Big World Small Boat

The Death of A Child

2012-01-23T10:41:00.000Z

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.

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

Fruitcakes And Other Nutty Concoctions

2012-01-12T12:50:00.001Z

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

2012-01-11T14:58:00.000Z

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.’

Are You Suffering From Spots or Wrinkles?

Music is a Gift from God

Boston Stopver Trips

For Unto Us a Child is Born

2011-12-25T02:19:00.001Z

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+

The Meaning of Christmas

2011-12-24T05:45:00.002Z

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

Our Greatest Gifts

2011-12-23T06:25:00.000Z

It was just about this time last year when my son made a comment that has stuck with me throughout the year. He was tickled at watching me rather frantically try to balance my Christmas week’s duties. I was endeavouring to juggle in the midst of lousy health, two funerals, a string of home visits, trying to squeeze in the shopping for the food we would cook and deliver on Christmas Day, plus our own Christmas meal. And particularly challenging was an appointment schedule where I was to meet up with a pianist at numerous nursing homes, where we were to sing Christmas carols with the residents.

Unfortunately, the pianist had a proclivity for becoming, er, um, ‘filled with the spirit’ before he came to the nursing homes and he was in more need of the Zimmer frames to get about than the residents. Compounding the situation was the fact that although he was an accomplished musician, his Jack Daniels infused repertoire would begin with Silent Night, but somehow segue into an impromptu rendition of Let Me Entertain You from the musical Gypsy, complete with leg kicks and gyrations!

Willem described the last week of Advent as my week of “überchurch.” Well, I suppose he’s right. It is a week of ‘heavy church’ for us, the clergy. But it’s part of our vows to be there and it’s part of our natural composite which makes us want to serve.

But there are many others who labour so hard during this time of year to make the season of Christmas come to life. From the kindness of their hearts, people come from their busy homes and their demanding jobs to decorate the church, wash and iron the fresh altar linens, polish the silver and brass, arrange the flowers and prepare for our celebration of Christ’s birth. All of their labour is to the glory of God.

In many ways, I see the selfless work these kind souls perform as redemptive. It’s reflected in the eloquent squares of crisp white linens, in the purificators, in the gleam of the freshly polished chalice and paten – they speak of a restored human nature, of the rough places levelled and straightened, of all the stains of human life on earth removed in Christ.

The holly and the ivy that adorn the pews promise renewal to the people of God in the depths of Winter. And I believe that these physical things can often speak volumes to the masses of people who will arrive on Christmas Eve but not at other times. It may be that they don’t think much about God during any other time of the year. But it may just be that this one time, those loving touches of colour added by a dedicated team of ‘miracle makers’ could awaken something within them – something that helps them begin to hear with their inner ear.

This all came to mind this evening as I stood in the cemetery, surrounded by the solstice dark. I’ve just returned from hospital in Eastbourne where a friend lingers in the balance between death and life. He has been in a coma for the past three days. His wife refuses to leave his side.

As Mr Piddles did his reconnaissance check around the perimeter of the cemetery, in search of UFO’s (unidentified furry objects), I took the opportunity to look up at the bright constellations.

And I gave thanks to God for all that is good in our lives and for the fact that we are connected with one another in a bond that cannot be severed.

Father Bill Haymaker +

Choosing The Right Christmas Present

Words of Comfort For The Dying

Shouting Away The Darkness

How To Choose The Right Christmas Present

2011-12-22T12:23:00.000Z

It's a reality that so many people spend a majority of their time preparing for Christmas by trying to find the right presents. Searching, buying, hiding, wrapping, are the main activities in the build-up to Christmas Day. And something that closely resembles panic sets in when, as seems to happen even with the best laid plans, these tasks are all squeezed into the last few days before, or even into Christmas Eve.

I too share some guilt in this. My first inclination would be to blame my heavy calendar. However, the truth is I'm hopelessly disorganised when it comes to trying to decide what I want to give to whom.

It seems important to give the right gift, and yet as the wonderfully acerbic poet John Betjeman memorably puts it in his famous poem 'Christmas,' we often end up giving or getting 'bath salts and inexpensive scent and hideous tie so kindly meant.'

Betjeman isn't meaning to dismiss these humble gifts, however. His point is that the inadequacy of the things we give at Christmas does not matter, because no gift could possibly compare with 'this most tremendous tale of all,' the gift of love eternal in a recognizably vulnerable human form.

And yet, it still seems true that we all want our gifts to be valued and remembered. Though Betjeman is right to think that no gift of ours stands in comparison with God's gift, the desire that our gifts have meaning behind them has a good theological basis as well.

Giving is a way of putting ones self aside and making others matter. I choose the gift and pay for it, but what I choose and how much I pay is decided by your wants and needs. The right gift will always reveal our knowledge of the person who receives it.

And so it is with the Incarnation itself. It is a great mystery how the divine could become human, but however we understand it, it is essential to see that at its heart is God's setting aside His divine nature in order to enter fully into the humanity of His creatures.

May all your gifts be wrapped with love.

Advent - Moving From Darkness to Light

It's a Wonderful Life

Suffer The Children

Preparing For Christmas

2011-12-22T05:20:00.000Z

We’re now reaching the last weekend before Christmas. And as with every single year in the past, the newspapers will be sure to find someone - usually a clergyman, to voice the complaint that the whole season has become nothing more than an orgy of spending and consumption, and to declare that they intend to 'drop out' and give the money they save to people who need it.

With equal certainty, this will then be matched by another voice, condemning such a killjoy attitude and insisting that we should join in the full festivities, grateful that even such a secular world as ours still gives so much to a major Christmas festival.

This little ritual is a regular occurrence because both voices strike a chord. Sometimes it really does seem as though Christmas Day, when it comes, is more of a whimper than a bang, and all the preparation and expenditure ends in a 'celebration' that for a lot of people doesn't amount to much more than a day in front of the telly, watching special editions of programmes they would have watched anyway.

At the same time, it's deeply built into human beings that from time to time they should push the boat out, and organise occasions when the economical gives way to the extravagant. To refuse ever to do this is not to remain sensible in the face of general foolishness, but to cast ourselves in the part of Scrooge.

It might seem that the answer lies in striking a balance, but the matter goes deeper than this. To know how and where to strike that balance, we need to experience a genuine sense of celebration; we need to know what the point of all the activity is, and what gives it meaning.

Otherwise, Christmas really is just going through expensive, if not time honoured motions, a case of perfectly pointless 'shop till you drop.'

Perhaps this Christmas season, amidst the financial woes of the world, we will think a bit less of the commercial and begin to focus more on our greatest and most meaningful gifts - family, friends, and the greatest gift of all - the one that arrived in a grotty barn on a star filled night.

Choosing the Right Christmas Present

Nothing Unimportant Ever Happens at The Plaza!

How To Become The Best Waitress in The World

Dying Alone.

Denying Christmas

2011-12-15T04:02:00.000Z

Without fail, every Christmas, the same tired old chestnuts are given an airing. There are the complaints about the commercialisation of the Festival - which seem to me to be as futile as bemoaning the coldness of ice. The modern Christmas we both celebrate and deny is as much an invention of the industrial revolution as the steam engine.

And there are the secularists who shout to anyone who will listen that Christmas is a fraud. December 25th was not Christ’s birthday. Christians pilfered the winter solstice from the pagans and turned it into the festival of the Nativity. Clearly, there's some truth to this. What the old religion imperfectly glimpsed, Christianity brought into the full light of day. Now Christmas has become embroiled in the political correctness debacle. Even the Red Cross has banned Christmas cards from their catalogues for fear their neutrality might be compromised.

But cries of political correctness can’t undermine the true meaning of Christmas, because all the popular imagery of the greetings card - star, stable, shepherds - play a quite minor if evocative role in the story. Indeed, historians tell us that for the first three or four centuries of the Church’s existence, there was no Christmas Day. Apparently, the earliest Christians found no need to assign a fictitious date to Christ’s birth in order to anchor the incarnation within the calendar. They celebrated Christmas and Easter every time they met.

Christmas is about the arrival of the Messiah, and there’s an incident in the Gospel where the disciples of John the Baptist come to ask Jesus whether or not he is the Messiah. In his reply, Jesus never even mentions the circumstances of his birth.

Instead, He tells them to report to John that the blind see again, the lame walk, the deaf hear, lepers are cleansed and the poor are given good news. Their condition could be transformed by the coming of the Kingdom of God, which Jesus embodies - justice, peace and joy by the power of the Spirit brought within the range of all.

That’s the core theme of Christmas. The poet John Donne wrote, 'I need thy thunder, O God; thy songs no longer suffice me.' The danger is that we may be so mesmerised by the songs of Christmas that we fail to hear the sound of approaching thunder, as the Messiah inspires us to establish justice, peace and joy on the earth.

Think how the burdens of so many wonderful humanitarian agencies, charities, and missions could be greatly eased if this political as well as religious vision of Christmas could be realised.

It's the thunder that gives us vision and strength to reach out and help others in need.

Choosing the Right Christmas Present

The Power of Words

A Lonely Death

De Adviento, Pasando de la Oscuridad a la Luz

Merry Xmas!

2011-12-10T22:44:00.000Z

Here we are in the midst of a beautiful Advent and I’ve heard my first cranky retort regarding a Christmas card. A very kind and dear lady stood over me as I was seated at my desk this morning. She held pinched between her fingers, as if she were holding a soiled nappy, an envelope. ‘Look!’ she exclaimed! ‘How offensive!’

Curiously I took the envelope in my hand. On the back were the handwritten words ‘Happy Xmas!’ and the sender had hand-drawn a small cross. Inside was a lovely card bearing an image of a Greek icon depicting Christ.

It’s so easy for us to become caught up in our secular world that we often lose track of, or even patience for understanding the world around us. In this case the sender of the card had created, in my opinion, a rather thoughtful use of their time.

The first letter in the Greek word for Christ is ‘chi’ and the Greek letter for ‘chi’ is represented by a symbol similar to the letter ‘X’ in the modern Roman alphabet. Therefore, ‘Xmas’ is certainly an appropriate demonstration of their sincerity and creativity in sending a Greek icon image as a Christmas card.

Just as one might use ‘Xian’ as an alternative for the word ‘Christian,’ perhaps there had been even more thoughtfulness on the part of the sender who may have seen herself caught in a quagmire of political correctness. It’s hard to say.

But if we’re forced to live in a world where we may no longer speak from the heart, write from the heart, and love from the heart, out of fear as to whether it will cause someone else offence, we may find ourselves simply no longer bothering to communicate at all.

And wouldn’t that make our world sad?

Father Bill Haymaker+

It's a Wonderful Life

Who Are We Forgetting?

Moving From Darkness to Light

The Darker Side of Christmas

2011-12-10T18:12:00.000Z

This may seem an odd subject to write about at this point in Advent, but this year there have been many successes in the arrests of child-traffickers and those who exploit women and children for gain. I see this as a wonderful blessing. But there is still a long way to go.

The trafficking of the young and innocent is an appalling offence. It inevitably affects the most vulnerable and least secure of women and children, making them false promises and offering false hope. These girls from Eastern Europe, often struggling with poverty, come to our country in trust, dependent for their safety on those who brought them over, believing that here they’ll find a loving home, honest work and have legal protection.

Instead, they’re betrayed, exploited and abused by the very people they depend upon. Often lured by women working for the traffickers, the girls are sold the dream of a safe, loving family of other girls in similar circumstances who will care for them and help guide them along the way in their new life. How tragically different the truth is.

Enforced prostitution is an utter violation of women. It is a violation by a whole racketeering industry, which treats them as commodities and robs them of sexual integrity. It is a violation by individuals who want what the women have, without any respect for who they are.

And yet, this is an appropriate Christmas story. For it taps us into the darker side of Christmas. It reminds us this is the kind of world that God came into: a world where the vulnerable are abused and where to be fragile is to be easily exploited. Human violation of the defenceless was as great at that first Christmas as it is now; with homeless refugees on the move, and the slaughter of hundreds of innocent children.

The irony of the Christmas event is that God didn’t come as a great military hero to impose a new regime, or as the world’s policeman to do a clean-up job. He came precisely as one of the world’s most vulnerable: a baby, defenceless, fragile, unable to help himself, utterly dependent on those who were His protectors.

The Christian story challenges the very foundations of all our play-safe policies, our protection against being vulnerable, our fear of powerlessness. For it says instead, that the vulnerable matter, the weak are highly significant, the susceptible are important, the defenceless count. In taking on human vulnerability at its most fragile God gives dignity to each defenceless person, and requires us, in our relationships and our laws, to do the same.

Living without defences, Christ knows the sufferings of people who struggle under evil, whether girls sold into prostitution or parents of murdered children, and God will act on their behalf. For in the vulnerability of a baby in a manger lies the power of divine love and justice.

The story of Christmas is Emmanuel, God with us.

May your own Christmas be filled with warmth and joy!

Father Bill Haymaker+

The Trafficked Child

Suffer The Children

Who Are We Forgetting?

We Should Never Forget

2011-11-11T06:47:00.000Z

Once again, today our nation will come to a standstill. Cars and busses will stop. Heathrow and Gatwick Airport will turn off its jet engines. Children at schools will rise and stand in silence and thousands will stop on the streets in tribute to those who surrendered their lives for freedom. At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, the Great War came to an end.

By the end of World War I, nine million soldiers had died and twenty one million were wounded. And the losses were compounded by the deaths of civilians. Over six million died from starvation and disease.

This small act of remembrance, marking the official day when the war ended, is a powerful gesture to show that those lives that were lost in our quest for freedom was not in vain. It also serves as an act of defiance – a powerful message that we reject the ways of oppression.

And it is not just the war of past that we honour today. We are recognising all who have given so much in the name of our freedoms. This morning, the QE2, just hours before she makes her final journey, after six million miles of circumnavigating the world, will be showered with a million poppies. During the Falklands war the QE2 was conscripted into service. Over a thousand crewmembers volunteered to remain with her as she sailed into war. And there are countless soldiers - men and women who have given their lives in the Middle East in the name of freedom for others.

Even ninety years later, we are still haunted by the mass futile deaths of World War 1. The war poet Wilfred Owen wrote a poem entitled Futility. He writes of his desire to move a dead body into the sun, reflecting how that very same sun woke the soldier when at home and how it still brings seeds to life, but cannot make the corpse live. His moving poem ends on a note of anger and protest.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

to break earth’s sleep at all?

The carnage of World War I and the heroic struggle to defeat Nazism in World War II stunned Europe into a realisation that we must find a way forward together. I don’t believe that God contrives terrible things in order to teach us a lesson. That is not the kind of God in whom I believe. Rather, when terrible things happen, which they seem to do as part of the price of having a world at all, it is our responsibility to recognise what went wrong and what steps we should now take to stop such tragedies ever happening again.

Today, as the last remaining survivors of the Great War lay wreaths at the base of the Cenotaph in remembrance of their fallen brothers, let us not forget what others have given that we may call ourselves free.

Remembrance Day

Lest We Forget

A Night Vigil

Lest We Forget

2011-11-09T06:13:00.000Z

I am profoundly saddened to have received a letter earlier this year from my Bishop's office advising us that there’s a number of Church of England clerics who are refusing to allow Remembrance Day Services to take place in their churches this year. Their given reason is that they perceive such services to be glorifying war. How absurd!

