A group of elderly ladies (and yes, they would all have preferred to be called ladies) from the church had spent an entire day scrubbing what is today our bedroom. That was the only room clean enough for us to live in.
Deborah's Dad, Darrell, had installed the central heating. The only problem was that the broken and rotten windows had not been replaced.
Of course, today, our TV screens are full of foolish people embarking upon renovation projects. In 1993, though, it felt bold and unusual to take on a house which had not only been repossessed, but which had seen a variety of squatters and vandals tearing the life out of it.
Together with Tim and Caroline Clay, we moved to Openshaw believing that God loved Openshaw and determined to demonstrate this by breathing new life into this house.
It all sounds rather naive today.
Except that we still believe that it is true.
Of course, in the process, we have gained a beautiful home which I still believe will, one day, be finished! To be fair, we celebrated completing the renovation some years ago when, after about 16 years, Deborah finally had a wardrobe in which to hang her clothes. I have spent my spare time this month scraping paint off the shower room ceiling, cursing the idiot who used flexible ceiling paint—before realising that it was actually me who used it to cover up the poorly removed Artex which I scraped off all those years ago. The ongoing project now is to convert the cellar into a pottery/ art studio.
The plot of land which I reported last year that we were negotiating to purchase remains derelict. So does the site of the old church building on Mersey Street. Not only have we gained a large sum of money in compensation for that land, but it seems that Manchester City Council does not want the money we have offered for a suitable piece of land. It is two and a half years since they accepted our offer and we signed heads of terms, but still they seem incapable of moving to a legal contract which would enable us to begin developing the project.
Still we love this community.
Still we believe we are called to serve this community.
In Baptist circles we do not have—or believe in—Bishops. The rebel in me likes to think of the Regional Ministers role as being the "Anti-Bishop," but still, it is the closest equivalent we have.
As part of the appointment process, I was asked to do a presentation. Having worked in the public sector for so long, you won't be surprised to learn that I have a horror of "death by PowerPoint" presentations in which the presenter reads from the screen a series of bullet points which you could just as easily have read yourself. [As an aside, I was lucky enough to sit through just such a PowerPoint last week during which the presenter, who had clearly not read the slides in advance, on two occasions skipped through a slide saying, 'I don't know what this slide is about,' before finally showing us a slide which contained so many words that even she could not read it, stating, 'I know you can't read this slide, but I'm going to read through it anyway.']
I decided, therefore, to read what I called a poemprayer outlining my vision for the role. If you are interested, you can read it by clicking here.
So, does this mean that we have finally given up on the transformation of Openshaw? More to the point, does it mean that God has finally given up on the transformation of Openshaw? Clearly, the answer to the second questions is, 'no.' So the answer to the first question is a resounding no as well. We have no intention of leaving Openshaw, or of giving up on our tiny church. Although I will technically no longer be the minister of Openshaw Baptist Tabernacle, I will be staying on as Team Leader of Urban Expression, Openshaw.
Sadly though, SureStart has now been decimated by the cuts so the future of these project is constantly under review. Nevertheless, we are hoping to employ a coordinator next year to develop them.
Another personal highlight was the discovery that there is a proper academic-sounding word to describe the kind of writing that Clare and I have been doing for years: theopoesis. Put simply, this is the belief that poetry is the natural language with which to discuss theology. In prose we make dogmatic statements. In poetry, we use image and metaphor to describe that which lies beyond description. I have done quite a lot of work this year to update Dancing Scarecrow which showcases our poems and prayers.
Of course, I am probably the least creative of the Presswood family. Following last year's triumph as a rat in the Royal Exchange Theatre's performance of Rats' Tales Beth/ Lizzie/ Elizabeth (her name varies according to who you are) is now working towards her Grade 5 ballet, acting in the school play and has now taken up the flute.
Meanwhile Deborah has taken up the piano. Just three years after leaving several pianos in the old church building to be demolished (they were unsaleable), it was Christmas Eve that we took delivery of the piano which now has its rightful place in our front room. Most days you can discern A Hard Day's Night or The Laughing Polka wafting its way up the stairs.
I think it is fair to say, though, that what Deborah really wants is for me to get the cellar finished so she throw herself wholeheartedly into her ceramics. Which brings us full circle in what has been a strangely reflective rant this year.
Don't worry, though, the anger is still there. Every time I walk past that piece of derelict land which we have so singularly failed to buy I am reminded of how much we have to be angry about...
Have a creative, and angry, Christmas and New Year!
