Big World Small Boat

Finding The Right Words Of Comfort

Not That Old Chestnut Again!

Labels: best Donuts in London, comforting words, Coping With Illness, Krispy Kreme Harrods, patient and doctor relationships, Terminal Illnesses, Tut Tut Looks Like Rain, Words of comfort for someone dying

Friday

It's Life Jim But Not As We Know It

During a recent visit to one of our areas many homes for the elderly I was outraged to hear a carer yelling at one of the residents. The carer didn’t know I was there. I had just entered the door of the home, as I usually do, and I heard his vitriolic diatribe coming from within the house.

As I looked around the corner I saw a frail woman clinging to her Zimmer frame, (walker), trying to move down the hallway. The carer was standing at the door to the toilet with an angered look on his face. I needn’t repeat what the man said, but he was berating her because she urgently needed to use the toilet.

The man’s demeanour changed instantly when he saw me, as I crossly demanded to know what the problem was. His excuse was that she couldn’t hear so he had to shout. I was angry and I know it showed on my face. I asked him if he required any assistance. The carer said ‘no thanks’ as he stood waiting for the woman to finally reach him.

As she went into the toilet, I immediately turned to look for the home's manager. There was no one to be found. There were four residents in the sitting room. Two were sleeping (or so I hoped), in their chairs, one was rather absently staring at a blaring television and the fourth resident was gazing off into nowhere.

I eventually learned there was only one person in the home to care for everyone. The manager had gone out to ‘buy groceries.’

Set aside the fact that this was altogether illegal, these people, who were incapable of caring for themselves, were at the mercy of this one foul mouthed and heartless individual. He certainly did not demonstrate compassion for the woman’s plight, nor did he demonstrate patience.

I tried to look at the situation objectively, trying to feel badly for the carer over the fact he was left alone to care for all these people, but I quickly snapped out of that mindset when I reminded myself that the other residents I saw would not have been an inconvenience to anyone. And the language he used towards the frail woman was unacceptable in any setting!

The experience left me with extremely uncomfortable images as well as guilt. There is a powerful verse in the Bible that says ‘Don't cast me away when I am old; when my strength fails, don't forsake me.’ Psalm 71:9

Homes such as these are a product of our Western society. And sadly, it’s the ‘other end’ of the spectrum of problems we have with today’s youth. In the middle, (well, actually throughout), it is a clear barometer for the erosion of family values, as well as the family unit.

For young parents it’s easier to leave all of the education for our children to the schools, and when the children become adults, it’s more ‘convenient’ to leave the care for our parents to institutions.

Every month there’s someone heralding new discoveries that will extend our lives even further.

When will there be a discovery on how to extend living?

So What's a Good Death?
When We're Needed Most
I'm Only Dying!
Remember Me
Falling In Love At Clapham Junction

Labels: Ageing, Care Homes, Crimes against the elderly, Elder Care, Evaluating Nursing Homes, Nursing Homes, Violence in Nursing Homes

Thank You Sarah

It was just past midnight as I sat in hospital with my friend Sarah. Her children and grandchildren had gone home for some much needed rest. It was obvious that Sarah was at the end of this life's journey and preparing for her next. The nursing staff had kindly moved her into a private room, affording more privacy and dignity.

I had brought with me a small radio and a book, which I read to Sarah during the night. And I was prepared to offer her Viaticum (a prayer of provision for her journey) as morning broke. It was our private time together.

It was close to 2AM when Sarah opened her eyes. I had stopped reading and was watching the shallow rise and fall of her frame as her body instinctively fought, clinging to the last vestige of life. The music that softly played from the small radio was Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending.

I asked Sarah if she would mind my saying prayers for her now. She had such a sweet and lovely radiance in her face. I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped a tear that ran from her eye. I stroked her hair and briefly thought of her sisters and children.

Almighty God, look upon Your servant Sarah, as she lies here in weakness. Comfort her with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of Your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Sarah surrendered her mortal life a few hours later, with dignity and embraced in love.

Thank you Sarah. Thank you for the honour of being my friend.

Words of Comfort for the Dying

It's Life Jim But Not As We Know It

So What's a Good Death?

Labels: comfort words for someone dying, helpful words for someone dying, how to care for a loved one who is dying, how to care for someone dying, prayers for someone dying

Thursday

The Gloom Master

In one of the supermarkets I use there’s a till clerk whom I’ve awarded the honorary title of ‘Gloom Master.’ Over the past year, I cannot recollect one single positive response from her when I’ve greeted her as I paid for my groceries. If I ask ‘how are you today?’ The response most often is ‘awful.’ If I mention that it looks lovely outside today, her response is ‘well, I’ll never see it, will I?’

I’m ashamed to say that there have been times when I’ve perused the tills to see who was working them so as to choose anyone but the Gloom Master to ring up my purchases. But yesterday I found myself again standing in queue as she dealt with customers ahead of me.

Just ahead of me was a petite lady who I would guess was in her seventies. As Gloom Master scanned the woman’s items there was no dialogue between them. And when Gloom Master finished scanning the items, she simply stopped and waited for the woman to put her items in shopping bags. Still, no words were exchanged.

The shopper looked at Gloom Master and asked ‘well?’ Gloom Master responded with ‘Well what?’ With what appeared to be a hint of a twinkle in her eyes, the lady told Gloom Master, ‘Well, dear, you’re supposed to tell me how much I owe for the groceries.’

You would have thought Gloom Master had taken an advanced training course in customer service from the staff of Ryanair. ‘The price is right there.’ Gloom Master barely lifted her arm to point to the till total displayed on the monitor.

It could have been a scene in a movie. The tiny lady slowly looked at the total displayed on the monitor, then looked back at Gloom Master. ‘Yes, dear, I see the total, but you’re supposed to tell me what the total is.’ I couldn’t help but grin as I watched this battle of the minds. ‘No I don’t,’ said Gloom Master, ‘that’s what the display is for.’

I had anticipated that the lady was going to just give up and pay the total and mutter to herself about the poor service. But how wrong I was! ‘ Dear,’ I loved how she used the word dear like a shovel to clean up a mess on the floor. ‘ We are humans and humans are supposed to talk to one another.’ At that, the small woman, who was growing very tall in my eyes at that moment, handed a twenty-pound note to Gloom Master.

Gloom Master didn’t look up. She gathered up the coins in change and handed them to the woman, without offering any eye contact at all. I thought it was a wonderful exchange between the two women who age wise were probably not too far apart, but in perspectives on life, they were miles apart. ‘Now say ‘Thank you,’ dear,’ the woman stood her ground in front of Gloom Master, all the while smiling such a sweet and loving smile.

Gloom Master ignored her and started to grab at my groceries. She had gotten one item past the scanner, but I reached and stopped her from reaching for the others.

‘You haven’t said thank you yet to the lady,’ I politely reminded her. Gloom Master instantly turned on what I can only describe as a ‘Bette Davis, Baby Jane Hudson’ smile and looked at me and said, ‘Thank you.’ And she turned to the woman, whilst maintaining the same rather demented looking smile and said ‘thank you’ to the woman.

She didn’t miss a step. The little lady smiled back at Gloom Master and said, ‘You’re welcome. Have a nice day.’ And at that she collected her small push trolley and proceeded out the store.

I could have said more to Gloom Master, but now wasn’t the time. I only had a few items and I wanted to catch up with the lady who had stood her ground before old sourpuss. I found her heading towards the bus stop.

I introduced myself and told her I was pleased that she had stood up to Gloom Master, mentioning what I had named the woman. The lady told me that she had been a schoolteacher for 40 years and manners hold no age limit. I asked her if Gloom Master had been rude to her before. She tickled me greatly when she told me that she actually looks for Gloom Master whenever she comes to the store because she’s determined to make the woman be nicer to customers.

I asked if she had ever complained to the store about her. The woman said ‘no,’ and explained that if she did all would happen is that the woman would either lose her job or have more reason to be miserable.

Who says I’m too old to learn from a teacher? I’ve decided that next week, before I go to the store, I’m going to buy a small bunch of flowers for old Gloom Master. And I’m going to present them to the store’s service desk with an anonymous card. I’ll write, ‘thank you for making someone smile last week.’

Let’s see what happens.

The Best Waitress In The World

The Power of Words

We've Just Won The Lottery!
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Labels: caring for others, Depression in the elderly, doom and gloom, loneliness among the elderly, random acts of kindness, supermarket check out, the Golden Rule

Wednesday

When A Hand Isn't Enough

I intentionally put off writing this for a few days in the hopes that I would have some good news to offer about ‘Gwen’ and her two children. Sadly, I haven’t.

When I returned to the B&B to help Gwen take the next steps towards getting settled in their new environment, I was saddened to learn that they were gone.

The other residents had little news they could offer. One woman knew that Gwen had been using the pay phone quite a few times. And according to the B&B manager, Gwen told her that she was going ‘home.’

I went back to the Social Services office in hopes of getting some details as to Gwen’s original address, but understandably, the Data Protection Act prevented them from giving me any information. I also went to the caravan park and knocked on two of the adjacent caravans to where I first visited Gwen and the children. I wanted to see if anyone knew how to contact them or the owner of the caravan. No one did. I even asked the park manager, who wasn’t helpful at all.

For any of us who has tried to extend a helping hand for people in crisis, only to see them choose to continue that cycle of misery, abuse and sorrow, we should not be too quick to judge. It can often be difficult for them to accept that there can be a better life and that they are worthy of that better life.

This is often the crux of the problem: Someone has spent their entire life feeling unworthy, and being told they’re unworthy; once they’ve climbed out of that spiral of sorrow, it takes more than just a few hands to keep them from slipping back into the abyss.

Most Loving God, We pray that your embrace Gwen and her children during their time of confusion and fear. Hear our prayers for her children who suffer at the hands of parents whom they love and trust. Help Gwen to know that there is help available and protect all of them in their time of darkness. Guide them towards light and help Gwen to make the right decision for her sake and for her children’s sake. Amen

Why is Life so Hard?