The first ‘Day of Remembrance’ was observed in 1919. Originally it was called Armistice Day to commemorate the armistice which occurred on November 11, in 1918, signalling the end of the bloodiest war the world has ever seen. This was the first formal occasion to remember those who died.

In 1945, at the end of World War II, the British and Australian governments officially changed the name to Remembrance Day as ‘Armistice Day’ wasn’t considered an appropriate term for honouring all those throughout the world who had sacrificed their lives.

I will not hide the fact that I was deeply disturbed by the letter I received. I just as with countless others, give thanks on this day for all those who sacrificed so much, not only for our freedom and values, but for our children and their children to come.

These young men and women, often not much older than children, who left the comfort and safety of their homes, marched into the very depths of hell for us. There was no sterile tactical force, where euphemistic descriptions of ‘insurgents’ and ‘counter strikes’ were used. No, these soldiers faced their enemies, often having to look another frightened man (child) in the eye and making decisions that no person should ever be forced to make; to kill another human being.

Many left their homes as young innocent children. They exchanged that comfort and safety for mud and ice, rain, and fear. The fear was so intense that you could smell it all about you-that is unless it was replaced with the stench of death. Many of them had their bodies ripped apart. Many tried to save themselves after discovering their intestines hanging outside their bodies, only to collapse in the relentless cold mud and ice a few minutes later.

I buried a man last year who only had one arm. His other arm and both his legs had been blown off by a German grenade. But two friends of his who were at the funeral, told me that despite his legs being missing and his arm dangling beside him, only held on by threads of tissue, he refused to leave his fellow soldiers. He was firing at the enemy until they physically removed the gun from his hand.

You see, in real life when in battle, soldiers don’t fight for their country so much as they fight for each other. The rule is 'perish if you must, but save your mate first.'

These soldiers never had the chance to debate whether war was right or wrong. For all the horror stories we’ve heard over the years, we lose track of the sight that our soldiers saved lives as well as took them. They fed the hungry, tended the sick, clothed the naked and ministered to the poor.

These citizens gather each year to remember those who did not come home; families who had been robbed of everything-fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, lost innocence, lost youth, and lost dreams. And they gather to give thanks-thanks for all the gifts God has bestowed on them. These men and women know, from the depths of their souls, what hell really is and therefore they appreciate and celebrate the joys of living, as few others know how.

I will forever be in gratitude to all who have served and lost their lives in war. The very fact that I may write this today is a result of the principles for which so many have died.

On the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, we too shall be honouring the lives of those who so courageously gave so much for our freedom, our children’s freedom, and our country’s freedom.

It is the very least we can do.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condem
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them

‘for the fallen’ (4th stza) by: Laurence Binyon

posted for Fr Bill

The Last Tommy

Remembrance Day

As Long As We're Remembered

Finding Words Of Comfort

An Anglican Compendium of Thoughts and Prayers

Anglican Prayers

Meet Me At The Plaza!

2011-10-28T10:35:00.002Z

'Nothing Unimportant Ever Happens At The Plaza.'

What brilliant use of a double negative! It’s a marketing tag line used by The Plaza Hotel in New York City thirty years ago.

Recently, Christie’s held the closing auction for the remnants of the world’s most famous hotel, in anticipation of her glorious rebirth as a half-hotel/half-condominium for the nouveau riche. (The noveau pauvre moved across the street to the Sherry Netherland)! Sold in lots were The Plaza’s ornate chandeliers, the heavy polished brass door knobs, embossed with the unique double P logo, mirrors, fixtures, ash trays, and what remaining silver plate that hadn’t been carted off in the open house sale that was held at the hotel last year.

The Plaza, one of the only hotels in the world where you could either hail a taxi or a horse drawn carriage, catered to the most diverse clientèle in the world, ranging from the wealthiest of society, such as the Vanderbilt’s, all the way down to …well…me I suppose.

I could wax lyrical for weeks about my own memoirs of The Plaza and how she's weaved in and out of my life, but anyone who has stayed there will have their own profound memories. The Plaza became an indelible fibre of my memories during my childhood and she has remained there for me throughout my life. It was the first telephone number I memorised as a child (PLaza 9-3000).

She was the perfect rendezvous point for any occasion, whether it was a simple breakfast in the Edwardian Room overlooking Central Park and Fifth Avenue, to an enjoyable chat with friends in the Oak Bar, followed by a fun dinner downstairs in Trader Vics. And if you wanted a place to enjoy after theatre, there was nothing like heading to New York’s only remaining Palm Court for hot chocolate and canapés.

I can't begin to count all the experiences I had and friendships that developed with people whom I certainly never 'deserved' to know, but to this day remain 'discreet' friends with. Black and White Balls, a sheik who had a live sheep delivered to his suite, (which fascinated me to no end), incredible rows I overheard and sometimes witnessed, as their battles moved out into the hallways, and a plethora of people who live in the balance between fame and infamy-they all formed the life and blood of this incredible grande dame.

The flickering fairy lights of their lanterns, as children ice-skated in Central Park at night, were among my first young memories, when my father held me out of the window from our suite overlooking the corner of Central Park and Fifth Avenue. And as my life progressed, just as with anyone else's life, my experiences ran the width and breadth of the hotel's room inventory.

From the 'Inside' Rooms, (which was an euphemism for facing the air-shaft), to the Park 'Views,' where you would have to stand on top of the radiator in order to have a glimpse of the park, my father's & my 'Résidence de choix, Suite 714, which comprised a large sitting room on the corner of 5th Avenue and Central Park South, a large bedroom on the CPS side, and a small 'servant's' room leading to the sitting room, but although facing 5th Avenue, there was no window at all! And so my life travelled, all the way to Julius Monk's suite on the 18th floor. I've been fortunate to breathe part of The Plaza's breath. And whether it was a Swordfish steak in the Oyster Bar, or my 'signature' Coca Cola's with two cherrys, downstairs in the Plaza 9 nightclub with my father, every corner of the hotel embraced me like an autumn jumper, all the while whispering to me that I was at home.

It was The Plaza that stood as the setting when I fell in love…several times, as I recall. (a couple of times may only have been prickly heat). But there’s nothing to compare with the experience many years later, of feeling your eyes moisten with adoration and love, as you watch your daughter sip her hot chocolate amidst the splendour of the Palm Court.

Just as with so many life stories, The Plaza had many highs and lows. Even through my childish eyes and perceptions of good taste, I cringed to watch the Edwardian Room be destroyed by the Sonesta Group, when they painted the walls gleaming white and hauled in wrought iron heart-shaped chairs, turning the most famous corner in the world into an ice cream boutique. And I rejoiced when Westin took over the property, vowing to restore the hotel to her original ‘tasteful’ state. (and they did!) But only to watch her again fall prey to the Real Estate pimps and end up being managed by a woman who was a cross between Zsa Zsa Gabor and Leona Helmsley!

The Plaza was always a vanguard in my life; my youth, my celebrations of living: love, birth, and even deaths. She will always remain among the fibres of my heart.

And with my children sitting beside me as I write this, I can indeed confirm:

Nothing Unimportant Ever Happened At The Plaza!

Plaza Hotel Big World Small Boat..

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Not That Old Chestnut Again!

Finding Words Of Comfort

The Best Waitress In The World

Angels Among Us

2011-10-25T12:20:00.001Z

A few months ago, when Sarah Gorrell, from BBC Southern Counties Radio, put out an appeal for a knitting instructor to come out to Moldova with me, not in my wildest dreams did I imagine how we were about to hit the Angel jackpot!

The knitting machine I carried to Moldova last Winter was as long as I am tall. To me, it looked to be such a mechanical monstrosity, I simply couldn’t imagine anyone ever grasping its technical aspects. So I was surprised when one of our sewing teachers asked me to find someone to teach her and the children how to use it. And I was shocked to discover several weeks later that a villager brought in another machine, as she too wanted to learn.

Enters Alison Casserly. Actually, it was her mum who phoned the BBC to volunteer Alison. (Aren’t mums great that way!) Alison lives way up north – so far away that she is not able to hear the radio show. We chatted on the phone a couple of times and Alison was ready to come.

I felt badly as my limited knowledge of anything relating to knitting and sewing left me simply acknowledging that we had a machine and that was all I could tell her about it. So on blind faith, Alison prepared to leave her husband and children and travel thousands of miles to a heretofore-unknown smattering of ink on a world map.

As we chatted on the phone, Alison rattled off names of ‘thingys’ and ‘widgetygrubs’ and ‘whatnots’ that she thought she’d bring. All I could do was say that this sounded great. I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about! Alison was much too polite to point out that even a slug knows more about knitting than I did, but I’m sure she was thinking it!

Our first rendezvous was quite out of the norm. Alison and I had never met before the morning we boarded the flight. Whatever age you might be, there has to be a degree of discomfort with the idea of a stranger picking you up at 3:30 in the morning, taking you to an international airport and carting you off to a country that few have even heard of!

Nevertheless, blind faith was the catalyst for Alison. The night before, Alison drove down south to where her mum and dad live. I was warmly greeted at the door by her father. I can't imagine many people being so hospitable at 3:30 in the morning. As I sipped a desperately needed cup of tea, surrounded by people in their jimjams and slippers, their small dog sniffed me with suspicion, no doubt trying to determine whether the scent of my Jack Russell, Mr. Piddles, branded me as friend or foe.

I sincerely felt nervous for Alison and as we headed up the M25, I found myself talking even more than usual about anything and everything. There were points when I felt I should just shut up, but in some ways, I was afraid she’d back out at the last minute and go back home.

During the flights, there were times when she was very quiet and I chose to let her reflect, uninterrupted, on the adventure that lay before her. As the tiny aircraft pulled up to the Chisinau airport building, I tried to read Alison’s face. What I felt I saw was a healthy balance of excitement and apprehension. Certainly an appropriate reaction to the experience, especially in light of some of the things she had heard.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget Alison’s words a full week later, when I asked her for her thoughts about what she had experienced. She was full of emotion about her profoundly powerful journey of self-awareness, and discovery.

I had to hold back my own tears as I listened to her. Alison had experienced what I find myself longing for each time I leave Moldova. She not only could see, hear, and feel the powerful sense of pride that exists in the hearts of Moldova’s children, but she was able to see hope in their eyes.

The children were perplexed that a perfect stranger would travel thousands of miles to come help them and ask for nothing in return.

Alison demonstrated a gentle admiration for them; for the fact that each and every child considered the education they are receiving as a gift; the fact they take pride in what they have, which by material standards is little or nothing. Instead, their measurements are in friends, the power of families, and community pride. And as Alison so poignantly pointed out to me, despite the fact the homes many of them live in would have been condemned in Britain, those homes are immaculate, the streets are clean, not a scintilla of trash, not a marking of graffiti, and not a single disrespectful young person.

We live in an addictive society where those who live their lives as sponges have the audacity to complain that the level of handouts they receive, their free homes, their free medical services and medicine, are simply not enough. When we offer money to Moldovan children, it’s like the Parable of the Talents. They’re humbled by the responsibility for which they’ve been entrusted. They want to find ways repay the trust you’ve invested in them.

I received an email from Alison this week. She was almost stumbling over herself with excitement, telling me about all the people she has shared her experience with, the plans she has for returning to Moldova and the creative ideas she’s developing to help the children achieve their goals.

Sarah Gorrell and the BBC helped me plant that small mustard seed of hope. Alison is becoming the Vine and Branch of hope for so many of our youth.

What a wonderful gift. Thank you Sarah. Thank you Alison. And thank you God for hearing my prayers.

When We Need a Little Help

You're No Good!

Perhaps All You Need is a Little DOG in Your Life?

A Child's Funeral

2011-10-11T12:17:00.000Z

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 Libya, 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, judgmental 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.

A Child's Death

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Having a Good Death

Don't Worry, I'm only dying

Music is the Gift of God

Finding The Right Words of Comfort

2011-05-16T13:31:00.000Z

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.
.
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?
.

Words of Comfort For the Dying

2011-05-15T08:44:00.000Z

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 at the end 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

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?

A Bedside Prayer for Death of a Child

2011-03-16T12:43:00.001Z

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.
.

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

Words of Comfort for the Death of a Child

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Helping to Ease the Pain of Dying

The Book In The Attic

2011-03-15T13:28:00.005Z

You would have thought I had asthma. I nervously inhaled several times and my pulse quickened as my son rummaged through the attic for me. I have good reason to be nervous when he’s up there. Heaven knows I have good reason! Six months ago I created a new access point to the attic when I fell through the ceiling. Believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight!

I wanted him to find a book for me. Considering our attic, that’s not far from asking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Kudos to Willem though, he deftly moved among the rafters and extracted the exact book I wanted from beneath layers of Christmas ornaments, general khazeray and dust.

For anyone under the age of 16 who may be reading this, a ‘book’ is something that people used during the Neolithic Age for learning, or the conveyance of information.

And it was the book I used for writing to my daughter Mary, when she was first born. I’ve written to both my children all their lives. I still do. Poor souls.

The book contains nothing spectacular; it’s just one of many now. And it contains thoughts that I wanted to save for her, or observations I had during different times of her life. Today is Mary’s birthday and I thought it would be nice to see where my thoughts were on the day she was born.

Although the dust critters have done a rather good job on the cover of her first book, the contents still leap out at me as if they had been freshly written.

This child is not my child
She is God’s gift and God’s charge
I may give her my love and share my experiences
But she will mould her own life
with my guidance

For the moment we rejoice in the birth of our children
God has danced with us and we have all joined hands

I shall celebrate, sing, and nurture your soul
for it is the greatest responsibility of my life

Miss Mary, God has danced with you
Always follow in His footsteps
And you will always hear His music

Happy birthday sweetheart. May you continue to hear His music for the rest of your life!

Love

Daddy+

Music is a Gift from God

Comforting the Dying

When You Think God isn't Listening!

Wanted Part Time Wife

Dying Alone

2011-01-29T08:54:00.002Z

Today I celebrated the passing of a life. Emily Hanwell, age 95, died alone in her home. She had lived through two world wars, the sinking of the Titanic, the advent of television, and four monarchs. She is survived by two sons - both no longer living in the area.

Emily died in her bed. The coroner listed her cause of death as ‘suspected natural causes.’ It was the best the coroner could offer. Emily had been dead for several weeks before her body was discovered. Nature had followed God’s mandate and there was little of her mortal remains left.

I spoke with one of her sons. He had already been made aware of her death. He told me that he was too busy to attend her funeral, but he was sure that his brother would ‘try to do something.’ He said his mother had become difficult to deal with and it was a ‘blessing’ that it was all over. I asked him when it was that he had last spoken with her. He said he had spoken to her on Christmas Day ‘when she had called him.’

When I arrived at the funeral directors, I discovered there were no flowers. There had been no calls about Emily, or anyone asking about her funeral. Her coffin was of the ‘particulate variety,’ a polite euphemism for cheap board, with colourless plastic handles, which was all the government would pay for. I went next door to the local florist and purchased several bunches of daffodils to place atop her coffin.

