TWENTY THIRD SUNDAY after PENTECOST

8^th November 2009

Graphics and cartoons & liturgical material appear only in the printed version

THE MORNING AFTER

Marty woke up at home with a huge hangover. He forced himself to open his eyes, and the first thing he saw was a couple of aspirins and a glass of water on the side table. He sat down and saw his clothing in front of him, all clean and pressed. Marty looked around the room and saw that it was in perfect order, spotless, clean. So was the rest of the house. He took the aspirins and noticed a note on the table “Honey, breakfast is on the stove, I left early to go shopping. Love you.” So he went to the kitchen and sure enough there was a hot breakfast and the morning newspaper. His son was also at the table, eating. Marty asked,”Son, what happened last night?” His son said, “Well, you came home after 3 a.m. drunk and delirious. You broke some furniture, were sick in the hallway, and gave yourself a black eye when you stumbled into the door.” Confused, Marty asked, “So, why is everything in order and so clean, and breakfast is on the table waiting for me?” His son replied, "Oh that! Mum dragged you to the bedroom, and when she tried to take your trousers off, you said, “Lady, leave me alone, I'm married!”

THIS and THAT

Andrew Neaum

Well, they have gone. The Rectory has lost Susan, Meg, Elizabeth and Nathan to Benalla. They leave a Rectory more accustomed to quiet and venerable residents baptized and honoured by the birth of an infant to it.

Gammon and spinach

For four months a young and vibrant family has cluttered the house with the paraphernalia of infancy: toys to break ankles on; high chairs with splayed legs to stub the toe against; nursery rhymes to reactivate the shrivelled circuits in an ancient Rector’s brain causing him to forego the humming of Bach arias and return to “gammon and spinach” and “Old King Cole”. There has been endless dish washing, load after load of laundry, the peaceful if time consuming pastime of pegging out tiny socks and little dresses that trip up the heart with delight as they call to mind the miniature feet and little forms they adorn. Prams and push chairs as sophisticated mechanically as are mobile phones and DVD players electronically have puzzled and challenged grandpapa. There have been laughter, tears, disrupted nights, baby puke, spilt food, long walks and an often desperately tired mother to assist and relieve.

It brought vividly back to me life with two little boys in Gatooma, Zimbabwe. Their push chair was not at all sophisticated, blue and white canvassed crude tubing, with the two seats abreast, blocking doors and pavements, like a little mobile settee. Those boys had a mother as inventive and resourceful as her daughter. It also recalled life with an infant girl in addition to the two little boys on the Island of St Helena, in a huge, double-storeyed and ancient Rectory. There, too poor to buy toys we made them. Above all it caused me to reflect on just how good a mother Margaret was, how gratified she would be to see her daughter inherit her mantle and how unutterably demanding being a good mother is. It has also provided an opportunity really to get to know and appreciate the man she’s married.

Twitching curtains

The euphoria of an uncluttered house, more time to be selfish and a tidy lounge and kitchen, once they had departed, evaporated in a mere forty eight hours. While they were here, when I rang the church bell each morning I would carefully watch my office window. Almost invariably, after about ten of the thirty three dongs, the lace curtain would twitch, be pulled aside and a little round, wide-eyed and smiling face appear. I would continue pulling with one hand, wave with the other and, when finished, blow Meg a kiss before heading off to attend to the transcendent, leave the divine for the Divine.

This daily ritual recalled a splendid poem by R.S. Thomas, though I had to troll through four hundred pages of his collected works to find it again, Google, for once, letting me down, it was time well spent:

                                                                              Folk Tale

                                                                        Prayers like gravel

                                                                                  Flung at the sky’s

                                                                        window, hoping to attract

                                                                                  the loved one’s

                                                                        attention. But without

                                                                                  visible plaits to let

                                                                        down for the believer

                                                                                  to climb up,

                                                                        to what purpose open

                                                                                  that far casement?

                                                                                            I would

                                                                        have refrained long since

                                                                                  but that peering once

                                                                        through my locked fingers

                                                                        I thought I detected

                                                                                  the movement of a curtain.

Literature performing yet again for me it’s priestly task of investing the ordinary with resonances and levels of significance beyond the immediate and obvious.

Scepticism

I have Peter, our elder son with me now for some months. He and I ordered a new computer for the parish office on line and installed it the week before last. It is a fine and speedy machine that should make Heather’s work less frustrating. Swapping computers is rarely as simple as it seems and so he had to donate hours of time to iron out problems. All seems now to be well. He is good to have around with a salty sense of humour and the sceptical mind that seems to go with our family. I was observing to David on the phone recently that with both him and me it is as if our every ounce of credulity has been swallowed up by accepting God, leaving us profoundly sceptical of all else!

On the 23^rd of November I take the remaining three weeks of my annual leave. I look forward to working hard at being idle in the heat of Queensland. The little paradox in that sentence brings to mind yet another memorable poem full of lovely paradoxes and based on the self same one. This time it is not by the Anglican priest R S Thomas, but by the Anglican priest Andrew Young:

Idleness

                                                                        God, you've so much to do,

                                                                       To think of, watch and listen to,

                                                                       That I will let all else go by

                                                                       And lending ear and eye

                                                                       Help you to watch how in the combe

                                                                       Winds sweep dead leaves without a broom;

                                                                       And rooks in the spring-reddened trees

                                                                       Restore their villages,

                                                                       Nest by dark nest

                                                                       Swaying at rest on the trees’ frail unrest;

                                                                       Or on this limestone wall,

                                                                       Leaning at ease, with you recall

                                                                       How once these heavy stones

                                                                       Swam in the sea as shells and bones;

                                                                       And hear that owl snore in a tree

                                                                       Till it grows dark enough for him to see;

                                                                       In fact, will learn to shirk

                                                                       No idleness that I may share your work.

My brother Peter and his wife Susan will visit me at Caloundra and I them in Brisbane during this time. So my idleness, while being I hope creative, restorative and even godly, will not be entirely solitary. I return just in time for the Carol Service.

 COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS

Canon D Neaum 1912-2001

Came the Saturday afternoon when rambling round the district, we found, in the bottom of a hedge, a hen's nest in which were four eggs. There being no houses near and with no idea to whom the stray hen belonged, we took the eggs. Fortunately we broke the eggs into a cup: two of them were stinking rotten but two appeared quite fresh enough to eat. We begged two slices of bacon from Ma, the frying pan and some slices of bread and retreated to the den, where a hot fire was quickly lit in the little stove until the top was hot enough to cook. All went well until the bacon was ready, the bread being fried and the eggs just right.

At that moment, brother Malcolm and a friend appeared. They demanded to share in the meagre feast which (as he was a bit of a bully at that time) meant them scoffing the lot. Fran and I grabbed the pan, contents and extra bread and made a dash into the house, leaving the two in the den with its now red-hot stove.

Knowing they couldn't molest us in the house, we ate our repast with pleasure and, this done, looked to see if the two had gone away. There being no sign of them we decided it was safe to return and relax in our own place, but opening the door the atmosphere was totally impossible and the stink indescribable. We left the door open and retuned to the house for the rest of the evening.

Next day when we went into our Den, the stink had almost disappeared but the top of the iron stove had a crack right across it. Having been disappointed in their desire to deprive us of our supper, they had pissed (to use the Old Bible's word!) on the hot stove before departing!

After this great insult we two decided that we must cure brother Malcolm's bullying as a team and the opportunity came later in the week. I cannot remember the occasion but Fran and I were so incensed that I took hold of the yard broom and swung it head first at Malc's head and hit him behind the ear. He fell like a dead man. Out rushed the maid, then came Ma, both crying, "You've killed him". Fortunately I hadn't and he came round in a few moments. That ended the bullying and the three of us became good friends as well as brothers.

This stood me in good stead while I was at school for Malc was known as the best fighter and with Fran in between, there was no one who dared put on the younger one - "A threefold cord is not quickly (easily) broken" as Solomon is credited with saying.

With that I turn to the event in my 7^th and 8^th years that changed my life in significant ways. But, don't get me wrong, I was never a sweet tempered, quiet, peaceful lad who couldn't say boo to a goose. Let us say rather that my life took a different turning during those formative years and led, by natural force, to me knowing my ‘Call’ to the Ministry

My eighth year started while I was Altar Server for the Vicar at the Convent and began learning the art of angling, or should I say, catching red cow-muck flies, and having Monday evening supper with him and Mrs Baldwin. When the weather was inclement I still went to the Vicarage for supper and a game or chat. Then came the Sunday when there was a new, young Priest in the Sanctuary and pulpit. He was introduced to choir and congregation as the new Assistant, Fr. Mellor, and we were told that he and his wife would be greeting us all at the door as we left the Church. Being a Convent Server and not yet elevated to Serving at the Church, I was never the less called into the Priests' Vestry to meet the new Priest before the general meeting at the door. He was a tall, dark haired, slim, man to whom I took immediately. Later, with the others, I met his wife, medium sized and pleasant. Little did I realise then what a tremendous part they would play in my life. (To be continued)

ANGLICAN CHURCH CALENDARS

ANNIVERSARIES

Robert Brault

Mowing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . .No mowing this week