We All Fail Sometimes

It's So Easy To Judge Others

Labels: Children in Crisis, Christian responsibility, Exploited Children, homeless in England, random acts of kindness, sharing with others, why is life so hard

Tuesday

First Steps

On Friday I spoke with the Social Services office about Gwen and her children. They tell me that she may have to remain in the B&B for up to six weeks. She suggested that I contact the man who originally arranged their accommodation. Oh joy!

In the meantime I’ve collected a number of things for them-clothes for the children, some toys, a radio and clock, and I’ll stop by the supermarket to get some more food items before I go to the B&B. I’ve also spoken with a neighbour who has agreed to look after the children for the day, later this week, so Gwen can begin to get some essential things done, such as registering with the GP, visiting schools, etc.

My neighbour is in her late seventy’s. She has three daughters and it’s always a delight to see them together. Her daughters, obviously, are all grown, but they’re constantly visiting and bringing the grandchildren over for visits. Last Summer they invited me to join them in the garden for a picnic. It’s a perfect place for Gwen’s children to stay for a few hours. It’s safe, they’ll be well cared for, and I think my neighbour enjoys having more to do.

I’ll ask Gwen whether she and the children would like to come to church with me this Sunday. I’ll be able to introduce her to other families and I think she could use some company. She certainly won’t feel excluded or as if she’s just a visitor. I've also spoken with a local florist who needs someone to help a few hours each week and if we could balance the children staying with my neighbour, and Gwen having a small job, Social Services would be bound to find accommodation close to where Gwen works.

We’ll see.

Look Both Ways

When The Church Sins

We All Fail Sometimes

Perhaps You Need a Little Faith in Dog!

Labels: Anglicans, Big World Small Boat, we all fail sometimes, When the church sins

Sunday

The Best Waitress In The World

A Friend and I had tea at one of Eastbourne’s seaside hotels this weekend. We hadn’t seen one another in many months and I had missed seeing her. We had lots to catch up on. Unfortunately, many of the local seafront hostelries are of the ‘Fawlty Towers’ variety. But the one we chose was actually quite nice.

The sea-front room we sat in wasn’t busy. I wouldn’t expect it to be during off-season. There were no more than 14 guests in the entire dining room. In one corner stood what appeared to be the matriarch of service staff. She looked to be in her sixties and the lines on her face certainly had stories to tell – the most revealing one was that she did not want to be there!

I watched her amble up to her customers, shoulders slumped forward, as if in submission to whatever demon it was that haunted her. And with no movement of her elbows, she’d shove a menu card onto the table and walk away. It was an amazing sight.

To our fortune we had the other waitress. She couldn’t have been any older than 17. There was a sparkle of youth in her eyes and she was actually a bit ‘over-chatty.' As she moved back and forth from the diners to her prep table, she’d glance back several times, as if she were repeatedly taking a mental inventory of the number of people at the table.

There they were, the yin and yang of wait staff. And the scene was not unlike many we witness in Britain’s service industry. Bearing in mind that in Britain salaries for wait staff are deplorable; customers don’t generally tip, and we don’t tend to rate very high on motivating staff. This symbol of age diversity appeared to have just been left to it - to get on with what they were hired to do: distribute teas and cakes and collect the money.

Our waitress’ name was Fiona. I only know this because I asked. She had no nametag. But I always prefer to address staff by a name rather than the anonymous ‘Oh miss!’ You would have thought Fiona was from America. It was less than five minutes before we had a complete dossier on her life, right down to the number of days she had been ‘going with’ her new boyfriend, Bryon. (14 days).

But what I found unique was in how Fiona would work through her tasks. When we ordered, she’d repeat it, not write it down. And you could see her point her eyes upwardly, as if she were gazing into her forehead, to ensure that her brain was connected and paying attention. And after she brought our simple order of tea and scones, she quietly but audibly called out the items that were on the table. ‘Spoons, cups, tea, clotted cream, jam, extra hot water.’ ‘No, there wasn’t any extra hot water.’ Fiona said this, not me. And off she went to fetch more water for the teapot.

When Fiona returned with the water I asked her if I could ask her a question. ‘Sure,’ she replied. I told her that I didn’t recall seeing anyone go through such strides before to make sure everything was in place.

Fiona half sighed and half smiled. ‘That’s my Nan over there,’ she said, as she pointed her thumb backwards over her shoulder towards the other waitress, whom I had now bestowed with the name ‘Gloom monster.’ ‘She raised me up on account of my mum couldn’t cope with me. My Nan says I’ll grow up to be nothing, just like me mum. She’s in Brockhill (a women’s prison in the Midlands). But I never see her.'

Fiona went on: ‘I don’t want to be a failure; I want to make something of myself. I like this job and I want to work in one of the fancy hotels in London, but they say you got to have good training.’

I told her I was impressed. I asked if she had received training that taught her to name out the items on the table. ‘No,’ said Fiona, ‘I just hear people complain all the time about my Nan because she never brings them things, so I decided that I would make a list for myself to go through.’ And at that point she pulled out of her apron a crinkled folded sheet of paper and put it in front of me. ‘See,’ she said proudly, ‘this is my list of things I make for myself and I put it on my work station when I start work so I can go over it. Do you think this is the right thing to do?’

The list consisted of roughly written, and badly misspelled words; but the point was clear: Smile, say Hi, ask if they like it, get the order right, ask if you can bring more things. There were other words on the list, but I couldn’t quite make them out.

Her eyes were wide as if she desperately needed someone to validate her creativity. ‘Well done!’ I told her. ‘Who taught you to do this?’ I asked. ‘Nobody, I just want to make sure I do things right,’ she said confidently.

I told her I thought she was doing a lovely job and she should be proud of how hard she was working. Fiona left the table smiling.

She came around twice and asked if there were anything else we would like. Rather than focusing on our originally intended chit-chat, my friend and I continued to watch her. She had regimented herself in the way she served her guests. And my friend noted that it was almost as if Fiona intentionally distanced herself, as far as possible, away from her grandmother.

We didn’t need to ask for the bill. Fiona watched to see when we had finished. She came up and asked if there were anything else she could bring us. And when I said ‘no, thank you,’ Fiona asked if she could leave the bill on our table and she would come collect it whenever it was convenient for us.

I smiled at her. Her demeanour was lovely and I have no doubt, with the determination she showed us, she will rise above the obviously difficult life she has already endured.

But I had a surprise to come. Fiona looked at us and asked, ‘do you mind if I ask you two something?’ I said ‘sure,’ not knowing exactly what was coming. ‘ It’s kind of personal,’ she added.

In that instant I had a sudden surge of adrenaline, as I was preparing myself to be asked if we could either adopt her, or fund some home-study course on hotel management. Shame on me.

‘How long do you think it will take me?’ My friend and I looked at each other. My friend asked, ‘how long will what take?’ Fiona looked at us both. I’m sure she was looking at my friend a bit longer than she looked at me; perhaps she was sizing her up as potential mother, or older sister material. ‘How long will it take me to learn to be the best waitress ever?’

We all encounter moments in our lives that we instinctively know we will never forget for as long as we live. I had to stand up. I smiled at Fiona as I rose from my chair and I placed my hand on her arm and looked intently into her eyes.

‘Fiona,’ I said, ‘You already are the best waitress in the world. Your commitment starts now, this very second. It doesn’t mean you won’t make mistakes. Mistakes are opportunities for learning and doing better. But as long as you are determined to be the best, you will remain the best, forever.’

I think she wanted to hug me. It was quite cute watching her body language as she smiled at me, then looked at my friend, then back at me. She didn’t, but I know she clearly understood what I had shared with her.

There are lots of Fiona’s in this world. And there’s an equal number of Gloom Monsters about as well. But it’s the Fiona’s who will prevail.

So, whatever it is you are striving for; be it a medical degree, a relationship, or the field of hospitality, it is today that you are the best.

Now, leave everyone behind in a trail of smoke!

May God bless you Fiona, wherever life takes you.

Wanted: Part-Time Wife

Who Are We Forgetting?

The Power of Words

Labels: Best Waitress in the world, Hospitality Training, How to be the best waiter, How to be the best waitress, Restaurant Training, What makes the best waiter?, What makes the best waitress?

Saturday

Having A Good Death

It has been a challenging week. I’ve seen what I’d say was humanity at its sweetest and its’ most bitter during this week.

I sat with a gentleman who slipped away, never regaining consciousness from a massive stroke. He was only fifty-six years old and according to his older sister, the man had a penchant for the 'good life,' primarily consisting of copious quantities of alcohol and grease infused foods. (Well, it was his interpretation of the ‘good life’).

I’ve introduced the nearly dead to the recently deceased with the poor child who is addicted to heroin. The struggle she faces could be beyond the comprehension of many.

And I collected the ashes of my friend Sarah. She’s here with me right now, as I write, waiting patiently for me to strew the final remains of her earthly life in the same spot as her beloved husband. It will not be a task to do so; it will be an honour.

Shortly after I returned home last night, I was contacted by a family to inform me of the death of an elderly gentleman. He had died that evening, in his bed, at home. This morning I mentioned to my children during breakfast that I would be gone for a few hours, whilst I made a pastoral visit to the family. My son said to me ‘well Dad, at least this was a ‘good death’ instead of a bad one.’

So what then is a good death? In the past that was not a difficult question, because the answer was given us - by the church, into which most of us were baptised, and whose principal doctrines we learned, if not at home, or at church, then at school.

A good death was above all prepared for. In our final days this would involve making our peace with God and neighbour. But long before that, it would involve living out our lives in the knowledge that this life was in part, a preparation for the life of the world to come.

That gave us a certain ‘orientation,’ so that when we did come to the end of our lives, whether it be short or long, they would not seem pointless and we could look back with a contented heart.

