Fast Tracks To Hell

I stood with the nurse looking at the body of this young girl. Still attached were the NG tube and the somewhat unusually placed intravenous line. The emergency team had to use a point in her neck, as they were unable to find a vein that hadn’t been abused or collapsed from her injecting drugs elsewhere.

They’d worked on her for almost forty-five minutes, attempting to resuscitate her heart. But her body was too far beyond being able to help itself any more.

The girl had either overdosed on heroin or the concoction she bought had been mixed with something even more lethal. This would be for the coroner to determine.

It was a tragic sight, and one that is all too common these days. At nineteen years old, this child had only experienced sadness and misery throughout her life. According to her long medical history she had been in and out of hospital most of her life; the earliest notations reflecting that she had been a victim of child abuse ten years earlier. The nurse, Rachel, pointed out that her medical history indicated there was no emergency contact, along with a note that her mother had died the previous year from a drug overdose. Her body had already remained there for a couple of hours as the nursing and orderly staff were quite busy.

Every month there’s a small trickle of young people who try to escape their lives by heading south to the English coast. Sadly, the problems they are running from most often become compounded when they discover that their real crisis comes from within.

This wasn’t one of the hospitals where I generally serve. I had come to visit with the nurse to discuss arranging an interment service for her mother’s cremains. Rachel’s shift was at night and it was easier for both of us, for me to come visit her during her break, and then I could visit a family who lived nearby. But I knew that any emergency would take priority over her break schedule.

I asked Rachel for a favour. I wanted to bring someone to see this girl’s body. I was quickly thinking of an idea that I hoped might bring some light from this darkness.

She didn’t mind, but said I would have to do it immediately, otherwise, the porter would take the girl’s body to the morgue and she would no longer have authority to let me see her. I promised her I’d try to be back within the hour. It was a long drive to where I intended to go and I wasn’t entirely certain I’d find the girl I wanted to see.

I met Laura last October in a supermarket. She was trying to pay for her groceries but was so high she couldn’t sort the coins in her purse. In addition to the strong stench of alcohol, Laura had the drawn skeletal features of a drug addict.

Over a period of months I came to learn about her life. I didn’t see her regularly. On many occasions she’d send me text messages, asking me to come see her, but when I’d get there she was either not there, or had chosen not to respond to my knocking. This went on for almost four months. Over time, however, I began to piece together bits of information about Laura. Even in the hot summer sun, she always had her arms and legs completely covered.

One day as I sat with her in a park I noticed her ankles. They had horrific welts on the back, slightly above the heel. Although she had continually insisted that her problem was with alcohol, my suspicions were confirmed and I encouraged her to be truthful with me. She had been injecting heroin with her husband for the past two years.

But over the past couple of weeks there had been some dramatic changes taking place - some positive, and some frightening. Laura now has a place to live on her own. And she’s free of her drug addict husband. I physically carried him and his meagre belongings to the train station and purchased a one-way ticket to the town where his mother lived. And I prepared an application for a court order, on Laura’s behalf, to prevent him from coming near her.

A constable friend of mine helped by explaining to Laura’s husband, in the most graphic terms, what would happen to him should he come anywhere near her new home. Honestly, I think the only thing that really frightened him was the constable’s ‘aide memoire’ that he’d be unable to have access to any drugs at all.

It was with a mix of relief and caution that I was even able to get him on the train. I don’t think I would have been successful without him being high on whatever it was he was taking. I know he had been injecting himself with a mixture of heroin and amphetamines, so his behaviour was, at best, unpredictable.

I eventually found the small bedsit Laura had been given by the local council. There was a single bed, a miniature fridge that couldn’t hold much more than a pint of milk and some cheese, a chair, and an extremely old radio.

When Laura opened the door she was happy to see me. She put her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. I actually shuddered as I felt the icy kiss of near death from her lips on my face. Her eyes had shrunk deep into their sockets, and as I put my hand on her arms to slightly guide her towards her chair, all I could feel were her bones, enveloped with loose tissue. It was truly as close as I could imagine to dealing with a deceased body several days old. And I noticed that she now looked quite jaundiced; suggesting possible hepatitis and liver disease, or worse.

