EASTER THOUGHTS

It was the day for the spring clean at St Oswalds and aware that this may prove challenging for my reduced mobility, I opted to join the ‘polishers’ sitting in the Carlton Room. Arriving too late to take the precious job of polishing the processional cross (and how splendid it is when you get close to it) I searched instead for a meaningful alternative. The powerful smell of Brasso pervaded, and I think for us oldies (the youngsters were busy cleaning in church) it brought back many memories of cleaning the family brassware at home. It was an evocative smell.

At last, I came across a smallish silver crucifix that, to be honest, I could not recall seeing hanging in church, and I settle down with somewhat inappropriate gusto to give ‘Christ a Buffing.’ Astounded as to how heavy the crucifix was , I laid it carefully on my knee, while sneaking an envious occasional glance at David, polishing away on the glorious tall processional cross. Little did I know how the impact this depiction of Christ’s suffering would subsequently have on me. Brought up on strict Methodist principles, objects of veneration, such as crucifixes, are truly not familiar to me, or (dare I write…) or even in the past, acceptable to my simple Christian faith. But of course God knows best and through my now gently caressing and care for this silver suffering image held close to me, I was able to experience some of the depths of Christ suffering (for us) at Easter time.

I recall two, a decade ago, writing a ‘Monolgue for Mary’, a piece to be re-enacted in our Leicester church on Good Friday by the very talented then vicar’s wife, Marion. It was a very powerful experience to see and feel the agony of Jesus’s mother as he lay in dying before her on the cross. Indeed, Mary shouldered the weight of her love for him, as Jesus bore his cross along the alleyways of Jerusalem.

The wider significance of the Easter story being love and suffering that are indivisible. In modern times, we have hijacked the word ‘passion’ to have a profoundly different meaning, one which has no connection at all with the true meaning of suffering and endurance. The traditional meaning I found arising in the 17th century, with the naming of the passionflower Passiflora, which grew abundantly until recently in my garden. This wonderful flower adorned our garden arbor, surrounding, enfolding and enshrining in love, my suffering dying husband as he sat beneath it, until he died. Shortly after this, in spite of my efforts, the flowers died too . I’m trying to grow them again now so I can point out the names of the flower parts to my grandchildren and the reason for their names. The outer ring represents Christ’s crown of thorns; the ten petals and sepals the apostles who remained faithful to Him; and the inner parts, the nails and wounds of Jesus. As I write this the small passion plant that I recently bought has given me its first purple passion flower in bloom and I have taken a photo of it for you. How sacred and beautiful that is!

Returning to my final polish of this crucifix before me, where this absolutely amazing man called Jesus hung and died . Finally, I caress his feet and feel for his agony of having them nailed to the cross. I have a sore little toe at the moment … how would it feel to have nails hammered through both of your feet? I feel somewhat ashamed to complain. Mary was watching all this and enduring the suffering of her son.

To me, family love in all its complexity, has shaped me. The passion, using the word in its new context, I feel for family nearly every day, and having grandchildren now intensifies this feeling.

We need to endure suffering of many finds in life and find strength to bear problems. As I reluctantly hand over this special crucifix to be returned to its home on the wall of Church, I find I really want to take it home with me, but it has been there for over a century and it would be missed!

This time with Jesus for me has given me hope, strength and courage. I will also attend my new passion flower garden with memories of its significance at Easter time. I hope and pray fervently for all of us, that this Easter time the metaphorical stone will be rolled away and we can emerge from our own private darkness into a field of spring flowers.

Amen

Lenten Longings

It is Ash Wednesday and I am at the St. Oswald’s service, that, to be honest, I have rarely attended. This year, I am making a special effort in order, I hope to give a kick start to my Lenten effort. Jesus managed to Fast for 40 days and nights, also fighting off the devil’s attack during this time, so its a pretty poor show if I can’t manage to give up a few biscuits for Lent and maybe even some chocolate?

This feeble original attempt to abstain from biscuits had not taken into account Kevin’s delectable home-made offerings, that he presented to us all after Martin’s wonderful organ recital on the day after the ‘Ashing’. I am not going to be drawn into whether or not I managed to turn my back on his delicious biscuit offerings (the word ‘delicious’ perhaps speaks the truth on this issue) However, well done Martin for playing a well known David Bowie song amidst the classics, although few of us were brave enough to join in as he suggested. I did begin a croaky accompaniment from the back pew in church (without of course the dance moves), but finding myself alone in attempting this, I decided to keep quiet, listen and recall with mixed emotions, thoughts of those hedonistic Rock and Roll days. Not only were there Kevin’s biscuits to tempt me away from my abstinence vows, but I returned home to find a newly replenished biscuit tin offering its wares. I convinced myself at the Supermarket that these were for visitors only! (hmmm) Putting them out for the birds was not an option either with a hovering Misty cat lying in waiting to pounce on any hungry feathered visitors, I can feel your frowns and can hear myself saying…well maybe just the one!

