Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

A few days ago I paid an unannounced visit to a young couple at their home. I had an envelope to present to them.

I choose to do my visits this way because it permits me to gain a clear snapshot of life, as it exists, rather than a sanitised and occasionally somewhat fabricated image. This reality can often help us to identify challenges a family is facing, thus allowing us to focus our pastoral attention on genuine family issues.

They have two small children; one is four and the other is six.The mother works at home, caring for their children, doing all the essential things a good mother would do; nursery, laundry, cleaning, education, etc. I often wonder where she finds time for herself. She’s a lovely lady and in my opinion, an excellent mother.

The father is a wonderful parent as well. He’s a hard worker. At their young age, it’s clearly a struggle for them to make ends meet on a single salary. Compounding the challenge is the fact that he must travel as part of his job. He’ll often head out on Monday and not return home until Wednesday or Thursday. This happens once and sometimes twice a month. He loves his family and he readily admits that his absence causes a strain on all of them. Quitting isn’t an option; he has a good career, but must continue for a number of years before he will have better flexibility in his work.

Several weeks ago I spent some time with the father. I stood with him in their garden as he pulled weeds. His face was slightly reddened as he continually stooped down to dig up an offending wildflower and chuck it into the wheelbarrow I was tagging along with.

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The father had plenty he wanted to say. There was nothing mean spirited or accusatory in his words, but he was frustrated because he felt that his wife didn’t understand the pressure he was under: his work, having to be away from home, trying to make ends meet on his salary, and all the competitive challenges young people often face in a business, when others are vying for the same promotions. In a nutshell, he felt as if he wasn’t appreciated for all he did and all he was trying to do.

Last week, when he was away on one of his business trips, I made a point to stop by and visit his wife. I arrived just before noon. The front door was open. I could hear the vacuum running upstairs. And as I stepped into the house to call up from the bottom of the stairs, I could just see into the kitchen. The morning’s breakfast dishes were stacked up, laundry was in a pile on the floor, waiting to be sorted, and there was an assortment of toys scattered across the kitchen floor.

Thankfully, she was happy to see me. She started to apologise for the mess, but I stopped her quickly, explaining that I face the same challenges every day as well, so I fully understood. We pitched in together. She sorted the laundry (always much safer than letting me do it, so my daughter repeatedly tells me), and I did the dishes. As she gathered up the toys, I prepared tea for us. And we moved out to the garden where we could sit and have a natter.

It was still early in the day and she looked exhausted. Her hair was in her face, not like I usually see it, neat and pulled back. Her jeans were frayed and she was wearing a t-shirt that was probably older than their children. Once we got past the small talk we turned to her hopes and aspirations. It has always been clear that she loves her husband dearly. But she felt that he didn’t understand all she goes through each day and how challenging it is for her. She felt as if her husband didn’t appreciate her.

A couple of weeks later I returned for another visit. I brought with me an envelope, containing a small surprise for them. The letter inside informed them: This evening, one of our church members will arrive at their home at five. She will prepare the children’s dinner, help them with their homework and get them ready for bed. Whilst she’s doing this, the young couple will be getting themselves ready for an evening out - together – sans children!

I’ve arranged their dinner booking. They won’t know where they’re going until they open an envelope the sitter will present to them. It’s nothing spectacular, but it just adds an element of excitement. And I’ve arranged for a few small things to happen for them during and after dinner. The title on the letterhead is ‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’

And this will be the theme for the evening. The owner of the restaurant has three envelopes to hand the couple during the course of the dinner. Inside each one is a different series of questions, asking what each loves and admires about the other. Another is a list of ‘thanks,’ where they thank the other for all they do. And another is a list of questions as to how they can find spirituality in their family and how that includes their children. There are rules and guidelines as well. For one example, the word ‘but’ is not permitted to be used at any point during the dinner. (‘I love you…but’ is an absolute no no!)

And tonight, just perhaps, they’ll renew their strengths, and rediscover what they adore and admire about each other, as they sail the often-uncharted waters of life together.

Big World Small B

Are You Suffering From Spots or Wrinkles?

When We Need a Little Help

Taking Inventory

Don't Take Me For Granted

Anglican Prayers

Finding The Right Words of Comfort

What does one say to distraught and grieving parents who have just buried their young child?

Truthfully there isn’t much we can say that will help. We can express our sorrow and sympathy. We can offer words of care and concern and of course love. We can tell the parents that we shall pray for them. But for most of us the truth is that we don’t know what to say.

I stood a short distance from the family as mourners came to offer their condolences after the burial. And I watched and listened as people so desperately tried to convey their compassion over the tragic loss this young couple have just experienced.

Some fumbled with words then simply broke into tears. Others offered sentiments that some might consider to be inane or even cruel. ‘You’re both young, you’ll have more children,’ one woman offered. The couple were too lost in their grief to even comprehend what the woman had said.

Perhaps it’s because we don’t know what to say that we sometimes say the wrong things. In our distress with another person’s suffering we often feel that we must offer words that will somehow help move the grieving individuals along.

Personally, I feel there is much more of a spiritual connection and sentiment in the power of a silent embrace. No words are necessary to convey sharing the human emotion of pain and sorrow and loss. Especially when we all accept that there are no answers. And so we weep at what has happened. And so too - God weeps with us.

