The fire that changed the weather

Homeless and hungry, exhausted and terrified, possessions gone, families separated, violent mobs in the street, the people of London are still in the first 24 hours of the Great Fire raging through their city. Heat burns their faces. Thick smoke makes breathing difficult. Homes are now only a red hot bonfire of roofs, rafters, walls and furniture. Even the pavement on which people walk gives off an intense heat. They’ve heard preachers talk of an end-times lake of fire, and their city is now very like that.

It is Sunday, September 2nd, 1666. At 1.00 am a spark sputtered out from a not-fully-extinguished oven in Thomas Farriner’s bakehouse. Quickly fire spread up the walls to the living quarters on upper storeys. Farriner and his family escaped, but the fire spread to adjacent houses and businesses. A strong east to west wind fanned the flames. The primitive tools used for firefighting were hopelessly inadequate. By midday many streets in the old city were alight.

This is part two of the story of the Great Fire of London. If you haven’t read the beginnings of the fire, you can find my account here: https://occasionallywise.com/2023/01/28/great-fire-of-london-1/. The blaze lasted from early Sunday to late Wednesday (with small outbreaks even later), so is usually described as burning for four days. But even before day one ended it ranked as ‘already the most damaging fire to strike London in living memory’.[1]

In this part of the story – covering the later part of Sunday and most of Monday – we’ll see these things:

  • The fire’s intensity becomes so strong, it even changes the weather over London
  • Desperate people flee their homes with whatever they can carry or cart away
  • When civic leadership fails, the King and his brother organise firefighting
  • Vigilantes roam the streets attacking anyone they think responsible for the fire.

The fire intensifies

In 1666 the oldest part of London lies north of the River Thames, surrounded by a two mile long wall built by an invading Roman army between 190 and 225 AD. Only the south has no wall. It never needed one because that approach to the city was protected by the river.

The ‘footprint’ inside the wall is not large – even today it’s referred to as the ‘Square Mile’. But tens of thousands are crammed into that tight space. Recent weather has been dry and warm, making thatch on roofs and wooden walls perfect fuel for the fire. Once alight it spreads quickly because neighbouring properties virtually touch each other, even across the street. Early attempts to create firebreaks fail.

During the first night the fire which started in one bakery and home in Pudding Lane is engulfing hundreds of homes. The strong wind fans the flames. Some householders run to the Thames for water, but their buckets carry very little and the water has no effect on so great a fire.

Those in homes still unaffected are too frightened to sleep. All they can do is hope that this fire, like others before, will burn itself out before it reaches them. But this fire won’t burn out and can’t be halted. The wind from the east is no mere breeze – some call it a gale – and it fans the flames and scatters embers. Then someone in the street screams: ‘The fire is here! Run!’ People seize whatever they can carry, including their children, and, braving the wall of heat moving towards them, make their escape.

Many head for the nearby Thames. If they can, they climb onto boats. If no boat is available, they throw their furniture and possessions into the water. Brave (or foolish) souls plunge in too hoping to drag their goods downstream and bring them ashore somewhere safe. Others clamber down steps to the water’s edge. If the flames come close, they move sideways to other steps to get as far from the fire as they can.

In the streets people press against each other. Those escaping push one way; those still trying to fight the fire push the other way. There is screaming, crying, shouting, praying. Driven by the wind, the fire moves steadily west. It’s not just homes that burst into flame, but halls and churches too. Pepys, who kept a diary record of the Great Fire, writes of ‘a most horrid malicious bloody flame’ reaching more than a mile across the city. He adds: ‘It made me weep to see it’.

Pepys’ ‘malicious flame’ has become a firestorm which affects the weather. To understand, picture an ordinary household fire. It sucks in air, which accelerates burning, then pushes hot air up its chimney. The Great Fire did the same but on a massive scale. Needing oxygen, the fire sucked in air at near gale force through the narrow spaces between overhanging buildings. The flames got their fuel, and hot, fiery air was pushed upwards to a great height. At ground level and above, the heat is so intense no-one can get near. Breathing becomes impossible, and the force of the wind irresistible. Fire is consuming the city from ground level to high in the air. And no-one can stop it.

The fire moves outward to the west, north and south. The Church of St Magnus the Martyr is destroyed. Eventually 83 more churches will burn. Barrels of tar in a supply store explode, and flaming debris is scattered, lighting more fires. Near the Thames guildhalls and warehouses fall prey to the flames. So do homes built on London Bridge, though the fire on the bridge is halted because there’s a gap between buildings. A 1633 fire destroyed tenements on the bridge, and they have never been replaced.

The hatched pink area shows the extent of the fire at end of day one. Pudding Lane, where it began, is marked with a green arrow. The right to left drift of flames is caused by the strong east to west wind.
© Bunchofgrapes and Tom Fish // Creative Commons CC BY-SA 3.0

Residents become refugees

There is no darkness over London as Sunday moves into Monday. The fire never sleeps. Nor do many Londoners. Hundreds of homes are gone, and their occupants search for somewhere to be safe. Where people live some distance from the fire, the few who sleep restlessly in their beds don’t realise the severity of this blaze, hoping it will yet be extinguished. Their optimism or naivety will not last long.

On Monday the winds become stronger and the fire worse. Many now realise they can’t fight a fire so intense and spreading so fast. To survive, they must flee.

But the affluent will not run until they’ve done everything they can to protect their wealth. Bankers cart away stacks of gold coins before they melt. Other wealthy citizens bury or hide valuables they can’t carry. Samuel Pepys records that he buried his expensive cheeses and wine. What he could not bury he hauled off. Referring to the second night of the fire, Pepys writes: ‘About four o’clock in the morning, my Lady Batten sent me a cart to carry away all my money, and plate, and best things… Which I did riding myself in my night-gowne in the cart.’ We might smile about an important dignitary escaping in his night attire, but Pepys’ flight says much about the haste and terror of that night.

During Monday despair grips almost everyone. They watch as the Royal Exchange (a stock exchange and shopping centre) is engulfed, along with ‘upmarket’ shops in Cheapside. John Evelyn – a courtier and diarist – describes the mood of the crowds:

‘The conflagration was so universal, and the people so astonished, that … I know not by what despondency or fate, they hardly stirred to quench it, so that there was nothing heard or seen but crying out and lamentation, running about like distracted creatures… such a strange consternation there was upon them.’

But now people realise they are trapped inside the city’s ancient walls while an inferno moves steadily towards them. There are gates in those walls, eight of them. The names of some are still recognised today, such as Ludgate, Moorgate, Bishopsgate, Aldgate. But the gates are narrow. In Roman times, entrances were deliberately small so invading hordes could not rush in and overwhelm the city. Now, some 1400 years later, those narrow gates prevent evacuees rushing out of the city. Even worse, while many are desperate to exit, others are entering. People who had left earlier are returning with their carts to move away even more of their possessions. Some make those journeys four or five times. Inside the walls, with the fire near, and getting nearer, there is desperation, anger, and panic. Carts, wagons, horses and people jostle together.

Those already outside the walls are relatively safe, at least for now. But there’s no rescue organisation, nothing and no-one to tell people where to go, what to do, or to provide food and shelter. The Thames is covered with barges and boats, most piled high with goods. To the north and east, the fields are strewn with people and their possessions. They huddle under improvised tents. ‘Oh, the miserable and calamitous spectacle!’ Evelyn writes.

Royal leaders take charge

The Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas Bloodworth, has given up. Realising he should have acted sooner, and having no idea during Monday how to stop the immense blaze, he has literally walked away, not to be seen again while the Great Fire rages.

