Image by Bianca from Pixabay

Some people yearn for a glimpse of the sea.… its shimmering expanse opening up as they travel along a coastal road on a summer’s day. They taste it long before they touch it. The sight of the sea can thrill or calm, excite or pacify, threaten or invite. Such is its pull; drawing a person closer one moment, sending them running backwards another. At times, its power is too alarming and we retreat behind its defences where we are forced to watch and wait for calmer days. For all its drama, rarely does anyone tire of the sea or wish they had not experienced it. 

I yearn more for a lake than I do the sea. Drawn by the instantaneous peace I experience when nearing the gently contoured edges. I am calmed by the stillness of the water, occasionally disturbed by a surfacing carp or foraging moorhen. Dragonflies dancing across its surface, quickstepping back and forth, their tiny wings catching hold of the early morning sunlight. Today, I am captivated not by dragonflies but by an altogether more solitary beast. I am sat on a wooden bench in the shadows of the surrounding trees that bow in reverence towards this small fishing lake. Here, I find myself restored; not by peace, but by struggle.

A Heron, who naturally lays greater claim on this lake than I do, has patiently been standing sentry, some thirty metres away from me, for what feels like an eternity. A backdrop of biblical bulrushes and reeds afford it some cover as it waits. And waits.

I urge Heron to get on with it and be off with its meal so I can read my book. I came here early, before anyone else was up. It’s my only opportunity of the day to read without interruption, but I cannot take my eyes off this lone fisherman. The book remains unopened in my lap.

Heron takes no notice of my whispered exhortations and never once drops its guard. Breakfast; the most important meal of the day around these parts, remains its resolve. Finally, Heron’s patience is rewarded and breakfast is served. Heron darts forward with speed and precision. Denying its own smoky-grey awkward frame, Heron emphatically takes its prize.

Heron’s prize, a small Carp, has other ideas, and is in no mood to be on today’s menu at the Lakeside Brasserie. Carp contorts and twists violently, fighting for its life and putting up an immense struggle of its own.  So much so, I’m conflicted by who I want to triumph. In this magnificently terrifying moment, both need the win, though skipping breakfast is ultimately preferable to losing one’s life. Heron may disagree and assert that these things are not mutually exclusive. Heron has no need to explain this to me of course. Heron needs only to win.

After an age that in reality lasted seconds, Carp seizes victory from the jaws of defeat and leaps free of Heron. Miraculously, Carp lives to swim another day. Heron appears somewhat off its game, a little weary, perhaps. I’m definitely with Heron now. Moments later, Heron takes flight. Defeated, yet never looking back at what might have been. Leaving only a few ripples in the lake behind it; fading evidence that there had ever been a struggle at all.

I am in awe that such harshness exists alongside such beauty. And I am especially in awe of how Heron deals so graciously with this disappointment and loss.

For our family, it’s been a summer marked by disappointment and loss. Downright joy has, at times, caved in to downright fed-up or even downright sad. The unexpected death and loss of a cherished family member, as well as other un-foreseen losses and discouragements along the way has meant that this summer has felt particularly harsh.

It has become all too easy in the midst of troubles to lose sight of the good and the glorious this summer; the kindnesses of others, a brilliant family wedding, this precious holiday, a trip to the circus, coffee and cake with friends, music, laughter……

And, as always, the grief and frustrations have related to events that my daughter, Hazel, who has Down’s syndrome and Autism, simply does not and will likely never understand.

The troubles of this world, for the most part, do not trouble her.

And this is, unquestionably, her gift to us.

Her laughter will often erupt at the most inopportune moment, leaving melancholy no choice but to scoot over and make room for joy.

Her joy.

Her joy becomes our joy.

Her care free heart is free to care and it cares, so often, for us.

Struggles are real, loss can be deeply painful and disappointment may crush, but joy is still to be found and welcomed alongside them all. My favourite poet, Mary Oliver, wrote about this juxtaposition in ‘Heavy’, her extraordinary poem on grief. If you love poetry or are grieving for someone then do read it, if you wish.

But even more precious to me are some words from the Bible that I have found to be true. These words say that God is ‘the Lifter of my head’.

And I often think he uses Hazel to lift it.

A further note to the reader:

After carefully crafting these sombre reflections, I discover from speaking with the owners of the lake in question that (to my initial dismay) ‘Heron’ is in fact, known locally, as ‘Brian.’

Thanks for the laughs, Brian.

Life is hilarious too.

I hope you managed to grab some lunch.