One Wednesday Morning

I hit myself on the ankle with the Paschal Candle, an extraordinary event that arises from Fr Aidan being on sick leave and myself, ever helpful, lending Fr Barnabas a hand (last Sunday) with a Baptism. (Welcome, young Charles David, to the fold.)

 

"Ouch, that hurts!"I protest, silently, as I process up the aisle with the Paschal Candle, which is considerably taller than me, and features a heavy brass base. Note the absence of profanity. A cause for pride.

 

The upshot of this minor injury is, yesterday, I stayed in the Mission Hall instead of doing my usual, which is roaming the streets of Gloucester with a trolley full of drinks and sandwiches for the 'Not Actually Managing At All' segment of the population. The drinkers, addicts, mentally ill and others with complex problems, that beg and borrow to keep their heads above water, and don't get much to eat or drink without the charitable efforts of the rest of us.

 

An eventful morning ensued. I have been away since early April, swanning across the USA, then catching up at home, doing this and that. Dave, Our Leader, greets me warmly. He used to be a Catholic, so he would understand my happening with the brass base of a very large candlestick. He now belongs to one of those independent churches that do so much good around the place. I like him. He hugs. Pope Benedict didn't approve of hugging, so we tend to shake hands now. Rather a pity, I think.

 

There are a few changes. Michael the community artist is absent. Cancer, I hear, not doing so well. Not coming back. He used to take a group for pottery, he will be missed. Some discussion about what to do with his materials. I am sad. I liked Michael's quiet unassuming presence, I admired his gentle refusal to get saved.

 

Cafe Guru are still providing a nourishing stew. Lots of organisations express interest in what we do. This small business actually does something. Week after week, year in, year out, the cafe sends in a hot meal for our sixty or so takers. They don't advertise the fact, they just do it. I tell everyone I know to go there.

 

It's a fraught morning. One young man thinks another young man is trying to take his stuff. Shouting and a punch-up, quickly resolved. Sam, with his underpants on the outside of his trousers, gives an impromptu sermon on the fact that all Christians are hypocrites and are going to hell: some good-hearted applause, including from the Christians. Then I chat to Maggie.

 

She speaks softly, I have to move closer to listen. We are friends. As her story draws to a close I'm in tears. It has taken her four years to open up and it's no wonder.

 

"I kept my daughter away from men, no father, no grandfather. No uncles, for fifteen years." Oh my God! Fifteen years??? "She's married now, and has children." Maggie beams with pride. Can you guess why I'm weeping?

 

"Don't cry, don't cry for me!" Maggie has not asked for sympathy, she has just asked for the right to tell her story.

 

No name, Maggie is not her name, no location, this did not happen here. Just her story:

 

"I wasn't put in the laundry, because of my chest. You know what that was like, you've seen the film. All that steam! I was in the orphanage until I was sixteen. We worked all day every day, from the time I was thirteen, and were given £13 a month." ...

 

"When our abusers became grandparents to girls - we went to the police. We couldn't let what happened to us happen to another child ... "

 

A ghastly story, Maggie didn't go into a lot of detail. She, her and her sister, won their case and received compensation. A lot of it. But:

 

"I couldn't let go of it, the compensation didn't help, not for years and years, not until I got cancer. Funny. I thought I was going to die, and I let go. Now, I'm free."

 

"For years and years."

 

The next time I hear another abuser gather his family around him and swear his innocence, I'll remember Maggie, and how HER innocence was stolen, her body used for the gratification of perverts employed to take care of her, her peace of mind destroyed, her mental health never fully recovered.

 

"I'm not crying for you, Maggie, but for the children still suffering from bastards like those." I said, which was partly true.

 

So a piece that started with a light-hearted run-in with a large candle, ends sombrely. I think that's the point. In the middle of the ordinariness of my lovely quiet life, a brutal reality intrudes, and I weep.

 

 

 

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A Year On

I went to an AGM on Thursday night. It was a real sacrifice let me tell you, as I am trying to give meetings up as a reward to myself for leading a good life.

 

It was the annual reckoning to its supporters of Gloucester City Mission and it was the usual mix of reports and chocolate biscuits. There are now 20 rough sleepers in Gloucester, and many many, more people living in poverty helped by GCM , which means, a little, helped by people like me. 'Grannies for God' I call us, because most of us are: not because we're especially holy, but because we're free during the day to go out on the streets.

 

On the same point, and by way of conclusion, I found a piece I wrote two years ago for a friend describing a visit to The Day Centre for the homeless before it closed last January:

 

Mission work was rewarding yesterday. I walked to the Vaughn Centre with Dennis, Ethlyn and Maureen. We had a lot of goodies, so were very popular.

