Hope at Christmas

When I was growing up in Bristol, one of the old buildings which always appealed to me was the Chapel of the Three Kings of Cologne, part of the Foster's Almshouses, at the top of Christmas Steps (full of exciting Dickensian shops!). It was built in 1504, by John Foster, a Bristol merchant, who, it's thought, had seen the Chapel of the Three Kings in Cologne Cathedral, named after the magi who came to visit the baby Jesus after the nativity - whose bones were transferred there in the 12th century. 

On my other blog, I wrote about being interviewed about the end of life by Channel 5, and received this comment from "Leafyschroder", which I liked and thought I'd repeat here.

"Coming towards the celebration of the coming into the world of Life itself, I find your article, and indeed all that is being said about this subject profoundly moving.
"It's difficult to comprehend just how difficult life must be for some and one wishes that they could be enveloped by Love and deeply feel how valuable their life is. I have been listening to this beautiful song about hope: Cologne Cathedral and the Jewish song, 'Inscription of Hope'". 

Suzette, from whose blog this comes, wrote this about the song:

"The basement (of the cathedral) also became the hiding place for Jewish families hiding out from Hitler. At the end of the war, fragments of a poem, believed to have been written by a Jewish child, were scrawled on the wall. Those words from the poem were taken and put to music, the melody coming from an old Russian folk tune, and was turned into the choral arrangement, 'Inscription of Hope.' The music and choral arrangement were done by composer Z. Randall Stroope. Below are the lyrics of the first stanza of the song, taken from the words inscribed on the wall of the Cologne Cathedral:
Inscription of Hope
I believe in the sun
even when it is not shining
and I believe in love
even when there's no one there,
and I believe in God
even when he's silent.
I believe through any trial
there is always a way."

There's a poignancy reading this again at the time when we recall another Jewish child being hunted down by an oppressive régime. Whatever your circumstances this Christmas, I wish you a hope-filled season and the knowledge within you that Love came down at Christmas. Emmanuel - God is with us

Life and death

Today we're in the season of Advent - the period of waiting for the coming of the King, in two senses: the coming of Jesus in such extraordinary circumstances as a crying baby, I believe, to a teenage mum, and his coming again "in great glory to judge both the living and the dead". It's a time full of anticipation and awe.

This afternoon, after a visit to my wonderful dentist and a lunch with my distinguished oldest brother and his wife at The Bull in Fairford (good meal!), we came back to welcome the Holy Family - the pregnant Mary and Joseph, plus donkey - who are doing the rounds of houses in the parish. John, our vicar, brought them round and prayed with us. They'll stay with us until tomorrow when they'll move on until coming to rest finally in the church on Christmas Eve at the crib service.

It's a great way to focus one's thoughts on what is the reason for the season. Tonight Jane's out at a home group, and hopefully I will be disciplined enough to take time out from my usual lapsing in front of the TV for reflection and gratitude. On Sunday, John preached an Advent sermon on preparing for Jesus' coming, which, he said, we could do by watching carefully and serving faithfully. I'm going to try to watch and wait tonight.

This afternoon I also came back to read the news that a good friend (whom I've never met), Alison Davis, died this morning. She is a hero of faith. She was born with spina bifida in 1955. "She later developed conditions including osteoporosis, arthritis and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Coping with these permanently disabling and painful conditions dominated but did not define her life. Indeed, they led her to champion the rights of the vulnerable, the disabled and the unborn, first as an atheist and then as a Catholic." You can read her story here: http://www.catholicherald.co.uk/features/2013/12/03/obituary-alison-davis/. "Finally, on Easter Sunday, 31 March 1991, she was received into the Church.  Although Alison knew she had 'come home', being a Catholic brought its own difficulties. She discovered some churches couldn’t accommodate wheelchair users and she sometimes experienced an acute sense of rejection. She learnt that her Faith would not remove the sorrows of life but that it does provide the grace and strength necessary to live with them. A visit to Calcutta over Christmas in 1991, and witnessing the love a pavement-dwelling family had for their tiny baby, brought home to her the infinite value of each human being created by God." 

