Multiply Zambia - 2014

It's three years since Iain and I went to Stephen's church in Zambia's Kitwe for the last International conference.  In the time between, we've raised our game and introduced practical projects and added a younger group to such team visits.  The coming February/March trip boasts Len's wife Ali joining us to launch a literacy project, Hannah - who works in Multiply central office - to help with the orphanage and school, and James - church video guru - to document the whole experience and convey some of the rationale for those who 'still don't get it'. 

The itinerary for those of us conference-hopping (me, Len, Stephen) is pretty punishing: Kitwe, Lusaka, then Lilongwe in Malawi, and a return to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania.  I shall add a couple of days with Gregory in Nairobi. 

The vital need at this stage is to get a broadband connection installed at Stephen's ministry premises.  It's got to be satellite, thus leapfrogging copper wire, fibre optic and mobile cell technology in one go!  Huw's promised that Multiply Fund will underwrite whatever we can't secure by donations of the £5,000 price tag.  James, who works in Group IT, was worried how long it would take to set up the local network.  Then Farayi, a Zambian from Kings Church, Medway, agreed to join us.  His daytime job is also in IT support, so he'll be welcome the sixth member of the team.  While in Malawi, he'll check out Kings Church's own project there.

When Mick arranged his recent Multiply trip to Sierra Leone and Liberia, his team bonding times became legendary.  Whatever involves bacon rolls rapidly gains popularity, so we follow suit - anything less would be mean.  The next one is in a week's time, and by then we need to have the flights booked (awaiting just one confirmation), all jabs up to date, and an estimate on what funds we'll have raised, so we can get consignments sent off in time.

Ali co-ordinates 400 people in Brighton on English language courses and conversation groups.  Since August she's been working on suitable materials and schemes - at three levels - for both teachers and pupils in Zambia.  One of her office team comes from the Copperbelt, and has been encouraging her with advice about eating, dress and culture. 

Hannah held a cake sale after Sunday morning church a couple of weeks ago and raised £240 for the orphanage and school.  Four sisters in Northampton are tackling a sponsored bike ride, and Trevor's selling dvds.  The Brighton saints have done a car-boot sale.

We hope we'll get it right this time in Dar es Salaam.  Two year ago was beset with apostolic irritations as Stephen went down with malaria and we ran out of money.  This time we're assembling Rukundu and Gregory as reinforcements.  It will be great to catch up again with Stephen's brother, Jakob, and Pastor Luvanda from the local fellowship.

There's more on:
facebook.com/fundraisingforZambia
multiply.org.uk/zambia-project

More Songs and St Andrews

The Broomhall Community Choir has made its public debut.  Nothing very exalted, but we've broken the ice.  St Andrews (URC) held an afternoon Christmas party to mark the redecoration of their church hall, and we did a couple of pieces.

Mary's brother Tony, of City of Bath Bach Choir fame, let on that he was due to become a grandfather again.  In conversation, Mary told him how much she was enjoying the choir.  He later emailed that they were tackling James MacMillan's St John's Passion - the first amateur group to do so.  And the composer was making the journey from Glasgow to support the performance.  With this as the backdrop, you'll rate our challenge less impressive!

Choirmaster Steve turned up in a dark suit, resplendent with blood-red shirt and white bow tie.  He'd been a busy man, with a major concert the night before, and one to follow in the evening.  Fellow bass Ian had gone down with a croaky cold, and Worrall Male Voice Choir member David had already given his apologies.  It was down to Terry and me to bang out the "fat" in "Christmas is coming".  Although I'd missed a vital rehearsal, I'd got adequate memories of singing it at a school.  I realised that Terry and I were up against unfamiliar parts. 

Steve gave us a glowing introduction, and a pressing invitation for others to come and join the choir in the New Year.

Now I hang my head in shame.  We started with St Winifred ("Cradled in a manger, meanly").  When Steve brightly proposed 'unaccompanied', he was outvoted.  Furthermore, heads buried into music sheets while he - valiantly conducting with his left hand while playing the four-part harmony with his right, sitting sideways on to us at the piano keyboard - didn't get a glance through all four verses.  "Look at me!" he pleaded.  He wasn't best pleased.

I resolved not to let him down with the "fat".  The second song was passable, but hardly a credit.  I never did see Steve leave. 

Viv had turned up, having had a hand in designing a new CAT5 wiring loop for the Hall.  He munched his way through the buffet, and then announced he needed to go and pick up a table from Freecycle.  So I stacked a few chairs and went to give him a hand, while the nice catering ladies tidied up.  And that was that.  We've taken our first step to public recognition. 

Steve says it's madrigals next.

Chee Dale Christmas

The Monsal Trail is becoming our favourite local walk.  So when our traditional Christmas Day outing came onto the radar, it was little surprise that Clive announced, "We'll all meet in Millers Dale Station car park".  It ticks the boxes: less than half an hour's drive away, with toilets and an electric-buggy-friendly route, and fascinating vistas. 

Last year had been wet and cold, and the River Wye was swollen over its banks at several points.  Half of us had diverted up to higher ground, and followed a track across farm fields via Flag Dale.  This year was marginally less wet and cold, and the river just about allowed for the adventurous to take the Chee Dale lower path.

We boasted a substantial Chinese contingent - some from our house and some from No25.  Mary and I were getting cold just standing around, so led the way to the 'abseiling bridge'.  Then we headed down to the riverside path.  Before long, Callum, Keziah and the legendary Titus joined me at the front of the party.  They seemed comfortable with a mouldy oldie pottering along with them, so we stuck together.

Clive's laminated route plan referred to two sets of stepping stones.  As this was the point where most of the adventurous had to turn back last year, I was keen to see how we'd fair.  I'd expected the stones would cross the river.  But just at the point where the flow has undercut the rock face, there's a line of cube blocks parallel to the river, making up for the washed-away bank.  The second set, further along, was mostly covered, but not so we got stuck.

We made it through to the turn-back point, where we converged with the easy route.  It had taken just an hour.  It had been great fun. Titus had managed to keep the water out of his wellies, though he had mud up to his armpits.  A stubborn root sent Kezzie sprawling.  Callum had talked incessantly.  On the return path, the echoing tunnels tempted some of the more festively-minded to try out "Ding dong merrily on high".

Back at the Station we spread the picnic tables with sandwiches, fruit and cake, and the saints dived in.  Viv was bartering with Marcello and Quieng for the most bacon.  We packed Ray into a car to counteract his shivering.  Rosie was on her phone.  Peter Ali showed up on his mountain bike.  Jack thoughtfully squashed up all the sandwich packs and plastic cups so the back bin liners wouldn't overflow our wheelie bins back home.   Jan and Jane arrived as everyone one else was leaving.

Before Sheffield I took a detour through Eyam.  The view across the valley to Frogatt Edge was clear and bright.  Back home, Andrzej bundled his two Arabic-speaking friends into the little lounge to view the next episode in his DVD on Old Testament theology.  Harriet cooked up chicken supreme.

Sadly, I can't deny that I did some Jesus Centre admin before Mary and I got ready to spend the evening - as usual - with Phil and Donna in Chesterfield.  Returning at 11.00pm, Viv was taking home some Slovakian Romanies who'd been at the Jesus Centre.  An amazing mix. 

Tomorrow it's a central leaders event.

Sweet Bells and St Winifred

Mary and I have joined the local choir.  Back in the summer there were rumours that one would start in Broomhall, and I was interested.  Our mission motivators intermittently ask what we'd like to do to 'get out a bit more' and 'meet some normal people'.  Courses, clubs, and groups is the category I most readily warm to.  I had a brief flirtation with the University of the Third Age Creative Writing group.  Please believe me when I say it was so that I could improve the quality of my blogs!   But the choir means that Mary and I can go together.  Broomhall News announced it would form in November. 

"They'll probably want us to do a Christmas Concert..." Mary was apprehensive.  "Nah," I reassured.  "They'll hardly have sorted out if we're tenors or altos or whatever by then."

