Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

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 the gentleman's 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 dark swirling 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.

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Words of Comfort for the Dying

Remember Me

A Childs Funeral

Welcome Home

I'm Only Dying!

Finding Words Of Comfort

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Uncle David

I'm in the cemetery a lot. If it isn't to bury someone it's to visit people I already have. Uncle David is there too. I miss him. Uncle David was the epitome of life in another era. Everything was either black or white, there was little room for much else.

Uncle David spent the majority of his life at the same address. When his parents died he purchased his sister's shares in the house. This way there wouldn't be the need for any changes for him. And when he and Auntie Mary were married they continued on in the same house as well.

There's something comforting about continuity. I remember so vividly when I'd step off a flight at Heathrow and head towards their home. All the hustle and bustle of having travelled many thousands of miles, of having dealt with different cultures, customs, ideologies, smells, and foods; all would quickly drain from my mind as I travelled down the road to their home.

And I'd enter another world. Their world. Nothing changed, nothing new. Two apples, one banana, and an orange would be in the basket on top the small bookshelf in the sitting room. Kitchen cabinets emptied and vigorously scrubbed each week, everything returned to its appropriate place. Always.

And no matter where I had been, no matter what I had done, no matter how exotic the destination, the conversations would be the same. First, weather. After all we are British.

Next, how did I travel? Not the flight mind you, but the road to get to the house. Was it the M4 to the M25 and then the B22whatever, or was it the A123oh my goodness connecting to the Z1 Dead Head B Road and on to the circular counter-clockwise roundabout jugular dual carriageway? And no matter what I'd say, I had to repeat it. Uncle David was so deaf. Bless him.

This walking talking comprehensive map storage facility for the AA was deaf as a door knob. It was a constant irritant for Auntie Mary. But she adored him and when you adore someone you accept these small inconsequential matters, don't you?

I find myself chatting to Uncle David a lot. I know he can't hear me. Gawd knows he can't hear me! But chat away I do. And my conversations are still today just as simple as they always were.

But now I find that I add a few words that I never used when he was alive. I miss you. I love you. I wish you were here.

But then, after all, we are British.

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Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

So What's a Good Death?

When We're Needed Most

Remember Me

Welcome Home Emily

Preparing For Christmas

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.

Etiquette For Visitors To Britain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simples!



A Postscript:

Whilst this essay was clearly written tongue-in-cheek there is a powerful message here about Great Britain and Human Rights. Whilst Mr Qatada's behaviour is the very antithesis of what our nation stands for, we have an obligation to protect him. Sure, it's easy for us to just throw up our hands in surrender and pop him on a plane back to Jordan. But the reality is that he most probably would be subjected to torture. For this reason, we cannot. We cannot because the very freedoms he ridicules we celebrate, with pride. Our parents and grandparents gave their lives so that we could live within that freedom. And regardless of whether the individual is a despicable scallywag, or just an idiot, we must protect him just as we would our own. We must because anyone who declares safe harbouring from oppression - we must give every consideration to the facts at hand. Yes, there are people who not only manipulate those freedoms, but flaunt them before us and laugh about it. I suspect Mr Qatada may be one of those wholly distasteful individuals. But what separates the UK from those countries who walk over the human rights of others is the fact we practice what we preach. Yes, it can be difficult at times, but we must. We must at all costs stand for our nation's values. Hopefully we will find a way within those laws to send Mr Qatada on his way. I certainly have no intention of inviting him over for a fish dinner any time soon. It is with a firm resolve that our nation will always be respected and seen as a model for what the meaning of freedom is.

Background of Abu Qatada

Our Freedom of Spirit

Rage Isn't An Excuse

Abu Qatada release from Long Lartin Jail

So What's a Fundamentalist?

A different Dogma to consider

Denying Christmas

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.

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Choosing the Right Christmas Present

The Power of Words

A Lonely Death

De Adviento, Pasando de la Oscuridad a la Luz

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The Old Goat

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

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This Incredible Christmas Gift

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.

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Our Greatest Gifts

The Meaning of Christmas

Preparing for Christmas

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When Humans Meet Their Waterloo

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.

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The Best Waitress In The World

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

Meet The Gloom Master

Gloom Master Maintenance

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Rage Isn't An Excuse

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 we 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 directly 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.

