Small joys

It is the little things that count!

And sometimes there are not many to count, however at the end of a manic morning, the final baptism was a quiet affair, only about 20 people – just how I like them!!

It wasn’t that that made it special.  The family were related to people I knew from a recent funeral, the granddaughter of the recently departed had just been born, I ‘met her’ as it were before her birth, and now with mum and dad as godparents to the baptise-ee.

I’ll be buying burying (thanks Dot!!) the ashes of said departed later this week.  The whole of life caught up in one small moment and for those families the connections and relatedness made the act of baptism even more special.

These small blessings make all the difference and certainly give me hope for community life!

the way, was slightly diverted for a time


I was distracted from writing by an excellent few days, but I did pen this – almost as it was happening.

The course material started this train of thought, focusing on who we are…

There is a chapel atop a rocky outcrop near St. Beuno’s, the key to which is normally on the hook in the boot room, or so we were informed.

No key…

But the sign said something about a sticky lock and not to lock it.

I climbed the hill full of expectation about what the chapel might be like, the views, the nature on the way and was pleased to arrive at the chapel’s east end, a stone building, small and well formed. It stood waiting to be explored.

I investigated the door, it was locked – no way in.

I was in a little despair, what now?

I sat on the step looking away from the chapel, contemplating – writing!

The key arrives, my heart leaps, I can go in, but I can’t turn around, I can’t look, it has been built up to now it is too much.

Forcing myself up I turn and go in. I hate it.

It is full of tat, rubbish, too many trappings for God. An ugly tatty crucifix, incense sticks, prayer cards, statues, candles, modern art paintings, loud noisy clutter. I close my eyes to rid myself of the images and sink to my knees in silence.

I bow my head to the floor, it is cold, beautifully cold, the fresh stone makes me wish the whole chapel had been like that, plain cold stone, refreshing.

I kneel for what seems like ages before getting up and very quietly going out, (the nun is in silence)

As I step out of the door, the sound hits me, the light is too bright, the volume has been turned up fully, children, cows, birds, the wind, a horse. I heard it all inside the church of course, but dully as if through earmuffs, but now it is as bright as the sun. I am fully awake, alive to the sounds of God walking though the garden, waiting for me to emerge from the gloom to enliven me with the spirit.

The useful Romany

Whilst walking quietly along to an internment (observing not doing) I was accosted by a delightful lady who wanted to know where the friary was – well, I told her, but of course she saw the collar – oh reverend, would you just… …half an hour of life story, of trials and tribulations, you would imagine she was the most wealthy – unlucky woman in the world … and so I was late and didn’t catch my lift. Arriving home the phone went – A lady was dying in hospital and the family wanted a priest, well I had to do. Strange how these things happen!