Hope In A Dark Place

The windows are dark and dirty. 

Inside, no one is in, the pipes are cold, and the cables lay still; no rattle, no hum, no circus. 

Just silence. 

Outside, the wind aches through the side passage, the trees lean with drunken excess: There’s a fever in the air. 

It’s another dark December day, only just enough light through heavy grey clouds for a few hours, before once again descend back into the long night. 

The city streets are thronged with tourists, getting their hunger satisfied with every single berry, bauble, bulb and gift they could ever need. Feeding and drinking until their guts burst. 

Then, there’s the loneliness. The guilt accumulated in their cradles of filth. Is this pain or is it wonder? 

We’re giving the gift of Christmas! We’re learning about sacrifice, of joy, of hope in a dark place. Its sounds like an excuse, of absolution, not a reflection of selflessness. 

While all the others are out competing and social masturbating, I’m stripping back and chilling out. Going festive in an urban but relatable way, such irony! 

I do find my way to endure some form of tradition and enable myself and family to attend Carols by candlelight this Christmas. 

A patchy, nearly yearly devotion to the practise of absorbing positive human spirit and brotherhood in the bastion of God’s mighty temple. 

Memories are often immortalised by the effect they have on you, profoundly imprinted on the brain, pictures so lucid that the years cannot erode. One such image remains with me to this day. 

As a young boy I partook in the selling of my body to the church by way of payment as a choirboy. 

Only the exchange of hard cash was enough to dilute the shame of following the faith, every Sunday, to re-enact a tepid performance of belief for the elders in the congregation. I wonder what they would have thought about the purchases this money provided? 

One day was different. It was December the twenty first, a Sunday, a filthy evening of ghostly winds and lashing rain against the shushed lips of medieval stone. 

The church inside was inviting, illuminated beautifully with hundreds of little orange flames. The Alter, magnificent, decorated in crosses, paintings, and ornate brass candle sticks. 

The flicker of lights dancing up the gothic walls to the stained-glass Messiah above – staring to see if I could witness the tiniest of movement – creating macabre shadows and smoky hallucinations. 

The central aisle pews were full of old faces, line by line, organised as if by invitation, the seating to the side was cold and empty. 

A visiting vicar, not of this parish, stood firmly in front. 

His demeanour was odd. 

The absence of familiarity was against him. The tone of his voice beguiling, lamenting the wrath of human selfishness. The gaudiness of the modern Christmas, all meaning lost:  

“The efforts to pursue alternate, sinful activities prevalent in the minds of evil men and improper thoughts towards women” he spoke of. The weight of disgust far heavier than the consumption of the pies and puddings swallowed every December twenty fifth. 

Such was the vitriol in his eyes, the candour to which he was convinced, I could not look away. 

Every word was dripping with imagery and spite, all back lit by candle to an audience of onlooking, disapproving Saints overhead. 

His arms gesticulating, pointing, remonstrating, almost as if he was fighting himself. As an eleven-year-old boy this burned deep. The smell of incense, the creaking of old church wood, the heat from the burning wicks, the watching glass Prophets and the vicar’s demonic political rant: So terrifying, so hypnotic! 

“Was this his Christmas message?” I thought to myself, almost out loud. Packed full of emotive thoughts, it made a lasting impression. 

In the years after, I have often thought about this moment. Was this message just timing, or something more? Was it just for me? 

But life goes on, Christmas’s come and go like Birthdays, children are born, and relatives are buried. 

As a family man now myself, finding my way to church to listen to Carols at Noël is kind of a full circle moment. 

The feeling of belonging, kneeling before the unknown has become less of a threat, a rejection if one will, but more of a contemplative disposition.  

I sit and listen to the messages, to excerpts from Dickens to the band and to the singers, young and old, their voices cascading across the vast church walls. The carols are classics, the ones you know the words to, without needing to remember them. 

I catch myself wandering again, melting away in the annals of history. The tapestries and painted eyes looking down on me, the pressure, the open flames and metal crucifixes all crushing the stalling breath out of my body. Then a familiar ghost of Christmas past brings me back. 

He sits uncomfortably in his wooden chair, somewhat rigid and twisted. His body ravaged by time, bony fingers curling slightly, arthritis firmly taking hold. 

He’s accompanied by his wife. A woman who has devoted her life to him, sitting by his side as they probably have done many times all their life. I feel sad, I feel like I could suddenly burst into tears, but I don’t even flinch. 

His head bobs and jerks with a small tick, his feet completely still. His mouth twitches and lips pursed. In the corners, it looks like he’s making words. A conversation? Maybe with himself or with someone years ago? 

He gets nervous and anxious during the pauses and great readings, even some of the Carols but when that brass band begins to play something magical happens. 

Time has no relevance when thrown into a memory, as I observed with my very own eyes. His frame was old, decrepit and frail but when that snare drum picked up the beat and the horns bellowed out the melody, he was quickly animated. Moving without restriction, shoulders back, chest out, waving every note like a band leader and playing every stroke like a drummer, the years rolled away. Arms, feet, legs, head all in sync. No one around him, totally lost in the music. Such joy, such vigour, strength and poise for such an elderly man.  

I have never seen anything like it before. The power of memory, the joy of music in its purest form.  

I never forgot about him, about that smile on his face. 

With every aging year, every rusty morning, each day brings another dawn and another dusk. 

Friends have long gone but the eternal love of a wife still burns brightly. Mother, daughter, companion: The Empress of my bleak world. 

The mind isn’t as good as it once was, recalling past moments becomes harder with each passing second. But those eyes of a man so convinced, so passionate, still resonate, just like they did when I was eleven. 

As I become tired and slow, the pain in my hands is brutal, even holding a pen can be a challenging ordeal. She looks me in the eye as she straightens my tie, her smile is deep and genuine, her eyes still pure despite the horrors she’s seen. She helps me with my coat, it’s cold inside the church. There’s lots of unfamiliar people here, people I know? The readings seem long, my heart is pounding but my lungs are slow. I feel like I’m drifting, restless even foolish.  

But when that band starts to play… 

Happy New Year 2024!

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