Bloodworth had refused any orders or assistance from King Charles II. But now Bloodworth is gone, and from his royal barge the King surveys the fire from the River Thames. He is shocked by the extent of the fire and outraged to see that houses are still not being demolished to create firebreaks. London is not ruled by the monarch, but Charles acts anyway. Powered by the wind, the fire is spreading west fast, and he orders his own troops to tear down large numbers of homes on that side of the fire.

But the sad reality is that demolition can no longer stop the fire. Lifted high in the air, embers are carried over any gap, and they light the thatch and then the houses across the firebreak.

However, the King’s intervention is the beginning of organised attempts to confront the blaze. Assuming overall control, Charles gives his brother James, the Duke of York, authority for all firefighting operations. James is already known to the people for his courage in battle against the Dutch. He’s bold, and perhaps impulsive. Certainly no enemy frightens him. That includes this Great Fire. He immediately sets up command posts around the fire’s perimeter. James uses the palace’s courtiers, people who are companions and advisers to the King. Three are in charge of each command post. Teams of firefighters are organised, supported by 30 soldiers stationed at each post. Significantly, the courtiers have the King’s authority to do anything necessary to stop the fire. There will be no hesitation now about pulling down houses. Whatever has to be done will be done.

During that Monday, and on subsequent days, both Charles II and the Duke of York actively survey the fire and direct operations. The palace is outside the city walls, but they are seen near where the fire rages. A report in the following week’s London Gazette notes their ‘indefatigable and personal pains to apply all possible remedies to prevent (the fire’s spread), calling upon and helping the people with their Guards’. The newspaper may have intentionally flattered the royals, but it’s true that their presence among and support of the people is noticed and appreciated.

Yet, despite the organisation and everything the courtiers do, the fire spreads. Every time they tear down houses, the fire leaps across the gap, rushing west to consume ever more homes. People living 30 miles away can now see light from the Great Fire. More and more citizens flee, either to the Thames or by forcing their way through increasing chaos at the city gates to camp in the fields beyond.

And now another deadly danger is spreading in the city.

Mob violence

Rumours spread that the fire is no accident. The baker, Thomas Farriner, insists nothing was alight in his ovens when he went to bed. He didn’t cause the fire. Others point out that new fires are breaking out at some distance from the main blaze. And, despite the noise of the fire, people hear loud explosions. Houses and warehouses are blowing up, surely caused by incendiary bombs. And there’s a common view that no accident has ever caused, nor could cause, a fire so great as this. London must be under attack.

There is little doubt in most minds that either the Dutch Republic or France is to blame. Perhaps both are. There have been outbreaks of fighting with these nations just across the sea from England. Just two weeks earlier, English sailors pursued the Dutch merchant fleet to the port of West-Terschelling, destroying 150 vessels, burning the city to the ground, and killing many of its people. It seems very possible that Dutch agents are now taking revenge by planting fire bombs in London.

Relations are also bad with France, fed by a strong anti-Catholic bias. In the popular mind, no Catholic is to be trusted. Londoners are very aware of the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605, when Guy Fawkes was one of 13 Catholic conspirators who filled a basement of Parliament with gunpowder, intending to blow up the King and the House of Lords.[2] Thus, in the minds of panicking Londoners in 1666, to be foreign or Catholic makes you a suspect.

The facts, of course, are these: Flames spreading far and wide are caused by a strong wind scattering sparks hundreds of yards. There is no surprise that homes remote from the main fire were set alight. And the explosions? There is no mystery about them either. Many homes and warehouses stored gunpowder. When fire reached them they blew up.

But those explanations are not enough for violent mobs in London’s streets. Fire has destroyed their homes. They must find the culprits who set them alight, and stop them starting even more fires. The mood – the blind passion – is revenge.

In a large cosmopolitan city, the mobs are not short of suspects to attack. A Dutch baker is dragged from his business before a gang tear his premises apart. A Frenchman walking down the street is struck violently with an iron bar. A French woman is carrying chicks in her apron but a crowd thinks she’s holding incendiary bombs and cut off her breasts. Another Frenchman is almost dismembered because he’s seen carrying a box of fireballs, but in fact his ‘bombs’ are only tennis balls.[3]

James, the Duke of York, has had to leave fire-fighting to counter acts of violence against innocent people. Accompanied by cavalry, he rides his horse around the streets. He’s blackened with soot, but constantly alert. In a small alley he sees men crowding in a shop doorway. Perhaps they’re stealing. James springs into action. The space is too narrow for a full-on mounted charge, so James leaps from his horse, draws his sword and runs straight for the mob. The men look up, recognise the Duke of York with sword drawn and his guards behind him, and immediately run in the other direction. James stops beside a bundle of clothing the men have dropped. Then the bundle moves, and James realises someone is wrapped inside. He kneels, and uncovers a man badly wounded and terrified. With difficulty the victim speaks. He’s French. And around his neck is a noose. Its other end is already hanging from a sign above the shop doorway. Had James arrived even a minute later, the Frenchman would have been dead.[4]

The mob have decided that foreign agents have started and are now spreading the fire. Their suspicion is that setting London alight is the ‘softening up’ preliminary to a full-blown invasion. There is nothing to counter the rumours, no broadcast media, no social media, not even a newspaper since the office of The London Gazette has burned down. The mood to stop terrorists and wreak vengeance for what is happening has gripped many Londoners. ‘The need to blame somebody was very, very strong,’ says one writer.[5]

The worst atrocity never happened during the Great Fire. It came later, as we shall see in another episode.

Late on Monday the fire threatens Baynard’s Castle. It is a mediaeval palace, situated on the Thames riverbank. It was first built in the 11th century, and rebuilt and greatly enlarged by King Henry VII in 1501. It has several towers, and massive thick stone walls. Such a building is indestructible. But it’s not, not when the Great Fire reaches it. The castle catches fire on Monday night, and the blaze rages through every part of the building until daybreak. It is utterly ruined.[6] If this can happen to one of London’s strongest structures, nothing is safe.

In the right centre of the drawing is Baynards Castle. From Wellcome Images, operated by the Wellcome Trust.  Wellcome L0006919.jpg CC BY 4.0

So, as we pause the story here, what can we learn from these events? There is only one lesson I want to highlight at this point.

The greatest failure of leadership is no leadership

Some years ago I studied management. One strongly worded statement I read is this: that often the worst decision a leader can make is to make no decision at all. Lord Mayor Bloodworth was woefully guilty of that. When the fire was small, and the firefighters needed strategy and resources, he abandoned them and went back to his bed. Later, when it was evident the fire was out of control, he disappeared from public view. He deserted. At the most crucial time he left the city with no leadership.

Until, that is, the King appointed his brother James to head up operations. James provided leadership, and did so with vigour and with organisation. If his efforts were not enough, that was only because nothing he and his teams could do would ever have been enough. But at least the people knew they weren’t abandoned and all that could be done was being done.

Now Londoners are realising that this Great Fire cannot be extinguished. As we shall see in the next episode, tragically the worst is yet to come.

My major online resources for this series on the Great Fire are listed at the foot of the first episode. See https://occasionallywise.com/2023/01/28/great-fire-of-london-1/

[1] Field, J. (2017) London, Londoners and the Great Fire of 1666: Disaster and Recovery. London, Routledge.

[2] Guy Fawkes was English and Catholic, born in York. When the plot against the King failed, he was arrested and sentenced to death by being hung, drawn and quartered. However, some think he jumped when hanged, causing the noose to break his neck, so avoiding the torture that would have followed a partial hanging. Marking the failure of the Gunpowder Plot with a bonfire and fireworks dates from the 1650s with an effigy laid on the fire from the 1670s. For many years the effigy was usually of the Pope. In modern times the effigy has been of Guy Fawkes. In the UK, large bonfires are lit and fireworks launched every 5th November, marking the date in 1605 when the conspirators intended to blow up Parliament.

