The Burn (Sheffield)

I'd lost touch with James, so I sent him a LinkedIn message.  No response.  Then he suddenly popped up with an email and a phone message.  He had a new "baby" - The Burn.  This turns out to be an international motivation for worship-prayer, based loosely on Mike Bickle's IHOP.  James had done some extensive notes on format, participation and partnership, together with a smart graphic that included the first six monthly proposed dates.  The January launch event was at Antioch Church's place just across Hanover Way: 8.00pm Friday to 8.00am Saturday, non-stop.

I told James yes, I was happy to come around midnight after our normal evangelism barbecue.  I was interested in whether he may like to use the Jesus Centre at some stage.  I offered a box of snickers, too.  Unexpectedly, he was keen for me to do "an hour or two's set".  Hmmm.  I needed a bit more to go on than that.  I added that I may pop in earlier to adjust to the format.  We've done 24/1's several times, but I reckoned that my "memorable Wesley" wasn't quite the genre required.  Of course, Viv would slot in just fine, so I tried to get his interest. 

The Friday brought thick snow.  I spent an hour compiling a list of worship songs that I could pull off if summonsed.  Viv had disappeared off to the CU International Cafe, leaving his hallmark air of uncommittedness about whether he'd turn up later.  I dug out my guitar, songbook, Zoom and leads.  James' briefing had asked for Powerpoint words, too: tough. 

I'd been to Antioch's Centre once before, when they'd first opened.  They'd worked on getting a homely feel with pictures, sofas and armchairs, standard lamps and twiggy things in vases.  A music shop full of instruments sprawled across the generous stage area.   The first set was on, and there were about a dozen folks spread around.  I contacted Viv that we'd fit in just fine.  He rang back to say he - and Josh - had already booked 2.00am to 3.30am with James.  Mary texted to say the barbecue was called off because our van couldn't cope with the heavy snow.  We agreed I'd walk back home and collect her to spend the time over here.

It was great to engage in some unhurried prayer.  Seeking God is on our agenda for this year.  A rather pumped-up performer prophesied that the year had already been significant, and movement was happening in the heavenly places.  That sounded good.  Mary didn't seem in a hurry to leave.  Around 1.30am Viv and Josh rolled up, shortly followed by Paul and Steven.  By now the tally was Jesus Army six; others seven.  James didn't seem to mind.  Josh was back backing Viv, which he does well.  Mary and I left at 4.00am while the others stayed on.


A couple of weeks later, we'd agreed with James to host February at the Jesus Centre.  This would be 10.00am to 10.00pm Saturday.  I must explain about James.  We met when he was a post-grad student in Leeds.  Then he went back home for a while.  He'd since come to Sheffield for more research.  Carries and air of otherworldliness, and he's very talented.  I explained that, while the Jesus Centre was free each of the dated he'd planned, he'd need to decide how to spread/carry the vision across the city and region!  

When the Saturday came, I went down to the Jesus Centre early to set up a tea station and generally play host.  A couple of girls turned up and spread out a drum kit.  A band of about seven arrived from York, where they already have a Burn established (James mentioned Durham and Norwich, too).  Again, it was good to have time for unhurried prayer, and I can remember a couple of quite significant things in which I felt well connected with the Holy Spirit. 

Viv had the evening slot that coincided with our regular Saturday gathering, so our members turned up.  With a few others co-opted on keyboard and bass, we had a cracking line-up.  I have to say it was just like the old days round here, when our "band" used to make the worship bounce off the walls.  The two-hours blast had done all our souls good.

Then James got let down on his March arrangement, so we stepped in again.  More deep snow, and accordingly a sag in support.  Viv and Josh were both in the Midlands at the wedding of the year-to-date.   James' friend Phil did the evening set.  He got us all stirred with:  I lean not on my own understanding / My life is in the hands of the Maker of Heaven / I give it all to you God /  Trusting that you'll make something beautiful out of me / I will climb this mountain with my hands wide open / There's nothing I hold on to / There's nothing I hold on to. 

We've been blessed by all this.  James is redoubling his efforts to get a different venue, but frankly, we feel very at home with the whole venture.

Blackpool

Andrea's voice sounded hesitant.  "Erm, my sister Melanie's died.  They've already done a post-mortem and found nothing.  She was only 42.  We wondered if you'd take the funeral...?"  This was a blow.  I'd taken Andrea's mum's funeral six years ago.  It seems Melanie, who had lifelong learning difficulties, had simply missed her too much.  I had a couple of questions.  "I expect the rest of the family know you're asking me?"  They did.  "Any idea when it may be?  I'm away in Belfast soon."

