Disembodied, and grief observed

Finally this morning, we woke up to a light sprinkling of snow, not much more than a centimetre. After breakfast an extended time of Sunday Prayer. I read through the Eucharist of the day, rather than watch on-line, as Clare did. That is, until the live feed transmission broke down, thanks to the introduction of a different piece of kit to the St John's chapel cum studio where the service takes place.

I can't quite put my finger on it yet but didn't have the heart to join her today. I feel fine at watching a broadcast Eucharist in any form with a live congregation. It's easy to join in. I've attended a couple of Euro diocesan services on Zoom, with eighty others in their little on-screen boxes, No sound of the group responding, or singing together. Not knowing anyone apart from the Bishops leading didn't help. I found it a bit strange, even though it was well thought out.  

I think Zoom could be tolerable at a Benefice or congregational level, because I would recognise faces in the little on-screen boxes. Our Benefice streams one service on-line via Facebook. The camera operator says the responses, and recorded hymns are played with the text displayed. I've watched Parish services with Clare before the Eucharist in church resumed, but today, I reverted to what I did in Ibiza, and read through Matins and the Eucharist. I miss receiving Communion but equally miss being in a group and responding to the priest together. 'We who are many are one bread, one body' is what we all say and that is what makes liturgy alive and life giving to me.

Watching passively even with Clare still feels disembodied - that's the word. Prayer for me is never just in the mind and on the tongue, but a physical and social action in which we carry each other. The truth of this came home to me after five months of social isolation, then returning to public worship, and then being separated from it again. In a crisis we have to do our best and make the best we can of our situation, and our clergy have certainly made an immense effort to make the on-line offering an enriching alternative. It's the passivity that leaves me feeling out on a limb, I guess.

For centuries before my time, clergy recited the liturgy at the altar and an assistant answered and maybe a choir sang, depending on the occasion. The laity were entirely observers, and the highlight for them was to watch the elevation of the Host and Chalice during the Words of Institution. But they were there together, and that mattered. Looking down the narrow channel of the video screen is not the same. In fact, I feel more involved if I just listen to a service on the radio, or recite a service aloud myself. Somehow it offers room for the imagination to work, not least in feeling connected to others who listen actively. Or am still missing something, or finding my own spiritual poverty exposed from a new angle? Time will tell I guess.

I went for a long walk in the park before lunch and a shorter one after. All morning despite clouds, the sun shone through. It was cold enough for the snow not to melt immediately. Children with their parents were having a lot of fun together while it lasted. It became overcast in the afternoon, but the snow by then had nearly all melted and the temperature stayed around zero and felt even colder. Very refreshing!

In the evening I watched the second episode of Finding Alice, in which the newly widowed quirky heroine organises a funeral at home and buries her husband in the garden without planning permission. I foresee trouble ahead. A DIY secular funeral ceremony echoed church liturgy, without text or context, featuring without explanation a cleric as mistress of ceremonies, claiming to be OK about doing humanist funerals as religious ones. No so far fetched in real clerical life. Was she a hospital chaplain running a bereavement group in the hospital mortuary suite featured earlier in the episode? I wasn't sure. All a bit odd, though not totally odd. It's been quite real in its representation of grief and grieving so far, but where next, I wonder? 

State of Alarm - day Eighty Seven

Another bright and sunny day with occasional gusts of cooling wind. As I was finishing breakfast I had a message from Jules to say that his mother, my sister Pauline had just died, seventeen days since she was admitted to hospital after a heart attack. She wasn't expected to live then, and we were all surprised that she rallied and looked as if she would pull through. Over the past week however, she began to deteriorate and was in such pain that she was given morphine and finally slipped away, ninety one years and three months old, and ready to go, as she said herself.

Under present conditions, funeral arrangements will be difficult to make. Jules is unable to leave Dubai and faces a fortnight's quarantine when he gets here. By the time a funeral can be arranged, will it be possible to hold it in Bleadon Hill Parish church, where we said farewell to daughter Kay and husband Geoff? When I get back, I'll be in quarantine for two weeks. Will it be possible to leave Wales and attend the funeral, given that people in Wales are restricted to a travel range of five miles from home? Or will things have changed by then? For Pauline, all is resolved now, but for her family and friends, everything is unresolved. It's impossible at this stage to tell how anything will work out.

Much praying and exchanging of messages for the rest of the morning, then cooking lunch for Anthony and I. Then, I walked down to an area of beach at Cala de Bou which I hadn't seen before, looking directly across to Sant Antoni. The rocky foreshore near the Playa Bella holiday apartment complex has some stretches of fine sandy beach, but there were very few people taking advantage of it this afternoon, perhaps because of the wind.

