Amy Boucher Pye

Category: Finding Myself in Britain

The Pilgrims Give Thanks

Photo: Martin Cathrae, flickr

In honor of Thanksgiving, here is an excerpt from Finding Myself in Britain with a look at some of the history behind the holiday. For us in England today, it’s just another normal day as unusually we aren’t attending the service at St. Paul’s Cathedral today – the kids have missed too much school lately. Happy turkey day, everyone! I hope it’s a day of giving thanks, wherever you are.

For a long time I didn’t realize that the British celebration of Harvest underpins the American celebration of Thanksgiving. The Pilgrim fathers and mothers observed days of fasting and days of feasting, one of the latter at Harvest, through which the modern Thanksgiving holiday was born.

Devout in their faith, the Pilgrims left England in 1608 for Amsterdam in search of religious freedom. They lived there twelve years before the foreign culture wore them down and they decided to head for the New World. Their journey on the Mayflower, however, was desperate. The ship they travelled on was designed to carry cargo, not passengers. And the cabin where they slept was intended for thirty people, not eighty. Their food rotted and became infested with insects; they nearly drowned when the ship’s main beam cracked; they endured ridicule from the sailors. They pressed on through their five-month journey across the Atlantic – though admittedly they didn’t have much choice. New World or bust.

When they arrived in what is now Massachusetts, the Pilgrims faced a new set of challenges: a new land called for the planting of food and the building of places to live. But in all things they gave thanks, observing a full day of Sabbath each week. After surviving their first harsh winter, they hosted a three-day feast that we now name as the first Thanksgiving. During this celebration, they gave thanks for their food, for seven houses built, for a peace treaty with the Native Americans, and most importantly for the freedom to worship God. The women cooked, the men played games, and they all shared stories and returned thanks to the Lord. Sound familiar? The women cook and the men watch football. They invited the Native Americans who helped them acclimatize to this strange new world to join them at their table.

This is the account I’ve always heard, but lately some contest it. I’ve learned that we base this vaunted holiday on what might be a lot of lore, for we only have a 115-word account from that first Thanksgiving. The pilgrim Edward Winslow wrote a letter to England after the feast, including this brief description (and note the “u” in labours hadn’t got lost yet):

Our Harvest being gotten in, our Governor sent four men on fowling; that so we might, after a more special manner, rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruit of our labours. They four, in one day, killed as much fowl as, with a little help besides, served the Company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our Arms; many of the Indians coming amongst us. And amongst the rest, their greatest King, Massasoyt, with some ninety men; whom, for three days, we entertained and feasted. And they went out, and killed five deer: which they brought to the Plantation; and bestowed on our Governor, and upon the Captain, and others.

Slim historical evidence notwithstanding, the tradition grew, if not every year at first. And probably turkey wasn’t the centrepiece during that first celebration, but goose or duck. Later during the Revolutionary War, George Washington and his army stopped on their way to Valley Forge in bitter weather to mark the occasion. The practice then became solidified when in 1863 President Abraham Lincoln declared that the last Thursday in November would be a national day of Thanksgiving. Then in 1941 a joint resolution of both houses of Congress decreed, and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed into law, the bill establishing that the fourth Thursday of November shall now and always be Thanksgiving.

From Finding Myself in Britain (Authentic Media, 2015). Reprinted with permission. You can buy copies from good bookshops, Eden.co.uk (where it’s 25% off) and Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com. (In the States it’s only available from Amazon.)

November 24, 2016
Home – and endings

There’s no place like home. And there’s no lack of creativity among God’s people.

For almost a year, I’ve been honored to host a range of writers on the topic of home, and each week I’ve marveled at the creativity and wisdom they’ve offered. Home is such an evocative topic, whether it’s the place we yearn for with longing or the fond memory lodged in our hearts and minds from years gone by – or the space we live in at the present.

People have written about the tastes and smells that remind them of home. Of the changing face of home when family members move out. Of space and decluttering and what makes a home. Of living in a foreign country and how to make that – with all of its strangeness – home. Of our hunger for home and our hope in heaven as our ultimate home.

I remain profoundly grateful to all who shared in this blog series, for they’ve enriched my life through their thoughts on home. I’ll soon have a page on my website with an annotated list of the contributions.

Where is home for you?

