Angels Among Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alison demonstrated a gentle admiration for them; for the fact that each and every child considered the education they are receiving as a gift; the fact they take pride in what they have, which by material standards is little or nothing. Instead, their measurements are in friends, the power of families, and community pride. And as Alison so poignantly pointed out to me, despite the fact the homes many of them live in would have been condemned in Britain, those homes are immaculate, the streets are clean, not a scintilla of trash, not a marking of graffiti, and not a single disrespectful young person.
We live in an addictive society where those who live their lives as sponges have the audacity to complain that the level of handouts they receive, their free homes, their free medical services and medicine, are simply not enough. When we offer money to Moldovan children, it’s like the Parable of the Talents. They’re humbled by the responsibility for which they’ve been entrusted. They want to find ways repay the trust you’ve invested in them.

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

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

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

When We Need a Little Help

You're No Good!

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

For Unto Us a Child is Born

I've just arrived home from celebrating Midnight Mass. The turnout was lovely. Celebrating Christ's arrival were 4 woofs, 2 meows, 1 cluck (a duck) and a small boy with his pet ferret. (I'm not certain what sound a ferret makes.) Oh, and there were 106 humans. All found time from their busy schedules to come together to lift voices in celebration of our Saviour's birth. And endured the rain!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fr Bill+

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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

When A Crisis Must Take A Backseat To Need

My heart is breaking for the children in Moldova. We have such a crisis on our hands at present.

During my visit over the Orthodox Easter, I told Vasile Batcu that the children would need to be out of Aschiuta Home and in Summer Camp by the 10th of June, in anticipation of the arrival of volunteers, as well as the funds to renovate the children’s bathrooms.

If you read one of my other blogs, ‘Anglicans,’ you will be aware that not only did the volunteers not arrive, the funds to pay for the supplies and local labour failed to materialise as well. We did receive two contributions: one in the amount of USD$850.00 and a subsequent contribution of USD$250.00. There were never any volunteers organised, there was no fund drive at one of the churches. It was an awful situation that affected so many and I only had myself to blame for not following the most basic of due diligence.

With a budgeted cost of circa GBP£4000, or USD$6900.00, we are left in an absolutely dreadful situation. The bathrooms are simply unusable. And with up to thirty-four children in the home at any given time, plus house parents and volunteers, even the absence of one of the two toilets can create a crisis.

I received a joint telephone call this morning from Vasile and Inna, asking me to advise them what we should do. My best guess was that the funds we’ve received will have to go towards some of the camp costs, as the children are already there and utilising the services. However, it doesn’t address what we’re going to do when they return.

It has been an emotionally challenging week. The sadness of the child’s funeral at the end of the week overwhelmed many. Plus my friend Sarah slowly moves in and out of a coma now. I still talk to Sarah, as I know she can hear me, but the lines on her face deepen as the cancer spreads.

As I was leaving the ward yesterday another patient called out to me. Her name is Mrs Pearce. I had not met her before. She was wild eyed and frightened. I had heard her, as I sat with Sarah, calling out to no one in particular, that she wanted to go ‘home.’ Although the ward they're in is not generally for the terminally ill, it just happens that Mrs Pearce is suffering from cancer as well.

Mrs Pearce asked me to stay with her for a bit. She said she was afraid and she wanted to go home. I held her hand and stroked her forehead. I asked simple questions: how many children did she have, grandchildren, where she was born – all truthfully intended to help her mentally escape from her present surroundings.

I promised that I’d bring her some fresh strawberries tomorrow. I’ll need to purée them as she's unable to manage any solids. But I suspect she still may have difficulty in eating them.

It had been my hope that the children and I would escape for our own ‘Star Picnic,’ on Saturday night. I needed a bit of a diversion from the challenges of the week. It wasn’t to be.

As I stood at the nursing station, disinfecting my hands with Isopropyl, one of the ward nurses came up to me. I’ve known her for several years. In fact, I celebrated her mother’s funeral sometime last year. ‘Father, would you mind if we had a word?’ she asked with a sense of urgency in her eyes. ‘Of course,’ I smiled.

As I followed her into the small office I thought she was going to tell me that Sarah would most likely not live more than a day or two. I had already thought this myself, so my heart was prepared and I had imagined how nice it would be for her finally to be free of her pain.

The nurse sat down with me. I glanced over at her desk and saw the photos of her two children; Laura is three and Michael is five. ‘Father, I thought you should know, I’ve just been diagnosed with bowel cancer.’ She said it matter-of-factly.

‘I’m so saddened to hear this,’ I began. ‘Let’s take a break now and talk about it.’
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Children In Crisis Exploited Children Death Of A Child

Anglican Prayers Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Get A Life!

It was one of those; I-can't-believe-I'm-hearing-this moments, and it made me want to laugh out loud. On television last night, there was a show featuring a twenty-four stone (336lb), American chap explaining why he'd joined a growing group of overweight fellow-citizens who are filing lawsuits against a vast array of fast food restaurants.

'The fast-food industry has wrecked my life,' he whined. 'I always thought it was good for you. I never thought there was anything wrong with it.' And just where have you been, I mumbled to the telly. And then I thought, ‘who am I to cast stones?’ as I gave a polite tug on my snug t-shirt.

Had he never heard a generation of warnings about killer diets in polystyrene containers? There might be all sorts of good reasons for objecting to the practices of fast food merchants, but protesting that their products are greasy, salty and sugary struck me as rather like complaining that your ice-cream is a bit on the chilly side. This was the blame culture gone crazy. ‘Take some responsibility as a human being,' I wanted to shout. 'Get a life!'

My self-righteous sniggering lasted only a few seconds. I had switched to the BBC to watch the current news. Across the screen were compelling images of the suffering people in Indonesia who are homeless and awaiting emergency help. The earthquake has left nearly six thousand dead and hundreds of thousands homeless. The next article was on the emergency needs in southern Africa - 16 million people - half of them children, facing starvation. Food, medical supplies, tools, everything is desperately needed to prevent this continuing humanitarian catastrophe.

And, of course, as the images of suffering and despair continued across the screen, my mind moved to the children in Eastern Europe. ‘My’ children, my own images; some caught on film, some so indelibly chiselled into my soul that they will remain with me until the day I die; The children I’ve tried to help, the children I didn’t have the resources to help; and especially the children it was too late to help.

These juxtaposed themes stunned me. There is a unique yet familiar contemporary obscenity; Half the world worries about their stomachs being too big to fit into this year's fashion; the other half worries about children's stomachs distended by starvation.

'Take some responsibility as a human being': my words were haunting me even before I'd had a chance to hurl them at the fast food addict. The children in Africa, Romania, Moldova, are not looking for people to blame. They are just frantically looking for a way to survive. Their horrors are similar yet different. But the fact is that they indeed suffer. And the much crueller fact is that all we have to do is reach for the remote and with a simple ‘click,’ the image no longer offends. We can go on to watch ‘Big Brother’ or ‘Rich Girls.’ Let’s face it, they’re much more entertaining, aren’t they?

Finding targets for blame might be easy, but indignation is never enough. Just as every portion of fat-soaked chips should raise questions about diet and exercise and basic health, so every picture of a hungry child should provoke hard thinking about our own use of global resources, about burdens of debt and terms of trade. And about how far we'll dig into our wallets.

If you’re a person of faith - be it the Bible, the Koran or the Talmud, there really is no escape- ‘We are our brother’s keeper, like it or not,’ all faiths make this clear.

Even if you’re not a person of faith and you reject God’s expectations of us to reproduce compassion and mercy in His world, there is still our responsibility as a fellow human being.

Get a life!

Big World Small Boat Moldova Children

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