One elderly gentleman suggested that the child’s death was God’s will. I disagree. The God we worship, our God who watches over us, doesn’t will the death of children, or the pain of their parents. Many, many things that happen in this world are not the will of God. That is part of the price of the freedom we have been given by God.

I watched the couple stand in numb silence as an aunt told them that God wanted their son in Heaven with Him. While I am confident God has welcomed him into His kingdom, I am certain God did not want this child to die right now so that He could have him there.

Others continued to offer the same thought; that they were young and they could have more children. This may be true, but other children will never replace this little life. He was his own person. The empty place his death has left in their hearts will never be filled simply because they have another child. Nor should it be. Every child is unique and precious. I realise that people say such things with a desire to comfort the bereaved. They desperately long to find some way to help. May God Bless them for it.

But know that we are faced with a mystery - the mystery of life, and of death, in which there are no easy answers.

And for the grieving parents who may feel that no one will ever understand their pain?...

God understands. He has a son who died also.

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Bedside Prayer for Death of a Child

Words of Comfort for The Dying

What NOT to Say to Someone Dying

A Child's Death

A Childs Funeral

A Night Vigil For The Dying

I'm Only Dying!

Child Suffering

When Friends and Family Are Needed Most

Exploited Children

Could You Help Save a Child?

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The Death of A Child

I woke up very early this morning, reflecting on the parents I will be with today, who are saying goodbye to their three-year-old son. All those hopes and dreams the parents had for this child are now shattered. And it’s difficult for me to shake the pitiful sight of the young couple clinging to one another, with a mixed look of desperation and despair, the night I stood with them at hospital.

We have all experienced similar images in our lives and sadly we have also experienced real pain in ourselves. But we have tied our despair with faith and hope. Hope is the eternal driving force that remains even when our faith is tested beyond our capabilities. Hope always springs eternal. Yet faith is our seed of comfort and renewal.

In his book 'Beyond the Mirror,' Father Henry Nouwen reflects on death and life in the light of a serious accident one winter's morning. He speaks eloquently of the things that were important in his search for God, but concludes that 'it has been the interruptions to everyday life that have most revealed the divine mystery of which I am a part.'

Deep within each of us is the desire for security. To meet this, we construct around ourselves patterns of living that safeguard us from too much physical, emotional and spiritual discomfort. Interruptions threaten our ordered existence. For some, a break from those comfort patterns can push them deep into an abyss. Their world can collapse and sometimes it becomes impossible for them to climb above the precipice.

As Christians, there is a deep well of spirituality that speaks of God as our security. To lose our security and control over things often becomes the place where faith and hope have to be exercised.

It's often in that uncomfortable place, the place where we are not in control, that we find the interruptions that take something away, and yet, somehow, offer us something new in return.

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Bedside Prayer for The Death of a Child

Words of Comfort For Someone Dying

The Funeral of a Child

Words for a child's funeral? Please Don't!

Having a Good Death

I'm Only Dying

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A Child's Funeral

Tomorrow at eleven I shall celebrate the funeral of a three-year-old boy. It will be difficult for me, but a thousand times more difficult, of course, for the young parents, the grandparents and the rest of the family. Here was a young life full of promise, welcomed with love and longing by his family and it all ended almost before it had begun.

The service for the funeral of a child is desperately moving; though for the family, the liturgy of faith and hope will not be easy either to say or to hear. Yet I know that the family will survive; in one sense life will go on and perhaps in time, they will even be strengthened by this dark and awful experience.

All around us, as we share the service together and lay the tiny coffin deep within the earth, the priorities of our world will continue. People will go about their daily work, their shopping, and their gardens. Newspapers will lay on the kitchen table, with headlines about war in Syria, President Obama, or the Royal Family.

For us, at the graveside, all the world will come to a standstill, just for a minute or two-there will be nothing more important than a small box and a few handfuls of soil. It seems like a parable on the subject of perspective.

Our perspectives for those fleeting moments will be unreservedly clear. Nothing else will matter. And then, of course, we shall return to what we call a ‘normal’ life, where perspectives are seldom clear and often hopelessly distorted. Before we know it, perhaps, the great and small issues of our days will take over, and it will be the price of petrol, or the continued rising deaths in Iraq that disturb our peace of mind.

Jesus accused some of the religious teachers of His time of ‘straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel’ - a very vivid way of saying that they’d got their priorities hopelessly out of perspective. Yet who, in our media-saturated world, really knows which are the gnats and which are the camels? What really matters, and what is of minimal and passing importance in the light of eternity?

In our moments of clear perspective, when our priorities are obvious, the values that tend to emerge are love, commitment, kindness, courage and hope. It’s when the tawdry agenda of every day takes over; celebrity, sport, news and gossip (which are often much the same thing), that we cater to the partisan, to cruel and unthinking words, and harsh, judgemental opinions.

It seems a pity that it takes very often a tragedy or crisis to help us see things so clearly.

As I stand by a child’s grave tomorrow morning I hope I won’t be too quick to forget what I learn there.

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A Child's Death

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Having a Good Death

Don't Worry, I'm only dying

Etiquette For Visitors to Britain

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Words of Comfort For the Dying

What do you say to someone who is dying? What words of comfort for the dying can you offer? And especially, how do we offer prayers for the dying?