October 14, 2016
Finding Home Within by Lynda Alsford

Where is home when you lose your faith? Where is home when you’re searching for love lost? Lynda Alsford recounts a deeply meaningful account of her journey to Home. You don’t want to miss this, the last guest post in my “There’s No Place Like Home” series.

I always longed for home. As a child my parents divorced and spent time in two homes. For most of my adult life I lived in tied accommodation. From nurses’ homes to managing sheltered housing, from being a live-in nanny to working for the church, I have frequently lived in accommodation other people provided for me. At times I experienced a desperate yearning for my own home, feeling its absence keenly. I dreamed of a place to call my own – constantly. The pain of this unfulfilled dream caused me to examine my desire more closely. I realised there was more behind it than just a yearning for a physical home. There were deeper emotions at play. I needed to find a sense of home within my heart, with God. The problem was I didn’t know how to find it.

During my time working for a church in London, I got to know a minister who used to be a farmer. He told me he used to find peace and restoration standing at the farmyard gate looking over the farm and local countryside. I asked him how he found peace working in London, with the countryside miles away from where he lived and worked. He said to me ‘I learned to find the farmyard gate within me’.

This challenged me. I knew I needed to find the ‘farmyard gate’ within me but the trouble was I hadn’t found it externally and didn’t know quite what I was seeking. As so often happens in my life, God stepped into the situation in an unexpected way. In the summer of 2010, I found myself moving to in a town called Peacehaven, Sussex, UK. I took the photograph of the sea below on the very first day I ever went to Peacehaven.

Peacehaven is situated on the top of the cliffs at the edge of the South Downs National Park. I saw the blue of the sea, sunlight sparkling over the water above the green of the cliff tops and I immediately fell in love with the view. I had found my own ‘farmyard gate’. I had found the place where my heart smiles and sighs, ‘I’m home!’

When I moved to Peacehaven I was in the middle of a major crisis of faith. I had stopped believing in the existence of God – somewhat unhelpful when you are the parish evangelist at a lively church. Not wanting to live a lie, I moved away from London and ministry. I found a live-in post in Peacehaven. I may still not have had my own home but I had found the geographical place where I felt at home. However, given it coincided with losing my faith in God I was plunged into a time of great spiritual darkness. I had found a physical sense of home but had lost any sense of spiritual home.

A few months later, I realised I missed the God in whom I no longer believed. I had never felt so empty. My emptiness led me to seek Him in a way I had never sought Him before. Was God real? If He was, did He love me?

I took a tentative step towards faith again in January 2011. With that one small step of faith I experienced a comparatively large amount of peace. I continued to seek God’s presence in my life and discovered God as Father in a way I hadn’t before. His powerful love broke through and set me free. I began to find home within my heart.

Home is the place to which you want to run in times of trouble. It is the place where you feel you can be yourself with no condemnation. It is a place where you can take off the mask you sometimes show to the world. Coming into the presence of my Father God is now my home. I now have a home of my own at last and I praise God for it but it has made me more aware than ever that my real home is in the presence of my loving Father God. I am blessed. I moved to Peacehaven and found a haven of peace. I found my ‘farmyard gate’.

Lynda Alsford is a sea-loving, cat-loving GP administrator, who writes in her spare time. She has written two books: He Never Let Go describes her journey through a major crisis of faith whilst working as an evangelist at a lively Church in Chiswick, West London. Being Known describes how God set her free from food addiction. Both books are available in paperback and on kindle on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com. She is currently writing a book in the Bible fiction genre. She writes a newsletter, Seeking the Healer, in which she shares the spiritual insights she has gained on her journey. Sign up for this at her website www.lyndaalsford.com. She is also administrator for the Association of Christian Writers.

October 7, 2016
At home – by Helen Murray

Home, with the scuffs and marks on the walls but also the memories of laughter and hugs. I love how Helen Murray gives us a picture of home, with the sentimental clutter and prized possessions that symbolize loving relationships. This is home, and you’re very welcome to kick off your shoes and relax. Just as you are.

I am at home today. No need to go out until the school run. My kind of day.

