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)