I told Laura I wanted to take her somewhere with me this very moment and she’d have to leave now. She asked me where I was taking her. I told her it was a surprise. She didn’t argue. In fact, she was high from something. I noticed beneath the small fridge, several squares of aluminium foil, which is often a sign that someone had been burning heroin.

As we headed west towards the hospital, Laura told me how pleased she was that she now had a chance for a new life. During the drive she shared many stories about her husband and his addiction. But each time I asked her about her own addictions and her own participation in using heroin she tried to obfuscate the truth.

Laura constantly fiddled with her hands, picking at the stubs of her fingernails. I noticed that the right sleeve of her shirt had pulled up to her elbow, revealing her forearm. It looked as if acid had been poured on her arm and even in the dark of the car, each time the car passed under a street lamp I could see the necrosis that had begun to engulf her arm, as a result of the injected heroin burning her capillaries.

As I pulled up to the hospital's A&E entrance, Laura momentarily panicked. I quickly calmed her, explaining that I wasn’t kidnapping her and wasn’t going to try to admit her. I told her I just wanted her to meet a ‘friend.’ She asked me if it was someone I ‘visited,’ which I took to mean in the context of the way I visit her. I responded truthfully, no.

I asked at reception for Rachel. It was just a few short minutes before she came out. Rachel hugged me, which was nice because I noticed that Laura seemed to calm somewhat by seeing this gesture. I introduced Laura to Rachel as my friend. Rachel asked if we wanted to go in now. I said, ‘yes, please.’

Laura asked where we were going. I only said again that I wanted her to meet someone. Before Laura could respond we were standing directly outside the curtains surrounding the dead girl’s bed. I parted the curtains and gestured for Laura to step in.

I had thought about this moment as I drove to get Laura and I asked myself whether I was doing the right thing. I tried to imagine how much further the process of rigor mortis would have progressed over the hour I had been away. It was sufficient.

The girl’s mouth had expanded wide open, as if she were gagging. Her left eye was open and her right eye slightly so. Her body had ever so slightly begun to arch. Her head was turned in such a way as if she were looking directly at Laura as she stepped inside the curtained area.

I watched Laura’s face intently. At first I could she was trying to comprehend what she was seeing in the darkened area and her mouth opened to form the words to say ‘hello.’ But before she could utter a sound, the realisation overwhelmed her. She recoiled in fright. I stood directly beside Laura with my left arm behind her so she couldn’t back away from the bedside.

I introduced Laura to ‘Tina.’ I explained that Tina was a heroin addict ‘just like her.’ And tonight she died from taking heroin. I lifted the side of the bed sheet to reveal the girl’s arms. ‘You see, Laura,’ as I pointed to the girl’s arm, ‘she has track marks, collapsed veins, and rotting flesh just like yours.’ I left her arm uncovered and then pulled hard at the bottom of the sheet to reveal the girl’s ankles. ‘And you see, Laura, she has the same track marks that you have on your ankles and arms.’

Laura was trembling and her mouth was locked open, almost as if she were cruelly mocking the dead girl. But it was more of a silent scream. I told Laura to sit down in the chair beside the girl. She did as I told her, but then instantly jumped up when she realised that the girl’s head was tilted in her direction, as if death were staring directly at her.

I told Laura that I was going to step out for a moment to see the nurse and I’d be right back. Again Laura jumped up. She didn’t want me to leave her there. But I spoke to her forcefully and told her to ‘stay seated until I return.’

Rachel had been standing at the nursing station. I don’t think she had been able to hear what transpired. But I went out to thank her. I asked if I could come back later this week to arrange her mum’s memorial. She agreed that it had been too hectic a night and she wasn’t in the mindset to do it now.

I went back to Laura. Before I moved the curtain back, I heard Laura sobbing. As I opened the curtain Laura turned from looking at the girl to me. She asked me why her mouth and eyes were open. I explained that this was often a natural process of death. She asked if ‘Tina’ could see her. I told her not in the way she imagined, but yes. And I added that she could hear her as well if she would care to say anything to her.