I like being at home. It’s my refuge. I’ve lived here a long time and we know each other well, my home and me. I love the reminders of living that are all around me. I love that from my bed I can see our church tower and that I can hear the children in the playground of the local infant school. I used to sit out in the garden and try to discern the voices of my daughters when they were little. I love the sunrise through the bedroom window, the afternoon sun on the living room sofa, the moonlight through the roof windows on the landing.

Yes, it’s a place of endless loads of washing, tidying, meal preparation, but it’s a place of relaxation and unwinding. It’s a place where there’s great satisfaction to be had when the bathroom is sparkly clean and even greater frustration that it needs doing all over again in a matter of weeks! (Obviously, I mean days).

It’s also a place where Wednesday night means The Great British Bake-off (with cake) and Saturday nights mean pyjamas and a family film and not bothering that the day’s mascara is in a different place from whence it started.

Home is a shoes off, slippers on kind of place. A ‘put the kettle on and have a biscuit’ kind of place. A ‘there’s a knack to flushing the downstairs loo’ kind of place.

It’s full of sentimental clutter, pebbles from the beach, photographs and craft creations from the children’s tiny days.

I attach meaning to the smallest things; even those little black marks where the rotor blades left by poor driving of the remote control helicopter that had us all laughing until our sides ached one Christmas.

Books upon books, an army of ceramic penguins, far too many aloe vera plants. (They will keep having babies, you know, and I cannot bring myself to discard a single one. End of year teacher presents? Give ’em a vera. Thank you? Donation to the church fair? You guessed it). This is their home too.

There’s history here. This has been my home since my Mum brought me from the hospital. I left it to go to university and for a bit of a wander, and then came back after my Dad died and we built a granny flat for Mum. It’s different enough for my husband to feel that it’s his house and not someone else’s, but the same enough for me to find myself reaching for a light switch that is no longer there, or forgetting that a door is now hung the other way.

It’s an old home of memories; both joys and sadnesses. I left this house on my Dad’s arm to marry my love and the neighbours took photographs as we climbed into a Rolls Royce with ribbons.

In this house we celebrated my first pregnancy and then we grieved its loss a few short weeks later. Right here in this house my Dad gently felt the wonder of a healthy baby’s kick – and here my heart broke when he died in his armchair a few days before she was born. We planted rose bushes with beautiful yellowy peach flowers that Mum had in her wedding bouquet. They’re called ‘Peace’.

Yes, tears have been shed here. Here we have shouted and stamped and sulked. But we have laughed and we have hugged and we have cared for each other here.

It’s a place where my favourite biscuits appear in my kitchen because my 85 year old Mum puts them there. A place where she teaches my daughters how to make buns using the weight of an egg and how to lick the spoon clean. Another generation of children now forget to wipe their feet just as we did, scuffing the paintwork and chipping the plaster with toy helicopters. This is a place of too many remote controls, hairbrushes lost and borrowed and snatched back, mysterious intermittent wifi and rice krispies under the kitchen table.

Home is where I can join Mum for a sandwich and a lunchtime TV quiz then go back to work with my husband in the afternoon. It’s where my girls flop on Grandma’s sofa after school and get evasive when I ask about homework. They come with their triumphs and disasters and find chocolate in the bowl on the counter and never doubt their welcome. Mum always has a spare pint of milk when I’ve run out and can be counted on to know the likelihood of rain and the wisdom of putting the clothes out on the line.

Home is where your people are; my people are here, and for that I am thankful.

Home is day-to-day stuff. Routine, familiarity, predictability. It doesn’t work for everyone, but it works for me.

This is a season of bustle and busyness, exasperation, mess, alarm clocks and laundry and loving three generations all together. I try to take each day as it comes. Nothing lasts forever, and I am keenly aware of how fast the weeks and months and years fly by. These days will be gone before I can blink.

So I sit here with my fingers on the home keys of my keyboard. I can hear the whistle for the end of playtime at the school my kids don’t go to any more. There are woodpigeons in the garden and the sun is streaming through the kitchen window onto the row of aloe versa – they look a bit thirsty. Mum is having her morning coffee on the bench near the roses and my husband is working on his accounts. There is so much that needs doing, but this is my writing day.

This is home.

Helen Murray lives in Derbyshire with her husband, two daughters and her mum. She blogs at Are We Nearly There Yet? where she writes about life and faith, and is working on her first novel. It’s been a while since there was much progress, but she hasn’t given up.