Wrong.  At our first practise, we were drilled in breathing techniques, sang scales to ooh, aah, eeh and lah, learned - as a memory exercise - the first half of the Humming Chorus from Puccini's Madam Butterfly, and tackled 'Cradled in a manger, meanly' ("don't forget the comma, the English doesn't make sense without it...").  Christmas Oratorio looked well within reach by December.

Our choirmaster is Steve.  If you check out energetic, irrepressible and enthusiastic in your online Thesaurus (who needs a creative writing course?), you'll get a suitable a cohort of adjectives (what is the collective noun for adjectives? an embroidery?).  He has a distinguished track record: director of the Sheffield Youth orchestra, Worrall Male Voice Choir, etc.  Inevitably, there have been comparisons with Gareth Malone of BBC Choir series.  Steve is dismissive.

Mary's brother, Tony, reluctantly joined the City of Bath Bach Choir (meeting in the Abbey).  Apprehensive at the technical challenges, he was surprised to find that the mid-rehearsal tea break is the best bit of each practise.  It is the same for all amateur groups?  It is for us.  Week one I met Ian, a quietly-spoken emeritus professor, and week two, John, retired team leader from the Social Services Department.  Week three Terry joined us, and week four, David from the aforesaid WMVC.  Meanwhile Mary's been sorting out the Sheilas, Marjories and Margarets, half of whom seem to be elders at the local URC Church where we meet for Tuesday practice.  Then we learnt that Ray and Ruth, newly relocated from Belfast to Battlecentre, have joined a choir that meets in the Royal Opera House.  Provincial just can't compete!

With week two came "Sweet Bells".  This is variation on the traditional "While shepherds watched their flocks" with a jolly chorus.  The objective seems to be for the men to cram in as many sweet bells, chiming bells and Christmas bells as the available notes and syllables will permit.  Steve seemed to think this exercise in lyrical shoe-horning was all good sport, and part of what gives each interpretation its distinctive local character.  Frustrated, I went home and drained YouTube of available renditions, until I had a workable version.  Then I set to, out of harm's way, while on the rowing machine in the cellar, to master the challenge.  Mary laughed at me as I woke up humming, drove humming and ate humming.  I was not to be deterred, even if I hoped we never had to sing it in performance. 

Flushed with triumph, I returned in week three to find that Ian had similarly marked up his score - with a different result!  Chaos again among the basses.  Back to the cellar and heavy editing.  Then came week four's anticlimax.  "We won't sing that this week." Steve announced.  "Well be joining two other choirs at the University in a couple of weeks, so let's try something else."   Out came "Cradled in a manager, meanly" again, til we'd mastered it unaccompanied.  You'll  find nothing on YouTube for the tune St Winifred.  But I have a bootleg video that I shot on stage in the main Firth Hall performance, and I'm sorely tempted to be first to post it.

How have we been propelled to such dizzying choral heights when we only wanted to 'meet some normal people'?

Liverpool Weekend

We'd promised the Lighthouse saints we'd visit again, and this time took Stephen.  We discovered that they don't do breakfast, lunch and tea on Saturdays, but brunch and tea.  However, when we arrived at 1.00pm, they busied to provide us with a meal.  The Snake Pass has been closed near Rivelyn, and the Woodhead Pass proved bright and sunny.

Ian took his two children back the front garden to finish building a little hut to attract various wildlife, and Stephen went to find the local Tescos.  Mary and I headed to Otterspool Promenade.  I'd discovered it last time on a brisk walk before the Sunday morning meeting.  The sun had turned to drizzle and the wind was blustery.  I suggested we stayed in the car so Mary had a doze and I'd catch up with some reading.  I rang Gav.  "We're sitting on the Mersey Estuary, watching the twinkling lights from the Ellesmere Port oil refineries.  Romantic." 

Back at the house we had an update on their building repair work.  The 'Gate' external wall had lost its plaster ready for waterproof treatment, and provoked interesting comments as visitors for the evening meeting gathered.  Mark spoke about finding fresh faith.  Joe, responding, asked for prayer, and Tommy and I led him into speaking in tongues.  Over supper Lill led the younger folks in a round of riddle-solving, while Blaze got busy in the kitchen.

As we left for the Sunday morning event, we saw Ian's finished hut.  A good number gathered at the Arche centre, and Joe was happy with last night's touch from the Holy Spirit.  I led the '40' meditation (by Chris Goan and Simon Smith), and we interacted well.  The folks chatted warmly before we returned for lunch at Lighthouse. 

 Mary and Stephen left mid-afternoon.  I was staying over for a mentoring session with Ian and the Monday evening.  I fell into conversation Rob and Pauline, and discovered (like me) he'd read Pope Francis's recent Exhortation.  We chatted about what 2014's changes may bring for us.  This included the paradox between us maintaining good stewardship of the application God has led us into, and our stamp of character by which we love to pioneer new things.  I fancy there's something around peace - the work of the Cross - that we can afford to amplify.

We had an early supper of pizza.  "It's Deno's birthday", Ian announced.  "Blaze has done him a cake.  Coming to see him for an hour?".  I was glad to, and we headed to Speke, where he looks after his 79-year-old mum.  Deno had lived with us for a year in Sheffield, then settled at Dayspring in Northampton.  But first his father's then his mother's failing health had called him back.

We heard the dog as we reached the door.  It yapped incessantly - from under the sofa, in front of the television, and in the hallway.  I struggled to identify the breed - some form of soft-haired terrier.  Deno make us a cup of tea, and divided Blaze's cake - complete with fresh cream - into five huge chunks.  Meanwhile the television entertained us with a Sunday evening omnibus on serial killers. 

Monday morning was cold, and Ian and I shared the office.  We stopped for a cuppa, and spent a couple of hours on Professional Development stuff.  The evening get-together was a new 'prophetic pioneers' group that represents the grassroots initiatives being promoted by the younger half of the church.  Viv and Harriet came over from Sheffield, so there was a good Northern mix.  It was great to hear how Lill and Blaze have vision for eleven younger girls, and are planning a camp for the summer.  Kerry wants to beg a piece of waste ground in Kensington (Liverpool) from the Council, and set up a community gardening project.  Harriet wants to start a 'Come dine with me' group.  I related how the Leicester saints had had a year of amazing initiatives, but somehow not reached a breakthrough.  It seems to point to a need for more prayer, so we prayed.

Viv slept in the back of the car as Harriet and I chatted our way back over the Pennines.  Many good things seem to be stirring.

Angels, Songs and Explanations

On Sunday morning in Coventry we sang Robin Mark's song Take us to the river.  It has an interesting third verse, that runs: Is this Your mighty angel / Who stands astride the ocean and the land / In His hand Your mercy...  On Monday morning I received a somewhat querulous email:  Can you tell me who the angel is standing on the ocean and the land?  There is one in Revelation but he is not doing what it says in the song.  It irritates me every time we sing it because I don't like singing what I don't understand.

I suggest querulous, because it wasn't difficult to track down an answer.  I'm sometimes driven to confront people with, "Well, do you want an explanation, or do you just want to grumble?"   Robin Mark had blogged about the Revelation 10 reference.  http://robinmark.com/the-story-behind-take-us-to-the-river/  He wrote the song with the theme of God's mercy in mind.  The angel has a scroll which is generally interpreted to be the gospel.  Mark points out that this is both sweet and bitter.  His blog continues that, for example, the Father's mercy to the returning prodigal son leaves a bitter taste in the older brother's mouth (Luke 15).  However, the song doesn't go on to explore this intriguing extension.

I thought that, in similar vein, I'd write a bit about one of my songs.  As it's not nearly so well known, here are the lyrics.

Lord, for You my strength, my days;
Follow You in manly ways;
Lift to You deep voice of praise.
Son of Man.

2. Lord, for You my social roles:
Headship, priesthood, guarding souls.
Covenant depth in faith-charged goals.
Abraham's Shield.

