Celebrating a woman with a mission

Sunshine returned at dawn, and today is slightly warmer than yesterday, 21 degrees by lunchtime. I went to St Catherine's and celebrated Mass with seven others, remembering today Mary Sumner, founder of the Mothers' Union, a parson's wife who catalysed a world-wide women's movement to educate and support women home making and raising families in an era when industrialisation uprooted millions escaping rural poverty, drawing them to work in urban areas, where re-establishing home and community life was an uphill struggle. From its beginnings in parochial pastoral care, the Mothers' Union grow into a women's global network long before feminism.

After coffee and a chat I had to return home and collect the empty veg bag which I'd forgotten to take with me to church, and then go to Chapter Arts to exchange it for a full one, while Clare was cooking lunch. In the afternoon I made the video slideshow to go with the recording of Morning Prayer made yesterday and uploaded it to YouTube. Then I did the week's grocery shopping at the Coop and Tesco's before supper, and an evening reading more of 'La Sombra del Viento'. 

I wanted to watch the much publicised first episode of the second series of 'Annika' on Alibi, through the UKTV app but it doesn't live stream what's currently on air, as I discovered after wasting a lot of time finding this out. I gave up and went out to stretch my legs and get some fresh air, then read several more chapters of the book before turning in.

Surprise haircut day

After breakfast this morning I completed the recording and editing of Thursday's Morning Prayer, and got most of the slides I needed ready for integration into the video. We shared cooking lunch, as I had chicken and Clare had vegetarian sausages, needing to be cooked separately. At two, I had an assignment with the Benefice Mothers' Union Branch, leading a service to commemorate the centenary of the death of their founder Mary Sumner, the Vicar's wife who started a parish prayer and fellowship group, and lived to see it develop into an international network of M.U. branches in places where the Anglican church is planted. In reality it's a  low key front-line missionary community working to educate and empower churchgoing women whose pastoral influence is perhaps all too often underestimated.

I was standing in for Mother Frances whose partner Sue Pinnington died two weeks ago. Sue's funeral was taking place as we met. Afterwards there was a traditional tea with lemon drizzle cake and bara brith, with a dozen women of a certain age gathering together as a group for the first time in twenty months. Their faces shone with joy and the pleasure of reunion. It was a lovely half hour, following a service that sought reflect on the lived experience of enduring and surviving the pandemic, using Psalm 90 'So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.'

Then, I took Clare over to Rumney to have her hair done by Chris. Being over the east side of town, I was minded to mooch around the big stores along Newport Road for an hour before going to St German's to celebrate the six o'clock Mass. I'd just done a tour of Curry's Digital when my phone rang. It was Clare with an invitation from Chris to return to his salon in half an hour and have my hair cut. 

My last haircut on the day hairdressers re-opened, was squeezed in on a very busy day. It was quickly done, and in a style which Clare was adamant didn't suit me, so I've been letting my hair grow long, and trimmed rough bits out with my hair clippers since then. That gave Chris a decent head of hair to restore normality to with his expert eye. He only had ten minutes to do it, as I had to get to St German's in the rush hour traffic for six. Now it's as long as Clare likes it and looks respectably neat again. We're both pleased with the look. Next time we'll both book a slot with Chris properly on the same afternoon!

I arrived at St German's with ten minutes to spare and celebrated Mass with six others, in honour of Saint Lawrence the Deacon, martyred in third century Rome. I learned that when the first mission initiative in this corner of Roath Parish was established by the Wantage Sisters nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, it was dedicated to St Lawrence, which explains why the church has a small statue of the saint in one of its side chapels. 

When I arrived, a lady was enquiring about having her first baby Christened before a second one arrives at the end of October. She was worrying about dates as booking a venue for a reception can be a real problem, with so many people wanting catch-up celebrations post lock-down. We tentatively agreed to provisionally book the last Sunday in September for her, and I promised that, as she'd met me, I would arrange to be available to take the service. I am in any case hoping to be asked to undertake interregnum duties there this autumn.

I reached home just after the Archers had finished. Having listened to it in the car, I listened again with Clare on catch-up, as she'd only just arrived from Rumney, having caught the bus home from town and done a small amount of shopping on the way. More melodramatic dysfunction from Alice to shock hearers unfamiliar with substance abusers extreme behaviour. I suspect the scriptwriters have even more in store to shake up genteel listeners. The character has been secretly an alcoholic for some years, then had a child which she had very mixed feelings about and didn't strive to keep bonded with. Post partum psychosis on top of alcohol dependency? Or has she started secretly taking crystal meth or crack cocaine in addition? Something more is up there, than what seems to be the case.