September 30, 2016
When Home is a Foreign Country by Andrea Gardiner

Guinea pig for breakfast? Yes, really. Andrea Gardiner tells of how she’s made Ecuador her home – guinea pigs and all.

When I left Britain eleven years ago for the bustling equatorial city of Santo Domingo, Ecuador, I never expected to call it home. I was going as a missionary doctor, to serve for an undefined period. Everything I encountered was different, other and strange. I constantly felt plastered in sweat and dust. The barbecued tripe, cow’s udder and maggots that people offered me to eat did not appeal. Whilst I admired the beauty of the tropical flowers and humming birds, they did not conjure up the feeling of home that wind-swept heather and the humble robin did.

Each morning, I ventured forth to a world where I had to make myself understood in Spanish, fight off the mosquitoes and ride the over-filled bus with chickens pecking my feet. Each evening, I returned to my rented home where English DVDs, toast and tea could be enjoyed.

Local dress.

Riding a llama.

Three years later, I was married to an Ecuadorean with a beautiful baby girl. Now, Ecuadorean culture invaded my home. My husband expected rice three times a day. Spanish was the predominant language spoken. My in-laws were free with their help and advice.

“Don’t sit the baby up, she will end up with saggy cheeks! Cover your shoulders when you nurse her, or your milk will be cold. Keep a hat on her at all times or evil spirits will enter her through the soft spot on her head.”

My own toddler woke me one morning waving a leg of guinea pig in my face. It was left over from the previous night’s meal. “Want meat Mummy,” she cried. For her, eating guinea pig was completely normal. I wondered what on earth I was doing bringing up my daughter in this strange place. I felt a sudden yearning to go home to “normality”. Tea and toast seemed a distant dream.

In traditional dress.

The beauty of an iguana.

There followed a steep learning curve of not only knowing the local customs, beliefs and ideas, but also understanding their values and priorities. At first, it drove me mad when people told me that they would be at an appointment at a certain time, and then were late or did not show at all. It was frustrating when my husband set out to do a, b and c in a day and only did a, leaving the rest for tomorrow. Gradually, I came to realise Ecuadoreans value people and relationships above work and money. If they meet someone who wants to chat, they will, disregarding prior plans. You will always be welcomed into an Ecuadoreans’ home when you turn up unannounced. A family shares the food they have cooked among the number of people who happen to be there at a mealtime. If a friend has a crisis, everything else can be set aside in order to help them.

I found I had to embrace living as part of an extended family. In a society where there is no social security or insurance, families rely on each other. When my car breaks down, I phone my father-in-law, not the breakdown services. Grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins live close by and are a daily part of each other’s lives. Individualism is frowned upon. Adult children take their parents into their homes when they are elderly and nurse them.

It was only as I came to appreciate the culture of my adopted country that I began to feel at home. Life became more familiar and predicable. It stopped shocking and jarring me at every turn. Life in Britain remains more intuitive, but there are now aspects of British culture that I find hard.

Living in Ecuador has taught me to appreciate the positives in a different society. Our God is a God of variety and creativity and each family has their own way of expressing themselves and making a home. The experience is stripping away my illusion that my way of doing things is the best way, and is making me more of a world citizen. It is making me look forward to the day when our home will be with God and with His people from every tribe and nation, living in perfect harmony and love.

Andrea Gardiner is a medical missionary in Ecuador. She tells her adventures in Guinea Pig For Breakfast. She works for Project Ecuador www.projectecuador.co.uk.

September 23, 2016
A Year in the Life of a Book

Last week I sat in a darkened room, heart pounding. The setting was familiar, for I had attended the Christian Resources Together gathering many a year previously in an editorial capacity, sometimes thrilled when “my” authors would win awards in the various categories, and sometimes gutted when they were passed over. Last week, however, I wasn’t an editor but an author. And my Finding Myself in Britain: Our Search for Faith, Home & True Identity was up for the Christian living book of the year.