3. Watched by You from mother's breast.
Called to serve, achieve the best.
Steeled by trial, succeed each test.
Moses' Friend.

4. Train my mind and gain my will:
Talents, boldness, dexterous skill,
Fire of passion - all fulfill.
David's Lord.

5. Conqueror of my Adam pride;
Prophet search me when I'd hide.
With the towel my falseness chide.
Peter's Rock.

6. Spirit filled and gifted, strive.
Pressed by hell, yet I'll survive.
Sons are with me.  He's alive!
Jesus Lord.

7. Burning eyes and keys in hand.
Lion-Lamb before I'll stand.
Myriad voices; blood-bought band.
Heaven's Man.

NCCC (c) 2000 JesusFellowshipChurchCopyCare Ltd.

I wrote it as an encouragement to my friend Tim, when he was first called upon to lead a workshop in one of our Men Alive Days.  Often these workshops provide a challenge to grow in godly, distinctively masculine, character attributes.  Hence the use of Abraham, Moses, David and Peter as models, then an expression of personal aspiration, all topped and tailed by verses about Jesus.  I like songs with - what Huw calls - raw thump and bite.

Sadly, I don't write too many like that anymore.

Multiply India Retrospect

"when can we get together?" Nathan and Sam both pressed me.  We found a free Thursday evening, and booked in at Kings for tea.  Nathan and Sam had heard very little about Steve being in South India and then Myanmar and UAE.  I hadn't got their full story from Cuttack, Odisha, either. "Come on, Steve." Nathan encouraged.

Steve reminded us that we'd ruined his attempt at snatching some rest before flying south to Kerala, when we discovered Nathan's laptop was missing at Bangalore airport.  His flight was uneventful, but Daniel, who was due to follow an hour later, found his service was cancelled.  Steve waited several hours in the inhospitable airport until Daniel finally arrived on the last scheduled flight of the day.  Their time spent with Daniel's friend, Dennis, has been a delight.  But later, in Thrissur, the hotel was dingy and the delegates attending the conference not the promising catchment they'd hoped for.  Checking in for the onward flight to Myanmar, Daniel found out that visas aren't available for Indian nationals on arrival.  Steve was left to head for Kuala Lumpur on his own, as so grateful to find me waiting in Yangon airport.

Nathan took up his account of the Church on the Streets staged in Aizawl, Mizoram.  The young people's group that had promised to support the scene had been brave and spontaneous.  Next day, Colney took Nathan and Sam to the Jesus Army rehab out of the city.  They'd immediately clicked with the team there, working in very sparse conditions.  "What do you need?" Nathan had asked.  "A carpenter to build us more furniture here, and then teach the guys some skills, so they can move on from their addictions to something constructive."  Nathan asked him to put a figure on this.  Something like £5,000 would see it sorted.  Back at Colney's home, Nathan put out a Facebook page, and within hours netted some hundreds of pounds of pledges.  That's now been passed over to one of our veteran church members, who has the business experience and time to see it comes to fruition.

"Cuttack was something else," Sam chipped in.  "We arrived in the middle of a Hindu festival.  I found it quite intimidating. This group of young guys came up to me and were trying to get me to dance. 'C'mon, dance for the god!' they pushed me about."  Hannah, Sam's missus nodded vigorously.  Sam had experienced a few scary moments on the trip, including the road accident in Bangalore when his autorickshow had run into a van.  However, the visit to the boys home/orphanage had melted his heart, and been more than compensation.  "They all lined up yo welcome us, in red cross teeshirts.  Oh, the enthusiasm in their worship!".  "Yea, that's what got me in Mizoram, too." Nathan added.  "I wanna do a video that will inspire us to get into worship like that."  Sam and Nathan rounded off with their comedy-film routine of getting through security at Mumbai airport.

"I was chewed up about some of the things that went wrong," I confided.  "We had these big misunderstandings about what Steve's described about Thrissur; Butch arriving in Myanmar and how the whole budget for Yangon got out of schedule.  I'm trying to pick my way through it all."  I wasn't sure whether to go into detail.  "We've always said that every new Multiply activity we embark on stretches our leadership relationships more."

Nathan got us back to a more positive note.  "Who are we going to follow up?"   "Ah, the MILC conference in May/June next year is going to have three tracks."  I explained,  "One for the existing AMEN guys, then two each invitees that they see as key players either in their home scene or for a new place; then a J Gen track for younger folks, or leaders working with them like we do at RAW - again, about two each."  "Wow, that's great!"  Nathan and Sam were excited.  They fired off a load of names they're in contact with on Facebook.  "And don't forget the Intern scheme," I added.

"While we're on follow up," Steve joined in, "Greatheart, you really must get someone to take on some of the admin side.  I watched you dealing with the travel, the finances, the conference equipment - and after you'd done all the planning...  It was too much."  "Well, it was first time for you guys, so I wanted to smooth the way."  I explained.  "Yeah, but you're going to tell me the same about Zambia next year," he persisted.  He's right, there's still lots to work on.

Dave stuck his head round the door and offered us all tea and flapjack.  "Tell the others about the train home," I nodded at Steve.  "From Manchester airport, I fell asleep and went right past Crewe, so I had to double back from Sandbach," Steve explained.  "I did 20,000 miles in 15 days on eight flights, like clockwork, then missed my train connection!  The whole household turned out at Rugby station - with flags.  The other passengers were gobsmacked!"   "C'mon Greatheart, when are we going again?"  Nathan spoke for all of us.  "I think next it's got to be Delhi, to try to cover the northern third of India.  Who knows?"   It was way past 11.00pm, and I had to drive back to Sheffield.  It had been special. 

Searching for the North at Bishopthorpe

Every month or so, an e-newsletter titled 'Spirit Level' pops into my Inbox.  It's complied by a lady called Janet who represents the Churches Regional Council (CRC), a body originally set up by the Yorkshire and Humberside Regional Development Agency.  The dozen or so former RDAs have been phased out as such, but CRC marches on.  Spirit Level is a fascinating digest of church activities.  I've attended several events and downloaded some excellent material from its content and links. 

The October one caught my eye:   A day conference for mission practitioners, church leaders, theologians and missiologists to reflect together; What is distinctive about the North of England?  What might be a proper and fruitful relationship between the North and South for the mission of God in England?  Is there a Northern gospel?  The date was free, the price modest, and it was at Bishopthorpe Palace, York, a quick hour's train journey away, so I booked. 

There must have been worst places to be on the day.  The morning sun was clear and bright, and the mature trees in the Palace grounds flushed with autumn colours.  Along the gravel approach, through the arch, up the terrace steps, and enter by the front doors (not the generally used Reception) to collect my badge.  It's the paintings, or should I say portraits, that set the tone: all clerics one imagines of high status - in varying poses and vintages of dress.   We were ushered into the State Hall.  I counted fourteen portraits high around the walls, then amazing mouldings reaching the ceiling.  Through the large sash windows, the Ouse flowed wide, fast and dark brown along the rear garden terrace.  Most of the delegates were in clerical dress of contemporary mode.   "I feel like a lion in a den of Daniels," I observed to Gavin, our facilitator for the day.

The housekeeping announcements introduced us to a beautiful brass bell suspended in a wooden frame to be rung as a fire alarm.  Malcolm, the Archbishop's Chief of Staff, welcomed us and led the opening prayers.  He apologised that the Archbish was unable to be here - away in Canada.  Then we had our first morning plenary session: a set of compelling statistics presented by Kate Pickett, professor of epidemiology at York.  (You can see the presentation, done by her colleague and co-author on http://www.ted.com/talks/richard_wilkinson.html).  The studies include aspects of health, quality of life, social capital compared across 23 counties.  Her basic conclusion was that inequality in incomes causes more harm than low incomes (per se).  And the relevance to the North of England was that when things start to get bad, they get worse faster and more pronounced for poorer regions.  Kate invited a Christian response of speaking out against destructive inequality.