I started gathering all my possessions, scattered around the house, and packing everything I don't need in my suitcase this evening. Almost everything is clean. One of the pairs of trousers I brought with me is far too large for me now, so These have been washed and will be recycled on one of the clothes repositories you find at every refuse deposit site.  I've stripped one of the beds I used early on, ready to wash the sheets together with Anthony's on Monday morning. If we start early it'll all be dry before I leave at midday.

Having run out of things to do I headed for bed an hour earlier than usual. Now that I've had preliminary notifications for both my flights, I am starting relax a bit. With all the fresh air and exercise I enjoy, getting off to sleep is never a problem here, worried or not.

State of Alarm - day Thirty Seven

The temperature dropped a few degrees and there was wind and rain overnight and through the day into the afternoon. It was overcast and felt just the way it did a month ago. A day without cheer save for calls from Clare and Owain. There was a certain irony in seeing Clare in a summer blouse under a cloudless blue sky in our Pontcanna back garden. She told me that a local organisation is trying to organise a local sewing bee to make PPE gowns for NHS staff. 

She still has an old Singer sewing machine in good working order, and has volunteered, though she suspects good intentions may yet founder on poor planning and organisation. Whoever is trying to run the scheme asks volunteers how many gowns they think they can make in a day, without stating where the start line is. Are the workers to be given a pattern and material, or ready cut parts to sew together, or what? It seems typical of the situation we find ourselves in. 

It reflects the crisis management chaos exhibited by UK government leaders at the moment. Those in charge are lacking volumes of practical experience at juggling all the necessary demands of an overwhelming situation. They can tell you what they've done, but on times fail to join the dots, and must suffer the humiliation of being reminded of this by news media which seem to have more information at their disposal. Maybe the media could do better by making sure to pester relevant officials on the job, not on-air to entertain (or agitate) listeners.

Jayne brought me my week's grocery order, plus a  month's supply of my main blood pressure pills. I emailed our GP surgery yesterday to get the name of an equivalent to the standard diuretic pill I'm also supposed to take, but the email didn't arrive until after Jayne had been, so unfortunately that's another thing that can't yet be crossed off the 'to-do' list. If things were normal I could get some posted from home, but there are no guarantees they would arrive. I'm OK now until the beginning of June. There's no way of knowing if I'll be able to get home by then, there's such uncertaintly.

One good thing is that Jayne bought me a mascarilla, which I can wear if I need to go to a shop or the Pharmacy to collect something. I felt very awkward going into places without one, and earlier none were available, so I thought it prudent to simply avoid going up to 'Es Cuco', as I did before. Maybe I am a bit over sensitive, but I don't want to be a source of bother for anyone, and need to protect myself from the possibility of being a bother to others, even though the risk on Ibiza is very low compared to elsewhere. Clare has ordered me a new innovative anti-viral material protective hood cum mask to wear when I do eventually travel. The next question is whether it can fit into an envelope for sending in a posted letter, as any kind of parcel post is off-limits at present.

Despite the weather, I walked my 10k, but there was nothing noticeably new to take a photo of and send to Kath today. If it warms up again tomorrow, however, there might be some new flowers to notice, and lots more snails of different sizes. I did notice that the injured snail I saw being attacked by ants two days ago has entirely disappeared. Not just dead, but re-cycled without a trace. Whether by ants or some other nocturnal creature, I have no idea.

This evening I listened to a Low Sunday service broadcast on-line by Radio Suisse Romande from the Temple de Rolle on Lake Geneva. The link was sent to me by my friend Valdo in Aigle at the other end of the lake. It was a Swiss French Protestant service with some Bach organ and violin pieces and several Easter canticles sung by a local Russian Orthodox Choir - Low Sunday was their Easter Day. If that went outlive, the choir must have been tired as the Russian Orthodox keep Vigil throughout the night on Holy Saturday!

Special and well worth a listen was the address and meditations by Pasteure Isabelle Court. I was able to follow nearly all of it (except when she got really passionate and picked up speed), since her romandie French was beautifully clear, at a measured pace. My Spanish listening comprehension is not nearly as good as my French, but then I lived and worked in a francphone environment for nine years. So glad I haven't lost the ability to understand spoken Swiss French. French spoken in France is another matter altogether!

The meditations were an imaginative journey taken with Doubting Thomas's twin sister (he was after all Thomas Didymus - Thomas the Twin), from the day of the resurrection to the day when Thomas was reunited with the Lord again. Her theological and spiritual reflections made use of the typology devised by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross to describe the five stages of grief. Ir was remarkable and relevant to here and now with the pandemic loss of life, and most people's loss of freedom due to lock-down. Plenty to ponder on. You can find it here.

Farewell to an old friend

It's been overcast and damp all day today, sombre to suit the mood. This morning I had a funeral at Pidgeon's Chapel of Rest at then, and then on to the Vale Crematorium. Afterwards I was driven by Huw to St Mary's the Docks, as we used to call it, to attend Fr Graham Francis' funeral. I'd requested this drop off instead of going home as time between them wouldn't have allowed me to go home and then go to St Mary's in time. It turned out that Huw also wanted to attend, being one of the multitudes of people Graham made friends with over his lifetime.