It turned out that Andrea and Alan were also due to be in Belfast.  The Blackpool Crematorium and Cemetery could only fit in one burial a day, so there was time to make arrangements.  I like Andrea's family.  Without being irreverent, I'll try to describe the previous after-the-funeral eats.  Everyone squeezed into the modest family home.  Sacha, Andrea's big brother, ordered 36 rounds of fish, chips and peas from the local shop they'd always used.  With mugs of tea, and bread and butter for the traditionalists, we all tucked in, without the flow of good-hearted banter diminishing.

It's not for nothing that Lancashire boasts so many comedians.  For a start, most of the men were wearing with their white shirts tangerine ties, in honour of Blackpool's football team.  "Go easy with that tomato ketchup.  You might get it on my shirt. It's got to go back in the box to get my money back from Marks and Spencers tomorrow!"   I confess that Al Reed remains one of my favourites.

Sacha designed a colourful order of service sheet for Melanie.  We would file into the chapel to Michael Jackson, have Two Little Boys for our first song, and exit to Boyzone.  How great Thou art would represent the family's favour hymn.  Andrea hinted that sequins, rather than bright ties, may be the order of the day, since Melanie 'liked her bling'.   Sacha had also drafted a letter to the Blackpool Gazette, praising the local Social Services and expressing thanks to the three families who had cared for Melanie.  He hoped I'd read it out.

"I think I'll take my guitar," I muttered to Mary as we loaded the car.  "I may just try to lead How great Thou art."  But I wasn't convinced.  The Snake Pass greeted us with bright sunshine, but further west it just got gloomier and colder.  As we got to the gates, I recognised the Cemetery.  "Goodness," Mary commented.  That was all new last time we came, and now it's all full."  It was true.  Row after row of shining headstones marked this corner of the world's love for the traditional way of doing things. 

Uncle Harry parked his car in front of us.  At the same time Sacha and his wife appeared.  They'd been first held up and then diverted coming over A66.  There was a brisk exchange about Auntie getting stuck in the toilet at the tea rooms.  Mary gave me a knowing look.  Ever since meeting my wider family, she's never been able to fathom Northern humour.   Seven or eight random folks wandered by.  We suspected - and were right - that they were Melanie's friends from the MENCAP drop-in.   At points they sobbed on each other's shoulders.  We all respond different ways.

Hearses and limousines came and went, and we weren't quite sure what was happening.  It turned out the previous "slot" was overrunning by a quarter of an hour.   Workmen wandered back and forth with lengths of metal ducting.  Taken with the parked Heating Contractor's van, it suggested all wasn't well with the Crematorium, er, facilities.  We stood around in the perishing wind, cutting through my JA jacket so even my hands were freezing.  "Auntie" joked with Andrea and Alan.  "We've got an hour's slot, so we're not going to be hassled," I offered to Sacha.  "Well there you are then.  Preach for as long as you like."  The chapel cleared.  Michael, from the undertakers, showed me the control buttons for the sound tracks.

We filed in with the coffin.  To the left, mostly the family; to the right the MENCAP and Social Services friends.  Michael Jackson faded.  I got on with things.  Rolf Harris was impossible to sing with.  It wasn't going well.  I silently prayed that somehow there'd be space for the Holy Spirit to move, and for Jesus to signal his triumph over the grave.  Michelle and Andrea shared some heartfelt stuff; their voices dropped with the emotion.  I did my preachy bit, trying to be friendly and to connect.  Then I hit play for How great Thou art.

Now, I'm not afraid to give it full volume when needful.  But the PA speaker was on my left, and my hearing-aid on my right, and the track was running far to fast for a congregation to follow.  Eyes darted.  The chorus was no better.  I poked the red control button and hoofed over to Mary.  "Quick, go and get my guitar". 

"Right; we're going to sing this properly." I announced to the half-standing and half-sitting and half-undecided chapel.  I read Sacha's letter, name-checking all the folks mentioned in it, and giving them warm acknowledgements.  We were getting somewhere.  Brought in from the car, my guitar wasn't in tune; and my fingers were still half-numb.  But we cracked all four verses and a final repeat of the chorus.  They were brilliant. 

