Thank you

It has been quite a year! Punctuated in the middle with my fall in July with its surprisingly long-lasting effects, and more dramatically with Jane's fall a couple of weeks ago, and yet, as the album of our year which Apple kindly assembled for me bears witness, also with a great deal of merriment and sadness, and above all love.

I've found that Jane's accident (from which she is marvellously recovering) has knocked me out of my accustomed pattern of Bible reading and prayer. Not that I've stopped praying. Indeed I'm often thinking prayerful thoughts as I sit here - and remember people's situations. But - and maybe it's also the effect of the festive season - I've lost that pattern and habit that was part of each day. And so today's Three Minute Retreat has focused things again for me.

It's based on Psalm 96.3.

"There are days when we feel God's presence and want to sing God's praise. And there are days when our hearts feel dark and we wonder if God is really near. We can get busy and miss the blessings God offers us. One way to recognize these everyday blessings is through personal reflection. By making a habit of noticing God's action in our lives, we can let God's light shine into any darkness we experience. Then we, like the psalmist, can proclaim God's glory." 

One of the questions which follows is "How can I make a little time in my life for daily personal reflection?" I'm thinking about my answers and praying for grace to act on them in 2012.

God, help me to slow down

and notice the many ways you bless each day

so that I may grow in the practice of gratitude.

Amen

The Queen's Speech

With Jane out of action, the A team did a sterling job on Christmas lunch yesterday. We lingered over the turkey and trimmings with Château Capville  2009, and the sherry trifle and mince pies. One result was that we watched the Queen's Christmas address after 3 o'clock. However in my opinion it was worth waiting for. You can watch it here. I gather it's all her own work, without political advisers interfering. Perhaps it was an illusion fostered by the fact that Prince Philip was in Papworth Heart Hospital while the broadcast went out (obviously it had been filmed some time ago), and perhaps because Jane and I have been extra aware of the fragility of life, but to me there was a sense of the Queen wanting to record her most urgent message while she could.

It was nicely constructed, reminiscing over the royals' past year in which they'd seen extreme hardship in Australia and New Zealand and South Wales, and the response of courage. It reflected on the strength of friendship and family, mentioning her two grandchildren's weddings. Its conclusion, somewhat flinched at by the press, was uncompromising and uncoded, simple and profound:

"For many, this Christmas will not be easy. With our armed forces deployed around the world, thousands of service families face Christmas without their loved ones at home.

"The bereaved and the lonely will find it especially hard. And, as we all know, the world is going through difficult times. All this will affect our celebration of this great Christian festival.

"Finding hope in adversity is one of the themes of Christmas. Jesus was born into a world full of fear. The angels came to frightened shepherds with hope in their voices: 'Fear not', they urged, 'we bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. 

"'For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Saviour who is Christ the Lord.'

"Although we are capable of great acts of kindness, history teaches us that we sometimes need saving from ourselves - from our recklessness or our greed.

"God sent into the world a unique person - neither a philosopher nor a general, important though they are, but a Saviour, with the power to forgive.

"Forgiveness lies at the heart of the Christian faith. It can heal broken families, it can restore friendships and it can reconcile divided communities. It is in forgiveness that we feel the power of God's love.

"In the last verse of this beautiful carol, O Little Town Of Bethlehem, there's a prayer:

O Holy Child of Bethlehem,

Descend to us we pray.

Cast out our sin

And enter in.

Be born in us today.

"It is my prayer that on this Christmas day we might all find room in our lives for the message of the angels and for the love of God through Christ our Lord."

"Neither a philosopher nor a general... but a Saviour with the power to forgive" - that is strong stuff. It's not PC, but yet it's true. "Forgiveness lies at the heart of the Christian faith" and it is able to heal families, friendships and communities, and, as her Majesty's prayer implies, it is not something endemic to humanity, but something given through Jesus Christ. Well said, Ma'am! 


And thank you, family, for a wonderfully lovely Christmas.

Bathing in kindness and grace

Didn't Cleopatra have baths of asses' milk? Well, I've found something better. It's the milk of human kindness and the grace of God - both of which we've experienced in buckets these past few days. It began on Tuesday...

I was dozing in my chair before our annual mulled wine and mince pies party, when all our end of the close get together. Jane was busy preparing canapés, sausage rolls, mince pies, drinks and glasses - and things for the kids to do. Suddenly, I was roused by a tumbling crashing followed by a heavy thump - and silence! On the other side of the door. Unable to move, I shouted. It wasn't long before Jane said, "I'm all right." Somehow, I didn't believe her. She didn't sound all right. Amazingly, she staggered in to the sitting room and sat on the sofa next to me. Her face was a pale shade of putty. She'd been on the loft ladder bringing down some games, and had fallen halfway down the stairs. Her first self-diagnosis was severe bruising; then something worse... like a dislocated collar-bone. It didn't take a genius to tell it was serious. There was nothing I could do, confined to my chair, except gibberingly ring Rachel who drove seven miles in not many more minutes (the road was unusually clear), and then a bit later our next door neighbour who also came round pronto.

