Collecting his bus pass today, unbelievably, is Slowand himself, Eric Clapton. As this fan site indicates, he shares his big day with Radio 2's Mr Walker, who has overcome great adversity himself in recent years. I don't suppose I will get round to listening to the show myself, but I wish Eric a happy day indeed. He's surely one of the most gifted guitarists of all time, whose performances on such classics as Leyla are legendary.
However, one of my favourite Eric Clapton tracks is one he now prefers not to perform. In 1991, he lost his 4 year old son Conor in a tragic accident when the boy fell from an apartment balcony. The loss of a child must surely be the worst bereavement of all, but as with all losses somehow time heals. Clapton wrote "Tears in Heaven" as a kind of musical catharsis for his grief back then, but 14 years on he feels that he does not want to play it so often. His love and grief for his lost son will always be there, but somehow he has learnt to move on and the pain is no longer so raw.
I was reminded of this song today particularly, albeit by changing the title just slightly. For the last couple of days, there has been that awful oppressive greyness coupled with spring rain. I should not normally complain about the latter- and if it helps to prevent the hosepipe bans which are already being touted, so much the better.
Right now however it is the last sort of weather I want as it only magnifies the sorrow and sadness within as we continue to mourn my Mum. I need some more of the warm, yellow stuff, just as we had in the week following my Dad's death in 1999.
Somehow, spring sunshine sheds new light and hope on everything, and particularly as we continue to celebrate this Eastertide. I was thinking last night of how much this home means to me at this time of year in particular, looking out at the evening skyscape over to the west and the sun setting over Heathrow, or waking to it in the morning from my bedroom window. It may be the same sun in the same sky, but it is never quite the same in Eastbourne.
But no sign or hope of sun today, though the forecast does show the hope of some sunny intervals tomorrow and then a brighter weekend- no April fooling here. No doubt then my thoughts will turn to "All in the April Evening", that wonderful old spiritual song which always comes to my mind at this time of the year. I don't favour the idea of a fixed Easter, but somehow it always seems more natural to have Easter in April and that is one of the most special months for me. This year however, I will probably see it in a different light entirely.
Before I can get into any "enjoyment" of April evenings, however, there is the trauma of Mum's funeral to get through. Matthew and I went down to the funeral directors this morning and I wondered whether the tears might start flowing then. Somehow, when you have to undertake this horrible task it really brings home the reality of the situation. Matthew dealt with all the formalities of registering the death yesterday, and collecting Mum's few effects, such as they were, from the hospital.
Neither of us feel that we want to see Mum in a chapel before the funeral. It won't be our Mum we see but some shell which is the earthly part of her no longer needed for the moment. Instead, I want to remember her smiles which she still managed to make even up until very recently although she was probably feeling great sadness inside. Somehow, having to look through a brochure to choose a coffin is a somewhat surreal experience and suddenly all those junk mail brochures for pointless products don't seem so bad. I can understand why people cling to the reassuring things of this material world.
As I write, we still haven't got a time and date for the service: our minister is currently away at the Methodist holiday come conference "Easter People" of which I have many fond memories during its early days myself. We won't be able to finalise a date and time until he is able to let us know of his availability- he won't be back til Saturday, although I hope to have the details finalised before then. Part of me even wishes or wonders that I could be down there in Torquay this week, finding new inspiration and ideas to serve the Lord I love so much. However, it was not to be this year.
Strangely, though, getting back to those tears, I haven't really been able to shed any so far- maybe I won't. This in no way devalues the loss I feel, or the sorrow. Maybe it is just that I have shed them inwardly for a long time.
Nevertheless, seeing my brother Matthew running a hand under his nose as we dealt with the arrangements, masking his feelings, made me realise that clearly he mourns more than he lets on. But maybe the tears are coming more FROM Heaven- as Mum and indeed Dad look on at us and care as much as ever, see us suffering for the moment. But there will be joy, there will be new opportunities and there will be chances to smile again. It is often said that death gives meaning to life, and what a life Mum lived. She fitted much into her eighty years, and it is that I want to smile about and contemplate, as we plan her thanksgiving service. Music was so much Mum's life for so long. So, rather than tears in Heaven, no doubt there will be smiles and applause, as now they hear a new star and a new voice. And maybe Conor Clapton too will be in the audience, along with the Risen Jesus who is our hope and reminds us that death is not the end but a glorious new start.
Wednesday 30 March 2005
Sunday 27 March 2005
Time Turns on Today
If you've been reading these blogs regularly for the last five months, you may recall my musing on the clock change back in October when we "gained" an hour as BST gave way to GMT for the winter months. Now, on Easter Day, we move on- and true to usual form, the fine spring weather of Good Friday and yesterday has given way to a rather dreary, even slightly drizzly Easter afternoon.
Not that the weather in anyway deterred the thousands lining the towpaths and thronging from the pubs alongside Old Father Thames for the 151st meet of the Oxford and Cambridge University boat clubs. ITV1's first coverage of the traditional riperian clash lacked the panache, perhaps, of the BBC coverage they have done so well for years, but it still provided excellent coverage of a thrilling race which I enjoyed watching along with my brother, who has stayed here in Feltham today but has spent some time down in Sussex for the weekend.
Enjoying normal things and the events of Eastertide have proved to be both helpful but poignant this year. In this posting, sad to tell but not unexpectedly given recent events, I have to report that my beloved Mum died at about 2.00 a.m GMT on Easter Saturday morning. Neither my brother or I were actually there at the time, and instead it fell to that modern instrument of both good news and bad news, the telephone, to alert us to it. Matt and I had been with Mum for much of Good Friday, and I did wonder whether or not I should have stopped through the night. However, as it happens, would it have helped? I think not. We had after all spent much of the last twelve days with Mum and I think she would have wanted to spare us the pain of witnessing that final moment of passing in some ways- I could have been asleep anyway if I'd stayed.
