Tonight one neuron collided with another in my brain opening up a couple of old wounds plus one or two new ones all clamouring for attention. Thankful for an empty house, I put my current favourite lament song on repeat and took some time to grieve.
As a Mercy-oriented person, worship is one place where I am free to fully unpack all of the feelings I haven’t had time to deal with and bring them to my Father in their raw, unfiltered glory. In coming undone before Him, He somehow brings all the pieces together to form a new composition.
I wonder why modern worship music shies away from laments. Continue reading
I am no coffee snob. I don’t turn my nose up at instant coffee. Arguments over Starbucks versus Costa versus hipster little one-off shops are lost on me. Don’t get me wrong- I like a gorgeous freshly-ground coffee but more than that I love a good story.
It is the story of my friend sourcing farmers in her homeland to import coffee to London and start her own cafe in Fulham that inspires me to support her venture.
It is the story of a similar project in Ethiopia that produces 500g bags of coffee (beans/ground) for €20 here- with €16 of that €20 staying in Ethiopia- that intrigues me (my brother’s friend bought a bag for each of his family members for Christmas this year).
It is the friendships I get to build with the staff of the coffee shop around the corner from our church that sees me ordering there early on a Sunday morning.
Today, I got to be part of another story when my Mum brought me to 115 Georges Street Lower, Dun Laoghaire. Continue reading
Last night I hung on live news reports about a truck driving into a Christmas market in Berlin and waited for my Berlin friends to mark themselves as “safe” on Facebook. Today, even with assurances of my friends’ well-being, I went grocery shopping but forgot to take my wallet with me. Continue reading
This time last year I impulse-bought a violin. Inspired by a secondary school chamber orchestra and a desire for distraction, I embarked on becoming a violin maestro. Let me clue you in right now. Becoming a violin maestro is hard, really hard.
I plunged through thirty minutes of practice per day for a few months- scales, studies, trad pieces-
and then I hit the wall.
The really unimpressive part? I didn’t hit it at full force with a great big wallop. More like I slowly slid to the ground and then nudged myself inch by inch until the wall was near enough to touch with my aching hand if I stretched my shoulder the right way.
I needed help.
He sat across the table from me. After we ran through a couple of sentences and smiles, each of us retreated, staring at our plates in silence. Neither of us had words for what we wanted to say.
After an agonising minute, he looked up, pointed at the ketchup bottle and said one word, “Rot”.
Thirty eight days ago a writing friend emailed me to ask me how my writing was going. I didn’t reply for two reasons. One: I haven’t been writing. Two: I wasn’t ready to face the fact that I haven’t been writing.
Two days ago a poetic friend pointed out that a sentence I’d quoted in a comment didn’t make sense and that I hadn’t noticed either while reading it or while reproducing it.
I started thinking that it’s time to get my write on again.