A parent of friends of mine is currently in our local hospice. It’s sad to see that his deterioration has come so rapidly and particularly in that he has so clearly been fighting for survival. On Saturday, he was unconscious and it was thought that he would soon pass. But on Sunday morning, he was chatting with his wife and hospice staff. This is not unusual.

It’s a common occurrence to see people in the final hours of their lives, moving between a peaceful calm and an anxious state. There is clearly a struggle in their spirit to live. And it’s a fact that the strength of that spirit is undeniably tied to their struggle to remain on this earthly plain. Even though their physical bodies are failing and damaged beyond our ability to repair, the powerful spirit within that individual – that deep instinct to protect our human shell, fights to accept any kind of quality of life that is offered them.

Death is that moment of passing that comes as the spirit acknowledges that these mortal remains are no longer able to sustain its presence. And it is okay to acknowledge this, to accept it as yet another part of our journey. In fact, this is where the presence of family, friends and carers can often help most, with their words of comfort and prayers. The dying will come to accept the new journey that their spirit needs to take.

If you’re a family member, speak of the happy times you’ve shared together, the celebrations you’ve had, the joys you’ve experienced together and never forget to share how much you love them. Acknowledge that this is just an interval in time and that you will all be together again soon.

If you’ve had a spirited relationship with the person who’s dying, acknowledge that you’ve had your ‘ups and downs,’ but reaffirm the power of that love and ask them to forgive any transgression there may have been. Please, do not use this time to be accusatory or stating what your wishes may have been. This time is long past and by your presence and giving of yourself; you are providing the greatest blessing you could ever imagine – for both of you.

One of the greatest gifts you can provide, whether you’re a family member, friend, or professional carer is the gift of touch. Even when words can no longer be spoken, the gift of touch is a potent form of spiritual communication. I often rub the hands or feet of someone who is in transition. There are times when I stroke their hair. These gentle acts are no different than the loving embrace we receive as we come into this world.

And of course, there’s the power of prayer. Never underestimate the strength of that communication. As you offer your supplications, not only does God hear, but the living spiritual being you’re praying for hears as well. Acknowledging that it’s okay to let go, that there is life beyond is a form of blessing. And indeed, you too will be blessed.


Heavenly Father

You have given us so much. Thank You for the gift of life, for all the treasures we received, through the wealth of those who’ve loved us and those whom we’ve loved.

This body You have given is frail and damaged. And now we ask You to grant us peace, as we begin our next journey, to a new life, free of pain and suffering. Ease the sorrow of those we leave behind, knowing that we will always live on in their heart.

Take my hand and lead me now, until that time when we shall meet again, on that day where there is no sunset and no dawn. Amen

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What Not to Say to Someone Dying

When it's Okay to Let Go

I'm Only Dying!

It's Life Jim, but Not as We Know It!

What's a Good Death?

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A Bedside Prayer for Death of a Child

I was honoured to have attended a child’s passing last night. Kayleigh was nine years old. She would have turned ten in November. Leukaemia had ravaged her body and she was extremely weak from both the illness and the aggressive treatments she had endured over the past few months.

Several hours earlier, the doctors had worked determinedly to resuscitate her when her heart failed. I didn’t need to ask in this case, I instinctively knew that Kayleigh’s mother still had not moved to acceptance that her daughter’s body was failing and thus had refused to sign the ‘DNR’ order, allowing Kayleigh’s spirit to pass on without further interference with her body. But you could see in the eyes of the kind doctor and nurses that they knew what the inevitable outcome would be.

In the early afternoon Kayleigh was talking with her seven-year-old sister Justine and mother. I sat in a chair far in the corner of the room. I could still just barely hear them speak, but couldn’t always clearly hear what was being said. Justine had been devotedly swabbing Kayleigh’s lips with a small sponge on a stick to provide moisture to her lips.

It was just before 5 when Kayleigh’s mother said she needed to take Justine home where her grandmother was preparing dinner. She would return within the half-hour. I promised I would remain with Kayleigh while she was gone.

As I walked with the mother and child to the doors of the ward, Justine looked up at me and said ‘ Kayleigh said she is going to send each of us a card.’ She said it with that beautiful conviction that only children can show, as if they were speaking of Father Christmas arriving the following morning. ‘That’s wonderful Justine,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from her.’

I said goodbye at the hallway and watched the pitiful figure of the mother move down the hallway, with Justine half-skipping, half-running beside her. I could hear Justine cheerfully chatting away about something as I turned back into the hospital ward.

When I returned to Kayleigh’s room, she was still. Her eyes were open and in any other setting, saving the pale grey appearance of her skin, you might have thought she was just gazing at the ceiling. It had only been a matter of minutes from when we had walked out the door to my return and Kayleigh's body had taken its last breath.

I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, but I also felt myself smiling. She was at peace. But there was something much more powerful in the moments that had passed. Kayleigh had fought hard to remain there for her mother and sister – to impart that powerful message to Justine – that she’s only going on a journey, not that she simply wouldn’t exist anymore.

