Ashes, beauty, and a silver lining of hope: A wake at Christmas in England

Dec 28, 2024

Johnathan, Jack, and I went to England this Christmas to scatter Kathy’s ashes, per her wishes. She told me, in anticipation of being cremated, that it made her happy to think that when the time came, it would mean the boys and I would need to go have an adventure together. The emphasis was on the experience more than the specific destination, but there were a couple places she explicitly called out as ideas. One was the northern countryside of England, which we all swooned over while watching our family’s favorite TV show, All Creatures Great and Small. We watched the last episode all together from our bedroom the weekend before she went on hospice care. During one of the breathtaking scenes of the countryside, she sighed, “just spread my ashes there!”

“There” also happened to be where our family’s favorite Christmas concert, Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God, would be touring the week before Christmas this year. This is a show that we have made a point to see every year for over a decade, either traveling to see it in person or watching it on livestream. A few years ago, we made a pilgrimage with friends to see it live from the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. This is the album’s 25th anniversary, and for this special tour, added shows in the UK for the first time. 

The stars over the motherland seemed to align. 

Kathy had donated her body to scientific research and medical education, so we were delayed in receiving her cremains. Ever since they arrived, I’ve had the growing sense that completing this next step of laying her to rest would be helpful in our grieving and healing process as it enables another cycle of closure. Based on all of this, combined with plenty of other unknowns on the new year horizon, it seemed that this spontaneous moment while the boys were out of school was our best chance to make a run for it.

We planned eight days of activities in London, Oxford, and the Yorkshire Dales to experience a valid cross-section of the culture for our first time in the country: urban-rural, modern-ancient, political-academic-religious. Most of all, we went as a delegation on behalf of our family, carrying all of our loved ones in our hearts as we sought the perfect place on this planet to further memorialize our dear Kathy, commemorate the returning to dust of our mortal bodies, and pour out a sacrifice of hopeful praise that this is not the end. The Lamb of God who took away our sins was slain, then raised, and is returning as a Lion to reign. Aslan is on the move, making all things new, from dust to glory. Getting there is the hard part. We made this journey, as we must make all the rest, in faith—following Christ, further up and further in. 

We stood outside the overbearing doors that barricaded the entrance to Oxford’s University College like a castle gate. That is where all new undergraduate students dare to enter, just like C.S. Lewis did over a hundred years ago. We know it worked out for him because we read the fruits of his labor after years spent cloistered in those hallowed halls and strolling the tree-lined walks with his mates. But he almost didn’t make it. He stood at those doors only after getting lost upon his arrival in Oxford. He had turned the wrong way from the train station and ended up outside of town, having schlepped all his luggage the opposite direction. He also couldn’t pass his maths exam, which would have prevented him from continuing at the college had he not joined the army to serve in the Great War before returning to resume his studies. As we stood on the pavement on that chilly winter night, looking up at that grandiose arch, I thought about our own jagged journey to get there.

Our trip to England got off to a bumpy-slump of a start. We departed Austin, flying to Dallas for our connecting flight to London, but a storm over DFW forced us to circle in a holding pattern and eventually return to Austin to refuel. We were stuck on the plane, parked on the tarmac for several hours waiting for the storm to pass. By the time we arrived in Dallas, we had missed our connecting flight. The next available route to London was late the following day via Houston, so we checked-in to the Super 8 outside the airport at 1:00am and rested up for our second first day of traveling. After our Austin-Dallas-Austin-Dallas-Houston pinball game around Texas, we finally made our way across the pond and arrived in London. But our checked bag, predictably, did not—not until a couple days later.

I had planned a strategic schedule to see major landmarks and attend multiple prayer and Christmas worship services in historic cathedrals around town, and with the help of AI, arranged our list of sites into clusters for each of our days, optimized for geographic proximity, transportation efficiency, and variety of political, religious, and commercial encounters. Alas, no plan survives contact with the enemy. So, with day 1 and part of day 2 deleted, I filtered and shuffled our list to make the most of the remaining time. The first adjustment we made to our site-seeing plan was to find a store to replace a few essentials from the delayed suitcase. Here we were in this historic world-class city for the first time, and I’m shopping for underwear in the closest thing to a Walmart we could find. Bypassing Big Ben for a big bin of socks, and no time for Trafalgar Square while I try to find tighty-whities.