Alexandra McDonald from Macmillan Distribution presented the award, and as she announced the three shortlisted books I feared those next to me could hear my heart beating. “And the nominees are… There Are no Ordinary People by Jeff Lucas, published by CWR,” she said, and I thought, Jeff, Jeff, he’s an amazing, fantastic author and speaker. I will smile when they call his name. She continued, “Finding Myself in Britain by Amy Boucher Pye, published by Authentic Media, which you received last year.” Oh, I thought, she remembered how each participant found a book in their room! She continued, “And Katharine Hill, If You Forget Everything Else Remember This, published by Muddy Pearl.” Ah, I thought, another strong contender – Katharine’s work with Care for the Family is so important, and Muddy Pearl is a great little publisher.

And the winner is…

As we waited, both Rachael Franklin next to me from Authentic and I noticed that Alexandra looked like she was mouthing, “Finding…” I thought in the split second, Could it be? Could my book really have won? Oh Lord I can hardly believe it…

“Finding Myself in Britain by Amy Boucher Pye, published by Authentic Media!”

Donna Harris, who runs Authentic Media, grabbed my hand and up we went to receive the award. She said a few words, and I tried to garble out my thanks. With so much adrenaline pumping, and the lights so bright, I was not terribly articulate – I have empathy for Gwyneth!

With Donna Harris, I am here amazed and stunned and grateful.

What I wanted to share was how Steve Mitchell and the folks at Authentic Media were the only ones willing to take me on as an author. I had a fantastic US agent who had shopped around an idea for my first book to 16 publishers – but 15 said no. And Steve and the team said yes, and thankfully he and I soon said “goodbye” to my original proposal. With his many years of retailing experience, he advised me to write a through-the-year account of life in Britain as an American. A sort of Michele Guinness-meets-Bill Bryson. My marching orders complete, I set about writing it.

Most of the Authentic team, current and previous.

The writing and rewriting wasn’t all smooth sailing. I would draft a chapter and send it to Steve (by the way, not an editorial practice I necessarily recommend because of flow and voice, but with our tight timeframe and the trust we’d built previously it worked for us). He read them and give me loads of feedback, such as, “Hey, I feel like you’re trying to import Minnesota to England. I know you miss it, but…”

When he and I finished going through the chapters, I sent it to about ten beta reviewers, three of whom were writers/editors. I’ve written elsewhere about my hide-under-my-duvet response after the first thirteen-page response! But my reviewers were so right in their comments, and I was thrilled that one of the reviewers became my editor, Jennie Pollock. She helped me sift through not only the editorial feedback, but she pushed me to find my voice and go deeper. That she’s a lovely Englishwoman who spent several years in the States only added to the experience.

And then to the design and cover art and copyedit (with a few tears by me over British style – yep, really) and boom, it was time to think about marketing and sales. With the market changing so much and the UK losing probably 150 Christian bookshops over the past five years or so, the author can’t expect the publisher to be their only means of spreading the word about books. I had a wonderful marketing team headed up by Kate Beaton. My publisher was so fantastic with the campaign, not only, for instance, providing point-of-sale materials to bookshops but creating bookmarks and laminated recipe cards as well as giving me a huge sign for the book for my speaking engagements.

For a real joy over the last year was getting to speak at events at bookshops; I loved meeting people around the country and hearing a few of their stories. Ali Caesar at Quench in Wokingham hosted the first launch, with the next-door coffee shop, The Grange, filled with people chortling over the US/UK quiz she arranged. I was so grateful to go to Streatham and Marlborough and Hove and up to Glasgow on these jaunts.

With one of the best reps in the business, Lawrie Stenhouse.

It’s been an amazing journey and as I look back over the past year my heart fills with gratitude to God and to all those who have helped with the publishing and distribution and the getting-the-books-into-people’s-hands. And of course to those of you who have read it! I love how readers become friends as we share in finding ourselves wherever God has placed us.

To God be the glory.

September 21, 2016
Home for All by Ros Bayes

Where is home for people who have some form of disability? Ros Bayes answers this question as she shares a moving example of finding a home for her daughter. Her thoughts resonated with me, especially as my brother makes his home with other residents who face physical challenges.

When I think of home, I think of a place where the paid staff love the residents as if they were family, not clients.

We embarked on a slow process of detaching our daughter from home when she was still quite young. She has multiple disabilities including quadriparetic cerebral palsy, autism and partial sight. She has a normal life expectancy, and so we knew that, in the normal course of events, she would one day have to adjust to life without us and that she needed a very gradual preparation.