[3] These details from the Smithsonian Magazine: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/great-fire-london-was-blamed-religious-terrorism-180960332/

[4] Another version of this account suggests the man was Swedish. Whether French or Swedish, the account illustrates the violence wreaked on all foreigners.

[5] Adrian Tinniswood in By Permission of Heaven: The Story of the Great Fire.

[6] Baynard’s Castle was never fully rebuilt, and over the centuries the site was used for various purposes. In the 1970s a concrete office block named Baynard House was built there and occupied by the telecom company BT.

One spark, and fire consumes a city

Just one spark. Probably the embers in the baker’s oven aren’t fully extinguished, the spark sets fire to nearby kindling material, and flames spread to wooden furniture and walls. Within minutes the whole ground floor is alight.

It’s 1.00 am and upstairs from the bakery Thomas Farriner is sound asleep. Thankfully his son is not. He smells smoke, and runs to wake his father. For a moment Farriner is disoriented. He cannot understand what his son his saying. Then he too smells the smoke. He leaps from his bed and runs downstairs, but is met by a wall of smoke and flame. There is nothing he can do to halt the fire. The house has two storeys above the ground-level bakery. Farriner’s wife Hanna died in 1665, and his daughter Mary is married. But his other two children, Thomas and Hanna, are in the house. He gathers them and the maidservant. Their only hope is to go up.

It’s September 2nd, 1666, the bakery is in Pudding Lane, and the blaze there is the beginning of the Great Fire of London.

Farriner’s house – as almost every home in mediaeval London – is made entirely of wood. The late summer has been warm with no rain. The dried out wood is perfect fuel for the fire which is spreading fast. If the family don’t escape quickly, they’ll die when the flames reach them or the house collapses.

Farriner forces open an attic window. He climbs out onto the thatched roof, reaches back and pulls his children after him. He crawls to the edge of the roof, but he’s now in great danger of falling to his death on the street below. At upper levels, houses in Pudding Lane extend over the street, almost touching the houses opposite. Farriner can reach across to the butcher’s home across the street, gets his attention, and with his help Farriner and his children clamber over to safety. But not their maid. She’s still in the attic, terrified by the fire below yet too frightened of falling to climb out the window. Farriner’s maid is the first to die in the Great Fire.

This is part one of a multi-episode account of the Great Fire of London. We’ll see why fire in one house spread quickly to others, why fire-fighting attempts proved futile, how city leaders failed, and later how prejudice led to severe violence against immigrant Londoners, why the fire finally stopped, and how the building of a new London began. And much more.

Before picking up the story of the fire again, there are six background facts worth knowing in order to understand why and how events unfolded as they did.

First, London was a very large city. The population in the 1660s is estimated between 350,000 and 500,000. That’s immense for its time, around ten to fifteen times the size of other British cities. It made London likely the largest city in Europe and the third largest in the western world. Behind the old Roman walls, in the mediaeval city, a huge population lived in overcrowded streets, their houses virtually touching each other. A ring of suburbs surrounded the old city, including the independent City of Westminster.[1] A fire could spread easily and widely.

London as it was drawn by Claes Visscher in 1616. The old St Paul’s Cathedral is left of centre. London Bridge over the River Thames is in the lower right. The bridge is covered in tenement housing, much of which was destroyed in a 1633 fire. The only reason the 1666 fire did not cross the bridge was because that housing had not been rebuilt.

Second, because homes were made of wood, thatch, and doused in flammable pitch, they could catch fire easily and be completely consumed by flames within minutes. Many also stored highly flammable hay and straw. And the ‘jetties’ – the overhanging upper storeys – meant fire in one easily spread to others. But the houses were built like that because wood was a relatively cheap building material, and tax was paid only on the ground level footprint of a home, not its overall size. Officially that kind of structure was banned, but the law was not enforced by local officials, so oversized wooden homes continued to be built.

Third, fire-fighting methods were primitive by modern standards. There were essentially two techniques.

  • The first was water. There was plenty of water since the River Thames was close to Pudding Lane, but the ordinary citizens had only leather buckets which held little water and took time to get to a fire. There was no modern-style fire brigade, but London had ‘fire engines’. However, they were little more than large barrels mounted on sleds with a spout to spray water towards flames – that is, if the heat even allowed you to get close. Only some sleds had wheels, and, being immensely heavy, they were hard to haul through the streets, and doubly difficult among panicking crowds. During the Great Fire several toppled into the Thames while refilling and were lost.
  • The second technique involved partial or total demolition of homes to create firebreaks. Firehooks could pull burning thatch off a roof, and even tear down a wall. They were relatively effective. More extreme but also useful was gunpowder. Blowing up houses completely could create a larger firebreak, successful unless the fire found some way to jump across.

Buckets of water, axes, ladders, water squirts and firehooks were stored in local churches. But access to them was difficult in the early hours of the morning, and these tools were inadequate once the fire had spread.

Fourth, the Great Fire spread rapidly because of a persistent strong wind blowing east to west. Those who fought the fire couldn’t keep pace with the rapid progress caused by that wind. It also explains why burning embers drifted across firebreaks.

Charles II at his coronation in 1661, painted by John Michael Wright

Fifth, the governance of London failed its people when the fire erupted. London, like most English cities and towns, was managed by aldermen and a Lord Mayor. London, though, was also the location of Parliament and of the king, and that complicated matters. Here’s the super-short background. The English King Charles I was beheaded in 1649 during a period of civil wars between monarchists and parliamentarians (republicans). Under the leadership of Oliver Cromwell, reforms had taken place, but he died in 1658 and his son Richard who followed was significantly less able. Another king was needed, and Charles II came to the throne in 1660. Thus began what was called the ‘Restoration’, a period of social change which included reopening theatres (closed under the puritanism of Cromwell) and flourishing of literature. Charles II was relatively popular, and was nicknamed the ‘Merry Monarch’.[2] However, not all welcomed the restoration of the monarchy. That was particularly true in predominantly parliamentarian London, and resistance to rulership or interference by the king played its part in mismanagement of the Great Fire.

Sixth, England and the Dutch Republic were in conflict over extracting precious minerals and gold from West Africa, and that had worsened into a mainly naval war. Foreigners in London from European countries were increasingly distrusted. As we shall see, they became prime suspects for starting and spreading the fire.

But it’s in Farriner’s bakery in Pudding Lane that the fire starts in the early hours of Sunday 2nd September, 1666. Farriner is sometimes described as the king’s baker, but that’s correct only because he supplied baked biscuits to the Royal Navy. The street name Pudding Lane sounds odd in modern ears, especially for those who use the word ‘pudding’ as a near-equivalent to ‘dessert’. But pudding in those times was offal, the entrails and internal organs of an animal, material often discarded and eaten by birds or dumped into rivers like the Thames. Pudding Lane acquired its name because a great number of butchers’ shops were located there. In fact many trades were in Pudding Lane, so it was a street in which people stored tar, rope, oil, brandy and other goods that burned easily. It was the worst place  for a fire to start.

With the word ‘Fire!’ shouted loudly, parish constables arrive. In the first hour, the flames consume only a few shops and houses. But it must not be allowed to spread further, especially to warehouses alongside the nearby River Thames because they store highly dangerous materials, including lamp oil, tallow[3], spirits, and gunpowder.