And so we headed to the chapel at our local crematory. In Britain the pallbearers are the professional staff of the funeral director. There was no one there to receive Emily. And it was impossible not to have tears form in my own eyes to see this pitiful coffin lifted up and placed upon the catafalque, with no one there to mourn her loss or celebrate her passing. Often my children have attended funerals I’ve celebrated, when I know there would be no one to attend. But in my heart I was certain that at least one of her sons would find time to attend their mother’s funeral.

Just as with any funeral I celebrate, I prepare a Homily that is unique to the deceased. Sadly, there are times when I have nothing more to guide me than looking at the face and hands of the deceased. For me, there is often an endless story that is revealed in the lines on someone’s face. This was the case with Emily. But in my Homily, I did say to the pallbearers that I wondered what the last days of her life were like.

One of the greatest fears that a human being can experience is the fear of being abandoned by family and friends and being left to live one’s life all alone. Prison guards know this when they place recalcitrant inmates in solitary confinement and torturers know it too when they need their victims to confess to fictitious crimes.

To be cut off from human contact is immensely painful, but it pales when compared to being cut off from God. And yet that is the daily experience of too many of His children, wandering about this earth with no sense of any larger purpose or destiny and no vision beyond the blank wall of death. What a tragedy, and how unnecessary it is!

And as Emily’s soul was committed to God’s care, I was able to smile, knowing that she was not alone, nor ever would be.

Emily, I know that as God opened His arms to receive you, the angels danced.

.We are Never Alone

9/11 And the World Trade Center

Words of Comfort For Someone in Hospice

It's Life Jim But Not As We Know It

2011-01-28T13:04:00.000Z

During a recent visit to one of our areas many homes for the elderly I was outraged to hear a carer yelling at one of the residents. The carer didn’t know I was there. I had just entered the door of the home, as I usually do, and I heard his vitriolic diatribe coming from within the house.

As I looked around the corner I saw a frail woman clinging to her Zimmer frame, (walker), trying to move down the hallway. The carer was standing at the door to the toilet with an angered look on his face. I needn’t repeat what the man said, but he was berating her because she urgently needed to use the toilet.

The man’s demeanour changed instantly when he saw me, as I crossly demanded to know what the problem was. His excuse was that she couldn’t hear so he had to shout. I was angry and I know it showed on my face. I asked him if he required any assistance. The carer said ‘no thanks’ as he stood waiting for the woman to finally reach him.

As she went into the toilet, I immediately turned to look for the home's manager. There was no one to be found. There were four residents in the sitting room. Two were sleeping (or so I hoped), in their chairs, one was rather absently staring at a blaring television and the fourth resident was gazing off into nowhere.

I eventually learned there was only one person in the home to care for everyone. The manager had gone out to ‘buy groceries.’

Set aside the fact that this was altogether illegal, these people, who were incapable of caring for themselves, were at the mercy of this one foul mouthed and heartless individual. He certainly did not demonstrate compassion for the woman’s plight, nor did he demonstrate patience.

I tried to look at the situation objectively, trying to feel badly for the carer over the fact he was left alone to care for all these people, but I quickly snapped out of that mindset when I reminded myself that the other residents I saw would not have been an inconvenience to anyone. And the language he used towards the frail woman was unacceptable in any setting!

The experience left me with extremely uncomfortable images as well as guilt. There is a powerful verse in the Bible that says ‘Don't cast me away when I am old; when my strength fails, don't forsake me.’ Psalm 71:9

Homes such as these are a product of our Western society. And sadly, it’s the ‘other end’ of the spectrum of problems we have with today’s youth. In the middle, (well, actually throughout), it is a clear barometer for the erosion of family values, as well as the family unit.

For young parents it’s easier to leave all of the education for our children to the schools, and when the children become adults, it’s more ‘convenient’ to leave the care for our parents to institutions.

Every month there’s someone heralding new discoveries that will extend our lives even further.

When will there be a discovery on how to extend living?

So What's a Good Death?
When We're Needed Most
I'm Only Dying!
Remember Me
Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Having A Good Death

2011-01-24T09:47:00.000Z

It has been a challenging week. I’ve seen what I’d say was humanity at its sweetest and its’ most bitter during this week.

I sat with a gentleman who slipped away, never regaining consciousness from a massive stroke. He was only fifty-six years old and according to his older sister, the man had a penchant for the 'good life,' primarily consisting of copious quantities of alcohol and grease infused foods. (Well, it was his interpretation of the ‘good life’).

I’ve introduced the nearly dead to the recently deceased with the poor child who is addicted to heroin. The struggle she faces could be beyond the comprehension of many.

And I collected the ashes of my friend Sarah. She’s here with me right now, as I write, waiting patiently for me to strew the final remains of her earthly life in the same spot as her beloved husband. It will not be a task to do so; it will be an honour.

Shortly after I returned home last night, I was contacted by a family to inform me of the death of an elderly gentleman. He had died that evening, in his bed, at home. This morning I mentioned to my children during breakfast that I would be gone for a few hours, whilst I made a pastoral visit to the family. My son said to me ‘well Dad, at least this was a ‘good death’ instead of a bad one.’

So what then is a good death? In the past that was not a difficult question, because the answer was given us - by the church, into which most of us were baptised, and whose principal doctrines we learned, if not at home, or at church, then at school.

A good death was above all prepared for. In our final days this would involve making our peace with God and neighbour. But long before that, it would involve living out our lives in the knowledge that this life was in part, a preparation for the life of the world to come.

That gave us a certain ‘orientation,’ so that when we did come to the end of our lives, whether it be short or long, they would not seem pointless and we could look back with a contented heart.

But in these more secular times many have taken death, so to speak, into their own hands. Clergy are no longer needed or desired. And in some instances, considering some of my fellow clergy, I might take the very same stance! People are finding their own ways of bringing meaning to the loss of a loved one.

So, what is a good death now? When I asked my son to share his idea of a ‘good death’ he simply said that it was to go to bed and not wake up. In other words, to slip from this world into oblivion, or wherever, without knowing - to die unprepared, the very opposite of the ‘traditional’ church-inspired understanding.

In another age, when life expectancy was short, when illness struck suddenly and carried us off quickly, that might have been the expectation and hope of many. But if the countless octogenarians I visit each week in our coastal care homes are any indicator, most of us can now expect to live well past the point where we can’t physically do much more than move from a bed to a chair and back to bed each day. We shall have years of reflecting upon our mortality before we succumb to some degenerative disease and know that our final days are upon us.

So what is a good death?

The starting point for us all, believers and non-believers, is the same: we will die. The practical things we can all do: making our peace, setting our affairs in order, giving consideration to family and friends and the needs they may have. They all become acts of kindness towards others.

But, as a priest, I know that this is the easy part. The difficult bit is finding that final peace of mind and calmness of spirit that comes from being able to reconcile all that has gone before - successes and frustrations – warm memories and sad ones as well – all coming to the inevitable reality that it is going to end.

The ‘believer’ achieves that reconciliation when he says; ‘Lord into your hands I commend my spirit.’ It’s that reaffirmation that this is only a passing of time and that there is a new life ahead. To me, that remains a good death.

In fact, I can’t imagine coming across a better.
.
.
I'm Taken To Task For My Actions
When We're Needed Most
I'm Only Dying!
Falling In Love At Clapham Junction
A Childs Funeral

Bereavement Death ChildDeath

When Friends And Family Are Needed Most

2011-01-20T13:26:00.000Z

‘Well, if she’s not going to call me I’m not going to waste my time calling her.’ Have you ever taken that position with a friend or family member you’ve not heard from in some time? Apparently it’s the position that was taken by the family and friends of Joyce Vincent.

The relationship with her partner had become untenable. Suffering from increasing incidents of domestic violence, Joyce took the frightening first-steps into the unknown. She sought help from a local charity, designed to help protect people, who are seeking refuge from the mental and physical torment that can engulf relationships involving domestic abuse.

Joyce was only 38 years old when she first sought help. The charity located emergency housing for her, a small one-room flat in a secret location. Her Majesty’s government helped in subsidising part of the rent, the charity covered the remainder. It was a time when Joyce must have been in the direst of emotional turmoil.

The fundamentals of psychology would tell us that Joyce would have been experiencing a range of emotions. A combination of relief, mixed with fear, as well as a feeling of shame, whether founded or not, would most likely be part of her psychological composite. Very often victims of domestic abuse have difficulty with their self-esteem and can often believe they’re responsible for invoking the incidents of abuse.

It would have been a time when, more than ever; Joyce would have needed the support of family and friends. But instead, Joyce was forgotten about. No one came to offer a friendly ear or to check on her well-being. No neighbours, no support team from the charity, and certainly no members of her family came to check on her.

This week a housing officer brought a locksmith to force open Joyce’s door. Joyce wasn’t paying the difference in the rent that was being paid by the government and charity. She had accumulated a large debt and the housing officer was there to evict her. Joyce had not made a contribution to her rent for over two years! And the countless demands for payment had gone unanswered.

Joyce was at home. They found her in her small single bed. The heat was on, as was the television. There was a small plastic bowl that contained her laundry, that she had set to soak. Around Joyce’s bed were several unopened Christmas presents. They had come from family members. The mail had been unopened and the housing officer had to forcefully open the door, due to the mountain of mail at the other side.

But now Joyce would have been forty years old. She had died two years ago. All of the food items in the fridge and cabinets had expiry dates from 2004. And her skeletal remains had decomposed to such an extent that it’s impossible to determine a cause of death.

Joyce found the bravery to seek help from strangers. And it would appear that the charity did precisely what it had been set up to do. It found her a place to stay. And throughout the process, for the past two years, everyone involved did precisely what their job descriptions required.

Unfortunately however, everyone involved, or not involved in this case, forgot to realise that there was a human life in the equation; A frightened, vulnerable, and lost individual who desperately needed something that job descriptions, manuals, government grants, and slick, well-oiled charity campaigns simply didn’t provide - demonstrable human compassion.

Shame on us!

.World Trade Center and Lessons learned from September 11

Big World Small Boat.

Death Of A Child Lonliness Welcome Home

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Anglican Prayers

Bereavement Death ChildDeath

Faith Is Not A Crutch For Living

2011-01-20T06:36:00.000Z

Our national charity for the elderly, Help the Aged, recently published a report entitled Dying in Older Age. It aims to lift the profile on the spiritual beliefs and stories of older people and help all of us avoid the nervousness with which we so often approach the subject of death.

Old age is often a synonym for ‘problem people’ - a liability to the optimism of our Brave New World. People fear the mortality of old age. But that's nothing new. The Irish poet, W B Yeats, who felt old from the age of forty, went kicking and screaming into old age.

‘What shall I do with this absurdity,
O heart, O troubled heart - this caricature,
Decrepit age which has been tied to me as to a dog's tail?' - he asked.

Not a great advert for senior citizenship then, is it?

But whenever I spoke with my friend Sarah I quickly had a rather un-Yeats like version of old age. She kept control of all her faculties to the very end of her life. You needed to be very careful what you whispered to anyone if you were sitting close to her. And a matter of hours before she died, even though she could no longer talk, I vividly recall her bearing down with her jaw, determined not to let anyone remove her false teeth.

And she's not alone. Britain has a veritable 'Methuselan' roll call of people who have accomplished great things in their advancing years. Like Elizabeth Scofield: At 84, and with an 80% mark, she became 'top girl' in her Reading and Writing Course. Or take Percy and Florence Arrow-Smith, married for 80 years. They hold the world record for the longest marriage. Sadly, Percy died a few weeks after their anniversary. But he was the quintessential model of dignity and marital endurance.

Old age still has a lot to say to us in life, as much as in death. It was only a little more than a few years ago that Pope John Paul brought the world to a standstill, pulling princes, politicians, and the public into his vulnerability and death.

We need models of how to live. But we also need to know how to finish well. Each of us has a responsibility to help our elderly finish with dignity and reverence. So beyond pension schemes and Meals on Wheels, respect and honour will go a long way in helping to achieve it.

Finishing well must be numbered amongst the great virtues of faith. Faith is not a crutch for living. It's a springboard, which takes us beyond death. For Christians, it is faith in the living Christ, which best prepares us to finish well.

If you're a young person reading this blog, please don't discount the infinite rewards of investing a few hours a week simply sharing thoughts with a senior person. You'll be amazed by how much they actually understand you! And if you're a person who already has a bit of snow on your roof, but still lots of fire in your furnace, there's plenty to be learned about a life to come.

Granted, you may not always like what you see, but you'll still have the energy to help change it!

And by sharing time with a senior, you may gain valuable insight as to how you'll cope in the years to come!

I'm Only Dying!

Remember Me

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

The Power of Words

Anglican Prayers Anglicans Anglican Thoughts

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

2011-01-19T18:11:00.002Z

"Wanted: Part-Time Wife…(only in a metaphorical sense!) Do you like sorting out hopeless men? Are you tidy almost to the point of being compulsive? Are you capable of putting a feminine touch in a home and organising a Father’s life? If so we need you! A Father who constantly travels needs a part-timer to first ‘fix it’ by doing a little decorating, organising things, do some shopping and possibly occasionally cook a meal when I’m away. Then discuss long-term plans to help keep us organised and feeling that we live in a home instead of a suitcase!" saveourmess@yahoo.com

Okay, perhaps it wasn’t the best composition I’ve ever created, but I was trying to sincerely yet accurately express what we needed. There have been times when I’ve either endured an extended hospital stay, or arrived home from a long journey and had so much to do the moment I landed, that a week could pass before I even remembered that my suitcase hadn’t been unpacked!

My son, being a typical teenage male, tends to take a rather ‘relaxed’ approach when it comes to doing much of anything around our home. And I would never have placed an expectation upon my daughter to have to help with the minutiae of household chores; decorating, laundry, opening the post, etc. I simply felt a bit of assistance, slightly beyond that of our conventional housekeeper might be helpful. And I certainly had no intention of enduring her wrath by suggesting that her culinary skills could be classified as biological warfare! Hell hath no fury as a cranky Mrs Higgins if I suggest that the cake she so kindly baked is lovely, but we already have several door-stops around the house!

Embraced with a fusion of trepidation and hope I submitted the ad on our local paper’s website. When I returned home that afternoon, I was surprised to see I had an email from the paper.

Unadulterated in any manner, here is the email I received:

Ad placement number: YI6O1FB1G
Unfortunately we were unable to process your advert. The reason for rejection is as follows: Sorry we are unable to accept your advert due to sexual discrimination. We apologise for any inconvenience caused and please be assured your credit card has not been charged for this advert. Kind Regards, The Friday-Ad Team support@friday-ad.co.uk

‘How absurd,’ I muttered. I certainly hadn’t thought my ad to be sexist or discriminating against anyone. Considering the context of what I had written, I felt the public would have understood what I was trying to convey. Frankly my feathers were ruffled by the pedantic nature of the newspaper. And now with a twinge of irritation, I re-wrote the ad, believing the paper would see how absurd their response was. Here is the revised ad:

Wanted: Part-Time non-gender-specific individual. Do you like sorting out hopeless non-gender specific individuals? Are you tidy almost to the point of being compulsive? Capable of putting a non-gender specific touch in a home and organising someone’s life? We need you! A non-gender specific parent who constantly travels needs a part-timer to first ‘fix it!’ Then discuss long-term plans to help keep us organised and feeling that we live in a home instead of a suitcase. (please note: The Friday Ad says it’s discriminatory for me to use the words ‘Wife, Feminine, or Father’ in the context of this advert) SaveOurMess@yahoo.com

The following morning I received an email from the newspaper:

Ad placement number: YI6O1FB1G
Unfortunately we were unable to process your advert. The reason for rejection is as follows: Sorry we are unable to accept your advert due to sexual discrimination and I cannot put this in about Friday-Ad. We apologise for any inconvenience caused and please be assured your credit card has not been charged for this advert. Kind Regards, The Friday-Ad Team support@friday-ad.co.uk

Now I was becoming cranky. The paper has one of those ‘Live Contact’ buttons (an oxymoron if ever there was one!) on their web page, which allows you to ‘chat’ online with them about whatever problems you may be having with placing your ad. So online I went.

Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, I have been able to save the entire thread of our communication. Such has been my exasperation with the individual who was rejecting my ad, I thought it might be interesting to share our ‘chat’, warts and all: (not one single word has been modified, deleted, or enhanced!)

Friday Ad: Live Help Please wait for a site operator to respond.

Martin: You are now chatting with Martin. How may I help you?

Father Bill Haymaker: Good morning Martin, may I ask please, are you in the UK? (I was giving them the benefit of doubt in case I was ‘chatting’ with one of those support centres in Bangladesh and this was what had caused the misunderstandings).

Martin: Yes

Father Bill Haymaker: Thank you, the reason I asked is that I thought perhaps I might be having a cultural challenge with someone misunderstanding the context of an ad I was trying to place. May I gave you an advert number to retrieve? It is YI601FB1G

Martin: I can see the email in our support inbox with the advert text

Father Bill Haymaker: I have been reading the mail I've received from your company regarding my advert. Personally I think it's quite daft. Do you REALLY believe that it is sexually discriminating?

Martin: no but due to the Trading Standards law all job adverts are supposed to be equal for both males and females.

Father Bill Haymaker: I corrected the ad as you can see. But now you’ve rejected it because I’ve stated only what you quoted to me. Why is this then?

Martin: I cannot put this in about Friday-Ad I'm afraid

Father Bill Haymaker: why not, it is your own statement to me.

Martin: its not our rule it comes from Trading Standards.

Father Bill Haymaker: Okay, then we can correct it! “Friday Ad says that trading standards prevents me from using the words 'Wife, feminine, or Father in the context of this advert." How’s that?

Martin: its not our rule it comes from Trading Standards

Father Bill Haymaker: You already said that and I’ve corrected the ad now, so you’re in the clear.

Martin: its also in the Advertising Procedures

Father Bill Haymaker: well then we can add that as well.

Martin: and we have to obey these rules

Father Bill Haymaker: Okay Martin, then we can add that we must obey these rules.

Father Bill Haymaker: anything else we need to add Martin? Wait a moment and I’ll re-write it.

Father Bill Haymaker: how’s this:

Wanted: Part-Time non-gender-specific individual. Do you like sorting out hopeless non-gender specific individuals? Are you tidy almost to the point of being compulsive? Capable of putting a non-gender specific touch in a home and organising our non-gender specific lives? We need you! A non-gender specific parent who constantly travels needs a part-timer to first ‘fix it!’ Then discuss long-term plans to help keep us organised and feeling that we live in a home instead of a suitcase. (nb. Friday Ad says it’s discriminatory to use the words ‘wife, feminine, or father’ in the context of this advert AND it’s also in the Advertising Procedures AND we must obey these rules.’ SaveOurMess@yahoo.com

After a very long period I ‘nudged’ Martin, who I was beginning to imagine had gone out for a stiff drink.

Father Bill Haymaker: Martin?

Father Bill Haymaker: Martin? Are You There?

Father Bill Haymaker: Martin, if that isn't acceptable, here's an alternative:

Father Bill Haymaker: Sort our house, home, hovel...whatever you want to call it. …only non gender specific people may apply. email: SaveOurMess@yahoo.com

Martin: under the sex discrimination act here in the uk, it is illegal to discriminate on the grounds of sex, against either men or woman when advertising a position under situations vacant. Therefore i am not happy to print your advert containing the statement above!

Father Bill Haymaker: What?!! Does suggesting that we live in a home somehow offend a homeless female? I'm very confused now Martin! And thank you for reminding me that we're in the UK. In the midst of this thread I did feel compelled to look out my window just to make sure.

Martin: This is the wording that would be acceptable if you wish to continue in placing your advert! Cleaner re-queered, in Bexhill area. Please call .........

Father Bill Haymaker: Unfortunately, I’m afraid the term ‘re-queered’ might have a negative impact on people who are only just newly queered…whether they are originally queered or recently re-queered may be considered an act of discrimination against those just considering becoming queered for the first time.

Again, after a considerable period of time, I gave Martin a 'nudge.'

Father Bill Haymaker: Martin, are you there?

After a few minutes have passed...

Father Bill Haymaker: Martin, are you still in the UK?

After even a few more minutes passed...

Father Bill Haymaker: Sadly, this has really become an exercise in futility. Under the circumstances, you’ve left me with no alternative but to cancel the advert altogether. I certainly wouldn’t wish to offend anyone regardless of their gender, predilections, or ability to decipher an advert in the Friday Ad! Thank you for all your help today Martin.

Martin: Perfectly fine thank you using live chat!

Well, I thought it was all over. That is until a few days later when I received a call from a friend. Earlier in the week I had shared the story with her. She thought it was hilarious and typical of the messes I sometimes get myself into. ‘I think you’d better go out a grab a copy of the Friday Ad,’ she said.

In the Opportunities section of the paper was the following ad:

Part-Time non-gender-specific individual. Do you like sorting out hopeless non-gender specific individuals? Are you tidy almost to the point of being compulsive? Capable of putting a non-gender specific touch in a home and organising our non-gender specific lives? We need you! A non-gender specific parent who constantly travels needs a part-timer to first ‘fix it!’ Then discuss long-term plans to help keep us organised and feeling that we live in a home instead of a suitcase. SaveOurMess@yahoo.com

By the end of the week we had received 18 responses. None of which really floated in my ‘comfort zone!’ There wasn't a single response relating to what the ad was intended to attract...although a few of the respondents suggested that all we needed was some discipline and they had the 'tool's for the job...yikes!

But the most confusing response was this:

"Would you be interested in a 23 year-old TV? If so give me a call. I think I have just what you’re looking for!"

Love Felicity XXOO

Crikey! We didn't even advertise for a television. Besides, we have enough trouble picking up the BBC on our two-year-old TV. I can’t imagine what we’d do with a 23 year old one!

Meet Me at the Plaza Hotel !

Not That Old Chestnut Again!

The Best Waitress in the World

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

2011-01-19T07:35:00.000Z

Yesterday I celebrated the passing of a life. Of course, I do this often. But there are some funerals that remain with you; they capture part of your heart and refuse to let you go.

Funerals are a constant in my village. We have an enormous senior community. According to those people who stay locked away in windowless rooms, fiddling with numbers and such throughout the day and night, the average age mean where I live is … well … more or less … deceased! So to say I celebrated a funeral today is a bit like saying I brushed my teeth this morning.

Last November I celebrated the life of his wife. Sixty-seven years they had been married! Look at the divorce rate today. It’s an actuarial fact that the average marriage will not survive more than 7.5 years now.

But this couple were in it for the long run. Till death do us part. Back then, people took their words before God seriously. But just as with so many other things today, solemn words are little more than just words. And when I hear people proudly tell me of all those years they lived together, I feel a burst of wholehearted admiration for them.

The day I went to their home to discuss his wife’s funeral, I couldn’t wrestle away the thought of how lonely he was going to be. Elderly British men have it particularly rough when their wives die. Not only are there all the understandable emotional sorrows, but most of them have never once set foot in a kitchen.

He was severely deaf and his hearing aid seemed to be more of a nuisance than helpful. And sadly, he was at that awful beginning of ageing dementia, where everyone but you is becoming concerned about your welfare.

I was so grateful that his daughter was there. She was making all the arrangements for her mother. She kindly shared with me many personal private thoughts about her parents. I wanted to speak with her father as well, but without exaggerating, I literally had to forcefully yell in order for him to hear me. And even then I wasn’t assured that he had fully comprehended what I said.

But he did say something that stuck with me for all this time. He told me of when he and his wife first met and where they would rendezvous-beneath the large clock at Clapham Junction Railway Station. He really wasn’t able to share much more with me. But it was this thought that remained at the forefront of his mind.

There’s an old British maxim that says when you die and go to Heaven, you will have to change at Clapham Junction. And as I left them that day, I couldn’t escape the image of this young couple; she was 17, he was 18, meeting time after time at Clapham Junction, Europe's busiest railway station.

If you’re in your late seventy’s and reading this, you will easily be able to recreate the image. If you’re fifty and below, it would be difficult. You have to remember that during that time, the station would have been shrouded in a miasma of smog and smoke. The endless arrival and departure of trains, not the ‘quiet’ ones we enjoy today, but the powerful steel horses, snorting like an enraged team of black stallions, and belching bellowing black plumes of soot and ash into the air, amid the ever-oppressive drone of the tannoy, calling out such exotic destinations as Crossbush, Liphook and Brighton ("well, Hove actually.")

It all creates such a powerful juxtaposition-young lovers, oblivious to the raging world around them. And raging it indeed was. The great depression would have been in full swing when they first met. And Europe was in turmoil. Our government was grasping at any able-bodied young male, preparing to drag them into the caldron of war.

Each passing of a life leaves a passport to the future in its children and grandchildren. And it is those sweet memories that reside within us and embrace us years later when we begin to prepare for our own next journey. But it’s a powerful force when someone’s passing gently touches another.

Yesterday, when we committed your soul to God’s care, you gave me something that I will draw upon from time to time, whenever I need to momentarily escape from the belching, snorting, steel horses around me.

I’ll think of those two young lovers, back together again, meeting beneath the clock at Clapham Junction.

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Remember Me

A Childs Funeral

Welcome Home

I'm Only Dying!

Finding Words Of Comfort

We've Just Won The Lottery!

2011-01-18T20:19:00.000Z

It's just too good to be true! We won the lottery! Fantastic! We can’t believe our good fortune!

According to the email my daughter received, ‘we’ were selected from a 'special Internet promotional company in Liverpool' and our ticket number won! This is amazing! We have won in excess of a million Euros! Oh My Goodness! (the rules forwarded with our winning notice have politely explained that if the recipient is under legal age, then the parents become the official winners)

And how timely too! This will allow us to pay the ‘storage fees’ bill we’ve been presented by a security warehouse in Amsterdam, where upon payment they will 'immediately release the $750,000 that a dying woman, named Madâme Sangsue Ebola has bequeathed to me, in order to ‘hold Jesus in my heart and help the suffering children in my Christian goals.’ I’ve been strongly considering helping her, being that she’s such a sterling Christian and all.

But to be truthful, I’ve been torn between some moral decisions I'm facing. You see, the branch manager of the Bank of Abu Dhabi, Mr. Mustapha Sporco Indigeno Baitsim, has written me, 'after finding my name and address through an internet marketing firm, while searching for a reliable and reputable person to handle this transaction.’

He has discovered an inactive bank account in the amount of thirteen million, seven hundred thousand dollars, that belonged to a gentleman who died in an airline crash several years ago. Mr. Baitsim has even kindly sent me a link to the news story carried by the BBC. He’s offering me a 40% share just for banking the funds into my current account. Mr. Baitsim wrote a riveting scenario explaining how I can travel the world, relying upon and withdrawing the funds from Cirrus cash points. And he has even offered to help demonstrate how easy it is to withdraw those funds when I meet him. What a kind gentleman!

Satan step back! I so desperately want to pursue the dream of Madâme Ebola's, but with such a paltry sum, just imagine all I could do with the share of money being offered by Mr. Baitsim! I know this is wrong and I really should be ashamed.

But I think I’ve finally wrestled the beast. I’ve found a solution to all of this temptation. This morning I received an email from a lovely lady; a student at the University of Lagos named ‘Princess Dégénéré Merde.’ According to her email she is ‘a true Christian who follows God’s word truthfully.’ Her father, King Arriéré Merde, recently passed away. Her mother, Queen Vieux Baveux Merde, is illiterate and is unable to manage the estate he 'stored with a security firm in Cape Town South Africa, when he discovered that his body was riddled with cancer.' She has offered me 10% of the forty million pounds, simply for coming to Johannesburg to claim it on her behalf. And she feels I should help guide her in its investment.

So today, I’ve written to the venerable Princess Merde, asking her to withdraw from school forthwith, whereby she will be employed as our grant manager. And she is to proceed directly to Liverpool to collect our winnings. Then she should fly to Amsterdam, to withdraw the funds being held for our charity projects. And once she has achieved all of this, we will meet with Mr. Baitsim, to discuss how he can help us invest and manage her father’s estate!

I do look forward to hearing from her!

An important note: Sadly, the emails I’ve alluded to are real. I’m bombarded with them every day. It’s unfortunate that there is even a need to mention this, but according to the Metropolitan Police, innocent people are falling victim to these frauds every day. These types of communications are variants on a fraud scheme called ‘Nigerian 419’s’ (named after the Nigerian law against fraud), whereby the recipient of the communication is lured into paying a fee of some sort to release funds.

If you receive an unsolicited email, or a letter in the post, stating that you have won a lottery, or you are being requested to assist someone collect or repatriate funds; There is a 99.9% certainty that this is a fraud. Many are quick to represent themselves as churches, religions, or well known national companies.

Under no circumstances should you reply to these emails or letters, even if it's to tell them to 'get stuffed!' If you do, you are merely confirming that you have a live and active address. This can increase your risk of receiving more of these solicitations, if not worse. Additionally, the 'local' telephone numbers that are offered are often expensive re-routing mechanisms that send the calls abroad. Under no circumsance should you attempt to call these numbers!

According to DS Stephen Truick of the UK's Metropolitan Police Internet Crime Unit, the best thing to do is simply delete them immediately. However, if there is something that concerns you in particular, contact your local police internet crime unit. In the UK you may forward the email to:fraud.alert@met.police.uk However, if you do so, you must include the Internet header information that contains where the email originated from. If you reside outside of the UK you may refer to the United States Secret Service section on 419 Fraud.

If you would like to learn more about these frauds and how a number of creative (and brave) individuals are working to create havoc for these criminals, have a look at the BBC’s website, or visit the 419 eater!

They're getting even!

And please remember; if it looks too good to be true, it probably is!

See the latest in Advance Fee Fraud originating from within the United Kingdom HERE.

By the way, whether you’ve won the lottery or not, we still need your help! Perhaps you have the time to invest yourself into changing the lives of others? Take a moment to visit Project New Life and see how you can make a difference, please? Won The Lottery Big World Small Boat

STOP Unwanted Marketing Calls from India!