Two episodes of NCIS, neither of which I'd seen before, and a turn around the park in the dark before bed. Technically complex plots, and increasingly mumbled dialogue, which doesn't help.

Proms resurrected

Rain overnight, but it cleared up this morning in time for Liz's removal van to arrive early and get to work. It was only a small van, as she is moving to a much smaller place, and has arranged to leave the furniture she doesn't need for a charity house clearance specialist to collect - a good idea I think. She took her leave of Meadow Street just before midday. The house next door seems strangely empty now.

I spent the entire morning on several different piece of work - Carole's funeral, my sister's interment of ashes prayers, Sunday's sermon and a Mothers' Union centenary service in memory of the death of Mary Sumner its founder. I've been asked to do this a week Monday. After lunch I recorded some of the texts for next Thursday's Morning Prayer using my new Olympus voice recorder. I was pleased with the sound quality and ease of use. It plugs into any USB port and is instantly recognised, so file transfer is easy.

After supper I watched another episode of 'Nordic Murders' set in Usedom on the German Polish border, but this week including the maritime connection with neighbouring Denmark as well. It was interesting as it highlighted a legacy from the end of the Second World War, when huge amounts of live munitions were dumped in offshore waters. It seems that phosphorus from deteriorating hand grenades escapes and gets washed ashore, stopped from spontaneous combustion on exposure to air by a film produced by its reaction with seawater. It looks just like pieces of amber, and stays inert until broken open, the sort of thing an unwitting beachcomber might collect and injure themselves. That was the pretext for one part of the plot. The other part involved the illegal salvaging of high explosive shells, whose contents could be extracted and used by criminals. Is this possible seventy five years after? Well possibly, if the shells lay undisturbed in cold deep water, to be collected by expert divers. An unusual backdrop for another family based crime mystery.

To finish the day, the first night of the Proms from the Albert Hall with a very happy full house audience featuring pieces by Poulenc and Vaughan Williams, plus a moving performance of a new composition 'When soft voices die' from James MacMillan and finally Sibelius' Ninth Symphony. Such a wonderful moment following on from last year's powerful defiant utterly memorable lock-down Proms in an empty Albert Hall. From Harrowing Hell to Resurrection. Hallelujah!

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Festive high tea

I drove to Thornhill for a ten thirty funeral this morning, meeting with a family that had driven over from North Devon with grandfather's ashes to scatter in a garden there, following a funeral service in the recently refurbished Briwnant Chapel. It's acquired upholstered pews after a quarter of a century with chairs. Now there's a catafalque with curtains set diagonally in the left hand corner and the usual lectern on the right side, video screen up behind it with an exit door in the right corner. And no altar.

This is already a commonly used layout, adaptable for ceremonies of any religion or none. There's a candle and a crucifix if you need one, though you have to make up your mind beforehand about where you want to place it in relation to the coffin and the congregation. On this occasion the curtains were left closed as the catafalque was redundant. There was a small covered trolley, used for a child's coffin, of a suitable size to take cross, candle and the decorated cylindrical disposable 'scattering tube' as it was described containing the ashes of the deceased. A new experience for me in this context.

Thankfully there was no rain and the ground had dried out when we walked outdoors at the end of the service for the scattering, straight on to the ground beneath some trees, with poor grass cover. I had envisaged a flower bed or some shrubbery rather than a leafy glade. Instinctively I positioned myself in the circle where the slight breeze wouldn't bring the fallout dust in my direction. After scattering the ashes formed a circular cream coloured pool, in stark contrast to down trodden red soil and grass beneath our feet. 

I found this a little incongruous, and wondered how long the stain of this human bone meal deposit would be so starkly visible to passers by. Would a sprinkling of earth be made to cover it or not? Would a sprinkling of water or rain make a difference? I wondered. I must ask when I'm back here again tomorrow for another funeral. The Church's insistence on burying cremated remains suddenly acquired a different perspective for me, even if it does go against the tide of common culture and practice.

When I got home, I found that yesterday's cooked crab apple pulp had yielded a couple of pints of juice. With added sugar this made five standard and two small sized jars of jelly, although it was very runny. It needs more reducing, Clare says. Right now it would make an exquisite sweetish coulis, to use with roast meats, paté, or even a nut-roast, I suspect, as well as with ice cream or thick yoghourt.