We arrived twenty five minutes early and all the seats were taken already, By the time the Funeral Mas began with the Angelus there were about five people in church, with about a hundred of them clergy, half of them robed, and the rest in the congregation. I stood at the back of the church with about thirty others. Although I had robes with me from the previous funeral I felt that I just wanted to be one the receiving end rather than the presiding side of the altar rail. Graham and I were together in St Mikes fifty two years ago. We worked overnight shifts together as Samaritans volunteers, let out of college on an informal pastoral placement by the Principal O G Rees. I was deacon at his first Mass. His wife Eleri is Kath's godmother, so more life family than a professional acquaintance. in times liky this I am grateful if I don't have to give out but can just receive.

The service was beautifully organised in  way he would have approved of. It's likely he vetted the texts and made sure with his advance preparations that every detail as carefully thought through. He was that kind of person, and what a difference it made. Included were a couple of hymns I'd choose for my own funeral, one by Charles Wesley the other  by St John Henry Newman. We started with the Angelus and ended as his coffin was being loaded into the hearse with the Salve Regina. 

Fr Dean Atkins, a lifelong friend and disciple of his gave a truly remarkable homily which was both a eulogy full of joy and laughter, which combined beautifully reflections on the Mystery of the Visitation of Mary to Elizabeth with references to Penrhys and Walsingham pilgrimages, and pastoral life in the Valleys. Bishop Philip North presided, who has known Graham for years. Traditional Catholic liturgy at its very best, something he cared deeply about and encouraged others to do as well as he did.

There was a wake in the Bute Town community centre afterwards, but I had no energy to spend on an hour socialising over sandwiches, so Clare and I walked up to John Lewis' and had lunch there before returning home, pondering the loss of a friend since the beginning of time in ministry. Apart from Martin, there are few others with whom we go back so far. May he rest in peace.

  

Anniversary separation

Monday was our wedding anniversary, but Clare was at the Welsh National Eisteddfod in Cardiff, attending the Crowning of the Bard ceremony. Beforehand, she attended Pauline Grainger's funeral at St John's City Parish Church. The place was full, with a large number of her 'choir friends' taking part, singing anthems in her memory. First with Mike and now Pauline, it's the second time this year I've been out of the country, unable to attend the funeral of a good friend. Then there were also Roy Damary and John Meredith's funerals, people I'd worked with in Geneva, dying within weeks of each other. I didn't find out about either of them until after they were laid to rest. All I could do was remember in prayer Pauline, as I did the others during the day. Not being there with the mourners never feels enough, however, to do justice to their passing.

There was shopping to do, in preparation for the arrival of Ann and Clare, but I also walked to the Chateau de Chillon. Unsurprisingly, given the heat, there were more people than usual swimming in the lake. The sound of numerous grebe chicks cheeping loudly offshore was noticeable as I walked. Come to think of it, I'm here nearly a fortnight earlier, this August, so the chicks are younger and more vocal in their demands.

Grief addressed

This week has slipped by without me finding time to write regularly as I usually do. Mike's sudden death has thrown me off course. Getting up to Worcester to see Gail is proving difficult to plan given our commitments. The funeral date has been set for the week after I leave for Spain. The logistics of getting there and back in 28 hours in order to attend are stubbornly difficult whether I fly to Cardiff and drive or to Birmingham and drive a hire car, plus the service is on a day when I know duties are planned for me in Malaga. Delaying my arrival by another week, when I have already delayed it by  two weeks from what was originally intended also disrupts Sunday cover plans in place. It's proving hard to come to terms with being absent for the Final Farewell. 

Having said that, however, parting company at the end of our meeting last August, we hugged in a way that didn't come easily to Mike and I having grown up in an era where a conventional smile and handshake was what we were accustomed to. He seemed a little more frail than previously, but we didn't talk about ailments, apart from cursing statins, and the fuss over blood pressure medication, both of us claiming to be well and active enough for our time of life. On reflection, however, along with gratitude and appreciation of our long friendship, there was an unspoken shared awareness of the possibility that any meeting nowadays could be our last. I have two funerals locally next week to prepare for. In the less than usual time I've had to reflect and write, I've been writing my personal tribute to Mike to send to Gail and the family. It's what I would have said if invited to contribute, if I had been able to attend. Looking back across my entire adult life since leaving home and meeting Mike has been absorbing, and has ensured that grieving isn't evaded by the misfortune of absence.

