It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley. That fleeting fugitive, the sun, has been reported in occasional sightings, here and there. He peeped through a window, or he briefly gilded a tracery of boughs in the garden outside the conservatory door, transfiguring them momentarily into something from the margin of a Medieval illuminated manuscript. He has been stimulating the “squerels and bestes smal of gentyl kinde” to scamper along the railing at the edge of the deck, and nick the bits of stale bread from the bird table. At this time of year, though, “bytuene Mersh and Averil, whan spray beginneth to springe”, he is fickle and unreliable. By the time you turn your head to look for him, he has already ducked back behind a cloud, out of sight.
Right now, as I type this, he is spotlighting the patch of the conservatory rug where Tiggy is sleeping, in a re-run, almost to the minute, of last Sunday. But I know, because today is the vernal equinox, and from now on the days will lengthen to Summer, that the patch of sun she is sleeping in has shifted inexorably since last week, as the stars and the planets themselves gradually edge round their orbits, and the well-trammeled course of the universe runs on, like a clockwork orrery.
She’s tired because she’s already been out in the garden this morning for much longer than usual. I don’t know if it was because of the coming of Spring, with all its potential new dog-sniffs and smells, or whether she is having problems with her plumbing again and needs some more Propalin from the vets. [If you want the full story on Propalin, you only need Google for “incontinent bitches” but whatever you do, don’t do it with “safe search” turned off, or in a room where your maiden aunt is close at hand next door.]
She’s also tired because she’s been on a couple of long walkies with Grandad, which they have both survived. She celebrated her safe return the other night with a special tea I prepared for her. I chopped up some courgette into small cubes and seared it in a skillet with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, then mixed that with the remains of the penne pasta we’d had the night before, plus some shredded turkey, some dog mixer and a few generous dollops of “real” dog food out of a can that was open in the fridge, whisked it all up with a fork, et voila! She wolfed it down and showed her appreciation by pushing the empty dish round the floor with her head for a while, which is something I, personally, would like to see adopted as acceptable human etiquette and table manners, especially at formal dinners.
Yes, well, I did say our animals are spoilt. Every animal any of our families has ever owned has been spoilt. I haven’t yet got around to cooking Bouillabasse for Kitty, but it can only be a matter of time. Meanwhile she remains as elderly, strident and vocal as ever, especially when she thinks the dog is getting shredded turkey and she isn’t, so I had to hand-feed her some as well, and she made sure she caught my hand in her front paws and held it there, with just a hint of claws, until her rasping little tongue had cleansed my fingers of every greasy morsel.
Talking of creatures with rasping tongues, Debbie has been alternately preparing her teaching stuff, as (unbelievably) her second lot of reprobates are now due to take their exam next week. Surely it can’t have been ten whole weeks? But it is. When she hasn’t been staying up til the early hours typing lesson plans, she’s been shouting at the television, especially when the Six Nations is on, and England are losing and/or winning, but playing badly.
This has, of course, been the week when the full horror became apparent of the aftermath of the earthquakes in Japan, and the subsequent nuclear near-meltdown. And the week when, in the face of what you or I would probably call common sense and consistency, British warplanes began bombing Libya. And the week when Westminster Council pushed ahead with their plans to “ban” rough sleepers” out of existence, in certain areas of their domain.
I mention these events to point up the fact that I am aware of what is going on in the outside world. I am not like one of those 18th Century Rutland Squires, compiling a meticulous journal of what the weather was like on a day to day basis, while all the time on the Continent, Marlborough was rampaging from Ramillies, to Oudenarde, to Blenheim to Malplaquet, but not necessarily in that order.
The horrors and injustices of the outside world belong firmly in the drawer marked “Why does God allow such suffering to take place in the world?” This is one of the fundamental questions that gnaw away at the foundations of anyone’s belief, and, of course, there is no answer, when it comes to natural disasters. With man-made problems, you can at least console yourself with the thought that Big G has chosen to work his purpose out via mankind, and sometimes mankind can be very stupid indeed, and less than perfect humans are going to screw up, either big-time, as in Libya, or relatively small-time, as in Westminster Council with their despicable, petit-bourgeois attitude to the poor.
When it comes to natural disasters, matters of faith are just that. You either feel it, and believe in God, in some way shape or form, more or less strongly (less, in my case, from time to time) or you don’t. You can’t prove it, logically, though St Anselm, bless him, had a good old go (if you ever want to give your brain a workout, try reading his Ontological Proof of the Existence of God - the temptation to skip to the end and see who dunnit is almost irresistible).
And if you accept that God is unknowable, ineffable, and all that stuff, you accept that – as I have said many times before – our noses are too close to the tapestry, at least in this life, for us to be able to make sense of the wider picture. It comes with the territory. One of the most telling exchanges I have ever read on this subject was something I found on an internet message board, following the Boxing Day Tsunami a few years ago, when a poster asked why God hadn’t intervened at the time of the event, and someone replied “how do you know he didn’t?” God’s idea of relative good and harm, and what constitutes a successful outcome, must be a lot different to ours.
Certainly, as also happened with that disaster, in Japan we are seeing the hand of God in the bravery of the rescuers and the mercy of God in the tireless efforts of the medics to treat the survivors, and in the heroic striving of those who have lost everything to start again and rebuild their lives, we see the truly indomitable nature of the human spirit.
Which is, I suppose, a lesson for me, to count my blessings rather than enumerating my misfortunes, as I have been doing for previous weeks. My own news this week has been paltry by comparison, though in my own life it could be as momentous, in its own way, as an earthquake. Well, a small tremor, anyway.