And for both her mother and sister, Kayleigh’s passing occurred at a moment when little Justine would not have been subjected to a repeat of her mother’s frantic and poignant fight to try to protect her daughter from a disease that had ravaged the child’s body.

One of the nurses named Betty, came into the room and saw me standing at the end of the bed. It only took seconds for her to realise that Kayleigh had passed. I was deeply touched because without any words she put her arms around me and hugged me. Betty removed the IV line whilst I closed Kayleigh’s eyes and together we straightened the bed and turned down the lights. I didn’t really think about it, but I took a floppy eared sock rabbit that Justine had brought her sister from the nightstand and tucked it in beside Kayleigh.

I asked Betty if she would like to stay with me as I offered prayers for Kayleigh. She held up her finger to indicate ‘just a moment,’ and she left the room. Seconds later she returned with another nurse and one of the ward assistants. We gathered around Kayleigh’s bed and prayed:

Christ Jesus, most merciful Saviour,

Hear our prayers as we gather in Your name

We commend this child into Your arms of mercy.
Kayleigh has been a blessing to all who knew her.

She brought laughter, warmth, and comfort to many
And in the moments when her mother and others showed despair
Kayleigh provided a noble message of hope and promise,
in her unfailing conviction that her life here may be limited

but is by no means final.

Grant comfort and strength to those who gather here now,
dedicating their lives to the care of others,
who often must face life as it moves to shadows.
Embrace them with Your eternal love

through everything they do.

Thank you for the love we would never have known,
but for Kayleigh’s brief days with us.

May the angels surround Kayleigh

and the saints welcome her with joy.

Lord God, we commend this child to Your everlasting care.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen

One of the staff very sweetly offered to remain with Kayleigh as I walked to the entrance of the hospital to await the return of her mother.
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Now Lord, You let Your servant go in peace. Your word has been fulfilled. Support us O Lord all the day long of this troublous life. Until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes. The busy world is hushed, The fever of life is over and our work is done. Then Lord, in Your mercy, grant us a safe lodging, A Holy rest, and peace at last. Through Christ our Lord. Amen

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Words of Comfort for the Death of a Child

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Helping to Ease the Pain of Dying

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The Best Waitress In The World

A Friend and I had tea at one of Eastbourne’s seaside hotels this weekend. We hadn’t seen one another in many months and I had missed seeing her. We had lots to catch up on. Unfortunately, many of the local seafront hostelries are of the ‘Fawlty Towers’ variety. But the one we chose was actually quite nice.

The sea-front room we sat in wasn’t busy. I wouldn’t expect it to be during off-season. There were no more than 14 guests in the entire dining room. In one corner stood what appeared to be the matriarch of service staff. She looked to be in her sixties and the lines on her face certainly had stories to tell – the most revealing one was that she did not want to be there!

I watched her amble up to her customers, shoulders slumped forward, as if in submission to whatever demon it was that haunted her. And with no movement of her elbows, she’d shove a menu card onto the table and walk away. It was an amazing sight.

To our fortune we had the other waitress. She couldn’t have been any older than 17. There was a sparkle of youth in her eyes and she was actually a bit ‘over-chatty.' As she moved back and forth from the diners to her prep table, she’d glance back several times, as if she were repeatedly taking a mental inventory of the number of people at the table.

There they were, the yin and yang of wait staff. And the scene was not unlike many we witness in Britain’s service industry. Bearing in mind that in Britain salaries for wait staff are deplorable; customers don’t generally tip, and we don’t tend to rate very high on motivating staff. This symbol of age diversity appeared to have just been left to it - to get on with what they were hired to do: distribute teas and cakes and collect the money.

Our waitress’ name was Fiona. I only know this because I asked. She had no nametag. But I always prefer to address staff by a name rather than the anonymous ‘Oh miss!’ You would have thought Fiona was from America. It was less than five minutes before we had a complete dossier on her life, right down to the number of days she had been ‘going with’ her new boyfriend, Bryon. (14 days).

What I found unique was in how Fiona would methodically work through her tasks. When we ordered, she’d repeat it, not write it down. And you could see her point her eyes upwardly, as if she were gazing into her forehead, to ensure that her brain was connected and paying attention. And after she brought our simple order of tea and scones, she quietly but audibly called out the items that were on the table. ‘Spoons, cups, tea, clotted cream, jam, extra hot water.’ ‘No, there wasn’t any extra hot water.’ Fiona said this, not me. And off she went to fetch more water for the teapot.

When Fiona returned with the water I asked her if I could ask her a question. ‘Sure,’ she replied. I told her that I didn’t recall seeing anyone go through such strides before to make sure everything was in place.

Fiona half sighed and half smiled. ‘That’s my Nan over there,’ she said, as she pointed her thumb backwards over her shoulder towards the other waitress, whom I had now bestowed with the name ‘Gloom monster.’ ‘She raised me up on account of my mum couldn’t cope with me. My Nan says I’ll grow up to be nothing, just like me mum. She’s in Brockhill (a women’s prison in the Midlands). But I never see her.'

Fiona went on: ‘I don’t want to be a failure; I want to make something of myself. I like this job and I want to work in one of the fancy hotels in London, but they say you got to have good training.’