Over coffee, I met several other folks from Sheffield, though the total catchment ran for Newcastle to Nottingham, and across both sides of the Pennines.  Session two was the turn of Steven Cross, Bishop of Sheffield.  He spoke of two strands of analysis at work in the diocesan churches: first, congregations know the gospel but need guidance on how to launch mission.  Two: churchgoers aren't clear on the gospel, and that's where we need to start evangelism efforts.  As for the North - he described the narrative as 'tragic, rather than romantic', and that may be some distinctive.  Bishop Steven also provided a necessary balance to the earlier session, by reminding us that our salvation isn't economic, but from the Kingdom of Heaven.

Just before the lunch break, Gavin introduced how the afternoon whole session would run.  The programme said 'open space technology' - we we intrigued.  A bunch of upturned table tops were lined the front, ready for sticking up flipchart sheets.  "Here's how it goes," Gavin explained (I later learnt these rules nare specially suitable for theological reflection - or TR). "First, we agree our topics - anything that's been stirred up this morning, or that we felt was missed.  Second, we accept that in the gathering we have all the needed talent and experience to make real contributions.  Third, the law of two feet - if we're not making progress in the present group, we move to another."  He waved a marker pen, "So, who's got the first topic?"  A lady vicar sprang to her feet and spoke about a recent announcement that Northern towns in the grip of economic decline should be left to die.  "How do we bring hope and meaning in places like this?"  "You can lead group 1 on that." Gavin scribbled on the flipchart, nodding.  Having collected eight groups, we headed for lunch.

Two lovely sister in grey habits were gliding between adjacent admin offices.  I asked them if they live in, and explained my community background.  I bumped into two guys from the University of Carlisle, who similarly were engaged in a community experiment.  Lunch was sausage casserole and mash, followed by apple crumble.  And there were seconds.  "I bet you wouldn't get that if we were meeting in Winchester," I commented to three Methodists at the long oak table.  I skipped the stroll round the gardens that others had opted for, so I could familiarise myself with the format for the groups.  Fresh from our own trustee training session, I wanted to focus on key points.

"I thought Hull had low church attendance because they'd never heard the gospel," the lady vicar related.  "I took a funeral of a family man in his early 40s, and afterwards went to see his wife.  'Is there anything I can do to help...?' She replied, 'I've got rats in the garden and mice in the house; there's water running down the walls.  My two boys are up in court tomorrow and my daughter was brought home - found in a alley.  And I've had no money since the funeral.  Where would you like to start?'"  The tragic narrative.  My group (held later) concluded that sincere worship, and sharing testimonies of experiences with God created an authentic spirituality.  Gavin gathered up the flipcharted contributions, and hinted that another conference may follow.  They need it: mission hasn't really penetrated average parish consciousness.

Back at York station, I had a coffee with Joe, my grisly friend who use to come to our Jesus Centre every week.  "Had a holiday then, Joe?"  "A day at Scarborough."  "Well, York itself isn't such a bad place," I consoled.   "I stay out of the way," he muttered.  A month back I happened to be passing the Minster.  'Here,' this Yank calls over, 'Just to be clear - is this pre-war?'  I glared, an' said, 'It's pre-America.'  I just stay out of the way." 

Sheffield Praise Day

In national Church terms, the big splash for us locally is Sheffield Praise Day.  It's traditionally held about the third Saturday of October, at the International Conference Hall in Ponds Forge.  We have a coach-based evangelism/outreach campaign in the city centre for the few days leading up to the event.  Of course, it's a different experience for everyone: here's my version.

The Centre's main hall needs to be carpeted.  It's got one of those classy wooden sprung floors, with multiple multi-coloured court lines for multi-sports events.  Ponds Forge is one of the fussiest venues we hire - not necessarily a bad thing - so protecting the floor requires fine-tuning attention.  

We employ three grades of adhesive tape: first your standard black gaffer tape for sticking together the edges of the sections of carpets - that's the bit you most see.  Then special-purpose dark blue gaffer tape, used where the edge of the carpet overlaps the wooden floor - this has a different adhesive that won't cause damage.  Third, a very expensive white double-sided tape NEC (National Exhibition Centre) approved, , that goes under the carpet to prevent slipping - this goes down first.

Thursday evening, ten o'clock, finds Mark, our events manager, parking his trailer and van next to the loading doors.  Off come the rolls of carpet - dark blue, pale blue, dark grey, pale, grey, and (this year) billiard table green.  It's all ex-exhibition stuff that Mark looks out for throughout the year, and blags as needed.   Seven of us local guys have turned out to help.  It feels like a 50 meter walk to the far end of the hall, where we drop the first pile.  Then we work our way back towards the entrance.  Viv's in charge, and selects the first pieces to roll out.  They will run under the stage, and provide a straight edge for positioning the remaining sections.

 Viv entrusts me with the white tape and blue tape, and I settle up against the far wall, working across towards the banked bleacher seating.  I've brought a cushion to kneel on, a Stanley knife and a pair of black sticky gloves.  Last year, on the same task, I didn't use a cushion, and regretted it.  The rest of the guys are with Viv selecting and laying out the rolls that will match up best, by colour and then width.  Malcolm suggests to Mark, "You could have made this process simpler by numbering each piece of carpet last time."  Mark doesn't answer.

Before long, Jack and Carmino are onto the black tape finishing off, with the characteristic 'squit, squit' unpeeling noise.  I muse if this may be why it gets called duck tape.   Jack shuffles along backwards with the roll, while Carmino picks his way forward, one foot in front of the other, to stick it down.  An hour has passed, and now the process gets repetitive and more tedious.   For example, some of the carpet was first laid upside down.  Mark decides to move the colours around, so the green is all under the bleachers.
approved, that goes under the carpet to prevent slipping - this goes down first. 

Having finished the far end, I gather up the scattered rubbish and head towards the entrance end.  Viv floats around with an air of uncertainty, then pulls out a section of dark grey and replaces it.   "Jack," I call over, "am I right in thinking it was about this time we has some bottles of pop, last year?"  He grunts. 

We've all slowed down, but Mark now summarises what he'd like us to finish before we pack in, leaving him to tinker around in the morning.  With a fresh objective in view, we're more focussed.  Carmino joins me in the black tape routine.  He peels off and I stamp down.  Jack appears with a 2-litre flagon of Cola and an eight-piece pizza.  We're on the home straight.

 It's half-past-midnight when we climb into the vehicles and head homeward.  Mark will pull his van round to the carpark and crash out in the back, so he's ready to let in the rigging team early.  On Saturday the punters will arrive and enjoy the event, I imagine giving no thought to the carpet.  After all it's just like it was last year, and every Praise Day before.  I guess that's the idea.

Coventry Congregation

The Kings House Saturday night household meeting had fired up with a question, "What was the worst thing you can remember doing?"  One brother admitted to having weed over the back of the WC pedestal when he was six, and then having lied to his mother.  Clearly we weren't in immediate danger of attracting tabloid attention.

On Sunday morning I made a bid for Mary and I to get to the Coventry Jesus Centre early.  I had to tee up Nick with a video I wanted to show, and to check he was happy with my powerpoint.  He was simultaneously, and I hope not distractedly, updating House of Goodness's main server.  Rob led the worship, and unlike last time, when we'd had a forest of announcements, I had to drag folks to the front to achieve some participation.  Andy told us about the congregation's 'pitch' held on the Cathedral steps in Freshers Week.  "You get two minutes.  Bethel tells them they're the best for bible teaching.  Another church says they're the best for worship.  A third says they serve coffee and donuts in the meeting.  Another says they meet in the afternoon for max convenience."  He was leading up to our bit.  "We said, 'We've just come back from Gloucester, where we've been training four young guys in evangelism.  Come with us and be discipled.'"  He continued, "I asked the girl standing next to me what she thought."  "I wonder what time they serve the donuts," was her answer.