However, I digress…..Getting back to the altar rail on Ash Wednesday and the Rector marking my forehead with the cross, I am reminded of a distinctly secular occasion involving ashes. Years ago our black kitten was accidently run over by a refuse lorry. The bin men took her remains back to the depot and incinerated it, delivering simply its tiny collar and name tag to me at my address as proof of its sad demise. Horrified as to how to tell my young son of this much adored kittens death and to help him achieve some closure, I made the rash decision to collect some nearby bonfire ashes for him to bury instead, just to say goodbye. Son In Law and Vicar Matthew was on hand to carry out the last rites on the supposed remains of the kitten in our garden, although I am thoroughly embarrassed to admit that he was far from aware, at the time, of my cardinal sin of deception. My little son, now a fully grown adult, has forgiven me for the dastardly act, but the family Vicar I don’t think has. So ashes do indeed hold a rather chilling memory for me.

On this occasion however (yes it is still Ash Wednesday), the cross on my forehead has a special Christian meaning and should remind me of my sins and my repentance (including the deceased pussy deception) It has reminded me also of not only what we try to give up for Lent, but for me this time, an attempt to begin Lent and my Journey towards Easter with a different approach. A promise to myself to commit to adding a regular prayer routine to my Lenten days and nights and a ‘proper fast’ for some period over Easter itself. Having spent some time recently with someone at the end of their lift whilst actively committed to a fasting for Ramadan, I am sure that my ‘mini fast’ for Good Friday should be possible. Living alone however does mean that there is no one around (except the cat) to check on my fasting compliance. But of course….God knows.

Finally, my Lenten activities – notwithstanding the excellent Lenten Course offered to us by Fr. David – has involved me taking more care to notice the striking interior of our wonderful Ancient Church, and to begin to learn a little about its past. I was thrilled to find a copy of a History of the Church, compiled by Liz North, which is currently, I understand being updated, and whilst I would not dream of making any insensitive remarks about our recent or current Rectors or Church Wardens I am aware that a little chuckle, or indeed a right good laugh is vital to our health. Indulge me with two which I have chosen from a veritable pot of suspects……

In the 16th Century a certain Robert Moore, a puritanical 17th Century preacher in post at St. Oswald’s, in fact he who was responsible for initiating the building of the stone Rectory, apparently refused to read from the Book of Common Prayer. Elizabeth 1 – the reigning Monarch of the day did not take kindly to those priests who would not ‘toe the ecclesiastical line’ in this respect, and those like Robert, who liked instead to preach incessantly or as we say nowadays – was too fond of the sound of his own voice – was chastised by his Parishioners by shooting and killing his Bull Mastiff. A harsh lesson to be had there about the perils of too much vigorous preaching! Current incumbents please note!

I loved also the reports of a certain Edmund Thomas, Rector of St. Oswald’s at the turn of the 20th Century, He was known to be miserly and eccentric and on cold nights he could apparently be found in the church vestry burning the church wardens coal rather than his own. Needless to say, his behaviour was far from popular with his flock and he Resigned his post in 1906. He must have heard that our Church was becoming Environmentally aware!

I await the current update on the History of St. Oswald’s booklet, to view perhaps with some glee and interest, the idiosyncrasies of our more recent Rectors. Both myself and the Green Team are hoping to find no evidence of similar miserly coal appropriation to burn in the vestry. Its a Fossil Fuel you know!!!

So, I will sign myself off there, and leave you all in peace. My Lenten Loggings at an end.

Until next time dear friends.

Sue

 

 