The constables decide that homes on either side of those burning must be torn down to create a firebreak. But they lack the authority to demolish private property. The Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas Bloodworth,[4] does have that authority and he is soon on the scene. But he makes two fateful decisions. First, he will not allow soldiers to help. The aldermen to whom he answers were parliamentarians in the civil war, and he knows they will not tolerate the king’s army acting within city walls. Second, Bloodworth massively underestimates the danger. He thinks the fire insignificant, that it’ll die out soon. In his diary Samuel Pepys records Bloodworth’s rude and inappropriate comment that the fire is so small a woman’s piss could put it out. With that judgment, Bloodworth returns home and goes back to his bed.[5]

The fire does not die out. More and more buildings are added to the blaze. The thatch and dry wood are perfect fuel for the fire. Locals form lines to pass buckets of water taken from the Thames, but their efforts cannot keep pace with the spread of this fire. They do tear down some buildings, but the strong wind carries embers across firebreaks and the fire spreads to adjoining streets. Soon, many are no longer thinking about fighting the fire. Instead they’re gathering their families and whatever possessions they can carry, and trying to find a place of safety.

Samuel Pepys
John Hayls, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Not far away Samuel Pepys[6] is wakened by a servant. Pepys is a remarkable man. He’s described as a diarist and naval administrator, but that underplays his significance. Under Charles II (and his successor James II) he became Chief Secretary to the Admiralty. He had no sea-going experience, but implemented essential reforms which organised and professionalised the navy. Additionally, he wrote down all that was happening around him during the years 1660 to 1669. His diary writings – more than a million words – were published much later and not only give invaluable insights into that decade, but especially its great events which include the Great Fire of London.

It is still the middle of the night, and 33-year-old Pepys is as reluctant as anyone to leave his bed. But the maid insists. He steps over to his bedroom window, and sees fire and smoke rising only one-third of a mile away. But he’s not especially perturbed. It’s just another London fire, and he’s suffering constant pain from bladder stones, so he returns to his bed.

He wakens again at 7.00 am. He looks out his window. The fire is now much larger. Pepys has access to the king, and thinks the monarch should be informed. First he goes to the Tower of London from where he can get a better view of the fire. He sees how fast the strong wind is pushing the flames. At the Thames he clambers onto a boat from where he has a view towards Pudding Lane. People are running from the fire with their possessions, some throwing themselves and their property into the river, and others stacking their goods on boats.

He uses his boat to reach Whitehall where the royal palace is located. King Charles is alarmed, and instructs Pepys to return to the old city, find the Lord Mayor, instruct Bloodworth to tear down houses, and tell him that the king will send soldiers to help. These are sensible measures, but the mayor will not care to be instructed by the king nor want his soldiers.

By mid-morning Pepys is touring streets by coach but has yet to find Bloodworth. The fire is widening its reach minute by minute, pushed along by an ever-stronger wind. The lanes are crammed with an odd mix of citizens. Some are dressed smartly and on their way to church. Others are covered in soot, and hurrying away from the fire carrying children and possessions. Flames reach into the sky. Dark clouds billow up over the city.

Pepys continues to search, by now on foot. The crowds have made coach travel slower than walking. At St Paul’s Cathedral he watches people pushing to gain entry, not for Sunday worship but bringing their clothes, furniture, and other goods inside. Many take them down to the crypt. St Paul’s is large and made of stone. It will not burn. It is a safe place. Or so they think.

Where is Bloodworth? Pepys heads towards the fire. People rush past him, some trying to stem the flames and others getting as far as possible from the flames. One man tells Pepys the mayor might be anywhere, and that 300 homes are burning now. He presses on, forcing his way through the throngs. He rounds a corner and for the first time feels the heat from the fire on his face. In front of him are not homes, but what looks like a giant bonfire. ‘It made me weep to see it’, writes Pepys. One writer describes his reaction: ‘This is no longer the few burning streets he’d told the king about. This is a vision of hell.’[7]

As well as what Pepys sees and feels, what he hears is terrifying. Burning wood is not silent. It breaks apart with loud bangs, like the firing of pistol shots. Everywhere fires roar. Pepys steps away, moves down alleys not yet ablaze, and finally finds Lord Mayor Bloodworth in Cannon Street surrounded by constables and locals. To Pepys he looks defeated and near to collapse. He had a chance to extinguish this fire, but now it’s too late.

Pepys tells Bloodworth he brings orders from the king. Houses in the path of the fire must be demolished. Despite the awful reality of a fire out of control, the mayor stubbornly refuses. The two men argue. For Pepys whatever can be done to save the city must be done. Bloodworth, though, will not give up his control and take commands from the king. Though the mayor has no idea what to do he will not let King Charles tell him what to do. He protests that he has been up all night, he now needs to go. And he does go, leaving his city to burn. Lord Mayor Bloodworth is never seen again while the Great Fire rages.

It’s now not even midday on Sunday, only the first day of the fire, and already hope of saving much of London is gone. And here we will pause our narrative. This has been only the introduction to our story. The worst of the Great Fire is yet to come. Details to follow in the next blog posts.

In closing, though, is there any wisdom to be gleaned from the beginning of the Great Fire of 1666? There is. Very briefly, I’ve noted four lessons.

  1. There was clearly a failure to imagine the unimaginable. London often had fires, but they were small, and their primitive fire-fighting measures were adequate. Those in authority had never imagined a fire which quickly became an inferno and then spread further and further across the city driven by a near gale force wind. But, actually, that was not ‘unimaginable’. It was simply not imagined. Very strong winds happened, often in early autumn. If only they’d planned and prepared for a fire breaking out at such a time.
  2. Laws were not enforced and that had consequences. Foolish practices, while not illegal, were allowed. There were laws about the size and overhang of houses which no-one enforced. Highly inflammable and even explosive materials were stored in wooden houses and sheds and no-one intervened. This was madness, a classic case of nothing being done until there’s a disaster. There was indeed a disaster, one that claimed lives and destroyed a large part of London.
  3. Dogma took priority over effective action. As we will see, once soldiers were organised and deployed, more effective firefighting took place. But for crucial hours the king’s men were refused. Many of London’s leaders had not wanted another king, so they certainly didn’t want his soldiers. That decision had devastating consequences.
  4. Those who should have taken decisive action failed. Most historians condemn Lord Mayor Bloodworth for his inaction. But some believe he faced impossible pressures politically, and was simply out of his depth when faced with a massive fire. Both hard judgments and soft judgments can reasonably be made about Bloodworth. But the bottom line is that he did little in the early hours, and removed himself when firm and effective action was most needed. He was the city’s leader, but he wasn’t a leader in a major crisis.

The Great Fire of London lasted four days. So far we have seen only its beginning. There is much more to come.

I have used several sources for the information in this series on the Great Fire. A special thanks is due to the podcast, Short History of the Great Fire of London. It not only gives more information than most web sources, it tells the story. I have used my own words, but, with gratitude, I’ve followed the podcast’s story line to unfold information and events on a day by day basis. I also want to warmly commend all the episodes of the ‘Short History of…’ podcast. The team cover a wide range of subjects. It is one of my most favourite podcasts – important subjects, brilliantly told, easily followed, fair interpretations. The link to its website is just below.

Here are my major web sources:

Short History of the Great Fire of London podcast. It can be found in two places:

The Monument, erected between 1671 and 1677 to commemorate the fire, and still accessible today, has a website which describes the fire at: https://www.themonument.org.uk/history

Of course Wikipedia has a wealth of information on the Great Fire and, via other pages, on many of the main characters mentioned in its story. The Great Fire entry is at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Fire_of_London

London Fire Brigade can trace the inspiration for its founding back to the Great Fire. It gives its account of the fire at: https://www.london-fire.gov.uk/museum/history-and-stories/the-great-fire-of-london/#:~:text=In%201666%2C%20a%20devastating%20fire,Paul’s%20Cathedral

Inside History tells the Great Fire story in two parts.