Yesterday morning I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's for just three people. Few of the regulars were there, presumably because they'd turned out yesterday for the Ashing Eucharist. This afternoon, I took the 61 bus out to Fairwater Green, to make a bereavement visit. Both funerals in the coming week are of elderly people whose latter years were blighted by Alzheimer's disease. My task, to listen to their stories and prepare a suitable tribute doing some kind of justice to the entire life they'd lived, not merely dwelling on the tragedy of losing them well before they died. For both families, the end was regarded as a merciful release to their own suffering as well as the person they'd lost. I feel I'm still learning how best to speak consolingly to people in the light of such unhappy experience.

  

More rites of passage

I made the fifteen minute from Church House down to the Thanatorium de Nerja in good time for this morning's funeral service. Since I was last here the building housing Nerja's local funeral service, located just outside the public cemetery has had a recent make-over.

In the foreground is the old cemetery building, emptied of furniture, save for a long low table on which a coffin may be placed for public viewing, with a crucifix on the wall above it. It represents the traditional convention for people to pay their respects to the departed before burial in the cemetery close by. Behind this, enclosed by a posh modern fence, is another building, recently renovated. The fence has been constructed with a gate opening into the back wall of the old building. This suggests a plan to demolish the old building, stalled due to non-communication between council departments not expecting to relate to each other. (I must go back and take a photo of that gate that leads to nowhere.)

On the ground floor of the renovated building is the usual marbled reception area and a light airy chapel that seats about three dozen people, perhaps reflecting the numbers expected to turn up for a funeral service at relatively short notice, as is still customary here. Indeed, the chapel was just full, and it wasn't much more than 48 hours since the woman died. What I'd not expected to find when I arrived, was that her coffin wasn't closed, as is usual these days, but open for all arriving to see the departed and pay their respects. The widowed husband and children expressed their grief openly. Others arriving had to figure out how to relate to a situation less than usual. 

Having received the immediate family's guidance yesterday, I was well prepared to perform the funeral office for this occasion. The difficult part came at the end when the family and rest of the congregation had to leave the chapel, so the funeral attendants could close and remove the coffin without drama. From my point of view, it all happened as intended. Close family went with the coffin to a cremation in private with no further religious ceremony at Almuñécar Thanatorium. I couldn't invite myself along, but I'd have liked to see what happens, if only to know what to advise bereaved people, should a situation like this ever arise again.

I got the impression that the conscientious care and service offered by funeral companies to bereaved families here is much the same as it is in the U.K. apart from the conventional timescale between death and disposal, which is that much shorter than in the U.K. I supect it has everything to do with expectation whether at the level of the organising community or family. It says something about the different ways of dealing with the pain of bereavement that persist between Britain and Spain.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi and rites of passage

It's St David's Day, our patron saint. Daffodils are emerging and bursting into bloom all over. They don't seem to mind cold weather. Prince Charles attended the national Mayoral service at St John's, with Council religious advisor Stuart Lisk steering the occasion. St John's, without a Vicar again, was unable to raise a choir for this occasion and so Stuart arranged for his own Parish choristers to come and sing. With or without a Vicar. This is a great initiative, and I hope it won't be the last. St John's is a church that should be used much more by worshipping communities across the city as a place of worship and witness at the heart of the city, a place of place witness where so many people from all over Wales and the world come and go daily.

I wasn't invited, and couldn't have gone anyway as I had a funeral to take in Ely, substituting for Fr Jesse who is still off sick. It's unusual these days for me to have two funerals on successive days, even more unusual to have two in a row at a crematorium entirely new to me. I was taken to St David's Parish Church for the funeral office - again it was a service thoughtfully prepared for and contributed to by family members. A lad of nineteen confidently delivered an affectionate eulogy to his Grandfather. Later I learned he'd been Head Boy of his school. A boy half his age read a poem he wrote, as his own tribute - another grandson. Four grandsons carried the coffin in and out of church. The family's sadness was cradled with affection and pride.

There was a time when families opted to do little apart from choosing hymns and accepting a rather traditional way of performing the funeral office passively, placing a big burden of responsibility on the pastor, whether he was known to the congregation or not, for the success of the occasion. Reform of the funeral liturgy and development of active ways of dealing with bereavement are increasingly making a difference to rites of passage. 

Personalisation of expressions of mourning and marketing of consumer options in the performance of funerals are leading to families wanting to take ownership of the event in what it to my mind a healthy way. More are prepared to do without a cleric altogether, expressing honestly their dissatisfaction with religion or the manner in which religious funerals are presumed to take place. Many neither wish nor expect to have their wishes contradicted, but invite the pastor to express meaning and values they are less than confident about voicing themselves. They'll accept guidance, but don't want to be dictated to. They have ideas about how a life might be celebrated in a social ritual, but need help with raising its level of meaning. The pastor has to be sensitive in seeking to add value to what mourners wish to express in saying farewell to someone. How vital it is to remain a servant of a process in which others are deeply engaged.