Andy also reported on how the New Friends Course was going, and the Sunday evening experiment of holding the meeting in Esquire's Coffee Bar.  These had all started since I was last in Coventry at the start of September.  It was creditable progress.  I talked some more about the call to mission.  We watched the video   http://www.jesus.org.uk/videos/special-short/christian-treasure-hunting and I got people moving around praying for one another.  Then the final announcement was that we'd shortly be gathering at Lady Herbert's Garden for congregation lunch.

This little corner of Coventry city centre is intriguing, and the sunshine promised to make it a pleasant gathering.  Caelan climbed on the exposed section of city wall.  I asked him how old he thought it may be.  An adjacent plaque read 1440, so I suggested he did the maths.  He got it right, just like our Neive, his classmate, confirms.   Mary and I found a spot next to Jane, who has single-handedly churned out the JeD software package that undergirds the admin, services and performance aspects of our Jesus Centres.  She also used to live with us in the way-back-when days, with two other graduates, in extended family.  As I'm on a mission to recover some of the stepping stones to community, I fired a few questions about her recollections, and the challenges of community today.

The park-keeper announced it was time to leave, so we wound our way back to the car park.  This took us past the weekly Coventry Foodbank.  About 40 contributors lined up boxes of drystuffs and tables of other food on a low wall next to the footpath.  About 200 punters were queueing up, and generally milling around with carrier bags and plates of ready-to-eat.  I took a quick photo, as it seemed intrusive to stare.   I guess we'll see quite a number of them in the Jesus Centre later in the week.  So this is a Coventry snapshot.  I'm back again shortly for the quarterly Management Committee meeting.

Sweeny4

Phil walked in with a smart new haircut.  This was rare.  He's one of those characters who generally seems to have taken a knife and fork to his hair whilst leaning over the bathroom sink, and then finished it off with a three-week old razor, just to give his ears a bit more airspace.  His glasses too, look as though they're held together with sellotape.  So presenting himself conspicuously tidily was worth a compliment.  "I had it done free," he stated, "as a model for a trainee. Just down Eccleshall Road". 

He had me hooked.  Through my community years, I've engaged with haircutting from two directions.  First, where I could get done, traditionally free, and by someone who had half an idea.  And then learning to give them, both with scissors and an electric trimmer, as a small contribution to my brethren's welfare.  (Nape hair is the great amateurish give-away; I have a thing about it.)  But when I moved to Leeds, I gave this up as one job too many in a busy life, and because David (living with us) was pretty good.  He was grateful to inherit my kit.  And I'd also conceded that popping down from the Jesus Centre to the walk-in emporium at the bottom of the Moor for a pensioners afternoon £3 concessionary was just a no-brainer.  Free, at a professional barbers, sounded too good not to explore. 

Now this was May, when winter hadn't really packed up and gone, and the forecast was grim (you remember the miserable Whitsun Bank Holiday?).  But I was due for two weeks in India in September, and a bit of forward thinking could have me ready with a buzz cut for the guaranteed high temperatures, whatever the English summer may bring in-between.  I rang Alex, on the number advertised in the shop window: "A number 4?"  "Yes; sure.  Come down after 1.30pm."  I don't understand why I was surprised that Alex was a lady.

I was ushered to a seat at the far end and introduced to Christian.  "Number 4 all over?" Alex enquired.  "It'll seem short."  True, I had grown quite a thatch since my last haircut.  It had been particularly stylish, swept up from one side with a blower.   It hadn't stayed looking tidy for much more than a couple of weeks.   Christian was nervous.  Maybe me pulling out my hearing aids hadn't helped.  "Did I drag you away from anything important?" he politely enquired.   "Nah, I do some charity work, y'know, down at the Jesus Centre."  My red cross was unavoidably conspicuous.  "Mmm,"  he replied. "I met Nayth and Chris last year.  An' I know Viv.  They came round to our place one night.  An' Viv keeps inviting me round for tea."  Wow, I thought, how did this happen?

We chatted on and he buzzed away, still somewhat hesitantly.  Alex came over and gave him some tips on grading.  I nodded at my beard.  "You can have a go at that, if it's part of your practise."   We agreed on a regime, and out came a new smaller electric trimmer.  Then we settled that my ears needed attacking.  Alex did one; Christian the other.  "Sorry," she broke in. "This is all taking an awful long time.  Can I offer you a drink or something?"  I was gratified, but declined.  She leaned forward.  "Now, what are we going to do about the eyebrows?"  Since everything else had been pruned like roses in February, I had to concede.   "I love doing eyebrows!" she glowed, like a gourmand who's saved the best til last, and is about to indulge.  I smiled, and suspected that poor Christian wasn't going to get a look-in on this.  I looked in the mirror.  Yes, this was at least as svelte as Phil.

Four weeks before the Multiply India trip I went down again.  Christian was nowhere to be seen.  Another trainee, who was at the end of her apprenticeship, produced a confident and proficient job in half the time.  "About how long would you expect a cut like this to last?" I ventured.  "Oh, come back in another couple of months."  I put a reminder in my phone diary.

The third visit, Christian was my man again.  We chatted some more about the guys he'd met, and I invited him to Praise Day, where they'd be sure to be there.  He was grateful that Viv kept in touch.  The shop's hours are set to catch the customers' convenience, so he's not likely to get a lot of free evenings.  Then he mentioned that he was due to be off to India for a holiday.  (He also said he wished he could grow a decent beard.)  I told Alex he'd noticeably grown in confidence.  This time I remembered to give him a tip, too.  Nice one.

Family Day

Our whole family gets together in autumn once every year.  It's a great idea, and usually a great occasion, though it never quite fulfills its full eligible quota.  When I say our family, it's really Mary's immediate relatives.  I only have two living cousins on my father's side, though twelve on my mother's.

At the risk of sounding like the genealogy of the seventy persons who came with Jacob to Egypt, I'll list them.  Ted and Win Haines (both deceased) had Mary, Tony and Mick.  Mary married Ian and had Ellen, Gav, Viv, Kat and Lizzie.  Tony married Diane (her parents, living with them, are Ted and Irene), and had Jon, Dan, Jess and Emma. Mick is unmarried - single for the Lord.  Ellen married Andrew and has Ben, Ryan, Dean and Faye; Gav married Georgie and has Neive, Elise and Nate; Viv - like his uncle Mick is committed single; Kat married AJ and has Zeb and Zane; Lizzie's partner is Col.  Jon married Emma and has Suzy and Imogen (twins) and Lara; Dan married Tam and has Lois and Bay; Jes's partner is Tom; Emma married Dan (they now live in New Zealand).  That's 38 souls.  Though the names don't spell it out, there have been no divorces, and neither are there currently any step children. 

Then it get's interesting.  Sometimes Diane's sister Gayle has come with her husband Tony, and their three children, of whom the eldest is Gareth, and the next Ellen.  Do you notice there are two Teds, two Tonys, two Emmas, two Dans and two Ellens; with each pair in the same generation?  Tony and Diane have five grand children, all girls.  Lizzie met up with Gareth in - of all places - Banff, Canada; and Jon and Emma lived there for six month before they married.  Georgie's Dad, Jerry, lives at Burnham on the nearby coast.

The customary meet-up is at Tony's and Diane's home in Corston near Bath.  Three of their brood (plus Diane's parent, if you've been paying attention) live locally, making a home team of 15.   Then Mick, Ellen and Gav plus crews live in the midlands (12 more).  So the northerners (just seven of us) draw the short straw of having to travel furthest.  We're lucky if we see the out-of-UK contingent of Lizzie and Col and Emma and Dan.  (Let's check if that adds up to 38?)  Yes, we've had the get-together at Mick's place, Cornerstone, and once even in the Manor, Leeds, when Mary and I lived there.  But the arrangement seems to have settled into a routine, and it suits our busy church diary.  We usually get some sunshine, allowing lunch outside.  If we're lucky, it coincides with Tony's Men's Fellowship monthly breakfast meeting, and the guys get a 'full English' in a pub in Bath, too. 