The Museum of London has many resources related to the Great Fire. Its web pages are here: https://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/discover/great-fire-london-1666

[1] Now the location of the UK Parliament.

[2] His merriness included fathering at least 12 illegitimate children with mistresses, but he left no legitimate heir. He was succeeded on the throne by his brother James.

[3] Tallow is rendered animal fat, more commonly called ‘dripping’ in the UK. In the 17th century, one of its uses was for candles.

[4] His last name also appears as Bludwoth.

[5] Bloodworth is blamed for allowing the fire to spread in its early stages. But tearing down private property, if later deemed unnecessary, could have left him personally liable for damages unless the king had authorized his actions. But his aldermen – parliamentarians – would not have allowed the king to decide on firefighting measures in the city.

[6] The pronunciation of his last name sounds like ‘peeps’.

[7] John Hopkins & Danny Marshall, ‘Short History of the Great Fire of London’ podcast, 22’18”.

What I wish I’d known when I was 13

Experience is something young people can’t have. It’s impossible to teach, learn from a book, or borrow from another person. Experience – good or bad – is what we discover during life’s journey. And, if there’s an advantage from being older, you’ve a lot of experience.

My mind started thinking about that after I came across a photo of me when I was 13. It was a semi-official picture taken at school, probably to have a photo of me in my file. I know exactly when the photo was taken because there’s a poppy in my lapel, which was the custom around the time of Remembrance Day each November.[1]

I look young, and untroubled by issues that concern adults. However, I began to wonder what my 13-year-old self would like to have known but didn’t. Were there things it would have been good for me to understand at age 13?

I’d like to have known that one day I’d have a girlfriend

I’m starting here because girls are exactly what this 13-year-old boy was bothered about. Girls were no longer a nuisance. In fact, they had become rather interesting.

But, at 13, and with only a brother, girls were a mystery to me. How could you know if a girl liked you, and what should you say to her? If only everyone was fitted with a light and when two were attracted to each other their lights would go on. But we hadn’t been fitted with lights, and the mystery remained for a few more years.

By my later teens, though, I had a wide circle of friends, and my breakthrough realisation was that getting close to a girl was less about attraction, and more about being interested in each other, about really getting to know someone, enjoying being together, sharing ideas and plans. Then, one Sunday evening, I found myself walking up a road in Edinburgh chatting to a girl who was more interesting than anyone else. Decades later, now with children and grandchildren, Alison is still more interesting than anyone else.

The 13-year-old me would have been so much more at peace if only I’d known that would happen.

I’d like to have had a career goal

Some know the work they want to do from an early age. Perhaps their ambition is to be a ballerina, an international footballer, win a Formula One championship, do research that wins a Nobel Peace Prize, invent world-changing technology, write block-buster novels. They’re good thoughts, but most will disappear when faced with massive challenges. Some, however, will dedicate themselves to a particular career path, and get there. They’ll be great doctors, top scientists, own a profitable business, or become a member of Parliament.

But I had no idea what I would do for a career. When I was eight or nine I thought I’d like to be a bus driver, or become an Automobile Association patrolman who rode around on an old style yellow motorcycle with sidecar looking for members whose cars needed rescue.[2] But these were just a child’s idle dreams, not serious career goals.

At 13 I had no idea what work I might do. However, when I was 15, my school ran a careers evening with spokespeople describing their work. One was a police officer, and he highlighted all the different specialities that existed within policing. The wide range of options appealed to me, so later I read up about police service. Then I found a problem. In those days the minimum height for men to enter the police force was 5’8”, and in my area even higher at 5’10”. I didn’t think I’d reach either of those heights, so abandoned that plan.[3] When I was 16 I began to think about leaving school,[4] but had no idea still about a career.

I’ve mixed feelings now about that lack of a sense of direction. A career goal would have motivated me about my school work, and reassured me about where my life was headed. Yet, without a particular goal, I was open to any possibility, and that may have been helpful. In the end I began in journalism, became a church minister, then led a large international mission agency, and finished by being President of a seminary in the USA. I changed my work (not just my employer) several times, something that is now considered normal. I was ahead of my time.

So, though I wish I’d had a career goal, the lack of one did me no harm. I was flexible, and accepted change when it presented itself.

It would have helped if I’d had confidence in my own abilities

When I was 13 I was moderately good at rugby. I could tackle, catch and pass the ball, and kick it well too. I was also good at cricket, not so much as a batter but as a bowler and fielder. Somehow I could flip my wrist to make the ball break sharply left, completely confusing batters as the ball zipped past and hit their wickets. And, because I had fast reactions and virtually never dropped a catch, I relished every chance to be a slip fielder.

But sport was simply enjoyable. It was a pastime, not a passion nor a career goal. What was supposed to matter to me aged 13 was my academic work. But, in that area, I had every reason to be modest with my expectations. My teachers were equally modest in their expectations of me. When I was 13 the set curriculum I had to study covered a wide range of subjects, including physics, chemistry, biology and Latin. When I was 14 I was allowed to narrow my schedule. I dropped all the sciences and Latin with the approval and relief of my teachers. After another year I was due to take national exams. My teachers wouldn’t present me for the German exam since I was bound to fail. And fail was exactly all I achieved in three subjects, French, Maths, and Arithmetic. My only successes were in English and history, and I passed those at a higher level the following year.

But, with that track record, I had no confidence in my abilities. I never imagined I could be admitted to university, and no-one ever suggested I should try. In fact a career advisor advised me to start work in a department store sweeping the floors, and perhaps I could work my way up to being a store manager. I swept that idea aside, but he was not the only one with low expectations of me in those early to mid teen years.

For a while that was discouraging and unhelpful. Yet, looking back, it may have triggered a desire to prove them all wrong. Which was probably the best response.

I wish I’d understood that not all people are good

I grew up in a loving family unit with two parents and a brother. Nearby were aunts, uncles, and cousins we saw regularly. Our town was relatively crime free, big enough to have shops for everyday needs but small enough that traffic jams were unknown. I walked or cycled to school, came home for lunch, and, when daylight allowed, spent evenings playing football or cricket with friends. During summer holidays from school I’d play golf in the morning and cricket in the afternoon, and when I wanted a change I’d play cricket in the morning and golf in the afternoon. I had a very privileged early life.

The only downside is that it was also a very protected life. When I was 13 almost all I knew of the ills of the world was that I should never go off with a stranger, that a girl in my class had died from a serious illness, and a boy had fallen from his bike in front of a lorry and been killed. But I didn’t know of anyone dying of cancer, anyone getting divorced, anyone without food, anyone committing a major crime. My parents would watch the news on TV, but, as far as I was concerned, bad things happened far away. I had a sheltered existence.

That resulted in an unhelpful innocence, a naivety that everyone is kind and good and no harm can befall you. Of course we must not make children fearful or untrusting. But – as with many things – I wish there had been an age-appropriate way of making me aware that bad things happen in this world.

From my later teens and into my twenties I was a journalist with a national newspaper. That gave me a rude awakening to tragedies and evils. I attended car, rail and plane disasters where mangled bodies were pulled from wreckage. I sat through murder trials, such as the killing of a 15-year-old girl by beating and strangling.[5] It shocked me that one person should so violently and deliberately end another person’s life. There were cases of gang warfare, often drug related. Some politicians were considered corrupt, others attention-seeking. I attended court sessions and local government meetings which were supremely tedious. Some of my colleagues were deep in debt, unfaithful in their marriages, addicted to alcohol, or dying of lung cancer. Of course there were also ‘good news’ stories, but I was used to them from my upbringing. It was the ‘bad news’ that jolted me into a broader understanding of the world.

