next we are looking for a jumper and wondering whether it is too early to put the heating back on. But whatever the weather decides to do, summer often brings with it the hope of a slower pace. An in temperatures we are experiencing this summer, slow is all I can manage.
Summer is great though, isn’t it? The days are longer. The gardens are growing. Some of us may be looking forward to, or have been on holiday, enjoyed family visits, days out, or simply the chance to sit in the garden with a cup of tea and no urgent reason to move.
There are usually fewer meetings in the diary—which, I suspect, is a blessing most of us can agree on!
Summer invites us to slow down. To enjoy what is around us. To notice the beauty in ordinary things.
But life doesn’t always follow the seasons. Sometimes the sun is shining while our hearts are heavy. Sometimes the flowers are blooming and the birds are singing, while we are carrying sadness that nobody else can see. And sometimes, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary summer day, we find ourselves remembering someone who is no longer with us.
This year has brought several painful losses into my life, and I wanted to share something of that with you—not because I have any great answers, but because I believe church should be a place where we can be honest.
We don’t have to arrive on a Sunday morning with everything neatly sorted. We don’t have to pretend that we are always cheerful, strong, or full of faith. Some weeks we come with joy. Some weeks we come exhausted. Some weeks we come carrying questions. And sometimes we come simply because we need to sit quietly among people who know our names.
In March this year, a friend’s 30 year old daughter was killed in a serious road accident. There are some things for which words feel painfully inadequate. The death of a young person seems to turn the world upside down. We think of all the things that should have been: the birthdays, the celebrations, the plans, the ordinary moments that would have become precious memories. We find ourselves asking questions that have no easy answers. Why? How can this have happened? What do we say? And perhaps one of the hardest things is knowing that there is nothing we can say that will make the pain disappear.
In May, we had the heartbreaking loss experienced by a friend of my son. They have known each another since they were two and a half years old, so he is someone who has been part of our lives for almost as long as my son can remember.
He and his partner were expecting their second child. At seven months, they learned that their baby’s brain had not developed properly. They had to face the unimaginable pain of losing the child they had already loved, hoped for, and imagined into their future. It’s sometimes tempting to measure grief by time—to think that we grieve most deeply for those we have known the longest. But love doesn’t work like that. Baby G was already loved. There had already been hopes and dreams. There had been plans, conversations, and the quiet imagining of what life would be like. His little life mattered and was precious. And his loss is very real.
Then, in May, a friend died suddenly at the age of just fifty after suffering a catastrophic stroke. Fifty! It feels far too young. It is far too young. When someone dies suddenly, there can be a strange sense of disbelief. One moment they are part of the familiar landscape of our lives, and then suddenly we are trying to imagine the world without them. We remember conversations. We remember laughter. We remember little moments that may not have seemed important at the time but now mean everything. And perhaps we think, and I know I did, “I thought there would be more time.” That sentence has stayed with me. I thought there would be more time for coffee and chats, for laughter and fun and for the things we meant to say.
This year has reminded me again, painfully, that life is both precious and unpredictable. That can be a frightening thought. But perhaps it can also be an invitation. An invitation not to wait. To phone the friend we have been meaning to call. To visit the person who has been on our mind. To say thank you. To say sorry. To say, “I love you.” To make time for the people who matter. And perhaps to worry a little less about whether the house is tidy enough, whether the washing is finished, or whether we have managed to tick everything off the list. The washing will still be there tomorrow. It won’t mind waiting.
But the people we love are not things we should always assume we can put off until later.
The Bible is wonderfully honest about grief. It doesn’t tell us that people of faith never feel sad or confused. It doesn’t suggest that trusting God means always having a smile on our faces. The Psalms are full of people crying out to God, asking difficult questions, and wondering where God is. Psalm 34 says: “The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I have found myself returning to those words. What does it mean for God to be close when our hearts are broken? Perhaps it doesn’t mean that God gives us an explanation. Perhaps it doesn’t mean that God takes away the pain. Perhaps it just means that God doesn’t leave us alone in it. Jesus himself wept when his friend Lazarus died. That matters. Jesus knew that resurrection was coming, and still he wept. He didn’t tell Mary and Martha to cheer up. He didn’t say, “There’s no need to be sad.” He stood with them. He shared their sorrow and He wept.
Faith doesn’t mean that we never cry. Hope doesn’t mean pretending that everything is fine. We can say, “This hurts,” and still trust that God is with us. We can say, “I don’t understand,” and still pray. We can grieve and still give thanks.
Perhaps that is what church is for. We’re not a collection of people who have all the answers. We’re a community learning how to walk together. Sometimes we carry one another through prayer. Sometimes we carry one another through practical kindness—a meal, a card, a lift, a phone call, or a cup of tea. And sometimes we carry one another simply by being there. We don’t always need the right words. Sometimes there are no right words. Sometimes it is enough to say, “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” Perhaps that’s one of the ways God comes close to us—through the kindness, patience, and presence of other people.
As we continue to journey thought these warm summer days, I find myself noticing things differently. A sunny morning feels like a gift. A cup of tea with a friend feels more important.
The sound of laughter seems somehow more precious. A walk, a shared meal, a conversation at the church door, these ordinary moments are not really ordinary at all. We’re not promised endless days. But we are given today. We are given this moment. We are given the people around us.
So perhaps the invitation of summer is not simply to fill our days with activity, or to feel guilty because we haven’t managed to do all the things we planned! Perhaps it is simply to notice. To notice the beauty around us. To notice the people beside us. To notice those who may be struggling quietly. To notice the gifts that are already here.
This year, I will carry these losses with me. I will remember a young life taken far too soon. I will remember a baby who was deeply loved. I will remember a friend whose life ended much too early. And I will give thanks—for lives that touched others, for love that remains, and for the people who walk beside us when the road becomes difficult.
Perhaps you are carrying something too. Maybe it is a recent loss. Maybe it is a grief that has been with you for many years.
Maybe it is a worry you have not spoken about. Maybe it is a change you never expected or wanted. Whatever you are carrying, I hope you know that you do not have to carry it alone. May our churches be places where there is room for the whole of life—not only the joyful stories, but the difficult ones too.
May we be gentle with one another.
May we listen carefully.
May we be generous with our time.
May we remember that a kind word can make more difference than we realise.
The summer sunshine does not remove sadness.
But perhaps it can remind us that light still reaches us.
And perhaps hope is not pretending that there is no darkness.
Perhaps hope is trusting that darkness will not have the final word.
May God hold close all who are grieving.
May God comfort those whose hearts are broken.
May God strengthen those who feel weary.
May God bless the memories of those we have lost.
And may we be given the grace to treasure one another—not someday, but today.
With every blessing,
Go well
Karen
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