From age twelve she went to a specialist boarding school for disabled children, but came home from Friday evening to Monday morning each week. I cried when the matron phoned home to tell me all they had been doing with and for her, feeling that someone else was filling my place in her life, even while knowing this signified that we had found what we were seeking – a place where she would be truly loved.

In the lower sixth form she came home alternate weekends, and in the upper sixth form, one weekend a month. She left school at nineteen and spent the next three years at a specialist college for disabled students, away all term time. As the time approached for her to leave college I gave God a “shopping list” of what I wanted for her forever home. It had to be in our town – I didn’t want her sent far away. It had to be a small home – she wouldn’t cope in a large environment with lots of residents. And it had to be with young people of her own age. I knew I was asking the impossible – no such facility existed in our town. And then God did the impossible – a fantastic care company moved into town, bought a six-bedroom house and turned it into a small care home for young disabled people. Our daughter was the first person to move in.

Even though I knew it was right and best for her, I dreaded the day she would finally leave home. But after she had settled in there, I began to discover that something wonderful had happened. I had switched back from being her carer to being her mum. It was no longer my job to change incontinence pads, shower her and administer her medication. Others now took on that role, while I resumed having her round to lunch every Sunday with her sisters, taking her to the cinema, bowling, shopping and out for lunch, even family holidays and weekends away. All the fun stuff and (except on holiday) none of the things you don’t normally do for your adult children.

My daughter’s home is just a five minutes’ drive from my home; this summer marks her tenth anniversary there, and as time has gone on she has made great strides. She has coped with the grief of losing her father, with seeing her baby sister grow up, go to university, graduate and come home again. She has progressed from refusing to allow new staff into her bedroom for at least their first three months, to being involved in the interview and selection process for new staff. And I know that when I’m no longer around, she will still be happy and secure, growing old with her fellow-residents. Truly “He sets the lonely in families”.

Ros Bayes has 8 published and 4 self-published books, as well as some 3 dozen magazine articles. She is the mother of 3 daughters, one of whom has multiple complex disabilities, and she currently works for Through the Roof as their Training Resources Developer, and loves getting paid to write about disability all day. You can find her at her blog and at her author page. Follow her on Twitter at @rosbwriting.

September 18, 2016
Space is more precious than Stuff by Jane Brocklehurst

An important aspect of home is space, which Jane Brocklehurst addresses thoughtfully. After all, where is home when the clutter threatens to take over?

I loved my parents-in-law and always felt welcome in their home from the first visit 40 years ago. However, accepting an invitation to sit down always felt risky. That first time my comfy seat was crammed between the piano’ and a precarious stack of newspapers. There was invariably something to move out of the way before anyone dared to stretch their legs out and relax.

When both my in-laws died everyone in the family took away a few precious mementoes from their property. Then it fell to me, with my domestic decluttering know-how, to organise the clearance of the house. My husband and his three brothers did not have the heart or the emotional detachment to do it.

After about two weeks’ work I arrived at the house one morning and it was breathing! Not literally, of course, but, with the sun streaming in to all the space I had cleared, I seemed to have set the house free from a crushing weight that had been choking it. What a poignant moment – I longed to share the sense of joy and freedom with my mother- and father-in-law who had not experienced their lovely spacious home like this for many years. There were still enough furnishings in place for the taste and character of the previous occupants to be evident. I felt like an archaeologist rediscovering a long-lost place of wonder when the people I most wanted to share it with were not there.

I wanted to ask my father- and mother-in-law why they had done that to their home. Why had they allowed so many things to accumulate in their house that relaxation, and the hospitality with which they were so generous, were in danger of being crowded out?

When I work with a client to declutter their home I encourage them to see space as a valuable commodity, not an emptiness to be filled. One definition of salvation is being taken out of captivity, or a place of restraint, and set in a wide open space. (If you read the Bible you will recognise this idea from the book of Exodus.) I gave my decluttering business the name Home Freed with that in mind.

A wide open space – Wharfedale.

Pendle Hill.

Over the last nine years Home Freed has become more of a ministry than a business. It is always sad when self-expression – through decoration or activities – has become impossible in somebody’s living space because it is buried under material possessions. We need some things in our homes to make life comfortable but, thanks to clever advertisers, most of us believe that we need far more than we really do. The challenging question is: How much is enough?