It would have helped me, certainly by the time I was 13, to have learned something about the harsher sides of life.

I could have known more of how poor most of the world is

My Aunt Milla – whose working life was mostly as a community nurse – rarely spent much on her housing. During two periods she lived in run-down tenements. The first had no toilet facilities inside the building. None at all. Instead there was a small hut out the back which contained a simple toilet. No wash-hand basin, and sometimes no toilet roll, only torn sheets of newspaper which were guaranteed to leave their mark. Day or night, perhaps in pouring rain, the ‘need to go’ was an unpleasant adventure into the outdoors to use the ‘privy’. Milla moved upmarket with her later tenement living. There still was no toilet in the flat, but there was one on the ‘half-landing’ (so named because it was up some steps from the level of flats just below and down some steps from the level of flats above). Since there were two flats on each level, the toilet might be shared by four households. Perhaps queues were avoided only by exploring for ‘vacancies’ at toilets on other half-landings.

These were poor facilities – unhygienic and inconvenient – but were common in many towns and cities, and not just in the UK. We often stayed with my aunt, and therefore used the outhouse or half-landing toilets many times. At home we had indoor plumbing, but I knew many lived with facilities like my aunt, so never thought of her situation as poor or bad. When I was 13, I had no idea at all that most of the world lived in very much worse circumstances.

Almost 30 years later I visited remote desert areas of Pakistan, sleeping overnight in tribal villages. Toilet facilities? The far side of the sand dunes. In a mountainside village in Nepal, there was an outhouse for toilet use, but it was no more than a small enclosure around an open hole with charcoal six feet below to (unsuccessfully) deaden the stench. In a remote Congo village I thought that children were wearing dirty and torn t-shirts as play clothes, then realised those t-shirts were their only clothes. There I also met a mother with seriously malnourished children, hoping for help from medical missionaries. I saw many small houses with damaged roofs. I was told: “There’s no longer anyone skilled in repairing roofs. When people don’t have money to buy food, no-one pays to have their roof repaired.”

I could multiply these stories, but won’t. The hard truth is that a large part of the world’s population live in poverty. I never knew that when I was 13. As children grow up, and gradually decide on lifestyle and career priorities, shouldn’t those priorities take account of world need? In affluent countries, we shelter children from harsh realities. That’s understandable, but should they not know billions are less well off, and their needs may matter more than our comfort?

I wish I’d known what I needed to do for God to become real in my life

God was never absent from my life (nor is he from anyone’s), but when I was 13 I didn’t relate much to God other than with some prayers. My mother told me several times that she made a special commitment to God when she was 13. That commitment coloured everything she did, and a lot of her time went on supporting church activities and helping neighbours. So, when I became 13, I imagined something might happen in my life to make me a Christian like her. Nothing did, and as the next few years passed I wondered if it ever would.

What I’d failed to realise is that I had a responsibility to reach out to God. I was waiting for God to invade me while, in a sense, he was waiting to be invited. That did all change when I was 18, and I’ve written about that before (https://occasionallywise.com/2021/02/20/serious-business/).

It wasn’t that I was ignorant about the Christian message. I just needed to respond to it. Thankfully I was only five years beyond 13 in doing so. But, if I’d known sooner, my life would have changed much earlier.

–

Writing this blog post about what I wished I’d known when I was 13 has kept generating more thoughts than I’ve recorded here. Perhaps I’ll set them down another time. And one day I may also write things I’m glad I did know when I was 13. That seems just as important a subject.

I’d encourage you to think what you wish you’d known when you were younger, and what you’re glad you did know. You might be surprised about your conclusions.

[1] Fighting in World War I ceased at the 11th hour of the 11th month in 1918, commemorated annually throughout Commonwealth countries ever since. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remembrance_Day

[2] There’s a good photo of an AA motorcycle and sidecar here: https://www.theaa.com/breakdown-cover/our-heritage-vehicles

[3] Actually I did reach 5’8” but my interests by then lay elsewhere.

[4] In Scotland, the school leaving age was raised to 14 in 1901, and though from the 1940s there were plans to make the minimum age 15 that was never made law. The minimum age was set at 16 in 1973.

[5] The case set a new legal precedent because the accused was identified by having left unique bite marks on his victim’s body. See https://www.dentaltown.com/magazine/article/7528/the-biggar-murder-some-personal-recollections

Christmas shreddings

It was mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve, and I was alone in the large office building where I was General Director. Every staff member had left already, but I’d stayed late to clear my in-tray before the holiday break. And now I was on my knees.

I’d realised some documents had to be shredded. That was straightforward. We had a large capacity shredder which I’d used many times. I switched it on, and dropped a few sheets into the slot. The shredder immediately cut out. I tried again, and again it stopped. I noticed a small light had illuminated – apparently the bag which caught the shreddings was full. Really? That shouldn’t happen, but someone had wanted a quick exit and cleared off without replacing the shredder bag.

But all I had to do was switch the full bag with an empty bag. Easy. Well, easy if you know where the replacement bags are kept. Which I didn’t. I searched every cupboard within any sensible distance from the shredder. No bags. I moved my search further out, and finally, 20 minutes after starting, I found a roll of large black bags. I pulled one from the roll, opened up the shredder, dragged out the vastly over-filled bag, attached the new one, inserted my documents and they were instantly annihilated. All was well.

All was not well because it’s impossible to slide clear an overfull bag of shreddings without spilling some of its contents. Tiny slivers of paper were scattered across the office carpet. If I left them there the cleaners would be unjustly blamed for not doing their job. So a new search began, this time for a vacuum cleaner or brush to sweep up the shreddings. I knew the cupboard where such things were kept, pulled on the door, but those cleaners guarded their equipment carefully. The cupboard was locked. Though I had many keys to the building, no-one had thought I’d ever need one for the brooms and brushes cupboard. Back I went to the shredder. Mary Poppins had not passed through and made all the shreddings disappear. The paper shards were still all over the carpet.

So I got down on my knees, and, with no way to sweep those pieces of paper into a pile, began the laborious, wearying job of picking them up one by one. That took at least 15 minutes. At some point I heard myself say, ‘On Christmas Eve, what other CEO is on his knees picking up pieces of shredded paper?’ Not many. Probably not any.

But that task brought home an important lesson:

Never think yourself too important to do the humblest of tasks

As I’ve thought about Christmas, I realised that down through the years the Christmas season has taught me many simple lessons like that one.

An early childhood memory was that my Dad went to work for half of Christmas Day. His occupation was on the administration side of the Post Office, and with mail being moved around and house deliveries made even on that day, someone had to be at the main office making sure everything went smoothly. That person was my Dad.

To wholly understand why he and many others in Scotland worked on Christmas Day you need some background details:

  • Until the Reformation happened in Scotland – in 1560 – Christmas was a recognised religious feast day of the Roman Catholic Church. But when Presbyterianism became dominant, gradually most Catholic festivals disappeared. That included Christmas, and an Act was passed in the Scottish Parliament in 1640 making any observance of Christmas illegal.
  • The mid-winter celebrations became transferred to New Year’s Eve – known in Scotland as Hogmanay. That change caused no problem for the religious authorities because Hogmanay was a secular event.
  • So, right into the second half of the 20th century Christmas Day was another working day in Scotland. Hence my father went to his office.

