Janet's after LEJOG blog – on processing the End to End experience and returning to normal

Five years later

Five years ago today I was on the Western Front with some students from Silcoates School, my last visit with them as Chaplain. On the morning of the 20th October 2018 we went to Froidmont Cemetery to remember Leslie Ashby. It was the 100th anniversary of his death.

As we stepped off our coach we realised there were quite a lot of people gathered in part of the graveyard. The stone they were standing by was his and they were all local residents, there to remember the same 100th anniversary.

Lelise Ashby was 20 years old (his birthday just 2 days before his death) at the time of his death, killed in action in the last weeks of WW1. He was an only child. The villagers had never seen anyone else at the grave. Imagine their amazement when 50 students and staff turn up to remember him. It was one of the most moving visits of my time as school chaplain.

Now if you will, think of a time in 105 years time. It will be 2128 and I’m unlikely to be writing this blog. Today we are still counting the dead in conflicts around the world. Who will remember in 105 years time? Who will work for peace today and every day between now and then?

This October I revisited some of the places on the Western Front in the Ypres area where every field, farm, crossroads and village seems to be marked by the cross of sacrifice and three dozen or more of the white headstones of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. The Menin Gate at Ypres is under restoration but the Last Post ceremony continues, global tourists holding up camera phones trying to catch the enigmatic sense of the occasion.

Half a world away the terror of further conflicts, each with their origins in the past, continue to burn. Ordinary people are the victims, ordinary people like us. As we near the end of this Week of Prayer for World Peace, do not cease to pray.

From my remembered bible: Go on you peacemakers!

May I pursue peace relentlessly.

Janet Lees, 20.10.2023, in Longdendale.

Empty

On hearing of the decline in the population of capercaillie in Britain…

If the capercaillie cannot caper,

the red deer rut or wild cat snarl,

if there’s no beaver’s beavering this way,

or howling wolves hunting in a pack,

if the weasel’s easily extinguished,

and the stoats are totally gone,

if red’s in their sanctuaries have been silenced

and moles no longer underground,

if hedgehogs cannot snaffle at their cafés

and pine martens no longer pine,

if water voles holes have been deserted

and seals no longer sing mourning songs,

when the patter of ptarmigan feet becomes a silent beat

and dormice slumber deep for evermore,

then we are done.

If there’s no life in the wild,

it’s all just empty.

Janet Lees, in Longdendale 30.09.2022

The Baker of Kyiv

I got up at 3am, There had been explosions all through the night so sleep had not been possible. Each blast a thump in my body and mind, hammering each cell, demanding submission. But I did not relent. My dough was rising, that I knew and it was my job to make sure the city was fed.

In my bakehouse, I washed my hands, put on my apron, wiped the table, all part of my daily preparation. I removed the cloth that was cloaking the dough and smiled when I saw its smooth surface, waiting to be worked.

I dipped in my hand and scooped the dough onto the table where it plopped down into its own preferred shape, free and easy. Taking a small tool, I began to cut into that silky smoothness, separating each portion of dough until I had divided the whole batch.

Scattering some flour on my table I began to work the portions of dough, taking each one under my hand, telling it my concerns and prayers as I worked. First for my neighbours, this building this street, then for the next street, the square, the other buildings, houses, shops, offices: each portion remembering faces and places all over the city. My family, my friends, other workers, those known and unknown, representing the crowded human diversity of this much loved place.

About half way through I paused as a large explosion rocked the bakehouse, flour rose in a cloud around me, ash fell from the chimney flue, baking tins rattled and I coughed. I put the first loaves in the oven, desperate to be sure that some would be baked at least.

I returned to the table, scattered some more flour, braced myself as another explosion came, and considered the other half of the pile of dough. And then I began to work it, the same as the first batch, each portion a prayer. One for each of the invading army, for the families waiting for their return, for their neighbourhoods, their towns and villages. I worked slowly and methodically through the dough, each portion the same as the previous one, for friend and enemy alike.

When the first batch of loaves was ready I retrieved them from the oven and filled it again with the second batch. The golden crisp crusts of the loaves, marked with a cross cut through to the heart of the loaf, ready to feed others. As I had worked the dawn had come unseen by me, sneaking across the sky from the east, from where the explosions still reverberated. I piled the loaves into baskets and waited for the door bell to ring.

Sure enough, within a few minutes there was the sound of feet on the steps and the excited squeal of the bell. I passed the baskets of loaves into the eager hands who ran with them to their cycles and wobbled off down the lanes of the city. My loaves were off to do their day’s work. A crow on the wall eyed me, head on one side and I tossed it an unwanted crust. Pleased with the gift,it soared off to the top of the building opposite to enjoy its reward and keep an eye on the city.