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Children In Crisis

Sweet Talkers

When We Need a Little Help

2011-01-18T18:17:00.000Z

If you’re a parent who works you most likely rely upon someone to help you with your children. It could be a relative, or it could be a paid carer. If you travel for a living you may leave your complete trust with your partner to compensate for your absence. And there can be times such as flight delays, illness, or even death, when you must have faith in people outside your typical circle to help you.

I too am grateful to so many who help me. This past year I’ve had some frustrating challenges with my health and it's that circle of friends who tirelessly do so much to help who often keep me energised. I even receive help in my email communications at times. And to those who work so hard to decipher my scribbled thoughts for my diary from time-to-time, I’m not only eternally grateful, but in awe over how they’re able to make any sense of my chicken-scratchings.

But there are times when you have to leave your trust in God and God alone to help.

Several years ago I boarded a night flight to Johannesburg. I was dreading the trip. I was facing a seven hour journey to Dubai, plus another eight hours on the next sector to Johannesburg. I was tired and really wasn’t looking forward to the flight. Although I had a book with me, I knew my eyes would be staring at the back of my eyelids long before the aircraft pushed back from the gate at Heathrow.

Dreading the journey so, I held back until everyone else had boarded. I was the only one remaining in the boarding lounge and the gate agent was piercing holes in my head with her eyes, as if she were frustrated that she couldn't close out the flight because of me, so I grudgingly presented my boarding pass, apologised, and sauntered down the jetway to the aircraft.

I worked my way through the cabin to my seat row and was delighted to discover the seat next to mine was unoccupied. The rest of the cabin was full. I immediately decided to nick the spare pillow and blanket, once the doors were shut, so I could prop them under my arms as I nestled in for my sleep.

But as I was doing my typical reconnaissance of my surroundings-how many rows to the nearest emergency exit, a quick glance at who was seated in my vicinity and digging out the eye mask from the amenity kit, I noticed a police officer come on board, followed by a girl, who I would guess was in her early twenties. Behind her was another officer.

I watched with curiosity as one of the officers briefly spoke with the senior flight attendant. She pointed to the girl to head down the aisle to find her seat; the officers left and the door was shut. Before the girl had moved past me my attention had already turned to making myself comfortable. But just as I picked up the pillow and blanket, she was standing beside me. She didn’t say anything. Her body language said she was to be seated beside me. I have no idea why I just assumed she’d be going into the cabins behind me. I later learned from the crew that an airline employee had been given the last seat in economy.

I apologised and mumbled that I didn’t think there would be anyone sitting beside me. As I stood up to let her move into the window seat she briefly said ‘ The hostess told me to sit here.’ I again apologised. I allowed her to get her seatbelt on and then handed her the pillow and blanket, again apologising. And at that my mind went back to my planned activity of going to sleep.

‘Are you going to Sydney?’ she asked. I replied that I wasn’t. I don’t recall saying where I was headed. I had answered her question, politely, but I didn’t wish to engage in any conversation. In fact, I closed my eyes at that, hoping to make the polite point that I was going to sleep.

‘Did you see the police come on with me?’ she asked. I had, but I thought it was more polite to say I hadn’t. ‘I was told I had to leave. I exceeded my visa. And if I stayed any longer I was going to get in a lot of trouble.’ I told her that must have been a frightening experience. And I added that I had hoped Her Majesty's Government had been, at the very least, polite about the whole experience.

The girl began talking. And to be honest, I don’t recall her stopping from that point. She had met a boy from England when he came to the Northern Territory in Australia two years earlier. When he returned home she had flown to England to be with him. But apparently the relationship didn’t last a month, especially when she discovered that he already had a girlfriend-something he had accidentally forgotten to share with her.

The girl, like so many who come to Britain and become part of the patina of London’s multiculturalism, didn’t want to return. The outback town she came from offered nothing but an endless open cattle range of dust and loneliness. She had found herself a job as a waitress in one of London’s many anonymous café’s.

She told me that her father was ‘mean’ and that her mother had wanted them to leave him for ‘a long time.’ She was ‘caught’ in London when two Home Office Immigration Officers came to the café to check the paperwork of all the staff. She was very emotional about what might await her once she arrived in Australia. She had the (wrong) impression that she would be arrested for having overstayed her visa in the UK.

I asked her how she was going to get back to her town, which was about 200km north of Alice Springs. She said she didn’t know, especially as the least expensive ticket she could find only took her to Sydney. She didn’t know anyone in Sydney, but was more concerned over what might await her because she had stayed beyond the date HM Customs had stamped in her passport.

During the meal (yes, I ended up eating) and throughout the flight I reinforced the fact that nothing would happen to her for overstaying her visa. She seemed to physically calm over this and then her concerns turned to what she was going to do in Sydney. She told me that she really didn’t want to go back to where her dad was and she wistfully mentioned that perhaps her mum could come to her.

I remembered how many youth hostels there were in the areas of Kings Cross and Wooloomooloo and told her how easy it would be to get there and suggested that she stay in one for a few nights and she could check the boards for part-time jobs. This seemed to have sparked a more positive attitude from her. Her demeanour slowly changed from the frightened and nervous passenger, to one who was now clinging to a mustard seed of ideas.

As the morning sun was cresting over the Arabian Sea we prepared for landing in Dubai. Seven hours had passed and I don’t think the girl had once stopped talking. I looked at the headset, with its wires still wrapped into a neat little bow, poking out of my seatback pocket and imagined how nice it would be to get on the next flight and go to sleep!

As the plane taxied to the gate, the girl, (I never knew her name, nor she mine), said something to me that I shall never forget. ‘Thank you for talking to me all this time. I had actually said a prayer to God that it would have been nice to have a priest, or someone like that, sit next to me to talk to, but I’m glad it was you instead.’

'Perhaps I was meant to be here too,' I replied.

I rise before dawn and cry for help; I have put my hope in Your word. Psalm 119:147

Giving the Ultimate Christmas Gift

Suffer The Children

Perhaps You Need a Little Dog in Your Life!

The Best Waitress In The World

2011-01-17T14:39:00.000Z

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).

But what I found unique was in how Fiona would 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.

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

The Power of Words

Celebrating Easter Twice

2011-01-16T15:11:00.000Z

Christ has Risen! Happy Easter!

I’ve received an email from a friend in Moldova asking me why did the dates she and I celebrate Easter differ. It’s an excellent question. I was first going to write her and jokingly blame Pope Gregory for just wanting to keep us on our toes. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I feel she deserves an answer and perhaps there might be some here who are interested.

So for all my friends in Eastern Europe, I hope this helps. And to our friends around the world, I hope this makes sense. (and apologies for my being so long-winded!)

In two days we celebrate the most important date in our Christian calendar. Hopefully, churches will be overflowing. People jokingly say that the CofE (Church of England) also refers to Christmas and Easter – the only days you’ll get a Church of England member into a church. Sadly, that can hold more fact than fiction sometimes.

But for those who aren’t attending church, and for many who go to church out of a sense of ‘well, we’ve always done it before, so we’ll keep on doing it, although we haven’t a clue what it’s all about,’ they will most likely be celebrating the original pagan festival of ‘Eastre.’ Eastre, ‘ the goddess of springtime and birth,’ or the literal term ‘offspring.’

In early times, missionaries who spread the Gospel, were compelled to blend Christian theology with the then currently practiced pagan celebrations. This way, it prevented communities, who would have interpreted the message of Christianity to be detrimental to the growth of crops, from revolting. They would have also seen the promulgation of Christianity as a threat to the villages and health of the residents.

Eventually, the locals came to believe that by adding Christianity to their practices, it ‘might’ help their prosperity. However, at the same time, they held close to their original pagan rituals. Over time, the name Eastre morphed into Easter as more and more became converted.

The ‘church,’ which increasingly gained power over societies, continued to allow the use of pagan rituals so as to avoid anarchy among the people.

During the first centuries of Christianity, there was great disagreement over the true date of Easter. The first attempt at resolution was made at the First Ecumenical Council meeting, in Nicaea in AD325, which produced an acceptable calculation measured by the position of the moon.

It was agreed that Easter would be celebrated on the first Sunday following the first full moon, after the spring equinox. This was decided as it maintained a close link between scriptural records and the yearly celebration of Eastre/Easter.

However, there continued to be disagreement over the exact dates that Easter fell upon due to the fact that the four Gospels did not provide the actual date of the Resurrection. They only allude to the fact that it occurs in relationship to Passover, and on the first day of the week (Sunday). However, there still remains confusion.

At present Western churches calculate the date of Easter using the Gregorian calendar, which was introduced in 1582, It remains today as the worldwide standard calendar.

However, most Orthodox churches, including the Russian church, maintain the older Julian calendar to calculate Easter’s date. Unfortunately, the Julian calendar does not sustain alignment in measuring solar years, such as keeping months in alignment with the seasons.

There has always been agreement that the celebration of the Resurrection should not be a sign of division among Christians. Unfortunately, that consensus was broken when Pope Gregory XIII reformed the calendar in 1582, thus again changing the dates for Easter. Most Orthodox churches refused to alter the method for calculating Easter.

In 1998 the World Council of Churches and the Middle East Council of Churches, representing the majority of the world’s churches, agreed to set a common date for Easter. They agreed to use the current formula, but would also adhere to the most accurate astronomical scientific knowledge available. It was felt that this would help overcome any division that existed, whereby both traditions insisted upon retaining their old methods for calculating the date.

This is despite the fact that the formula actually isn’t entirely faithful to the original formula laid down by the early church. The formula, or algorithm used today is known as the Nicaea formula. Unfortunately, a definitive decision regarding which calendar would be followed still has not been agreed.

So, during the next two decades there are actual dates when both calendars do fall on a common date. They include: 2011, 2014 and 2017.

Despite this decision, there have been occasions when the world churches have had to resist intense pressure from governments, which were presumably pressured by highly paid lobbyists, and businesses, to hold Easter on the same date every year. (Sorry Hallmark, Nestlé, and Hershey).

The churches have been resolute in their determination to remain faithful to the Nicaea formula. The Resurrection is a divine event that keeps check with reality, rather than the convenience of world governments and its’ powerful businesses.

With all the discord that exists between churches, we pray that in the coming years there will be an agreement whereby we can all celebrate together.

In America, Britain, Australia and a few other countries, the ‘Easter egg’ and ‘Easter bunny’ stand as the commercial understanding of Easter. The bunny also originated with the pagan festival of Eastre, and again, through the goddess Eastre, Anglo-Saxons worshiped the goddess through her earth-bound symbol the rabbit.

It was German settlers who brought the symbol of the rabbit to the Americas. In fact, it wasn’t embraced by the Americans until shortly after the Civil War. It may come as a surprise to some, that even the Resurrection itself wasn’t celebrated in America until the mid to late 1800’s.

The ‘Easter egg’ dates back to the earliest of time when it was a symbol of rebirth in most cultures. It was introduced to the Americans just after the Civil War.

In Eastern Europe the egg holds similar symbols of rebirth, but the spiritual attachment runs much deeper. To Orthodox Christians, the Paschal egg became the sealed tomb wherein the body of the Lord had been placed after His crucifixion.

Traditions state that the custom of the egg had its start with Mary Magdalene, who is often depicted in icons holding a red egg. She may have been aware that the Romans would know the meaning of the egg as something that brings forth life from a sealed chamber.

After Jesus was crucified and ascended to Heaven, Mary was in Rome. When she met with the Roman Emperor Tiberius, she gave him a red coloured egg and announced, 'Christos anesti!' (Christ is Risen!) She then went on to preach to Tiberius about Jesus. It was an intelligent choice on her part because it was something the Romans would have understood.

In the early days of Christendom, red was the only color used in colouring the eggs, as it signified the sacred blood of Jesus which had been shed on Calvary.

During Orthodox Paschal services the priest will bless the eggs. They are then distributed. The worshipers greet one another with the words ‘Christ is risen!’ At the same time they hit their egg against the other person’s as they respond ‘He is Risen Indeed!’ This supplication symbolises a mutual prayer for the breaking of one’s bonds of sins and misery. It also stands for entering the new life we receive from Christ’s resurrection.

Eventually, none of the eggs will remain unbroken. The breaking of the egg emphasises that our Lord had conquered death and is risen, granting new life to all. The egg is then consumed as a symbolic breaking of the Lenten fast.

There are many variations on the use of the egg throughout religions. Even in Iran, the egg is used during Nowrooz, which is the Persian New Year. It too celebrates new life.

I consider myself very fortunate, in that I have the honour of celebrating Christ’s resurrection twice; in England, and with my friends in Moldova. Whether I'm there in person or not, I will certainly be in spirit!

He has Risen Indeed!

Posted for Fr Bill

I'm Only Dying! Death Of A Child Anglican Prayers

Children In Crisis

The Old Goat

2010-04-10T18:46:00.002Z

She’s the most cantankerous old goat you’d ever want to meet. For the world, I’ll just call her Emma. I’d hate to share her real name in case some 80-year old decided to hop upon the information–highway, read this, and immediately ‘tweak’ who I was writing about. That’s how famous her reputation is for being such an obstreperous old battle-ax! Okay, so I’m exaggerating a little…but only just!

Emma broke her heel a week before Christmas. She slipped on the steps at a shopping centre. Maybe someone pushed her. After just an hour with Emma, anyone would feel inclined to do so.

Tough break…excuse the pun. And I do feel sorry for her. But Emma seems to be doing marvellously, because every time I go to see her she is up and wandering around her home. I think the hospital discharged her early just so they wouldn’t have to put up with her. But it has created an excellent opportunity for Emma to be pampered a little by people in the community.

I’ve bought her a Zimmer frame. Emma complained about it even before she saw it, because she was certain it wouldn’t be adjusted correctly to her height. And I installed a seat across the edges of her bath so that she could sit on top and rest one leg in the bath, leaving the plastered leg safe and dry.

I’m preparing her meals. And they are lovely, if I do say so myself. When I brought her a plate of sandwiches at noon on the first day she got out of hospital she was appalled. ‘Oh No!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t eat sandwiches during the day – only cooked meals! I eat sandwiches in the evening.’ OK, so I’m a softy, I started cooking her hot meals for a noon delivery.

But lots of the food was being returned to me. She wouldn’t eat cucumbers (wind), lettuce (wind), apples (more wind), and there were dishes that were just too far beyond her comprehension. Shame on me. I was trying to prepare balanced meals with a bit of variety such as cannelloni, a pork loin steak with mushroom caps, and lots of fresh desserts like cream brûlée. But I got it all wrong. She wanted cottage pies, sausage and mash (no onions…wind) and apple crumble. And the evening I brought her peanut butter and jam sandwiches with the crust trimmed from the bread, well, you would have thought I had brought her dog food.

I’ve run her errands, sorted her pension for her, paid her rent, and installed a phone closer to her chair so she won’t have to get up. But no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to get it right.

Last year I was the officiant at a funeral for a woman who had died in a nursing home. I was told by the funeral director that no one would be attending the funeral. Sadly there are many funerals like this, but I couldn’t bear the thought of having a soul leave this earth without someone to celebrate their life. So I invited Emma to come with me. There was a dual purpose to my invite. I felt better about the funeral and I thought I’d take Emma out for some sightseeing afterwards. Big mistake!