Laura started crying again. She repeatedly spoke to the girl saying how sorry she was. I asked her if she would like to say a prayer for ‘Tina.’ Laura said she didn’t know how and she had never read ‘any book’ about saying prayers. I told her God never uses books anyway – He’d much prefer her to say what she felt. I asked Laura if she would like me to step out. She said ‘please.’

It wasn’t intentional, but I did hear what Laura said. Her tear-choked voice carried through the empty darkened resuscitation suite.

As I drove her back to her room, Laura asked me what would now happen to ‘Tina.’ I explained that ‘Tina’s’ mother was dead and as best I understood, the hospital had no one further to contact regarding her death. She pressed me to tell her what would become of Tina.

I asked Laura why she wanted to know. She said she was afraid that ‘Tina’ would be forgotten about. I asked her if she thought she’d forget ‘Tina.’ Laura looked at me with a mixture of incredulity and anger. She blurted out ‘I know why you brought me here tonight.’ I asked her ‘why did I then, Laura?’

She began crying harder than she had at hospital. I pulled over and stopped the car. I quietly asked Laura if this was how she saw her life ending. She wept uncontrollably. She said she was frightened. – and that ‘what I made her see was the worst thing she had ever seen in her life.’ I told her that all I had done this evening was to hold up a mirror for her.

She wept bitterly and between her sobs she kept repeating that she didn’t want to die like this. I asked her what would ‘we’ need to do to make certain this didn’t happen. Laura said she needed to ‘see someone.’ I asked her if I could take her to a drug addiction centre the following morning. She said ‘please.’

It was close to 2am when I dropped Laura off. I told her I’d come for her at 9. I sent her a text message at 0830 this morning, reminding her that I was coming to collect her. When I arrived she was standing outside waiting for me.

As we made the long drive to the drug crisis centre, Laura asked me if I would sit with her when she first spoke with someone. I promised her that I would.

I should imagine when someone is trying to save a sinking ship, they’re not going to bicker about how the ship is saved, as long as it remains above water. I’m not necessarily at odds with myself over the methodology I’ve used in this instance, especially as I believe, without reserve, that Laura’s life is in precarious balance. Only time will tell how far into the abyss she has fallen.

And now, I can find hope believing that ‘Tina’s’ life has left a powerful memory for good, rather than sorrow.

I'm Taken To Task For My Actions

Finding Words Of Comfort

I'm Only Dying!

A Little Faith in Dog Might Help!

An Anglican Compendium of Thoughts and Prayers

A Child's Funeral

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A Child's Death

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Having a Good Death

Don't Worry, I'm only dying

Etiquette For Visitors to Britain

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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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Lest We Forget

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 had only 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 condemn
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

When Violence Touches Your Own

Remembrance Day

As Long As We're Remembered

Finding Words Of Comfort

An Anglican Compendium of Thoughts and Prayers

Anglican Prayers

My Mea Culpa Gulpa or No Good Deeds Go Unpunished Dilemma

"Guilty."  Had I been presented with the same limited information, I too would have had no other recourse but to find myself guilty. That was the result of my heart-breaking experience with our judicial system, exacerbated by a local employee of the Council who, with great delight and avidity, egged on some of her 'friends' with the local press, to ensure maximum exposure for their cause. 

Did I have displayed on my dashboard the Blue Badge of someone who had recently died? Yes, I did. Was I aware that I had displayed the Blue Badge of the poor soul who passed? Absolutely NOT!

My 'Mea Culpa' is most certainly not an excuse, but I pray it may provide a scintilla of encouragement for anyone who may find themselves in similar circumstances. I'm heartbroken to say that what I believed would be my opportunity to defend myself, providing all of the salient evidence, simply did not occur. And for reasons I still have no answer, I'm grateful that I have support from some governing bodies who are determined to find out why. 

And I'm saddest to say that the very professionals in whom I had placed my unequivocal trust, in my opinion, let me down when I needed them the most. I was embarking upon a process I knew virtually nothing about.  Their failure, I believe, contributed to this heart-breaking debacle.

