56) Call this place home
The blue of the ceanothus has given way to the pink of the rock rose, the lilac of the Michaelmas daisy, and the red valerian. Spring is here and my house is an island surrounded by a sea of colour. I took my new car into the workshop today to have a few things fixed over the next three days, and then I caught the train back home. And thus, my holiday begins – car-less in imposed stability. I’m already feeling restless, and it’s only day one. So, either I am too rested, or, as I suspect, good rest is so long overdue that I have forgotten how to do it well. Just now, I’m lying on the sofa catching up on some reading and half-napping. My mind keeps wandering and making lists, so I’ve read the same paragraph a few times now. Here on this peaceful island surrounded by spring’s garden. “He lets me lie down in green pastures.” Says the psalmist. “Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest a little while.” Says Jesus. There has been so much coming and going…
Rest, Olly, rest.
I have been feeling stretched lately. I’ve not properly stopped since Clayton Wesley. Or Mount Gambier. Or influenza. Or the car crash. Always doing whatever I can to keep those plates spinning. But I do need to rest and to reflect. Last week’s installation with the Lutherans hit me like an avalanche. In a good way. I have been commissioned as prison chaplain and commissioned as aged care chaplain, I’ve been ordained as deacon in the Uniting Church, and none of that felt as powerful or as momentous as the Lutheran installation. When they laid hands on me, I felt something. A belonging. An equipping. An awareness of something greater and time-honoured. A fresh encounter with the Ancient of Days. Somewhere, in the prayers and in the words of greetings from fellow pastors and chaplains, I felt something that I’ve never felt before. “We are pleased to have you on board. You’re a breath of fresh air with your different history and perspectives,” said one pastor. “I am thankful to God that our paths have crossed,” said another. Only this morning I was talking to a friend about the surprise of it all.
I’m reminded of those words from Isaiah: “For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun!”
I suppose it's no secret that I’ve been quite untethered in the Uniting Church. Always on the margins, and never part of the in-crowd. On those ungenerous days my thoughts wander to unwantedness and lack of support. Is it time then to return to the Anglican fold of my teens and twenties? I don’t know. But maybe. In this moment of rest there are a hundred thoughts and feelings racing around. I need to catch them, and arrange them, and then prayerfully either lay them down or gather them up. One thing is certain; I need a clear head for Saturday when I am made novice in the Third Order Anglican Franciscans. If I ever needed a week of retreat and preparation and contemplation, this would be that moment. This is the culmination of years of pilgrimage. It is a day that I have found myself longing for. “You’ve been talking about it since I met you six years ago,” a close friend said recently. He’s not wrong. This is my homecoming. And to the Right Home.
It’s like a candle has been burning in the same window for more than three decades, and I’ve been stumbling around outside. Every now and then I’ve seen its light while outside and wandering left and right. But now, here I am, at the door of this place of belonging.
“It’s just me. I’ve
Been wandering.
But I’m here now.
And walking these
Familiar roads,
Like wearing
Old Shoes. Even
The trees seem to say,
‘Welcome back, son.
Come, bring your
Musty overcoat in
From the rain.
Call this place
Home. Find warmth,
Friendship, peace and
Rest.’ The past is just
Lessons and memories,
Sometimes tinged with the
Faintest smell of
Evening primrose.”
I’ve been digging through old journals. This poem I wrote when I was just seventeen speaks to me in this time. I like how the trees are knowledgeable. I’ve always thought of nature as sentient and caught up in our story. It’s no wonder I’d grow up to like Wagoner’s poem Lost.
“If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.”
And so, I’m trying to be still, and letting myself be found. Like in Giordano’s Chenier, when Maddalena sings of how love came to me… I am letting love find me in the stillness. Feeling a new sense of belonging. Reflecting on new fellowship. And next Saturday’s homecoming of sorts. New fire in these old shoes.
Matheson’s words resonate: O love, I give Thee back the life I owe… O Light, I yield my flickering torch to Thee… O Joy, I cannot close my heart to Thee…
Says St Francis, “our hands imbibe like roots so I place them on what is beautiful in this world…”
I will place my hands on what is beautiful…
And so, I reach out with Wesley, “let me to Thy bosom fly.” For Thy love is better than wine. Like the woman reaching out to touch just the hem of His garment… I will place my hands on what is beautiful…
And so too, I greet my Lutheran colleagues with a double-handshake, and I greet my Franciscan brothers and sisters in the same way.
I hold the Franciscan Rule of Life that I have prepared, and I also hold onto the poems and writings, the hopes and dreams of my younger self.
I hold on to the friends and loved ones who’ve been with me since I was a teenager writing poetry in my bedroom.
I hold on to my old shoes because they bear witness to the paths I’ve trodden, and the faithfulness of a loving God.
I hold on to the trees and to my garden, and to the orchids and birds that I see and cherish in the bush.
I hold on to the beauty I see in the folks I minister among. Inasmuch as you have done unto these…
I hold on to every act of love and welcome that has come my way.
And I hold on to this feeling that, right now, for all my restlessness and my perennial talk of home, I am finally approaching its front door.
Here I am. To quote Luther, “Here I stand.”
In this moment, like that 17 year old’s poem says, I’ll call this place home. I will serve with my Lutheran brothers and I will worship with my new Franciscan family, and love will be the currency between us. God will take care of the rest.
Olly Ponsonby, September 2025
***
Scripture refs. include – Ps 23:2 NASB, Mk 6:31, Dan 7:9, Is 43:19 NLT, Is 55:12, Ro 8:19-22, Song 1:2, Lk 8:44, Mt 25:40, Eph 3:20.
David Wagoner’s poem “Lost” accessed https://www.mindfulnessassociation.net/words-of-wonder/lost-david-wagoner/
“La Mamma morta” is from Andrea Chenier by Umberto Giordano. https://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?63979-An-Aria-La-Mamma-Morta
George Matheson paraphrased from “O Love that wilt not let me go” 1881-2
“Our hands…” by St Francis ,tr. Daniel Ladinsky. https://www.mindfulnessassociation.net/words-of-wonder/like-roots-st-francis-of-assisi/
Charles Wesley, “Jesus, Lover of My Soul”, 1740.
“Here I stand” by Martin Luther, https://thisredeemedlife.org/here-i-stand/