There were other delays and detours throughout our trip as we dealt with setbacks in the city: underestimated impact of holiday closures and competitively long queues for popular events; and misses in the countryside: early darkness of northern winter days and off-peak unavailability of transportation options. Apparently neither artificial nor natural intelligence is smart enough to account for all hidden variables that one only realizes and fully appreciates from ground-level firsthand experience. How profound, then, is the Supernatural Intelligence, the first and the last, knowing all things as the end from the beginning. Yet, being in very nature God with a comprehensive satellite view, Jesus volunteered to get a street-level view. God knows, not as a predetermined program, or predictive algorithm, or probabilistic heuristic, or passive logical rules, but as personal experience with and through us. Almighty all-knowing God is always, everywhere present. Omniscient Spirit, born of a virgin, growing in wisdom, learning to navigate; omnipresent Emmanuel—transcendent God with us; omnipotent savior—supreme Being, a man of sorrows, acquainted with  grief. The Son of God walking among us as a brother and friend—his knowledge is not that of an aloof travel agent, or disinterested tour guide, but an immanent, intimate fellow sojourner. He took on flesh, traveled with family who took wrong turns, or friends who couldn’t stick to the itinerary, had his luggage lost or his knapsack nicked, and had to get by with just the clothes on his back. He was tempted in every way we are, yet without sin—that he might sympathize with our plight on his way to save us from it.

Over time, we realized wrong turns lead to unexpected places—some of which end up being dead ends with no apparent resolution, while others open up unplanned blessings, unaccounted for by our own coordination. Our series of unfortunate events had plenty of disruptions that felt like sheer nuisance, but also an abundance of sovereign serendipity, revealing a providential map of tiny perfect things, for we found little gems along the way…

…Our first hotel in London, where we had forfeited our first night’s stay because of the delay, upgraded our remaining reservation to a room with a garden view, overlooking the River Thames and the London Eye.

…We stepped in to visit the Palace of Westminster just in time to see Parliament—both the House of Commons and House of Lords in session for debate at their respective halls. One issue on the agenda was how to better manage the electric bikes and scooters that have littered the streets, and how to mitigate the risks and liabilities they present to pedestrians. We’re pretty sure this national crisis was in response to the incidents Jack had involved himself in the night before.

…We happened to meander through the Covent Garden winter market while an off-duty opera singer was belting out Christmas carols from the courtyard below.

…We hunted for a particular gift Jack wanted to get for a friend back home, knowing that these particular shoes were sold out everywhere in the US. We happened to find the flagship store for this brand not far off one of our bus routes, and he secured the last pair on earth, I’m pretty sure. There was much rejoicing upon our return. Who knows, maybe the kingdom of heaven is like searching for that rare pair of shoes your friend has longed for and searched everywhere for, and then finding them in a far-off land and selling everything to buy an extra suitcase to fly them home in as a checked bag.

…We wandered through Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland looking for the ice rink where we had tickets to skate, but approached from the wrong side. We would have had to walk back around and lose more precious time from our limited session, but a quick chat with the bouncer who guarded the wrong way in swayed him to become our personal police escort. He let us through the blocked entrance and walked us right up to the staff counter to expedite our check in. We were gliding on ice in short order. Well, some of us were what you could describe as gliding. Others of us were just trying to stay upright with minimal flailing. But we maximized our time thanks to the guy who authorized us to cut in line.

…We stood in the long queue waiting to get into St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Midnight Eucharist service on Christmas Eve. Having been turned away from an earlier Christmas Eve service across town at St. Margaret’s church because it was full, we suspected we might not make it into this one either. We kept shuffling forward with the line of people bending around to the central doors. Then right as we approached, an usher moved a barrier and directed us to slip in through the door to the side, where we and a few others behind us proceeded to the front of the sanctuary, filing into a reserved row that had not been filled. We ended up sitting directly beneath the gorgeous 365-feet high rotunda with close views of the pipe organ, all-ages choir, and all the leaders of the liturgy from the altar and pulpit. Among several thousand in attendance, here we were with the best seats in the house. I didn’t think I was one for all the smells and bells, but the incense at this close range dancing on the echoes of “O Holy Night” in this cavernous chamber on this climactic night of our advent-adventure amidst the sublime entranced us in sincere, solemn worship. 