First, a bit of background. Back in 2015 I had been diagnosed as suffering from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). This is certainly not an excuse, but it provides a fragment of light on perhaps where my mind was at the time. I acknowledge that I was distracted and sometimes found it challenging to focus. But I was working diligently to ensure my own personal challenges did not impact those I was serving, be it at their end-of-life journeys, or for my mission in Eastern Europe.

Again, not an excuse; However, to quote the doctor who issued my diagnosis:

"I can confirm that Fr Haymaker suffered from quite severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which was proportionate to the magnitude of the trauma. Indeed, in his circumstances, the trauma was very severe, it was purposeful and premeditated and designed for him to feel responsible for the event. Obviously people with PTSD on average appear more forgetful and absent-minded, upset or depressed..."

This event occurred as a consequence of my work in Eastern Europe with victims of child-trafficking. For nearly three years I had worked diligently to have closed a 'children's brothel' in Transylvania Romania. This particular brothel was the last stop along a well-worn route followed by Russian/Albanian Mafia and other traffickers from the Russian/Ukrainian border through Transnistria, Moldova, over the Carpathian Mountains, in to Western Romania and on to Hungary, where children are routinely bartered and sold to points north, south, and west.

It was thanks to assistance from the Moldovan Prime Minister that I was finally successful in getting the necessary officials to conduct a raid on the brothel, resulting in arrests of numerous local officials. Without help from the highest levels in both Moldova and Romania I suspect the brothel would have continued unfettered. It was a time of jubilation and relief after years of gut-wrenching sadness.

However, it was ten days later that an event occurred outside my home in Moldova that had the most profound impact upon me. And it was this event, that I admit even today,  I still struggle with in pushing back the mental photographs that pop up with alarming regularity.

It had been raining perpetually for several days. As the rain finally subsided, my security staff found there was a large 200 litre oil barrel left outside the gates to my home. My staff thought it would be excellent as a receptacle in which to burn rubbish. They began to roll it into the compound. However, due to the weight they had to tip the barrel over to empty the dark liquid.

It was to their horror that they discovered the body of a child, 10-11 years old. She had been tortured and there was a bullet hole in her head. Tightly twisted around the child's neck was a wire with a plastic packet containing a letter addressed to me. The letter said "Dacă vă întoarceți aici, vom veni în Anglia. Vă vom viola fiica. Atunci ne vom întoarce și ne vom ucide pe toți copiii voștri." (The following is paraphrased in the interest of avoiding the most graphic details):

"If you come back here we will come to your home address in England (which they provided) and we will rape and kill your daughter, (stating her name), and we will then come kill each child in your home here."

Perhaps magnified by the fact I had within the same period been collecting the bodies of dead children from Romanian sewers, as well as the body of a decapitated child, as a consequence of Russian separatist activities in the Ukraine, this final atrocity had such a profound impact upon me I knew there was 'something' that had changed within me. 

I think, in retrospect, I tried relying upon my own devices, as well as my fervent belief in prayer and reflection, including the Sacraments to help re-set my compass to find a modicum of calm. But my close friends tell me they had seen a profound change in me. According to them I had become removed and less interactive with people. And in light of the threats regarding coming to my home, I confess I occasionally experienced moments of palpable fear. My greatest comfort was in the fact I was grateful that my daughter had graduated Uni and was now working abroad. Yet, I found myself still having surges of fear exacerbated often by grotesque nightmares that robbed me of my sleep.

We were now approaching the Christmas period - two days before Christmas Eve to be exact. My daughter and I were scheduled to spend a week together on the Continent, subsequently ending with my celebrating the Orthodox Christmas with the children in Moldova. I was extremely (and probably unhealthily) anxious about her safety, but tried never to let her know how much it was eating at me. The tangible 'threats' I had received were perpetually invading my ability to sleep and especially to remain focused at times. However, I insisted...at least to myself...that I could handle it and these feelings would eventually pass.

Now, I back up slightly to late October of the same year.  I had the honour of serving a young couple. The couple had been working as expat teachers in the Middle East, when the wife was diagnosed with aggressive cancer.