But in these more secular times many have taken death, so to speak, into their own hands. Clergy are no longer needed or desired. And in some instances, considering some of my fellow clergy, I might take the very same stance! People are finding their own ways of bringing meaning to the loss of a loved one.

So, what is a good death now? When I asked my son to share his idea of a ‘good death’ he simply said that it was to go to bed and not wake up. In other words, to slip from this world into oblivion, or wherever, without knowing - to die unprepared, the very opposite of the ‘traditional’ church-inspired understanding.

In another age, when life expectancy was short, when illness struck suddenly and carried us off quickly, that might have been the expectation and hope of many. But if the countless octogenarians I visit each week in our coastal care homes are any indicator, most of us can now expect to live well past the point where we can’t physically do much more than move from a bed to a chair and back to bed each day. We shall have years of reflecting upon our mortality before we succumb to some degenerative disease and know that our final days are upon us.

So what is a good death?

The starting point for us all, believers and non-believers, is the same: we will die. The practical things we can all do: making our peace, setting our affairs in order, giving consideration to family and friends and the needs they may have. They all become acts of kindness towards others.

But, as a priest, I know that this is the easy part. The difficult bit is finding that final peace of mind and calmness of spirit that comes from being able to reconcile all that has gone before - successes and frustrations – warm memories and sad ones as well – all coming to the inevitable reality that it is going to end.

The ‘believer’ achieves that reconciliation when he says; ‘Lord into your hands I commend my spirit.’ It’s that reaffirmation that this is only a passing of time and that there is a new life ahead. To me, that remains a good death.

In fact, I can’t imagine coming across a better.
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I'm Taken To Task For My Actions
When We're Needed Most
I'm Only Dying!
Falling In Love At Clapham Junction
A Childs Funeral

Bereavement Death ChildDeath

Labels: bereavement, caring for the dying, death, death of a mother, Death of parent, funeral prayers, loss of a mother, words of comfort, words of comfort bereavement, words of comfort dying

Thursday

Their New 'Life'

I arrived early this morning to take the woman (I’m going to call her ‘Gwen’), and her children to collect their emergency Social Services funds. Again, I didn’t fully know what to expect. I assumed she would be given some cash to take with her, but she wasn’t. Instead she was given something that resembled a postal order, which we then had to take to the post office for her to cash. It was a total of £93.50! Incredible!

I listened intently to the Social Service clerk explain that a cheque would be sent to Gwen at the B&B. They couldn’t tell yet how much it would be. I had to keep asking the woman to repeat what she was saying because I wanted Gwen to first hear what was being said, but it was nearly impossible for me to hear the clerk through the holes drilled through the thick Perspex window. It was a demeaning experience.

I had picked up some more milk, cereal and bananas. But I had forgotten about them when I arrived at the B&B. They were still in the boot of the car. I had the impression that the children had not eaten this morning. As we drove back to the B&B I decided to stop at the McDonald’s near the seafront. I absolutely loathe McDonald’s, but it had a ‘play’ area and I wanted to have a moment to speak with Gwen. I couldn’t just take her back to the B&B and forget about them.

The children, (I’ll call them Lisa and Laura), were delighted. Breakfast wasn’t on offer any more. But I asked Gwen if it were okay for me to get them happy meals after they played for a bit. She just nodded. I don’t think she was accustomed to people offering her any choices.

I asked Gwen whether she had any plans as to what she would do now. She hadn’t a clue. She said she missed her friends up north. I asked if she had anyone she could stay with closer to where she had come from. Gwen more or less babbled about several people, as if I knew them, but from what I gathered, the answer was no. I repeated what the Social Services lady had said to us. After her case was reviewed, there would be steps to find more permanent housing for them. She looked at me and said ‘But I hadn't got no furniture or nothing like that.’

I told her I understood, but we’d take first steps first. I tried to speak in the colloquial ‘we’ in hopes that she wouldn’t feel so alone in the thought process. I also noticed for the first time that she has a slight shake to her arm. I couldn’t tell whether it was from nerves or some ailment. But it reminded me of what I wanted to talk about.

I suggested that ‘we’ get her and the children registered with a local GP immediately. And I mentioned that we should enquire about getting Laura into a school. I knew that considering what we had experienced with Social Services, they could end up living anywhere, but I still felt it better to give Laura some activity and a sense of normality…whatever normality means in such a situation. I asked whether Laura had been attending a school where they lived before. Gwen said she hadn’t. Nor had she attended any nursery or day care programmes.

The three of them ate chicken happy meals. I bought milk and orange juice for the children and coffee for Gwen. I also bought a cup of coffee for myself but once I set it down on the table I realised that I really didn't want it.

I was now more in a position to observe the children. Lisa is 2 ‘and a few,’ as if her mother couldn’t precisely recall when she was born. Laura will turn 6 in June. Both of them look pale, under nourished, and exhausted. My guess was that they hadn’t had a bath since arriving at the B&B. I asked Gwen how the accommodation was. She said it was ‘nice.’ I asked if she had everything she needed, such as ‘soap, flannels, shampoo, etc,’ (knowing that I had bought some soap and shampoo the day before.) ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We have all we need.’

I took them back to the B&B. I’ve told Gwen that I’ll stop by on Saturday afternoon and I gave her a card with my telephone number. I told her to ring me if she had any concerns about anything.

On the way home I stopped to speak with the Headteacher at the local Church school. They had no placements available and the Headteacher suggested that I go to the nearby state school. Perhaps there will be some developments before Saturday. If not, I’ll visit the other school on Monday. It’s just a matter of balancing time. I have a full dance card tomorrow, including hospital visits and a funeral.

I’ve been reflecting over why I couldn’t visualise these children last night. I think I understand why now.

Whenever I travel to Eastern Europe I have a moment where I leave ‘our world’ behind me. My pace alters slightly, my speech patterns slow and my awareness changes, so that I look for different things and I look at things differently. If you have worked abroad as a volunteer or in a foreign ministry, you will probably understand what I mean.

When I come home, it is essential that I have a break–period where I’m allowed to sit in silence. It can’t be while I’m travelling. I need to be at home, or in a church, or a field, but I need to be alone–in silence. And I take that time to reflect, pray, and emotionally set all I’ve seen and touched and experienced aside for a moment. Sometimes I even find myself speaking aloud, saying ‘ I’m home now.’ There’s comfort in that word "Home."

I think what happened with Lisa and Laura is that I saw too much of what I travel thousands of miles to see. And it disturbed me greatly. When I return home there are many images I must remove from the forefront of my memory. I must. And part of that process is by not allowing myself to look too deeply into the eyes of the children I serve. Of course I communicate with them, love them, and of course I look them in the eye, but there’s a point where you ‘absorb’ them. And when that happens they capture a part of your soul. And to serve many, you simply cannot focus only on one.

I must stop writing for a moment.

When The Church Sins

Look Both Ways

Try a Little Dog in Your Life!

Labels: challenges of social services, crisis in child care, patterns in child care crisis, surviving social services

Wednesday

The Caravan

The rain is ricocheting off the windows right now and the wind is whipping off the sea, making the raindrops sound like pellets from an air gun. I can’t get my mind off of the woman with the two children we came across at the grocers this weekend.

I went to the caravan park yesterday. It wasn’t as easy to find them as I thought it would be. Even in this cold, horrible Autumn weather, it appeared that most of the caravans–at least the larger ones, were occupied. I had to knock on two caravan doors before I was directed to the right one. And the residents of those caravans seemed to be in just as difficult a situation as the woman I was going to see.

She looked surprised to see me. All I could do was stand in the doorway. The children were sitting on a bench that served as a bed at night, plastic dishes were sitting in a large bowl, and the caravan reeked of dirty nappies and body odour. The two children had a small plastic lorry that they were pushing back and forth along the bench top.

I asked the mother if she had been in contact again with Social Services. She repeated the same thing she had told me the day before–that they said they couldn’t help her until she had a proper address. She showed me a form letter a staff member had handed her, where they had written down a case number and had ticked why she was not qualifying for any assistance. The form said the woman already lived in ‘supported accommodation,’ somewhere up north. I asked the woman about it.

It was clear that she didn’t possess the mental inventory, nor the social skills to effectively communicate her case. To me it made sense. She was in an abusive relationship, he left the house for a moment, and whilst it was safe for her to do so, she gathered up the children and left, fearful that he would soon return.

But Social Services had interpreted it as ‘she had left her accommodation of her own free will and because her partner wasn’t there at the time, she and the children were under no threat or impending danger. She clearly was in a paradoxical situation and she was unable to effectively explain her situation to the ‘form tickers’ at Social Services.

It would have been impossible for her and the children to ride the multiple busses necessary for her to get back to the Social Service office. Considering the time of day I had come, it also would have taken the entire day. I agreed to take her.

After all the palaver of getting the children out of the car, getting into the building and standing in what appeared to be an endless queue, we finally arrived at a security glassed window. I spoke on her behalf. I learned that we were at the wrong place. "And besides, she would have to be declared 'resident' somewhere before they could help her." We would have to drive 15 miles to another location and first declare her as homeless. Then she would be granted emergency accommodation. So off we headed.

The man who helped us was appallingly disinterested and curt. So much so that I became angry. The man more or less sighed at my obvious frustration. He told me that he gets ‘dozens just like her every day.’ I pointed out to him that whilst he might hear this every hour on the hour, it’s the first time she is there and she deserves to be listened to with the compassion that his job description detailed and that if he were unable to do this, then I’d be pleased to help her file a formal complaint against him. He changed his attitude. Thank goodness.

According to their ‘rules’ the woman couldn’t be declared homeless or in crisis if she already had accommodation somewhere else. She had made the statement that her partner wasn’t there when she left, so with this pathetic ‘means testing’ guideline, the housing chap had to follow, took them in the direction that she and the children were not at risk.

I helped her convey the situation more effectively. Plus, I learned that the police had been called to their home on several occasions due to her partner’s aggression. Therefore, this helped to ‘qualify’ them for the ‘next step.’