…We checked into our B&B in Settle with just enough time to hike to the top of Castlebergh Crag, towering like a stage backdrop over the town below, to take in a stunning introductory view as to our new favorite place. We couldn’t have asked for a better experience of timing and proximity, or a bigger bang-for-the-buck evening stroll. Johnathan was so inspired, he climbed over the rock wall and scrambled up the even higher hill behind us. Like a calf loosed from its stall. 

…The Behold the Lamb of God concert did not disappoint. As our family’s favorite tradition for years, getting to see Andrew Peterson and friends ring in the Christmas season hit the mark as always, and as the 25th anniversary, first time in the UK, on our journey to lay Mom to rest…the glad tidings of this Messianic cantata were particularly poignant this year. He always opens the second half of the show by reading the prologue to the Jesus Storybook Bible, written by Sally Lloyd Jones, a native of England. She was there in person that night, and read it herself live on stage! Also, for this show only, they featured a local musician from London—Joshua Luke Smith, who ended up being the highlight of the concert. And that’s saying a lot for a concert whose creative genius has kept it from ever getting stale in 25 years. Joshua graciously and attentively waited his turn while sharing the stage with heroes for hosts. Then, with only a borrowed acoustic guitar, he sang one song that he wrote for a friend’s funeral, having the audience join him on the “all things will be made new” chorus line. It was powerful. The entire chapel, it seemed to me, melted in the embrace of the music, as I was caught up in the spell of that song in that moment. 

The concert was open seating, and we grabbed seats next to a couple who I came to learn was from Oxford, where the gentleman is a professor at the University. When I told him about our plans to be in Oxford in a few days, he informed me that unfortunately, the place I most wanted to see—Magdalen College where C.S. Lewis taught, which is normally open for visitors year-round, happened to be closed for the Christmas holiday precisely during our visit. However, he gave me his card to contact him, and after exchanging emails afterwards, we arranged to meet. 

…We arrived in Oxford by train just as our insider guide was wrapping up his work for his own holiday break. Before biking home, he gave us a private walking tour of the outside of many of the iconic buildings around town. In fact, he was the one who took us to the lore-laden doors of University College and told us the story of C.S. Lewis’s arrival at that exact spot. He also pointed out where J.R.R. Tolkien taught, where Erasmus stayed, and where Einstein researched.

He showed us St. Mary’s passage where, as legend has it, Lewis was inspired with his vision for Narnia. Reportedly, Lewis was escaping out the side door of St. Mary’s church one Sunday (the place where he himself would preach his famous Weight of Glory sermon), because he was frustrated by the sermon and didn’t want to leave through the back where he would have to shake the vicar’s hand and pretend to congratulate his message. As he pulled the heavy curtains aside to exit the double doors into the alley, he was greeted by a freshly-fallen snow. Directly across from this exit is the back entrance to another college, with what appears to be a lion’s head carved into the wooden door, and flanked by two gargoyle-type corbels in the shape of fauns. And from there, down the flagstone and cobblestone path to the right, stands a solitary lamppost. Here, as it is supposed, is Narnia: the wardrobe portal into a wintry land at the lamppost landmark, greeted by Mr. Tumnus, and rumors of Aslan.

…Across the street from Christ Church College at Oxford, we ducked into a hole-in-the-wall bookstore—or perhaps it was a rabbit-hole-in-the-wall shop because it was tucked behind Alice’s Shop. Not only was Christ Church college the filming location and inspiration for several scenes in the Harry Potter films, it was also the inspiration for Alice in Wonderland over a century earlier. C. L. Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) taught at Christ Church college, and created the Adventures in Wonderland tale for Alice, the Dean’s daughter. Back in St. Phillip’s book shop, I enjoyed perusing the shelf dedicated to the Inklings. I didn’t see anything I had to have (displaying remarkable restraint), but when Jack decided to go back to get something he saw on the way out, I asked the shop keeper if he happened to have a published copy of Tolkien’s obscure short story, Leaf by Niggle. He stepped into the back room where there were stacks of books that hadn’t been processed yet, and found exactly that.

