Kev, Almost Christmas

Kev turns up

on Minster Mondays

Leeds Minster,

cold already by mid-afternoon.

We gather from two till four.

Games at tables,

dice clatter,

jokes land,

custard creams and aldi knock off penguins.

For a moment

his hands remember play,

how not to brace.

Then we gather for worship.

The light thins fast this time of year.

We light candles

and move through the Minster,

past life-sized shepherds,

Mary mid-breath,

Joseph unsure where to stand.

Between them,

we make space for ourselves.

He’s been coming to Horsforth Shed.

Wood dust on his sleeves.

A shelf not yet square.

Edges offered up,

taken back,

worked again.

Keeping busy,

because stillness

is where the noise learns his name.

Housing says

he’s not a priority.

So we book a cheap hotel

carpet stiff with old drink,

a light that never quite turns off.

We hand him

Pot Noodles

chicken and mushroom.

The ones with the soy sauce sachet.

Hot water.

Something the body won’t refuse.

Each day

we check in.

Each day

he’s still there.

Still choosing.

Still counting.

Still with us.

At the nativity

he dresses as a wise man

borrowed robe,

crooked crown.

Holds his gift carefully,

like someone who knows

how easily things are lost.

We sing carols.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

O come, O come…

the weary world rejoices

or leans toward it,

for a breath.

When Kev prays

he doesn’t explain himself.

No promises.

No deals.

Tears stay where they fall.

An image bearer

not fixed,

not safe,

but still addressed.

Still called.

Faith isn’t tidy here.

It doesn’t cure.

It stays.

Then

the last Minster Monday

before Christmas

he knows.

Rehab.

A bed is waiting.

Those in recovery move first.

Chairs scrape.

Peter.

Chris.

Shell.

Benny.

Hands already reaching.

They pray short.

They pray true.

Keep him.

Strength for tonight.

Quiet the pull.

Room for tomorrow.

Wounded healers.

Volunteers now.

Peddling hope.

Handing round grace.

No angels.

Just breath and weight and tears.

Just a room full of people

who know what it costs

to keep choosing.

Hope doesn’t arrive singing.

It steps in quietly,

like a child laid down

where room has been cleared,

but never guaranteed.

Not a finish line.

A doorway.

A small mercy.

Somewhere among the candles

a draft moves through the Minster.

Flames lean, then steady.

Nothing spectacular.

Nothing explained.

Just enough light

to see each other’s faces.

Just enough warmth

to stay.

And in the half-dark,

almost unspoken

peace on earth.

Not whole.

Not certain.

But, tonight,

not impossible.

Rev’d Jon Swales, Advent