I told her I was impressed. I asked if she had received training that taught her to name out the items on the table. ‘No,’ said Fiona, ‘I just hear people complain all the time about my Nan because she never brings them things, so I decided that I would make a list for myself to go through.’ And at that point she pulled out of her apron a crinkled folded sheet of paper and put it in front of me. ‘See,’ she said proudly, ‘this is my list of things I make for myself and I put it on my work station when I start work so I can go over it. Do you think this is the right thing to do?’

The list consisted of roughly written, and badly misspelled words; but the point was clear: Smile, say Hi, ask if they like it, get the order right, ask if you can bring more things. There were other words on the list, but I couldn’t quite make them out.

Her eyes were wide as if she desperately needed someone to validate her creativity. ‘Well done!’ I told her. ‘Who taught you to do this?’ I asked. ‘Nobody, I just want to make sure I do things right,’ she said confidently.

I told her I thought she was doing a lovely job and she should be proud of how hard she was working. Fiona left the table smiling.

She came around twice and asked if there were anything else we would like. Rather than focusing on our originally intended chit-chat, my friend and I continued to watch her. She had regimented herself in the way she served her guests. And my friend noted that it was almost as if Fiona intentionally distanced herself, as far as possible, away from her grandmother.

We didn’t need to ask for the bill. Fiona watched to see when we had finished. She came up and asked if there were anything else she could bring us. And when I said ‘no, thank you,’ Fiona asked if she could leave the bill on our table and she would come collect it whenever it was convenient for us.

I smiled at her. Her demeanour was lovely and I have no doubt, with the determination she showed us, she will rise above the obviously difficult life she has already endured.

But I had a surprise to come. Fiona looked at us and asked, ‘do you mind if I ask you two something?’ I said ‘sure,’ not knowing exactly what was coming. ‘ It’s kind of personal,’ she added.

In that instant I had a sudden surge of adrenaline, as I was preparing myself to be asked if we could either adopt her, or fund some home-study course on hotel management. Shame on me.

‘How long do you think it will take me?’ My friend and I looked at each other. My friend asked, ‘how long will what take?’ Fiona looked at us both. I’m sure she was looking at my friend a bit longer than she looked at me; perhaps she was sizing her up as potential mother, or older sister material. ‘How long will it take me to learn to be the best waitress ever?’

We all encounter moments in our lives that we instinctively know we will never forget for as long as we live. I had to stand up. I smiled at Fiona as I rose from my chair and I placed my hand on her arm and looked intently into her eyes.

‘Fiona,’ I said, ‘You already are the best waitress in the world. Your commitment starts now, this very second. It doesn’t mean you won’t make mistakes. Mistakes are opportunities for learning and doing better. But as long as you are determined to be the best, you will remain the best, forever.’

I think she wanted to hug me. It was quite cute watching her body language as she smiled at me, then looked at my friend, then back at me. She didn’t, but I know she clearly understood what I had shared with her.

There are lots of Fiona’s in this world. And there’s an equal number of Gloom Monsters about as well. But it’s the Fiona’s who will prevail.

So, whatever it is you are striving for; be it a medical degree, a relationship, or the field of hospitality, it is today that you are the best.

Now, leave everyone behind in a trail of smoke!

May God bless you Fiona, wherever life takes you.

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Wanted: Part-Time Wife

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

The Power of Words

Fruitcakes And Other Nutty Concoctions

I’ve had to again read over some of the emails that have bombarded me during the past two weeks. I’ve been tempted to simply block the writer, but truthfully, once I got over the initial shock, some of the mail has actually been quite entertaining.

In one of our blogs I have written about the hopes of young people in our Moldovan village. None of them want handouts; they want to learn skills so they can better their lives. One of those skill opportunities is the possibility of starting a hairdressing school. I have always thought this to be an excellent idea. Well, at least until just recently.

Apparently, according to one series of emails I’ve received, I’m accused of inviting ‘the Seven Headed Beast’ into a village of the ‘already dammed.’ The emails are so verbose, I have to admit, I can only peruse them briefly, but this rant was to suggest that by my endorsing a hairdressing school, I’m promoting promiscuity and moral turpitude. I wish I were making this up, but for my further edification and reading pleasure, it came with hyperlinks as convincing evidence of the writer’s position.

The writer’s epistle offered me instructional advice as to how to speak with homeless, abandoned, and deserted children. And the writer went on to suggest that if I fail to follow her advice I will be perpetually damned. (Does that mean I will be forced to read her emails in perpetuity?)

My favourite part was a warning to me, regarding a lady named ‘Pinky’ who might be 'trying to offer her services in teaching line dancing at the children’s summer camp.' According to my venerable friend, I need to be aware of the slippery slope I could follow in allowing this woman to teach children the Macarena and dancing to the tune Kokomo by the Beach Boys.

It would be grand if this were the only person who has discovered the far-reaching fingers of the internet. If only! But it is my pleasure to offer some simple responses to a few of the questions I’ve received this week:

(1). No, there is no concern about being shot at from the Iraqi’s when in Moldova; you’re several thousand miles and a continent off there, mate.

(2). Bram Stoker was actually Irish and I’m not convinced that I need to ‘protect myself’ from the ‘blood sucking evils’ that wander the land at night, unless you are referring to some of the people I see in Waffle Houses in the middle of the night, whenever I visit America. But thank you for your concern.