I talked to Abs, an Indian guy in his twenties, a drinker, sent by his parents to India for six years, where he was abused. And more and more... But what impressed me about him was his gentleness, his politeness, and the way he was seeking a way out. Maureen, who is a baptist and a bit more overt than me, took over, and Abs seemed to be earnestly engaged. Funny, I just realised that he has the the name I use for Abigail...

Then there was Dave - indeterminate age, be-stubbled (undesigner), missing teeth, happy, well under the influence... He's just out of prison, has got back with his partner, hence the happy.

'Do you want to see my tattoo?'

Well, what girl could refuse?

He'd seen the text on the wall of the prison chapel, it was, 'God alone is my judge' and it was tattooed down his left calf. ('Now THAT'S irony, Dave,' I didn't say.)

I tried to think of what I would have tattooed, and where, and drew a blank on both counts.

I tell you I came away with a great deal of admiration for prison workers. 'Janice' had really looked after him I could tell, keeping him company, getting him a radio, encouraging him and - not judging him.

Dave wants to be baptised. So, I called over Dennis, who is great with men under the influence, having been one himself once, and he talked about the implications...

There's a great little church in the Docks nearby, the old 'Mariner's' church that had served the sailors and bargees when the docks was more than a Mall on water. The vicar is enthusiastic, and the church is alive to the needs of men like Dave.

Which ALL churches will need to become when the Night Shelter closes and the Vaughn Centre loses its funding next year. We have to get good at doing the real stuff. As I often say to people of faith, the Christ won't judge us on doctrine, theology, or the magnificence of our buildings (not in a GOOD way anyway) but on what we did for the widows, orphans and drunks.

What a witness it would be if the church, in all it's manifestations, spent as much time and energy on the latter as the former! By any criteria, I would say we have failed miserably in what should have been our prime purpose. It's no wonder thinking people don't want to know.

There! It's out! I am bordering on disillusionment. And yet, and yet, I'm not ready to jack it all in. I really don't know why!

The AGM was a reminder that whilst some things get worse, others get better. The street friends mentioned above have moved on, as many do, hopefully to better things, and GCM is now in a position to rent a permanent home. We will share premises with the Homeless Healthcare Team. Christians Against Poverty, and the Food Bank. A Poverty 'One-Stop Shop' which I wish to God we didn't need. At least there will be food and shelter for people who need it this Christmas.

 

 

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Incontrovertible Truth

I haven't been too well this summer. Nothing serious: a cold in June developed into a cough that wouldn't go away, finally vanquished this week with a course of antibiotics. As a consequence, I didn't get out on the streets with Gloucested City Mission for the whole of August. My weakened state kept me tied to my iPad, and engaging with the campaign to elect Jeremy Corbyn as leader of the Labour Party. Which was a whole lot of fun. However ...

Yesterday, I returned to the streets with renewed vigour and my friend Tom,

Problem: How do you stay friends with someone who holds views that you find unsettling. Tom is a street pastor, a Missioner, and a volunteer at a food bank, so he lacks neither kindness nor compassion. Nevertheless, he saw fit to 'put me right' on the issue of the refugees\migrants attempting to enter Europe. I won't bore you with the 'facts' that Tom had gleaned from the right-wing press. I listened patiently, after all I can neither confim nor deny the tales of corruption and deceit that Tom trotted out.

Finally, I found an incontovertible truth that I could respond with:

"I haven't got it in my heart,Tom, to condemn desperate people fleeing from disaster. How could I, when in their shoes, I'd do the same?"

In the turn of a phrase, I switched Tom from his head to his heart, and he was silent. I pray he stays there.

 

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Tthe Starfish Project

I am beginning to draw back a veil and peer into a  very  painful part of my life: the time I had a breakdown which led to my retirement from teaching five years ago, at the fabulously early age of fifty-eight.  

What I am appreciating now that I no longer have anger and resentment to deal with, is the amazing support certain individuals gave. There was Ray, who suffered alongside me with infinite patience, my daughters, whose love also sustained me, and Carol who made a lovely memory book for me, which I was looking at yesterday, and which prompted this post. Thank you Carol!  (She reads this!) 

Some events around that time were pure grace. Islands of normality in a sea of pain. One such was a Study Visit organised by The League of Commonwealth Teachers to the Western Cape in South Africa.

Alongside the educational engagements, there were trips to a winery, a penguin colony and the Stellenbosch Botanical Gardens - wangled by me, the eternal flower freak.  I may have some photos to post somewhere ... 

Jan Isaac, our party leader, gave me a gift that day, a beaded magnet shaped like a starfish. She knew how I was leaving my profession with a deep sense of failure, and reminded me of the starfish story:

A boy walks along the beach and encounters thousands of stranded starfish. He begins to throw them one by one back into the sea. A passer-by, taking in the enormity of the task remarks:

"That's not going to make much difference"

"It will to HIM ," replies the boy, tossing the next one into the waves. 