So what did I feel then, and what do I feel now? This is where it comes back to the weather, and how yesterday was strangely easier to bear than the days before. It's certainly true what they say in situations like this that the end comes as a release, as much for the one mourned as those doing the mourning. Just sitting alongside an inert Mum, not able to communicate directly with us, nor eat drink or move, had been agonising, as had been those previous "false alarms" when we were told to expect the worst. Of course the loss is as grievous as ever, but maybe in some ways I have done some of my grieving already, indeed have been doing so ever since the terminal diagnosis was first made.
Yet today, of all days, is my ground for hope and should be for all people but especially those who believe that the Biblical accounts of Easter are true. The whole future of humanity does indeed turn on what happened on that first Easter Day. Contrary to Nietzche's nihilist philosophy and the oh so hopeless views of so many, God is not dead- indeed, he is very much alive and Easter Day proves that he wants us to live with him for eternity. Oh, we will probably have to taste the pains of death first, from both sides- the pain of parting for those that remain, chiefly, but Jesus rising again, in a physical body which it understandably took his followers some time to recognise, is our hope that death is not the end. All those who have loved and lost have hope of being reunited with their dear ones- though death could never end the love of a mother or for a mother anyway.
For my part, my sense of loss is for all that has gone and been enjoyed over the years, that can never now be experienced in quite the same way. I felt a mild sorrow as I watched the Boat Race, remembering the many times I've watched it on telly with Mum over the years. I had an inner sigh as I reflected that my 45th birthday last June, which happened to occur on a Sunday, turned out to be the last one I will have spent with my Mum- which makes it all the more precious for that. At the time, funnily enough, I had been thinking back to my 40th, and how quickly those five years had gone. I had celebrated the big 40 with a mega party at the Civil Service Sports club in Chiswick, very close to the big event on the Thames today. Maybe I even held on to the hope that I would also celebrate my fiftieth with my whole family, but it is not to be.
So, we mourn but we also move on. Despite the weather, Spring has most definitely arrived. The time between now and Mum's funeral will probably seem like an eternity, and even then there will be lots of practicalities to sort out with probate- not nearly so easy as it was with Dad, since most of his funds were in joint names. These are all the unwelcome legacies that a loss leaves, but there is also the chance for closure, with affectionate remembrance of all that has gone but new opportunities.
Who knows what I will have to report come the end of October when the clocks once again revert to good old GMT? Only God knows. The Resurrection is our greatest proof that God is the greatest dispenser of surprises the World will ever know. They might not always be the kind of surprises we want, but he always provides hope, comfort and joy to mitigate the sorrows and the suffering of this life.
If you are reading this, and are unconvinced, don't worry- you are not alone. So was the famous "doubting" Thomas, who apparently only acquired his epithet in about the fifteenth century. To have doubts about the truth of Christ's resurrection is a perfectly understandable and rational reaction. But the very inclusion of Thomas's story in the gospel accounts shows that God understands our weaknesses and our lack of belief, but loves us still.
Today then, maybe you might like to read the full story of Easter, perhaps for the first time; if you don't have a bible, there are plenty of on-line resources which will have the relevant passages for you. If you read of the resurrection- all the accounts give slightly different details but share a common core- and want to accept it with all your heart, you don't need to change your name to Thomas, or to Mary, or even to Peter, the disciple who disowned Jesus three times on that awful eve of crucifixion. Peter became a great servant of the early church, faithful follower of the risen Lord and the first occupant of the papal chair in Rome which John Paul II is hanging on to by a divine thread at the moment. You don't need complex words, formulas or even to step across a church doorway to know the joy of the first Easter today: just say, like Thomas "Lord, I believe: help my unbelief".
Not that the weather in anyway deterred the thousands lining the towpaths and thronging from the pubs alongside Old Father Thames for the 151st meet of the Oxford and Cambridge University boat clubs. ITV1's first coverage of the traditional riperian clash lacked the panache, perhaps, of the BBC coverage they have done so well for years, but it still provided excellent coverage of a thrilling race which I enjoyed watching along with my brother, who has stayed here in Feltham today but has spent some time down in Sussex for the weekend.
Enjoying normal things and the events of Eastertide have proved to be both helpful but poignant this year. In this posting, sad to tell but not unexpectedly given recent events, I have to report that my beloved Mum died at about 2.00 a.m GMT on Easter Saturday morning. Neither my brother or I were actually there at the time, and instead it fell to that modern instrument of both good news and bad news, the telephone, to alert us to it. Matt and I had been with Mum for much of Good Friday, and I did wonder whether or not I should have stopped through the night. However, as it happens, would it have helped? I think not. We had after all spent much of the last twelve days with Mum and I think she would have wanted to spare us the pain of witnessing that final moment of passing in some ways- I could have been asleep anyway if I'd stayed.
So what did I feel then, and what do I feel now? This is where it comes back to the weather, and how yesterday was strangely easier to bear than the days before. It's certainly true what they say in situations like this that the end comes as a release, as much for the one mourned as those doing the mourning. Just sitting alongside an inert Mum, not able to communicate directly with us, nor eat drink or move, had been agonising, as had been those previous "false alarms" when we were told to expect the worst. Of course the loss is as grievous as ever, but maybe in some ways I have done some of my grieving already, indeed have been doing so ever since the terminal diagnosis was first made.
Yet today, of all days, is my ground for hope and should be for all people but especially those who believe that the Biblical accounts of Easter are true. The whole future of humanity does indeed turn on what happened on that first Easter Day. Contrary to Nietzche's nihilist philosophy and the oh so hopeless views of so many, God is not dead- indeed, he is very much alive and Easter Day proves that he wants us to live with him for eternity. Oh, we will probably have to taste the pains of death first, from both sides- the pain of parting for those that remain, chiefly, but Jesus rising again, in a physical body which it understandably took his followers some time to recognise, is our hope that death is not the end. All those who have loved and lost have hope of being reunited with their dear ones- though death could never end the love of a mother or for a mother anyway.
For my part, my sense of loss is for all that has gone and been enjoyed over the years, that can never now be experienced in quite the same way. I felt a mild sorrow as I watched the Boat Race, remembering the many times I've watched it on telly with Mum over the years. I had an inner sigh as I reflected that my 45th birthday last June, which happened to occur on a Sunday, turned out to be the last one I will have spent with my Mum- which makes it all the more precious for that. At the time, funnily enough, I had been thinking back to my 40th, and how quickly those five years had gone. I had celebrated the big 40 with a mega party at the Civil Service Sports club in Chiswick, very close to the big event on the Thames today. Maybe I even held on to the hope that I would also celebrate my fiftieth with my whole family, but it is not to be.