(3). Sir, I will need to leave it to your own imagination as to where people go to the toilet in the dead of winter, when they have no indoor plumbing. But it left me wondering where do americans go to the toilet when the only options they are offered is a room to rest?

(4). Yes Madam, ‘London’ is a quaint little place. No, unfortunately, I haven’t seen The Queen recently, the tube stop in East Sussex seems to have been damaged during the war, but we’re all going to sit down over a cup of tea and scones to see how we can sort that problem out right now!

(5) I assure you Sir, there was no effrontery on my part when I offered a recipe for an English dish called Spotted Dick. You have my word that such a dish really does exist and is not some miss-guided attempt at crude levity! Spotted Dick is as popular as fags here in Britain!

Falling in Love at The Plaza Hotel

When We Need a Little Help

Living in Sin. The Great Marriage Debate

There has always been great debate over the commitments made through the act of marriage. Some take offence to the idea of having clergy or government confirming the validity of their relationship. And in our modern-thinking society, sometimes it can be easy to understand why.

Some may not be aware, but marriages haven't always taken place in churches. Centuries ago, the couple used to make their marriage vows in the church porch, with family and friends gathered around to witness. The priest’s role was to be there to register their commitment and then lead the party into church to pray with them.

In the eighteenth century, the whole ceremony moved into the church. Even then, some clergy worried that it would look as though the priest was marrying the couple, where, in fact, the couple themselves are the ministers of their marriage. The role of the priest is to witness, register, pray with and bless them. For me, it’s a great privilege and honour to be part of a couple’s history.

I find weddings aren't just for the happy couple. We often find ourselves thinking about our own relationship, giving thanks or asking forgiveness, mending hurts and renewing vows.

One of the most beautiful life experiences I enjoy is in the celebration of a wedding. For young people, who have truly prepared themselves for this commitment, it is profoundly touching to hear them exchange their vows: They submit to one another; in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for the rest of our lives, until death do us part. Amen.

And as you celebrate with them, you hear their dreams; their hopes, and plans for how they will live out their lives, growing old together. They receive no guarantee of what may be around the corner, or exactly what ‘for better or worse’ may mean, as the weeks and months melt into years and decades. Yet they celebrate their ‘yes’ with joyful hearts. They give themselves to each other lovingly and for life.

For those who have been married for many years, you may feel it’s their sheer youthful ignorance or lack of life experiences that let them make such a commitment. You could be partly right. But I feel, in most cases, there is something much more.

It’s the conviction that makes our lives real and worth living. And it is that pure committed love that never counts the cost. Real love says ‘we’ll take the risk and pay the price, whatever it may be, because we want a real life and not just a performance or show.’ And that commitment flows over to foster greater trust, security and inner peace. And it extends beyond the couple – providing powerful foundations for children in seeing how commitment supports our lives.

Cohabitation may be just that -two individuals living their lives under one roof. Alternatively, it may be that those two individuals have chosen to make a poignant and indisputable commitment to one another.

I have heard the term ‘living in sin’ much of my adult life. Many would feel it is a sin to cruise through life, living on middle-ground, where commitment, honour, and loyalty are either irrelevant or unnecessary elements to living. Some might simply suggest it’s a fear of commitment, or a more simple thought that ‘yes, I’m committed to you until the going gets rough, or I tire of you, or you no longer become useful to my needs.’

Almost all of us have spoken our key ‘yesses,’ whether it’s at the birth of a child, at the time of a marriage or for any other pivotal moment in our lives. And now most of us stand somewhere in the middle of living out our ‘yesses.’

Doing so can at times be painful, distressing, or just simply boring, and sometimes our ‘Yesses’ can grow faint. That's when we need to remember exactly why we spoke our ‘Yes’ in the first place: because we loved and we knew what the power of that love brings us.

Commitment is demonstrable love. It’s an irresistible life-force and it endures all things, overflowing on us all.

‘Three things last for ever,’ said St Paul, ‘faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.’

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Boston Stopver Trips

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Etiquette For Visitors To Britain

I do hope you will accept my most sincere apologies for this. It’s just that my pores are seeping with vitriolic indignation at the moment.

We have a gentleman who landed on our ‘green and pleasant land’ several years ago, who has remained here at Her Majesty’s pleasure far longer than we wished him to. He simply doesn’t seem to understand the fundamentals of social etiquette.

From the very start, the venerable Abu Qatada, whose real name is Omar Othman, has not been a very considerate guest. Since his arrival he has deliberately and actively promoted the most extreme and repugnant jihadist causes, narrowing his venomous and malicious attention upon vulnerable people across our country. He has maligned and denigrated our social values and beliefs, nor does he even bother to put the toilet seat up! As HRH might discreetly say about our guest; ‘we are most displeased!’

Clearly, Mr Qatada never bothered to read any books on social etiquette, nor listen to advice from such social luminaries as Ita Buttrose. Had he done so he would have known the old maxim: whether fish or house guest – both begin to smell after a few days.