Rachel is fantastically clear-thinking in an emergency. She contacted a first responder friend of ours, who told us we had to have an ambulance as it was a left-shoulder injury. So she did that, rang round those who needed to know, took instructions for the party, while our neighbour did a round of the houses to postpone the gathering till the ambulance had taken Jane away. Well, it would have been a shame to have wasted all her creative hard work.

The ambulance was here in no time, and the paramedics were excellent. Jane had gone by the time the neighbours poured in. And we didn't remember everything - like the canapés - but people didn't mind. They helped Rachel with mulling the wine and washing up (thanks - Astrid and Naomi) and at the end, when the news came in that it was a serious fracture and that she would stay in hospital until an operation, possibly on the Thursday, everyone offered any help we could use. Rachel rang her brothers who began to change their schedules to come and help. By Wednesday afternoon Stephen (on holiday) and Bryan (his boss having said, "Go!") were here. On Facebook next morning I wrote that Jane had fallen and we were in for an interesting Christmas, and was flooded by offers of help and prayer. My overwhelming feeling was how full of kindness people are, which shows when they have an opportunity. I love that.

Later that evening I emailed a few of our close praying friends, briefly. As I wrote to one of them today: "We visited Jane yesterday afternoon, and she's counting her blessings. The way things happened after she'd fallen was amazing, like the ambulance was already in the area and was diverted here as a priority, her friend from Stanford got here just in time to go with her, leaving Rachel with me; the driver was INCREDIBLY gentle going from here to Oxford; because it was a suspected dislocation she went to the front of the queue which became five hours long behind her; the xray revealed this severely fractured collar-bone, which needed to be seen by a consultant, who just happened to be walking past at that moment. There was a possibility of an operation before the weekend, otherwise she'd have been sent home with a 3-4 week wait. There was a bed in the Trauma unit - in her own room - available. 
   "The fall was steep and twisty and long enough, and she could easily have broken her neck, or concussed herself - neither happened. In fact she was able to get to where I was sitting and could see we needed help. We've been in touch this morning. The main man (who used to patch people up in Afghanistan) hopes to operate and put a plate in this afternoon, and to get her home for Christmas. We're praying for no emergencies before then...

   "Rachel, Stephen and Bryan have moved in and the three of them are looking after me and getting ready for Christmas - it will carry on as normal, we trust, with Jane's parents coming on Saturday and our friend Margaret for Christmas lunch. :) They're a super-competent team.

   "Meanwhile I'm going to have to arrange some care cover for when they're all back at work." I reckon that's all God's grace.

So now I'm writing this as Jane's in theatre or the recovery room and the sounds and smells of cooking emerge from the kitchen, and I'm reflecting that if even stubborn donkeys like me can be in receipt of God's grace and the kindness of friends and family, it's good news for everyone. Maybe the traditional presence of the ass in the Christmas stable means a bit more than it happened to have carried Mary there. I think it means that rather than squeezing our juice out until our pips squeak God wants us to enjoy his love which, if we look out for it, appears in the most unlikely of places and improbable of circumstances:

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
A breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Sad but not hopeless

I was out at the doctor's for a routine visit yesterday, and so John left a message. It was the saddest news. His lovely wife who had MND for a very short time has died. Their home is at the other side of Grove. She had deteriorated so rapidly. As John later commented, their overwhelming sense was gratitude that Jean hadn't suffered longer. It is a wretched disease - and a wretched time to lose someone.

This is my prayer for Jean:
Support us, O Lord,
all the day long of this troublous life,
until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes,
the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over,
and our work is done.
Then, Lord, in thy mercy, grant us a safe lodging,
and a holy rest, and peace at the last;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. (attributed to John Henry Newman) I'm reminded of St Paul's, "If for this life only we have hope, we are of all men most miserable." But we do have hope, which lasts beyond this life.  For Jean that hope is reality.

Preparing for Christmas

A Facebook friend posted today this message: "Christmas without 'Christ' is just 'M&S'." I thought it was quite apt. (For readers abroad, M&S is the archetypal British High Street retailer, Marks and Spencer - which, like other retailers, relies on Christmas shopping for its profits.)

I've just come across a whole lot of Advent podcasts from 24/7 Prayer Spaces. I wish I'd found them three Sundays ago, because they are so good. And really you want to use one a day rather than catch up with them all at one go. Anyway the first one is by Pete Greig for Advent Sunday, and then, if you want to, you can work through the sequence up to date. (By the way, they're good models for sermons - short and to the point.)

Of the other ones I particularly enjoyed Mary's Song, about the Magnificat, about how focusing on the good God who loves us, whatever our circumstances, and Simeon's Song, which asks where we find Jesus today.