Apparently I had planted a seed of guilt in the manager of the nursing home and at the last minute she decided to come to the funeral. Her presence at the service caused Emma to announce that she had been ‘conned’ into coming. Emma told the nursing home manager that I had done a ‘con job’ on her and got her to attend the funeral under false pretences. I later learned that she also went to the funeral director to tell them that I had conned her into going. I can’t imagine how many other people she said the same thing to.

There’s a saying that is bantered about sometimes; ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’ But I’ve been wrestling with moments of guilt over the past week because my thoughts about ol’ Emma have bordered on the slightly less than charitable. I’m sure God is going to have a stern word with me in the not too distant future. But in the meantime I’ve found a way to avenge my frustration with my mordant friend.

A few days ago, I purchased a small custom made birdhouse. It’s in the form of a cat. You place the cat facing forward onto a tree or wall, then you nail it into place. That leaves the rear of the cat facing outwards. And the talented builder of the birdhouse has adeptly drilled a 3cm hole directly beneath the upturned tail of the cat. I’ve placed it on a garage wall, just outside Emma’s back door. So each and every time she opens the door, the first thing she’ll face is the back end of the cat. Well, she is a bird-lover.

And now that I’ve had my whinge, I’ll tell you a little secret. I love old Emma to pieces. Her cantankerous, grumpy, tetchy, and caustically sarcastic attitude gives her a determination and drive to thrive. She is fiercely independent and I know for a fact that she wept bitterly while in hospital because she didn’t want to be dependent upon anyone. She wanted to get on and live life her way.

And who is there among us to deny her that right? I suspect she’ll outlive me!

God bless you Emma….you old goat!

Comforting Words For a Dying Child

Words of Comfort

Mothers Day? It's Just For Women?

2010-04-03T18:34:00.000Z

I’ve always tended to look upon our school headteachers as wise captains of ships, full of young impressionable minds. A headteacher’s wisdom and guidance serves to nurture and inspire those dedicated teachers who give so much of their lives to help develop our nation’s children towards adulthood.

So I was shocked to read that Helen Starkey, the headteacher of Johnstown Primary School in Wales, made the decision to ban Mothers Day. Well, in fairness, as I understand it, she has banned the children from preparing Mother’s Day cards, and any associated events. Her reason was not out of cruelty, but I suspect, more so as a result of falling prey to the advancement of America’s commercial marketing grasp on the rest of the world. According to Mrs Starkey, her reason was out of ‘sensitivity,’ as five percent of her students were separated from their natural birth mother.

Here in Britain Mother’s Day is actually known as Mothering Sunday, and is celebrated on the fourth Sunday of Lent. However, it has no association with the American holiday in May known as Mother’s Day, or as some cynics call it, (me being the leader of that cynicism!) ‘Hallmark Day.’

The original translation from Latin is a derivative of ‘Refreshment’ or ‘Laetare Sunday,’ during Lent: the first words of the opening prayer of the Mass are Laetare Jerusalem (Rejoice Jerusalem), and honour is given to the Mother Church. The extension to actual mothers was gradual, and evolved at time when children, mainly daughters, who had gone to work as domestic servants, were given a day off to visit their family.

Now it is a day when children give presents, flowers, and cards to their mothers. But it can also be recognised, in its truest form, as a time to recognise those who practice the act of mothering. The dictionary defines ‘mothering’ as ‘to care for or protect.’ It is not gender specific. Unfortunately, as the distance between continents become shorter, the commercial aspects of this date overpower its broader and possibly purer origins.

‘Mothering’ comes from carers, nurses, male parents, or anyone who serves or cares for others, those who provide loving, nurturing care as if they were the mother to the individual. These people are so often forgotten or ignored and I find it heartbreaking that due recognition is seldom given. The individual who has cared for an invalid or elderly person, who needed mothering in its truest sense, may be forgotten this Sunday and at all other times.

Most Sundays in the year churchgoers in England worship at their nearest parish or ‘daughter church.’ Centuries ago, it was considered important for people to return to their home or ‘mother’ church once a year. So each year in the middle of Lent, everyone would visit the main church or Cathedral of the area.

Over time the return to the ‘mother’ church became an occasion for family reunions when children who were working away returned home. (It’s difficult to comprehend that less than a hundred years ago children who were as young as nine or ten would leave their village home to work in cities like London.)

And most historians believe that it was the return to the ‘Mother’ church which led to the tradition of children, particularly those working as domestic servants, or as apprentices, being given the day off to visit their families. As they travelled along country lanes, children would collect wild flowers or violets to take to church or give to their mother as a small gift.

The American holiday, which has sadly become so commercialised, began in 1912 when an International Mother’s Day association was formed, as a result of the efforts of a Methodist spinster, who recognised the importance of strengthening family ties. The United States Congress passed a joint resolution marking the second Sunday in May as ‘their’ official ‘Mother’s Day.’ It was then proclaimed as a national holiday.

The American date failed to catch on in countries where the US didn’t have strong influence or control, because within the resolution was the mandate that the American flag be displayed on all homes and government buildings in reverence to the mothers of America. It just smelled a bit too nationalist for other countries.

No matter who it is that nurtures, cares for, supports, defends, helps and loves, they certainly deserve accolades of gratitude, praise and love. Today, above all, please don’t forget to recognise them, no matter where in the world you may be!

And if you simply can’t think of anyone at all….you could always hug a priest. There’s not enough of that either!

Shrove Tuesday

2010-03-08T07:04:00.000Z

OK, I’m rummaging through the fridge: milk - yep, butter – absolutely! Now the cabinets: Flour –plenty, oil, and yes…there it is – I’ve been saving it – a large bottle of imported Log Cabin Maple syrup! I'm all prepared - Shrove Tuesday here we go! This year it is celebrated on March 8th. But I think I'll sneak a few pancakes over the coming weekend as well!

Shrove Tuesday sometimes reminds me of children with their modern Advent calendars; chocolates, candies and other assorted surprises hiding behind each door. But sadly, there appears no mention of what the calendar is about or its symbolism; just as with Shrove Tuesday; it is no longer Shrove Tuesday – it’s now Pancake Day!

Originally, Shrove Tuesday was the day that people would confess their sins and receive absolution. Shriving - that act of forgiveness, where the individual is released from their suffering, pain and guilt, was in preparation for the season of Lent. During this time people would empty their larders, freeing their homes from foods such as: meats, eggs, fatty foods, fish and milk items. This prepared the home for the period of Lent – that time for reflection, renewal, and forgiveness.

Today so many people are becoming more health-conscious. They are recognising the importance of cleansing their bodies through detoxification, fasting, and exercise.

Shrove Tuesday is quite similar. It’s a celebration as well as an act of penitence, in preparation of cleansing the soul. And Mardi Gras, the French translation for ‘Fat Tuesday’ is the celebration of that act.

How wonderful! We have cleaned out our fridges and we have cleansed our souls. Indeed, it is a time to celebrate.

Flipping Marvellous!

To Dust We Shall All Return

2010-02-17T19:53:00.007Z

I popped in for a visit to a local travel agent's this morning. In the midst of my chatting with one of the staff; a lovely girl with a warm nurturing personality, she suddenly rose from her seat and reached over to me and rubbed her fingers on my forehead.

'Sorry,' she said, 'you had a little something on your forehead.' It happened so fast I hadn't time to react. She had wiped away the ash from my forehead. I explained that it was a sign of penitence or remorse for my sins and an acknowledgement of God's forgiveness. I helped her overcome her embarrassment by laughing with her about it. And I was pleased that I had a chance to explain this tradition in our church calendar.

Throughout the Old Testament there are references to people showing acts of penance before God, by dressing in sackcloth and either sitting or covering themselves in ash. The prophet Jeremiah calls for repentance of our sins this way: 'O daughter of my people, gird on sackcloth and roll in the ashes.' (Jeremiah 6:26)

Ash Wednesday signifies our journey as we move from our lives as sinners to the baptismal font, where lies our salvation. Lent reminds us to acknowledge our sins and find our salvation through Christ. It also reminds us of our mortality: 'Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.'

As we follow the forty days of Lent, it is a time for us to reflect, to fast, and to focus on restoring our relationship with God. It's a time for us to use in clearing and renewing our spiritual home.

The young girl told me she 'did not go to church and is not religious.' As I have shared in these devotionals before; you do not need to be religious in order to be spiritual. Even in a secular environment, the season of Lent can be a time where we strive to make amends with family and friends, to offer apologies, and especially to acknowledge our own frailties, omissions, and wrongs.

The Gospel for Ash Wednesday offers us excellent advice on how we are to act during Lent by praying, fasting and giving alms. All of these are spiritual acts. Also, Jesus teaches us that these spiritual activities are to be done without seeking recognition from others. In other words, perhaps we're being encouraged to commit random acts of kindness.

Finally, we do not wear the ashes to suggest that we are holy, but to acknowledge that we are a community of sinners in need of God's forgiveness and in the renewal of our lives. Sadly, irony can be found, sometimes, in how many people attend services on the morning of Ash Wednesday. Let us pray that their presence is to acknowledge their sins and not to promote their piety.

And may your day today be full of a joy that you can share among others!

Posted for Fr Bill

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

2009-08-04T05:20:00.001Z

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.

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

Grass Is Always Greener On The Other Side

2009-07-04T07:28:00.000Z

I have a friend who is an auditor for an international company. She travels extensively, criss-crossing between languages and cultures and at times it seems she spends more time on aircraft than she does on the ground. It’s a gruelling job and the constant travelling, plus the intricacies of her profession, demand that she keep her senses fine tuned at all times.

But her friends suggest that she has a swank life; jetting off to foreign lands, staying in posh hotels - it all seems so glamorous. And as a result, sometimes it becomes difficult for her to engage with her friends back home.

I understand completely. With many of my own friends who work for the airlines, I can sit with them whilst they talk about a great lunch they had in Cape Town on Monday, and a wonderful little bistro they found on Copacabaña Beach in Rio the following week. To outsiders it might appear they are boasting. But the reality is that it's the nature of their work.

But those people who do this work, living out of suitcases, surfing across time zones, and listening to their children grow by phone, rather than seeing them grow, have surrendered more than most can imagine. For airline crew, the destination they’ve reached has required them to (literally), walk halfway around the world. They’ve had to face aggressive passengers, smelly passengers, rude passengers, demanding passengers, and occasionally just downright strange passengers.

And what do they get in exchange for collecting all those dirty meal trays? On board, they get abuse because of the weather, because the passenger got stroppy with the gate agent and didn’t get a free upgrade, or because they had a row with their spouse before leaving for the airport and they needed someone to use as their punching bag!

They get to pop on a bus after all the passengers have disembarked, they get to check into a hotel far away from the city - sometimes into rooms that smell worse than the passenger they’ve been so anxious to escape for the past eight thousand miles. They get to wrangle with their body clocks to force themselves to sleep. And most of the time they wake up not remembering where they are because every single hotel room begins to look the same.

I can attest to this. Many years ago there was a time when I spent one hundred and eighty seven nights, in a single year, in Marriott hotels. (plus another 45 in an assortment of, Ritz, Four Seasons, Intercontinentals and Westins!) One morning I woke up not having a clue where I was.

The only things of which I was reasonably certain was that there would be an exasperating ‘how was your stay’ questionnaire on the bed, the bathroom would be on the right, the towels would be some 1970’s retro rendition of earth-tone beige, the ergonomically curved soap would have had a matching colour and the bathroom would reek with the lingering scent of miniature bars of Neutrogena soap. The other thing of which I was certain was that there would be a beige phone and that I could dial '55' and hear the aspartame voice of a management trainee who was trying to exercise a nurturing concern for whatever it was I was rambling on about.

I felt for the phone through the dark and pressed 55. ‘Where am I?’ I quietly asked. I still recall the conversation as if it were yesterday. ‘You’re calling from room 1819,’ the chirpy little voice confirmed. I would have rolled my eyes but they were still stuck with sand. ‘No, WHERE am I?’ I repeated, hoping I wasn’t going to have to go through face exercises that early in the morning.

‘You’re in the Marriott, sir.’ You could hear how she emphasised the word ‘sir,’ as if she were looking around the hotel herself for confirmation.

‘No…,’ I moaned, ‘What Marriott!’ The girl now seemed to understand. ‘You’re in the Marriott City Centre, sir.’ And I could hear her tone of satisfaction as if she had just successfully completed the next level of Marriott’s management training course in dealing with hung-over guests.

I do give thanks to God for making me inherently friendly. I still had to muster up my best ‘phone smile’ to ask ‘please, can you tell me what city I’m in?’ There was a pause before the girl responded. I know she didn’t go outside to check for herself and I hope she didn’t have to ask anyone. I think she was just surprised by the question. She quietly responded ‘you’re in Melbourne, sir.’

I can’t recall whether I put the phone down first or sprang up in bed first. I wasn’t going to demean myself further. She really would have thought I was some hung-over drunk. (not a good thing when you’re in a Mormon owned hotel!) I swung my feet over to the floor and forced myself to take account of my surroundings. I had fallen asleep in my clothes and with the telly on. Glaring at me through the darkness was the same old repetitious twaddle of CNN.

It finally dawned on me that I was in Australia. The problem is that I had been in Orlando just two days before and when the girl said ‘Melbourne,’ ...well, you can imagine. The common term is ‘jet lag.’ But for me it was the catalyst I needed to not stay in a Marriott again for many years. (no offence meant Marriott.)

Living in this fashion may be fine if you’re single and determined to remain so for the rest of your life. But if you’re married, or in a committed relationship then it can become taxing, not to mention detrimental to both of you.

People who live out of suitcases often fantasize about a life where they can stand still and not have to keep their guard up continually. Those who live the more ‘conventional’ (if there is such a term nowadays), lifestyle, fantasize about the opportunity to travel.

For those of you who hop on an aircraft in the morning, arrive in a foreign city at night, drag yourselves out of bed the next morning to go sit in an office with people whom you don’t know, or worse detest, then that afternoon head back to the airport to fly home, just to repeat the exercise several days later; I admire you!

For those of you who drag yourselves out of bed in the morning, get the kiddies ready for school, then head off to work, then come home to receive your children, wash clothes, clean the house, prepare dinner, then drop off to sleep from exhaustion; I admire you too!

Without either of you, our world would be a lesser place.

Go get em tiger!

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

When We Need a Little Help

Words to Help Ease the Pain

How The Other Half Lives

Boston Stopover

Tut Tut Looks Like Rain

2009-06-14T14:21:00.000Z

My GP and I have this incredible love/hate relationship. It has lasted for years. We both love life and we both hate having to face one another when it involves serious issues!

A few years ago she asked me ‘Bill, what would you do if I said you were getting fat?’ ‘Easy,’ I responded, ‘I’d get a bigger doctor!’ And that was the end of that conversation. As I recall, our focus then drifted to which was our favourite doughnut at the Krispy Kreme shop in Harrods!

We both have such a high regard for life and for living that our visits always include discussions about a vast range of general world concerns. Consequently, whatever I may have come for becomes nothing more than a postscript. It’s just that we both seem to happily fuel off of one another and I’m as happy to see her as she is to see me.

