The pot plant sits quietly on the kitchen bench. It’s a cactus, chosen because it is more likely to survive my “care”. It looks like an otherworldly observer. It bears witness to the fresh early light, coffee grounds spilling from the aeropress and me humming cheerfully while fighting with rebellious bits of egg shell in the frying pan. But this cactus also witnesses things which I do not want documented; bench clutter, unwashed dishes, the midnight microwave whirr for insomnia popcorn, the bored opening and closing of the fridge, a frustrated tirade and hot tears. But it doesn’t judge. It’s just there, a silent witness.

My iPhone feels more judgy. I think it knows me better than anyone. It witnesses my slide into anxiety or restless boredom, as I search for a distraction. It witnesses how many beautiful moments I’ve experienced and photographed, yet never returned to dwell on with thankfulness. It witnesses who I reply to. It also witnesses who I complain about and delay replying to. Please don’t put it on the witness list!

As we walk through our front gate, the kids on the street swarm around us. We have been visiting the place where we got married, a dusty Middle Eastern town where the children stay up late and play football on the vacant plot next to our house. We pause to chat with them; “Messi or Ronaldo?”, they ask, knowing full well that my husband is Argentine. They tease him and several loudly claim that Ronaldo is the better player. We laugh with them but beg to disagree. “For sure, it is Messi!”. The World Cup is underway, and these kids are rallying around their football heroes, excited to watch each match unfold. 

I have been thinking about what it means to have a hero.  At the beginning of the year, I decided to do a deep dive into a hero of the faith. Perhaps I could do this every year, I thought. Pick a hero and do my research; read their books, learn from their convictions and watch how they lived them out in weakness and in crisis.