So, we mourn but we also move on. Despite the weather, Spring has most definitely arrived. The time between now and Mum's funeral will probably seem like an eternity, and even then there will be lots of practicalities to sort out with probate- not nearly so easy as it was with Dad, since most of his funds were in joint names. These are all the unwelcome legacies that a loss leaves, but there is also the chance for closure, with affectionate remembrance of all that has gone but new opportunities.
Who knows what I will have to report come the end of October when the clocks once again revert to good old GMT? Only God knows. The Resurrection is our greatest proof that God is the greatest dispenser of surprises the World will ever know. They might not always be the kind of surprises we want, but he always provides hope, comfort and joy to mitigate the sorrows and the suffering of this life.
If you are reading this, and are unconvinced, don't worry- you are not alone. So was the famous "doubting" Thomas, who apparently only acquired his epithet in about the fifteenth century. To have doubts about the truth of Christ's resurrection is a perfectly understandable and rational reaction. But the very inclusion of Thomas's story in the gospel accounts shows that God understands our weaknesses and our lack of belief, but loves us still.
Today then, maybe you might like to read the full story of Easter, perhaps for the first time; if you don't have a bible, there are plenty of on-line resources which will have the relevant passages for you. If you read of the resurrection- all the accounts give slightly different details but share a common core- and want to accept it with all your heart, you don't need to change your name to Thomas, or to Mary, or even to Peter, the disciple who disowned Jesus three times on that awful eve of crucifixion. Peter became a great servant of the early church, faithful follower of the risen Lord and the first occupant of the papal chair in Rome which John Paul II is hanging on to by a divine thread at the moment. You don't need complex words, formulas or even to step across a church doorway to know the joy of the first Easter today: just say, like Thomas "Lord, I believe: help my unbelief".
Thursday 24 March 2005
Maundy before Mournday?
Maundy Thursday. This always used to be a bitter-sweet day for me: often it marked the start of the school Easter holidays, and that sense of being "demob happy" never quite left me in my years at work. The rare time in the year where a public holiday is observed on a Friday, followed by a weekend and then another holiday, seemed to throw one's sense of time into total confusion. On Maundy Thursday itself, I've always in the past found a real sense of hurrying around making preparations and yet, for the past twenty years since I became a Christian, it has been one of the most beautiful and meaningful days of the year as our Lord's last night on Earth is remembered.
This Maundy Thursday though, and the days that will follow it, take on an added poignancy and sense of worry quite devoid of the normal sense of expectation and relative happiness I have experienced in the past at this time. What is the Lord's will for my dear Mum? How much longer can she possibly hang in there? Is it too much to hope that she can survive through the Easter weekend and share in earthly celebrations of the most important festival and the core of Christianity? Or is God himself going to draw her into that permanent Easter before we even get to that?
I ought to be able to say that in some super-spiritual way I am being drawn into greater understanding of our Lord's passion and just what he went through in that "Holy Week" which went all too quickly. I ought to be able to say that I feel his strength and his hand close by on my shoulder, as I so often do. I ought to know that he weeps with me as he did with the sisters of Lazarus, even though the frail flesh that contains my Mum is still with us, breathing and constantly sleepy and therefore considered by medicine to be close to the end.
I ought to know where my place lies at this time, what I can do, what I can say. I ought to feel strong. Yet, despite the support of my dear brother Matthew, I feel so weak and helpless, so longing for sweet sleep to take away the pain and to forget it all. To wake up in the morning and find my troubles behind me. Above all, like a helpless child, I feel like saying "I want my Mummy"!
On this day last year, whenever it fell, I was at this very moment sitting in a dark cinema in Eastbourne watching "The Passion of the Christ". This was surely the most affecting film I have ever seen. Controversial though it was, and played out in an unfamiliar language, it portrayed the final hours of Christ's life on Earth before the crucifixion in the most graphic way I have ever seen it portrayed. The full horror of that grisly death was brought home in a way that could not be ignored. Thereby, in some way, the full horror of any death, any loss, was suggested. For death and loss are the ultimate insult and offence against the love which God offers us and which, on that night he was betrayed, Christ his son asked us to have for one another.
I suppose if I am honest I have had much experience of grief for my Mum already. That ought to make facing whatever the next few days holds "easier", but it doesn't. Fear still grips me, confusion, the strange and almost surreal attempts to carry on with normal life, even down to watching the same television programmes I've always enjoyed together with some that just pass the time. So much of the daytime fare on offer now seems to be about what money you can make from your home, or how you can trade up or find a nice new place in the country- what you can get, rather than what you can give.
This though is surely symbolic of the ignorance and distaste for spiritual values and the eternal things that so many folk in our society seem to have today, or am I being unkind? In finding joy in the beauty of Springtime, or hankering after a nice rural retreat, that "God shaped hole" is being revealed in many folk. Yet we can only taste and enjoy the pleasures of this world for a time. At the moment, I have been finding it hard to find meaning in all the things people search for, and in the apparent lack in my own life at this stage- at 45. I have no children, no job. What is the point in life. How can I be joyful again when I have to face such loss? Yet to see myself in simply these terms is to give in to the one Jesus defeated at Calvary! It is why he spent forty days in the desert of temptation and loneliness, grappling with Satan to find his own meaning.
ALL THE VAIN THINGS THAT CHARM ME MOST
I sacrifice them to his blood. Isaac Watts wrote his great Passiontide hymn "When I survey the Wondrous Cross" in an age long before PDAs and iPODs, flat screen TVs and world cruises. Yet the hedonism and self-seeking of his generation were probably as real as they are in ours, even if his had a more accepting faith in Christ than ours does. The brevity of life in his time brought a recognition of the importance of trusting in something larger than life, something beyond life, something which gives hope and meaning for eternity.