After whatever fiddling about the man had to do, which required him telling us to leave and come back in an hour, and then finding the office was closed till 2, we eventually were able to see him again. Oh joy.

Good. She had now ‘qualified’ for emergency housing assistance. The cretin..excuse me...housing officer had to add that 'the only reason she qualified was because of the children.' They would now have a place to stay. Unfortunately, however, there was no place in my community, nor was there anything available near where she had been staying. The closest was in Eastbourne, about 45 minutes away in the opposite direction. The housing clerk gave the woman a sheet of paper for the allotment of a room in one of Eastbourne's grubbier B&B's and another document to present to the Social Service office where she could get some emergency money.

I felt terrible because by this time it was late in the afternoon and I dreaded going back to that office again. There are literally hundreds of people there, all in the direst of situations and you have to wait. But we had no choice. She needed money for food. So off we went to the office again.

But once I found a place to park, got the children out, and traipsed up the hill to the office, as I walked up to the counter, the receptionist told me they were unable to take any more applicants for the day. I told her that this was an emergency. But she told me there was nothing she could do. We’d have to come back tomorrow.

I know the poor woman I was with didn’t realise it, but transportation the following morning for her would have been an absolute nightmare, and most likely 3–4 busses just for her to get back to this place. I looked at the children and imagined the emotional exhaustion she must have felt. She said very little to me - I gather she was grateful someone else was doing the fighting for her.

I tried to put a good face on the situation. I said ‘never mind, we’ll come back tomorrow.’ I told her we’d pick up some groceries on the way to the B&B.

The term ‘B&B’ can have some dramatic interpretations in Britain. Don’t think of a warm fluffy welcome, frilly sheets, and a comfortable sitting room. This place was appalling! There was a communal kitchen. Nothing was in it. A sitting room with three sofas and an ancient telly. The walls were tan with stained cigarette smoke. But otherwise, the rest of the place met the legal requirements. There were fire doors, alarms, a secure door on their room. But the communal bathroom was just like the rest of the place. The linens were left on the bed. They were clean and probably from an industrial laundry. There were 4 single beds in the room, a sink, and a table that could seat two, a small wardrobe and 2 chairs. But at least it was warm and certainly safer than the caravan they were in.

I felt badly about leaving them. We had picked up their meagre belongings at the caravan and taken them with us to the B&B. And we picked up groceries along the way. But as I left, I went back to the supermarket and bought some crayons, colouring books, a story–book, some much needed shampoo, a hairbrush, and a few little packages of toys and I went back to the B&B.

When the woman opened the door, she was smiling. She told me they were all happy and they loved their room. I glanced around once more trying to see what she saw that would make anyone happy. It touched me deeply.

I’ll go back in the morning, so I can take them back to the Social Service office so she can collect the small pittance they will give her to help them start their new life.

I’m feeling guilty this morning because no matter how I try, I can’t clearly recall the children’s faces. That’s not the norm for me.

When The Church Sins

Who Are We Forgetting?

Do You Believe in Dog?

It's So Easy To Judge Others

Labels: Baby P and social service failures, coping with social services, examples of failures in social services, failing to care for children in crisis

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 his 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 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.

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Remember Me

A Childs Funeral

Welcome Home

Labels: Big World Small Boat, Clapham Junction, Falling in Love at Clapham Junction, Father Bill Haymaker, words of comfort, words of comfort for death of a mother, words of comfort for death of a parent

Saturday

You Needn’t Look Far

My daughter and I stopped by the supermarket this afternoon–bare essentials to pick up–milk, bread, and eggs.
It would have been impossible not to notice the woman a few metres ahead of us. Her hair looked as if it had not been brushed in days and in her arms was a child, who I would guess was close to 2 years old. Beside her was another child–a girl, somewhere between the age of four and five. She was looking up at her mother, saying something that I could not hear.

The mother seemed to be moving in a mechanical fashion. She certainly wasn’t acknowledging the child beside her.

There’s a section in the front of the store where pre–packaged sandwiches, fizzy drinks and crisps are sold. I watched the woman reach for a sandwich. As she balanced the smaller child in her arm, she fumbled with the packaging, ripping it open, and extracted one of the sandwich halves. She took a large bite out of it and then pointed the sandwich into the mouth of the child in her arms, who bit into it immediately.

She then handed the remainder of the sandwich half to the small girl. By that time I had moved close enough to hear her. ‘Hurry up, eat it,’ the woman said to the child. She then took a bite out of the remaining half and again pointed the sandwich to the child in her arms. The child, I couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl, again, quickly swallowed the piece of sandwich. And then the woman did something quite strange.

She placed the packaging back onto the shelf and quickly shoved it towards the back of the cooler, so that it would be out of sight. The woman then moved a few steps towards the beginning of the fruit section of the store. As if it didn’t matter what would have been in the crates, she reached over and picked up a plum. The woman quickly took a bite out of it and repeated the routine with the children– feeding the child in her arms and handing bits of food to the little girl.

I watched this for a few minutes. The woman never once looked around her to see whether anyone was watching her. She never looked up to see if there were cameras about. It was clear that eating and feeding the children was her priority. The fact she was committing a crime or that she might get caught seemed not to matter at all.

We followed her to the back of the store towards the bakery section. It was clear that she was going to repeat what she had done in the front of the store. I walked up, almost beside her, as if I were going to select a bread that was next to her.
‘Excuse me, are you hungry?’ I asked. I tried to say it quietly–almost in a whisper. The woman jerked her head towards me with a look of fright and as if she were preparing for a battle. I quickly held up my hand and said ‘don’t worry, I’m just concerned. All of you look very hungry.’ You could see her trying to size me up. ‘Don’t have no money,’ she rattled out as she looked back at the breads, ‘DSS (Social Services I’m sure she meant) won’t give me any cause we don’t have no address.’

I asked her where she was staying, being mindful of how cold it was outside. She said they were staying in a caravan that belonged to a friend. She and the children had come down from the Northeast a week earlier. I asked her if there were anyone else with them, trying not to ask in such a way to make her feel as if she were being interrogated. She told me they had left her partner because he was drunk all the time and they ‘had to get away.’ She said she’d never seen the sea so she thought it would be nice to come to the coast.

I asked her about Social Services and why couldn’t they offer her any help. I tried to say it in a way that she wouldn't feel I was trying to grill her. She said that they would if she had a ‘proper’ place to stay, but because she didn’t there was nothing they could do.

I can understand how government rules and regulations can often create a ‘Catch 22’ and perhaps this is one of those times. I’m not certain.

I told her my name and said that I felt the most important thing to do right now is to get some food for all of them. I asked if she had anything to cook with. She said there was a cooker, but there wasn’t any gas for it. It needed a new bottle. That led me to ask about heat. Yes, there was an electric oil heater that they used and because the caravan was small it ‘worked good.’

I asked her what she thought they needed most for tonight. She said they all liked ‘crisps.’ That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, so I thought we’d better help the process a little. As we were standing there at the moment, I picked up the bread at which she had been gazing.

We collected some oranges, bananas, a mild cheese, milk, a litre of orange juice, a box of tea, bag of sugar, corn flakes, butter, sliced ham, some (more) plums and a few other items. I also discreetly collected the empty sandwich container, so that we could pay for it and told the till clerk that ‘we had eaten one of the plums…sorry,’ and smiled at her. I don’t know whether she adjusted the price for that or just accepted it as a case of a consumer practicing a bit of quality control in the produce section.

I know where the caravan park is they’re staying in and I’ll go by tomorrow to see if I can get a better grip on the situation.

Situations such as this always remind me that if you want to help people in crisis, those who are suffering, or those who are less fortunate than yourself, you needn’t look any further than your own community.

It Costs Nothing to Care
Suffer The Children
Have I told You Lately That I Love You?

Labels: children in need, families in crisis, reaching out to strangers

Thursday

Meet Me At The Plaza!

'Nothing Unimportant Ever Happens At The Plaza.'

What wonderful use of a double negative! It’s a marketing tag line used by The Plaza Hotel in New York City thirty years ago.

Recently, Christie’s held the closing auction for the remnants of the world’s most famous hotel. Sold in lots were The Plaza’s ornate chandeliers, the heavy polished brass door knobs, embossed with the unique double P logo, mirrors, fixtures, ash trays, and what remaining silver plate that hadn’t been carted off in the open house sale that was held at the hotel last year.

The Plaza, one of the only hotels in the world where you could either hail a taxi or a horse drawn carriage, catered to the most diverse clientele in the world, ranging from the wealthiest of society, such as the Vanderbilt’s, all the way down to …well…me I suppose.

I could wax lyrical for weeks about my own memoirs of The Plaza and how she's weaved in and out of my life, but anyone who has stayed there will have their own profound memories. The Plaza became a fibre of my memories during my childhood and she has remained there for me throughout my life. It was the first telephone number I memorised as a child (PLaza 9-3000).

She was the perfect rendezvous point for any occasion, whether it was a simple breakfast in the Edwardian Room overlooking Central Park and Fifth Avenue, to an enjoyable chat with friends in the Oak Bar, followed by a fun dinner in Trader Vics. And if you wanted a place to enjoy after theatre, there was nothing like heading to New York’s only remaining Palm Court for hot chocolate and canapés.

I can't begin to count all the experiences I had and friendships that developed with people whom I certainly never 'deserved' to know, but to this day remain 'discreet' friends with. Black and White Balls, a sheik who had a live sheep delivered to his suite, (which fascinated me to no end), incredible rows I overheard and sometimes witnessed, as their battles moved out into the hallways, and a plethora of people who live in the balance between fame and infamy-they all formed the life and blood of this incredible venue.

The flickering fairy lights of their lanterns, as children ice-skated in Central Park at night, were among my first young memories, when my father held me out of the window from our suite overlooking the corner of Central Park and Fifth Avenue. And as my life progressed, just as with anyone elses life, my experiences ran the width and breadth of their room inventory.