After years of our politely hinting to Mr Qatada, Othman, Moth Man - whatever you want to call him, we finally had to step outside of our normal traditions of hospitality and tell him ‘Go Home Abby!’ In fact, just as an enticement, Her Majesty’s courts pointed out to Mr Qatada, that there was a sincere and earnest invitation from his native country of Jordan, where they would absolutely love to have him come home. They were keen to see his holiday slides and hear more about what he has been up to.

But Mr Qatada has dug in his heels. He’s afraid that should he return to Jordan, he might be faced with a lifetime of having to eat falafel and chic peas again, rather than our lovely traditionally British fayre of jellied eels, winkles, and spotted dick!

Being the wonderfully generous hosts the British are known for, we bought him a lovely new orange jumpsuit and prepared to place him on an Easy Jet flight back to Jordan. Je finis!

Sadly, our ministers had failed to appreciate how utterly envious Mr Qatada has become of our great British lifestyle. He too wants to have his own free house, along with free medical visits to the proctologist, and eye glasses prescriptions, and especially his free packet of cash fortnightly. He has become far too enamoured with our lifestyle to return to his own.

After spending years of watching american telly re-runs of Judge Judy every morning, Mr Qatada became enticed by the commercials featuring little Gumby-like figurines, screaming about how they’d been given the wrong ladder, or had tripped on a banana peel at the zoo and could now collect thousands of pounds for this travesty. Mr Qatada recalled all the times when he had slipped on bars of soap in the shower, and had to be helped a bit by his cell-mate – a rather large chap named Herschel, whose father was once a famous Zulu warrior.

So he got on the phone and called the National Terrorist Help Line demanding justice! His solicitors jumped into action. Clearly Mr Qatada’s rights had been violated. He claimed we had been torturing him on a daily basis; he was forced to sleep on down pillows, when he had specifically asked for foam. And not once – not one single time during his stay here had he ever been offered free breast-implants on the NHS! So off to the courts his solicitors went.

Look, we’re British. We don't subscribe to the practise of excessive huggy-feely, mawah-mawah air kissing of cheeks kind of stuff. Her Majesty’s Courts simply said ‘Thank you for your visit. It’s time for you to go home. And by the way, we’ll give you a pack lunch of salmon and cucumber sandwiches.’ But this simply wasn’t enough for Mr. Qatada. He certainly wasn’t having any of it! Firstly, who would EVER fly on Easy Jet? He wanted access to the First Class Lounge at Heathrow and to fly on British Airways... And there would be none of that ‘Premium Economy’ nonsense; at the very least, he expected to be in Business Class!

But we demurred. We felt certainly we had done enough and it was time for him to leave. In a conciliatory moment, Her Majesty’s Courts did agree to up the ante just a bit and offered to provide a ‘collectors edition’ DVD box of Coronation Street shows. Our reasoning was that our former Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, had sent the same thing to Barack Obama and he never once wrote to complain. If it was good enough for ‘The Pres,’ surely it would impress Mr Qatada. Apparently not.

Today the National Terrorist Help Line has contacted Mr Qatada, telling him that they’ve obtained an injunction against the United Kingdom, preventing us from flying him back to Jordan. They had secretly obtained a copy of British Airway’s new in-flight menu for Business Class. Nowhere on the menu was there a mention that Cardamom coffee would be provided. This is an appalling and malicious violation of Mr Qatada’s rights.

Now, rather sadly, The European Court of Human Rights has issued a mandate prohibiting Her Majesty from sending Mr Qatada home! Their leading reason is about Jordan. They have a fear that Jordan might be worried Mr Qatada has been here so long he now may be using language we hear on Gordon Ramsay’s cookery shows. Their tender ears are far too sensitive to be subjected to such foul language.

Now we’re facing a paradox. We can’t keep Mr Qatada in prison. We’re required to release him into society where he could start selling Amway products or Time Share holidays. To keep him at Her Majesty’s pleasure is a violation of his ‘rights.’ Nor can we send him home as this could be a violation of his ‘rights.’ He may have some overdue library books and the Jordanians take a grim view of these things. SO what do we do?

To coin a phrase from a vapid commercial featuring talking meerkats with Russian accents; ‘Simples!’ We give the venerable Mr Qatada a choice: He can either go home to Jordan with a complimentary package of nappies. (because he’s gonna need them after he gets through answering the questions Jordan has for him.) OR, he can try another slant on what freedom means.

He can have a long-stay holiday, where all his ‘rights’ are respected, where the food is good, and the weather is warm, at Guantanamo Bay Cuba.

There. Done. We’ve given the Venerable Mr. Qatada freedom; Freedom of choice: He may choose between the life he has created for himself, or the life for which he is accountable.

Simples!

Background of Abu Qatada

Our Freedom of Spirit

Rage Isn't An Excuse

Abu Qatada release from Long Lartin Jail

So What's a Fundamentalist?

A different Dogma to consider

For Unto Us a Child is Born

I've just arrived home from celebrating Midnight Mass. The turnout was lovely. Celebrating Christ's arrival were 4 woofs, 2 meows, 1 cluck (a duck) and a small boy with his pet ferret. (I'm not certain what sound a ferret makes.) Oh, and there were 286 humans. All found time from their busy schedules to come together to lift voices in celebration of our Saviour's birth.

As people flowed out of the chapel, shaking my hand, many said they weren't sure they were going to bed tonight - there were presents still unwrapped, the turkey hadn't completely thawed, tables needed setting and a host of other concerns.

