Clare went out early again to swim. I didn't hear her leave and again I got up late having dozed through the early news. I did the vacuuming and cooked a paella with prawns for lunch. Then, into town to meet with Rufus at 'Coffee Heaven' for a chat.
Yesterday evening he messaged me to say that Cherry his Bishop had returned from his licensing service Thursday evening last and then tested positive for covid. As she was greeting people un-masked and shaking hands after the service with forty people present, it's not so surprising. Rufus had tested negative, but in the light of the fact that she had proffered her hand to me and I'd shook it, albeit with misgivings, I took a Lateral Flow Test before going to meet him. Thankfully, mine too was negative.
I thought I should report the result, though not sure how usefully Track and Trace is monitoring church gatherings - I noticed there was a check-in list at the back of church on Thursday night and signed it dutifully. Nobody had put contact numbers next to their names. Did they all know each other I wondered? A bit shambolic really, now that the Great Fear has subsided, or switched to Moscow instead.
We chatted for two hours until the cafe closed for the day, then I walked home through Bute Park, where many of the trees are now blossoming, and carpets of daffodils spreading under the trees. It looked lovely under a bright blue sky. It was sunny but pretty cold, still more wintry than spring-like, but it's still early in March.
News from Ukraine is grim. Another humanitarian ceasefire breakdown. The invaders seem to be stalled on several fronts, not achieving their objectives and forcing surrender. Tonight there was a news item on the successful use of Turkish made lightweight military drones that can fire guided missiles at ground targets, and are hard to pick up on ground radar. The Ukrainians are having more success at using these than their Russian counterparts are in deploying their home built drones. NATO declines to implement a no-fly zone for fear of this triggering conflict escalation, but partner nations are about to supply missiles and other armaments for Ukrainians to deploy. I could all so easily go dangerously wrong. One point seven million Ukrainians are now refugees. Civilians are getting killed trying to flee cities under devastating fire, in some instances deliberately targeted according to one journalist eye witness. It's all so distressing.
Tonight's new series eighteen episode of NCIS contained an incident that results in Gibbs' suspension from duty. He's been in almost all of the three hundred plus episode so far, and has progressively aged into playing the older man's role, phasing himself out. It's quite instructive to see, and reminds me of the succession of characters in 'The Archers' who have grown up, grown old and died during its seventy years of radio soap opera.
Interesting that Rufus and I were talking about later years in ministry, as he'd observed older clerics whose lives had centred around their ministry finding it hard to find a new sense of purpose and identity once it was no longer possible to continue in active ministry. Keeping going while I was sick helped me to cope with the psychological impact of the peculiar physical distress I had to live with over the past two years. How will I be when I can't continue to make myself useful as a minister, I wonder? Actually, it's not something that I've really thought about before, perhaps I should.
It's funny to think that jobs came towards me when I was open to new possibilities, rather than having to hunt for one. In my thirties I trained as a teacher with the thought of having a non-stipendiary ministry, but it never happened as I thought it might. Only in the past twelve years of voluntary ministry in retirement have I felt in my element. I was never very comfortable in the conventional clerical role, just as my father feared, though for different reasons. I was always happy vested as a priest at the altar or in pastoral offices, but not really comfortable in clerical garb (despite my liking for black attire, owing more to the Beat Generation of poets than clericalism). I haven't owned a clerical shirt since I retired, and didn't wear one much in the last fifteen years in full time ministry. I found identifying myself with the stereotypical uniform difficult. But the question is, what will I do with myself when my services are no longer required? Walk, write, pray, cook, take pictures, like now. Will I be able to divert creative energy into doing something artistically new and different? Something to look forward to doing when I have time on my hands, and no excuse not to make the adventure? Let's see.
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