On messiness and incarnation

The first Christmas was really quite messy. I’ve been thinking a lot about that this week.

The incarnation – God showing up in flesh – is a messy way to kick off a saving mission. Surely he could have just done it with a trumpet and an angel or somesuch.

But there he was – showing up in flesh. As a baby. In a barn. Messy!

One of the names the prophet Isaiah gives Jesus is exactly this – “Emmanuel”, “God with us”.

Because true love is incarnational – it involves showing up in the flesh.

That God-showing-up-with-us-on-the-first-Christmas was messy. But showing up in flesh often is!

And in the same way he showed up in flesh for us, so we are called to do the same for others… In all of its glorious messiness.

All of that to say: My prayer for you this year is that your Christmas is messy.

On Decades…

Ten years ago today, Mrs Hills and I left Australia. It was the kind of move you can only really make once, given the recklessness of it – quit your jobs, sell your stuff, buy one way ticket, and jump, unemployed, into the great unknown.

And what a ride it’s been. We’ve lived in the UK, UAE, and even Jordan for a bit. We managed to bring two happy boys into the world! One with a confused hybrid accent and one who is still testing out syllables. Both are true delights.

We kept moving forward, even when the map was blank, and even when it warned us that “here be dragons” (there were, indeed, sometimes dragons. Most were slain; we reached an uneasy truce with others).

The seasons change and so have we – a desire for flexibility has given way to the joy of domestic rhythms; the joy of the quick-turn problem-solve has given way to longer horizons. We’ve learned the value of showing up – and being showed up for.

There have been good years and objectively rubbish years, along with years of plenty and years of scarce, supplemented by times of mourning and times of dancing (the dancing was not me).

In all, there has been “a time for everything”, as ancient wisdom puts it.

What of the next ten? Who knows! Lots of love, books, hugs and hopefully marginally less dancing (or, at the very least, less Chicken Banana)

Remembering My Grandad

My grandad would have been 86 today. He was truly a great man. Here is a little message I wrote to be read at his funeral back in 2021.

Personal Reflection – James – February 2021

Because he was such a magical man to all who met him, it is difficult to put into words the many ways in which Grandad was special to me.

We grandkids used to say that grandad was a Very. Busy. Man. Even after retirement, he was always up to something… whether he was working with other seniors to help them learn computers, building something in the garage, or caring for Nana… he was always BUSY… but all that ‘busy-ness’ belied something very meaningful.

And it is in that ‘busy-ness’ that Grandad showed his amazing example of what it meant to be a good man. And he showed it to everyone. He was always teaching, even if it wasn’t in words – whether that “all work is honourable”, that you cannot comment on other people’s toilet noises, that you should work hard, or what the true meaning of the “for better or worse” vow means.

He was an amazing example to all, but to me, grandad was so much more. And the five grandchildren were extremely lucky to have had him. Every day in our lives, we knew that grandad loved us all unconditionally. Some of my earliest memories are sitting around the dining table at Orchard St for Sunday lunch, him throwing off his Britishness to be goofy and make us laugh. As I got older, he imparted his love for technology, for gardening and for JRR Tolkien.

He was also incredibly kind and thoughtful. The last time we saw grandad, he made a show of taking Bec by the hands and giving a short speech about how he loved her, welcomed her to the family and considered her a daughter. I know he would have done the same for our little boy in a few weeks.

There really aren’t any words that can truly explain what Grandad meant to me.

I miss you, Grandad. You leave an unfillable, eccentric-man-sized-hole in my life.

We will see you again, and we will talk about the madness of life once more.

Until then, in the words of our friend Mr Tolkien: “I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”

On valuing fatherhood

As life trundles on, fewer things irritate me. Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff.

But there are two words that absolutely make my blood boil: “Daddy daycare”.

My gosh.

I shouldn’t need to say it, but me spending time with my kid is not daycare. It’s parenting.

The 90s sitcom stereotype of the hapless, only-vaguely present father did a lot of damage to fatherhood. The narrative undermines the critical role each of us plays.

Bec and I might be better at different parts of this weird and wonderful parenting journey, but… spending time with my son is literally the least I can do to be a decent parent!

Doesn’t matter if I’m his Dad or his Mum… It’s not daycare. It’s parenting.

Some of the great dads I know, like my friend Pete, or the inimitable Bandit Heeler (iykyk) are good dads because they’re simply present. They go to the park (when they’d rather be sleeping), play a stupid made up game (when Netflix is preferable) an they’re there to listen (even when wrung out).

My son needs me to play with him, cook for him, clean up his stuff. And I’ll happily do it.

But lets not call it daycare. It’s parenting.

Furthermore, #CocomelonDelendaEst

On ice cream as a respite to a busy world

Our family is fond of telling a story of the time we ran into my grandfather at a supermarket car park when my siblings and I were much younger.

My grandfather – a man of high standing in the community, of amazing virtue, and of deep wisdom – was loitering near the indoor car park entrance, eating an ice cream, while waiting for my grandmother.

When he saw us, he looked slightly guilty and awkwardly asked us not to tell our grandmother that he was eating ice cream. By any stretch, it was a comical moment.

Predictably, once we got to the top of the stairs, we ran into my grandmother. Immediately, my brother, all of 5 or 6 at the time, told my grandmother that our grandfather was downstairs eating an ice cream.

For many years, the funny part of this story was that my brother ratted out my grandfather nearly immediately. That remains funny.

But as I’ve got older, and time has passed, the story has taken on other dimensions, at least to me.

The story now reminds me that my grandfather who was (and is), in many ways, super-human, was also human. And the human simply wanted a quiet moment with a simple pleasure.

The story now reminds me that, in lives devoted to finding meaning and giving it to others, sometimes we need these moments of banality.

The story now reminds me that sometimes we need to eat our ice cream as a quiet respite to a busy world.

And the story now reminds me that sometimes we need to be caught, to the delight of our grandchildren, doing something slightly naughty.

I wonder what else this story will remind me of in another 20 years.