MZT

This is my cat - Mao Ze Tung, also known as MZT. The other names I have for him are so silly that even my family give me weird looks when I talk to him. He died today, of kidney failure, after fifteen years as one of the family. 

MZT came to us as a stray kitten. He just turned up in the garden one day, and as we kept feeding him, he kept coming closer and closer, trusting us more and more. Eventually, he moved himself into the house, onto the sofa and into our hearts and he just never left. He was always free to come and go, but he chose to stay. 

We adored this cat, and my granny spoiled him. He didn't eat cat food, oh no. At 8.30 every morning and 6.45 every evening, MZT would turn up and sit expectantly before the oven in which fresh fish was being grilled for him. On the weekends, he would get fresh grilled prawns as well. If he wanted to sleep in the living room, we had to turn down the lights and the volume of the television so as not to disturb him. 

I am so sad he's gone, but I can't be sorry, because I know he was beginning to suffer. All his life, he was in perfect health. He never had to go to the vet until 6 months ago, when old age started to catch up with him. He was still beautiful, sleek and glossy on the outside, but things were deteriorating on the inside. This time, MZT was at the vet, yet again, and we were thinking we might have to put him down. He so hated drips and all the other treatment, and it was hard to watch him losing his dignity. But he just slipped away, before granny could get there to say goodbye,  and when the vet called Granny told her not to revive him. It hurt, but it was the right thing to do. You can't hold on to something and make it suffer; because we love him, we had to put him first, and that meant letting him go. 

So he's been buried under lime tree he loved to laze under, surrounded by the best flowers in the garden. And although I want to cry for my loss, I am so thankful for the fifteen years of love and laughter MZT blessed us with by choosing to stay, for as long as he could. 

Knitterati

Every Tuesday afternoon, Knitterati meets in the Waterloo chaplaincy. We sit, we knit, we drink tea, we chat, and we make terrible jokes and fall about laughing. At Knitterati, there will always be someone to make you a cup of tea or coffee, and to teach you to knit if you don't already know how. You can rant about whatever is currently infuriating you, and the knitting circle will embrace you. Literally. It's an excellent place to let off some steam, and boy do we ever. J, our chaplain, must feel like she's in charge of a roomful of very naughty, highly caffeinated and over-sugared children. And indeed she is. Which is not to say there is no room for adult conversation. It's just that we tend to cover a wide variety of topics. It must be the only place aside from Radio 4's Woman's Hour where you get discussions on everything from root vegetables to torture over the course of the same session.  Today, for instance, the conversation included knitting technique, sex, religion, food, the role of social networking in modern politics and warfare, relationships, pigeons (disposal of), the augmentation of the Maltese air force, moral philosophy, literature, tweed, vocations and hats. I kid you not. And I've probably left out quite a lot of material. But you get the picture. Anything goes, because Knitterati is a safe space (will all the knitters please stop giggling!). 

Usually, the demographic Knitterati attracts is mainly female - don't throw a hissy fit S, I did say mainly! Today however, was a special day. We had two, count them, two, men present, besides the usual chaps who happen to be passing through, or who have already embraced knitting (we only have one committed specimen of the latter and he is precious to us). These rare creatures were D and RC. D did not knit, but with his magnificent moustache, his tweed, his Indiana Jones hat and his sense of humour, his entertainment value is a significant contribution to any gathering. 

RC however, was a triumph. RC is one of our sacristans, and a couple of us spent quite a bit of time over the weekend trying to persuade him to come to Knitterati and have his life enriched. And he came! He didn't condescend, he didn't mock us - no, he learnt to knit! And may I say, he is a natural. He mastered the basic stitch in about 10 seconds, produced a professional-looking square, and even cast off with only a minor mishap. RC might be the quickest student we have ever had.

The point of all this is that Knitterati is not just a knitting circle. It is a place to unwind and have fun, and it is an oasis of positivity and peace in the midst of a very stressful world. I am thankful for J's original (inspired) idea, and for all the ladies (and gentlemen) who make it what it is - a blessing. 

6 lbs 9 oz

I was at a friend's birthday party when the call came at 7.30 pm last night. My friend, R, was in labour. It had started around noon and now the contractions were getting closer and stronger. Much stronger. It was time to rally the troops. 

My supremely understanding friend, A, was lovely about me bailing on the rest of the night. Her unselfish response was, "Oh my god, you're friend's in labour, you *have* to go!" followed by advice about the best bus to catch to the hospital. So off I went, honoured to have been asked to hold R's hand at this special, special time. 

Let me tell you a bit about R. She married J when they were 20, and they've been trying for a baby for the last 20 years. They have tried everything, including as many courses of IVF as they could afford. The money ran out, but the hope didn't. J in particular has been a rock, supporting R through every up and down, every twist and turn of the emotional rollercoaster you ride when you're desperate to have a child and it's not happening. These people would have loved any child that came into their lives, biological or not. And over these last 20 years, they have fostered a number of children. They have never adopted because J is a soldier, currently on active duty, and his being away so frequently and unpredictably has made adoption difficult.