I cooked lunch alongside finishing off the jelly, as Clare and Kath had gone for a swim, but I ran out of time, as I had to St John's for a very special Mother's Union tea party. Ruth and John Honey are celebrating sixty years of marriage this week, and they invited MU members from other branches and diocesan MU officials. There were about forty people there, including several husbands, and I was just a few minutes late. I'd agreed to attend and lead special prayers for the occasion, but the MU president had already started with a few prayers by the time I'd arrived. Not that it mattered. They were in good hands already, and they didn't give me a hard time when I explained about the crab apple jelly bless them!

The MU's own prayer booklet is very nice piece of work, though I haven't had occasion to study it or use it properly before, but I asked for a copy to refer to, and adapted some of its devotions to fit in with the overall anniversary and family life themes, as I led them in a quiet reflective act of worship, using a chorus with them that some would have known anyway. They sang, albeit a little shyly. It's not something they're often asked to do unaccompanied, I suspect. It flowed naturally, and I could tell from appreciative faces afterwards that I'd struck the right note. I really enjoyed speaking to God and the occasion.

A traditional High Tea with cake and sandwiches followed, served by two of Ruth and John's three daughters, ending with cup cakes topped with the number '60' in sugar icing letters to take home. Emma is now on maternity leave so she didn't attend, nor did Frances, whose ministry in the parish starts tomorrow. I wonder if anyone thought to invite her. It would have given her a positive preview of a significant element of parish life and fellowship. I think they both would have enjoyed this.

   

Waking to a dream

Another warm bright spring day to lift the spirits. I walked to St John's and celebrated the Eucharist again. It was the Parish's Mothers' Union Corporate Communion day, so I used the scripture readings for last Monday's Feast of the Annunciation. I spoke about the risk agreed to by Mary in accepting to become a mother, in an age where stillbirth and dying in childbirth were much more common than now. It was hearing a morning news item about authorising Coroners to investigate still-births that triggered this line of thought, plus recalling of the MU's  maternal health care and educational work in the Anglican Communion. From the looks of recognition I observed, it seems talking of pre-natal loss struck a chord with some of those present. As someone said to me afterwards; "You never forget it, not even decades after."

I cooked lunch when I got back, to coincide with Clare's arrival from school, then a siesta with the lunchtime news playing on the radio. I woke up just after the afternoon drama started in Radio 4. It was about a man transported in a dream to Britain a hundred years from now. It was a post brexit post apocalyptic world which, for a change was not dysfunctional or savage. It was more like a rural paradise in which everyone lived in peace and harmony, seeking each others' welfare before their own, working as much or as little as they chose. 

It portrayed a post capitalist world in which money, competition and consumerism were irrelevant and redundant, a world in which technology was the servant of all, not the master. It was a dream of Utopia or maybe Erewhon, given the New Age idealism in action wryly portrayed, how selfishness anxiety and greed were successfully abandoned for a better way, was glossed over. Perhaps it was beyond imagining. How do you get from the agony of the Great Tribulation to an ideal realm with no struggle or suffering birth pangs? Well, it was an idealist's fantasy I suppose, quite entertaining too, but how strange that I should wake up like that into a dream.

I then went for a walk around Pontcanna Fields and Bute Park to enjoy the sun and revel in the birdsong. So far, no ducklings on the river Taff however. It's lovely to see so many people, even on an working weekday afternoon, taking time out to sit on the grass and chat. Most make an effort to take their empty cans bottles and cartons to the nearest rubbish bin. It's such a pity these are quickly full to overflowing and not emptied often enough in the day. It only encourages people get lazy and leave a mess rather than take their cast offs home with them.

As I was passing the Summer House Cafe in Bute Park, I was accosted by a man, who noticed that I was wearing a cross. He asked if I could tell him about Jesus, declaring he knew little about religion. We sat on a bench in the sunshine and talked for half an hour. He told me that he was a Kurd and had been in Britain for the past twenty years, an exile from the time of the Iraq war. His father had been a Jew by birth and his mother a Muslim, but he'd been raised to know neither religious community, perhaps because of the unsettled lives they'd had over the years. He said he was searching for a way of peace and goodness to follow, and had a horror of Islam from what he knew of its extremists.