HIBERNATION BLUES February, 2025

It was a joy to be back in the pews at Saint Oswald’s again recently, after weeks of home confinement since our celebration of Christmas. The arrival of a blanket of January snow made house prisoners of many of us and exacerbated unwelcome feelings of loneliness, and isolation both old and not so!
I returned to the church fold for evensong on the celebration of Candlemass. In mediaeval England the official end of the Christmas season, whilst for us, the celebration of the presentation of the baby Jesus to the elderly, frail Simeon, waiting patiently in the temple to meet his saviour.
My hibernating state of mind (and body!) was immediately uplifted and awoken by the soaring choral offerings of evensong. The spine-tingling, hair raising sonorist Nunc dimittis. Closing my eyes, I could imagine the biblical story of the aged Simeon, waiting to see Jesus before he could peacefully take his last breath. I even wondered, sitting in my pew, if at some (distant I hope) point in the future, I could prevail upon our choir to serenade my ‘departing in peace’, with the radiant, transcendent singing. Sometimes, my work at the Hospice, suggests to me that we often need permission of sorts to depart this world, leaving our loved ones behind, and this glorious music would be a wonderful accompaniment and encouragement for the journey ahead.
In spite of hopeful clumps of virginal, snowdrops forcing their way through the frozen churchyard, winter in February is still very much upon us and sometimes with a vengeance. Learning to hibernate, rest and retreat is very much a new and actively developing skill for me. My belligerent moggy Misty grows a huge, fluffy white coat at this time, which camouflaged her well in the snow, but it isn’t something I can easily emulate. Wearing extra layers of clothing can help, and only those who dare risk a FaceTime contact with me may actually glimpse my Mr Blobby-like appearance! Misty has not noticed any change.
Whilst we do need to rest and retreat during this fallow period it can for many of us seem a lonely and painful time. Five years into grief and a solo life, it has taken me all that time to realise we need to engage this wintering time as do animals and plants and not to fight against it.
Dying back and burrowing into my garden doesn’t seem for me an enticing proposition (nor does any sort of metamorphosis), but perhaps there are other ways of surviving this time of seclusion productively. I can (and do with ease) lay down even more layers of adipose tissue (ie fat) around me with extra consumption of sponge puddings, and other comfort foods, but unlike our well adapted, often dormant animal friends, these extra body layers stick can stubbornly around the torso, well into the spring, summer, and beyond! Cooped up in our suburban lairs even feverish spring cleaning( unlikely to be feverish in my house!) can do little to metabolise these winter storage accumulations.
Research has shown that crafting of all kinds can lower blood pressure and reduce pain, so I’ve picked up my dusty, knitting needles again. The quiet, creative arts fit well with this time of sanctuary, although Misty and I have fallen out over the ‘rights’ to my ball of wool and her needs to play with it. Also, my frequent dropped stitches and mistakes can raise my blood pressure rather than lower it as is suggested. Sadly my various wonky hats, scarves, and fingerless (!) gloves will not find their way to the church craft stalls or into Christmas stocking offerings for family. I now knit a very satisfying line in dolly clothes for my three year old granddaughter, Orla, who is overjoyed and never judgemental of my holey, haphazard offerings.
Reading always helps me cope, especially my recently acquired audiobooks online, consuming them while cosseted in my ‘best Christmas present’ heated chair blanket. I find slow, spiritual reading, does comfort my soul, almost as much as chicken soup. However, having taken the biblical plunge to dive into David Suchet’s warm, comforting tone as he covers the ‘Bible A Day At A Time,’ this perhaps only sounded a good idea in principle. I seldom get past Exodus before I nod off, at his luxurious hypnotic tone simply sends me to sleep well before I even arrive at Moses and the plague of locusts.
At this rate, David Suchet and I may well take till next year to arrive at the New Testament and I may even not hear of the birth of Jesus until Christmas 2026!
Spring will however soon be here and the daffodils will trumpet its arrival. The church will also regail us with its Lenten program. Giving up those sponge puddings and hidden chocolate bars consumed during crafting hours may or may not happen. However, as I write this I am absorbed in the arrival outside my study window, of a solitary Robin, cocking his cheeky head at me and singing, albeit a rather muted song. He has nevertheless made me smile. I read that, traditionally, this lovely little bird got his redbreast from being scorched, whilst protecting baby Jesus, from the flames of a fire in the manger, I remember too that after my husband’s death this little chap, cheerleader of the bird family, appeared to me regularly, as if to lift my spirits, and encourage me onwards with a solitary life. His presence now seems impervious to his impending doom, if a hovering Misty spies his arrival! This resilience brings hope and comfort for some, signifying the loved one’s presence and on this grey cold dank February day a tender reminder that love and remembrance live on. His wordless chirpy tone brings to me the message that we are not alone, and we must cling to our faith and trust in the future, even in these difficult times we live in.

I recently asked Sue Young to write a short blog for us occasionally and I must admit, her first edition (shown below) had me laughing out loud. I hope you find this section an interesting and enlightening addition to our Website.

Sue Writes…..

PRODIGAL PARISHIONER

As the weather worsens and a kaleidoscope of fallen leaves decorate my path into church, I feel winter’s arrival and it also reminds me that Christmas is around the corner. Snow is forecast this week and suddenly I realise that I have made no preparations for gritting my drive at home. Kind souls at St. Oswald’s will no doubt enable the old and creaky amongst us (no names) to get to a service safely, without a tumble. My new all-singing, all-dancing walking stick helps, although as a Church Warden will testify, it’s ‘lit-up end’ falls of regularly, disappearing under the nearest pew. Its red button alarm, intended to signify to others that I might need help, is far too easy to press unintentionally. The ‘Silence’ of Remembrance Day was (I am pleased to say) not shattered.