I do not know what the next few days will bring. Making decisions at this time is so difficult. Matthew is still undecided as I write, whether he should join his usual Easter camp with the scouts in the Ashdown Forest, or whether his duty lies here in Middlesex. I feel for him. Part of me thinks that he should go, while the other half wants him around for support and to just "be there" if the terrible expected event of Mum's passing happens this weekend. And yet even if it does, nothing can really be done on a practical level til Tuesday. What a horrible, difficult burden you have thrown at us, Lord, yet what a privilege of love you have given us in having a Mum who loves us so much that she is still clinging on in there to life, even if she can't say so. May her journey through life's close, whenever it comes, be comforted by the knowledge that on the other side she will meet you, who has conquered death that we all might live.
I do not know whether I will have the opportunity for another posting between now and Easter Sunday. How very different it is from the joyful anticipation of Christmas I wrote about just three months ago today, when did we but know it, Mum already suspected in her mind that something was wrong and that she might not see another Christmas. Nevertheless, we will have our memories of so many joyful Christmasses and happy Easters, of playtime and fun time and of the wonder of childhood. However you spend your holiday weekend, and wherever you are, may you experience life in all its fulness but remember your maker in the passover from Passiontide to Eastertide. God Bless MARK
This Maundy Thursday though, and the days that will follow it, take on an added poignancy and sense of worry quite devoid of the normal sense of expectation and relative happiness I have experienced in the past at this time. What is the Lord's will for my dear Mum? How much longer can she possibly hang in there? Is it too much to hope that she can survive through the Easter weekend and share in earthly celebrations of the most important festival and the core of Christianity? Or is God himself going to draw her into that permanent Easter before we even get to that?
I ought to be able to say that in some super-spiritual way I am being drawn into greater understanding of our Lord's passion and just what he went through in that "Holy Week" which went all too quickly. I ought to be able to say that I feel his strength and his hand close by on my shoulder, as I so often do. I ought to know that he weeps with me as he did with the sisters of Lazarus, even though the frail flesh that contains my Mum is still with us, breathing and constantly sleepy and therefore considered by medicine to be close to the end.
I ought to know where my place lies at this time, what I can do, what I can say. I ought to feel strong. Yet, despite the support of my dear brother Matthew, I feel so weak and helpless, so longing for sweet sleep to take away the pain and to forget it all. To wake up in the morning and find my troubles behind me. Above all, like a helpless child, I feel like saying "I want my Mummy"!
On this day last year, whenever it fell, I was at this very moment sitting in a dark cinema in Eastbourne watching "The Passion of the Christ". This was surely the most affecting film I have ever seen. Controversial though it was, and played out in an unfamiliar language, it portrayed the final hours of Christ's life on Earth before the crucifixion in the most graphic way I have ever seen it portrayed. The full horror of that grisly death was brought home in a way that could not be ignored. Thereby, in some way, the full horror of any death, any loss, was suggested. For death and loss are the ultimate insult and offence against the love which God offers us and which, on that night he was betrayed, Christ his son asked us to have for one another.
I suppose if I am honest I have had much experience of grief for my Mum already. That ought to make facing whatever the next few days holds "easier", but it doesn't. Fear still grips me, confusion, the strange and almost surreal attempts to carry on with normal life, even down to watching the same television programmes I've always enjoyed together with some that just pass the time. So much of the daytime fare on offer now seems to be about what money you can make from your home, or how you can trade up or find a nice new place in the country- what you can get, rather than what you can give.
This though is surely symbolic of the ignorance and distaste for spiritual values and the eternal things that so many folk in our society seem to have today, or am I being unkind? In finding joy in the beauty of Springtime, or hankering after a nice rural retreat, that "God shaped hole" is being revealed in many folk. Yet we can only taste and enjoy the pleasures of this world for a time. At the moment, I have been finding it hard to find meaning in all the things people search for, and in the apparent lack in my own life at this stage- at 45. I have no children, no job. What is the point in life. How can I be joyful again when I have to face such loss? Yet to see myself in simply these terms is to give in to the one Jesus defeated at Calvary! It is why he spent forty days in the desert of temptation and loneliness, grappling with Satan to find his own meaning.
ALL THE VAIN THINGS THAT CHARM ME MOST
I sacrifice them to his blood. Isaac Watts wrote his great Passiontide hymn "When I survey the Wondrous Cross" in an age long before PDAs and iPODs, flat screen TVs and world cruises. Yet the hedonism and self-seeking of his generation were probably as real as they are in ours, even if his had a more accepting faith in Christ than ours does. The brevity of life in his time brought a recognition of the importance of trusting in something larger than life, something beyond life, something which gives hope and meaning for eternity.
I do not know what the next few days will bring. Making decisions at this time is so difficult. Matthew is still undecided as I write, whether he should join his usual Easter camp with the scouts in the Ashdown Forest, or whether his duty lies here in Middlesex. I feel for him. Part of me thinks that he should go, while the other half wants him around for support and to just "be there" if the terrible expected event of Mum's passing happens this weekend. And yet even if it does, nothing can really be done on a practical level til Tuesday. What a horrible, difficult burden you have thrown at us, Lord, yet what a privilege of love you have given us in having a Mum who loves us so much that she is still clinging on in there to life, even if she can't say so. May her journey through life's close, whenever it comes, be comforted by the knowledge that on the other side she will meet you, who has conquered death that we all might live.
I do not know whether I will have the opportunity for another posting between now and Easter Sunday. How very different it is from the joyful anticipation of Christmas I wrote about just three months ago today, when did we but know it, Mum already suspected in her mind that something was wrong and that she might not see another Christmas. Nevertheless, we will have our memories of so many joyful Christmasses and happy Easters, of playtime and fun time and of the wonder of childhood. However you spend your holiday weekend, and wherever you are, may you experience life in all its fulness but remember your maker in the passover from Passiontide to Eastertide. God Bless MARK
Saturday 19 March 2005
Golden Brown
So, what came to your mind first of all when you read today's subject line? It could almost be a question straight out of a therapist's textbook, perhaps training material for Chris Barrie whose latest creation is attempting to get into the minds of a whole host of weird and wonderful creations portrayed by Paul Whitehouse on Help! on BBC Two on Sunday nights at present. Not that I have seen anything other than the trailers so far mind, but it looks like a good show.
