Verge of a Miracle

It's December again, and that means rest. I get all quiet and pensive. I'd slow down, take stock, take deep breaths and unconsciously change down the gears.

Lately, a lingering feeling has been skulking at the back of my mind, just out of my conscious efforts, fleeting in-between the waking and sleeping hours. It's some sense of expectancy, some impending sense that something important is about to happen, or has just happened. Some sort of glow to it. Or, afterglow, perhaps.

There is an urge to share, but it feels almost obscene to have thought of it, to expose it - delicate, frail, perhaps premature, fearing it malformed. Dark thoughts of uncertainty begin to cloud the mind. Thoughts of days gone by, days of future past. Stolen thoughts.

Dreams fall apart; schemes gone awry
dashed hope; lost portions
Weak and fragile we are
simple monochromatic creatures of shadow
unable to bear the richness and depth of color, shades and tones

Do we plumb the depths of despair
before we come to,
gasping at the surface for air
and again surrender
Do we turn to diversions
distractions and addictions
to give ourselves reprieve?

Are we standing on the verge of a miracle?
to see the hand that reaches down from the heavens
part the clouds
crash through the walls
to save us from ourselves?

It's that lingering feeling you get after a really great camp or a thoroughly amazing holiday, but having named it, it somehow loses its potency. Strange. I can't quite put my finger on that feeling, but its when you had an experience where you were transformed, empowered, freed, grown, found yourself and made life decisions and life friends. My teenage years were punctuated by awesome camps that were pivotal: week-long events that took up most of the holidays ambling through deserted school blocks, church-halls, forests and hidey-seek in hotel complexes. Solemn convocations, singing and high ritual in holy spaces, gatherings of longing plaintive prayer and sacred conviction. Some anticipated, others un-looked for, un-asked.

There were the TC camps, church camps, CF camps, SV camps, Crusade LTI, kids camp (as helpers), school camps - all of which were somehow deeply engaging and paradigm shifting. It would be grubby, shabby and occasionally full of incidents, but the experience would deepen with each day of the camp, as we lived out, played, prayed, slept, ate and bathed together and making friends, the song growing louder and louder until the last night of the camp, where magically one no longer needed any sleep. Campfires under a starry canopy filled with constellations and shooting stars. Fiery sunrises on the horizon. Songs through the night, games and sharing, singing and dancing. The night would never end. It just got better and better, richer and richer.


And the cards! Encouragement cards - home-made montages of grace. Where does one start? Everyone would have their own letterbox, filled with candy, messages and goodies. There would even grow a unique lingua franca, a syntax and inside jokes that kept everyone at camp roaring at the same idiosyncracies. And there always was hope. It always pointed to the future - everything would always be alright.


So that's how it was then, when things were simpler. But what I can't quite shake off is that intense sense of having done something good and right, connected with something greater, beyond and outside myself, my aspirations and my experiences. It was meaningful, rich, affirming and alive. And that sweet afterglow and buzz coming back to 'normalcy', before the rhythm of regularity slowly erodes it away.

"Mountain tops have valleys in-between" - Michael Card

The odd and annoying thing is it doesn't quite translate to people around in the aftermath: when asked how was it, all you can mumble up is something along the lines of "oh, it was great! really fun!", and the other party will thoughtfully affirm your enthusiasm, and gently shrug their shoulders, nodding in some sort of half-hearted agreement. It could be a great camp, a backpacking trip, a school term. It doesn't matter. It just doesn't translate. People will agree, even enthuse, but it never quite rubs off. Oh, how often I'd long to have someone to share these with, an inside joke, a knowing wink. They might even understand it intellectually, but never come in, as circles go.

And from there on, it sort of just fades out, albeit slowly. You talk about it less and less, and sometimes even grow tired of explaining yourself over and over again. On rare occasions, it might even become something embarrassing to identify with, similar to pretending you didn't quite have that eccentric aunt or that you actually attended that teeny-bopper concert back in the early 90's.

BUT. During that experience, you grew, became a knight, performed exploits and slew your dragons; become stately princes feasting high amongst great lords in magnificent ancient cedar halls. You've plumbed the depths of the earth and chased the sun through its course, wrestled with the kraken and overcome, conquered abyssinia. You've executed manoeuvres you'd never thought possible, bearing courage you never knew existed. Swung boldly into the fray with loyal mates, emerged victorious bloodied but breathing. At the end of the adventure though, you tumble back through the Wardrobe in the Spare Room only to be your grubby self, perhaps wiser and stronger, but grubby nonetheless. People treat and assume you as your same old former self, and soon, you too forget and believe them, and treat yourself like so.

So we sigh aloud, and lament the old days: the melons were sweeter too.

Have we changed? or thought we've changed? Did that matter at all? Are we a dormant volcano waiting for the next seismic shake-up ready to move heaven and earth, or just petrified trembling for eternity? Are we ourselves for the better? I'd like to think that it's all there somewhere inside us - one day we'll rise from the ashes, getting ready to catch the train a-comin' and be whisked off once again to the Lion's country, greet gallant Reepicheep with his rapier sharp and glinting in the bright sun, dashing off into the waves and spray, our arms remembering its cunning and strength, riding as if we've never been away.

Can we return, can we go back? Perhaps we are waiting for that familiar smell to waft around, that quiet voice, that strain of a melody once long forgotten, the enchanted horn to sound and awaken us again from our stupor. Perhaps. Just perhaps...



The Call
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It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
'Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back
When you call me
No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never
Been this way before
All you can do is try to know
Who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye

Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and now one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye