EASTER MORNING

This is the picture ( Peter & John running to the tomb)  which Sue Black refers to in her comment on the Post , "March moments No 1". (See below)

NOW IS NOT THE TIME

Now is not the time, or so they tell me. But I can't help feeling, "if not now, when? Never?" Is "not the time" just a way of saying, "Oh. don't bother me now, I'm busy"? Or is it a diplomatic way of simply saying "No"?

HELLO LIFE

(Now contains TWO posts)

From time to time this blog will publish a series of personal notes under the heading, HELLO LIFE. 

These will be addressed to or talk about those everyday items that  become Stand-Out features of ordinary life.

So that readers can recognise the series among the various other items on the blog, all posts will commence with this introduction. 

It is hoped that over time, readers will feel ready to contribute similar posts from their own lives. 

 * The photo is of the Entry or Exit, depending on which way you're facing, of a megalithic tomb some 5000 years old.  

First Post: The Grass Outside My Window
Hello Grass. I've been looking at you for the past half hour but you won't have noticed. I don't suppose you have any idea what a blessing you are, you really are. I for one, would be lost without you. But then, I'm a country boy, born and bred.

It's still only February with the crocuses and snowdrops  struggling to get a look-in, so I hope you won't mind my saying that you're not at your best just yet. Not like that never-to-be-forgotten, July morning. Oh, what a morning that was.

I'd just had an emergency quadruple by-pass heart operation and had spent my first night of convalescence in this very flat where I'm now writing this.

I'd made some coffee, put Beethoven on (I could hear in those days) and then came to these very windows to look at you. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Less than two weeks previously I'd thought I was going to die. Now on a very quiet Saturday morning, I'd been given a second chance. I looked at you, you looked at me; green, wet, luscious, Grass. That morning you represented everything I understood by the word Life. 

I just had to record the moment so close was it to being ecstatic. I sat and wrote this.


Saturday morning early, my body rested; my soul at peace. First coffee; a deliciously sharp, “hello”. Beethoven: the late quartets, No 14, a conversation of instruments, intimately midwifing the day to it's quiet birth.
My parents are dead. Long since. Their memory comes and goes yet stays, unseen, a presence in their absence. I am aware of my "SELF". I am here, alone, yet not alone, played upon by a thousand feelings yet undisturbed by any, the product of so much and so many, yet me, myself, here in the stillness of this waking hour.
There is suddenly a fear that I may spoil things, rush into words, feelings imagined as appropriate for this time, yet not really here with me at all. Beware the prayer prescribed for mornings. That was then, this is now. It was never meant that I should cling to what has gone. Their gift to me is that I should be here, alone, self-ed by the new day’s dawn. So my soul, be still, and wait upon this hour. It gives its grace, yours simply to receive.

Love you, Grass

Second Post: My Left Index Finger.

I knew a lady years ago, her name was Lucy. I took her Holy Communion on every fourth Saturday. It was a joy, she was such a prayerful lady, but she suffered from arthritis and this wore her down. Her hands became very knotted and gnarled, the knuckles all red and swollen. I was always gentle and softly spoken with her, feeling it was the least that I could do. But one Saturday, without meaning to, she called my bluff. As usual, I eased her door open and called, "Fr Farrell, Lucy, can I come in". She answered from her bedroom where I found her sitting on the bed, red-faced and crying her eyes out. No, nothing new or tragic had befallen her, it was just the sheer pain in her knuckles and in her poor deformed wrists. Arthritis.

Well now, even as I type, I am keenly aware of a burning sensation in the index finger of my left hand. I can see too that the central knuckle is just slightly swollen.And I know, only too well what's going on, Arthritis. Apparently everyone's got some, all depends on whether or not it flares up.

My finger is not very painful, yet. But all the same I've been thinking of Lucy and thinking too of a Nun I knew, headmistress of a local school and an artist. A painting of hers hangs in my bedroom. Her arthritis was severe. She often winced if people shook her hand too vigorously. They say it hastened her death. Others reply, "it was just as well" while I wonder quietly if I should hope not to live too long.

Yes, I said I tried consciously to be gentle with Lucy, the least I could do, but that Saturday, I felt so useless. Her pain screamed out to me, embarrassed me, I wanted to do something. I stood there like a great fool, while Lucy just cried. What relief I felt when her friend arrived. I could leave now without feeling too guilty, she had somebody with her. Currently I try not to look forward. "Take life as it comes" a friend says. Yeah! sure...

SEEING THINGS

There now, what did I tell you, the first test and he fails! Such a simple, obvious test too; keeping the Sabbath. He can't possibly be from God! He's just a Sabbath-Breaker like the rest of them. A man from God? No Way!


Yes, I know what you mean, he shouldn't really have cured the man on the Sabbath, but at the same time, I'll bet the Blind Man is glad that he did. Just imagine living in darkness all your life and then suddenly you can see! Wow!

You can Wow as much as you like, the simple truth is, he broke the Sabbath. The law says we should keep the Sabbath and he didn't,  so,  far from being from God, the bloke is as big a sinner as the blind man. And, may I remind you that that the Blind One was blind from birth so born in sin,

The trouble with these low-class characters is that they love a bit of attention. As soon as the Blind one began to feel a bit special, (as good as everyone else even,) he started seeing things and all because that Jesus fellow made him feel above himself. There's always trouble when that happens. Keep the rules, I say, and the law will make sure we don't get carried away with big ideas. Got that, mate?


Yes, yes I've got that, of course I have, I try to keep the law myself, remember. But I think you may be missing something yourself.

Such as?

Well it wasn't just the eyesight was it?

Oh! what then?

Look, it's not an easy thing being expelled from the synagogue, but that blind guy took it well enough. And I reckon he did so because he thought he'd found something better.

Better than the synagogue?

Yes, just that. I know this is dangerous talk for me but I think you're wrong when you said he started seeing things.It was a lot more than that.

Go on

Well the one thing the Blind One had come to see clear as day was Jesus himself. He saw him so clearly and in such a new way that he actually worshipped him. Now that's a real Wow for you.

Careful now my friend, you're beginning to sound a bit different yourself. You sure you can handle this?


Well I'll only know by trying won't I? I'll definitely think about it. How about you?

I'll admit it's a puzzle how he does signs like these, but no, I'll stick to the law. Safer, that way I reckon.






 

COMING CLEAN ON LENT

Just over three weeks ago, when we smudged ourselves with ash, we promised to repent. But the repentance asked of us is NOT the slavish repentance inspired by paganism. We do not sign ourselves with ash so as to earn forgiveness; the Lord has already won our forgiveness. The repentance now asked of us and in which we ought to positively revel, consists in allowing Jesus Christ kit us out in his own image. It is the age of the Spirit, not of control freaks.


Far from being a beaten team, sent off to lick our wounds and try a little harder next time, this time round being a disciple means allowing the Lord to re-clothe us in his own image. Real repentance then.

PICTURES TO INSPIRE YOU DURING LENT

You've got lots of pictures; use them to inspire, console, chasten you during Lent. 
Here are a few of mine, that may urge you to send some of yours. 

 1.I wish he'd talk to me by the sea

 

2. How do I picture him? 

3. On Mount Etna

4. Why do I admire / envy her?

 5. The Glory Road?

6.He's looking at me!

 7. What was that I promised?

 8. Lazarus, cone on out into the light

 9. Must DO something.

 10.Don't they just love it!

 

AN IMAGE FOR LENT 3

AN IMAGE FOR LENT 2

AN IMAGE FOR LENT 1

drawing all people to himself (John 12:32)

The "Dooley|" Madonna

A LESSON FOR ALL FOLLOWERS OF JESUS

The bronze is by the late Arthur Dooley of Liverpool. It was commissioned by the Catholic clergy of the diocese of Liverpool as a gift to their then Archbishop, George Andrew Beck on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination.

I have loved this sculpture since I first saw it because it seems to me to say gracefully and simply, everything we hold dear about the example of Our Lady in being a disciple of Christ. In it's very shape and elegance it shows us the blessedness of Mary in all that she had received from the Almighty and with that, her courage in obeying the Almighty once the glow of the Annunciation had passed. Hence the words chosen from scripture.

BREXIT: COLOURING IT IN

Like a silver ball being bounced about on a Pin-Ball machine, the traffic in Birmingham's city centre slides from roundabout to roundabout as it finds its way out of the city's confusion and on to the great roads that connect with the bigger world beyond.
For mapping purposes these great roads stretching out across the Midlands of England, carry alphanumeric titles such as A38, A41 and A34. But for the city’s natives, and those requiring easy-to-remember directions, they are more often referred to by names that mark their destination, thus: Bristol Road, Coventry Road, Warwick Road and so on.
 

Among this vast network of roads are housed millions of people from all parts of the world. Some are indeed indigenous English, but many more have roots which, like the great roads themselves, reach out far and wide, geographically and historically. There are people here whose origins connect with Pakistan, India, Ireland, China, Turkey, Tibet and elsewhere. Their presence indicated by names over shop entrances, modes of dress, places of worship, their language and accents.



One of these roads leaves the city bearing the title A41 and the name Stratford Road. It is bound for the birthplace of William Shakespeare, Stratford upon Avon. Shortly out of the city centre it sprouts a sibling which is to be known as "Warwick Road". The newly born road takes on the title of A41 while it's older brother now becomes A34. This, the "Stratford Road" is our route.

The traffic is less confusing than in the city centre, but still needs careful handling. There is a steady flow of vehicles both in and out of the city, while all the while cars turn left and right, their occupants finding their way among the thousands of semi- detached houses to that numbered dwelling which, regardless of their personal origins, is now "home".


We take one such a turning and find ourselves in the home of an Irish couple in their seventies. They have given most of their adult lives to this great English city, but their origins have always been dear to them and remain so today. Husband John hails from Diralagh a mere townland in the country parish of Moynalty, itself far from conspicuous on most road maps. But today, Diralagh is more of a presence to husband John than any of the more well known places roundabout him. Only a couple of rows of houses separate him from the lines of traffic humming past on the great "A" roads stretching across the country. But today Diralagh is writ larger than ever on his private inner map, the map of his feelings.


It is March 17th, St.Patrick's day, a day dear to all born in Ireland but especially dear to this man from Diralagh. "My father always planted potatoes on St.Patrick's day" he had once told her, and so she was not in the least surprised when she saw him head for his garden, spade over shoulder, to answer an inner call many of his neighbours in this cosmopolitan place might well regard as "foreign".


Later as he accepts the proffered cup of tea, he looks at her and laughs. "Why wouldn't I?" She knows better than to reply. An answer would only disfigure the question. The heart will always do its own reasoning.