Niggle, as the story goes, was a painter with a vision of a great tree foregrounding a vast mountain landscape. He obsessed over the details of each leaf, and one in particular he couldn’t quite get perfect, but that’s as far as he ever gets because of so many interruptions by needy neighbors. In this life, his leaf represents the haunting failure of his halted project, but he learns in the next life that all the leaves he had pictured in his mind are there, the whole tree, even the mountains in the distance as far as he could see, ready to explore. As Niggle learned after the frustrating failure to complete his project, even the smallest brushstroke here and now shall not be wasted there and then. God has set eternity in the hearts of men, sown the Logos in the human soul—and some of the seed fell on good soil, planting visions that heaven and earth long to harvest and proclaim. Though stalled by distraction and stunted by imperfection now, our efforts to embody and enact beauty, truth, and goodness are not in vain, for we will discover that by such expressions of faith, hope, and love, we are creating something special. Some incarnation of the spiritual, and simultaneously, some in-numenation (to coin a word) of the physical— an unfolding manifestation of the very reality they are inspired by. Cultivated earth as stored-up treasures in heaven. Abundant life in the kingdom at hand, compounding unto its vested inheritance when the King returns. God’s will being done on earth as it is in heaven until there’s no dissonance or distance, only compatible communion. 

Like Niggle, we may feel that our one little incomplete leaf will not matter when the tree it’s a part of, and the larger landscape it’s set in, do not find their end yet. But Tolkien’s autobiographical parable is an encouragement for anyone who, for one reason or another, finds themself stymied and distraught by a lack of progress that is not measuring up to others’ expectations or their own aspirations, or even, I wonder and wish, when those aspirations fall short of alignment and allegiance to the holy divine. Can God work all things for good, even what is meant for evil? There is a simultaneous call to a heaven-bound vision and an earth-bound faithfulness in its pursuit, come what may. 

Perhaps the Christian project is not only distinct for how sacred and transcendently enduring the vision of trees is that it inspires, but for how significant it regards each common and transient leaf in route. We must not lose sight of the vast landscape that justice, liberty, and equality offer, and we must not lose heart when our best wisdom, temperance, and courage only get us so far. Even when the most precious leaves and petals among us fall too soon and the tale of the life we dreamed of together is cut short. When it’s left incomplete—when we’re left incomplete, wondering what it was all for. There must be more. This is bigger than any one of us, but it will not be as big without each one of us. Even the least of these will become great. In each bud, a blossom, bouquet, a banquet: home. In each frond, foliage, a forest: frontier. A seed, potted plant, a garden: Eden, eventually. A touch of love, a smile of joy, a breath of peace, a blink of patience, a gesture of kindness, a taste of goodness, a step of faithfulness, a glimpse of gentleness, a pause of self-control: Paradise, in progress. Each sip shared, each bite provided, each blanket spread, each moment shared: Heaven on earth, little by little.

The inscription on the olive tree planter in the cloister garden of Oxford’s Christ Church College reads, “And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations (Revelation 22:2).”

…The morning that we took the scenic railroad trip from Settle to Carlisle along the western perimeter of the Yorkshire Dales toward Scotland, we woke up to snowfall. So our outbound journey bestowed rare views of the bucolic pastures with a picturesque dusting of snow on the hills. I’ve always loved mossy rocks and trees, and when we hiked the day before, I discovered I especially liked when those mossy rocks are stacked as dry stone wall fences running through the rolling pastures of northern England. On this train ride, I realized the only thing I like more than moss on rocks is snow on moss on rocks. One foundational layer solid and stable, stones ancient and reliable, with moss thick and lush from absorbing stories of the seasons as the centuries slowly pass by. Then by contrast, a thin, wispy layer of whimsical crystals gently touching down, forming a soft white lace from the sky resting upon the hard grays and dark greens of the thick, dense earth. It lingers just long enough for an afternoon tea or maybe to stay through the night. But then it’ll be gone. That delicate snow, like the lives we love—so beautiful, but fleeting. And while they’re here—while we’re here, we recognize that long before we showed up and long after we’re gone, there is something bigger, stronger, more durable. But they are connected. Each shivering rain drop deposits its contribution to the mossy annals of the seasons, the lichen archives of the aeons. The fine-fingertip handiwork that sprinkles the snowflakes is the same hand that balls into an iron-fist to crack the mountain into its form. With both of his hands, God conducts the orchestra of creation with slow rumbling bass notes that sustain across the ages, intermingled with trills and flourishes of lighter notes fluttering by—flirtatious cameos and teasing solos that break in and just as quickly fade out, leaving you wanting more. There must be more.