Heartbreakingly, the prognosis was poor and the couple returned to the UK so she could receive whatever medicines possible to help prolong her life. Again, the prognosis remained grim.  Their sad situation was compounded by the fact that with typical Middle East Expat contracts, the fact they had to come home immediately invalidated their employment contracts, thus robbing them of their salaries and any contractual pay.  In other words, they were about as near to destitute as you can imagine. This is where I offered as much assistance as I could.

I helped them to circumvent the often crippling costs and fees charged by some  Undertakers. The couple didn't qualify for any benefits as they had been residing outside of the UK.  Relying upon friends, I assisted in sorting the funeral for, as I best recall, somewhere around £200, plus the mandatory fees from the council for registrations, doctors certificates, grave, and interment fees.

As the husband and wife had agreed that it would be imperative for him to find a teaching contract in the UK immediately, I asked friends who were educators to assist and I encouraged him to go on any interviews he may require. 

I remained overnight at Hospice for four nights with the dear lady. My poor Jack Russell, who faithfully gave all he could, clearly was becoming worn down and I called a friend to come collect him so he could have his own respite. But it was early the following morning that she passed. I was honoured to be with her and am grateful at how peaceful her passing was. 

The husband, I was happy to learn, had secured a teaching position, which would require him reporting to school in less than ten days time. He had lots to do in clearing the property they had rented for the brief period and preparing himself both professionally and emotionally before he began employment in a new town quite far away from our local area. To help him I agreed to register his wife's death and to sort all the paperwork required for the burial. 

Typically, when you register a death, you bring with you any DWP papers, identification, Bus Passes, Blue Badges, etc., with you and the Registrar's office takes care of this for you.

However, for reasons I never knew at the time, (I think it was because the husband had borrowed several cars over the preceding weeks), he did not have the Blue Badge to present on the day I registered the death.

We arranged for a graveside service with interment on a Thursday. I could not do later days as I was scheduled to fly to Moldova around 6AM on Friday morning. And, because it would have added much more pressure upon the husband, it was practical to celebrate the simple grave-side service immediately, rather than forcing him to immediately take time off from his new position to bury his wife weeks later.

The graveside funeral was a quiet, private, dignified affair. Whilst in the cemetery, following the interment, the husband handed me several items; some kitchen cutlery and an appliance he wished me to take with me to Moldova. He also handed me the Blue Badge to deal with myself. I didn't say anything to suggest he could do it. I simply placed it in my glovebox with a mental note that I'd deal with it once I returned to the UK the following week.

Herein lay my decline - my first 'Mea Culpa.' I simply forgot about it. During the course of any month I have a minimum of three and generally a maximum of seven Blue Badges sitting in my glove box. They're for the people I transport to clinics for their Chemotherapy treatment, or to doctor's appointments, etc.

Move forward six weeks to December 22nd. I'm quick to admit I was already finding it challenging to hold my head above water. On that day I had two people whom I was to transport at different times, to clinics for Chemo, one couple to an afternoon doctor's appointment, and a request from a Funeral Director to do a 'quick' tree blessing, and I had one particularly close friend whose battle with Oesophageal Cancer was drawing to a close. (She was at the time paramount in my heart and mind), And I had a massive list of goods and food items I needed to collect and buy to pack in my baggage to take to Moldova. I was excited about seeing my beloved daughter as well when we would spend Christmas together, but I could feel my anxiety levels increasing each time the threat would resurface in my mind.

Early on December 22nd, I collected my first LOL (Little Old Lady) of the morning, I asked her to place her badge on the dash. She rummaged in the glove box and placed a Badge in the window on the passenger side of the car. I really didn't give it any further thought.  When we arrived there was no parking anywhere due to a number of mini-skips being in front of the surgery. I didn't wish for her to be late and I told her that I'd drop her off, then swing round two streets over and drop off my hearing aids for adjustment, at the local SpecSavers, then come straight back.