Of course, over many years the traditions from down south in England had crept north, and once television had spread and religious fervour diminished, Scots were also celebrating Christmas with trees, lights, presents and parties. Nevertheless, it was only in 1958 that Christmas Day was designated a public holiday in Scotland. (Did that diminish the celebrations of Hogmanay? Absolutely not! Canny Scots just chose to revel at Christmas and New Year, and often to do so with more enthusiasm than wisdom.)

However, remembering that my Dad went off to work on Christmas morning, there is another lesson:

Many people – especially in emergency or caring professions – have to work on Christmas Day, and for that we should be grateful.

Like most small children, my brother Alan and I were always up early on Christmas Day, running through to the room where we’d hung stockings by the fireplace, to see what presents we’d got. There was never much in those long socks – an apple, an orange and perhaps a bar of chocolate and tiny toy car. But we were fortunate because there was more for us. We gazed in awe at the nicely wrapped larger presents laid on the floor.

I never wasted a moment, ripping open the Christmas paper to find the toys or games or clothes inside those boxes. The clothes never excited me, but the games and toys did, and I’d have them all out and be playing with them in very little time.

But my brother Alan had a different temperament, and took great care about opening his presents. He’d examine each parcel, undo the paper neatly, be excited about the contents, and then extract the toy and play with it. All before moving on to his next gift.

His meticulous process meant I was finished and done with my presents when Alan had only just started. I had to watch while he moved through his gifts one at a time. Some years I complained to my Mum that Alan clearly had more presents than I did. She assured me he didn’t. He just enjoyed each one fully before moving to the next.

So, another lesson:

There’s a lot to be said for what is now called ‘delayed (or deferred) gratification’, because many things are better by not being rushed.[1]

I grew up in a home where green vegetables were not a major part of the diet. My Dad grew peas, cabbages and cauliflowers along with root crops and fruit. But we didn’t eat ‘greens’ in any quantity. My Aunt Milla – a nurse who should have maximised health benefits – would put a tiny spoonful of peas alongside meat and potatoes ‘for decoration’.

But, on Christmas Day, we were always given a generous portion of what we called ‘Brussel sprouts’, though the first word probably should be pluralised because of the vegetables’ origin. What are Brussel sprouts? Let me tell you:

  • The Brussels sprout is a member of the Gemmifera cultivar group of cabbages (Brassica oleracea), grown for its edible buds. The leaf vegetables are typically 1.5–4.0 cm (0.6–1.6 in) in diameter and resemble miniature cabbages. The Brussels sprout has long been popular in Brussels, Belgium, from which it gained its name.[2]

I did not enjoy eating those edible buds of a cabbage. I simply didn’t like their taste. Some people don’t like broccoli[3], and I didn’t like Brussel sprouts.

But what was put on my plate had to be eaten. The usual warning was: ‘If you don’t eat your sprouts, you won’t get any dessert’. And since dessert was Christmas pudding, perhaps with cream, the blackmail to swallow those sprouts worked.

I must add that age has improved my taste. My willingness to eat Brussel sprouts gradually moved into the positive column. They are actually very good. But, in my early years, I ate them only because I had to.

So there is another lesson here:

We all have to do things we don’t like or want – that’s life.

Christmas has one form of annoying and unnecessary delayed gratification. It concerns the toy or appliance that won’t work without batteries, but no-one thought to buy them. When I was about seven I got one of those presents – a toy that was exactly what I wanted – but no batteries came with it and there were none in the house. My frustration was expressed loudly. So loudly my Dad set off on foot to find any shop open, but the few doing business didn’t sell batteries. I suffered (but not in silence) for about 24 hours, by which time batteries had been bought.

These days batteries are often packaged with the product, which helps avoid a Christmas crisis. But it’s not good to assume they’ll be included. Nor is it good to buy gloves that fit your hands but not the hands of the person receiving the gift. Or wrong-sized boots. Or a sweater with a dazzling design the recipient will hate. Or a tool they don’t need or want. Or music they’ll never play. Or a ‘Cooking for Beginners’ book for someone who already considers him or herself an expert. Or a dog for someone who likes cats. I even know a case where a few well-off individuals bought a CEO who was retiring a brand new SUV to replace the car he’d driven for years. The gift was amazingly generous, except the retiree whispered to me, ‘The problem is I really, really like my old car. I didn’t want a new car.’

The lesson, then, is this:

When buying presents, do your research and plan ahead.

When we lived in America we adjusted to the custom of eating turkey at Thanksgiving. In the UK turkey is the traditional meal at Christmas. Sometimes we’d travel back to the UK to spend Christmas with family, so we overate with US turkey in late November and overate with UK turkey in late December. Just as well we like turkey.

Many years before, when we lived in north east Scotland, our good friends Malcolm and Tina decided that they would buy us a turkey every Christmas. The only problem was that they never said explicitly that they’d give us a turkey every Christmas. Initially we thought they’d gift us a turkey once or twice, and then move on to give turkeys to other friends. But their turkey-at-Christmas kindness didn’t stop. A few days before each Christmas they’d call round with a turkey.

Then the year came when they didn’t. Not on December 20, or 21, or 22, or 23. By then we’d realised no turkey would be arriving. Alison, happily, had put some turkey in our freezer, so we wouldn’t fail to have our traditional meal. The 24th – Christmas Eve – dawned and Alison and I spent a hectic day preparing food, organising presents, putting final decorations in place, and, as pastor of a large church, I had events to prepare for and attend. In the evening I joined a group singing carols in a local hospital, hurried home and then went out again to lead and preach at our Watchnight Service which started at 11.15 pm and continued into a celebration of Christ’s birth at midnight. Around 12.30 am I headed home. Thankfully the children were all in bed and asleep. Alison was busy preparing various parts of our Christmas Day meal. I hadn’t had a moment to wrap presents, so I settled down to that task. Given my significant lack of expertise, gift wrapping was not a quick process. I finished around 3.00 am. Alison was still occupied in the kitchen, and I had a few more things to do before I could go to bed. At 3.30 am we heard a van arrive in our driveway, our doorbell rang, and it was our friend Malcolm with our turkey. Apparently we were his final delivery and he’d made us last because, as he said: ‘I knew you wouldn’t be in your beds yet!’ No, we weren’t. But it was 3.30 on Christmas morning!! More than a little on the late side to be delivering a turkey for that day’s meal. But we were very grateful, not just for the turkey but for friends like Malcolm and Tina.

So, this time two lessons:

Be generous and kind to all this Christmas.

But, if you can, don’t deliver turkeys at 3.30 in the morning.

________

This message is posted on Christmas Eve, and comes with my sincere hope that you are able to enjoy a happy Christmas, appreciating the wonderful truth that God sent his Son into this world. And, if possible, I long that you will have good food and friendship to enjoy.

This particular year (2022) the news is filled with stories of severely cold weather across much of the USA and Canada, and of power cuts imposed on the people of Ukraine resulting in much suffering from the cold and shortages throughout this winter. Many others in our world also struggle, so please keep them in your thoughts and prayers, and, if you can, provide support for those in such great need. May 2023 bring many good days for which you can be thankful.

[1] In the UK there is a magazine called Delayed Gratification, which covers news which is moving out of the headlines. Its slogan is ‘last to breaking news’. https://www.slow-journalism.com/

[2] From Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brussels_sprout

[3] Including some US Presidents: https://today.yougov.com/topics/politics/articles-reports/2013/07/13/presidential-broccoli-debate

‘Is my family odd?’ Yes, but that’s normal

My wife, Alison, was planting bulbs around a family grave in my home town. I wandered off, reading the words on headstones. One made me stop and stare. I had never seen a grave stone inscribed like this one.

Three things made it different from all others. Two of the three were truly remarkable.

First, though the headstone was not unusually large, there were more family names on that stone than I would have thought possible. Several generations were being memorialised.

