The squeak of shoes, the tattered, shredded breathing, the sideline encouragement calls. The team operating in concentric thought as we fight for possession, minds focussed, eyes sharply calculating for any opportunity. Turnover. The breath tangles in my lungs, muslces blaze and my heart stumbles in its frantic race to pour oxygen through my veins as I run for the disc, the cut, the score.
Ultimate Frisbee.
Once it's in your life, its very hard to forget how much fun playing Ultimate Frisbee is! Having played at uni and since moving to Bradford I have been trying to re-join a team but not surprisingly its been a little bit difficult due to no club team yet set up in Bradford. However, one of the other interns (Matt) played Ultimate Frisbee at Bradford Uni so when he asked if I wanted to play in a tournament this past weekend I jumped (quite literally, might have actually been bouncing up and down) at the opportunity! Being able to play again was a thrilling, intoxicating, exhilirating pleasure, the culture of an Ultimate tournament unlike any other, regonising old faces from previous uni tournament tours and making new friends an added bonus.
Ultimate Frisbee: The Beautiful Game.
Check this out: www.youtube.com/watch?v=24D8OgbqrV4&feature=related
Wednesday 17 November 2010
Wednesday 10 November 2010
Bradford
The city of Bradford broods like a cold ashy pigeon, nestled in its valley of industrialisation, abandonded buildings fluttering like tattered leaden feathers in the breeze. Soft, muted clouds puff from lonely mills, a faint echo of a once prosperous generation fallen from its grey heights to a desultry jumble of empty buildings and viscous lives.
The desperation seeps through the town in the eyes of jobless fathers, defeated mothers and disheartened children. In the burning darkness of alchol many grope for comfort; in the joyless, empty echo of monetary status many seek valuation; in the wretched need to be seen, heard, felt, loved, others cast their lives away. Where does their help come from?
I lift my eyes to the hills as the wind soars above me, blowing through the frayed rags of Bradford's poverty. In the distance, seen through a haze of filtered, pearly sunshine, the Dales cluster; crisp hills drawn with the fresh, pure light of verdant greens. The purple heather stains the mountains in swathes of mauve, unrolling over the horizon with a timeless, amaranthine beauty that catches at my soul and gives me new breath. As the spirit call to the deep, fathomless Creator, archs out of mortal aches, the Maker of heaven and earth answers with a cross and a church and a people.
With love in one hand and a solution to people's debts in the other, every home CAP enter is a hope piercing the cold darkness, every life reached into with care is a fountain-flame in the bitter battle against poverty.
On Wednesday we took time out of the office and out of work to make Christmas hampers for a few of the Bradford CAP centre's clients. The families in Bradford recieving them will be facing a Christmas of paucity and bleak budgets. Bountiful, pressed down and running over - simple outpourings of love to say that someone cares, that someone loves, that someone has noticed.
"I lift my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth." (Psalm 121 vs 1-2)
Monday 8 November 2010
Monday November Morning Rain
My skylight window greets me on a wet Monday morning in November with the scattered patter of grey rain falling from sodden skies. Occasional leaves flutter forlornly from glistening trees as black branches tangle with soft velvet clouds and the wet tail lights of cars lights the silky dawn.
Walking through the roar of rain spattered traffic, occasional blasts of scowling moor winds fling past us in a flurry of damp, torn leaves as we arrive at work, stung by the sudden cold.
As people drip in to the staff meeting room, a typical Monday morning at CAP begins with worship; putting God first in the week, ready for the days to come, we stand together and sing:
Turning our eyes upon Jesus, looking full in his wonderful face.
The things of earth, (Mondays, November and rain) grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace!
Walking through the roar of rain spattered traffic, occasional blasts of scowling moor winds fling past us in a flurry of damp, torn leaves as we arrive at work, stung by the sudden cold.
As people drip in to the staff meeting room, a typical Monday morning at CAP begins with worship; putting God first in the week, ready for the days to come, we stand together and sing:
Turning our eyes upon Jesus, looking full in his wonderful face.
The things of earth, (Mondays, November and rain) grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace!
Wednesday 3 November 2010
Running the Race
Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure's face,
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
A children's race, young boys, young men; how I remember well,
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn't hard to tell.
They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son,
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.
The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire,
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy's desire.
One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought "My dad will be so proud."
But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,
the little boy who thought he'd win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace,
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn't win it now.
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said, "Get up and win that race!"
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that's all,
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
"I'm hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn't try to race."
But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father's face
with a steady look that said again, "Get up and win that race!"
So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last.
"If I'm to gain those yards," he thought, "I've got to run real fast!"
Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten...
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye.
"There's no sense running anymore! Three strikes I'm out! Why try?
I've lost, so what's the use?" he thought. "I'll live with my disgrace."
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he'd have to face.
"Get up," an echo sounded low, "you haven't lost at all,
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
Get up!" the echo urged him on, "Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!"
So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit,
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn't quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he'd ever been,
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.
Three times he'd fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.
They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place,
head high and proud and happy -- no falling, no disgrace.
But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place,
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he'd won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, "I didn't do so well."
"To me, you won," his father said. "You rose each time you fell."
And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face,
the memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face,
another voice within me says, "Get up and win that race!"
by D. H. Groberg
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
A children's race, young boys, young men; how I remember well,
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn't hard to tell.
They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son,
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.
The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire,
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy's desire.
One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought "My dad will be so proud."
But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,
the little boy who thought he'd win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace,
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn't win it now.
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said, "Get up and win that race!"
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that's all,
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
"I'm hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn't try to race."
But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father's face
with a steady look that said again, "Get up and win that race!"
So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last.
"If I'm to gain those yards," he thought, "I've got to run real fast!"
Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten...
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye.
"There's no sense running anymore! Three strikes I'm out! Why try?
I've lost, so what's the use?" he thought. "I'll live with my disgrace."
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he'd have to face.
"Get up," an echo sounded low, "you haven't lost at all,
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
Get up!" the echo urged him on, "Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!"
So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit,
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn't quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he'd ever been,
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.
Three times he'd fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.
They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place,
head high and proud and happy -- no falling, no disgrace.
But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place,
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he'd won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, "I didn't do so well."
"To me, you won," his father said. "You rose each time you fell."
And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face,
the memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face,
another voice within me says, "Get up and win that race!"
by D. H. Groberg
Monday 1 November 2010
Autumn
As the mists of October draw like a grey, tattered shawl around the shoulders of the cold northern moors, autumn lights the trees of Yorkshire in a blaze of golden yellow, deep russet brown and thick viscous red.
Swirls of bronzed leaves warm the ground like banks of embers, glowing on the scattered pavements; quenched when the clouds break and it rains.
Right now the skylight is latticed with raindrops, a staccato flow above my desk as I call multiple people for their RSVPs, trying to get over 300 people to come to the Client Awards and Fundraising Dinner in London, the dial tone drumming in time with the muted thunder.
Someone answers.
Hello?
Swirls of bronzed leaves warm the ground like banks of embers, glowing on the scattered pavements; quenched when the clouds break and it rains.
Right now the skylight is latticed with raindrops, a staccato flow above my desk as I call multiple people for their RSVPs, trying to get over 300 people to come to the Client Awards and Fundraising Dinner in London, the dial tone drumming in time with the muted thunder.
Someone answers.
Hello?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)