When I started the iBreviary app this morning, it wouldn't give me the liturgy for Ascension Day, but St Matthias, which was rather puzzling. This date is normally that of the feast of the Apostle, but traditionally Ascension Day takes precedence as one of the twelve great feasts of the church. In my lifetime it's become commonplace to move the observance of Ascension to the Sunday following, but when I checked liturgical calendars on-line, I found that the Roman Catholics have ditched 'Holy Thursday' entirely in favour of Sunday next, whereas the Anglican calendar has retained it. I guess it's different in countries where 'Holy Thusday' is still a public holiday. But this has happened without me picking up on it from church news, or noticing it until now.
Judith came and collected me at eleven to go and take Communion to congregation member in a care home temporarily. When we arrived, we discovered that she'd been taken off to an opthalmology appointment two hours earlier and wasn't expected back to meet with us. Something had gone wrong with the arrangements. We drank a coffee and waited for a while before deciding to head back to Nerja, and seek to make a new arrangement for next week.
The care home is very modern and well run, making use of glass walls internally and externally to get light right into the heart of the building and make it easier to staff to see what residents are doing in case they need support. While we were walking around and waiting, I couldn't help noticing myself reflected in the glass walls, the image of an old man, no different from that of some more spritely residents.
Truth is, I don't think of myself as being that old. Because I'm fairly fit, I don't feel that old. Yes, how quickly that could change. I've certainly become more aware of the needs of older people in the last decade, and that's important. Perhaps for the first time I see the possibility of identifying with ageing and aged people, as one of them myself. Finitude, vulnerability and mortality suddenly become a disconcerting thought. Not their problem any longer, but ours, mine!
Judith came and collected me at eleven to go and take Communion to congregation member in a care home temporarily. When we arrived, we discovered that she'd been taken off to an opthalmology appointment two hours earlier and wasn't expected back to meet with us. Something had gone wrong with the arrangements. We drank a coffee and waited for a while before deciding to head back to Nerja, and seek to make a new arrangement for next week.
The care home is very modern and well run, making use of glass walls internally and externally to get light right into the heart of the building and make it easier to staff to see what residents are doing in case they need support. While we were walking around and waiting, I couldn't help noticing myself reflected in the glass walls, the image of an old man, no different from that of some more spritely residents.
Truth is, I don't think of myself as being that old. Because I'm fairly fit, I don't feel that old. Yes, how quickly that could change. I've certainly become more aware of the needs of older people in the last decade, and that's important. Perhaps for the first time I see the possibility of identifying with ageing and aged people, as one of them myself. Finitude, vulnerability and mortality suddenly become a disconcerting thought. Not their problem any longer, but ours, mine!
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