Now there was a challenge to make the committal as lingering as respectfulness required, but as brief as the wind permitted.  Sacha had thoughtfully provided daffodils to cast onto the lowered coffin.  We spoke out a prayer from the service sheet, and I said a couple of final prayers from a selection I've compiled for funerals.  Folks stayed around a little.  "Auntie" fixed me with her large grey-blue eyes.  "When my turn comes, will you do my funeral?" 

We thawed out with hotpot at an in-laws home near Stanley Park.  Uncle Harry cracked more jokes, and I missed the call for a cup of tea.  I told Sacha I still owe him a chat about charity fundraising.  Will I be back in another six years?   Next day I sent a text confirming how it had all gone.

Bridlington

Steven had planned a few days away visiting a friend in Bridlington.  On the third morning, he slipped on the kitchen floor, fell and broke his left wrist.  After a local X-Ray, he was referred to Scarborough hospital.  There he was fitted with a pot - or as we call them today, after the American pattern - a cast.

However, all was not well.  Steven endured several days of travelling back and forth until they finally decided to reset the fracture with plates and goodness knows what else ironmongery.  We wondered why he didn't come home and get transferred to Northern General, which has a specialist fractures unit.  But I rush ahead of myself.  After two weeks of Steven being away from home, Jack took Silas by afternoon train to visit him.  Jack remembers how flat the East Riding was, and Silas remembers the long sausage they had with chips.  

The weekend came, and Steven seemed no nearer coming home.  "Well, we've got a free day tomorrow," I piped up at Friday teatime's sharing time.  "Who's up for visiting Steven?"  I looked across at the brothers.  They blinked blankly.  "Does anyone know if Steven'll be around?"  Nobody did.  "My parents are supposed to be coming..." offered Harriet.  "Well, that's good enough reason for going," Jack countered.  And so we agreed we'd all go - Steven being around or not - first thing Saturday morning.  (First thing is a euphemistic expression for us.)

Jack was on to it with a vengeance, knocking out cheese and ham rolls with Mary for all they were worth.  We shoved Lil's "truck" (electric scooter) into the back of our van, together with six collapsible picnic chairs, an apple crate of thermos flasks, and a box of pickled onion crisps.  Paul appeared, announced that Steven had explained he'd be out all day; then he went back to bed.  It was an enjoyable drive over.  I was amazed at the number of wind turbines sprinkled around that Wolds farmsteads and small business units.

We did an amazing job of rendezvousing with Jack and Harriet at the long-stay car park next to the railway station.  I loaned Barrie £2.50 for the ticket, and he still hasn't paid me back, having skived off to the Cardio ward for the last three weeks.  Pace.  

 We emptied the vehicles, and set off on a trek to the harbour.  The viewing area provided an ideal suntrap.  It was our first delightful taste of Spring.  However, not for long.  The children were itching to dig in the sand, fall in the water, fall out with each other, fly kites and generally do what kids do on a beach.

"Look, there's Phil!" Harriet beamed.  Sure enough, it was our old friend from Leeds.  He'd taken early retirement From Kirklees Council last year, and got a small flat just 200 yards from the seafront.   The tide was just past the turn and slowly coming up the wide beach.  We settled down out of the wind and under the warm sun.  The kids dug in the sand, fell in the water, fell out with each other and flew kites.  Jack was in his element.   Ray sat in his picnic chair defying the tide until the last moment.

Phil invited us back for a cup of tea.  Titus emptied the seawater from his wellies, and we all gratefully used Phil's toilet and washed our hands.   "What're we doing for tea?" Harriet prompted.  "Fish'n chips," Jack suggested, hopeful.  Hmmm; for 13 it was going to work out expensive.  It was too cold to sit outside.  The we noticed the time, and realised that unless we got away sharpish, we'd be back home late for Paul's meeting.  The van return journey was uneventful.  But an hour later, eight o'clock had long passed and Jack and Harriet hadn't got back.  We feared a fish and chip shop had stepped out into their path.

We sat around the lounge with uniform pink faces from the sun (except Paul).  Steven finally came home another week and a half later.  

Belfast Again (2)

Sunday morning, I hunched in the corner of the bedroom under the rooflight to tidy up notes I'd previously drafted for the teaching.  We had a different set of friends around, but Patrick had reappeared.  On Friday's coastal road journey, Alan and I had nattered about transition and succession in the church.  He bemoaned the present scantiness of bible teaching compared with the legendary concentration in the past.  I'd explained that I'd spent an unbroken two years covering 70 foundational subjects on Sunday mornings.  Unfortunately, I could find no trace of evidence that this had changed anything with anyone.