Or did you think of the excellent Stranglers classic hit from a past decade. Now, which was it- the nineties? No, it must have been the eighties, surely. But time moves by so painfully quickly- the pain being that you only realise how fast it has gone after the event! It's middle aged crisis mixed with the prospect of bereavement, I'm sure, but I seem to have been spending a lot more time lately feeling sorry that I did not make more of my own youth when that song was out. On the other hand, the unashamed hedonism of the twenties means nothing compared to the spiritual blessings in the decades since.
I'm not being a goodie goodie when I say that I have never dabbled with wacky backy or illegal drugs of any kind. However, right now particularly, I can understand how people with difficult lives and the complexities of trying to cope can be led to indulge in the kind of substance the Stranglers song was supposedly all about: Golden Brown, some alleged, was a reference to Heroin. Spurious at best. Why do people take drugs? To numb the pain of life, I guess, and to attempt to find something better that the "real world" cannot offer.
There was a young patient in my Mum's ward earlier this week, just 17 and apparently a Christian. She had been admitted after taking an overdose. Very sad. This morning's headlines focus on the government reviewing its decision to "downgrade" cannabis as an illegal drug, now that it has been noted that many cannabis takers are more prone to mental illness.
The cynics and the atheists might also say that people turn to religion as a crutch or to fill a void. Well, leave them to their scoffing say I. Religious belief may be the stuff of faith rather than the senses, but I would rather have faith than live in the vacuum of nothingness which is otherwise the "meaning" of life, isn't it? For the non-believer, by the way, it is easy to forget that even the Bible itself acknowledges that everything in life can appear meaningless- see Ecclesiastes- but it has to be taken in context: "the fool in his heart says there is no God". Surely more foolish to believe in nothing than to believe in one who loves and saves, even from the harshest of live's troubles- which I know all about right now- and has known all our human woes and sorrows. On the eve of Holy Week 2005, a point to ponder
GOING TO THE GEE-GEES
Or did "Golden Brown" sound to you like a racehorse? If so, then you have probably been glued to the Cheltenham Festival this week, as classy Gloucestershire turns for the week to Little Ireland. I've even found myself watching the gee gees over the last couple of days, but in the sad setting of a hospital ward with Mum, still with us but acknowledged as being on "open order" since Sunday-which is why Matthew and I have been spending most of our time in Bronte Ward since then and doing what little we can to support our dear one with our presence and compassion- but feeling so helpless.
However, yesterday evening things did seem to be improving at least a bit. Mum's temperature was a little bit better, and they had managed to put a cannula in again to offer her intravenous therapy. Although it is marginal, there was at least a sufficient improvement for us not to feel the need to stay overnight again, and instead to enjoy our Friday night date with a pint or two of Young's at the Abercorn Arms in Teddington.
We were warned on Sunday that Mum could go that night- and it proved the longest and most testing of nights of my life, quite unlike anything else I have experienced. However, despite the predictions of the medic, Mum once again pulled through- but so far to a very limited quality of life indeed which is so sad to watch. She is conscious, but has been very drowsy and spending much of her time sleeping. She is not currently taking anything by mouth, and is only able to receive fluids directly into her tummy as there are no useable veins for intravenous therapy.
The cause and the suddenness of this current crisis, despite the gloomy prognosis following the diagnosis of a tumour back in January, has nevertheless shocked us both. As far as the medics are concerned, however, they still don't really know whether the current crisis is due to the effect of Mum's tumour, or to problems fighting the infection which was the reason for her admission last week. If the latter, as I hope, then there is still room for encouragement despite all the most desperate signs. The human body has a remarkable capacity to come back from even the worst crisis. If Mum can somehow defy the odds and overcome, my next posting may not be the sad one I have always feared having to make. But this takes faith as well as a biochemical improvement. May, whatever happens, I never lose that faith.
BACK TO THE DISPATCH BOX
However, I digress slightly from what I intended to post here, though of course I did want to share the highs as well as the lows of my life too as has become my custom in these blogs. Wednesday was Budget Day, so much different from the customary event it was of yore. These days, it is almost banished to a minor media event, receiving coverage only on BBC TWO today rather than ONE- although ITV still carried it on their main channel. And it suddenly becomes a lunchtime rather than mid-afternoon affair (dare I suggest to make the evening papers?), and on a Tuesday rather than a Wednesday.
Some are suggesting that this may be Brown's last budget; if Labour win the expected General Election on May 5th, then our Gordon is destined for the Foreign Office. Whether he approves of this of course is not recorded, though his alleged squabble with his next door neighbour most certainly is. His budget seemed to me to be more bland than grand, although it certainly features some long overdue and welcomed fillips to the housing market (raising of the stamp duty threshold) and and to pensioners. From next year ALL wrinklies will be entitled to free bus travel courtesy of new labour. The Guinness drinkers at Cheltenham will not be thanking Mr Brown for the extra penny on their pint of the dark stuff, but if their tipple is Irish Whiskey, they have been spared once again. I suppose this is the only sensible decision that can be expected of a Scot, albeit a teetotal one.
Weather wise, it's certainly a Golden start to Spring, something to cheer the gloom we obviously feel at the moment. I would like Mum to see another Holy Week, and the hope of Easter- and above all to be able to have a two way conversation with her. In his final week on Earth, Jesus still had time to perform many compassionate healings and show his love to us finally in that sacrifice of Good Friday which was the turning point of history. My next postings will reflect more on these great and profound events.
Or did you think of the excellent Stranglers classic hit from a past decade. Now, which was it- the nineties? No, it must have been the eighties, surely. But time moves by so painfully quickly- the pain being that you only realise how fast it has gone after the event! It's middle aged crisis mixed with the prospect of bereavement, I'm sure, but I seem to have been spending a lot more time lately feeling sorry that I did not make more of my own youth when that song was out. On the other hand, the unashamed hedonism of the twenties means nothing compared to the spiritual blessings in the decades since.