I went back inside and opened the tub of flour. Looking inside to see how much was left, I began to scoop out the flour needed for tomorrow’s loaves; forty litres. I added the yeast, worked it once and left it to rise, certain it would do its unseen work.

Janet Lees: 02.03.2022, in Longdendale.

#PrayforUkraine #PrayingforUkraine #BreadforUkraine #Lent

On Cancelling Christmas

In the style of Charles Causley…..

God in the big blue heaven

Looked on the watery waves,

Lapping around the islands

And said ‘So they think Jesus saves.

I’m putting my trust in Ronaldo,

Even Kane’s more likely to score.

I’ve decided to cancel Christmas,

And not be doing it anymore’.

Firstly, God started with carols

and came up with quite a list

of things not to sing in December,

even if you are pissed.

Some were all high notes and tricky,

like Hark the herald angels don’t sing;

Or shepherds don’t watch their flocks by night;

and more of that kind of thing.

Eventually it came down to the Bible,

‘The virgin shall not bear a son’

It hurt so to cross it out;

it was always God’s favourite one.

That moment in Magnificat splendour

when Mary, so full of grace,

says yes to God’s timeless promise

and all glory lights up her face.

God put down the chunky blue crayon

used to edit the text,

and refused to go any further:

‘They’ll want to cancel Easter next!’

Copyright Janet Lees: October 2021, on hearing a lot of fake news about cancelling Christmas, which will never ever happen.

Charles Causley, Cornish Poet, (1917-2003), was born in Launceston, which I visited on my End to End in April 2019.

Parable of Dives and Lazarus 2021

There were two people living in a certain city. One, having benefited from government contracts and subsidies for a decade, and an agreement to delay repaying a huge VAT bill, he was very rich, owning a yacht, an island and a football club, he planned to become a space tourist and orbit the earth with his rich pals.

The other was a single parent, caring for several children, he had had to leave his job to look after them and was struggling to get enough for them to live on. He would queue at the foodbank, ask at the back doors or cafes and resturants and search the bins in the streets for anything that might do.

Both of these men caught COVID19 and were in hospital.

The poor man was worried about his family and how they would cope with him in hospital. Would the children be taken into care he wondered and it was all he could do to keep breathing.

The rich man was very demanding, wanting the staff to deal with his needs first. He would shout out ‘Nurse, Nurse’ or ‘Doctor, Doctor’ and demand water and care saying how he was suffering and didn’t they know who he was. But his demands didn’t impress the professional staff who continued to care for rich and poor alike. Just before he was placed on a ventilator, he said to the staff, ‘Ask the Chaplain to go to my family home and tell all my relatives to get vaccinated, so they don’t find themselves in here in this situation of torment’.

The Chaplain replied, ‘Your family have government guidelines to follow and the advice of the Cheif Medical Officer. If they will not listen to these modern day prophets they will not listen to me’.

The rich man replied, ‘But that poor man has got better. Send him to speak to them and they will be convinced’.

But the Chaplain said , ‘It’s as if he has come back from the dead, but if they do not listen to any of the usual authorities they will not be convinced even by that’.

Janet Lees, Remembering the Bible in Longdendale: 28.09.2021

Butterfly winter

Now that last summer’s leaves are down,

As I walk through the bracken, brown,

I dream of tortoiseshell and white

That this way nimbly took their flight

And now lie in their winter bed,

Through the frozen months ahead,

To waken when the sap does rise

And launch themselves into the skies.

Janet Lees 17.11.2020 in Longdendale.

Blessed are the anxious

Blessed are the anxious:
their particular Wisdom is to see the stumbling blocks on the way to the kindom.
Blessed are the anxious:
because deep down they know what calm is and seek it hopefully, showing a way to us all.
Blessed are the anxious:
in their awareness of chaos and stress they show a flag to those times and places we all need to attend to.
Blessed are the anxious:
who in showing huge concern for others point us all to needs beyond our own.

May the blessing of God, be on the anxious ones and the calm ones,
for both are treasured by the Creator, accompanied by the Son and called out by the Spirit.
Go in Peace.

Janet Lees 15.11.2o20 in Longdendale.

Autumn Hymn in Longdendale

The beech trees in this season
Each wear a golden gown,
And in the strips of woodland,
Deciduous leaves fall down.
All sorts of berries ripen
And turn a vibrant red
So in the coldest season,
The wayside birds are fed.

Chorus:
With all these things around us
May we learn to share
The good things of Creation
And for our planet, care.