I shared playing the guitar, and we looked at the first two 2013's scriptures on finding the fire of God.  Afterwards, Alan commented, with restraint, that I'd been more charismatic than may have expected!   After lunch we chose to stay in the lounge where it was warm.  Patrick was providing colourful descriptions of the polarities in the Province.  On Friday and Saturday nights, Union Flag protesters has been walking the central white lines of the city's main thoroughfares.   The Police closed roads and set up diversions.  Ray and Ruth confessed that they only stayed in the city for one 12th July - the prime Marching Season weekend.  Thereafter, they joined the many residents who go away.  We thought about the prospects for the future.  Patrick offered, "We're Celts, the people who terrified Caesar.  We're not happy unless we're fighting."

We were resisting the temptation to move from our cosy room, so I finished off the Development Group notes for Tuesday.  Meanwhile Ray and Ruth took Alan and Andrea to the airport.  As evening came, Ray suggested some short videos we may enjoy after our meal.  Richie Mullins and more Todd White.  Mmmm, pretty good.

Our flight on Monday left at 4.10pm.  Ray was eager to give us a last minute blast, so we headed out past the City airport to Helen's Bay.  Whew, the wind!  Ray and I had been chewing over the prospects for our businesses.  The side of my mouth numbed up as if I'd had an anaesthetic shot from the dentist.  We decided not to take the longer walk back to the car!

After lunch we started to head for home.  This time the flight was via Manchester.  I gave Ray an aside, "I'm afraid that in my experience, it rates as having the worst record for late arrivals."  The advance train tickets give three hours leeway for delayed flights.  Even so, I have several memories of dashing the long trek from the Terminals to the station.  Mary's passport needed renewing, so she didn't bring it.  At Security she couldn't find first her boarding pass and then her driving license.   I stood by helplessly while she gesticulated, pink and flustered. 

Passengers were happily milling around the Departure gate.  That is, until a Delayed sign put our leaving back to 18.00.  I fished around for some train time information, and worked out we could get home by 10pm.  I had to be on the road by 6.00am on Tuesday.  Ray texted me a message warning that this could be the start of a slippery slope, and to make sure I got a meal voucher.  Sure enough, 18.00 changed to 21.15.  Five hours delay, and landing after the last train to Sheffield would have gone.

"Well, it's really getting like a Multiply trip," I smiled at Mary.  Next year I'm plotting to take her to Zambia.  "What options do we have?   Go back to Safe Haven, try to divert to Liverpool, or sit tight?"  I explored flight times on RometoRio.com, then rang Jack to explain our predicament.  It was already past teatime at home.  Unexpectedly, a kind gentlemen with Menzies printed on his hi-viz jacket told us we could rebook for a 20.30 flight.  This would provide a few minutes spare to catch the last train - even allowing for the head wind.  And we'd get a meal voucher! 

So, we followed him, like the Pied Piper, down a long ramped corridor back to the ground floor.  We collected new boarding passes and negotiated Security again.  This time Mary went first.  We blew our £6 at Burger King.  The rest of the journey was uneventful.  That is, until we taxied to the Terminal stand, and waited for the doors to open.  And waited.  "Hello," broke in the PA.  "I'm afraid we're waiting for ground staff to stand at the bottom of the steps before we can open the door.  There've been diversions tonight, and teams have been overstretched."  Groan.  The minutes ticked by to the train time.  Then the flight deck door burst open and a figure hauling on a hi-viz jacket dashed through the door.  "The Captain's decided to do the job..." PA confirmed.  Cheers.

The Terminal to train trek preserved the Manchester statistics.  The ticket office shutter was down.  It seemed everyone who'd travelled with us pressed into the carriage.  The destination board read Southport via St Helens, and we were dubious.  The ticket-manager was diligently threading his way through the crowd.  About half the train were without tickets.  My phone rang.  "This is Nicola at Northern General.  Mr Wilkinson would like his phone charger and bible."  It was Barrie, back in hospital again.  What could I do?!

Paul picked us up at Sheffield.  I felt I'd never be warm again.  Leaving bleary-eyed next morning, I omitted to ask anyone to oblige Barrie's request.  Sometimes there are just too many things to fit in to life.