I came into contact with her through our shared belief in the sanctity of life. I think she contacted me after reading My Donkeybody. It was only over the years that I realised what a remarkable lady she was. She is a real example of serving faithfully, and I am really grateful to have known her. In her last email to me she talked about being "content with life as God has given it, which I think is the secret to a really fulfilled life". She lived a fulfilled life in spite of her limitations, beside which mine are tiny. I believe that Paul's expectation is true for Alison: "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing" (2 Timothy 4.7,8). I hope I'll meet her then.

Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection. Through the same Christ Our Lord. Amen.

The miracle of life

I have a great friend, Peter, who has the same slow form of ALS/MND as me. In fact we met again last week at the hospice. He wrote to me yesterday about someone who'd died recently after the quick form of the disease. He said, "We are so lucky. I saw something in the paper last week by a teenager who died of cancer. He said, 'Life is suffering but every second is a miracle'. So true." 

Sunrise

A friend of mine, just back from another round of cancer treatment, quoted this today: "Life is a constant sunrise, which death cannot interrupt, any more than the night can swallow up the sun." George MacDonald in Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood. Isn't that good?

By the way, today is the feast day of St Thérèse of Lisieux, from whose journal Story of a Soul I took the title of Jozanne Moss's and my book, "I Choose Everything". I've been reading the entry about her on Catholic Online. She died at the age of 24 in 1897, having been a Carmelite nun for less than ten years. She lost her mother when she was a child. When her father was committed to a mental institution, "Horrified, Therese learned of the humiliation of the father she adored and admired and of the gossip and pity of their so-called friends. As a cloistered nun she couldn't even visit her father. This began a horrible time of suffering when she experienced such dryness in prayer that she stated, 'Jesus isn't doing much to keep the conversation going.' She was so grief-stricken that she often fell asleep in prayer. She consoled herself by saying that mothers loved children when they lie asleep in their arms so that God must love her when she slept during prayer."

Saying goodbye

Another sad funeral yesterday of our friend Jean who lived in Grove and also had MND, though hers was rampantly quick. I hadn't expected to be able to go, but thanks to Paul taking a shift of caring duties this week and thanks to RSA Insurance being very obliging with insuring our Motability car, he drove us and pushed me there. As always at funerals we learned a lot about her, including a lovely story about the start of her romance with John in West London, involving "Fight or flight"! After marrying they moved into a new house here, where they've been ever since.

Her life was incredibly full, and in particular full of people, whom she'd cared for or helped, run clubs for or raised money for. Most of all she enjoyed her family, including 7 grandchildren. We really got to know her in the last year of her life because of her MND, and even in its frightening onset you could see her sense of fun and her enjoyment of friends and family.

I was reminded of her when I read this from the empower network.com. It's about the top five regrets people have on their deathbeds. I think it's written by a palliative care nurse named Caroline, and I thought, "I doubt Jean had many such regrets, especially about neglected relationships":

"For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives. People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality.

"I learnt never to underestimate someone’s capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.

"When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five:

"1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
This was the most common regret of all. When people realize that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.

"It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.

"2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.
This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence.

"By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle.

"3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result.

"We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.

"4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
Often they would not truly realise the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying.

"It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end.
That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and relationships.

"5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called ‘comfort’ of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again. When you are on your deathbed, what  others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying."

I'd add one more, "I wish I'd stayed in touch with God." I suspect it's a big one.

Hard question

I spent a large part of yesterday being interviewed by a trio of 2nd-year students from Gloucestershire University's Film Production course. They were doing a balanced documentary on assisted suicide. They'd interviewed two proponents of it, and wanted me as an opposing voice. They had four pages of questions for me.

One of the most interesting questions I was asked and didn't answer that well was: "Would you recommend faith to someone who's in terminal suffering as a way of easing what they're going through?"