I feel blessed these days to be personally delivered of the Eucharist, brought to me in my distant pew in the bowels of the church. It feels a bit like a home delivery service, though not pizza, but without the need to put in an order first. Standard Bread and Wine and no need to pay. At least in money!! This gesture to help for me avoids the possibility for me taking a potential face-plant en-route to the Alter. Accepting this kind of ‘help in the pew’ delivery service with grace does challenge my self esteem a little, but nevertheless I am deeply grateful to receive it. I hope that, seated in my pew, I shall continue to be able to handle and imbibe the offering, taken carefully from the Celebrant.

Cold, darkened winter Sunday afternoons are only relieved for me by Evensong, now being offered at 3.30pm and not at 6 pm. Advent is upon us and its only a stones thrown to Christmas. I am not sure if the Geese are getting fat, but there is nothing like a Christingle service memory from my past to highlight fire and health & safety issues around children and lit candles. My memory of my eldest son (then a 12 year old acolyte with arsonist tendencies), setting alight to his younger sister’s cassock with his Paschal Candle. Forgiveness was a long time coming.

My Grandchildren also took part in a Nativity last year, what a joyful sight. Keeping the ‘Baby Jesus’ safe from harm during these proceedings can often be a perilous issue. I remember well a child of mine, attired as an angel with drooping wings, absconded with the Baby Jesus (much to the horror of all present) after an angry chase around the Alter the baby lost a leg and the Virgin Mary was inconsolable!

Christmas is synonymous for most of us with an element of childhood joy. In my twilight solo years, the amazing Choral music we can experience at St. Oswald’s makes this a special time for adults too. My personal challenge is always to keep hold of my fragile emotions at this time, or soon I shall run out of Kleenex. It is a time when loneliness and loss of all kinds, can deeply effect us. Going back to an empty house (apart from a grumpy cat) after the buzz and love created in a Carol Service can be a hard one to face. I haven’t yet taught said grumpy cat to cook diner for me, but if I switch on the television to break the deafening silence, it will soon be obvious that my life is extraordinarily blessed. Our World all around is in crisis and I must remember to dry my own personal tears and keep our suffering world in my prayers.

20th December addition to my plight

Before Christmas I found myself perched grumpily in my Church pew, praying fervently for some divine intervention to find my currently absent Christmas Spirit.  The Church was beautifully lit with festive twinkling trees and the message from the pulpit telling of the joy of the impending birth of Jesus.  The choral singing evoked tangible emotions in me as it always does, but I was sadly finding it difficult to celebrate the Christmas Story.  When younger – I was definitely going to be the ‘Old lady who wears Purple’ now it transpires that maybe im not!  I would however like to harness some of that freedom and joie de vivre  rather than be joyless, crabby and glum!  I was approaching the imminent arrival of the Christ Child almost with a sense of foreboding rather than the expectance of a  new and exciting light.

Rescue arrived in the shape of my Grandsons’ school taking over our normal sober church for their own end of term celebrations.  Little children adorned in red Santa hats and reindeer antlers swarmed excitedly over our empty pews and choir stalls like hyperactive ants on an unstoppable mission to explore and discover our ecclesiastical heritage.  They simply filled the church with Joy.  I really wanted to be Grumpy but I couldn’t be.  Their innocent, happy voices (especially for me my Grandson’s’ solo) struck me afresh with the truth and majesty of the Christmas Story.  They took confidently to the pulpit, some barely able to peep over the top, and in shrill, crystal clear tones, delivered their carefully penned offerings and beautifully crafted poetry on the topic of Homelessness.  In spite of their apparent innocence, they seemed to grasp the essence of the pain of being without a home.  I was assuming that they all had warm beds to go home to, and tummies full of food, so how could they know what it would be like to sleep on the streets at Christmas, but they did! In the midst of this joyful choral concert each of their poetic sermons made an impact.  Adoring parents listened in hushed reverence to words they have no doubt been going over in their sleep for the last 3 weeks, still managing to look like they were struck with the awe and wonder of it all.  To me, sitting in my pew, it felt just right! Christmas has arrived (albeit a bit early) We shed tears for the homeless the Children described – listened to the little ones sing their festive message with glee and rapture yet pause to individually impart this vital social message to us all – us so called ‘Grown Ups’ in the Congregation.

The Spirit of Christmas, of Love and Care for others, was right there in me – at last.  As my Grandson’s poem was read, I could not help but think with pride that he has much more to teach his grumpy Grandma this Christmastime.

Prayer for the 3898

one night last year there were:

3898 people sleeping on the street

3898 People getting cold feet

3898 people who deserve kindness, respect and care

3898 people for whom life doesn’t seem fair

3898 people is too many without a roof over their head

3898 people desperately needing a safe bed

3898 people like me and you

There must be something we can do!

Together we  can do better,

Together we really should

Change 3898 to zero

and end homelessness for good

Ben Owen – Aged 10