Belfast Again (1)

When we spent the weekend in Belfast last September, I'd been impressed how it had brought the scene more into the heart of the church.  I'd experienced something similar when living in Leeds.  Through the visits of other saints, we gradually progressed from being a quirky Northern outpost where some odd members lived, to full part-of-the-church status.  So I'd made the intention to return to Northern Ireland and in a small way ferment this process.  Ray and I found a free weekend in the diary.  On the last day of 2012, we booked flights for a Thursday to Monday visit.

Our journey over was a pleasant challenge.  I was in Daventry, so caught a train from Long Buckby to Birmingham International.  Meanwhile, Mary travelled down by train from Sheffield.  The flight was on time, and we jumped on the 300 bus for Belfast centre.  Hmmm; they don't accept English bus passes in the Province.  Ray and Ruth picked us up.  Our Safe Haven community house lies off the Lisburn Road, near the university.  Alan and Andrea were staying over, too.  We arrived just as visitors to the Thursday friendship evening meal were evaporating.

Next morning, Ray chased us round to leave "for a day out" by 10am.  The forecast had predicted milder weather on Friday, getting colder by Sunday.  I'd stuffed my case with extra clothes.  But, it turned out, but not quite enough to counter the biting weekend wind.  We headed for Portrush, on the edge of the Antrim coastline.  First stop was White Rock Bay, where we stomped along the beach for an hour or so.  Ray, Alan and I explored a damp cave formed by a crack in the limestone cliff. 

"You'll like Dunluce Castle," Ray smiled.  "It's claimed to be the inspiration for C S Lewis's Cair Paravel".  It certainly fits the bill, though on a more modest scale than the fabled Narnian palace.  Nowadays you access the headland by a convenient bridge.  Then on to Portballintrae, where we piled out of the minibus for a welcome picnic lunch.  We huddled behind the dark stone wall erected for such convenience.  The bay's grey water was flecked by squalls from the persistent easterly wind.

We branched off the coastal road to head for the famous Causeway.  Ray explained, "We'll drop you off at the car park. Ruth and I have been enough times."  The new National Trust visitor centre is subtly inconspicuous.  However, there's a team of red-jacketed staff who mingle with sightseers around the extensive rocky outcrops.  Mary ended up with a free golfing umbrella for answering a questionnaire!  I was grateful to have a brisk walk before scrambling over the extraordinary basalt pavements and columns.  Mary was taken up with the small birds picking food from the piles of kelp blown up the the shore.  Despite the chill, I'm really glad we went.  Touristy photos don't do justice to the overall scale.  It's a World Heritage site that I can add to the others I've stumbled upon - Meteora Monastries, Boudhanath Stupa, Victoria Falls, Liverpool (Maritime and Mercantile City).  I notice that Singapore Botanical Gardens are tipped for inclusion, too.  Not that I'm a snooty jet-setter, you'll understand.

The final call was at Ballintoy, a small bay with a chocolate-box harbour.  The geology is fascinating, with red limestone breaking through the white, and contrasting with the grey-black basalt.  Alan drove the return leg along the A2 coast road.  Back home, we enjoyed a leisurely dinner, and a couple of local members called in for an hour's fellowship.

We also made an unwelcome discovery.  On Thursday, Ruth had spotted a water leak at the fount of the house.  During the day the Water Board had fixed it and patched up the footpath.  Unfortunately, the water pressure drop had upset the Atmos boiler.  The heating and hot water thereafter hovered between temperamental and useless.

By Saturday morning, my In-box was overflowing, and I had some notes to compile for the Jesus Centres' Development Group due to meet on Tuesday.  After lunch, four of us agreed to take a walk into town, while Alan and Andrew went off visiting.  We started in the Botanical Gardens, where the Spring bulb display was in full bloom.  Then we went up to the viewing gallery perched on top of the Victoria Square Shopping Centre.  However, the weather was murky and we could see little more than a few local landmarks.

Back home we settled down for the evening meeting, in the glow of the gas fire, our only reliable heating.  Ray set up a projector, and we watched Father of Lights.  This led to some stimulating conversations.  Patrick, who seemed to have visited every corner of the world, was impressed by the Todd White's down-to-earth approach.  Meanwhile, I realised I had no idea what the folks back in Sheffield were doing.  As we'd effectively skipped tea, we really enjoyed supper.  "I wonder if we'll see snow on the Divis mountains again tomorrow morning?", Mary mused, as we huddled around the radiator we'd found to take the chill from our bedroom.