From the 'Inside' Rooms, (which was an euphemism for facing the air-shaft), to the Park 'Views,' where you would have to stand on top of the radiator in order to have a glimpse of the park, all the way to Julius Monk's suite on the 18th floor, I've been fortunate to breathe part of The Plaza's breath. And whether it was a Swordfish steak in the Oyster Bar, or my Coca Cola's with two cherrys, downstairs in the Plaza 9 nightclub with my father, every corner of the hotel embraced me like an autumn jumper, all the while whispering to me that I was at home.

It was The Plaza that stood as the setting when I fell in love…several times, as I recall. (a couple of times may only have been prickly heat). But there’s nothing to compare with the experience many years later, of feeling your eyes moisten with adoration and love, as you watch your daughter sip her hot chocolate amidst the splendour of the Palm Court.

Just as with so many life stories, The Plaza had many highs and lows. Even through my childish eyes of good taste, I cringed to watch the Edwardian Room be destroyed by the Sonesta Group, when they painted the walls gleaming white and hauled in wrought iron heart-shaped chairs, turning the most famous corner in the world into an ice cream boutique. And I rejoiced when Westin took over the property, vowing to restore the hotel to her original ‘tasteful’ state. (and they did!) But only to watch her again fall prey to the Real Estate pimps and end up being managed by a woman who was a cross between Zsa Zsa Gabor and Leona Helmsley!

The Plaza was always a vanguard in my life; my youth, my celebrations of living: love, birth, and even deaths. She will always remain among the fibres of my heart.

And with my children sitting beside me as I write this, I can indeed confirm:

Nothing Unimportant Ever Happened At The Plaza!

Plaza Hotel Big World Small Boat..

Not That Old Chestnut Again!

The Best Waitress In The World

Labels: Eloise at The Plaza, Leona Helmsley, New York Plaza, Queen of Mean, Stories about The Plaza Hotel, The Plaza Hotel history, The Plaza Hotel New York, Trader Vic's, Truman Capote Black and White Ball

Tuesday

We Should Never Forget

Once again, today our nation will come to a standstill. Cars and busses will stop. Heathrow and Gatwick Airport will turn off its jet engines. Children at schools will rise and stand in silence and thousands will stop on the streets in tribute to those who surrendered their lives for freedom. At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, the Great War came to an end.

By the end of World War I, nine million soldiers had died and twenty one million were wounded. And the losses were compounded by the deaths of civilians. Over six million died from starvation and disease.

This small act of remembrance, marking the official day when the war ended, is a powerful gesture to show that those lives that were lost in our quest for freedom was not in vain. It also serves as an act of defiance – a powerful message that we reject the ways of oppression.

And it is not just the war of past that we honour today. We are recognising all who have given so much in the name of our freedoms. This morning, the QE2, just hours before she makes her final journey, after six million miles of circumnavigating the world, will be showered with a million poppies. During the Falklands war the QE2 was conscripted into service. Over a thousand crewmembers volunteered to remain with her as she sailed into war. And there are countless soldiers - men and women who have given their lives in the Middle East in the name of freedom for others.

Even ninety years later, we are still haunted by the mass futile deaths of World War 1. The war poet Wilfred Owen wrote a poem entitled Futility. He writes of his desire to move a dead body into the sun, reflecting how that very same sun woke the soldier when at home and how it still brings seeds to life, but cannot make the corpse live. His moving poem ends on a note of anger and protest.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

to break earth’s sleep at all?

The carnage of World War I and the heroic struggle to defeat Nazism in World War II stunned Europe into a realisation that we must find a way forward together. I don’t believe that God contrives terrible things in order to teach us a lesson. That is not the kind of God in whom I believe. Rather, when terrible things happen, which they seem to do as part of the price of having a world at all, it is our responsibility to recognise what went wrong and what steps we should now take to stop such tragedies ever happening again.

Today, as the last remaining survivors of the Great War lay wreaths at the base of the Cenotaph in remembrance of their fallen brothers, let us not forget what others have given that we may call ourselves free.

Remembrance Day

Lest We Forget

A Night Vigil

Labels: Armistice Day Words for Poppy Day, November 11, poem futility, Remembering World War 1, Remembrance Day words, The 11th Hour on the 11th Day, Wilfred Owen

Monday

As Long As We're Remembered

There’s a Russian proverb that says ‘Our spirit lives on as long as we’re remembered.’

Our local cemetery is arguably one of the most beautiful in the south of England. The unique designs of some of the headstones are a touching tribute to the sacred memory of its inhabitants. And it’s not unusual for families and individuals to spend time, not only to honour those who are interred there, but also to enjoy its serene and beautiful surroundings.

But there’s a blight that is engulfing the cemetery. From the hilltop, as you look out towards the sea, over the acres of monuments that serve as symbols of affection from surviving family and friends, hundreds of the fine marble and granite masonry tributes lay flat on the ground.

This hasn’t come about as a result of vandalism. It has occurred as a consequence of our government’s sweeping paranoia over the litigious nature of today’s society. Over time, some of the stones have shifted in the permeable soil, thus creating the possibility that should a child or vandal pull on one of the stones, it could shift and thus continue its gravitational journey downward, causing injury or worse. It has happened in another region, once, eleven years ago. And, of course, the parents of the child who pulled the stone over and was crushed, sued the local council.

In response to this possibility, the stones have been laid down. Letters have been sent to last known addresses, offering the recipient the opportunity to restore the memory of their loved one. But if the letters are returned, or if there is no reply, the stones will be removed. And the named memory of the departed soul will be eradicated.

It is not meant as a poetic statement to say that the very nature of our nation’s existence was built upon our resilience and our steadfast principles of honour. In the past, if you tripped and fell over, you got up off the floor, dusted yourself off and just got on with it!

But today, our society has become addicted to seeking ways to blame others for our own negligence or acts of stupidity. And it would appear that our government has no interest in the preservation of individuals who are no longer able to speak for themselves or pay taxes to support the perpetuity of their memory.

So in a short time those stones will be removed. The tears that were wept, the sacrifices that were made to pay for the monuments, the generations of care that was given to the grave – all will be wiped away. And the names and memories of those individuals will disappear.

As we walk through the cemetery on this early spring morning, we call out those names one last time. And in this final tribute, we are reminded that there is life immortal that shall survive the grave.

And their imperishable spirit is forever with the Lord.

These photos from Bexhill Cemetery are only a small sample of the beautiful masonry tributes that are currently at risk. Further information regarding Bexhill Cemetery is available from Rother County Government and Bexhill Today news. The entrance to Bexhill Cemetery is located at the corner of Turkey Road and Saint Mary’s Lane.

I share in the frustration over how to address this situation. Should Rother council fail to follow Health and Safety laws, the cemetery could be forcibly closed, with its gates locked, thus preventing anyone from visiting the cemetery until such time as the safety directives are followed. It is truly a paradoxical situation.

One thing I do beg of you, however, is please do not harrass or attempt to intimidate the cemetery manager over this situation. She is not the creator of these laws! She shares in the same frustrations as the rest of us over this matter. So, please, please, leave her alone! Otherwise I may have to come have a word with you! And you certainly wouldn't want that! :-)

Remembrance Day

Labels: Armistice Day Words for Poppy Day, Bexhill Cemetery, Bexhill On Sea Cemetery, East Sussex Cemeteries, Remembrance Day words, Words of comfort for loss of child, Words of Comfort Memorial Day

Sunday

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 only had 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 condem
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

Remembrance Day

As Long As We're Remembered

An Anglican Compendium of Thoughts and Prayers

Anglican Prayers

Labels: History of poppy day, the history of remembrance day, what is armistice day, what is remembrance day, when is remembrance day, why do we honour remembrance day?

Tuesday

Exercise Your Freedom!

Finally, the day that most of the world has been waiting for - The American elections! The candidate’s voices are wearing thin as they traverse the great span of America, hoping to engage those who remain undecided and especially to ignite a spark in those who may think their vote will not make a difference.
Whatever the outcome, it is clear that Americans are keen to express how their government is being run. Just as with Britain, this process is a core to our celebration of freedom. And whether it’s The United States or the United Kingdom, we share in some core truths:
We live in countries where priests, caretakers, and Librarians can get up early to open their buildings for use as voting centres.
We live in countries where there are warehouses to store ballot boxes from one election to the next because they will be needed so often.
We live in countries where local government officials will sit behind desks for long and boring shifts so that people like me can turn up at a time that suits us and cast our votes.
We live in countries where anyone who wants to is safe to vote without fear of intimidation.
We live in countries where lots of essential people will work very late overnight to get the results counted as fast and as accurately as possible.
We live in countries where we can be sure the result declared in our constituencies will be completely accurate.
We live in countries where broadcasters will put a huge effort in keeping us informed throughout the night and aware of exactly what is happening and what are the implications.
We live in countries where most of us will have sympathy for the majority of politicians because they have such an anxious wait until the final result is known early tomorrow.
We live in countries where none of the possible outcomes will remove our freedom of thought.
We live in countries where we can look outward and see the injustice, the absence of freedom, the oppression, and the struggle others are enduring to have what we have.
We live in countries where we can gather together and pray to God for those who have less than we have, and discuss our faith, and share our views, and help.

Whatever side of the pond you're on, perhaps today is as good as any to give thanks to all who have gone before us to help build these freedoms we have.

And here at home, today's the day to go buy your poppies!

posted for Fr Bill

Greater Love Has No Man

Lest We Forget

Who Are We Forgetting?

Labels: elections, how to vote, the importance of voting, what happens when we don't vote, what is freedom, why people don't vote

Monday

The Book In The Attic

You would have thought I had asthma. I nervously inhaled several times and my pulse quickened as my son rummaged through the attic for me. I have good reason to be nervous when he’s up there. Heaven knows I have good reason! Six months ago I created a new access point to the attic when I fell through the ceiling. Believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight!