Geologists propose that the harsh limestone formations of the Dales were formed long ago by a receding glacier. If that is true, then perhaps those frozen water particles are stronger than we thought. In their clandestine accumulation in unseen realms, they are storing up strength in numbers and potential energy across time. Maybe the weaker things of this world will be used to route the strong. Maybe the dead are but dormant, and will be roused to battle when the trumpet calls. The rock may crush the scissors that can cut the paper, but the paper covers the rock and wins a more subtle victory. This life has jagged edges and cataclysmic catastrophes that dash us against the rocks. Those same waves can tumble the harsh boulders into smooth stones. The same rock you stub your toe on in the field can be gathered and built into a house. So we hold out hope for the eucatastrophe—the term Tolkien coined for when an impossible situation suddenly turns for the good, a final rescue or resolution by some miraculous grace that brings the happy ending. If the Kingdom of heaven is like something small that will grow big, something slow that will take over, something lost that will be discovered, something valuable that will be redeemed, then every snowflake, every leaf, every note, every breath, every tear—these are the seeds that must enter the ground and die, that they might sprout and blossom and grow tall and strong enough for shelter and and fruitful enough for sustenance. The leaves of the trees are our healing.

…Several snapshot encounters with livestock along the hiking path: sheep obliviously grazing all throughout the walk as our route criss-crossed the patchwork quilt of pastures. A ram approached us on the trail that ran alongside the stone fence. After a stare off, he swung wide and then curled back around to clamor over the top of the rock wall. I think we must have been standing in the way of his favorite crossing spot. While walking down a quiet farm road past a barn, two beautiful black horses came running up from behind a knoll, cresting majestically, silhouetted against the light grey sky like they were the legends of the hills. In the narrow Dry Valley toward the end of our route, a big fat black and white Belted Galloway cow was lying in the grass ten meters from the trail, so serenely we didn’t even notice her at first.

…The carved rock landscape in the high hills of the Yorkshire Dales can be difficult to walk across, dodging grooves and gaps, and finding your footing on lichen-covered stones that become treacherously slick when wet, and hard to see when it’s getting dark. Yet, the locals label this as limestone pavement, which gives the impression that it is navigable. I might have thought we were trespassing on some giant’s cobblestone sidewalk, but along the way, the stone steps built into the rock walls when our trail would cut through from one pasture to the next, inviting us to step through the small gaps in the fence, signaled that someone was expecting us. We were in the right place. We had come there on a mission, after all.

“Even as we release Mom’s ashes
to the wind and soil and water,
[O Lord] quicken such eternal yearnings within us.
For by this same act, we grieve our goodbye,
and we proclaim our great hope.”

These lines are from “A Liturgy for the Scattering of Ashes,” in Every Moment Holy, Volume II: Death, Grief, and Hope, which is the prayer that I read with the boys that day on our hike to return her cremains to the earth. As it turns out, the special places we picked along our path represented exactly that: the wind and soil and water. Tucked away in the valley of Gordale Beck, a babbling creek lined by sloping green pastures where sheep graze between moss-covered trees, is Janet’s Foss. Just upstream from this waterfall, we sprinkled our first set of Kathy’s ashes, to the water. Farther up the hill, as we approached Malham Tarn on a quiet road, a solitary tree grew by the bank. At the base of this tree, a puddle of rain water rested quietly in the embrace of its outstretched roots. Here, we sprinkled the second set of ashes, to the land. We finally arrived atop the 70-metre cliff overlooking Malham Cove. Here we sprinkled the third set of ashes, to the wind.

“O Christ, make this,
and all things, right and new.
We spread these ashes in sorrow.
But we spread them as sowers scattering seed
in expectation of the harvest to come.”