R and J have wept over this, and their hearts have been broken, and R, certainly, has seriously questioned her faith. She has found it hard to hold on to a God who has not seemed to hear her plea, who has not seemed to heal her broken heart, who has seemed so far away for such extended periods of time. But she knows that God has been there for her, especially through J, who for so long carried his own sorrow so bravely, making it his priority to be strong for his wife. You only need to be around R and J for five minutes to know that if he could, he would carry all her pain for her. 

Anyway, about 10 months ago, it happened. Just like that. Out of the blue. At the age of 39, R conceived, naturally. She didn't find out until 8 weeks later, when J had left for another tour of duty. And so we come to last night. This long-awaited miracle was taking place, and J was not there to see it. He was not there to rub his wife's back, to pace the hallways, to ask silly questions, to have things thrown at him by a woman who really wants some painkillers NOW. 

At 11.28pm, 6 lbs 9 oz of kicking, screaming life finally arrived. And J wasn't there to welcome his daughter into the world. He should have been the first person to hold her, but instead, he is in a war zone. 

This baby didn't get a name until we could get hold of Daddy on the secure satellite phone, at about 6 am this morning. J said he had the perfect name for her, but he wasn't going to tell anyone until she got here. J has been allowed to get away with this because he generally has good taste, and it was felt he could be trusted not to name her something catastrophically awful, like Fifi. He wept with joy for this child, so longed for, so loved for such a long time, even before she got here. 

She has been named for what she represents, for what sustained her parents while they waited for her, for what they hope will guide her through her own life.  

Her name is Faith. 

Beloved

I love the way you hum;
no tune, but tuneful.
I love the rhythm of your step, and
I love its crescendo echoing down the hallway,
bringing you nearer to me.
I love the way you hold my hand;
I love the way you say my name;
I love the beat of your heart;
I love the smile in your eyes.
I love the way you love me.

The crowded pew

I can't quite put my finger on why this was, but Eucharist was particularly moving today. I love that service anyway - being reminded of the sacrifice made for me in the name of love never ceases to touch me. And there's something about worshipping together, sharing communion, being part of this community that stretches back in time, out in space, and forwards to tomorrow that makes me feel held, anchored, safe. I get a sense of peace in the Eucharist that I regularly find only there and maybe a couple of other places. 

That said, one of the nice things about today was the crowded pew I was in. There was a Muslim boy on my left, a Quaker girl on my right (I love you both), and another five of us  - I don't know about the others but the three of us were certainly snuggled up nice and close! Then there were dear, dear friends further along, behind me, and across the aisle - not to mention up at the altar doing the "magic hands" :) So when we were sharing the peace, I just thought how lucky I was that just in this one place there were so many people I love, who love me. So much love, just in this one room - just on that one crowded pew!

And every single week, when everyone else has gone down to lunch, my wonderful friend, EC, stays with me in the empty chapel and we pray. For her, for me, for us, for the people we love, for anything and everything. It is one of the most precious times in my week, this time I spend in prayer with my kind, loving, beloved friend. I know she reads this and I want her to know that. 

So if the pew is a metaphor for my life, I'm never there alone. There are plenty of loving people squeezed on there with me - Jewish, Anglican, Roman Catholic, Muslim, Quaker - and I wouldn't have it any other way. Not for all the elbow room in the world. 

Come down O love divine / Seek thou this soul of mine

I'm not particularly fussed about Valentine's day. I am single, but this day isn't enough to make me miserable about that fact :) I don't get too het up about the commercialisation and high (often unrealistic) expectations that attend it - the same can be said about other "festival days" we celebrate. I do think it would be a shame if we only thought about love and the people we love on this day, and only ever made an effort to tell or show them what they mean to us this one time a year. What about the other 364 days of the year? And frankly, I'm likely to be more thrilled and touched at someone making me a cup of tea, doing the washing up or a grocery run, or giving me an affectionate squeeze, for no other reason than it's Tuesday and they love me! Though flowers are always nice, of course :)

But if we're going to be thinking about love particularly around this time, then I think it's important to remember all the different types of love we're blessed with - not just of the lovers, but of family, friends, and God; the big one, that makes all the others possible. 

Which is really what made today one of the nicest valentines I've ever experienced. It was J's licensing as our full-time chaplain and a room full of people from different parts of her life,  who love her and wish her well, gathered to celebrate a service of welcome for her. And that's what it was - a celebration of love, for this woman who has dedicated herself to love and service, as all our chaplains do. So I got to do something truly meaningful today, and I got to share the afternoon with quite a few people who happen to mean a lot to me!

We all seek love, don't we? It's what makes us human. Yet so does God - as much as we want to be loved, He loves us and yearns to be loved, freely, in return. Not because of what He can do for us, but just because. Isn't that the best "reason" to love someone - just because?