Making a difference to one, then another one, then another one. Perhaps as a teacher, I did. I'd certainly like to think so.

The starfish is attached to the fridge, and reminds me that failure isn't always the right word for when the world comes crashing down. Certainly in my case: I have had at least four years paid leave that I wouldn't have had, and good ones at that. What seemed like disaster at the time, now has a very different aspect.

All of the above is preamble to following-up on The Life Of Brian. 

My do-gooding with Gloucester City Mission is a consequence of my precipitate departure from the work force. Helping others is a great way to get over yourself and other assorted calamities, and I would credit the Missioners, and the Salvation Army volunteers too, with playing a large part in my healing. 

When beginning volunteering in any field, I guess you're given advice about not getting  too involved ... But Brian just seems so helpable. So I threw all caution to the winds and set about to make a difference. 

Brian is now working for us using his considerable talents gained as an estate manager before his meltdown. Just a couple of hours a week at minimum wage with meals and advice, resources and opportunities to start his own business. 

I don't know how this intervention will end: as long as Brian isn't adversely affected, it doesn't matter. I guess once you've thrown the starfish back into the sea, the rest is up to him. 

:) 

Mission Impossible?

I'm not sure about prayer. My dear friend Caroline, is making a steady recovery from an aggressive cancer, and we prayed, so it could have made the difference,  but I rather wish she hadn't got sick in the first place so I prayed, 'Holy One, let no-one ever get cancer again...'  Takes a LOT of faith that one, and I'm not up to it, I guess.

Something got to me yesterday.  A light-headed joy that enthused the whole of my day.

I wondered whether I really wanted to get up and go to work at the Mission. Since the bust-up over John - he was deprived of his internship because, among other things, he didn't tow the line on hell, and he doesn't hold with Hebrews-having -been- written-by-Paul (Or-should-that-be-Peter?). I agree with him on both points, but have had the sense to keep quiet. You don't rattle fundamentalists and get away with it.

I don't want to give the wrong impression. The Missioners are very dear people, who have at least found a God that gets them off their pewsides and out onto the streets feeding people who probably will never give two hoots about who wrote the letter to the Hebrews.

Anyway, I went because I love the work.

It's the school hols.: we were short-handed, so I was glad I went. We pray like Protestants. More like telling God a story. Preamble, filling him in on the reasons why we're bothering him. Ramble - lengthy and heartfelt pleading for this and that. ôGamble - kind of 'let's put it out there and see what happens'. I write this with affection. It's hard to convey tone, I don't think God minds. He has more patience than me.

Phil, the one who thinks Catholics are the spawn of the devil, was really friendly. I looked into his eyes and they met mine (always a good sign) he volunteered a hug, and he even told me a couple of jokes. Gosh, I'm thinking, (having got The Legion of Mary to pray for him) SOMETHING MAJOR has shifted here.

('What do you call a deer with no eyes?' 'No idea'. 'What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?' 'Still no idea.' I didn't say they were GOOD jokes.)

I volunteered to take a trolley full of food, with Tony,  to the Vaughn Centre: the day centre for the street people and addicts.

Eliza's waiting to go into rehab. She found an American cent on the street this morning. 'Look!' Sure enough, 'Liberty' on one side, and ' In God we Trust ' on the other. It's a sign, she's sure of it, and I hug her so tightly. She will die if she doesn't get off the stuff. For you, Liza, in God I will trust too.

Martha, the Slovakian is with a new, new man. Vlad, the old one, who beat her, fell into the canal and drowned last year. Zenco looks much kinder. I can but hope.

John lay sprawled across three chairs. He used to sit outside with the drinkers, but alcohol is now banned from the premises. John doesn't want any food, but summons up the energy for a brief chat.  He"s off the drink, but not the heroin. He's going to collect his prescription today and shut himself away and stay there until he doesn't need the drug any more. 'It's going to hurt like hell,' he says.  'I'll pray for you John,' I say, and God, I mean it.

There are Christians among them. Stan who's life I wouldn't want to live, and yet who's shining face and gentle smile speaks of serenity amidst this chaos. Robin, who belongs to a youthful and vibrant church shyly speaks of a  'gig' at The Guildhall on Saturday. I wish, right there and then, that my church had gigs. He's jubilant because after two years on the streets, he's finally been housed.

Pies, soup, fruit, chocolate, all dispensed, indiscriminately. Laughter and thanks, this week. I am uncomfortable with the gratitude, I really am.

Tony and I wheel our ridiculous little trolley back through the streets. The Mission Room is still open. Andrew and George are leaving. 'Come here my favourite men!' Something indescribable is bubbling up inside me. I think it's love. I manage to give them both a hug at the same time.

'You're such a tart' Andrew laughs. 'How right you are, ' I laugh right back, and kiss them both. It IS love.