Several years ago, we both agreed that if it ever came to having to talk about anything deeply serious, then we’d just talk about the weather instead. It was an off the cuff comment I made to her because she had just related to me what a terrible week she’d been through. I wanted to cheer her up.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I popped in this week to see her, when she looked at me and said ‘Tut, tut, looks like rain, Christopher Robin.’

Well done. I think she’ll go far!

Helping to Ease the Pain of Dying

Bedside Prayer for Death of a Child

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Finding The Right Words Of Comfort

Not That Old Chestnut Again!

As Long As We're Remembered

2009-04-09T10:43:00.000Z

There’s a Russian proverb that says ‘Our spirit lives on as long as we’re remembered.’

Our local cemetery is arguably one of the most beautiful in the south of England. The unique designs of some of the headstones are a touching tribute to the sacred memory of its inhabitants. And it’s not unusual for families and individuals to spend time, not only to honour those who are interred there, but also to enjoy its serene and beautiful surroundings.

But there’s a blight that is engulfing the cemetery. From the hilltop, as you look out towards the sea, over the acres of monuments that serve as symbols of affection from surviving family and friends, hundreds of the fine marble and granite masonry tributes lay flat on the ground.

This hasn’t come about as a result of vandalism. It has occurred as a consequence of our government’s sweeping paranoia over the litigious nature of today’s society. Over time, some of the stones have shifted in the permeable soil, thus creating the possibility that should a child or vandal pull on one of the stones, it could shift and thus continue its gravitational journey downward, causing injury or worse. It has happened in another region, once, eleven years ago. And, of course, the parents of the child who pulled the stone over and was crushed, sued the local council.

In response to this possibility, the stones have been laid down. Letters have been sent to last known addresses, offering the recipient the opportunity to restore the memory of their loved one. But if the letters are returned, or if there is no reply, the stones will be removed. And the named memory of the departed soul will be eradicated.

It is not meant as a poetic statement to say that the very nature of our nation’s existence was built upon our resilience and our steadfast principles of honour. In the past, if you tripped and fell over, you got up off the floor, dusted yourself off and just got on with it!

But today, our society has become addicted to seeking ways to blame others for our own negligence or acts of stupidity. And it would appear that our government has no interest in the preservation of individuals who are no longer able to speak for themselves or pay taxes to support the perpetuity of their memory.

So in a short time those stones will be removed. The tears that were wept, the sacrifices that were made to pay for the monuments, the generations of care that was given to the grave – all will be wiped away. And the names and memories of those individuals will disappear.

As we walk through the cemetery on this early spring morning, we call out those names one last time. And in this final tribute, we are reminded that there is life immortal that shall survive the grave.

And their imperishable spirit is forever with the Lord.

These photos from Bexhill Cemetery are only a small sample of the beautiful masonry tributes that are currently at risk. Further information regarding Bexhill Cemetery is available from Rother County Government and Bexhill Today news. The entrance to Bexhill Cemetery is located at the corner of Turkey Road and Saint Mary’s Lane.

I share in the frustration over how to address this situation. Should Rother council fail to follow Health and Safety laws, the cemetery could be forcibly closed, with its gates locked, thus preventing anyone from visiting the cemetery until such time as the safety directives are followed. It is truly a paradoxical situation.

One thing I do beg of you, however, is please do not harrass or attempt to intimidate the cemetery manager over this situation. She is not the creator of these laws! She shares in the same frustrations as the rest of us over this matter. So, please, please, leave her alone! Otherwise I may have to come have a word with you! And you certainly wouldn't want that! :-)

Remembrance Day

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Finding Words Of Comfort

Internal Housekeeping

2009-02-26T11:21:00.001Z

I popped in for a visit to a local travel agent yesterday. In the midst of my chatting with one of the staff - a lovely girl with a warm nurturing personality, she suddenly rose from her seat and reached over to me and rubbed her fingers on my forehead.

'Sorry,' she said, 'you had a little something on your forehead.' It happened so fast I hadn't time to react. She had wiped away the ash from my forehead. I explained that it was a sign of penitence or remorse for my sins and an acknowledgement of God's forgiveness. I helped her overcome her embarrassment by laughing with her about it. And I was pleased that I had a chance to explain this tradition in the church calendar.

Throughout the Old Testament, there are references to people showing acts of penance before God, by dressing in sackcloth and either sitting or covering themselves in ash. The prophet Jeremiah calls for repentance of our sins this way: (Jeremiah 6:26)

Ash Wednesday signifies our journey as we move from our lives as sinners to the baptismal font, where lies our salvation. Lent reminds us to acknowledge our sins. It also reminds us of our mortality: 'Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.'

As we follow the forty days of Lent, it is a time for us to reflect, to fast, and to focus on restoring relationships – not only with those whom we love, but in our personal spiritual relationship with God as well. In other words, it's a time for us to use in clearing and renewing our spiritual home.

The kindly travel agent told me she did not go to church and is not ‘religious.’ As I share with people so often - you do not need to be religious in order to be spiritual. Even in a secular environment, the season of Lent can be a time where we strive to make amends with family and friends, to offer apologies, and especially to acknowledge our own frailties, omissions, and wrongs.

In the Gospel for Ash Wednesday, we’re offered excellent advice on how we are to act during Lent; including prayer, fasting, and giving alms. All of these are spiritual acts. Also, we are reminded us that these activities are to be done without seeking recognition from others. In other words, perhaps we're being encouraged to commit random acts of kindness.

Finally, we do not wear the ashes to suggest that we are holy, but to acknowledge that we share in a community who seek renewal and forgiveness in our lives. At times, I’ve found some sad irony in how many people attend services on the morning of Ash Wednesday. I offer in our prayers that our presence is to acknowledge collectively our human frailties and not to promote our piety.

Our modern world bombards us daily with responsibilities and enticements and our lives are being challenged in ways we’ve never experienced. Perhaps this is the time when committing ourselves to renewal is more important than ever before.

Posted for Fr Bill

The Best Waitress in The World

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

This Incredible Christmas Gift

2008-12-25T23:15:00.005Z

In his famous play, Green Pastures, playwright Marc Connelly has the angel Gabriel walk on stage with his horn under his arm. He approaches the Lord who is deep in thought. God is troubled about what is happening on earth: So much anger and fighting, so much pain and sadness, so many people blindly ruining their lives. God is very troubled because He has already sent any number of prophets and special messengers, but His people just can't hear them.

Gabriel offers to blow his horn and bring the whole sorry mess to a quick end. But God takes his trumpet away. Gabriel presses the Lord about what He's going to do. And finally the Lord answers, 'This time,' He says, 'I'm not going to send anybody. This time I'm going myself!'

And that's what we're celebrating today: God has given us the best gift He had: His own son as our guide, our brother and our friend. And He'll never take His gift back - not for all eternity.

So what are we to do with this incredible gift? Take it in, all the way inside. Silently and simply speak His name, 'Jesus,' and know that no matter what, all will be well. All will be well!

I wish you all the blessings of this wonderful gift. May your Christmas be filled with warmth, love and hope.

Our Greatest Gifts

The Meaning of Christmas

Preparing for Christmas

When Humans Meet Their Waterloo

2008-12-16T10:00:00.006Z

I arrived at our ‘biggie’ supermarket this weekend mentally psyched for the general onslaught of weekend shoppers.

I absolutely detest crowds and my irritation only becomes compounded as I watch exasperated mothers making feeble attempts, (and failing), to negotiate with their children over the strategically placed sugar-drenched rubbish the stores set at eye level, designed to invoke these battles of emotional stamina.

And at the end of this foray is the always ever looming possibility that my exercise in controlled civility would have one final assault from the till clerk – the ‘Gloom Master’ herself!

Despite my exercise in trying to invoke a smile from the woman several weeks ago with my carefully selected floral bouquet, I’m sad to say the past few times I’ve been in her queue, she’s been the same miserable, warmth dissolving, spirit zapping person I first encountered. I do look at her with more compassion now, despite her irascible demeanour, but I must admit she hardly wins the ‘Miss Congeniality Award’ of the New Millennia !

After collecting my trolley of bits and bobs I headed to the check out tills. Over the months I’ve conditioned myself to go directly to Gloom Master’s till. It’s not that I’m some self abasing glutton for kinky mental abuse, it’s just that I keep hoping (praying) that I’ll see a new spark in the old gal.

But surprise of all surprises, not only was Gloom Master not at her till, the entire register, belt, etc., was gone! In its place was a behemoth device containing electronic screens, numerous touch pad signs and a scanning device for the customer to use rather than the Gloom Master.

As I walked up to the device it welcomed me and invited me to scan my first item. And it guided me throughout as if I were some mindless amoeba, telling me to place the scanned item on the belt, scan the next item, and so on. With each item I scanned there was some form of interaction from ‘the machine.’ When I finished following its instructions, ‘the machine’ somehow sensed that I was finished and it 'invited’ me to select how I would pay. It announced the amount due; it took my card details, processed the payment, and issued a receipt.

And as I pulled the receipt from the printer, ‘the machine’ said ‘thank you for shopping with us today!’

There it was, the entire process of human interaction – precisely what we want in our interactions with sales clerks, all neatly wrapped up into a simple, concise, effective, and even friendly experience. (Ladies & Gentlemen, there's a fearsome foreboding here!)

And Gloom Master – Alice, the human with all her frailties and needs - where was she? Well, with the advances of modern technology, the store was faced with the ‘sad’ necessity of having redundancies. Alice was among a number of the ‘older’ employees who received a ‘nice’ letter (saying thank you, no doubt), explaining that their particular talents were no longer required.

It was probably my imagination as I looked down the dozens of tills still manned by humans, but it appeared that not one of them was over the age of 18.

Gloom Master Alice has indeed met her Waterloo. But truth be known; I’d always prefer her grumpy, yet very real, human interaction over a machine that says ‘thank you.’

Technology has achieved astonishing advances. But technology will never be able to replace humans interacting with humans. It’s that strand of fibre that holds lives together and gives us meaning to our own life.

Now, I’m just wondering…if I brought flowers to ‘the machine’ would it go out to dinner with me? I could tell it was trying to flirt a little.

The Best Waitress In The World

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

Meet The Gloom Master

Gloom Master Maintenance

Rage Isn't An Excuse

2008-12-15T12:13:00.011Z

There are some of us who carry memories, or visual images of experiences through our lives that are so dark, so horrific that part of our life’s pleas to God is to never have them cross our minds again. Ever.

For some, it can be the image of an auto or aeroplane accident, for others it may be the experience they suffered through as the result of rape, torture, assaults, war, domestic violence, the World Trade Centre; the list can seem endless. All of these events can engender the emotion of combined fear and rage.

The news of the Iraqi reporter who threw his shoes at President Bush is a clear example of the emotion of rage. Having been beaten and tortured himself, compounded by years of witnessing and reporting on the countless thousands of deaths of his fellow countrymen, and the displacement of millions of families, the reporter’s pent-up rage was unleashed at President Bush.

But as with almost everything else I have heard come from President Bush’s mouth over the past eight years, his obtuse response to the incident, in my opinion, was appallingly crass and yet another addition to an endless list of examples of his failures to show an understanding or empathy for people.

There’s a number of experiences and events to which I have been either a witness or victim, however you wish to perceive it, that haunt me in similar ways. And whilst I still haven’t mastered mechanisms to stop the images from surfacing at the most unusual times, I am able to metaphorically ‘re-file’ them instantly so that they do not impact my day. Perhaps they're meant to surface from time to time to help remind me of all the blessings I do have.

I am grateful that there have been very few moments in my life when I can truly say I have experienced the emotion of rage. And if I’m pragmatic about it all, I can honestly say that I have an understanding of the emotion and how it can, in certain instances, manifest in some people, just as it did with the reporter.

I’ve thought a lot today about the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan who have been fired upon. That probably wouldn’t provoke rage as much as it would adrenalin-fuelled fear. But possibly watching one of your fellow soldiers become hurt or killed most probably could cause the emotion of rage to manifest.

And when someone is possessed with the influence of rage, I imagine there are many instances where that individual, who might normally be well grounded and able to understand the cause and effect of their actions, might not be able to control the guttural visceral emotion that has overcome them.

But what happens when such behaviour is part of a pre-meditated, discussed, alluded to, and tacitly approved response? Is there such a thing as giving ‘permission’ to respond with rage?

I listened to a news article on America’s National Public Radio (NPR) regarding the court-reported actions of a US military interrogator who has been charged with the death of an ex Iraqi general. The interrogator had been assigned the task of securing information from the Iraqi. As I understand it, the Iraqi officer had been responsible for many deaths in the past by virtue of his rank in the Iraqi military. The article did not state whether there was any detailed evidence of the general having committed any specific acts of violence. But I have no doubt about his culpability.

The American interrogator’s defence is that the instructions he received from his superiors were vague and that he is a victim himself of mixed signals sent by US commanders over the treatment and interrogation of prisoners.

The facts, as reported by NPR, were that this US Officer placed the chained and handcuffed Iraqi upside down inside a wet sleeping bag, then wrapped the sleeping bag with bare electrical cord. This was presumably so that amounts of electrical current could be passed through the bag, although I heard no statement that this was actually done.

The process was designed to create maximum ‘stress’ for the prisoner, in the hopes that information would be obtained in the most expedient way. As the prisoner was entombed in the bag, the interrogator would lower the bag to the floor and sit on it, adding more stress to the Iraqi’s chest.

According to the court documents, the Iraqi kept calling out to God. Whenever this happened, the interrogator placed his hands over the Iraqi’s mouth and nose preventing him from breathing or speaking. The court testimony doesn’t say whether the Iraqi was calling out God’s name in fear. But one can probably assume.

The Iraqi died. The prisoner’s family filed a complaint alleging that their husband, father of three small children, had been tortured. Of course, there is never an admission to such things.

But now, the interrogator has been charged with the death of the general. The interrogator’s defence is that he obtained ‘permission’ from his commanding officers as to the tactics he would use. And therefore, he was following orders from his officers.

His commanding officers acknowledge that he had discussed the tactics that would be used. Apparently, it is an acceptable practice to place prisoner’s in ‘stressful’ positions in order to educe information.

The testimony continued for some time. And both the prosecution and defence raised the matter of rage and whether the interrogator was acting out of rage at any point. This, presumably might serve as a mitigating cause for his actions.

And indeed there had been rage on the part of the interrogator. When the Iraqi, inside the wet sleeping bag, stopped calling out God’s name and remained silent, the interrogator removed him from the sleeping bag. When he did so the Iraqi was smiling.

According to the testimony, this infuriated the interrogator so much that he poured water into the Iraqi’s mouth and nostrils. He was enraged ‘beyond control’ because his efforts had not been successful.

But the truth was that the Iraqi was dead. He had died whilst inside the sleeping bag, and his last words, or attempted words were for God to save him.

When the interrogator left his family to go to Iraq, I’m certain he never envisaged himself being in a position where he would deliberately torture someone. At least, Dear Lord, at least I hope not. And when the Iraqi general spent however many years of his life in the midst of totalitarianism at the hands of a madman and worked to make himself one of the alpha males in the Iraqi military – was it in order to survive despotism to ensure his family was safe, or was it due to the rantings of a dictator who feared the spectre of an empire attacking his country? I haven’t a clue.