I'm not being a goodie goodie when I say that I have never dabbled with wacky backy or illegal drugs of any kind. However, right now particularly, I can understand how people with difficult lives and the complexities of trying to cope can be led to indulge in the kind of substance the Stranglers song was supposedly all about: Golden Brown, some alleged, was a reference to Heroin. Spurious at best. Why do people take drugs? To numb the pain of life, I guess, and to attempt to find something better that the "real world" cannot offer.
There was a young patient in my Mum's ward earlier this week, just 17 and apparently a Christian. She had been admitted after taking an overdose. Very sad. This morning's headlines focus on the government reviewing its decision to "downgrade" cannabis as an illegal drug, now that it has been noted that many cannabis takers are more prone to mental illness.
The cynics and the atheists might also say that people turn to religion as a crutch or to fill a void. Well, leave them to their scoffing say I. Religious belief may be the stuff of faith rather than the senses, but I would rather have faith than live in the vacuum of nothingness which is otherwise the "meaning" of life, isn't it? For the non-believer, by the way, it is easy to forget that even the Bible itself acknowledges that everything in life can appear meaningless- see Ecclesiastes- but it has to be taken in context: "the fool in his heart says there is no God". Surely more foolish to believe in nothing than to believe in one who loves and saves, even from the harshest of live's troubles- which I know all about right now- and has known all our human woes and sorrows. On the eve of Holy Week 2005, a point to ponder
GOING TO THE GEE-GEES
Or did "Golden Brown" sound to you like a racehorse? If so, then you have probably been glued to the Cheltenham Festival this week, as classy Gloucestershire turns for the week to Little Ireland. I've even found myself watching the gee gees over the last couple of days, but in the sad setting of a hospital ward with Mum, still with us but acknowledged as being on "open order" since Sunday-which is why Matthew and I have been spending most of our time in Bronte Ward since then and doing what little we can to support our dear one with our presence and compassion- but feeling so helpless.
However, yesterday evening things did seem to be improving at least a bit. Mum's temperature was a little bit better, and they had managed to put a cannula in again to offer her intravenous therapy. Although it is marginal, there was at least a sufficient improvement for us not to feel the need to stay overnight again, and instead to enjoy our Friday night date with a pint or two of Young's at the Abercorn Arms in Teddington.
We were warned on Sunday that Mum could go that night- and it proved the longest and most testing of nights of my life, quite unlike anything else I have experienced. However, despite the predictions of the medic, Mum once again pulled through- but so far to a very limited quality of life indeed which is so sad to watch. She is conscious, but has been very drowsy and spending much of her time sleeping. She is not currently taking anything by mouth, and is only able to receive fluids directly into her tummy as there are no useable veins for intravenous therapy.
The cause and the suddenness of this current crisis, despite the gloomy prognosis following the diagnosis of a tumour back in January, has nevertheless shocked us both. As far as the medics are concerned, however, they still don't really know whether the current crisis is due to the effect of Mum's tumour, or to problems fighting the infection which was the reason for her admission last week. If the latter, as I hope, then there is still room for encouragement despite all the most desperate signs. The human body has a remarkable capacity to come back from even the worst crisis. If Mum can somehow defy the odds and overcome, my next posting may not be the sad one I have always feared having to make. But this takes faith as well as a biochemical improvement. May, whatever happens, I never lose that faith.
BACK TO THE DISPATCH BOX
However, I digress slightly from what I intended to post here, though of course I did want to share the highs as well as the lows of my life too as has become my custom in these blogs. Wednesday was Budget Day, so much different from the customary event it was of yore. These days, it is almost banished to a minor media event, receiving coverage only on BBC TWO today rather than ONE- although ITV still carried it on their main channel. And it suddenly becomes a lunchtime rather than mid-afternoon affair (dare I suggest to make the evening papers?), and on a Tuesday rather than a Wednesday.
Some are suggesting that this may be Brown's last budget; if Labour win the expected General Election on May 5th, then our Gordon is destined for the Foreign Office. Whether he approves of this of course is not recorded, though his alleged squabble with his next door neighbour most certainly is. His budget seemed to me to be more bland than grand, although it certainly features some long overdue and welcomed fillips to the housing market (raising of the stamp duty threshold) and and to pensioners. From next year ALL wrinklies will be entitled to free bus travel courtesy of new labour. The Guinness drinkers at Cheltenham will not be thanking Mr Brown for the extra penny on their pint of the dark stuff, but if their tipple is Irish Whiskey, they have been spared once again. I suppose this is the only sensible decision that can be expected of a Scot, albeit a teetotal one.
Weather wise, it's certainly a Golden start to Spring, something to cheer the gloom we obviously feel at the moment. I would like Mum to see another Holy Week, and the hope of Easter- and above all to be able to have a two way conversation with her. In his final week on Earth, Jesus still had time to perform many compassionate healings and show his love to us finally in that sacrifice of Good Friday which was the turning point of history. My next postings will reflect more on these great and profound events.
Thursday 10 March 2005
The four moons of Gallifray
There was a very eerie sight in the sky over Feltham last night: four little red lights, twinkling like tiny stars. What could this be? My home town may be notorious for it's Young Offender's institution, or the Borstal as those of us of a certain age still think of it- but it hasn't yet got a red light district as far as I know. Or has someone assembled a suburban rival to the London Eye, apparently experiencing financial difficulties right now, much to my surprise. Mmm, could be.
Or maybe, I thought whimsically, we've been transported to another galaxy momentarily and this is part of the launch party for the much-heralded new series of Doctor Who which begins on Easter Saturday.Perhaps these mysterious red lights are actually four satellites shining over the home planet of the latest Who, Christopher Ecclestone, parading along with his arch adversaries today in my alma mater of Cardiff where the series was filmed. Strange choice of location- surely it doesn't look that alien does it, even if it is Wales! One reason I decided not to stay in the capital of the principality after graduating was that I did not feel Welsh enough, although you could say that one reason I have doubts about staying in Eastbourne is that I don't feel old enough!