There is something exasperatingly frustrating with Blue Badges issued through Macmillan - the Cancer Support Agency. The badges do not contain on the front either the name of the Badge holder, nor a photo, unlike Blue Badges issued through other organisations.  It is virtually impossible to tell which badge belongs to which individual without each time physically ripping the card out of its' holder and turning it around to verify the name, then having to fit it back into the scored sleeve which holds them. Save the expiry dates they all look exactly the same. 

I parked in a bay at the bottom of the road, knowing that at the top of the road all bays were either for loading or disabled. My interaction at SpecSavers was literally handing the hearing aids, contained in a small pouch, to the clerk at reception, then going back out to the car. All-in-all, it was less than 4-5 minutes...at the most. 

As I came up to the car there was a man who said he was from parking enforcement, or something like that... I wasn't exactly sure of what he said, but that seemed to be the gist of it. He asked me if I were the Blue Badge holder. I told him I wasn't and explained what I had done. I even invited him to ride with me the two blocks over to confirm that I had dropped my LOL off and was literally swinging back around to collect her. He thanked me, but said it wasn't necessary. 

He went on talking for a bit. But I was surprised when he asked me whether I knew someone he named. I replied that "I certainly did and that she had recently passed away." I recall he asked how I knew this and I explained that I had been with her when she passed. He asked if I had cared for her and I said "yes."

The man told me that the Badge I had displayed actually belonged to the person he named. I told him what had happened and that I'd clearly mixed them up. He behaved as if it were no big deal and that was the end of the matter. He told me that if there were anything he needed to speak with me about it would probably not be until after the New Year and he said I might have to "get my hand slapped," but that would be the end of it. 

I gave it no further thought. That is until March came around and I was shocked to receive a letter from the council saying I had to appear for a 'Caution Advisement.' I didn't give it any further thought, believing this must be the 'hand slapping' to which he had alluded.

It was much to my utter shock when I learnt that I was to be prosecuted for the use of the Badge, despite my explanation and offer to have the individual I was transporting that morning confirm this fact. (Plus the fact it was she who had placed a badge on my dash board). 

I retained legal counsel. A very nice young man who, in fact, easily understood how such a mistake could have been made for he also had his own Blue Badge due to an advanced coronary condition.  The solicitor assured me that what would be my defence is the fact that whilst I may have displayed the badge, I certainly did not do so with the intent of gaining any benefit. Plus, he added that according to the law the crux of the matter was centred around 'intent.' And he felt it would be quite straight forward to show any jury that I certainly had no intent of using the badge for personal gain. 

We discussed whether it was better to leave it to a Magistrate to adjudicate or have a jury - "twelve good men and true." It was decided that it would be best to have the jury hear the case and see my defence evidence, including my witnesses supporting what I was doing on the day, along with my photographic evidence - the photos I had taken of where I was on the day. 

The waiting for a court date was excruciating. It was compounded by the fact I had some medical issues I was dealing with at the time. I was looking forward to presenting my evidence - all of it. 

The day before I phoned my barrister to confirm where and what time I was to appear. However, I was told I needed to wait until after 4PM to get a confirmation of the court I was to attend. It was around 4:30 that I received a call from the law firm's secretary, telling me I had to be in Chichester for 10AM the following day and the barrister I had met with multiple times would be there. 

So wound up was I, especially as I was now having to place further demands on those who so kindly wanted to speak on my behalf, to have to drive to Chichester early the next morning to do so I admit my nerves were frayed beyond words. Thankfully, The Venerable Mr Piddles provides a calming affect and he was working overtime to keep me calm. 

It was about 0950 that we were walking from the car park to the court house when my mobile rang. A lady was asking where I was and why wasn't I there! I told her I'd been instructed to come for 10AM and was doing so and was literally across the street. Apparently, the solicitor's office failed to tell me that we needed to be there much earlier. Had I known I would have been happy to. We'd driven to Chichester the night before, paid for hotel rooms, and were waiting for the time came to go to the court. 

The judge was already put out. (to state it mildly). I had no idea that not only had the judge wanted to start early, she stated on multiple occasions that she only had a limited time to hear the case as she had to be somewhere else and would be leaving the court no later than 1:30pm that afternoon. 