So what could I tell him about Jesus? He vaguely knew that Jews had crucified Jesus, but seemed unaware that Jesus was a faithful Jews whose teaching was resented by some who sought to kill him, though not all. I told him how Jerusalem and the Temple Mount were holy places common to all three religions, that stories of Jesus were found in the Qu'ran and in the four Gospels, and that Jesus was acknowledged as a teacher and prophet in Judaism.

He told me he spoke Kurdish, Turkish, Arabic, Farsi and English and was aware that in Kurdish areas, Christians, Muslims and Jews co-existed peacefully, but he was not aware this is reuw in most moderate societies in the MIddle East and beyond. He didn't know and struggled to grasp that Jesus worshipped in Hebrew and spoke Aramaic, which isn't the same as Arabic. His own background was evidently one of diversity of cultures, but didn't realise that other regions had their own histories of diverse culture. What you pick up from the media headlines rarely reflects everyday grass roots reality.

I think if you're coming from knowing nothing about the setting of Jesus' life, there are a few things like this it's helpful to understand from the outset. I advised him to google on his smartphone 'The Gospels in Kurdish' to find texts he could read in his mother tongue, assuming that his early learning to read would have been in Kurdish, and move on to reading them in other languages later when he's hungry for it. Reading the same story in different languages can give you a much richer idea of what the message of the story is, an take you beyond words too.

For me, reading for oneself about 'all that Jesus did and said' is the place to start, even though it can be a difficult path to start with. Getting to know Him through scripture opens the way to making a relationship with Him and God. You can take it at your own pace, and if ever you have questions, there'll be Christians around to ask not to far away, even kurdish Christians maybe. He was making a tentative first step, and impulsive move to approach a stranger in a park. He wasn't looking for a follow up meeting, I thought, just a little encouragement to start the journey.

Such an encounter is a rarity for me, and thrilling too. It's something I like to think I'm ready for, starting from who we are whenever we meet. But, out of the blue like that, this also had a dreamlike quality to it, only I wasn't in the audience listening to the drama, but rather on-stage being myself.

  

St David's day login crisis

On this St David's Day, I was invited to address a Mothers' Union branch meeting at St Martin's Roath and spoke about the role of women in the life of the church down the ages. The preparation for this took quite a while, partly because of the need to edit the text down to a sensible length, as I found there was plenty to write about, even at the superficial level of a historical overview. Eleven women were present and expressed appreciation for my effort afterwards over a cup of tea, and gave me one of their MU branch centenary souvenir mugs as a present.

One of those attending was Cecily, the widow of Archbishop Derrick Childs, welcomed me back into the Church in Wales as USPG Area Secretary. She is now in her nineties. and although frail, is still alert and interested. She found a certain notoriety as Archbishop's wife, due to the resemblance between her and Margaret Thatcher, in both looks and bearing. For this reason, thirty years on, she is still readily recognisable.

After the meeting, I went to the office for an hour, and installed the mug as a desktop pen container, as it's more of a decorative piece than a congenial drinking vessel. There was just one job to do, and the reason for it started early this morning, when I was alerted by email notification of a password change on the office email account.

When I checked with Ashley, it turned out that he'd started to have trouble with his brand new Samsung S6 login, and had changed the password, thinking that this was only to do with his phone, when it had a system wide impact. Whilst a password change was due, it was doubly inadvertant that in the confusion of the phone not responding as expected, he'd altered the password to one used for another account.

Anyway, we agreed a further password change, and then I set about implementing this on the devices with memorised passwords at home which I use to check email - two phones, two tablets and two computers, each with Chrome and Firefox on them. Eight changes in all. Then I had to make sure that office machine memorised passwords were also updated, to head off a panic in case there were log in issues when Ashley and I were out of reach.

Mission accomplished I headed home to get ready for my double class of Chi Gung and Tai Chi. How nice to be travelling homewards before the sun has set! It's still wintry cold, but the brighter evenings make all the difference to morale.
   

Back to Tai Chi

More rain today, and a morning visit to the Dentists' in Llandaff North for a check-up. Clare needed the car to go to her study group. Not trusting the timetable, I left in good time, and arrived at the bus stop as one was pulling away, but the driver stopped and let me get on so I arrived over half an hour early. To while away the time with a cuppa I walked to a nearby cafe. Afterwards, I waited a quarter of an hour in the rain at the bus stop opposite the surgery, but arrived at home, the same time as Clare. We cooked lunch and ate together, as both of us were going to be out at supper time.

