One or many


Last night on the Gold Coast, a 16 year old lost his life to fatal stab wounds.

On the same night, the terror attacks on Paris. Many lives lost and the complete (and certainly justified) outrage and horror that then ensued on social media was inescapable. Meanwhile, a teenage boy is murdered and there is no noise.

The pain of loss knows no circumstances. The loss of one among many or the loss of one only is the same for those who mourn them. Grief, such an intimate and acutely personal reality, is not lessened because of a collective majority. Grief is grief. Loss is loss.

Those who love the 16 year old from the Gold Coast are right now going through the same anguish as those who’ve lost loved ones in Paris.

There’s been such an outpouring of support for France – declarations on social media about not hating Muslims, changing profile pictures to reflect the French flag. What does any of that really do?

It was the same after the Syrian refugee crisis. So much ‘love’ on social media. “We’ll accept them!” was the cry. Yet many in our own countries, cities, suburbs, remained homeless, unfed and unnoticed, despite our fervent proclamations of generosity and goodwill to our fellow man.

Instead of thinking so ‘big’, how about we start thinking ‘small’. Personally, I can do nothing that will actually alleviate the pain of those in France. But I can take flowers round to the elderly lady who recently lost her husband of 60 years and sit and listen to her memories. I can pick up groceries and have a coffee with the friend who’s recovering from a miscarriage. I can listen to the heartache of the loss of a marriage. I can stop and buy a homeless person a meal. I can buy hygiene products for women on the streets. I can support the mother standing by her child in court. I can visit a lonely neighbour. I can do a million and one things right here.

It’s easy to change your profile picture, to write a status update of support. Harder to get our hands dirty, stand alongside people and quite literally feel their pain with them.

It’s time we stopped being conscious of what our online presence looks like and start focussing on the very people we are surrounded by every day. We need to change our thinking, not our profile picture. The pain of that family at the Gold Coast is the same pain felt in France. The distress of the Syrian refugees is the same as the mother in Brisbane with nowhere for her children to sleep at night.

We are capable of so much more than simply showing virtual support. Let’s start showing it.

England and my heart

So I’ve not long returned from three weeks in England. To say it was the trip of a lifetime would not be over stating things. The primary reason for the trip was to see family, which we did. And in the in between times, we saw plenty of the countryside and the many old, old churches, castles (!!!!) and cottages and threw in some touristy stuff for good measure.

If you know me, you’ll know how much I love old things (which is something my parents are always happy to hear me say) and my imagination kicks into overtime and I’m off writing stories in my head as I roam staircases from the middle ages, tread creaky floorboards and gaze from lead light windows at unspoiled vistas and manicured gardens.

And today, as I sit at home going through all the photos, I am hit with the most exquisite pain of wishing I was in two places at once. We’ve all felt this before, of course, but for me this is the first time it is so acute that it’s almost a physical feeling. And it isn’t just that I met cousins I’d never met and felt an instant affinity with (more on that in a future post!), it was something about the country. The stinging wind on my cheeks, the red leaves of autumn against the muted sky, the crunch of leaves under my boots, the sheer history of nearly everything I laid eyes on – I loved it all. There was a connection that I can’t explain but it is real and it runs deep.

So here’s a little visual sample of some of my memories. I hope you enjoy them 🙂