My answer was something like, "I wouldn't recommend it for that reason. I'd recommend it because it's true and it works. I don't think that having faith lessens the frustration, or the pain, or the fear of what dying may bring. It doesn't make it easier being cared for, being changed and being 100% dependent." I wish I'd added a "however". However, it's true that God's presence, even when we walk through the darkest valley, does make a crucial difference. It helps that Jesus endured extreme suffering and death. And it helps to know that he rose from the dead - assuring us that there is something extraordinary to look forward to after death. But having faith, of course, raises difficulties for a disabled or terminally ill believer. For example, why does a loving God allow this sort of thing? Why doesn't he heal me? As I wrote in My Donkeybody:

"Don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion. Not that my faith leaves me cold or without resource. Far from it, but it raises more painful questions than it provides answers. I would not advocate it as a panacea for pain. There may be some evidence that it aids the healing process, but it doesn’t reduce the hurting a jot. Instead the person with faith in a divine Creator is forced to ask a lot of ‘why’ questions, which need never bother an atheist. Why is suffering such a widespread phenomenon in the work of a good God? Why has it affected me (or a member of my family) particularly acutely? Is there intention behind pain, or is it mere accident? How do I square this with what I used to believe about a God who loves me? If God is all-powerful and if he’s all-loving, why does he not do something? Why do children, the innocent, suffer? These are hard questions which humans have been asking, I suspect, from the time they first began reflecting. So, ironically, there’s potential for a double downward spiral, of both physical weakness and undermined faith, in a chronic disease, which in normal circumstances you would be able to steer around. However, now, you cannot avoid wondering, and of course you have the time to dwell on your thoughts, as you sit in your chair waiting to be helped to eat or as you find yourself increasingly embarrassing."

As one of my perceptive Facebook friends commented, I was shattered at the end of their five hours here. Probably the documentary will be put on to YouTube in January next year.

Life and feeling

I've just finished reading a remarkable book which was sent to me by my former colleague, Elspeth Waidson. It's The Wooden Suitcase by Emmy Goldacker (which was translated by Elspeth's parents) and published last year. Emmy Goldacker's father was a German Jew who emigrated to Palestine; her two brothers died fighting in the war; she herself worked for the German government as a translator and then began teacher-training. In 1945 she was arrested in Berlin and condemned to 10 years hard labour in Siberia. This is her story, which is stranger than fiction. It reminds me in some ways of Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.

Much of it is harrowing, revealing a woman's incredible fortitude and faith in life. It's a real insight into the Gulag Archipelago of Stalin's Soviet Union. Near the end of her sentence, after years of unimaginable hardship in concentration camps, she describes going on a work-party to harvest hay on the tundra. They have to cross the River Usa by ferry. They're north of the Arctic Circle:
"I stood at the rear of the ferry. The engine started and the jolt caused me to sway this way and that; however I regained my balance and looked around at the wide expanse of the landscape around us. I no longer heard the women's chatter, so entranced was I by the beauty of this mighty river whose slight ripples reflected the light of the midnight sun. This yellow-golden light, covering the violet-brown swamps to the right, this light that spread over the giant black pines on the left like a yellow-golden veil. What infinite peace!
   "I felt and comprehended the infinite quality of the northern landscape. I saw the beauty of the sky and the water, and was happy and thankful, in spite of the years that lay behind me, that I could still be receptive to this beauty. I was alive and still had feeling! I could have been dead or completely apathetic. I made another attempt at the 'Our Father' and I could say the prayer almost to the end. I realised it was a grace. How small and insignificant I seemed to myself. Who indeed was I? Today I was here, tomorrow someone else would be at this spot. How unimportant! All that was important was to see this beauty and to accept the grace with gratitude."


What a profound and simple piece of writing - after seemingly unending years of deprivation and suffering, Emmy is moved that she is alive and still has feeling! She realises it is a gift - a "grace" simply to be accepted with gratitude. Life and feeling are inalienable gifts.

PS Do read the whole book. emmy+goldacker/h-+morgan+waidson/jean+h-+waidson/the+wooden+suitcase/