Having accepted invitations to speak at two different Mothers' Union branch meetings in the coming months, I spent the afternoon working on something to say to them, though not necessarily the same to both, as the branches are in quite different social settings with different issues to address. Then, for the first time since my return to classes, I attended my regular Chi Gung class, and then the Tai Chi class which follows. It's back to basics for me, and I was pleased to find my memory of the opening moves of the short form hadn't forsaken me, although as ever it'll need working on. There's always something to learn through executing even the most familiar of moves, not just about technique, but about your own state of mind.

By the time I'd walked home after the classes, my trousers were soaked through, and I ended the evening watching 'Silent Witness' on iPlayer wearing a dressing gown. I felt a bit decadent not bothering to change properly after a couple of hours work-out. I think I shall ache a bit tomorrow. All that concentration tires the muscles unaccustomed to the extra demand. 

   

An unusually eventful day.

Eucharist at the Church shop with the faithful few this morning, then a wedding preparation meeting scheduled with a couple at noon, but they didn't turn up. Eventually I found their contact number and learned that it had accidentlly got booked in their diary for tomorrow noon, despite emails confirming today's date and time. The perils of digital diaries I'm afraid. We re-scheduled for this evening, and I confirmed by text message, reminding them to bring the wedding certificate with them for inspection. Crisis. They'd forgotten to bring it, despite reminders. I simply cannot proceed without seeing it. 

This also happened in Marbella last summer, and was resolved by someone in Newcastle sending photos of the certificate, once it had been retrieved from the couple's home. Fortunately, thee couple were able to arrange this quite quickly, and said the certificate would be on its way here with another of their 150 guests arriving tomorrow afternoon. Crisis ended, preparation meeting re-booked for this evening.

After lunch, Bill, Jo, Judith and I met the couple and their children for the wedding blessing at San Miguel. A lovely family they were too. Three daughters, two with boy friends, and two sons, except that the one son coudn't come because his girl friend was expecting a baby and couldn't fly. Rather than be left out, he joined in the service by means of his sister's smartphone - Face-time or Skype I'm not sure which, but we could hear him joining in and he was able to see them all and the church too. Well, we've seen it on the phone ads, and in reality, with a good phone and 4G roaming deal, it truly enhanced the occasion for an obviously loving and close knit family. It was a very happy half hour we spent together, and it offset the irritation of everything going haywire with the other couple.

After their service, I helped get things ready for the Mothers Union Cheese and Wine fund raising social evening downstairs in the catchechism room at San Miguel. Then, as they started I went off to meet the couple. By this time the photo of the wedding certificate had arrived, meaning that I could proceed with good reason, on the assumption that all would be in order by this time tomorrow. Then, back to San Miguel for the last hour of the social evening. I was quite tired by the time I finally got back to church house.

How nice that the vice consul from Malaga came and joined in. I asked about the new U.K. consular call centre for half of the world, now in its third year of operation. It employs forty odd people, and is adjudged to be working successfully, by the criteria set for it. What's not to like? I still think there's nothing to beat having consuls dealing with expatriate and visitor affairs working within local territory. But nowadays more and more admin is done by remote service providors. I should know. I've been working remotely from the CBS office at home and abroad since 2012.

 

Missed a turn

Although it's only a ten minute walk, I drove down to St John's Canton this morning to celebrate the Eucharist for the monthly Mothers' Union Corporate Communion with a dozen people present. I took the car so that I could drive straight to a rendezvous with Ashley, for a visit to PMR Products our radio supplier in Chepstow. He was so far behind schedule it was half past three by the time we left in pouring rain. 

We talked so much on the M4 that I missed the junction for the M48, and we had to drive over the Severn Crossing, and up the hill to the Almonsdbury M4/M5 interchange then go south to the A38 Thornbury Junction before we could back track and use the old Severn suspension bridge to arrive in Chepstow. That lost us the time we needed to brief our radio engineer. All we could do was hand over the kit we'd taken with as, as their office was about to close for the day and let him go home. Both of us had skipped lunch so we visited the nice sit-down chippie by the bus station for a very pleasant quick bite to eat.

So annoying to have such a moment of inattention, and a toll to pay for straying across the border into England. Phil the engineer laughed when we told him "You're by no means the only one around here to do that." he said with a smile. Ah well. Back again tomorrow. Hopefully the weather will be better.