66) Decade. (For Kieran).
Last Saturday, with the weekend household chores and errands completed, I put on my hiking boots and drove the car up into the hills. For a winter’s day, the weather was mild enough, and sunny. I had a list of winter orchids I was hoping to see, and I wasn’t disappointed. From my vantage point in Hardy’s Scrub, I could see the neighbouring vineyard where the remaining vine leaves were orange in the low sun. Manning Reserve had taken on its winter habit, with new growth in the verges and a commanding view of the range in seasonal green. The Bunochilus was finally in flower, and the Cyrtostylis were beginning to show. I love how the orchids point to the changing seasons and the inexorable passage of time.
I had a lot on my mind and had carried my swirling thoughts up with me into the hills. At the previous day’s memorial for Ada – a former resident of mine – I had been greeted by a handful of former residents as well as colleagues I hadn’t expected to see there. One resident said, “you were much loved during your time with us and are still much missed.” A colleague added, “I can’t tell you how much of a blessing it is to see you today.” Words of encouragement that point to having made a difference. Encouragement, it turns out, that I’d been needing.
I guess we don’t always realise the impact we make until much later.
I have no idea what impact I’m making lately in my present ministry. Some denominations make belonging feel surprisingly complicated. How easily we see differences in place of common ground, separation instead of unity, closed doors instead of open tables? How much we still have to learn about hospitality and love and welcome.[1]
I wrote a book about home and homecoming, about finding our place in this world and belonging. About the signposts to God all around us – His invitation in everyday life. Those moments of transcendence that come without warning. About how life is like the ocean tides, sometimes full and in, sometimes far out from the shore. How even a retreating tide can reveal its treasures…
My tide has been in retreat. And yet, in a fortnight, in a small Anglican church up in the hills, a gathering of friends will help me to launch this humble book of mine and send it on its way into the world. On its own pilgrimage. The publishers suggested that I promote it in magazines and on Christian websites alongside other titles promising easy answers and certain victory. I declined. My book wrestles with questions and finds peace in mystery. It was never written to sell certainty. “You won’t sell as many…” came the reply. As if sales were the driver. “For what good will it do a person if he gains the whole world…”[2] My heart couldn’t bear it.
I am quietly delighted that the book launch is set to occur – give or take a couple of days – on the eighth anniversary of me closing those data spreadsheets that had been my bread and butter, and stepping out in faith.
It’ll be the tenth anniversary, too, of me moving into this small cottage where the book drew its first breath. Those ten years spent here are longer than I’ve lived anywhere. This place of putting down roots and comfortable silences. A place of refuge from the world outside my door. A place that quietly witnessed some of the biggest changes in my life – leaving my university job and career in data analytics, being accepted for ordained ministry, studying at seminary, stepping into prison ministry and then later, prison chaplaincy, before finding my vocation as an aged-care chaplain. There was that two-year detour in congregational ministry, then launching hauntedandlovedbygod.net, and this latter season of joy praying with the Franciscans.
I wonder what impact any of that has had on folks outside-looking-in. I know one thing – there will be friends from each chapter of the past decade at the book launch, and that says something about connections made and retained. It says something about belonging. And purpose, too. It says, for all my striving and a handful of mistakes, something of my soft heart still worked its way through all the noise.
I’ve been thinking tonight about the last ten years here in this place.
This garden that I’ve planted and tended with love and care. Its joyous riot of colour and beauty each spring – full of ceanothus and honeysuckle and roses and sweet peas. The pictures hanging on the walls and the things gifted or collected over a lifetime of friendship and travel. I remember visiting my grandparents in Bristol as a child and marvelling at their house full of things picked up from far flung places all over the world. I spent season after season walking in the bush, listening to the wind and the birdsong, and photographing orchids. I spent five of the past ten years in a relationship with someone far better than me, whose patience and support helped me survive those Wesley Uniting years. Midge came out from England and spent two summers with me here – each time encouraging me into adventures and living life more fully.
And then there are the stories from years in ministry. To the incarcerated, to those with dementia, or coming to terms with grief and loss in all its shapes and forms, and to the dying.
Kieran died recently. I only just received the news. He had been a favourite resident of mine while I was working down in Mt Gambier last winter. He told me several times that I should marry his stepdaughter. He thought I was family material. I guess he read my heart. He died, and I hadn’t been back down to visit him since leaving to join the Lutherans. Though I said I would… And so, for two days, with grief and regret, I’ve been reflecting on time’s fast movement. On missed opportunities. Of promises made then kept or lost. On the importance of not letting things crowd in and distract us from the things we originally set out to do. I should have made the trip south to visit Kieran. I’m sorry. And it’s too late now.
There’s a melancholy air about me tonight. I’ll say Compline and head to bed. I might not set an alarm. Another weekend is upon us. Tomorrow, when the weekend household chores and errands are completed, I’ll put on my hiking boots and maybe drive out to the Mallee. I’m hoping to find the Pterostylis dolichochila and the gnat orchid flowering. Something new to see now every week. Life is short, and I don’t want to miss any of it.
Olly Ponsonby, July 2026
[1] Jn 13:35
[2] Mt 26:26 NASB