A century ago Christian writer G K Chesterton said, “There are two ways to get enough: one is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.”

Too much stuff is stifling. Cherish your space.

Jane Brocklehurst’s main career has been teaching religious studies. Married to John, a vicar, for 38 years, with three children now spread around the world, she and her husband are searching for a house near an international airport for their retirement. When her youngest daughter left home she gave up school teaching to set up a domestic decluttering and organising business – Home Freed – helping to set people free from their stuff! Volunteering at Scargill House in the Yorkshire Dales is a significant part of her life these days; she looks after the library. Books have always been important to her and now she is trying to write one bringing all the parts of her past together: Home Freed – the theology of decluttering.

September 9, 2016
Itinerancy and Incarnation by Dave Faulkner

As I’ve got to know a few Methodist ministers and their families, I’ve wondered at what effect of the regular moving has on them. Here Dave Faulkner, a Methodist minister, gives us a window into the itinerant ministry – and how in the midst of it he’s found his home.

“Dad, I never knew there were poor areas of London. I thought London was wealthy.”

“Son, welcome to where I grew up.”

My son Mark was eleven. We had just got out of White Hart Lane train station, and were walking to White Hart Lane the football stadium to watch our beloved Tottenham Hotspur cause untold misery later that afternoon for Manchester United.

Mark, dressed up in Tottenham Hotspur gear and holding a trophy for Team Player Of The Year in the side he played for.

Tottenham Hotspur is my last remaining connection with my upbringing, a mile or so north of the ground in nearby Edmonton. I have no remaining friends or relatives living there.

That part of north London is nothing like Surrey, where I now live with my family. You can justifiably prefix much of Surrey with the adjective ‘leafy’: we are surrounded by heathland, making it a wonderful place to raise a dog.

Back home, you tried to find a good comprehensive school. Here, many people think nothing of sending their children into private education. ‘Is the Gospel against Surrey?’ asked one of my colleagues. Er, yes, I think it might be.

What took me away from urban London? Answer: studying Theology as a mature student, and becoming a Methodist minister. I infiltrated an Anglican theological college in Bristol to explore my calling, take my first degree, and run the Free Church Liberation Front. Having settled on the ordained ministry of the denomination in which I grew up, Methodism sent me to a college in a deprived area of Manchester for three years of re-indoctrination.

Leafy Surrey. Horsell Common, Woking, the location H G Wells used for the Martian invasion in War Of The Worlds.

Leaving college, Methodist presbyters and deacons are ‘itinerant’. We are under the discipline of our Conference, which reserves the right to station us where we are most needed. So I have ministered in middle-class Hertford, the economically depressed Medway Towns, loadsamoney Chelmsford, and now – yes – leafy Surrey. Our daughter and son were born in Medway, but we left there when Rebekah was two and Mark was one. (Ask our children where they’re from, and they’ll give our current address, and add, “But really I’m from Gillingham,” even though they barely remember it.)

Itinerancy is justified on the grounds that Jesus and Paul had itinerant ministries, and so they did. But at the same time, we learn from Jesus the importance of incarnation. The doctrine of the incarnation is too important to be limited to Christmas. ‘The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us,’ writes John. It’s critical for Christians to be rooted in an area, where they are known and can be a witness.

What itinerancy denies me is that rootedness of incarnation. The congregations know we’re moving on after a certain number of years. It exacerbates an ‘us and them’ relationship. I don’t know where home is anymore. I think that’s why following my football team is still important to me: it reminds me of where I came from.

In ten years’ time or so, I shall be retired, and I look forward to the opportunity Debbie and I will have to put down roots together in a community. But I can’t be satisfied with that. Christians have a longing for what Augustine of Hippo called ‘the city of God’. And we have already come there, in one sense. For as the writer to the Hebrews puts it:

But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, to the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven. You have come to God, the Judge of all, to the spirits of the righteous made perfect,to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel. (Hebrews 12:22-24)

The church, then, is meant to be a sign of what it is to be home in an ultimate sense. I wonder what we do to make sure that the fellowship of the church is home for us?

But until that day arrives in all its fulness, one more time: “Come on you Spurs …”

Dave Faulkner is a Methodist minister in Surrey. He is married with two children. He enjoys digital photography and creative writing. His latest blog project is at www.confessionsofamisfit.com.