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The Wolves Within

When Violence Touches Your Own

The Pain of Disappointment

Lest We Forget

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First Steps

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!

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IceSave Affects Small People Too!

We all try to make plans for the future. But it can come as a bitter pill when the trust we have in our government fails us.

On 7 October 2008, the Icelandic Financial Supervisory Authority (FME) took control of Landsbanki Islands, placing the bank into administration.

In the UK, countless thousands of individuals, charities and councils have invested in IceSave, the Icelandic based internet savings account, owned by Landsbanki, and promoted and guaranteed in the UK, for the purpose of earning favourable interest rates.

For charities, even a few percentage points can make a dramatic difference when it comes to helping change the lives of people in need. And IceSave provided instant access to those funds. One cancer charity currently has in excess of a million pounds deposited in IceSave and the BBC has shown numerous segments where pensioners, young people, and small businesses have their entire assets in the Icelandic accounts.

Our FSA (Financial Services Authority) say they’re diligently working on a plan to rescue the bank so that Britains may recover their savings. But for now, the money is frozen in a cyberworld of global banking and goverment policies.

We're told it may take months, it may take a year, but we’re assured by politicians that 'eventually' a plan will be worked out whereby the public will be able to access their money again.

But for now, the advice offered to young families who are desperately relying upon their money to pay the utility bills and mortgages, or buy Christmas presents for their children, or the elderly pensioner who can’t pay their heating bill without these funds, or the small charity who needs to feed children this winter, the advice from our government is...well…

Nothing, nada, zip, bupkes !

In other words…we’re on our own!

Mazal tov ! מזל טוב ‎

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The Pain of Disappointment

Make Me Feel Good About Myself!

The Book in The Attic

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Excuses Excuses

Crum, it has been a frustrating day. And there’s no better place to take out one’s frustration than on the world. The dog is much too nice a fellow to even consider growling at.

Crikey, I’ve only been out of hospital for about ten days and I came home yesterday to find a voice message from the doctor saying I have to go back in again! The scallywags!

So once more, just as I seem to have had to do this entire year, I will leave a few poor and exhausted volunteers to browse through my folders of rantings, thoughts, and general world concerns to post in my prayer blog.

When I asked the secretary why I had to come back again so soon, she had no answer. All she said is there isn’t a need to make an excuse – I just need to come back for a bit. Gee thanks!

So in honour of timeless excuses, I offer this small collection of ‘medical’ excuses received by school secretaries.

"Please excuse John for being absent Jan. 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, and 33."

"Mary could not go to school because she was bothered by very close veins."

"Ralph was absent yesterday because of a sour throat."

"Please excuse Joey Friday. He had loose vowels."

"Please excuse Joyce from Jim today."

"Please excuse Roland from P.E. for a few days. He fell out of a tree and misplaced his hip."

"Karl was hit yesterday playing football. He was hurt in the growing part."

"John was absent yesterday because he had a stomach."

"Please excuse Gloria. She has been sick and under the doctor."

"My son will have to get out of school as soon as I call the orthodontist, one of his wrie's is brusted and sticking in his Gum's."

"Please excuse Sarah from being absent yesterday. She was sick and I had her shot."

"My son is under the doctor’s care and should not take P.E. Please execute him."

"Irving was absent this morning because he missed his bust."

"Please excuse Johnny for being. It was his father's fault."

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I'm sure tomorrow will be a better day!

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Helping to Ease the Pain

Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side

Turning Lemons into Lemonade

May We Have Your Attention Please!

Rubbish. Absolute rubbish! It comes pouring through my letterbox each morning like an endless contaminated spring.

Reader’s Digest says ‘I may already be a winner,’ Save The Slugs, or some such inane sounding charity, has sent photos of endangered gastropods, (I just couldn’t be bothered enough to read the details on the envelope!) And Gourmet Magazine is encouraging me again, for the fifth time this month, to renew my daughter's subscription, that I renewed three months ago. And if I do so within the next 48 hours, she'll receive a nifty little recipe on how to sauté slugs in garlic and olive oil! (ah, there could be a conspiracy going on here!)

While I mindlessly sift through the postal detritus of the day, the morning news channel is shouting caveats regarding a particular haemorrhoidal cream. Thank you! It’s just what I wanted to hear as I consume my bowl of bran flakes.