I wanted him to find a book for me. Considering our attic, that’s not far from asking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Kudos to Willem though, he deftly moved among the rafters and extracted the exact book I wanted from beneath layers of Christmas ornaments, general khazeray and dust.

For anyone under the age of 16 who may be reading this, a ‘book’ is something that people used during the Neolithic Age for learning or the conveyance of information.

And it was the book I used for writing to my daughter Mary when she was first born. I’ve written to both my children all their lives. I still do. Poor souls.

The book contains nothing spectacular; it’s just one of many now. And it contains thoughts that I wanted to save for her, or observations I had during different times of her life. Today is Mary’s birthday and I thought it would be nice to see where my thoughts were on the day she was born.

Although the dust critters have done a rather good job on the cover of her first book, the contents still leap out at me as if they had been freshly written.

This child is not your child
She is God’s gift and God’s charge
You may give her your love and share your experiences
But she will mould her own life
with Your guidance

For the moment we rejoice in the birth of our children
God has danced with us and we have all joined hands

Celebrate, sing, and nurture her soul
for it is the greatest responsibility of your life

Miss Mary, God has danced with you
Always follow in His footsteps
And you will always hear His music

Happy birthday sweetheart. May you continue to hear His music for the rest of your life!

Music is a Gift from God

Comforting the Dying

When You Think God isn't Listening!

Wanted Part Time Wife

Labels: congratulations for a birth, how to write to your children, The Book in The Attic, thoughts for a new child, words for a birth, Words for Baptism, words of encouragement for a child

Friday

The Death of A Child

I woke up very early this morning, reflecting on the parents I will be with today, who are saying goodbye to their three-year-old son. All those hopes and dreams the parents had for this child are now shattered. And it’s difficult for me to shake the pitiful sight of the young couple clinging to one another, with a mixed look of desperation and despair, the night I stood with them at hospital.

We have all experienced similar images in our lives and sadly we have also experienced real pain in ourselves. But we have tied our despair with faith and hope. Hope is the eternal driving force that remains even when our faith is tested beyond our capabilities. Hope always springs eternal. Yet faith is our seed of comfort and renewal.

In his book 'Beyond the Mirror', Father Henri Nouwen reflects on death and life in the light of a serious accident one winter's morning. He speaks eloquently of the things that were important in his search for God, but concludes that 'it has been the interruptions to everyday life that have most revealed the divine mystery of which I am a part.'

Deep within each of us is the desire for security. To meet this, we construct around ourselves patterns of living that safeguard us from too much physical, emotional and spiritual discomfort. Interruptions threaten our ordered existence. For some, a break from those comfort patterns can push them deep into an abyss. Their world can collapse and sometimes it becomes impossible for them to climb above the precipice.

As Christians, there is a deep well of spirituality that speaks of God as our security. To lose our security and control over things often becomes the place where faith and hope have to be exercised.

It's often in that uncomfortable place, the place where we are not in control, that we find the interruptions that take something away, and yet, somehow, offer us something new in return.

Bedside Prayer for The Death of a Child

Words of Comfort For Someone Dying

Having a Good Death

I'm Only Dying

Labels: comforting words for death of child, fear of death, loss of child, words of comfort for death of child, words of comfort for dieing, words of comfort for terminally ill, Words to say to someone dying

Thursday

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 Iraq, President Bush, 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, judgmental 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.

A Child's Death

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Having a Good Death

Don't Worry, I'm only dying

Music is the Gift of God

Labels: bereavement, childs death, childs funeral, Comforting words for childs death, Comforting words for loss of child, prayers for terminally ill, words of comfort, Words of comfort for loss of child

Tuesday

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 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 corrupted 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 anymore.

The girl had either overdosed on heroin or the concoction she bought had been mixed with something even more lethal. That 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.

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 smell of alcohol, Laura had the drawn skeletal look 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 have 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 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 looks 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 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, 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 slightly panicked. I 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 told her 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 calmed by 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 explained again that I wanted her to meet someone. Before Laura could respond we were standing outside the curtains surrounding the dead girl’s bed. I parted the curtains and let Laura step in.

I had thought about this somewhat as I drove to get Laura. 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.

I watched Laura’s face intently. At first she was trying to comprehend what she was seeing 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 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 and rotting flesh just like yours.’ I covered her arm 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 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 slightly 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 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 ‘a 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 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. 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.

Posted for Fr. Bill

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

Labels: coping with addictions, helping drug addicts reduce usage, heroin addicts and self control, methods to help drug addicts, new ideas in dealing with drug addicts, ways to help drug addicts withdrawl

Thursday

Ah, To Sleep

Sometimes I make up my mind to go to sleep, but my body makes up me to stay awake. I've always had a tendency to be a bit nocturnal.

When that happens I prefer to resort to a natural sedative. The Dog! He makes a great foot warmer at night and just to look at him curled up at the foot of your bed can quickly make you doze off.

God bless the animals You give us, who bring us joy, and love us without judgement or reservation. Amen

It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so He giveth His beloved sleep. Psalm 127:2

بَاطِلاً تَكِدُّونَ مِنَ الْفَجْرِ الْمُبَكِّرِ وَإِلَى وَقْتٍ مُتَأَخِّرٍ مِنَ اللَّيْلِ فِي سَبِيلِ لُقْمَةِ الْعَيْشِ، فَإِنَّ الرَّبَّ يَسُدُّ حَاجَةَ أَحِبَّائِهِ حَتَّى وَهُمْ نِيَامٌ. ﺮﻴﻣﺍﺰﻤﻟﺍ 2:127~

A Bedside Prayer

When Morning Dawns

Last Call, Place Your Bets!

Labels: alternative sleeping aids, do dogs go to Heaven?, do dogs pray?, Human relationships with pets, the importance of pets, value of pets for the elderly

Wednesday

Uncle David

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, after all, we are British.

Labels: Big World Small Boat, Everyone affected by the collapse of IceSave, IceSave collapse affects charities and pensioners, Project New Life Send a Gift, safe investment ideas

So What's a Good Death?

When We're Needed Most

Remember Me

Welcome Home Emily

Labels: anniversary of a death, bereavement, Big World Small Boat, caring for the dying, comforting words for someone dying, family, Father Bill, prayers for dying, words of comfort

Tuesday

IceSave Affects Small People Too!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing, nada, zip, bupkes !

In other words…we’re on our own!

Mazal tov ! מזל טוב ‎

The Pain of Disappointment

Make Me Feel Good About Myself!

The Book in The Attic

Friday

Helping To Ease The Pain

We so desperately want to find comforting words to say to someone who has cancer or any other illness that causes extreme pain. We’re often frightened by the prospects of their suffering and scour the internet or books to find anything to say that may help.

And whilst the number of things we can say are infinitesimal, what I imagine to be the worst, the most meaningless thing to say to anyone is “I know how you feel.”

I promise you – you don’t!

You certainly might be able to imagine another person’s pain, but frankly how you perceive it is meaningless to the person who is suffering. That’s why doctors and surgeons have such a difficult time in managing the physical pain of patients who are suffering from events, ranging from a simple surgery to the all consuming aggressive forms of cancer, that slowly eat away from within. Doctors can only compare you with all the other patients they’ve dealt with – much like dealing with an actuarial table from a life assurance company.
There are so many different types of pain. From all the patients I’ve had the honour to sit with, who move through varying degrees of expressing their suffering, be it a quiet rhythmic whimpering, to screaming with agony just before their body surrenders its life force, it is profoundly clear how deeply personal our pain is.
There are those who suffer excruciating pain, not only of the physical type, but of the emotional as well: ask any loving parent who has a child in hospital. We would do anything to take that pain upon ourselves – and we do, often ten-fold. It is that suffering we witness that often calls us to either question or bargain with God.
And there are those who are suffering the emotional and spiritual pain of loss or failure. It’s often seen most vividly at a point where the sufferer knows their life is ending, but their spirit still struggles to rectify whatever it may be they feel they’ve done wrong; perhaps a failed relationship, a wrong they committed upon a spouse or family member, or even an unfulfilled promise they may have made.
The great Anglican author C.S. Lewis, sought to find goodness through suffering. He felt there was a divine purpose in the experience of pain, often saying “How true it is that glory so often comes through suffering and pain.”
Some simple thoughts to consider in order to avoid placing the proverbial foot in one’s mouth are:
Try simple thoughts of love and support. You needn’t be a road scholar . Holding the hand of your loved one or friend creates a powerful connectivity and is a profoundly personal gesture of care and love. Ask if there is anything you may do to assist, is there anyone they would like for you to contact, letters you may write on their behalf. In fact, ask if it’s ok for you to speak with others about them. Some people see their suffering as sacrosanct and not to be a topic of discussion with anyone!
Don’t be so crass as to meet with someone when they’ve first been diagnosed with cancer, saying how great they look! That’s a very common faux pas and can actually be quite insulting. How should the person look? It’s almost as if you’ve willed them to drop the façade they’ve spent days to create, because you want to see them suffer! And don’t forget, just because someone has been diagnosed with cancer, doesn’t mean that it’s terminal.
Don’t automatically assume that someone will lose their hair if they’re taking chemotherapy. I’ve actually had to pull a couple away from a large gathering around a bed, of someone who was struggling with their chemo because I, (and I was certain the patient too), could hear this couple loudly whispering about whether the patient was wearing a wig. What caused my arm to instantly reach out for the couple was when the woman whispered to her husband that it 'didn’t even look as if the patient was dying, she looked so well!'

It is during these challenging times when both sufferer and carer alike can find the most powerful form of communication and medicine in one. It has always been there, all you need to do is ask.

That is through the power of prayer.

.Posted for Fr. Bill

Words of Comfort and Prayer for the Dying

When Do We Have a Good Death?