September 2, 2016
Living in Tents by Peter L. Edman

The shock of uprooting and moving and the hidden graces – that’s what Peter Edman so eloquently addresses in his contribution to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series. I’m grateful to hear Peter’s thoughts, not least because they remind me of our many years of working together in the nation’s capital. We were like brother and sister at times, squabbling but with that fraternal love that meant I knew I could call on him when I was stranded at Baltimore airport at midnight and he’d come to rescue me. True friendship to me gives a taste of Home.

One of my acquaintances used to introduce himself to an audience by giving his name and quipping, “I’m from Washington, DC, and I’m here to help you.” He usually got the wry laughter he was expecting. I too used the line over the two-plus decades I made my home in DC and Northern Virginia. Then I was transferred to Philadelphia, and I’ve been a bit wistful at leaving behind that comfortable joke—and a comfortable identity informed by that influential city.

DC is not a homey place, but we found stability and community there. I stayed at the same church and eventually managed to have most of my family close to us. The relocation—four residences and three offices in three years, all three hours farther from grandparents, cousins, and friends—has meant making a new life for myself and my family. It’s meant finding a new home while negotiating pointers, hopes, and compromises. And in a sense, recentering my identity.

The pointers, at least, have been pretty clear. A mandate to move if I was to keep a stable job doing interesting and meaningful work. The discovery of a new church that continues several relationships with our old church. The quick sale of our old house. Creative financing that secured a newly renovated historic house with room for our five children. A new family with kids unexpectedly moving in across the street.

Our new home.

There have been other pointers, even up to this weekend. On Saturday I was preparing for this post and began to think about Hebrews 11. On Sunday it was my turn to read the New Testament lesson at church, and I discovered Hebrews 11 was the assigned passage. “By faith Abraham obeyed the call to leave his home”—in an influential city—“for a land which he was to receive as a possession; he went away without knowing where he was to go” (Hebrews 11:8 REB). I am glimpsing more of its meaning now.

Our hopes have been met in part and redefined in part. We are compromising. After so many years in prosperous suburban settings, we’re still adjusting to the vigilance required in our new, mixed urban neighborhood. We don’t want to afford two cars in the city, but with public transit, my commute is the shortest it’s ever been. Our house renovations were extensive, and we have space for hospitality, but its “architect and builder” (11:10) was not God, and a series of leaks taxes our patience and our budget. We could not afford to live near our new church, but we can host a home group.

The Edman brood.

For introverts it’s hard to reach out and build new friendships, let alone replace missing support structures, but both are happening slowly. Already we know more neighbors here and have more connection with community groups than we did over our years in Virginia. The lack of pretense and the friendly attitude toward our small children in public spaces are refreshing.

The expectations on us are different too. No one asks me what I “do” anymore. I’m not expected to “help,” just to participate, to be a neighbor.

I am reluctantly seeing value in the compromises. My nature is to treat my home as a safe space, a gated community. But Abraham settled as an alien, not as an insider—“living in tents” along with his children and grandchildren (Hebrews 11:9). You can’t depend on tent fabric to keep your possessions safe, and indeed the writer tells us that Abraham was “looking forward to a city with firm foundations” (11:10), “longing for a better country” (11:16). His identity was not dependent on walls, riches, social standing, or citizenship—and yet he is remembered not only for faith but for exploits of hospitality, generosity, even warfare. God took care of his children. But no one now remembers who was king or top socialite back in his hometown. It’s worth reflection.

The joys and flaws of my new city and my new house, along with our increasing awareness of our need for help, offer regular reminders that my home, my citizenship, is not finally here. I can live with my family like resident aliens, offering and receiving hospitality, raising my children, serving those around me, and hopefully living as a pointer to the God who, in spite of all appearances, rewards those who seek him (11:6).

My name is Peter. I’m not here to help you. But perhaps I can remind you to long for a better country.

Peter Edman, an editor, is a quality assurance manager with American Bible Society, where he also manages the product line for trauma healing programs now active for adults and children in more than 80 countries and 150 languages worldwide. He lives with his wife and five children in the Germantown neighborhood of Philadelphia. You can reach him at @pledman.

August 26, 2016