And as I contemplate how much the chubby little monotonous voiced Sky News presenter is starting to look more and more like the Stay Puff Marshmallow man, it dawns on me that I’m about to be late for a meeting.

Oh how I’m dreading attending. It will be like so many of the other meetings I’m duty bound to attend, but my mind will drift to imagining ways to escape. Perhaps I could just slip under the table and crawl out without being noticed.

Throughout our waking hours we are bombarded by the unrelenting attempts of people trying to convince us, sell us, warn us, and blame us. The majority of it is nothing more than static noise. And it’s certainly something that all of us would like to do without.

So we build internal body-armour to help tune out all these distractions. Some of us daydream; some of us possess the gift of simply being able to switch off. And it works well, once you get the hang of it, but it has a downside: It can become a blind habit. We can tune out indiscriminately, we can become inattentive to the cycles of life, and we can miss a lot of what we really should be hearing.

As so often happens, what may start out as a useful self-defense mechanism can unintentionally evolve into an act of self-destruction. By closing ourselves so effectively, we can fail to see danger signs and hear alarms, which might be leading to disaster. There's a better way to protect ourselves from life's intrusive interruptions. We can work to create a quiet inner place where we can hear the things that really matter, the things our soul knows and tells our hearts when we listen. It takes work, but it can be achieved. And when you do, you’ll find a greater personal peace within yourself.

Take charge of yourself. Spend a bit more time ‘inside.’ You’ll be amazed at what you hear and you’ll be amazed at how you feel.

And if you really need a way to describe it, perhaps you could just call it your spirit within.

When We Need a Little Help

When Traditions Become Weights

Music is A Gift From God

When Are U-Turns Right?

Talk's Cheap!

There was a period last year when I listened to a gentleman go on and on about all the wonderful things he was going to do to help change the life of a small Moldovan community. The people in the community were mesmerised and you could see and feel their enthusiasm as they hung on to each word he said. But you could also see how much their adulation was fuelling the man.

Such behaviour, often called boasting, has long traditions in some western cultures and at times, over the years I’ve grown to perceive it as a method of personal encouragement used by some people to help them achieve their own goals.

I’m sure you can understand what I’m saying: it’s a bit like giving yourself a pep talk each morning: ‘I’m going to build a hospital right here.’ ‘I am going to cinch that account in the first meeting.’ ‘I’m not going to say one bad thing about my mother in law today.’

Big talk can be vaguely amusing in the short run, but anything more than small doses and it can fast become an embarrassment and certainly a bit of a bore. Even to Western ears, it can often sound like bragging.

But what happens when a culture that is not accustomed to hearing this type of super-charged ego stroking discovers that all they heard was nothing but bravado and wishful thinking? What happens when those fragile building blocks of hope, they’ve worked so hard to achieve, collapse like sand, simply because of an individual’ s egocentric behaviour?

Sure, it’s easy to just drop the big talk and do something. Quite so! But where do we find the energy and the will to act rather than just talk?

This year as needs become more intense and times become more challenging I’m working harder to find people who will provide actions first, then words. I’ve always remembered the Apostle James asking ‘What good is it to profess faith without practicing it?’

Talk’s cheap. Just do it!

Sweet Talkers!

Comforting Words For the Terminally ill

The Meaning of Christmas

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

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

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

Of course, I will have to acknowledge with sadness that the Christmas Eve magic soon fades. The week will pass in a bewildering and dazzling kaleidoscope of tinsel, carols, turkey with all the trimmings, stockings and presents, Scrabble tournaments, a fun game of Monopoly or Charades, sports on the telly, and for us here in The United Kingdom: Her Majesty's Christmas message. (and we wish The Duchess of Cambridge a calmer tummy over the Christmas period with her family!). 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. We have more children entrusted to our care than we've ever experienced; gas and electricity prices have soared, and the cost of food has literally doubled over the past two years. And tragically, many of the kind people who have supported us for over a decade are facing their own financial crises. The world is in a real pickle. I've taken pride in the fact that I've never once asked for financial assistance since I began these blogs. But today I need to. For a place like Moldova, even €10 will make a difference. If you can help, thank you from my heart. If you cannot, I still thank you for coming to my blogs; I hope you have found an occasional smile.

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

Shout Away The Darkness

When We Need a Little Help

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

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

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