A time to sow, a time to reap. A time to scatter, a time to gather. A time to decompose and drift apart; a time for resurrection, reunion, restoration. We scattered ashes in separate locations, which sounds like it really feels in my soul: utter dissipation of her, disintegration of me, dissolution of us. However, a zoomed-out geographical account tells a fuller story, as does a more panoramic eschatological perspective. Gordale Beck flows through the Gordale Scar over Janet’s Foss and empties into the River Aire. The outflow of Malham Tarn seeps underground, forming the Dry Valley, reemerging beneath Malham Cove as Malham Beck, which also flows into the River Aire. Etymologies are hard to trace, but Malham probably means “stone” or “gravel,” and Aire probably means “watch over,” “care for,” or possibly “strong.” Going from the stony places, scarred with crags and crevices to a place of protection and refuge tells a good story. Even the surface-sounds of the English words to American ears connote this transition from the brooding harshness of Malhamdale and Gordale Scar along the Mid Craven Fault to the gentle and more pleasant strength of Airedale. The confluence of waters that have been squeezed through canyon vices, sieved through winding valleys, and shoved underground for a dark spell, emerge as a strong river that makes glad the villages and sustains the righteous who remain wisely planted by its shores.

It was in fact this river that we saw from the top of the cliff. The hazy view across the valley at dusk obscured more distant details, though you could still make out the squared off pastures draping the hillsides. And there, like a silver thread woven through the landscape, sparkling as it reflected any rays of sunlight piercing the clouds, flowed the river. We walked the dry valley and watched the heather wave in the wind. We rambled across moors and over fells. We touched the scar and beheld the foss. We traversed the clints and grykes among the lings. And we winked at the silver lining in those grey clouds above twinkling in the tinsel that traces the valley below. Someday, I imagine God will grab that silver thread like a drawstring and pull until all things come back together, or the final strand on a loom that, when pulled tight, brings the pattern to completion. Christ holds all things together, and all things will be reconciled to him as they are in him, from him, through him, and to him. 

Snow flurries hydrate the moss that adorn the rocks; tears, along with sweat and blood, irrigate the desert until the wilderness becomes our oasis.

“…Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
like streams in the Negeb!
Those who sow in tears
shall reap with shouts of joy!
He who goes out weeping,
bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
bringing his sheaves with him.”
Psalm 126: 4-6

…It was breathtaking—the drizzle upon the wind  that swept marbled clouds across a slate sky.  There may be more popular times to hike the Dales, when the grass is greener and less soggy, the sky bluer, and everything’s in bloom, but we enjoyed the wintry vibe all to ourselves. By the end of the nearly twelve-mile hike, we were damp and cold and the basecamp hamlet of Malham was dark and quiet. We stepped into the only place with a porch light on just as the rain really began to come down. We worried that we might not be welcome guests, with our dirty shoes and hiking poles and pack, now carrying empty ash urns. Then we saw the hand-written sign prominently displayed at the entrance, leaning against the centuries-old stone wall, assuring us, “Enjoy our roaring log fire. Dogs and muddy boots always welcome at The Buck Inn.” We knew we had come to the right place and were among the right people. We plopped down at a table a polite distance from the only other guys there, who were chatting about the rugby match on the telly. This was a peak British scene, and more universally, a surreal moment of genuine hospitality after a long day’s journey. We had gone there and back again, and had returned to the Shire. Nothing ever tasted so refreshing, or smelled so toasty, or felt so cozy. It was one of those moments when you feel like you do not have enough capacity in your senses—or enough sensory channels for that matter—to fully absorb the experience. We’ll forever remember it, nonetheless. We all agreed that context affects our rating of the food and drink, and everything tastes better when you’ve just come down from the mountain. It was the best we’d ever had.

I suspect we will see the same hand-chalked sign leaning against the pearly gates someday. Muddy boots welcome. More so, I think muddy boots are required to even find it. Our mates who have gone before us will be there by the fire, and we’ll have some great stories to tell. Stories about a series of unfortunate events and a map of tiny perfect things. Stories about how we used to build cathedrals of grandeur and majesty to revere the mystery of divine glory. Stories about how we could find such heavenly pleasure in the mundane stuff of earth: a snowflake on a clump of moss on a rock. A leaf. An ink-drawn word read by a rainy window with a steaming mug in hand. Stories of what it was like to collapse into the blissful embrace of your beloved, and stories of what it’s like instead to have to walk alone into the howling wind. Stories about how we would scatter ashes amidst the beautiful countryside in anticipation of when God would, in turn, spin a hundredfold beauty from those very same ashes. I found my silver lining. It is a river that runs through the Yorkshire Dales. We must remember it, and follow it, until it leads us home. 

“Come, all you who are thirsty, 
come to the waters; 
and you who have no money, 
come, buy and eat! 
Come, buy wine and milk 
without money and without cost.” (Isaiah 55:1)..