Tony's birthday, back in May, found Mary and I and Mick joining him for a family finance trust AGM in Cheltenham.  This is dictated by the terms of their aunt Mabel's will.  We compared diaries and picked a free Saturday in October to get the family day together.  I banged off text messages to our various offspring, but omitted to email too.  This left space for some last-minute consternation in September, and a strident outcry from Lizzie.  Meanwhile, Mary and I arranged to be in Coventry for their Sunday morning meeting on the day following.

Then Ellen's car's cam belt broke.  Being a 'Mum's taxi' type of MPV meant that they wouldn't be able to fit six - plus Holly the mongrel - into Andrew's work car.  Gav wasn't able to offer more than one spare seat, and Viv was going to travel straight from Northampton on Friday night.  So I asked to use Kings House minibus.  Kat and AJ decided to jump a lift, too, and we stayed over at Kings ready for an early getaway.  The Men's Breakfast would have to be sacrificed (though Viv and Tony got to attend).  I had wanted to find out how they manage regularly to get about a hundred blokes along, when we get minimal interest in our annual Men Alive event.

The most direct route Bath-wards is along the Fosse Way and A46.  I've driven it before, but a long time ago, so brought a map.  We had a bright morning and made good time.  Ben squeezed next to me and I discovered what a good map reader he is.  "We take the A429, then get onto the A433, the we join the A46.  After we've crossed the M4 we come down to the A420, turn west and then look for a white road - past Sir Greville Fox's monument - that leads to other white roads that take us down through Weston to the A4.  Got that?"  He had.  I was impressed.  Then he lost interest, as he had to do an interview with Mary about the Second World War.  I had to fill in directions with snippets from the satnav.  Then we had temporary panic.  Mick texted that he was left without a lift at Bath station, at precisely the moment the 'white roads' failed to yield a network signal.

The sunny weather granted time for relaxed conversations.  The three dogs competed for chasing balls.  We cooed at Lara and Bay, just weeks old.  Tony and I discovered that he'll be in Lilongwe, Malawi, in November, and I next March.  Nate pushed the plastic lawnmower up and down with great joy.  AJ ran a treasure hunt involving jumbo Lego, which Lois won.  Lunch straggled on to afternoon tea, with more home-baked recipes spread on the table.  We gathered for the obligatory set-piece photograph.  Viv left earliest to set up for the evening's Arena meeting in Sheffield Jesus Centre.  I eventually got the minibus underway, and dropped off Mick at Hopwood services on M42.  It was pitch dark at Bascote Moorings when Ellen and crew disembussed.  Mary and I earned a muted cheer when we joined Kings' household meeting.  Job done.

Same again next year, no doubt.  Shall we match 34 out of the 38?  Or will it even be more than that?

Trustee Training

We're working hard on succession for our church trusts and business boards.  For sure, we know that the rising generation will not be prepared to become a fresh pair of legs under an old burden.  They must have a say in shaping for the future.  So, much was to hang on the inter-generational training day that Mick conceived after conversations with our Birmingham-based charity lawyers, Anthony Collins. 

Mick puts a lot into shaping our culture, and it's more that cosmetic.  Well in advance we received an informative programme brief, and I got a schedule of table groups.  The key business players and central office teams were under orders to make themselves - and other people invited - available for the day.  Viv and I drove down together.  He's been 'in attendance' at Charitable Trust (JACT) meetings for a year or so.  It's part of his Professional Development Group programme experience - another initiative running to deliver more sustained input to significant employees going forward into management. 

Cornhill Kings Room was purposefully laid out for the job, and Farhad, Mick's PA, was busy.  Simon, our 'facilitator' for the day, stepped forward and made introductions.  It turned out that he attends the Methodist Church where Mick's family were members, and Mary and I married.  As the 50-plus delegates straggled in, Simon repeated the process.  This, too, was more than cosmetic.  It became apparent during the day that he'd remembered an impressive number of names. 

I was due to lead a group from the Church Life Trust, the top-level instrument for our Regions' organisation.  This would be a new challenge, as I'm most embedded in JACT (the Jesus Centres charity) and our Group businesses board.  Life Trust embraces Multiply, and I wondered if this was how I qualified.  In the event, owing to a few absences, I did end up with a JACT group.  It was just three of us: Jayne and Stevo, from Northampton Jesus Centre, and me.

Simon briefly previewed the day's programme, designed to introduce us into running effective meetings.  The he got us straight into an icebreaker activity.  We had to draw - or write - on a post-it note, what fired up our energy in the work situation and away from it.  Then we had to mingle round and explain it to as many people as possible.  I wrote Research on both halves.  This provoked a snort of derision from Stevo, which wasn't a promising start.

Simon's first session was aimed at challenging mindsets that say the most important component in a meeting is the tasks in hand.  No, it's the people, in all their diversity, ability and experience.  He bobbed from flipchart board to flipchart board (there were three tactically placed at different points in the room), and back to his projector.  Then each table had a go at breaking down the question "what's the big issue facing us" into as many contributions as we could harvest, followed by a synthesis to render all the material into one or two key points.  It was a serious challenge.  In the end, Simon sent round 'flying moderators' to slash through the excess where groups were struggling with the consolidation process.  Brilliant.

Our flipcharts were scooped up for Simon's secretary to compile our final offerings, so that after the coffee break we had the results neatly on the screen.  This had all relied largely on in-house focus.  Session two went the other way - producing an analysis of major environmental factors.  Our table was given the one word the Economy.  This had to be exploded into a set of concrete objectives, by which our Jesus Centres could respond to prevailing circumstances, and plan ahead to remain relevant as trends moved forward.  Over lunch, all this was typed up, too.

After the lunch break, Stevo and I took a stroll.  We exchanged notes on Myanmar - where his parents have just landed for six months' church work, and our community initiative in Northampton's eastern development, where he lives with his family.

Now it was time to tackle techniques for handling change processes, and to demystify buzzwords like brainstorm.  More contributions, more lists; flipchart sheets everywhere.  The activities bounced along, followed by cheers for those who had worked hardest at scribbling down everything.   Simon remained firmly in control of the clock, whilst thanking us for every contribution, and somehow managing to turn it to use.  In the finale, the room broke into two, and we competed for even the wackiest suggestions to make meetings more effective. 

"I've no idea how I'll use all this in the meetings as we have them," Jen commented afterwards.  No, I can't see us deliberating while remaining standing up, or taking the agenda in reverse order.  But it was a glimpse of the fact that we could, if so inclined.  

Narrow Way Again

In August, we'd held RAW (Real And Wild) in Leicester.  They say it was the best ever.  A significant difference from previous RAWs was the target age-group, just up to 25 rather than up to 35.  Earlier in the summer, our Youth Camps had made a big impact on the around-16 age range.  So the RAW core team was keen to follow on within this Holy Spirit movement.  Some mouldy oldies' had gone along as team facilitators and mentors.  The local Leicester saints had booked premises in the city centre for team gatherings, and subsequently to keep in touch with people that had been met.  This included an early evening Saturday afternoon get-together in the Cafe of Bishop Street Methodist Church.  I was keen to join the congregation in this current experiment.

Mary and I loaded up Lillian and her electric scooter, and headed down the M1.  We dropped off our bags at Narrow Way (off Narborough Road), then cut across to Springfield House (in Stoneygate).  Here we dropped off Lil, and had some tea before joining the minibus into the city centre.  Sitting around the cafe tables, and wandering around the worship area, I had time for a lengthy catch-up with Richard and with Clive, key local leaders.  My relationship with these guys has benefited enormously from the weekends that Mary and I have visited in the past year.   Four new folks had joined the gathering, and Andy popped up to lead a couple of worship songs, followed by some personal prayer.  It was a wholesome and holding couple of hours.  The past year has also seen the two church household come together much more.

We were back at Narrow Way with enough of the evening left to attempt something worthwhile.  Richard and Margaret were just back from seeing two of their sons down south, and I got asked about the recent Multiply trip.  Conversation flowed easily and inclusively: the best of relaxed house family life.  Carl and Akke went off to join the late night evangelism and healing team, again in the city centre.

