45) Everything has an end
It was the last Quiet Hour gathering at Clayton Wesley this evening. After a large crowd for Easter Sunday morning worship – we even ran out of Holy Communion glasses! – there was something familiar and comforting in the small handful of us that gathered one last time for evening contemplation. In the dim light of the sanctuary, I could hear the traffic outside, muffled in the rain. The Christ candle flickered on the altar as a reminder of God’s presence. Where two or more are gathered in My name… Taizé music played softly: sur Dieu seul mon âme se repose, se repose en paix. On God alone my soul rests, rests in peace.
I have loved the Quiet Hour gatherings. They were one of the gems of the past two years. The music and the readings. The silences and the prayers. The faithful community.
Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace.
I’m home now and the house is quiet. There’s a strong south-westerly carrying the sound of the ocean. It’s cool. I expect I’ll sleep well tonight.
One year ago today, I was in Kent, England, on holiday at the house of one of my dearest friends, Michelle. I can say, hand-on-heart, that it was my time in eastern Kent almost thirty years ago that rescued me. It was there that I had both time and space to heal from a two-year stint up north – the nightmare boss, the called-off engagement, the blinkered evangelicals at St Peter’s and their unholy lack of welcome… oh! and the loneliness of it all. But then came that time to breathe in Kent, and Michelle’s unrestrained and joyful friendship was a gift that made me ready to return to Somerset and carry on. What grace set aside for me such a place of healing and recovery?
Just before I emigrated in 2008, after my house was packed up and my belongings sent to the ship bound for Australia, it was with Michelle that I stayed for that last week. A safe haven after disaster, and a safe haven before adventure. Again, after my divorce in 2011, when I was temporarily lost at sea, it was Michelle who I saw first when I returned home for a while. We read in Scripture how God places the lonely into families. What grace made us family?
I have a new memory. An old memory really. Strange how it crept into my consciousness without any warning this evening during the Quiet Hour. Maybe the long-awaited drizzle and rain has reminded me of home. Or maybe it’s Facebook reminding me this morning of the anniversary of my last trip home. In this new/old memory at Quiet Hour, I am staying at my nan’s house and sleeping on a folding bed. My Aunty Jill and cousin Sarah are there too. Three generations of women from the same family. I can remember Bovril sandwiches, tinned new potatoes, ABBA on Top of the Pops, and feeling safe. Who knows why memories resurface the way they do? Maybe the last two years of stress are finally catching up with me as I start to decompress. Maybe next month’s relocation to Mount Gambier has me feeling momentarily unmoored and anxious. Or maybe I’m just thinking tonight about family in all its shapes: the folks in the West Country, and Michelle in Kent; the faithful brothers and sisters at the Quiet Hour.
Thinking about love, and the people we love. The poem rightly declares, “what will survive of us is love.” Love endures. It leaves its mark in our stories and our memories. Time and distance can’t change that. St John of the Cross said,
“Keep your heart in peace;
let nothing in the world disturb it.
Everything has an end.”
Everything has an end. This too shall pass. But love remains. “I have loved you with an everlasting love,” says God. From start to finish: it’s always been love. We must choose what to hold lightly – and learn how to release it, and let it end. And at the same time, we must choose what we hold onto tightly. I decided a long time ago to trust in the One who is Love, who is “the same yesterday, today, and forever.” Especially in those times when it’s hard to trust. In the times when love has been in short supply. In this time of laying things and people down.
Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace.
Last weekend, I joined a handful of Franciscans for prayer at St Michael’s church. I sat for half an hour looking at one of the stained-glass windows. I thought about ancient windows and masonry, of cathedrals and church spires that climb out of a landscape. I thought about time-honoured prayers and traditions, about the centuries-old rhythm of the Daily Office, and I was humbled at the thought of it all. I wonder what it means to create something beautiful that endures. And what it means to be part of something beautiful. What it means to let go of all the striving and holding-on, and to step aside and simply let God be in the centre. To offer our small part in service to Him, and let His leading and careful craftsmanship create something worthwhile. After all, we read how we are His handiwork. I can surrender to that.
Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace.
I suppose that one day, there will be a right time to look over my two years at Clayton Wesley, and see what was beautiful, and what may endure. And I will let the rest go. Though for now, the placement leaves me with more questions than answers… I don’t know how it fits into the bigger story of my life and witness. Right now, trying to explain the last two years in a neat and tidy narrative is like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube while wearing a blindfold. It can’t be done! And even if you did accidentally manage it, how would you even know with a blindfold on? So, for now, I’ll surrender all the questions to God, and practice peace in the surrendering.
Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace.
The words of the song suggest that
“It’s better to fly than to hold on to shaky ground
It’s better to let the feelings die, when they’re holding you down”
It is better to fly. And it is better to let the feelings die when they’re not helping – like those parts of me that would still rage and fight for justice due. I guess I need to let all of that go. Let the things that can’t be changed become to me like a small dot on a far horizon. Contrary to the song that says, “It may be a lesson in letting go, it may be a lesson in losing,” I think you can let go, and it not be a failure.
Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace.
Looking in the mirror this morning, I could see the toll that Clayton Wesley has taken on my face. My old mirror that I bought in a Habitat store for my first house has been a witness to every chapter of my adult life – the whole rollercoaster. Every chapter has reached its end in time. This week the page will turn on the 104 weeks at Clayton Wesley. May God even now make it all into something beautiful for His glory. May it not have been wasted service. May the lines on my face yet tell a better story.
Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace.
One year ago today, I was in Kent, England, on holiday at the house of one of my dearest friends, Michelle. I can say, hand-on-heart, that it was my time in eastern Kent almost thirty years ago that rescued me.
I’m home now and the house is quiet. There’s a strong south-westerly carrying the sound of the ocean. It’s cool. I expect I’ll sleep well tonight.
Olly Ponsonby, April 2025
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Scripture refs. include Mt 18:20, Lk 2:29, Ps 68:6, 1 Cor 13:13, Jer 31:3, 1 Jn 4:16, Heb 13:8, 1 Pet 5:7, Ps 139:1-10, Eph 2:10.
“Mon âme se repose” written by Jacques Berthier, © Ateliers et Presses de Taizé.
What will survive of us is love” is a quote from “An Arundel Tomb” by Philip Larkin, 1956. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69418/philip-larkin-an-arundel-tomb
“Keep your heart in peace…” is a quote by St John of the Cross. https://holyhermits.com.au/events/holy-hermit-st-john-of-the-cross
“It’s better to fly…” is a quote from “The last time I saw William” by David Tyson, Alannah Myles, Christopher Ward © Bluebear Waltzes, Into Wishin', Into Wishin' Music/EMI Music, Wonderful Way With Words And Music, Into Wishin' Music, Anthem Entertainment A, BMG Apollo
“It may be a lesson in letting go” is a quote from “Time is the Anchor” by Chris Pureka, 2010. https://genius.com/Chris-pureka-time-is-the-anchor-lyrics