Second, very strangely, the last name listed was someone not yet dead. The person who’d had all the family names inscribed on the headstone had added his own. His name and date of birth were there after which there was simply a space, presumably to be filled eventually with the date of his death.

Third, and most peculiar of all, was the inscription right at the foot. I had never seen anything like it on any grave stone anywhere, so I took a photograph.

The wording may not be readable, so here it is:

All of the above names and characters evoke a lifetime of memories / mostly really good – a few not quite so good / and some amazingly bizarre and in any normal life, unbelievable!

Gravestones usually have tender words, kind sentiments praising the life of the deceased. This inscription wasn’t unkind; just the most honest I’ve ever seen.

The truth is that all of us – or, at least, most of  us – belong to odd families. When Alison studied health science, including the sociology of health, her lecturer said most people wonder why they’re the only one to struggle with health issues, while the truth is that everyone has health problems. And, likewise, we wonder why our family is so odd compared to others, but actually almost every family has its share of mad, bad, sad and some glad individuals.

It might be the eccentric and extrovert uncle who embarrasses everyone at weddings with his off-key singing or crazy dancing, so dreadful the rest of the family pretend he’s not related to them. Or a brother who’s recently re-joined the family after several years of being accommodated by the government because he dealt in drugs. Or the sister who has been married and divorced so many times that everyone is terrified they’ll use the wrong name for her latest partner. Or the father who abused his daughters. No-one who knows what happened ever mentions his name. Or the niece who has been weak and ill almost all her life. Or the cousin who has changed jobs repeatedly and been spectacularly unsuccessful every time. Or another brother and his wife who lost their only child, killed by a drunk driver. And sometimes, one or more who have found happiness in relationships, success in career, and comfort and hope in their beliefs.

I can’t think of any family who has the whole package I’ve just described. But I also can’t think of any family without a substantial mix of stresses and struggles. Is it the norm to have a happy extended family with everyone friends and no serious problems? Absolutely not.

One of the most memorable speeches of Queen Elizabeth, who died in 2022, was given 30 years earlier when she described 1992 as an annus horribilis, literally a ‘horrible year’. What especially made it so horrible were family troubles:

  • February: The estrangement between (then) Prince Charles and Princess Diana became all too evident when she was photographed seated alone in front of the Taj Mahal.
  • March: Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson announced they were separating.
  • April: Princess Anne and Mark Phillips were divorced. They were already separated, and news had recently broken that he had fathered a child a few years earlier with a New Zealand woman.
  • June: the ‘tell-all’ book Diana: Her True Story, written by Andrew Morton, was published. It revealed Diana’s deep unhappiness, including an attempted suicide.
  • August: Photographs appeared in the press of Sarah Ferguson in an intimate relationship with her Texan financial advisor.
  • November: Windsor Castle, the beloved retreat of the Queen just outside London, went up in flames. A spotlight in Queen Victoria’s chapel had ignited a curtain, and the fire then spread to the roof and other locations. It destroyed 115 rooms, including nine state rooms. (The castle was restored at a cost of £36.5 million, a cost equal to almost £90 million in 2022.)

Only the last of these was not a problem of relationships within the royal family. The year was truly an annus horribilis for the Queen, sadly not her only one. There is no family without its troubles.

If worries and woes are the norm, what are wise ways to respond and cope? There are probably many, but here I’ll suggest four.

Let’s be honest. I like the inscription on the grave stone because of its honesty. Not everyone in the family had been good, and some were bizarre to the point of being unbelievable. I’ve sat through funeral services where the deceased person is made to sound like the greatest of all saints, except everyone knew he wasn’t. Someone might well have turned to his neighbour and asked, ‘Whose funeral was that, because the preacher certainly wasn’t describing Joe?’ Our family troubles shouldn’t be turned into headline news, but neither should we pretend everything and everyone is wonderful. A reasonable honesty about life and relationships is good.

Let’s be comforted. If it’s news to you that having odd, difficult or bad people in your family is normal, it may reassure you that, after all, your family isn’t unique. Over the years Alison and I have received Christmas newsletters which mention only great achievements for someone’s children and other near relations. We have looked at each other, and smiled as we said ‘our family is not like that’ and ‘we don’t believe that’s the whole story for their family either’. Sometimes the harder truths have emerged later, perhaps that someone’s marriage has broken up, or a family member has dropped out of university without any plan for what’s next. There is no place for rejoicing over anyone else’s troubles, but there is reassurance in knowing your family is not the only one with misfits and miscreants.

Let’s be caring. I was being humorous earlier about having an uncle so embarrassingly crazy the rest of the family pretend they’re not related to him. That’s not exactly true, but it’s also not exactly untrue. Sometimes families shun relatives who are weird, or super-needy, or old, or behaved badly, or who are simply unlikeable. Can that ever be right? I don’t believe it is. Yes, family members can be difficult or demanding, but they are family members and that relationship creates an obligation to care. The New Testament is very straight about family responsibility: ‘Anyone who does not provide for their relatives, and especially for their own household, has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.’ (1 Timothy 5:8)

My Aunt Milla was a nurse, her career spent mainly in challenging places with very disadvantaged people. She was hard to shock. For the last few years of her professional life, however, she was a hospital almoner (a social-service worker in a large hospital). Her work included liaising with families whose elderly mother had completed treatment, and was now fit to be discharged except she could no longer live alone. Would the patient’s family take in their mother? Most times the answer was a very firm ‘No!’ That did shock my aunt. Their children were grown up and long gone from home, so the house had spare bedrooms, but people would not look after their mother. They enjoyed their freedom, and caring for mother would restrict that. The only thing they were willing to do was put mother into a care home.

Family members are often not easy, but please let’s care for them.

Let’s be gracious. The word gracious comes from ‘grace’ which means undeserved favour. In the Bible parable, grace is what the father showed to his prodigal son, the one who took his inheritance early, then squandered it and nearly starved before coming to his senses and returning home. His father could have shunned him, but instead flung his arms around the boy and welcomed him back into the family.[1]

Our relatives know when they’re being shunned, or judged, or looked down on, or hated. I won’t pretend it’s easy to be kind to those who have hurt us in terrible ways. But – as far as possible – our goal should be forgiveness and restoration.

Some years ago, during long car journeys, I’d listen to the songs of Chuck Girard. One stood out particularly. Here’s the chorus: Don’t shoot the wounded. They need us more than ever. They need our love no matter what it is they’ve done. Sometimes we just condemn them, and don’t take time to hear their story. Don’t shoot the wounded. Someday you might be one. At one time Chuck Girard struggled with alcoholism. His song may reflect the need he once felt to be taken back into family and fellowship. What’s more, as Girard points out at the end of the chorus, one day we might be one of the wounded, and then long desperately for restoration.

Let me finish with this. Over the years I’ve often been tempted to label a colleague or a church member as a ‘problem person’, someone with a special ability to annoy me or make my life difficult. Then, one day, I realised something obvious: that if someone was a ‘problem person’ for me, I was surely a ‘problem person’ for someone else. That person would find things I said or did annoying, or my decisions difficult to accept.

The hard truth is that none of us are perfect. All of us need forgiveness and acceptance, not just from God but probably from our families too. The writer of the gravestone inscription didn’t think all his family had been good, and some were amazingly bizarre. He was a little odd himself, with the strange summary of his family and having his own name on the gravestone while still alive. But oddness is normal, and recognising and accepting that will make for happier families.

[1] The story can be found in the New Testament, Luke chapter 15. I wrote about the prodigal a few blog posts ago – see https://occasionallywise.com/2022/11/02/change/