I'm Only Dying

Tut Tut Looks Like Rain

Prayer at the Time of Death

Labels: anglican prayers for dying, comforting words, words for dying parent, words of comfort dying, words of comfort for someone in pain, words of comfort hospice

Thursday

Turning Lemons into Lemonade

Necessity is the mother of invention. Indeed! This has probably been the most challenging year we've faced since the events of September 11.

It’s sad to see how many families throughout our western society are facing financial meltdown. Home repossessions and foreclosures are at an all-time high, unemployment is soaring, redundancies are rampant and the nest eggs people have saved for all their lives have, almost overnight, disappeared.

It is heartbreaking to watch the news on telly, flashing images of the word’s most famous financial institutions, whilst the newsreader speaks of the global business collapsing and thousands of jobs being lost around the world.

During such difficult times, relationships will be tested to the extremes. Tensions will mount, worry and distress will test even the most solid of marriages and for many, it may appear there is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Sailing these unchartered waters as a team, rather than individuals who shut down, will be the only way to survive. Closing up, refusing to face those challenges will do nothing more than rip familial foundations apart, seldom to return to where they were.

And whilst no exact situation is similar, there are ways to ease the burden, especially if you reach deep within those warm pools of familial love. Don’t make unilateral decisions; include your children. Don’t create fear, instead, foster a sense of ‘esprit de corps’ and allow your children to offer their own ideas. Work as a family unit. Children build self-respect when their voices are permitted to be heard and their ideas welcomed.

Damage control: What can be done immediately to control outgoings? This doesn’t mean telling your children all of their after-school activities are cancelled. Perhaps they can be reduced for a brief period. But don't even consider such a thing if you're sitting in front of them smoking a cigarette. Take the initiative to show what you are doing to economise. If you do smoke, what a wonderful time to stop! (And they'll love you for it!)

Food planning: Make a grocery list and stick to it! In every instance, a ready meal is never good value. You can make your own at home, freezing them for a fraction of what you pay for mediocre meals that are bought merely for convenience. It's more nutritious too!

Make a diary of family events that don’t require spending money. Forest hikes, starlight picnics, etc., are a great way to start.

Garage or car boot sales can provide an often hefty revenue stream and you’ll be amazed how much children enjoy this. It allows them to pick up pocket money whilst learning important basic skills in market enterprise.

And don’t forget Ebay. There are countless individuals who depend on their small transactions to pay for their utilities during the winter. I know one family who sell their unwanted items for an entire year, then use the proceeds to pay for their annual holiday. Parents and children alike participate.

There’s no doubt these are challenging times. But before you face a core melt-down, first don’t lose track of asking for help. Here in Britain, the Citizens Advice Bureau, Age Concern, Help The Aged and your local church or synagogue can provide helpful advice.

Don’t forget that charities and missions also face challenges during these difficult times. It’s just as important for those responsible to do some lateral thinking as well.

For me… whilst my ideas may be a bit strange to some, hopefully, they’re creative to others. I could use some help too.

Recently I entered the Walker’s Crisps (potato chip) promotion for dreaming up a new flavour crisp. Winners have the opportunity to win a prize of £50,000 plus 1% of future sales. That amount of money can feed a lot of children, buy a lot of school books, and provide winter heat for a lot of families in need.

A few days ago I was surprised to receive an email from Walkers to say that the contest was going strong and showing that interest in my flavour was riding high. (9 out of 10 have graded our suggestion as among the best!)

So, with hat in hand, if you might consider helping us out a bit, I’d be grateful if you would make an honest vote on our flavour of “Sweet Woo’s” which consists of Worcester Sauce and an ever so slight tingle of sweetness. With your help we might actually have a good chance at winning! (I think it's all just in fun anyway!)

How’s that for a creative way to help a missionary without taking a single penny out of your pocket?

I thank you. We thank you. My doctor certainly might not thank you. But she’s hung up on Krispy Kreme doughnuts anyway – diminutive little thing that she is!

During these challenging times the old proverb of making lemonade out of lemons applies.

And never forget the core of what matters most in your life – that you love and you are loved!

Oh, and about those crisps, please? :-)

Walker’s Crisps Flavour

Making Bread

Comforting Words For Those in Pain

Words of Comfort For The Dying

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

Create Your Own Flavour Crisp

Labels: family crisis finance, family finance ideas, family financial crisis, foreclosure, garage sales, Necessity is the Mother of invention, things for families to do that are free, walkers crisps promotion

Excuses Excuses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please excuse Joyce from Jim today."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm sure tomorrow will be a better day!

Helping to Ease the Pain

Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side

Turning Lemons into Lemonade

Labels: absence excuses given at school, Big World Small Boat, medical excuses, when days are frustrating

Grass Is Always Greener On The Other Side

I have a friend who is an auditor for an international company. She travels extensively, criss-crossing between languages and cultures and at times it seems she spends more time on aircraft than she does on the ground. It’s a gruelling job and the constant travelling, plus the intricacies of her profession, demand that she keep her senses fine tuned at all times.

But her friends suggest that she has a swank life; jetting off to foreign lands, staying in posh hotels - it all seems so glamorous. And as a result, sometimes it becomes difficult for her to engage with her friends back home.

I understand completely. With many of my own friends who work for the airlines, I can sit with them whilst they talk about a great lunch they had in Cape Town on Monday, and a wonderful little bistro they found on Copacabaña Beach in Rio the following week. To outsiders it might appear they are boasting. But the reality is that it's the nature of their work.

But those people who do this work, living out of suitcases, surfing across time zones, and listening to their children grow by phone, rather than seeing them grow, have surrendered more than most can imagine. For airline crew, the destination they’ve reached has required them to (literally), walk halfway around the world. They’ve had to face aggressive passengers, smelly passengers, rude passengers, demanding passengers, and occasionally just downright strange passengers.

And what do they get in exchange for collecting all those dirty meal trays? On board, they get abuse because of the weather, because the passenger got stroppy with the gate agent and didn’t get a free upgrade, or because they had a row with their spouse before leaving for the airport and they needed someone to use as their punching bag!

They get to pop on a bus after all the passengers have disembarked, they get to check into a hotel far away from the city - sometimes into rooms that smell worse than the passenger they’ve been so anxious to escape for the past eight thousand miles. They get to wrangle with their body clocks to force themselves to sleep. And most of the time they wake up not remembering where they are because every single hotel room begins to look the same.

I can attest to this. Many years ago there was a time when I spent one hundred and eighty seven nights, in a single year, in Marriott hotels. (plus another 45 in an assortment of, Ritz, Four Seasons, Intercontinentals and Westins!) One morning I woke up not having a clue where I was.

The only things of which I was reasonably certain was that there would be an exasperating ‘how was your stay’ questionnaire on the bed, the bathroom would be on the right, the towels would be some 1970’s retro rendition of earth-tone beige, the ergonomically curved soap would have had a matching colour and the bathroom would reek with the lingering scent of miniature bars of Neutrogena shampoo. The other thing of which I was certain was that there would be a beige phone and that I could dial '55' and hear the aspartame voice of a management trainee who was trying to exercise a nurturing concern for whatever it was I was rambling on about.

I felt for the phone through the dark and pressed 55. ‘Where am I?’ I quietly asked. I still recall the conversation as if it were yesterday. ‘You’re calling from room 1819,’ the chirpy little voice confirmed. I would have rolled my eyes but they were still stuck with sand. ‘No, WHERE am I?’ I repeated, hoping I wasn’t going to have to go through face exercises that early in the morning.

‘You’re in the Marriott, sir.’ You could hear how she emphasised the word ‘sir,’ as if she were looking around the hotel herself for confirmation.

‘No…,’ I moaned, ‘What Marriott!’ The girl now seemed to understand. ‘You’re in the Marriott City Centre, sir.’ And I could hear her tone of satisfaction as if she had just successfully completed the next level of Marriott’s management training course in dealing with hung-over guests.

I do give thanks to God for making me inherently friendly. I still had to muster up my best ‘phone smile’ to ask ‘please, can you tell me what city I’m in?’ There was a pause before the girl responded. I know she didn’t go outside to check for herself and I hope she didn’t have to ask anyone. I think she was just surprised by the question. She quietly responded ‘you’re in Melbourne, sir.’

I can’t recall whether I put the phone down first or sprang up in bed first. I wasn’t going to demean myself further. She really would have thought I was some hung-over drunk. (not a good thing when you’re in a Mormon owned hotel!) I swung my feet over to the floor and forced myself to take account of my surroundings. I had fallen asleep in my clothes and with the telly on. Glaring at me through the darkness was the same old repetitious twaddle of CNN.

It finally dawned on me that I was in Australia. The problem is that I had been in Orlando just two days before and when the girl said ‘Melbourne,’ ...well, you can imagine. The common term is ‘jet lag.’ But for me it was the catalyst I needed to not stay in a Marriott again for many years. (no offence meant Marriott.)

Living in this fashion may be fine if you’re single and determined to remain so for the rest of your life. But if you’re married, or in a committed relationship then it can become taxing, not to mention detrimental to both of you.

People who live out of suitcases often fantasize about a life where they can stand still and not have to keep their guard up continually. Those who live the more ‘conventional’ (if there is such a term nowadays), lifestyle, fantasize about the opportunity to travel.

For those of you who hop on an aircraft in the morning, arrive in a foreign city at night, drag yourselves out of bed the next morning to go sit in an office with people whom you don’t know, or worse detest, then that afternoon head back to the airport to fly home, just to repeat the exercise several days later; I admire you!

For those of you who drag yourselves out of bed in the morning, get the kiddies ready for school, then head off to work, then come home to receive your children, wash clothes, clean the house, prepare dinner, then drop off to sleep from exhaustion; I admire you too!

Without either of you, our world would be a lesser place.

Go get em tiger!

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

When We Need a Little Help

Words to Help Ease the Pain

How The Other Half Lives

Boston Stopover

Labels: boredom at marriott hotels, How to escape Marriott, Marriott Rewards, One World Emerald perks, other mans grass is always greener, the worst hotel stay, travel exhaustion, what makes the best hotel?

