The Cwtch
It is one of my earliest memories from childhood. Probably not more than two or three years old, I recall that some music was playing on the radio. Suddenly my dad gently picked me up, wrapped his arms around me, and began to slowly dance with me. I can still feel the warmth of his hand resting on the back of my head as he snuggled me close to his neck, his voice softly humming to the music.
Another memory was made just as few days ago, at the end of a group trip to the Holy Land. We’d spent nine beautiful days together, marvelling at the biblical sites, pondering the complexity and pain of the political situation, sharing deep personal stories that invoked laughter and tears. Relative strangers had bonded together as a traveling community. And now it was all over, and it was time for the group to say farewell. There were hugs aplenty.
But one embrace was very special. A Welsh gentleman approached me, a warm smile lighting up his face. ‘I’d like to give you more than a hug, Jeff. In Wales we like to offer a ‘cwtch’ (pronounced kooch). He went on to explain. ‘A cwtch is more than a hug, and it’s not given lightly. The word means ‘a place of safety’; we offer it as comfort, as a refuge when life brings trouble’. I learned that the cwtch has the magical quality of transporting someone back to the safety of their childhood. In a healthy family, a child has no cares about the cost of the mortgage, the occupant of Number 10, or the sabre-rattling of despots and dictators. In the warmth of that hug, all is well. As he left moments later, I wiped away a grateful tear, and recalled the wonder of that childhood waltz.
For most of us, there’s never been a moment in history when we needed more to share a cwtch. Most of us have never known the unfathomed depths of wartime heartache; the uncertainty, the rationing, the partings. And so the triple knockout punches of the cursed Covid, the distant but very real agony of Ukraine, the nuclear posturing of North Korea and then the apocalyptic economic realties and predictions have sent us reeling.
In all of this, we walk with a Jesus who portrayed His own work as being like a dad waiting for a wayward son who had sinned prodigiously. Mired from the muck of the pigpen (an especially shocking image for Jews), at last the lad staggers home. He is a mixture, this boy, this prodigal son. His repentance is at best flawed, genuine sorrow mingled with desperation for a healthy meal and the safety of home. To his amazement, he sees his father charging towards him - a shock in a culture when men never ran, it was considered undignified - and before he has a chance to saw a word, before any words of contrition can be uttered, he is wrapped in a cwtch.
Ponder him there, struggling, blurting out that he is unworthy, begging only for a job as a servant. He is us. How we wriggle with discomfort when, shamed by our sins, we hear of the love divine that truly is all loves excelling. Held there, at last it dawns: he is safe, received, welcomed, utterly loved. This is more than a sentimental portrait, but an absolutely dependable picture of our wonderful Lord Jesus.
So let’s not wrestle with His love. And as fellow travellers together, let’s determine today to look beyond the horizons of our own needs and concerns, and with a word of kindness, a surprise gift, a warm hug, let’s pass that love around, because this much is certain: in our worlds, today, someone needs a cwtch.