I’ll not be blogging this week- we are still down south, helping prepare for Robert’s funeral- which is now fixed for Friday at 2.00, Pinxton Village Church.
Thanks again friends for your support…
Here are a few photo’s from Robert’s computer.
My father in law Robert passed away today.
A good man, gone on a new adventure.
We are all in shock, as despite his long illness, the end came so quickly.
He was a man of skilled hands.
And a soft heart.
Who knew the most precious thing in life to be- family.
We are all down in England, spending some time with family.
Michaela’s step father, Robert, is seriously ill in hospital after a second course of chemo-therapy for his leukemia. In the absence of any kind of immune system, he has pneumonia and so things are very scary at the moment. Thanks so much to all of you who are praying and wishing us well…
He is remarkably positive, but very tired.
I’ll let you know more as I know it…
So, it is almost Easter.
Last night in housegroup we continued to read and discuss the Gospel of Mark, and by some quirk or accident (or design), we came to Mark 14.
The bit that describes how the Sanhedrin gathered together anddecided to kill Jesus, even before Pesach if possible.
In the meantime, Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper. Here he was anointed on the head, probably by Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, with very expensive ointment of spikenard.
Some of the disciples were furious; the oil could have been sold to support the poor.
In this context, Judas went to the Sanhedrin and offered them his support in exchange for money. From this moment on Judas was looking for an opportunity to betray Jesus.
Darkness.
It settled on us as we read. It was tangible.
There is a tradition in the church to mark this darkness by celebrating Tenebrae. A service in which candles are gradually extinguished, and then as the darkness falls, a book is slammed shut. It is the end.
There is this verse in Mark where Jesus predicts the terrible effect the next few says will have on us, his followers- “All of you will have your faith shaken” or as the NIV puts it-
“You will all fall away,” Jesus told them, “for it is written:
” ‘I will strike the shepherd,
and the sheep will be scattered.” (v 27)
Faith and doubt. Doubt and faith. Mingled.
Light gets swallowed in darkness.
For a while.
Just to confirm where things are up to with the plans for our trip to Jura on May 1st.
In discussion with the boat operator, I have opted for Pig Bay rather than Glengarisdale. This means that we miss out on having a Bothy, which may have come in useful, but there are caves, and I will take a tarp to rig up if we really need some shelter to cook/commune under. Glengarisdale was just too much of a risk in terms of safe landing and (more particularly) pick-up once landed.
In terms of numbers-
6 people signed up through ‘Emerging Scotland’ site.
3 of us from Dunoon
2 from Preston
2 others from Glasgow
Plus Terry coming out for the boat trip on either the send or the return
(And two dogs!)
Plus 3 possibles-
One bloke from Bute, who has said he wants to come.
Simon M?
Nick- does not think he can make it.
Should be a nice mix of people- and this time, there are 3 WOMEN as part of our gathering!
This gives us the nice problem of needing more than one boat trip. At present, I have provisionally booked an outward trip at 7AM and 8AM on the 1st. Have not been able to confirm returns yet for the Monday, but in the past these have been mid morning.
So- can you please confirm whether you are definitely coming. If you say yes, then I am afraid you are committing to paying your share of the boat costs even if you drop out!
There are also still be a few places left if you know of any others who might want to join us yet… It would be good to fill the second boat as well…
Really looking forward to the weekend!
I have been listening to this track recently by The Doves.
Not my usual faire- but I like it. Good bass line- kind of like Mancunian-cowboy.
The video is shot in familiar territory. The North West of England still holds something of me…
I took a walk yesterday with a mate. And the mountain ate us.
They do that.
There is this real tendency to see oursleves as significant. We make the things of our small lives into megaliths. We wall ourselves in with worries and concerns that come to tower over us, and the risk is that we become so accostomed to the shadows that we forget that the sun ever shines.
But today, the mountain was bigger than me.
Hallelujah.
For the last few Friday nights, part of my collapse from work has involved watching this programme…
My preocupation might relate to my own recent reason to be thankful for the professionalism of these men and women who provide an emergency rescue service accross the wild hills and waters of Scotland.
In watching this programme, I have been more aware of how dangerous some of the conditions they fly into are. Tonight’s episode saw Rescue 177, the Royal Navy Sea King from HMS Gannett that picked me up, almost crashing into Ben Cruachan in strong down drafts- which left the crew shaking and shocked.
Brave men. People whose actions are worth celebrating.
And (for me at least!) compulsive TV. Often filmed in the landscape that is so familiar- the wildness of Argyll and the west coast.
Here’s an episode from you tube…
Just back home after leading a poetry workshop with Audrey.
We were a little bit nervous, but it seemed to go well. There were 7-8 people from a local church, and we talked about personification and assonance and the like, and then read some lovely words.
I love it when people start to get turned on by ideas… and this did start to happen.
I hope the folk there get into writing some stuff.
It really is good for the soul.
We had a discussion about words, and I described hoarding them, relishing them ready to plant them and let them grow into a poem. And how sometimes it really is that simple.
But at other times- as with all things worth doing- poetry is hard work.
It requires a lines on your face.
So, a bit of Audrey’s favourite poet- R S Thomas. Lines and all.
Poetry For SupperListen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem’s making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life’s iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you’d build
Your verse a ladder.
You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mindGroping on its cloudy path.
Sunlight’s a thing that needs a window
Before it enters a dark room.
Windows don’t happen.
So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.
So here we have a picture of a leaf cutter ant, taken on a recent visit to a zoo thingy. I missed the focus point, but you get the gist.
And I am sure that most of you will get the analogy all too readilly too.
These ants work non stop to cut up leaves, carry the bits back to their colony, and so make a big compost in order to allow more ants to hatch, grow and do the same.
Hmmm…
this fragile tent 