Sandy is still sitting over her coffee. She's trans-gender and of all of our street people, she is the one that suffers the most, I think. She's beaming. The last time I saw her she was deeply depressed. 'You prayed for me!' I did. And I thanked God that I hadn't forgotten. Both times. Once for the visit to the psychologist that was the wrong date, and once on the right one... . SOMETHING'S CHANGED!

'You just have to tell them, Sandy, that this is who you ARE, not who you're trying to be.'

Mind you, I thought it politic NOT to ask The Legion of Mary to pray for a man to get the operation to make him a woman. I handled that one all on my own.

Time for Sandy to leave. I ask if I might give her a blessing. She accedes:

' May The  LORD bless you and keep you. May He  make His face to shine upon you and grant you His  peace.'

ALL of you.

A Different Kind of Cowardice

Waiting for our street friends to arrive for coffee and pasties, I idly picked up a pamphlet, put out by  a fellow- Missioner, on Intelligent Design. A mess of pottage, a curate's egg, a load of cobblers, describe it as you may, it's a potent mix of poor theology and worse science.

 I am ashamed of my cowardice. I left it unchallenged.

Some of my best friends are fundamentalist Christians, convinced that God created the Universe a few thousand years ago by an interventionalist, simplistic process that got everything here, as it is, in six days, period.

Why, knowing this is nonsense, flying in the face of biblical texts and scientific discovery, do I keep quiet?

What's the point of arguing the point? Those wedded to creationism, rather than intimate with the Creator, will not be persuaded by any argument I put forward, but this is just an excuse.

I start with a disadvantage. These friends had trouble accepting that I, as a Roman Catholic, could possibly call myself a Christian at all. I have problems with this myself, from time to time, when reactionaries in my church do something stupid, but I stand firm. You see, the Roman Church is capable of humility, and of learning from it's mistakes. Some of which are hardly excusable, so I'm not going to try, among them, censoring Galileo.

Galileo was recently rehabilitated. Recently! Truly! Better late than never, GG!

So, bible bashers, why do I believe my position as a a 'believer' in evolution by national selection, is compatible with my Christian faith?

What does the bible actually say? Well, firstly, only that God rested on the seventh day - not that he retired... Secondly, in God's own words:

Genesis 1:24, 26 God said, “Let the land produce all kinds of living creatures. Let there be livestock, and creatures that move along the ground, and wild animals. Let there be all kinds of them.” And that’s exactly what happened. " (NIV translation)

" Let the land produce.... " a succinct description of evolution, if you ask me, and a remarkable insight for a Bronze Age culture.

The Catholic Church has, nowadays, a sensible view of science. Rather than oppose it, the church engages with it. Many great scientists are Catholic - some, like Fr George V Coyne, director of  the Vatican Observatory in Arizona, are priests. I expect, if you're celibate, you have the time and the energy to get doctorates in theology AND astrophysics...

I don't agree with all church positions, especially on human reproduction, but  I think Fr George has this right:

“God in his infinite freedom continuously creates a world which reflects that freedom at all levels of the evolutionary process to greater and greater complexity. God lets the world be what it will be in its continuous evolution. He does not intervene, but rather allows, participates, loves.”

Why don't I tell my friends hooked on Intelligent Design that I think they're stupid? Because they're my friends, I guess.

One of Those Days

In part to assuage my leftie conscience, partly as an expression of my wibbly-wobbly faith, I go out on the streets with Gloucester City Mission.

Today was hard. Today was the day I would have chosen to take the street people's elected representative out with me for an appreciation of how the bottom third live.

Some of it's good. The Day Centre for the homeless is bright and comfortable with facilities for making drinks, and occasional meals.Today, a nurse was visiting, checking on the expectant mothers, dispensing prescriptions... .

Some, not all. Marta is heartbroken because her partner Vlad drowned in the canal last week. She has so little English that reporting him missing was almost impossible. And what does she do now? She's destitute, lives in a tent, has no money to bury her dead. I am told that street people who die often spend months in the morgue while bureaucrats wrangle over who pays for the funeral. The cost of a funeral is less than that of keeping a body on ice for six months. But hey! The paperwork 's in order.

Dave has osteoporosis and lung disease. He has a debilitating condition brought on by a wheat allergy, that is still in the process of being diagnosed. He is depressed and anxious because he was declared fit for work last week by a doctor who's name he doesn't know, who couldn't even offer the dignity of politeness. His own doctor testifies that Dave is unfit, but - what would he know?

You should have seen the appeal I wrote - stuffed with facts the State doctor should have known, or should have taken into account. I used long words and proper punctuation. I was polite.

Well, I have returned to my beautiful home ten miles from the city centre. I guess after a glass of wine and a good meal, I shan't mind quite so much.