THE SEASON OF SINGING

Have you ever been in a situation where everyone else is utterly relaxed and cool, but you feel as though there’s a knot, a tangle, a tense mess, going on inside of you?

That’s where I’m at. I’m winched to safety, rescued by the helicopter, and maybe on my way to freedom, but somehow my heart is still lost at sea.

The service to celebrate Heather’s life was beautiful. Her sister told stories of when they were young, her brother continued with a mix of typical Heather - surrounded by nature, kind, generous, sensible and disciplined. Then Paul himself brilliantly recounted some of the stories of their lovely marriage: some I knew; some I didn’t. Rory and I led the worship, holding it together on the edge of tears throughout. There was a message about Heaven, and then, in the most arresting of segments, a photo-tribute, over an acoustic version of ‘Oceans’ by Brooke Fraser.

The reservoir for me, and many others, burst.

Smiling from the past, Heather, in all her beauty beamed radiantly at the camera. A baby, a toddler, a little girl gathering flowers on Cornish rocks, a teenager in school uniform holding a puppy, a beautiful young lady gazing at us with translucent green eyes. Then a wife, peering up at the spiky-haired Paul on a day we all remembered, or years later on holidays long gone, on bikes, in the sea, holding hands, together. It was too much for me. As the final shot of my friend Heather, short-haired, beautiful, bursting with faith, love, hope and confidence, faded into brilliant white, I collapsed into my hands and cried. I was not alone.

Perhaps the toughest part is the moving on. The when, the how, the next, the normal. The new normal. I texted Paul today and suggested a catch up. It’s tough sometimes to know what the right moment is - I guess I’m trying to be him, if it were me, if ever I could be.

And so to tonight. As the world celebrates a royal wedding and love, that most delicate and beautiful of things, is almost tangible in the air, I can’t relax in this atmosphere. My heart is tense, and my body exhausted. The sunset is calm and the birds are singing as they always do while the sky turns from day to night. Lazy barbecue smoke drifts from the valley, and an owl hoots somewhere. Gently in the pale pink sky, the thin crescent moon hangs between the first few brave stars of night. Birdsong.

‘The season of singing’ I whisper to myself. It’s from a verse that was read out at Windsor today, as well as being part of Heather’s service this week. It’s from Song of Songs 2. Perhaps, I wonder, this is how it is to be: after the winter rains, when suffering is done and loneliness is ended forever, perhaps when the sun rises and all creation bursts into life in the fresh cool light of the day, perhaps then singing is to be heard once again in our land as the bridegroom calls us to come away with him.

I hope so, I think to myself, out here in the sunset park. I lift my eyes to the horizon and slowly breathe in, ready to sing, to softly enchant the valley with the quietest and most heartfelt of melodies.

My eyes sting, once again with tears and I swallow the lump in my throat.