For the Sunday morning, we were back at Netherhall.  I talked about the importance and validity of each person's testimony about their experiences with God.  I related the incident when, at home, the neighbour opposite's car rolled down the drive, across the road, and smacked into our garden wall.  On board were the family's two young sons: one had meddled with the handbrake while the parents were loading up for their holiday away.  Neil had checked out the damage; Dave had run to tell the parents; Mary had rushed to console the boys; I'd stood in the road to slow down other traffic.  Thus, we - all four - would have a different account and perspective of the same incident.  Just as we have in the gospels, and just as has been authentic in Christian witness ever since.   The point was well received. 

During the afternoon, Richard and Dave cooked up an imaginative means to capitalise on this for our evening get-together.  They laid out a strip of drafting tape along the wood-effect floor of the dining room, and marked it in decades starting from 1930 up to today.   Once the get-together was underway, Richard and Dave gave accounts of their lives at 1995, 2000, 2005 and 2010, tracing the faithfulness of God and new discoveries in their Christan walks.  Then we all spread out along the line to mark when we were born, and afterwards - some volunteers - the date of first finding faith, with the events that led up to it and followed.

We were spellbound by each others' accounts.  I hear they've since had a re-run, because folks who missed the first chance wanted another opportunity.  At Springfield, on our way to pick up Lil, we heard that they'd also shared stuff together like this.  St Benedict used to insist that the purpose of community life must centre on the experienced presence of God.  Norman Grubb described sharing testimonies as the key to continuous revival.  Well, we'd had a welcome taste of it.

Grave 81 Compartment 37

My mum died in Spring 2007, aged 94.  We held a cremation service at Sheffield's Hutcliffe Wood.  I got the deeds of the family plot in Hull's Chanterlands Avenue Cemetery transferred to my name.  Then we took the ashes over and held a family memorial service in the chapel there.  I arranged for the wording on the headstone to be updated with my father's and mother's details.  Crown Memorials (Hull) did what they'd promised, and sent me a certificate.  But I'd never made the opportunity to go and inspect the finished product.  It was one of those sometime-I-must-get-round-to-it bucket jobs.  My cousin June keeps the plot tidy.

The sequence of events is interesting by which my mum came to spend her last eight years in Sheffield.  In the late 1990's I was driving over to Hull every other Wednesday to take her out shopping, go to the bank and generally make sure she was okay.  And to share fish and chips at Hessle Foreshore, under the Humber Bridge.  She was living in Lees Houses, a substantial leafy-suburbs charitably-based complex of 120 independent flats.  She'd moved there in 1984, three years after my dad died.   Throughout 1999, workmen were stripping out and replacing the asbestos insulation of the Houses' district heating system (an advanced concept for properties built around 1910).   Mum gave anxious accounts of the workmen having helped themselves to margarine from her fridge or having moved things around in the airing cupboard.  It was the classic confabulation by which we produce a 'why' story when slips of memory leave us unable to provide a consistent thread of explanation for events as we find them. 

Visiting in the September, the Warden took Mary and I to one side.  She explained that they'd found my mother in a state of confused distress trying to put some soiled bedsheets through the washing machine.  "I know she's been making up stories..." I offered.  "No," the Warden was firm. "This is the onset of dementia, and you need to plan for it."  She then summarised the stages of denial, distress and accommodation that form the recognised pattern of progression.

For Mum, it also meant she'd lose her tenancy, as her personal decline would carry her into the need for residential care.  "As it happens, she's spoken of possibly moving to Sheffield, because she can see she's become dependent on us, now," I added.  Within twenty minutes, we had a game plan.  The Warden would get Mum properly medically assessed.  I would arrange to take out Enduring Power of Attorney, and we would look for a place in a Residential Home.  Mum, unaware, complied.

Mum was registered blind, having lost the sight in her right eye aged eight through an accident that caused a detached retina.  These days, it would be routine to sort it out.   She suffered the disability all her life, and a bodged cataract operation nearly cost her the residual vision in her 'good' eye.  Over Xmas 1999 she came to stay.  I arranged for her to visit the Royal Sheffield Society for the Blind's Cairn Home residential unit, just over a mile from us.  On enquiry, Hull's equivalent facility had closed down.  She got on famously.  We agreed to put her name on 'the list', while the staff checked her eligibility as an out-of-towner.  "Mind you," they warned, "She's number 17.  And we've only had four vacancies come up in the last ten years."  No matter, it was progress, and we sensed a lot of grace in the whole sequence of events. 

In March 2000, Cairn Home rang.  "This is a long shot.  A place has come up, and we've been turned down by the the first 12 people on our list.  Would Mum be interested?"  Would she!?  We moved her to Sheffield a month later.  Viv came over from York Uni to help, including, I remember, sliding her large wardrobe out through the first floor window.

"I suppose it would be nice to spend a bit of time together..." I'd mused to Mary in August, "Y'know, before I go to India.  We could go to see the grave, and have fish and chips under the Humber Bridge," I added hopefully.  But the only suitable day was a Saturday, and the Cemetery wouldn't be open.  Then last week, Andrzej tracked me down to where I was trying to read some Jesus Centre stuff in quiet.  "I'm trying to arrange for someone to cover Mary's Help Desk slot tomorrow, so you can get some time together."  "Did you know about this?" I asked her shortly after.  I confess, I don't take kindly to folks organising me into 'quality time' scenarios. 

We left at 10.00am next morning.  It was hazy and overcast, and I predicted it would only get worse nearer the East coast, whereas Mary was sure the sun could just break through at any time.  Once on the M18, Mary asked me what had changed me on the Multiply trip.

In Hull, we threaded our way to the Cemetery through road closures and lane resurfacing .  The detour included Westbourne Avenue's cast iron mermaids that I ran into as a novice driver.  The family grave stands in a prime position near the wrought iron entrance gates.  My grandfather had secured it when he worked as a supervisor for the Council Parks Department.  He lost his right hand in WWI, and had a war pension, too.  Everything looked fine. I spotted one headstone that looked like a cherub on a space hopper.  Mary, observing the silver birches afflicted with fungus, announced that she'd like the one in our back garden taken down, because it blocks out too much light. 

We bought some fish and chips from the shop where I used to go 'as a lad'.  As I expected, from the Foreshore carpark we could barely see to the far bank of the estuary.  When Mary's brother Tony rang, she chirped, "The sun's just about to break through." 

After a walk, we headed home.  I was due to go to a business consultation meeting with with Paul Blomfield, our MP.  I'd read an article in Abu Dhabi about the disproportionate effect on GDP of mega cities and city regions.  "Look at this," I'd explained to Mary, "Six years, and between Hull and Sheffield there's been nothing more than a couple of new sheds (meaning warehouse units) and a new roundabout.  And as for airports..."  I fear that Humberside and South Yorkshire's not in the running as a 'top 600 places of global economic influence', despite our Council's glowing rhetoric in their ten-year Strategy Plan.  Mary bore with my comments silently.  I probably need another day off.

Zebedee Three

"You will come, won't you," Kat insisted.  "It'll just be a couple of hours, 2.00 til 4.00."  She'd lined up assorted lovely couples and yummy mummies with their Georges, Alberts and Henrys for Zeb's birthday party.  Age three seems to me to be threshold where a party begins to mean something to the child rather than the sentiment of the parents.  It seemed doable, too, even though I'd had hardly had any time to sort out the 6.30pm meeting with Barrie.  Mary was vague about the exact arrangements, but at least we had a postcode.  Then Kat texted to say the carpark was full.  Jack and Harriet's youngest, Silas, agreed to come with us.  Although there promised to be plenty to eat, he insisted on taking the chunk of bread that was the remnant of his lunch.  AJ met us in the alternative, Dore and Totley railway station, carpark.  We loaded up with folding chairs and carrier bags of pizzas and fruit-juice cartons.  "Last time we came, there was hardly anybody here.  Today it's heaving - sorry."  He apologised inecessarily.  We trekked up a farm track.