Taking in all of the above it seems of no real consequence I suppose. The kicker, however, was the fact that we discovered to my horror that my Barrister hadn't shown up! Much of what happened after that left me in a bit of a daze as my head was swimming so badly. At the same time I learnt that not only had my Barrister not appeared, he had failed to submit my evidence. And as a final insult, he also had failed to provide a witness list - items that are all required to be done in advance!  

The Prosecutor had conveniently removed the badge ID from its case and photographed the front and back of the actual ID side-by-side, suggesting that you can see both the ID number and the user's name clearly at all times. The defence I had provided included a badge inside a case, just the way anyone would see them, to show that you could not tell which badge belonged to which person.  But the jury never got to see this. That was my evidence; evidence that I was unable to present. 

And as the Prosecutor rapid-fired questions towards me, asking the names of the people I was transporting two years prior I desperately tried to answer him, but clearly tripped over some of the names - such was my state of mind at the time. Again, certainly not an excuse, but being focused while ensconced within  the miasma of PTSD made it evident that I could no more tell you what I had been doing the week prior, much less eighteen months or more earlier!

I say this with a bit of irony; had I been presented with a photo the way the Prosecutor's photo was made, I too would have found myself guilty! This is because I would have no way of realising that in everyday use it's simply impossible to see which badge belongs to which person. 

So here I am. It's over. Tetelestai. However, my tail is not between my legs yet. Thankfully, we have a robust support system through the Law Society who have offered to assist me. They feel there's a number of questions which need to be addressed. And they're providing assistance with the appeal process. 

I think anyone's first inclination after an experience such as this is to curl up in the dark and eat copious quantities of ice cream. I refuse to do so. Not only for myself, but it has become clear to me there are other people who have had similar experiences. 

Indeed, it's heartbreaking on so many levels. But I must take the opportunity to extend a written word of gratitude to so many people who have reached out to me, offering support and encouragement. Some emails have been humorous in their support. Others have been succinct, but equally supportive. And the overall message is their awareness that I became an easy target, partially because I was already 'down,' but also because it has always been my nature to take a passive position when it comes to wrongs being committed. 

Thank you - all of you, from the depths of my heart. I lack the vocabulary to tell you how grateful I am for your support, encouragement, and steadfast belief in me. 

I only pray that you never encounter a similar experience in your own life. 

Fr Bill+  

When We Fall Asleep At The Wheel

The Power of Words

Faith Is Not A Crutch For Living

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

How To Choose The Right Christmas Present

And now the Christmas shopping frenzy picks up. Just weeks  remaining to find that 'perfect' gift. It's hard to tell who will collect the greatest blisters - your feet, or your credit card!

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. At least it's a sign of apology for my giving you the same toaster(s) you gave me last year!

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Advent - Moving From Darkness to Light

It's a Wonderful Life

Suffer The Children

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Fruitcakes And Other Nutty Concoctions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Falling in Love at The Plaza Hotel

When We Need a Little Help

Merry Xmas!

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+

Postat în onoarea Tatălui Bill

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It's a Wonderful Life

Who Are We Forgetting?

Moving From Darkness to Light

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Our Greatest Gifts

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.

I thought about the tragic events that occurred in Newtown Connecticut and the families whose lives will never be the same. I thought about the adults who gave their lives for the children and how an entire community will never be the same as a consequence of a nation exercising their rights. And I thought about the six-year-old who just days later, carried his parent's gun with him to school, according to the child, 'at the suggestion of his parents.' I prayed that these events will now be the turning point for change. 

And I focused my thoughts on the countless children whose lives never become part of a media frenzy - those who are trafficked, sold, abused, tortured, and disposed of, with as little thought as the flick of a cigarette ash.  I prayed that their lives receive just a trace of attention and action.  

And then 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, and that we can weep together, just as we can also rejoice.

Father Bill Haymaker +

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Postat căci Tata Bill 
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Choosing The Right Christmas Present

Words of Comfort For The Dying

Shouting Away The Darkness

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