Recently our little boy was in the garden. It was a bright, warm, blue skied day. He ran around the grass, this way and that. Each change of direction, every action he took was mimicked. There was a copycat.

For us it was facsinating watching our Son discover his own shadow. The confusion, the delight and he raced forward, raised an arm or stooped low. Whatever he did, however he behaved, was all played out in front of him. Marvellous.

What a great resource a shadow is.

In the sunny days our shadow shows us our every choice. Each decision or action we take is easily recognisable. We’re especially careful with our time, our assets and our relationships. Our shadows tell the story of us. They are us.

The challenge comes then during the overcast seasons of our lives. When the shadows become blurred and lose distinction. Do we mimick the days filled with sunlight, when all of our choices were laid plain for all to see. Or do we act as though nothing leaves a mark, when everything is untraceable. Who then is the copycat?

Connection in the Tunnel

A large tube underneath the English Channel either means you’re in the submariners club, or in less time than it takes to watch an episode of Better Call Saul you’ll be emerging into the French countryside.

We were fortunate enough to whizz through the Channel Tunnel this year, and having our 9 month old son with us made it all the more fun.

There’s no hiding that technology is very present in our lives, minute by minute. How evident that is as I type on my phone. With a little one around the usage pattern of apps has shifted. The Converter: When presented with his new weight I still don’t get Kilos. Pounds and ounces all the way.  A WIFI powered baby monitor, great for life on the move. But most of all it is the camera app. Picture after picture. Portrait, landscape and square. A video of that special moment. A slo-mo of the first ‘this or that’.

Our short escape through the tunnel was no different. Memories captured and catalogued. The calls of “Cheese“, teeth on display and the LED flash signalling a successful record of the moment. Naturally, I opened Instagram to share the scene, but paused before uploading photo. I’m under the English Channel, how could I possibly share this photo now?!? Wrong. “Ah, of course” you say, “the clever folks at Eurotunnel provide WIFI”. Sorry, wrong again.

My phone had superfast 4G signal. I couldn’t believe it. We were half way to France, under the sea, encased in concrete, steel and whatever else protected us from 29,000 sq miles of water, but I could still tweet. Interested in how this 4G signal could reach us, I opened Google Maps. To my surprise we hadn’t left the terminal. Or so Google Maps thought. In fact, the signal that we connected to originated from dry land in Folkstone, but then masked our real location.

We were connected. We were reachable by the outside world. Our position, our beacon was visible and broadcasting as if we were in one place. But whilst being on the move and under gigantic volume and pressure. We had seemingly tricked the world into thinking that we were in one place, when actually we were deep under water, between locations with our trust firmly placed in the path ahead of us.

Our broadcast lives can tell such a story, yet the reality can be very different. Practise makes perfect and we are well practised at fooling those around us regarding our state. Our location. The pressure we feel and the depths that seem to swallow us. Whilst masking our true state can bring light and momentary freedom, the long tunnel can’t end quick enough.

Community, friendship, conversation then, are the morals. The story, our lives. You & I, the author.

A Beat in the Underground

It was almost as if there was an Underground Station in the sleeping village of Longridge, Preston. It was a sunny morning, mid way to noon and we we’re on time for the approaching train. The underground station was the local doctor’s surgery. Busy, bustling and even sporting the red ticker screen signalling the next departure.

Laura and I weren’t really sure what to expect, it was the first time that we were to hear what a little heartbeat would sound like. Nervous excitement fits the moment perfectly as the Midwife tuned the hand held device. Then suddenly the distant, regular echoing beat jumped out of the speaker.

It sounded as though we were in the tiled tunnels of an Underground Station, with the faint pattern of a train running along the electrified tracks in earshot. The rhythm reverberated around the echoing space and what a sound it was. It was a joyful moment when for the very first time we heard the miracle of life that is being intricately knitted together. A few weeks earlier we had witnessed the grainy monochrome silent movie, the first proof of life. But now to hear the beat of a little heart was breathtaking, assuring and a sound never to be forgotten.


A man called Joseph had saved up. He’d been working for years so that he could own this small, cold, lightless hole. It was more than a hole actually, it was a small cave outside the city of Jerusalem. The cave wouldn’t be used for decades to come. Dusty, silent and void, the cave would be a fitting resting place and tomb for him and his family.

Joseph was from a Judean City called Arimathea. On this particular day there were to be three crucifications up on the hill they called Golgotha. One of the men who had been sentenced had something about him. News of this man had reached Joseph and it had moved him, stirred him, unlike the story of any other. So the Arimathean came to an agreement with the authorities that he should give his cave, his families tomb to this man, the one they called The King of the Jews.

The tomb had been a mark of respect for Jesus of Nazareth. A gift. A gift that he had not expected to get back. But three days later the gift was returned. If you or I were to return a gift we had better offer an acceptable reason for the return. Joseph wondered the same and the reason for return was that the tomb was no longer needed. Joseph hadn’t realised but the tomb was only ever going to be borrowed.
Jesus, the Saviour of the World, had just meant to borrow the tomb for a few days, much to everyone’s surprise.

Jesus never owned a tomb. He used one that he had borrowed for a short time, but then moved on, in epic style I might add.

Are there things, circumstances or experiences that we are owning when we should only be borrowing them? The course of history would have run very differently if Jesus had owned the tomb that he had been given.

I know there are things that have weighed me down in the past, simply because I owned them. I held onto them, rather then returning them – “product not needed”, “unwanted gift.”
For the bad characteristics that you are just borrowing or the hurtful experiences that you’ve had, don’t worry about whether you have the receipt or not. Put them down, return them and walk away. From today, the rental period is up.