For some time now, my physios have been talking about stepping up my treatment to make it more intensive. The problem is, as they see it, that the once-a-week sessions at HRI don’t give enough of what they call “carry-over”, building each week on the previous week’s achievements. Some time ago they referred me to an intermediate care facility, sort of a half way house between proper hospital and home, called Oakmoor, where people can go and have intensive therapy for up to six weeks. Now, a bed has become available, and I may be going there next week. It is unclear at this stage how long I will be staying (partly because it depends on my progress, or lack of it) and whether I will be able to come home at weekends – despite being only a mile or so from our house, it seems to be purely residential. The fact that I keep mistakenly calling it Broadmoor instead of Oakmoor, and the fact that the same site also houses an old people’s home, have both been causes of great hilarity to Debbie and her extended family.
So, basically, next Sunday, I could be incarcerated in "Broadmoor", having intensive physio, and once more reliant on my dongle – watch this space. I must admit, I had no idea I was signing up for such an epic quest, last year, or even when I came out of Calderdale. I feel a bit like Gawain, plodding on through the “wilderness of Wyrale” and warring with the Wodwos. Except that in my case, I have even lost my faithful Gringolet, as the insurance claim for Fifi was settled during the week, and I am now officially car-less as well as careless. Actually, the last word is a lie, I have never been so full of cares as I seem to be right now, especially as I know the next six weeks could potentially decide whether or not I ever walk again. Perhaps St Jude, fiery Barnet and all, has been working his magic, when I least expected it.
When I think of all the bright ideas and intentions I came home with, back in the days running up to Christmas, I can't believe how many of them have been shot down in flames, stripped away, or negated just by the daily grind of getting by in a wheelchair. So, by way of light relief, I flipped open my trusty Book of Common Prayer, to see what delights the heady brew of Anglicanism has served up for me this week. I must admit. I quite liked the Collect, it struck a chord with me, especially the bit about
“ALMIGHTY God, who seest that we have no power of ourselves to help ourselves; Keep us both outwardly in our bodies, and inwardly in our souls; that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul.”
I definitely do need defending from any more adversities which might happen to the body, yes Siree. You must be readin’ my mail! [And, in passing, I love the way the typographer in the Prayer Book puts “ALMIGHTY” in caps, just in case you didn’t get the message or were a bit slow on the uptake.]
The Old Testament passage is 1 Thessalonians. iv. 1. I keep wondering, you know, why all these old outposts of the Church were named after rugby union XIVs, and what happened to the Epistle to the Ionians, the Epistle to the Barbarians, and the Epistle to the Harlequins? They probably all ended up in the Apocrypha after the Council of Nicea.
Anyway, this one, too, started off with a big booming bell of a message for me:
“We beseech you, brethren, and exhort you by the Lord Jesus, that as ye have received of us how ye ought to walk and to please God, so ye would abound more and more.”
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to walk and please God, and abound more and more. I look forward to the day when I can say “with one abound, I was free”. The remainder of the passage, however, seems to be about avoiding fornication, and how
“every one of you should know how to possess his vessel in sanctification and honour; not in the lust of concupiscence”.
I’m afraid to say that the “lust of concupiscence” sounds so appealing that I am very tempted to go out and commit it right now, except that a) I can’t get out of the house, still no ramp and b) I have no idea what it means or how to commit it. Still, getting out of the house is not necessarily a barrier. I subscribe to the local “Freecycle” branch and regularly receive emails from them, listing items members are anxious to either dispose of or acquire. This week’s contained, amidst the fish tanks, dog beds, pressure washers and kitchen cupboards, an offer from a “39 Year Old Prostitute, Skelmanthorpe.” I didn’t know vice had reached as far as Skelmanthorpe, I thought it was still all flat caps, aertex vests and pigeon racing up there, but anyway, two days later, a shamefaced email of apology was circulated to all members by the moderators, claiming that somehow they had unaccountably failed to pick up on the word “Prostitute”. I was tempted to email back and ask never mind that, what they were doing allowing people to charge for things on Freecycle, but I decided life was a bit too short.
“For God hath not called us unto uncleanness, but unto holiness.”
Yes, well, thank you Paul, that was a bit of a slam-dunk there. I will do my best not to indulge in concupiscence, once I have looked it up, but I can’t guarantee anything, I am human, I am fallen, Spring is springing, and time is short.
The New Testament, Matthew xv. 21, is the story of the woman who came to Jesus because her daughter was “grievously vexed with a devil”. In a curious development, the Disciples try to have her sent away, because he is only sent “unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” The point of this passage is apparently that the woman is a Caananite, a gentile, and therefore not one of those to whom Jesus has specifically been sent. Although he does not send her away, he is brusque with her and almost tests her faith, saying “It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs”, and only finally, when she will not take no for an answer, and replies “Truth Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table” that he relents and cures her child.
So we are supposed to take from this that although Jesus was mainly concerned with saving the Children of Israel, despite that there was enough left over for anyone with enough faith to benefit from him. Like most bits in the Bible where Jesus does something odd, unexpected, or mardyarsed, it’s probably something to do with fulfilling ancient Hebrew prophecy. It usually is.
Anyway, I especially like the bit about the dog eating the crumbs which fall from the master’s table. If that alone is enough to earn you the grace of Jesus, then someone who goes to the trouble of chopping up a courgette and pan-frying it in balsamic vinegar for inclusion in the mutt’s tea, must be in with a chance, and I trundle into next week’s unknown challenges with renewed hope that walking, abounding, and Spring, might be just around the corner.
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