Ahead we could see a half-size railway footbridge, four concentric miniature tracks passing through picket-fenced station buildings, and, through the crowd of parents-and-children, several steam engines taking around their passengers.  A yellow board announced 'SMEE' - Sheffield and District Society of Model and Experimental Engineers Ltd (founded 1905).  "Goodness," I thought.  "So this is what Mr and Mrs Average find to do on a Sunday afternoon.  And we've set up a mission focus group to discuss how to connect with them."  "Over on the left," AJ encouraged, as we negotiated the footbridge.  "We didn't bother with the gazebo, and all the picnic tables are taken."

The central field was about an acre in size, swelling with families (and assorted grandparents) under the sunshine and autumnal trees.  Tables sagged under the piles of sandwiches, pop bottles and birthday cakes.  Streamers and bunting announced first, 2nd, 3rd and 4th birthday groups.  The air was pungent with smoke from the locos, and toots and whistles ascended the musical scale as the train rides passed the rail junctions and cross-overs and emerged from tunnels. 

"You could find a new hobby here," Kat burbled.  "It's all run by grandads like you.  Engineers.  All voluntary.  AJ's going to get a fistful of tickets - only £1 each - so we can all have a ride."   It was indeed an interesting set-up.  But I could resist the idea of spending weekends sitting astride a hissing boiler wearing a scruffy jacket spotted with assorted interest-group lapel badges.  I took Silas and Zebedee to peer over a fence and wave at people, while Kat spread out the food on travel rugs.  Mary occupied younger grandson Zane.  Various of AJ's and Kat's friends arrived.

Zeb doesn't like cake, so he had a birthday pizza, with candles, instead.  I tempted Silas away from his chunk of dry bread, and he tucked in to some grapes.  Viv had mentioned that he'd been invited, too, so I texted him some directions.  They proved unnecessary.  When the first ride contingent made their way to the ticket box, I saw his red cross teeshirt across the platform as he was busy with his camera.   Now I was looking after Zane, having rescued him from chewing a polystyrene plate followed by an apple juice carton.  He's at the everything-goes-into-my-mouth stage.  "They're on the red train," I explained to Edward's mum.  We waved excitedly.  And then the next time they came round.  And then two more times.

By 4.00pm the crowd was thinning out, and the queues for rides had shrunk.  AJ's and Kat's friends began to give their goodbyes.  Mary and I brushed the sycamore leaves off the blankets, scooped up arms full of folding picnic chairs and tottered back to our car.  Silas skipped along with a white balloon.  "Thanks for coming," Kat offered for the last time.  "No, it's been fascinating," I could truthfully reply.

Check out http://www.sheffieldsmee.co.uk/ 

Liverpool Black-E

For the past dozen years we've used a Saturday in September to hold concurrent celebration events at two locations across the UK.  North/South approximately describes it, though East/West has sometimes been geographically more accurate.  Ours (i.e. 'North') was in Belfast last year.  For fairness, we aim to toggle between the respective 'patches' of our apostolic team guys.  This year, we opted to return to Liverpool.  The previous city action day, and evening event at Black-E, had been a great success.

I'd leaned on our household to get over to Liverpool on a Saturday earlier in September, to give a bit of moral support to the local saints' preparatory publicity and prayer walking, etc.  Despite the distance, we are Lighthouse's nearest neighbours.  I returned from the Multiply trip to find an A3 sheet scheduling the transport arrangements already pinned up on the hallway bookcase.  Josh and the guys had been hard at work.  They all chipped off early to do set-up.  I didn't scrutinise the list until Friday evening, when I discovered that Mary and I were due to ferry (older) Ray and three Chinese students.  An interesting mix.  I'd expected that Ray should have had his electric scooter.

Come Saturday morning, it all emerged as a considerable challenge, as Mary was poorly in bed.  I'd single-handedly have to deliver the passengers to the march start/gathering point (Chevasse Park) on the edge of the posh retail zone, and shuttle the car around between start and finish parking spots.  Last time we'd had an extensive trek, having parked on the docks.  We also found ourselves snagged up in the Labour Party conference, by which the minibus was taken through a full-on Police security check.  But that's another story.

I opted to go via the Woodhead Pass.  I couldn't face crawling though Glossop's Saturday shopping traffic.  (Older) Ray remained morosely silent.  I couldn't quite manage sustained conversation with the Richard, Flora and their friend Ray on the back seat.  We pulled into what's left of Burtonwood Services, as I couldn't remember that there were toilets near the shopping centre drop-off point.  (My enduring memory of Burtonwood is driving a swaying broken-down double-decker into the now-defunct West-bound carpark, accompanied by four motorway Police cars.  Three points on my License for a CU30 offense.)  My passengers had spotted Jack, Harriet and family tucking into their lunchtime rolls, so whatever other ideas I'd had for food were highjacked.

Our 'Together' instructions for the day thoughtfully included postcodes for the march start point and for Black-E.  So I cranked up the satnav and sought to follow directions.  As we got to the Waterfront, the satnav stubbornly insisted that I should turn up a one-way bus lane, and I was abandoned to my wits.  I recognised a couple of landmarks, but missed a vital turn just in time to see the Lighthouse minibus emerge from the side road.  Round the loop we went again for another 20 minutes.  "Jump out now!  You wait just beyond that barrier," I urged.  To my relief a Birmingham member had spotted my passengers, as I roared off to Black-E, hoping to park up and walk back in time for the march.

Georgie opened the Black-E stage door, much to my pleasure, and I gave Nate, Neive and Elise the small carved elephant I'd brought from Myanmar.  Neive offered to come on the march with me.  We set off at a pace to find the rest.  There was another mission, too.  Over breakfast, I'd broken my glasses trying to tighten the nose bridge.  Two weeks' of perspiration meant my glasses kept slipping down, annoyingly.  If it hadn't been the third morning that I'd found myself fully awake at 4.15am, I may have had more tolerance.  Because I declared on my driving license renewal that I need glasses, and I haven't got a spare pair with my current prescription, I needed to get them fixed for the journey back to Sheffield.

The march was lively, but somewhat undirected.  Leaders Chris and Loz only had a hand-held megaphone, and couldn't make themselves heard past the first few rows of followers.   Ray was puffing along half a mile behind, supported by Andy and Tracy.  I wondered if we should get medical help, but instead they put him in a taxi to Black-E.  As we all peeled off to our respective evangelism spots, Neive and I went on a hunt for Specsavers.  "No, sorry. It's a discontinued line" the helpful assistant reported.   I fortified Neive with a bottle of cola, and we trekked off in search of another optician.   This time it was Boots.  Same story, "We don't do a frame like this."  And in answer to my next question, "There's a Vision Express round the corner."

The afternoon had hotted up and I felt overdressed, insulated against the UK climate.  The man at Vision Express looked doubtful, but dived off into the 'laboratory'.  Yes, I know the glasses are now well out-of-date (and design).  But I'd fully expected to have to replace them last after my last sight test, only to find the assistant had declared it unnecessary.  The Vision Express man found a spare nose bridge.  Apologising that it wasn't exactly what I needed, he handed it over with a smile.  Back at Black-E, Gav produced a tube of superglue, and all was well.

The evening event cracked off brilliantly.  Elise joined me sitting on stage, as her bit of time with Grandad.  Gav had rung Mary and told her that I was looking lost.   As Viv was leading a song in the kids' spot, "All of God's children...", everyone joined in with enthusiastic whistling.  Only the insistent penetrating squeal wasn't us, but the fire alarm: we all had to vacate the premises.   Flora, Richard and Ray were nowhere to be seen.  I correctly surmised that they'd sneaked out to the inspect the several nearby Chinese restaurants.

I don't know how my passengers found the journey home.  With the twists and turns on the Snake Pass, and my indifferent speed control, I was just grateful to arrive safely.  Mercifully, my satnav proved reliable as I dropped off the three Chinese folks at their respective student digs.  "Mick says we should do this every year," I commented to Mary.  "Not without Ray's scooter," the bedclothes replied.