The canopy above us,
The leaves beneath our feet,
The world continues turning,
The patterns still repeat,
But with our climate changing
We haven’t got much time
To change our wasteful ways
And repent of climate crime.

Chorus:
With all these things around us
May we learn to share
The good things of Creation
And for our planet, care.

The swallow have flown southwards,
The geese have come to rest,
By patterns of migration
We all are truly blessed.
But temperatures are rising,
The poorest bear the cost
We must change how we’re living
Or all we know is lost.

Chorus:
With all these things around us
May we learn to share
The good things of Creation
And for our planet, care.

Tune is Wir Pflugen (We plough the fields)

The Wife of Uriah

I was washing myself, like all of our women. No man could stand to have the blood on him, so we washed. No man could stand to have the smell of the blood on him, so we washed. No man could stand to have the thought of the blood on him, so we washed. We washed and washed and washed and it made us pure enough for the man to come back to us again.

Only my husband was not coming back this month,as he was serving with the king’s army. So why wash? We wash anyway. It is a ritual that has completely enveloped us. After the bleeding, wash. I washed as I always did.

The king saw me wash, but I did not know. But he was not stupid. He had known other women. He knew what it meant. It’s a sign that the bleeding is over again and some think that’s a sign of safety for a while. He sent his messengers to take me back to him with them. I said nothing.

Back in my own room I waited. Like all of our women, I count days. The number of days is a key to a woman’s life. We all count them in ways that men do not. When the counting was done I sent my woman as a messenger to the king with my unused rages. I would not need them this month or for several more months. The king was not stupid. He had known other women. He knows about the rags. He questioned my woman about the rags. ‘She does not need the rags this month’. I said nothing.

Uriah came back from the army at the kings request. The king tried to play a game with Uriah. I was part of the game but I never got to play. Uriah didn’t know about the game and so he didn’t know how to play. He ate and talked with the king, he drank his wine. But Uriah did not come to me, even when the king jostled him and nudged and suggested. I said nothing.

Uriah went back to the army and the king sent orders. It was no real surprise to me to learn that Uriah had been killed. If I mourned Uriah it was because I had lost my safety, lost my cover story. I was no longer the wife of Uriah. The king was not stupid. He had plenty of women. He sent for me. The child was born: a boy.

The child died. It was no real surprise to me. Others spoke about it, from prophets to slaves asking why the king did not mourn when the child died. The king was not stupid. He had other sons. I said nothing.

The king came to me again. He had other women but he came to me. He claimed he thought it would comfort me. David was counted a wise king but I know the king is stupid. I said nothing. A child was born: Solomon. Now he would grow to be wise. I said nothing.

Janet Lees: 12.10.2020

Going West Again

Back on the 18th January we walked from Widnes to Halewood on the TPT. The completion of that section, much of it alongside the River Mersey, left only Halewood to Southport on the west end of the trail. We therefore decided to make an excursion over several days to finish off this part of the TPT.

Since completing LEJOG in August 2019 we’ve continued walking. With the TPT going through Longdendale it was the obvious route to use and public transport links to Manchester and beyond made it reasonably straight forward. However we were getting to the point where the journey to and from start and finish was taking almost as long as the walk.
Furthermore we needed to get used to walking more than one day at a time again as we plan more spring and summer walking for 2020.
Day one of this TPT Fest was from Halewood to Aintree. The route mostly follows an old railway line and is known as the Liverpool Loop. It was cool, not busy and getting greener. The good things about a route like TPT is a good consistent surface most of the way and good signage.

Less good is the amount of rubbish that finds its way onto the trail. TPT is fortunate to have volunteer rubbish collectors in places, but it is sad to see it in the first place.
Our overnight accommodation was next to Aintree Racecourse.
Day two was bright and surprisingly warm for February. It was 14 miles to Freshfield Station including a side visit to Formby red squirrel reserve.
But first there was plenty of snowdrops along the Cheshire Lines path and the wonderful sight of a Barn Owl hunting over the fields. There was also a short section on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

On the third day we were walking from Freshfield Station to Southport. The first part of the route was alongside the railway line and then through Ainsdale woods. The morning light meant this section was very beautiful, but we still didn’t see any squirrels, or dune beetles or natterjack toads. Was ever thus.

The final section was along the track beside the coast road. Actually the finishing point came up unexpectedly. It was midday and we were already there. We walked along Southport pier and had some ice cream. Well, it was a walk!

From Psalm 139
If I wake up early and fly with the morning light, even as far as the sea, you will be there to lead me and to hold me.

I am thankful for the beauty of these few days, the rhythm of life as I walk along, as the seasons change.

God grant a quiet night

JAL 06.02.2020 TPT Halewood to Southport.