i will always love you, Ammachy, until the end of days. 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until the end of 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until the end 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until the 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until 
i will always love you, Ammachy 
i will always love you 
i will always love
i will always
i will
i 

Recurring Dreams (Part 1)

It was a blood-curdling, toe-curling, gut-wrenching scream. The sort of scream that seems to go on long after it had actually stopped. In the seconds that followed, the air around us seemed to be still and everything was quiet; like the eerie aftermath of a particularly violent thunderstorm. My mind was racing, but my feet were rooted to the spot. So I could only stand and watch as my brother leapt from the couch and headed for the stairs. 

I have always thought my younger brother would be much better than me in an emergency; he seemed the sort of guy who had the right amount of smarts and empathy to instinctively know exactly what to do. And here, unfolding before me, was the clearest possible evidence of this. As he passed me, I noticed a hint of panic flash across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a steely determination. No time for messin’, time was a-pressin’. 

Meanwhile, I kept standing there, soaking in a mix of utter uselessness and deep gratitude. Gratitude for a brother who would, if required, go to the very ends of the earth to help someone he loved. Somewhere beyond that gratitude lay a sparkling pool of unconditional love. I wished for nothing else but to play in those waters again. 

But, back to the present. Or the past. Whatever this was. I couldn’t be sure. After what seemed like an eternity, the signal from my brain to my feet was finally received. I took one step forward and nearly fell over. I could hear my brother still bounding up the stairs (how long was that staircase?), each step sending little tremors across the floorboards below, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. 

Taking my next step was more of an effort than I expected; it was like I had forgotten how to walk, let alone run. It took a few more steps to feel steady, then a few more to hit my stride. Finally, with the blood once again coursing through my veins, I began my own ascent, skipping first one stair with each step, then two, and finally taking four in one go until the summit was scaled. 

I was out of breath, but my eyes scanned the floor, seeking some hint of movement. There was none. And then, at the end of corridor: a shadow. I followed it, seemingly on some form of auto-pilot, hoping my fear would somehow guide rather than paralyse me. The shadow disappeared into the room at the end. Her room. Or was it? No, it couldn't be. My heart began to pound again; it felt like this time my feet were going to keep going but my mind was about to blank. I blinked back tears; my mouth went dry. Darkness slowly descended from the ceiling like a sheet. 

I remember trying to estimate how close I was to the door. I imagined I was in a 100m race, but the finish line kept moving. Like the horizon, the closer I got the farther away it seemed. What was going on? Where was I? Where was my brother? I tried to call for him, but my voice was still at the bottom of the stairs- all I managed was a half-cough, half-whisper. help. help. sniff. splutter. 

And then… that sound. My god, that terrible sound. I had heard it before. But where? It came in short bursts, slicing the air like it was a piece of fruit. The closer I got, the louder it seemed to get, until finally it sounded exactly like that scream I had heard just a short while before. I looked up and I realised I was mere steps from the door. It was swinging gently, not from the wind, but from someone having opened it just seconds ago. The sound, that awful sound; make it stop… 

I stopped. My eyes involuntarily closed in anticipation of what lay behind the door, as I stretched my hand into the darkness… 
and hit Snooze. 
Five more minutes.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. (1 Cor 13:11) 

I remember smiling to myself when I heard this being read in church recently. For no other reason than the simple fact that if there was anyone who hadn’t quite put the ways of childhood behind them, it was me. The new year has come and I have done the math. Age might be just a number but some numbers are bigger than others; and my age is, by all yardsticks, a very adult number. And yet… 

The challenge is always to try and be a responsible adult whilst having just enough of the child inside, is it not? The child who takes pleasure in the simple things; who gets excited by a jar of Nutella or a free doughnut. The child who believes that dreams are not just a disruption to your sleep but the clues to a game or a piece of the puzzle. The child who still wonders at the world around them, and lives and laughs and loves all in the same beautiful moment. 

I don’t think that adults are necessarily averse to wonderment per se, but there are most certainly things considered inappropriate when you go through that door marked Adulthood. You must speak in a certain way. You definitely don’t laugh too loud and/or too often, and if you do, you risk carrying a faint hint of mental illness around with you. And while there are lots of fun things about being an adult that I wouldn’t want to give up, tell me you haven’t once looked back at that door, and wished you could go back just for a while? I know I have.

So for 2016, my little quest is to walk the tightrope between maturity and mischief, between worry and wonder, and between being carefree and calculated. And if I fall off that tightrope at some point in the year, I’m going to do the only logical thing you can do in those circumstances: giggle like a baby.

I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing cool about cool aloofness. There was a time when I envied those whom I saw as being distant; the calm ones, detached and seemingly disaffected. The ones who existed on a different plane; who sailed through life with the majestic indifference of a yacht, oblivious to the crude chaos of the dinghy boats beneath and around them. 

But surely this is no way to live. Life is messy, human relationships are messier still. And the ones who are put off by the grime and misery of humanity, who resolutely refuse to get down and dirty, well, I think they are missing out. If you’re going to be in, go all in. Heartache and disappointment are guaranteed. But so is glorious adventure. Bring it on.

It is that time of year 
when time seems to both lurch forward 
and stand still at the same time. 
A new year has slipped 
through the door, 
but I don’t have the weapons for war; 
I can’t shake the feeling 
that I’ve been here before. 

Helplessness. 
A planet in turmoil. 
The coalition of the good in retreat, 
seemingly no match 
for the footsteps that swell to a drumbeat 
as they come ever closer. 

This is us. This is our home 
which we don’t even own and yet, 
we are hollowing it out 
even as we shout 
Happy New Year to anyone who cares to listen. 

*****

Meanwhile, 
on the fridge, 
magnets remind me 
of the places I have been. 
Bookmarks in the pages of 2015. 

But the real reminder is ourselves. 
We are the places we have been,
We are the sunrises we have seen,  
We are all the moments we have laughed and cried 
and everything in between. 

What is a life well lived? 
A life that gives; 
that lovingly tends 
to the little flicker of hope 
in the hope that it will burst 
one day into glorious flame. 
A life that loves. 
A life that refuses to be defined 
by ever-present fear. 
A life that says Happy New Year 
and then never stops striving 
to make it so.