I'm sure we do find him on the High Street and in many unexpected places - even in the darkness. But we need to be looking - and listening - for Him. Otherwise we'll miss Him. But the greatest truth of Christmas is not that we find Him, but that He has come and found us.

There's a rather good blog today, by the way, on the iBenedictines' blog about the corrosive effect of grumbling. "... most grumbling is not justifiable and is corrosive of community. Advent isn’t usually seen as a time for giving up things, but I certainly intend to try harder to give up grumbling. Being nice to be near isn’t just a question of which soap one uses."

Somewhere to go

A week ago we went to David Thomas' funeral in Cholsey. The church was full, and we heard more about his distinguished career. It was a celebration, as he'd have liked. We has Dixie music at the beginning and very end. It was also a sad occasion, naturally, because his family will miss him hugely. I was glad the vicar used this prayer:
"God of all consolation,
your Son Jesus Christ was moved to tears
at the grave of Lazarus his friend.
Look with compassion on your children in their loss;
give to troubled hearts the light of hope,
and strengthen in us the gift of faith,
in Jesus Christ our Lord", which I very much like.

I love the recognition that Jesus is not immune from our pain. He knew what it was like to have a loved one die. He cried with the bereaved Mary and Martha. He knows the pain - but he also gives them, and us, hope. "Didn't I say if you trusted (me) you'd see God do something amazing (God's glory)?" They had to wait to see what they scarcely could imagine. We may have to wait longer to see it. The common factor is Him.

The service finished with the great hymn "How great Thou art", which ends with the verse:
"When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow in humble adoration,
And there proclaim, my God, how great Thou art!" The best word there for me is home. It's no ordinary home, wonderful though those are - where the heart is! When we reach this home, we'll say, "Aah! So this is where I really belong." And our hearts will find the rest and peace and joy they've always longed for without knowing what it was. We'll rest in divine love.

Tea with tears

David Thomas (centre)

Yesterday a group of us with MND and our families were invited for tea at the Kingswell near Harwell. It was a good time. Four of us were in wheelchairs, and there was Lorraine's new grandson, Max, just a few days old. The one person whom we all missed was our friend, David Thomas. I refer to him in the Diary of a Donkeybody blog as "the herb gardener" because he used to joke about having left his cannabis farm for the afternoon! He died last Thursday at his home. Everyone would comment on his spark and his wit and sense of fun. He was also very brave. The disease affected him severely and rapidly. My picture shows him at a meeting in May last year.

He went to Sandhurst and served in the Royal Artillery. He was a crack shot and had been chairman of the British Pistol Club. Last year despite his illness he completed an MA in First World War Studies at Birmingham, writing a unique dissertation:

He took great pleasure in seeing the weddings of both his daughter last year and his son this year. We all felt his absence as we shared our tea. Because he was above all a lovely man and he and wife Penny an inspiring couple. A mutual friend wrote this morning: "I will never forget his wit and cheeky sparkle. MND is such a cruel disease :( " I have to say her mother, who has it too, is a pretty sparkly lady also. Which is quite something as we're all aware, to one degree or another, of the limit to the Christmases we'll live to enjoy with our families.

Perhaps that's the reason too why none of us was in a hurry to leave that friendly room, where we were able to share, either with laboured speech or via speaking device, with others who just understood and people who cared.

It was dusk as we left and the Friday traffic from Reading was already streaming past. Then it was time for supper and relaxing by the tv. I'd recorded Rev. from the night before, to which I have ambivalent feelings. This episode I thought was well done. There's a brilliant new teacher at the church school of which the Rev is chair of governors. However he's an articulate lapsed Catholic atheist. The head loves him; the vicar loathes him. On the day of the religious inspection Mr Feld is late. In fact he's been knocked off his bike and is dead. The Rev has to give the assembly. He begins, "It's very difficult to know what to say at times like this. We won't be seeing Mr Feld again here, because Matthew's gone somewhere else now. Matthew didn't believe in Heaven, but I do. I don't know what it is, but I do know a story that gives me an idea. It's a story about a lot of little bugs that lived at the bottom of a river. And every now and then one of the little bugs would crawl up a stem through the water, up into the light - and would never be seen again...."

Waterbugs and Dragonflies 

It's not an original story. In fact I used to keep a copy to explain death to bereaved children. The point of the story is that the "bug" turns into a beautiful dragonfly able to fly, but can't reassure the bugs he's left behind because he can't ever get back there. This upset him "until he remembered that all his friends one day would climb up the stems and join him in the sun."

It's clearly not a story for adults. It's a very simple version of the truth, which of course the children (and we) can take or leave. I would say that the metamorphosis is not automatic, but it's certainly God's offer and desire that we should exchange our bodies for a superior model, which won't have the weakness, disease and frustration we now experience and which won't ever wear out. I'd say the picture of nymph and dragonfly is not a bad analogy, except eternity's longer than a month! There's a verse somewhere which talks about the good things that pass our understanding which God has prepared for those who love him.