Enough of these flights of fancy though. The actual answer for these unusual sights on the Middlesex skyline is that they are the aircraft warning lights atop the cranes now adorning the hub of my home town as the new Longford Centre, "Feltham reborn" as the marketing hype has it, takes shape. They do make a graceful sight, by day or night, and it is very encouraging to see the superstructure of this retail, residential and community "ship" taking shape. Here's hoping it will make a real difference to this often unregarded dormitory town on the edge of London, though maybe it's time the area's achievements are given the credit they deserve.
For example:
A favoured variety of pea, the Feltham First, was grown in the very soil on which my house now sits when it was one of the many orchards and market gardens which once made up the landscape of this part of Middlesex
The Feltham tramcar was made here and was in widespread use across the country until trams became displaced by buses in the early sixties. Ironically though, this town never had a tram service of its own
James Bond's Aston Martin was made here, in a factory on the Hanworth Air Park, where the Graf Zeppelin landed in 1932.
And, lest you be wondering how we managed in the days before GPS, General Roy's baseline for the first Ordnance Survey maps was drawn less than a mile from where I now sit.
But what about the pubs....
THE MOON ON THE SQUARE
Sadly, Feltham doesn't really have any classic hostelries any more, though the beer served in those it does have is generally pretty good. Pun intended, but I don't commend the General Roy, the area's newest pub on the edge of the Air Park, which has become one of those dreadful Big Steak places.
This means my local these days tends to be the town's Wetherspoon outlet, with the rather uninspiring and unoriginal name of The Moon on the Square. It used to be The Cricketers, a popular friendly pub for several years and where my Mum and Dad enjoyed many a Sunday evening singsong around the old joeanna in the mid seventies. None of that these days: music is barred in J D W's establishments. However, it does make for an easy conversational environment, and I was able to enjoy three pints or so of some tasty beers along with Dave last night- and very welcome they were too along with the conversation.
The beers? Well, I started with a very strange experience: a tasty brew which looked rather more like Fairy Liquid than the product of the malt and the hop. This was Signs of Spring from the Stonehenge brewery; I mused to Dave that its colour made it more suitable for St Pat's Day in a week's time, but it's taste was lovely. However, I followed it up with that well-quaffed brew of my youth, Greene King Abbot Ale, and finally joined Dave in Robinson's England's Champion ale.
It's not often lately that I have had the chance to spend times in the congenial company of my own friends, along with the relaxing companion which is a good pint. It's been good to go out with my brother and his friends at least once a week while Mum has been ill, but it's not quite the same. I've known Dave now for 29 years- which makes me feel really old- so we can chat about most things fairly honestly and it was good to release some of my woes last night, but also feel a bit cheered and at least for a moment forget the gloom which the cloudy weather here today is not helping. Indeed, late evenings seem to be the best time for me lately when I feel at my most relaxed: another day has been got through, and I enjoy either the TV or some humour with BBC 7, or try to get off to sleep with Radio 4 or Radio 5 Live. As I observed in an earlier posting, I am certainly experiencing again the comfort of radio as a constant companion. At which point, time to turn Ken Bruce on again, if you'll pardon the phrase.
RESPITE
In all times of crisis and worry, human beings need something to take their mind off their troubles and to give them a happier focus. Somehow it is how we keep going- few souls can cope with constant trauma, or though it always amazes me how resilient the human spirit is and what some people get through in their lives. I've heard and remembered several people recently who have had losses much sadder than those I keep contemplating and somehow it gives me a kind of encouragement that I will be able to cope and move on myself, though I have had frequent cause to doubt that and worry about it myself recently.
Mothering Sunday proved to be a very worrying day when I honestly thought the end was at hand for my own dear Mum. Awaking at 8.00 to take her a cuppa in bed, where she has spent practically all her time lately, I found her looking very distressed and poorly, with laboured breathing, a pale colour and not even able to take fluids. A call to the excellent District nurses recommended a call to the ambulance service, who arrived very promptly and soon had Mum on the way to the Emergency Department at Ashford Hospital which has become so familiar to us this last year. Shamefully, its days as a fully fledged casualty unit are numbered, as it is due to become a "Walk In" facility in August-apparently due principally to difficulty in recruiting the extra staff required by the European Working Hours directive.
Mum was rushed into resuss, where she received the most excellent attention to control an apparent infection, to help her breathe and to get her blood pressure up, which fell dangerously low at one point. Once again, we were preparing ourselves for the worst. She was admitted to a bed on a male ward about mid-day, but was still very tired and so after a while with her Matthew and I attempted to get on with our own day, though we did return later. The worry and anxiety which seems to never lurk far from the door of my mind was back.
And yet, the next day found Mum looking much better. Once again, the magic bullet which is the anti-biotic seemed to be doing the trick and at least the crisis was under control. I found Mum fairly oblivious of what had happened the day before, and she was even talking much better than I had heard for ages.
The trouble is, it is easy to feel a false sense of security and complacency in these situations. The underlying cause of Mum's illness is not being treated by medicine because it has reached the point where it says it cannot be cured. But Medicine is not God, though science often things it is. Still there is hope, and Mum can still show something of her old self with her interest in others and a determination to live, even when she is so disabled and limited by her condition. Being in hospital though has also brought some comfort to us at home, as the uncomfortable daily routine in her cramped living area is replaced for a moment by hospital food and constant care as against the difficulties we feel with the stream of agency carers that now take care of Mum when she is here.
This illness certainly is teaching us to appreciate the value of each moment of life, even when it is limited by illness or disability. For my own part though, and I am sure this is the way Mum wants it, I also feel able today to make a trip down to Eastbourne to attend the last Ranworth housegroup of this quarter, which I am leading. The theme is "Tuning In"- couldn't have been a better choice for me, could it.
I hope still to have some good news to report when the next blog appears on this site, probably some time towards the end of next week. Meanwhile, thank you if you are reading this and supporting us in prayer- your thoughts and concern are much valued.
Or maybe, I thought whimsically, we've been transported to another galaxy momentarily and this is part of the launch party for the much-heralded new series of Doctor Who which begins on Easter Saturday.Perhaps these mysterious red lights are actually four satellites shining over the home planet of the latest Who, Christopher Ecclestone, parading along with his arch adversaries today in my alma mater of Cardiff where the series was filmed. Strange choice of location- surely it doesn't look that alien does it, even if it is Wales! One reason I decided not to stay in the capital of the principality after graduating was that I did not feel Welsh enough, although you could say that one reason I have doubts about staying in Eastbourne is that I don't feel old enough!