"And so the yearning strong,

with which the soul will long, 

shall far outpass the power of human telling;

for none can guess its grace, 

'til Love create a place

wherein the Holy Spirit makes a dwelling."

Love you!

The clerical collar in the letter box, and an unexpected reunion

The other day, I found something unusual in my letter box. On top of the pile of bills and junk mail was a plain white envelope which had been delivered by hand, without my name or address written on it, and bearing the intriguing inscription "I think this belongs to you". Ok. 

The envelope was otherwise unremarkable, and its shape and weight provided no clue to its contents. I peeled it open in a state of fairly excited curiosity (no, it doesn't take much) and discovered.... a clerical collar. What? Some of you have heard part of this story, but bear with me, it gets better. 

I put up a sign in the post room stating what I'd found and telling the unknown rightful owner where they could find me if they wished to reclaim their property. At 0730 the next morning, there was a knock on my door. Had I not already been up and dressed, this would have made me properly grumpy. As it was, the caller was lucky he was going to be greeted with a smile and not by a vision of bad hair and hostility in a dressing gown. 

It was the owner of the lost dog collar, an American priest who'd been staying with a friend who happened to be my neighbour. They'd been in the pub the previous night, the collar had come off after a few drinks, and had been forgotten after quite a few more. The bar staff had put the collar in the wrong letter box. I couldn't be annoyed with the guy for coming round so early because he had a good reason - he had an early flight to catch back to the States and he was in a hurry. 

And that was the end of that, or so I thought. But yesterday, I received yet another exciting piece of mail. The priest (Mark, by the way) had posted a card to me from the airport saying thanks etc., including his e-mail address "in case you're ever passing through XX and would like to have a drink, or a meal, or come to my church". 

Now, XX happens to be the city I spent part of my childhood in, and of which I still have extremely fond memories. So of course I had to e-mail Mark. And it turns out, he is the curate at the church I used to go to when I lived in XX! Not only that, he's married to the woman who'd been my first grade teacher  all those years ago! She and I had a chat on Skype, and it was surreal and wonderful. She'd been an amazing, inspiring teacher, and I hadn't fully realised her value until I recently came across some old school projects and reports she'd written about me. It was she who first taught me to be academically fearless, and I was so pleased to be given the opportunity to finally thank her. 

You couldn't engineer a nice surprise like that, could you? But God can. I know it's a fairly frivolous example, but in the context of the week I'd had, it just reminded me that God moves in unexpected ways sometimes, and in ways we just don't have the imagination to contemplate. And how exciting is that?

Tea and sympathy. And good advice. And a laugh. And a chocolate biscuit if you're lucky!

I know someone who, on a regular basis, will make me a cup of tea, then sit and talk with me for an hour so I can work through things or just get them off my chest, or will just sit with me while I cry, and then pray for me. To be fair, there are a couple of people who are willing to do this, which sometimes feels like way more than I deserve.

For me, it becomes impossible to seriously doubt God's presence, His love, or the fact that He wants the best for me, when I look at the people He has brought into my life - so often exactly when I needed them, even if I didn't know it.

So I will be eternally grateful to and for these people, who willingly walk into the dark places with me and because of the way they shine,  remind me that God's light is always there.

The monk at the bus stop

I was at the bus stop the other day, having just come from a doctor's appointment I frankly hadn't enjoyed. It was freezing, I was tired and I just wanted to go home and curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, but there was no sign of my bus, and hadn't been for the last 20 minutes. Now I know 20 minutes is not a terribly long time, but it is when you just want to be somewhere else. 

Also waiting for his bus was a franciscan monk. He looked about sixty, and had one of those kind, crinkly faces. He'd been standing in the cold for longer than I had, but he didn't look a fraction as irritated as I felt. It was just the two of us at that bus stop, and ordinarily I would have started a conversation, but I felt more like crying than chatting, so I kept my mouth shut and my head down. 

If I don't feel like talking to anyone else, I often start talking to God - not out loud, just in my head! So I began to tell Him how rotten things were, and asking Him to please send me a bus, and a dozen other silly things. After about five minutes of this, the monk walked over to me, put his hand on my head and said, "Bless you, my child". Then he turned and went back to where he'd been waiting, a couple of feet away from me. That was it. He didn't look at me again, he didn't say anything else to me. About half a minute later his bus came, and before I could work out what, if anything, to say to him, he was gone. 

For reasons I can't explain, that moment made me feel so much better. It was just a nice thing to do, a kind thing to do. I suppose it was a tangible reminder that you're never alone, even if it feels that way. If God wants to say something to you, He finds a way. For me, that way is most often through other people, occasionally through perfect strangers. Most of the time though, it's the wonderful friends (many of whom have come into my life through the chaplaincy) who bring me a sense of God's presence through their own presence. I hope you know who you are, and if you don't, I'll do my best to fix that!