“The Spirit and the Bride say, “Come.” 
And let the one who hears say, “Come.” 
And let the one who is thirsty come; 
let the one who desires 
take the water of life without price.” (Rev 22:17)

One of the pubs in Oxford where Tolkien and Lewis and their fellow Inklings would meet to critique each other’s work is the Lamb and Flag. It still operates today, and the new owners hung a sign over the door of the alley entrance. It is a line from The Lord of the Rings, written in Elvish—one of Tolkien’s invented languages, that translates as, “Speak friend and enter.” When we Behold the Lamb of God, and see that the flag he waves is the banner of the cross for his victory over sin and death, he will welcome us in. He washes our feet with his tears of joy, cleans our soiled gear with his purifying blood while wrapping us in one of his own local hand-made custom wool coats, breaks bread for us to share, and raises a toast from the living water on tap, another round on the house. Oh that we might hear, “Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into your rest in peace, the joy of your Master.” And oh that we might be able to speak “friend” and enter indeed. Muddy boots and all. 

All is calm and quaint
out here in the hills;
it’s everything I ain’t,
cause the fear, it fills
this empty urn,

this empty heart,
and nothing burns
like being ripped apart.
I’m left to yearn
for what’s already gone.

The waterfall, it flows
like it’s moving on,
and the wind, it blows
like it’s carried along
by some great cause.

But I can’t see the effect
unless I pause
and then detect
the heather grass applause
as it waves and bows

to some distant aim,
as invisible now
as whence it came,
not knowing how
it starts or ends.

And in between,
well, it all depends
on what you mean
by “apprehend:”
capture, grasp, or ascertain?

Earth, you can hold
and water, contain;
fire is controlled
and air, maintained.
But it can turn

in an instant, unleashed:
the raging fire will burn;
the rapids, a rabid beast;
stormy winds, they churn;
quaking mountains crush.

So who can understand?
In what can we trust?
We’re lost at sea, in sky, on land,
yet carry on, we must,
because this valley is empty.

We cannot stay here
and take shelter in pity
or find sustenance in tears,
though there are plenty,
as many blank scrapbook pages

left unfilled
with stories of old age,
golden land untilled…
the past, the last stage.
Empty, now, as is the future,

just like our bed
and all the furniture,
this pillow valley by my head;
beyond reach of suture–
broken heart, gaping wound.

Abandoned residence:
condemned, un-groomed;
harboring hesitance
to renovate rooms
when the well is dry.

Well, except for that cistern:
erupting geysers cry,
for I’ve overturned
every stone, asking why:
All of that for only this?

Empty, too, that cathedral we
wandered into for Christmas:
so high, and wide, and deep;
altar and nave, so cavernous.
Why such wasted space?

Unless the emptiness,
a deeper meaning, conveys:
it models the call amidst the mess
and aimless ways
of vagrant souls

who need help looking up
where the incense blows,
drinking from a cup
that overflows,
while echoes of timeless songs remind

me that the emptiness I know
is not all I’ll find
in these hallowed, hollow
halls, for intertwined
with thorns and nails

are bread and wine; and though
these valleys they call Dales
were carved by the River Sorrow,
so too appear the ramblin’ trails
leading to the Cove’s majestic maze:

a vista most grand
to lift your gaze,
of wild and farming land
where cows laze, and sheep graze,
and where children dare

to imagine a horizon
just over there
beyond the setting sun
behind our dark despair
where heavenly hamlets await:

empty rooms to fill,
empty seats to join your mates,
empty glasses that they will
top off no matter how late,
and there discover

that though empty urns on earth
meant death, unrecovered;
the vacant crypt, a womb: new birth
and reunited lovers
will join the wider throng.

So fear not, empty one,
though the days and nights are long,
the Heavenly Hosts say, “Come!”
where weary and thirsty belong
by holy invitation, wholly unearned.

For by grace you have been saved—
all you can offer is an empty urn,
weeping and gnashing at the grave.
But from your dust and ashes, he’ll return
beauty from an empty tomb,

Glory from an empty cross
where he emptied himself, for whom
we count all else as loss
that we might have enough room
in emptiness for what he’s dying to give.

Blessed are the empty,
for they shall be filled;
for though they die,
yet shall they live.

~~~The End (for now)~~~

Pair with the unorganized Shared Photo Album from our trip.