Wednesday

The Science of Faith

Several years ago dear friends of ours invited us to a ‘Star Picnic.’ Nestled high amidst the Blue Ridge Mountains, the resort they own and manage is at an altitude where there is no influence of city lights or smog to interfere with the spectacular display of the constellations. Adding to the pleasure, by design, the resort is conspicuously absent of televisions, telephones, radios, and any vestige of man made noise.

They prepared a wonderful banquet of summer fruits and vegetables from their garden. And with only a handful of blankets, we hopped aboard a golf cart and headed out to an open field. The horses didn’t seem to mind our intrusion and were actually haughtily disinterested by the fact there were humans invading their turf during the warm summer night.

It was just past nine and the setting sun had provided a kaleidoscope of colours. Amidst the sounds of crickets and a distant hooting owl, the infinite heavens surrounded us. The moon illuminated our alfresco dining and the flavours of sweetcorn, cherry tomatoes with fresh basil, fried chicken, and potato salad - all seemed particularly intense.

As we rounded out the evening feast with fresh strawberries and cream, we settled back to watch the celestial panorama. Our chitchat faded away as each of us became mesmerised by the enormity of what lay before us.

Orion’s belt, the great lion Leo, the Virgo cluster: all performing their mythical obligations across the heavens. It stretched far beyond the bounds of our imagination and comprehension. And it reminded me of how infinitesimal we are in God’s universe.

But it also reminded me of where the science of evidence must come to an end and the enormity of faith must begin.

For centuries mankind has tried to come to terms with the Holy Trinity. How can God be three in one? Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Must we always demand that science provide proof before we accept? Is this what we require when someone tells us that they love us - ‘I might believe you, but I must have proof?’

Perhaps tonight you will go outside and look towards the heavens. It will be easy to accept what you can see. But what about what you cannot see? What lies beyond? How far does it go? How far can you comprehend? And once you’ve determined this, then ask yourself, what lies beyond that?

This is when we move from the science of evidence, to the sciences of faith. Just as with the Holy Trinity, perhaps you’ve only been able to see just so far. Now, ask yourself, what lies beyond even that?

Try faith.

Explain The Holy Trinity, Someone Please!

The Childrens Story

Exploited Children

Labels: Best Resorts in North Carolina, Explain the Holy Trinity to Children, Fire Mountain, Highlands NC, How to understand the Holy Trinity, Luxury Accommodation North Carolina, Summer Star Picnics

Tuesday

Living in Sin. The Great Marriage Debate

There has always been great debate over the commitments made through the act of marriage. Some take offence to the idea of having clergy or government confirming the validity of their relationship. And in our modern-thinking society, sometimes it can be easy to understand why.

Some may not be aware, but marriages haven't always taken place in churches. Centuries ago, the couple used to make their marriage vows in the church porch, with family and friends gathered around to witness. The priest’s role was to be there to register their commitment and then lead the party into church to pray with them.

In the eighteenth century, the whole ceremony moved into the church. Even then, some clergy worried that it would look as though the priest was marrying the couple, where, in fact, the couple themselves are the ministers of their marriage. The role of the priest is to witness, register, pray with and bless them. For me, it’s a great privilege and honour to be part of a couple’s history.

I find weddings aren't just for the happy couple. We often find ourselves thinking about our own relationship, giving thanks or asking forgiveness, mending hurts and renewing vows.

One of the most beautiful life experiences I enjoy is in the celebration of a wedding. For young people, who have truly prepared themselves for this commitment, it is profoundly touching to hear them exchange their vows: They submit to one another; in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for the rest of our lives, until death do us part. Amen.

And as you celebrate with them, you hear their dreams; their hopes, and plans for how they will live out their lives, growing old together. They receive no guarantee of what may be around the corner, or exactly what ‘for better or worse’ may mean, as the weeks and months melt into years and decades. Yet they celebrate their ‘yes’ with joyful hearts. They give themselves to each other lovingly and for life.

For those who have been married for many years, you may feel it’s their sheer youthful ignorance or lack of life experiences that let them make such a commitment. You could be partly right. But I feel, in most cases, there is something much more.

It’s the conviction that makes our lives real and worth living. And it is that pure committed love that never counts the cost. Real love says ‘we’ll take the risk and pay the price, whatever it may be, because we want a real life and not just a performance or show.’ And that commitment flows over to foster greater trust, security and inner peace. And it extends beyond the couple – providing powerful foundations for children in seeing how commitment supports our lives.

Cohabitation may be just that -two individuals living their lives under one roof. Alternatively, it may be that those two individuals have chosen to make a poignant and indisputable commitment to one another.

I have heard the term ‘living in sin’ much of my adult life. Many would feel it is a sin to cruise through life, living on middle-ground, where commitment, honour, and loyalty are either irrelevant or unnecessary elements to living. Some might simply suggest it’s a fear of commitment, or a more simple thought that ‘yes, I’m committed to you until the going gets rough, or I tire of you, or you no longer become useful to my needs.’

Almost all of us have spoken our key ‘yesses,’ whether it’s at the birth of a child, at the time of a marriage or for any other pivotal moment in our lives. And now most of us stand somewhere in the middle of living out our ‘yesses.’

Doing so can at times be painful, distressing, or just simply boring, and sometimes our ‘Yesses’ can grow faint. That's when we need to remember exactly why we spoke our ‘Yes’ in the first place: because we loved and we knew what the power of that love brings us.

Commitment is demonstrable love. It’s an irresistible life-force and it endures all things, overflowing on us all.

‘Three things last for ever,’ said St Paul, ‘faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.’

Are You Suffering From Spots or Wrinkles?

Music is a Gift from God

Boston Stopver Trips

Labels: Anglican marriage, cohabitation and laws, English law partners, the church and marriage, wedding ceremonies, why marry in a church?, why should I get married?, why should people marry?

Wednesday

Make Me Feel Good About Myself !

‘What’s in it for me?’ and ‘Make me feel good about myself!’ In the most guttural sense, isn’t that what western society is all about?

Perhaps I'm being a tad too cynical you might say? Maybe you're right, but it has been a long day.

Isn’t it sad that we’re not born inherently nice? Life’s experiences can leave people bitter. And at the other end of the spectrum there are those who have been served by others for so much of their lives, they could never understand the concept of sharing kindness for kindness sake. It takes more than work to overcome this.

For many, it's a real challenge when you commit yourself to changing your focus from yourself to others. OK, it may not be top rate at first, but the commitment must start somewhere; like the story about the man who goes to a priest: 'Father,' he says, 'I've come about Mrs. McGillicutty. She has no food, the small room she lives in is ice cold, and she's so behind in her rent she may be evicted - what's going to happen to her, Father?’

‘Well, God bless you for your concern,' said the priest, 'I'll arrange to raise some funds for her through the church. Tell me, are you related?' the priest asked. 'No,' said the man. 'A friend?’ asks the priest. 'No, I never really see her, at the most once a month.'

Well,’ says the priest, ‘your act of human kindness shows you are serving God. So how did you meet Mrs. McGillicutty?'

'I'm her landlord,' said the man.

Perhaps today is the day we can commit an act of kindness just for kindness' sake.

Yep, very long day!

Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause others pain.1 Chronicles 4:1

The Crash of Spanair JK5002

Same Old Story

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Labels: comforting words, Compassion, having a bad day, how not to have a bad day, I'm depressed, make me feel good about myself, Mrs McGillicutty, self confidence

Tuesday

Faith Is Not A Crutch For Living

Our national charity for the elderly, Help the Aged, recently published a report entitled Dying in Older Age. It aims to lift the profile on the spiritual beliefs and stories of older people and help all of us avoid the nervousness with which we so often approach the subject of death.

Old age is often a synonym for ‘problem people’ - a liability to the optimism of our Brave New World. People fear the mortality of old age. But that's nothing new. The Irish poet, W B Yeats, who felt old from the age of forty, went kicking and screaming into old age.

‘What shall I do with this absurdity,
O heart, O troubled heart - this caricature,
Decrepit age which has been tied to me as to a dog's tail?' - he asked.

Not a great advert for senior citizenship then, is it?

But whenever I spoke with my friend Sarah I quickly had a rather un-Yeats like version of old age. She kept control of all her faculties to the very end of her life. You needed to be very careful what you whispered to anyone if you were sitting close to her. And a matter of hours before she died, even though she could no longer talk, I vividly recall her bearing down with her jaw, determined not to let anyone remove her false teeth.

And she's not alone. Britain has a veritable 'Methuselan' roll call of people who have accomplished great things in their advancing years. Like Elizabeth Scofield: At 84, and with an 80% mark, she became 'top girl' in her Reading and Writing Course. Or take Percy and Florence Arrow-Smith, married for 80 years. They hold the world record for the longest marriage. Sadly, Percy died a few weeks after their anniversary. But he was the quintessential model of dignity and marital endurance.

Old age still has a lot to say to us in life, as much as in death. It was only a little more than a few years ago that Pope John Paul brought the world to a standstill, pulling princes, politicians, and the public into his vulnerability and death.

We need models of how to live. But we also need to know how to finish well. Each of us has a responsibility to help our elderly finish with dignity and reverence. So beyond pension schemes and Meals on Wheels, respect and honour will go a long way in helping to achieve it.

Finishing well must be numbered amongst the great virtues of faith. Faith is not a crutch for living. It's a springboard, which takes us beyond death. For Christians, it is faith in the living Christ, which best prepares us to finish well.

If you're a young person reading this blog, please don't discount the infinite rewards of investing a few hours a week simply sharing thoughts with a senior person. You'll be amazed by how much they actually understand you! And if you're a person who already has a bit of snow on your roof, but still lots of fire in your furnace, there's plenty to be learned about a life to come.

Granted, you may not always like what you see, but you'll still have the energy to help change it!

And by sharing time with a senior, you may gain valuable insight as to how you'll cope in the years to come!

Remember Me