Enough of these flights of fancy though. The actual answer for these unusual sights on the Middlesex skyline is that they are the aircraft warning lights atop the cranes now adorning the hub of my home town as the new Longford Centre, "Feltham reborn" as the marketing hype has it, takes shape. They do make a graceful sight, by day or night, and it is very encouraging to see the superstructure of this retail, residential and community "ship" taking shape. Here's hoping it will make a real difference to this often unregarded dormitory town on the edge of London, though maybe it's time the area's achievements are given the credit they deserve.
For example:
A favoured variety of pea, the Feltham First, was grown in the very soil on which my house now sits when it was one of the many orchards and market gardens which once made up the landscape of this part of Middlesex
The Feltham tramcar was made here and was in widespread use across the country until trams became displaced by buses in the early sixties. Ironically though, this town never had a tram service of its own
James Bond's Aston Martin was made here, in a factory on the Hanworth Air Park, where the Graf Zeppelin landed in 1932.
And, lest you be wondering how we managed in the days before GPS, General Roy's baseline for the first Ordnance Survey maps was drawn less than a mile from where I now sit.
But what about the pubs....
THE MOON ON THE SQUARE
Sadly, Feltham doesn't really have any classic hostelries any more, though the beer served in those it does have is generally pretty good. Pun intended, but I don't commend the General Roy, the area's newest pub on the edge of the Air Park, which has become one of those dreadful Big Steak places.
This means my local these days tends to be the town's Wetherspoon outlet, with the rather uninspiring and unoriginal name of The Moon on the Square. It used to be The Cricketers, a popular friendly pub for several years and where my Mum and Dad enjoyed many a Sunday evening singsong around the old joeanna in the mid seventies. None of that these days: music is barred in J D W's establishments. However, it does make for an easy conversational environment, and I was able to enjoy three pints or so of some tasty beers along with Dave last night- and very welcome they were too along with the conversation.
The beers? Well, I started with a very strange experience: a tasty brew which looked rather more like Fairy Liquid than the product of the malt and the hop. This was Signs of Spring from the Stonehenge brewery; I mused to Dave that its colour made it more suitable for St Pat's Day in a week's time, but it's taste was lovely. However, I followed it up with that well-quaffed brew of my youth, Greene King Abbot Ale, and finally joined Dave in Robinson's England's Champion ale.
It's not often lately that I have had the chance to spend times in the congenial company of my own friends, along with the relaxing companion which is a good pint. It's been good to go out with my brother and his friends at least once a week while Mum has been ill, but it's not quite the same. I've known Dave now for 29 years- which makes me feel really old- so we can chat about most things fairly honestly and it was good to release some of my woes last night, but also feel a bit cheered and at least for a moment forget the gloom which the cloudy weather here today is not helping. Indeed, late evenings seem to be the best time for me lately when I feel at my most relaxed: another day has been got through, and I enjoy either the TV or some humour with BBC 7, or try to get off to sleep with Radio 4 or Radio 5 Live. As I observed in an earlier posting, I am certainly experiencing again the comfort of radio as a constant companion. At which point, time to turn Ken Bruce on again, if you'll pardon the phrase.
RESPITE
In all times of crisis and worry, human beings need something to take their mind off their troubles and to give them a happier focus. Somehow it is how we keep going- few souls can cope with constant trauma, or though it always amazes me how resilient the human spirit is and what some people get through in their lives. I've heard and remembered several people recently who have had losses much sadder than those I keep contemplating and somehow it gives me a kind of encouragement that I will be able to cope and move on myself, though I have had frequent cause to doubt that and worry about it myself recently.
Mothering Sunday proved to be a very worrying day when I honestly thought the end was at hand for my own dear Mum. Awaking at 8.00 to take her a cuppa in bed, where she has spent practically all her time lately, I found her looking very distressed and poorly, with laboured breathing, a pale colour and not even able to take fluids. A call to the excellent District nurses recommended a call to the ambulance service, who arrived very promptly and soon had Mum on the way to the Emergency Department at Ashford Hospital which has become so familiar to us this last year. Shamefully, its days as a fully fledged casualty unit are numbered, as it is due to become a "Walk In" facility in August-apparently due principally to difficulty in recruiting the extra staff required by the European Working Hours directive.
Mum was rushed into resuss, where she received the most excellent attention to control an apparent infection, to help her breathe and to get her blood pressure up, which fell dangerously low at one point. Once again, we were preparing ourselves for the worst. She was admitted to a bed on a male ward about mid-day, but was still very tired and so after a while with her Matthew and I attempted to get on with our own day, though we did return later. The worry and anxiety which seems to never lurk far from the door of my mind was back.
And yet, the next day found Mum looking much better. Once again, the magic bullet which is the anti-biotic seemed to be doing the trick and at least the crisis was under control. I found Mum fairly oblivious of what had happened the day before, and she was even talking much better than I had heard for ages.
The trouble is, it is easy to feel a false sense of security and complacency in these situations. The underlying cause of Mum's illness is not being treated by medicine because it has reached the point where it says it cannot be cured. But Medicine is not God, though science often things it is. Still there is hope, and Mum can still show something of her old self with her interest in others and a determination to live, even when she is so disabled and limited by her condition. Being in hospital though has also brought some comfort to us at home, as the uncomfortable daily routine in her cramped living area is replaced for a moment by hospital food and constant care as against the difficulties we feel with the stream of agency carers that now take care of Mum when she is here.
This illness certainly is teaching us to appreciate the value of each moment of life, even when it is limited by illness or disability. For my own part though, and I am sure this is the way Mum wants it, I also feel able today to make a trip down to Eastbourne to attend the last Ranworth housegroup of this quarter, which I am leading. The theme is "Tuning In"- couldn't have been a better choice for me, could it.
I hope still to have some good news to report when the next blog appears on this site, probably some time towards the end of next week. Meanwhile, thank you if you are reading this and supporting us in prayer- your thoughts and concern are much valued.
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