Cream Tea sort of day

 

What an utterly lovely place to share a one scone cream tea (height of indulgence!) with a friend you haven't seen for a while and to catch up.  What a shame that "here be dragons" should be the lasting impression of the tea shop lady!!

Homage to a brilliant writer

 My friend and I walked and talked today, feet in the ripples of chilly seawater, sand ridges hard under winter-soft feet.  We talked, books we had read, my leaving one church, trying another.  Our life details whilst skirting around pebbles and breakwaters. And we shared our love of the "Prayers of life" by Michel Quoist.  I read them as a new Christian, she read them to home group.  I find this one so heart-challenging.  When I was 35, it felt so poignant to me.  A single person with a hidden "secret" I couldn't share. And at 56, it feels less raw, just sad. So here is his beautiful "The prayer of a priest on a Sunday night"

                                                            "    Tonight, Lord, I am alone.

Little by little the sounds died down in the church,

The people went away,

And I came home,

Alone.

I passed people who were returning from a walk.

I went by the cinema that was disgorging its crowd.

I skirted cafe terraces where tired strollers were trying to prolong

the pleasures of a Sunday holiday.

I bumped into youngsters playing on the footpath,

Youngsters, Lord.

Other people's youngsters who will never be my own.

Here I am Lord,

Alone.

The silence troubles me,

The solitude oppresses me.

Lord, I'm 35 years old,

A body made like others,

ready for work,

A heart meant for love,

But I've given you all.

It's true, of course, that you needed it.

I've given you all, but it's hard Lord.

It's hard to give one's body; it would like to give itself to others.

It's hard to love everyone and claim no one.

It's hard to shake a hand and not want to retain it.

It's hard to inspire affection, to give it to you.

It's hard to be nothing to oneself in order to be

everything to others.

It's hard to be like others, among others, and to be of them.

It's hard to always give without trying to receive.

It's hard to seek out others and to be unsought oneself.

It's hard to suffer from the sins of others, and yet

be obliged to hear and bear them.

It's hard to be told secrets, and be unable to share them.

It's hard to carry others and never, even for a moment, be carried.

It's hard to sustain the feeble and never be able to lean on

one who is strong.

It's hard to be alone.

Alone before the world.

Alone before suffering,

                   death,

                sin.

Son, you are not alone,

I am with you,

I am you.

For I needed another vehicle to continue

my Incarnation and my Redemption.

Out of all eternity, I chose you.

I need you.

I need your hands to continue to bless,

I need your lips to continue to speak,

I need your body to continue to suffer,

I need your heart to continue to love,

I need you to continue to save,

Stay with me, son."

 

(Michel Quoist, Prayers of life)

This time last year

 Brrr, this time last year I was on furlough and starting to think about wearing shorts on my morning Boris walks.  Yesterday and today I was plying the de-icer and scraping away at a furry windowed car.  Which didn't stop me taking advantage of 50p (10p to me with birthday giftcard) costa coffee outside in the sunshine before work.  My colleague told me about this impressive deal and I realised - how much I love morning sun, coffee and a chance to read - it felt like an extension to my weekend (in fact it made today feel like Friday) 

There were "no grown ups" as my colleague calls the managers, in today. There seemed to be a lot of work made easier by some manager-free laughter! And a few calls on teams to learn a new process - naming tests.  I remembered it from my lorry place days - I didn't like to let Emily know there is an easier way to do it!! She's on holiday next week and, bless her, stressing that everything should be in order so I can cover her job.  What a contrast to where I used to work, where going in on a Monday meant that there would be one crisis after another. 

Football at Night

 Football at Night

A brilliant title from another classic Michel Quoist prayer. I remember it because yesterday was Dad's 88th birthday.  Amazon having lost his real gift, I had to hastily get another - a Manchester United diary.  Turns out they played last night - hence the title - and won - and Dad is delighted with his very modest gift!

Poor Dad, Mum made a very lovely chocolate cake and she and I cried with laughter as we tried to find candles that fit the holders in the dodgy tupperware box, And a random selection of sportmen figures - footballers, cricketers.  Good job I had bought matches with me so we didn't do "let's pretend I am blowing out the candles" as we did with my birthday!  Which was surreal anyway.

Poor Mum, she makes amazing cakes but she managed to embed the candle holder so deeply in the cake she was afraid Dad would find it and eat it!  Dad tends to eat anything he can find! Excavation by me followed, so I had that rather cratered and battered bit of cake.

A lovely day.  But exhausting.  Elderly very deaf parents make me want to lie on the sofa and watch bad TV. The prayer, quoted below, feels apt, I am struggling to make sense of my choices and decisions, but as long as the team advances I guess that the result is up to the team manager.

Michel Quoist -  Football at Night - wish I wrote like him!

This evening at the stadium the night was stirring, filled with ten thousand shadows.
And when the flood-lights had painted green the velvet of the great field, 
The night was filled by a chorus of ten thousand voices.


The master of ceremonies had given the signal to begin the service, 
The impressive liturgy moved forward smoothly.
The ball flew from celebrant to celebrant, 
As if everything had been minutely planned in advance. 
It passed from foot to foot, slipped along the field, and flew away overhead. 
Each was at his post, taking the ball in turn, passing it to the next one who was there to receive and pass again. 


And because each one did his part in the right place, 
Because he put forth the effort required, 
Because he knew he needed all the others, 
Slowly but surely the ball gained ground, 
And made the final goal! 


While, at the end, the immense crowd flowed laboriously into the narrow streets,
I reflected, Lord, that human history, for us a long game, is for you this great liturgy,
A prodigious ceremony initiated at the dawn of time, which will end only when the last celebrant has completed his final rite.

In this world, Lord, we each have our place. 
You, the far sighted Coach, have planned it for us. 
You need us here, our brothers need us, and we need everyone.


It isn’t the position I hold that is important, Lord,
But the reality and strength of my presence. 
What difference whether I am playing forward or back, as long as I am fully what I should be?


Here, Lord, is my day before me... 
Did I sit too much on the sidelines, criticizing the play of others, my hands in my pockets?
Did I play my part well? 
And when you were watching our side, did you see me there? 
Did I catch my team mates pass and that of the player at the end of the field? 
Did I co-operate with my team without seeking the limelight? 
Did I play the game to obtain victory, so that each one should have a part in it? 
Did I battle to the end in spite of set- backs, blows and bruises? 
Was I troubled by the demonstrations of the crowd and of the team, discouraged by their lack of understanding and their criticisms? 
Made proud by their applause? 
Did I think of praying my part, remembering that in the eyes of God this human game is the most religious of ceremonies? 
I come in now to rest in the Pavilion, Lord, 
Tomorrow if you kick off, I’ll play a new position, 
And so each day... 


Grant that this game, played with all my brothers, may be the imposing liturgy that you expect of us, 
So that when your final whistle interrupts our lives, we shall be chosen for the championship of heaven.