Clearly, there is a lot happening this Christmas. But it is not at parties, or in shopping, or the excitement of the Christmas lights. To find out what is really going on you need to stop and listen; if you listen closely enough, perhaps you will hear it: a sharp, persistent cry: the cry of a baby: God's cry, as He visits His people. He is the Word made flesh, yet newly-born He cannot speak. But goodness, how He wails. Every mother knows that imploring sound: it stops her in her tracks, makes her put everything down and run towards the child. It is a cry for help and protection; a cry for love and intimacy.

The Child of Bethlehem cries on behalf of the lost and the lonely, the exiled stranger, those struck by grief; His is the cry of the elderly who spend most of their hours alone, the prisoner who faces his own guilt, the trafficked children who are frightened and exploited, the orphans suffering from HIV and AIDS. They are not asking for much- only to be part of the human family. Whether it’s the abandoned children of the world, or here at home, do not forget that He cries for you too, whoever you are: for deep in our own hearts we are all pleading for intimacy and merciful love.

When you are with those you love this Christmas, I hope you will listen for that cry in the hearts of others. And that the cry of the hearts of the people outside your windows stops you in your tracks.

In Moldova and Romania, at the end of the Christmas Mass, people kiss one another with the words, 'Christ is born!', and the kisses are returned with the answer: 'Truly He is born!'.

You can kill people in crowds, but you can only kiss them one by one. The message of the Christ Child is that we are not a crowd. We are many; but God sees only each of us. Tonight God slips gently into the world as a child, to be with us. There is nothing we have done that cannot be forgiven; there is nothing about us which will stop God loving us. Listen for the sound. God is crying for you and me. He wants to embrace you.

To find out what is really going on this Christmas, let Him.

I wish you a Joyous Christmas. May you experience Christ's love in everything you do!

Fr Bill+

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The Meaning of Christmas

There's some certainty to the fact that whoever is reading this blog is an adult. And there is a statistical probability that you may not even have time to read the laboriously languid tripe I write, be it today, or ever. Bottom line...everyone is busy!

People are making frantic dashes to the market and shops for that last minute purchase and some of us might even admit to be filling out a Christmas card for someone whom we 'forgot,' and are slightly uneasy over the fact we've just received a card from them. In other words - it's all a big rush.

But somehow tonight, in whatever country you live, a sort of magic will fall on each of us. Sure, we'll probably still be stressed; someone will be fretting over the big meal that must be made and you'll somehow endure the bumping and pushing in stores, but on the whole, the Christmas magic will do its work- Kindness, good will, sympathy, compassion, and charity, and a willingness to overcome the Scrooge that is in many of us.

Of course, I will have to acknowledge with sadness that the Christmas Eve magic soon fades. The week will pass in a bewildering and dazzling kaleidoscope of tinsel, carols, turkey with all the trimmings, stockings and presents, Scrabble tournaments, a fun game of Monopoly or Charades, sports on the telly, and for us here in The United Kingdom: Her Majesty's Christmas message. (and we wish Prince Philip a speedy recovery!). Shortly after however, the decorations will go back into the box; life will return to normal and Scrooge reigns for another year.

But at least as Christians, we do know that there is another sense of values in which true meaning is found. If only the magic which possesses us at Christmas could be made to last, what a different world we would have - instead of a world in which we long for peace and prepare for war; instead of a world where we constantly make excuses for our own personal failures; instead of a world in which there is plenty to eat and where millions perish for lack of food; instead of a world where we talk so much of love but hate reigns- ah, Christmas Eve beckons us on, not to rely on magic but on action.

When we are willing to invite the mysterious Christ-child into our hearts we will find that the Christmas 'magic' lasts forever.


Loving Father, into this magical season of Christmas, we come to worship that little child whose life was given for us. May His spirit dwell within us, that we may all become His instruments in reaching out to others. We pray that Your gentle breath touches those who have been referred to this blog during the year, whilst searching for words of comfort for the loss of a loved one, the death of a child, or the pain of personal loss. I offer my thanks for the friendships I have made through this medium. May our happiness bring peace into our hearts, making us peacemakers in our homes and communities, and make us, in small but real ways, makers of peace in our world. Amen


A Christmas Note:

This year has been the most challenging year we've experienced since I started my mission in Eastern Europe. I have more children entrusted to my care than I've ever had, gas and electricity prices have soared, and the cost of food has literally doubled over the past two years. And tragically, many of the kind people who have supported us for over a decade are facing their own financial crises. The world is in a real pickle. I've taken pride in the fact that I've never once asked for financial assistance since I began these blogs. But today I need to. For a place like Moldova, even €10 will make a difference. If you can help, thank you from my heart. If you cannot, I still thank you for coming to my blogs; I hope you have found an occasional smile.

There is a small panel at the bottom of the page of the link below that says 'send a gift.' You can use any credit card or PayPal. And if you'd like your gift to be used for a specific purpose, please let me know and I'll be honoured to do so.
I wish you a joyous Christmas! Fr. Bill+


Send A Gift

Shout Away The Darkness

When We Need a Little Help

Perhaps You Need a Little 'Dog' in Your Life!

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

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