All I do know is that whether it’s the Iraqi gentleman, the American gentleman, or the Iraqi reporter who threw shoes at President Bush, there are families somewhere who are mourning, who are trying to find ways to push into the recesses of their minds, images of humanity at its worst.

The Wolves Within

When Violence Touches Your Own

The Pain of Disappointment

Lest We Forget

What's Middle Age?

2008-12-04T13:24:00.001Z

What’s middle age? When do we become middle aged? Or what age are we when we become old?

According to the Irish Humorist John D. Sheridan, ‘No one is old at 39 and life begins again at 41, but at 40 a man feels as old as Methuselah.’ He lies awake at night listening to the gurgling of the water cistern and thinking of his hardening arteries.

Then clearly, at 50 there's no way back! The thirties have gone forever. The forties passed you by so fast your head spun. And now you might feel like asking for a recount but there is no point, for somehow the 50th birthday is presented as a day of judgement.

Although there's nothing special about one birthday any more than another, there remains the implication that if the idealism of youth has not become a reality, or at least a probability by the age of 50, then somehow or other, we have failed to make much of life.

Middle age, like middle class, comes as a stigma - a sentence of 25 years or so with remissions for good behaviour: sensible diet, lots of fibre, and more ordered exercise, but a sentence none the less, and one that reminds us of the half measures of our lives. Lives which are neither too good or too bad, compromising vision with reality, but somehow acknowledging that in the end it is an unequal struggle and that a rising generation will now have to compensate for our deficiencies. God help them!

One of the advantages of this stage of life however is the ability to look both backwards and forwards, with a fair amount of sympathy and understanding. I certainly understand the challenges my own children face in today’s society. And my senses are deeply damaged and enraged, as I witness the daily carnage of human life so joyfully thrust upon us on television. Thirty years ago, I might have turned my head away and focused on other things.

Yes, being ‘middle aged’ provides the chance for one of those rare moments of total honesty when we place our values and lives in the balance, when we can choose to discard some of the excess baggage we have carried, and move on with greater freedom and a greater sense of purpose into another age.

Would I like to be able to correct the mistakes I made in my youth? I’m not certain that I would, because without having made them I would not be who I am today. Would I like to have my youth back? Well, only if I could retain all the battle scars I carry today with pride: because without the maturity of mind and soul I might only be reckless energy. Heaven knows we already have plenty of that to go around.

In other words, thank You Lord, no. Leave me with the tools I carry today, as they are the ones that are preparing me for my new life to come.

Don't Worry!

Music is the Gift of God

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Do You Believe in Dog?

Gloom Master Maintenance

2008-12-02T12:36:00.012Z

It was a perfect morning for my clandestine activities. Saturday is ‘family day.’ It’s one of those days when I get to do what ‘I’ want to do. That sounds nice in principle, but it actually means changing the linens, hauling them off to the cleaners, dropping my daughter off for her early morning ballet class, doing the grocery shopping, catching up on paperwork, and answering a staggering number of emails. The afternoon is different. That’s when we make certain we have time as a family.

But the timing was perfect. As I dropped Mary off I decided to visit the florist and select some flowers for the Gloom Master. There were plenty of choices and I really struggled in imagining what flower would discretely say ‘you’re a miserable old git and it’s got to change now!’

I went for the daffodils. Some were still closed tight and I figured that once they relaxed and opened, they’d turn into a thing of beauty. I wasn’t certain that Gloom Master would be able to interpret the subtle nuances behind the gesture, but it was the best my half-functioning brain could rustle up before 9am on a Saturday morning.

Men are useless at things like choosing flowers. Most of us end up making our selections at the checkout counters of the local 7-11 or at a petrol station. And we’re probably hopeless at conveying messages that possess any sense of depth. Worse yet, when a woman receives flowers from a guy, it can more often than not mean the guy is guilty of something, or the relationship is just too new and he’s still chasing her. Oh, I hope I've never been that way! (Okay...perhaps once, maybe...)

My early morning attire was perfect for the position of a flower delivery person. I had on torn jeans, a flannel shirt, and a jacket that had seen better days - long before the chap who passed away left it to me. And my hair looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

I took one of those blank cards that florists always have available and pondered over what I should write. I settled for ‘Alice, thank you for being so nice.’ I’m sure God was raising His eyebrows over that one! But I muttered to myself, ‘ just give me a second, you’ll see what I’m up to.’ The extremely patient florist kindly placed a ribbon around the flowers and wrapped them in paper. They were three bunches for £1.50. Fantastic value I thought. I bought nine bunches.

Daffodils have always been one of my favourites. As a small child I remember my grandmother helping me plant several in her garden. Whenever I came to visit her she would point out that the flowers in her garden were a result of my hands. It’s one of those childhood snapshots that remain in your heart throughout your life.

I pulled up to the entrance of the supermarket and did exactly what I hate seeing anyone else do. I stopped the car, turned on the emergency blinkers, and ran in to the service counter. I told the surprised clerk that they were for one of the till clerks named Alice. (I probably could have said 'Gloom Master' and they would have known who I was speaking about). The clerk was busy but she said she’d give them to her. I ran back out to the car and headed for the laundry.

After dropping off our linens I returned to the supermarket to do my shopping. As I entered the store I could see the back of Gloom Master at her till. Her flowers had been placed in a vase and were beside her register. There was already a steady queue of people paying for their weekend shopping.

When I queued up with the other poor souls who were waiting their turn for a dose of Miss Congeniality, I immediately noticed something. The woman was actually smiling! I won’t go so far as to say I heard her entering into any meaningful conversation with the two people ahead of me, but it was very clear that the woman wasn’t being the inveterate grump that she always was.

As she began to scan my items I said my usual ‘Good morning.’ She looked at me and smiled, but she didn’t’ respond. And then I said ‘those are lovely flowers you have there.’ The woman glanced at them, as she continued scanning my groceries. She said ‘ yes, they are lovely. I haven’t received flowers since my husband died. He always brought me flowers. We were married forty-four years’

The total appeared on the display and the woman, as true to form, didn’t tell me what the total was. But as I handed her the money, I noticed that she didn’t have the rock hardened face that she usually held.

This time I saw a sad, lonely, elderly lady who was adrift over the loss of someone she loved. I saw a lost and lonely woman who probably had nothing left to return to at home.

Perhaps the flowers did more for me than they did for her. Perhaps they served to remind me that anyone’s demeanour has an origin. Perhaps her behaviour was the only mechanism she could find as protection.

Next week, when I queue up at her till, perhaps I’ll see less of Gloom Master and more of Alice, the lonely woman who no longer has anyone to bring her flowers.

And that is what I should have seen in the first place.

The Power of Words

Perhaps You Need A Little Dog in Your Life

How To Be The Best Waitress in The World

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

Thank You Sarah

2008-11-28T13:00:00.003Z

It was just past midnight as I sat in hospital with my friend Sarah. Her children and grandchildren had gone home for some much needed rest. It was obvious that Sarah was at the end of this life's journey and preparing for her next. The nursing staff had kindly moved her into a private room, affording more privacy and dignity.

I had brought with me a small radio and a book, which I read to Sarah during the night. And I was prepared to offer her Viaticum (a prayer of provision for her journey) as morning broke. It was our private time together.

It was close to 2AM when Sarah opened her eyes. I had stopped reading and was watching the shallow rise and fall of her frame as her body instinctively fought, clinging to the last vestige of life. The music that softly played from the small radio was Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending.

I asked Sarah if she would mind my saying prayers for her now. She had such a sweet and lovely radiance in her face. I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped a tear that ran from her eye. I stroked her hair and briefly thought of her sisters and children.

Almighty God, look upon Your servant Sarah, as she lies here in weakness. Comfort her with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of Your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Sarah surrendered her mortal life a few hours later, with dignity and embraced in love.

Thank you Sarah. Thank you for the honour of being my friend.

Words of Comfort for the Dying

I'm Only Dying!

Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

It's Life Jim But Not As We Know It

So What's a Good Death?

The Gloom Master

2008-11-27T12:10:00.008Z

In one of the supermarkets I use there’s a till clerk whom I’ve awarded the honorary title of ‘Gloom Master.’ Over the past year, I cannot recollect one single positive response from the woman when I’ve greeted her as I paid for my groceries. If I ask ‘how are you today?’ The response most often is ‘awful.’ If I mention that it looks lovely outside today, her response is ‘well, I’ll never see it, will I?’

I’m ashamed to say that there have been times when I’ve perused the tills to see who was working them, so as to choose anyone but the Gloom Master to ring up my purchases. But yesterday I found myself again standing in queue as she dealt with customers ahead of me.

Just before me was a petite lady who I would guess was in her seventies. As Gloom Master scanned the woman’s items there was no dialogue between them. And when Gloom Master finished scanning the items, she simply stopped and waited for the woman to put her items in shopping bags. Still, no words were exchanged.

The senior shopper looked at Gloom Master and asked ‘well?’ Gloom Master responded with ‘Well what?’ With what appeared to be a hint of a twinkle in her eyes, the little lady told Gloom Master, ‘Well, dear, you’re supposed to tell me how much I owe for the groceries.’

You would have thought Gloom Master had taken an advanced training course in customer service from the staff of Ryanair. ‘The price is right there,’ replied the Till Nazi. Gloom Master barely lifted her arm to point to the till total displayed on the monitor.

It could have been a scene from When Harry Met Sally. The tiny lady slowly looked at the total displayed on the monitor, then looked back at Gloom Master. ‘Yes, dear,' she said. 'I see the screen, but you’re supposed to tell me what the total is.’ I couldn’t help but grin as I watched this battle of the minds. ‘No I don’t,’ retorted Gloom Master, ‘that’s what the display is for.’

I had anticipated that the lady was going to just give up and pay the total and possibly mutter to herself about the poor service. But how wrong I was! ‘ Dear,’ I loved how she used the word dear like a shovel to clean up a mess on the floor. ‘ We are humans and humans are supposed to talk to one another.’ At that, the small woman, who was growing very tall in my eyes, handed a twenty-pound note to Gloom Master.

Gloom Master didn’t look up. She gathered up the coins in change and dropped them on the counter, without offering any eye contact at all. I thought it was a wonderful exchange between the two women who age-wise were probably not that far apart, but in perspectives on life, they were miles apart. ‘Now say ‘Thank you,’ dear,’ the woman stood her ground in front of Gloom Master, all the while smiling such a sweet and loving smile.

Gloom Master ignored her and started to grab at my groceries. She had gotten one item past the scanner, but I quickly reached over, grabbing my groceries, preventing them from moving further down the belt.

‘You haven’t said thank you yet to the lady,’ I politely reminded her. Gloom Master instantly turned on what I can only describe as a ‘Bette Davis, Baby Jane Hudson’ theatrical smile and looked at me and said, ‘Thank you.’ And she turned to the woman, whilst maintaining the same rather possessed looking smile and said ‘thank you’ to the woman.

She didn’t miss a step. The little lady smiled back at Gloom Master and said, ‘You’re welcome. Have a lovely day.’ And at that she collected her small push trolley and proceeded out the store.

I could have said more to Gloom Master, but now wasn’t the time. I only had a few items and I wanted to catch up with the lady who had so valiantly stood her ground before old sourpuss. I found her heading towards the bus stop.

I introduced myself and told her I was pleased that she had stood up to Gloom Master, mentioning what I had named the woman. The lady told me that she had been a schoolteacher for 52 years and manners hold no age limit. I asked her if Gloom Master had been rude to her before. She tickled me greatly when she told me that she actually looks for Gloom Master whenever she comes to the store, because she’s determined to make the woman be nicer to customers.

I asked if she had ever complained to the store about her. The woman said ‘no,’ and explained that if she did all would happen is that the woman would either lose her job or have more reason to be miserable.

Who says I’m too old to learn from a teacher? I’ve decided that next week, before I go to the store, I’m going to buy a small bunch of flowers for old Gloom Master. And I’m going to present them to the store’s service desk with an anonymous card. I’ll write, ‘thank you for making someone smile last week.’

Let’s see what happens.

The Best Waitress In The World

The Power of Words

We've Just Won The Lottery!

Urgently Required! Part-Time Wife!
.

When A Hand Isn't Enough

2008-11-26T13:20:00.001Z

I intentionally put off writing this for a few days in the hopes that I would have some good news to offer about ‘Gwen’ and her two children. Sadly, I haven’t.

When I returned to the B&B to help Gwen take the next steps towards getting settled in their new environment, I was saddened to learn that they were gone.

The other residents had little news they could offer. One woman knew that Gwen had been using the pay phone quite a few times. And according to the B&B manager, Gwen told her that she was going ‘home.’

I went back to the Social Services office in hopes of getting some details as to Gwen’s original address, but understandably, the Data Protection Act prevented them from giving me any information. I also went to the caravan park and knocked on two of the adjacent caravans to where I first visited Gwen and the children. I wanted to see if anyone knew how to contact them or the owner of the caravan. No one did. I even asked the park manager, who wasn’t helpful at all.

For any of us who has tried to extend a helping hand for people in crisis, only to see them choose to continue that cycle of misery, abuse and sorrow, we should not be too quick to judge. It can often be difficult for them to accept that there can be a better life and that they are worthy of that better life.

This is often the crux of the problem: Someone has spent their entire life feeling unworthy, and being told they’re unworthy; once they’ve climbed out of that spiral of sorrow, it takes more than just a few hands to keep them from slipping back into the abyss.

Most Loving God, We pray that you embrace Gwen and her children during their time of confusion and fear. Hear our prayers for her children who suffer at the hands of parents whom they love and trust. Help Gwen to know that there is help available and protect all of them in their time of darkness. Guide them towards light and help Gwen to make the right decision for her sake and for her children’s sake. Amen

Why is Life so Hard?

We All Fail Sometimes

It's So Easy To Judge Others

First Steps

2008-11-25T09:18:00.013Z

On Friday I spoke with the Social Services office about Gwen and her children. They tell me that she may have to remain in the B&B for up to six weeks. She suggested that I contact the man who originally arranged their accommodation. Oh joy!

In the meantime I’ve collected a number of things for them-clothes for the children, some toys, a radio and clock, and I’ll stop by the supermarket to get some more food items before I go to the B&B. I’ve also spoken with a neighbour who has agreed to look after the children for the day, later this week, so Gwen can begin to get some essential things done, such as registering with the GP, visiting schools, etc.

My neighbour is in her late seventy’s. She has three daughters and it’s always a delight to see them together. Her daughters, obviously, are all grown, but they’re constantly visiting and bringing the grandchildren over for visits. Last Summer they invited me to join them in the garden for a picnic. It’s a perfect place for Gwen’s children to stay for a few hours. It’s safe, they’ll be well cared for, and I think my neighbour enjoys having more to do.

I’ll ask Gwen whether she and the children would like to come to church with me this Sunday. I’ll be able to introduce her to other families and I think she could use some company. She certainly won’t feel excluded or as if she’s just a visitor. I've also spoken with a local florist who needs someone to help a few hours each week and if we could balance the children staying with my neighbour, and Gwen having a small job, Social Services would be bound to find accommodation close to where Gwen works.

We’ll see.

Look Both Ways

When The Church Sins

We All Fail Sometimes

Perhaps You Need a Little Faith in Dog!