Awake in San Francisco

From the window I can see the bridge. Steel cables and structure spans between Northern San Francisco and The Bay. We are on the fifth floor, level with the bridge at this distance. It is little after 05:00 as the sun peers over the horizon, catching the windows of cars and trucks. They flash and flicker, ablaze with the glory of a new day. In the Chinatown district, the bridge I can see isn’t the famous Golden Gate Bridge, that is a lot shorter than this one and it is in the opposite corner of town. I am wide awake.

Leaving the apartment, camera clutched, I head in the direction of Union Square. Just a few hours ago these streets were teaming with life. The scents and sounds of Chinese cooking escaping every other doorway along Grant Avenue, well into the early hours. Red spherical lanterns provided a canopy of low hanging stars, stretched between launderette and takeaway, to a Chinese bank and back to a firework shop. But right now all is quiet.

It is already warming as I reach the corner of Grant and California. Parallel tracks stretch the length of the street, grooved like a ski jumpers run. The trolleys haven’t been seen along this route yet, so the whir of the motor beneath the track at the junction can be heard a couple of blocks away. It won’t be long before the iconic wooden trams are bustling through the city. There’ll be the outside ‘hang-ons’, laden with cameras and backpacks, maybe even a few commuters, lucky enough to find space on the smooth varnished benches. For now the roads and trolley routes are clear, so I stand in the middle of the junction. Snap goes the shutter and a brief whine as my camera processes an image. I look down at the screen. I look up again and then down once more. Despite the camera’s best efforts, it isn’t the same as the scene that I am experiencing.

The sun has been steadily climbing and it washes the full length of even the tallest buildings in yellow and orange. A dragon towers over the avenue, either welcoming or warming, it isn’t clear. Walking through a gateway and out of Chinatown. It seems that I’ve walked through a portal. The path immediately changes, the buildings are different. The streets become a modern metropolis; the sidewalks are spotless, freshly cleared during the night.There’s a coffee shop on the corner across the road. The unmistakable green siren, calling. It’s close to 06:30 in the morning and there’s a queue. Blue collars, suits and those only making use of the free ice cold water. Indulgent joggers stretch on the walls outside before walking home with a freshly brewed reward. Then there is me. The most wide awake, clutching camera and “four-tall-extra-hot-lattes-to-go”. It’s a common tongue in the morning search for caffeine.

The walk back into Chinatown changes once more. But it isn’t just the buildings and the artistry in the windows now. I am sharing the sidewalk. A jogger springs onto the road, maintaining pace in those neon running shoes. It was a near miss. A couple approach, six legs between them. As they near my position the one in charge of this morning stroll begins to cross the street. A cat crouches in the doorway of a restaurant, as crates of cowering chicken are taken inside. The cat unaware that she has the attention of an approaching dog.

The blocks pass and I near our apartment. I glance upward, past the fire escape clinging like ivy and the sky is light blue, not a single cloud. The quiet streets, a thing of the past. The sounds of the city crescendo. San Francisco is ready and waiting.

We Drop Stars

The 99c gift shop was the height of this part of town. The other units were an assortment of fast food counters and bars. The bright flickering of former Hollywood glory had all but dwindled. Art Deco was a faint memory, class and charm left town some time ago. Litter blows across the glittering sidewalk and hats lie in wait of loose change while impressionists pose for tips.

Yet all the while, stars line the walkway, meticulously positioned, one after another. Accolades and achievements in all five points of these extraordinary sidewalk gongs. Each one unique with a name we all know, imprinted with brass shields denoting the honoured trade or art. Icons of music, film and literary greats, even Jesus Christ has a star. This is the Walk of Fame.
The Walk of Fame lengthens with time. But mostly it is fixed. A lifetime’s career compressed into one square metre of remembrance.  A city remembers the greatest, the beautiful, the adored, whilst all around; the landscape rushes past. Shops, stalls and the most lowly businesses surround the glory of our screens and books.

We drop stars each day. In how we interact with humanity. Deeds and accomplishments far grander than the glittering memories of the Boulevard. The person we take it. The bereaved we counsel, the shoulder we offer. The landscape will constantly shift and change. Like new occupants of the units along 90027, people come and go, but like the sealed memories of yesterday, will we remain consistent? Choosing daily to be remembered for a life spent offered to others. Not in the promotion of self or similar meaningless agendas, but the most rewarding achievements of service.

Can our lives be studded with stars denoting icons of a listening ear, a cup of water or praying hands. The Walk of Service is less crowded than The Walk of Fame, but there is room for many more.

A White Shadow

A Beluga Whale will usually inhabit Canadian waters, staying in the Arctic regions, it is naturally camouflaged. The white whale takes its name from the Russian word ‘bielo’ meaning white and so we get Beluga. It takes eight years for the birth colour of dark grey to completely leave. Being such a different colour for the first part of its life means that it can travel safely. But surely this grey exterior puts it at a disadvantage?? Actually no.

An adult Beluga will swim at such an angle, above a young whale, with the effect that it looks as though the child is just a shadow. The shape, dimensions, characteristics of the child made it seem like it is nothing more than a shadow of its parent. The formation offer protection, it provides reassurance. It instils identity.There is a portion of scripture that says:

Those who live in the shelter of the Most High, will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” 

Psalm 91.

It poses these questions. Who’s shadow are we walking in? Is there someone, something, that we align our lives to. Are we in formation with a colleague, Father, friend?
Maybe our spouse or a mentor.
For some it may be God.

There are boundless opportunities for us to observe, align our lives and gain from walking in the shadow of others.