Retirement

Today we had a leaving party for our dear Rector, Hugh. I hate to see him leave us, and even though I know he's going to be around Dunoon for the foreseeable future, it's hard to let go. It's amazing to think it's only been five years. We did him a great send-off though!

We had a delicious lunch in Chatters, followed by various speeches and tributes. His two wee grandsons ran around both looking like miniature Hughs and one eventually fell asleep in grandpa's arms. Awwwww! My Psalm 23.5 had another outing, sung by Chris, John, Dennis and myself in plainsong, to much gratifying giggling from the assembled crowd and I compounded the poor man's embarrassment by writing him a hymn which we all sang lustily at the end:

Now thank we all our Hugh
With hearts and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things doth do
For which his flock rejoices.
Who with the help of God
Doth guide us on our way,
Who for this daunting job
We’re here to thank today.

Now Hugh is sixty five,
It’s time for him to go now.
Oh who will sweep the drive
And who the grass will mow now?
And who will light the fires
Or chop down all the wood?
Or shimmy up the spire
And make the gutters good?

Hugh came to us from Crieff
We thought he was a loner,
But after courtship brief
Was wedded on Iona.
Now Hugh is wreathed in smiles
With rainbows all around,
He’s joined the Francophiles
And true love he has found.

All praise and thanks to Hugh
Our friend and inspiration.
For it’s all down to you,
This church’s transformation.
You showed us how to love
Each person in each pew,
So praise to God above
Who sent his servant Hugh!

Jesus wants me for a . . .

Two swallows on the wire and a cuckoo cucking and ooing in the Bishop's Glen means summer approaches. I've begun to oil the garden furniture (the seat fell to pieces, alas) and rashly cast various clouts despite May being a mere smear of green buds rather than oot. Watch this space.

Meanwhile, I must brush up on wifeliness. It appears I don't even rate as an okay Christian wife according to this blog: How to be a good Christian wife. This chick has to be kidding. I can't believe she really thinks she should be up and in full make-up at the breakfast table - but not sitting down, in case the noise of her chair scraping as she leaps up to replenish the toast-rack should disturb her Husband (note the capital) as he tucks into his bacon and eggs and reads the paper (which she has previously ironed, no doubt).

Apparently I SHOULD NOT POUT if dear Husband fails to deliver a smacker as he leaves for work. Nor should I pout if he doesn't enjoy the snack I've thoughtfully provided (a fat husband is a faithful husband) on his return. And I should just get me to the kitchen and bake more cakes and pastries to harden his arteries if he doesn't want to talk to me after dinner. She doesn't mention blogging as a post prandial pastime. I wonder when she does hers . . . before breakfast while she's applying the lippy?

But the BEST BIT is at the end. I quote: "And of course, you will be pleasing Jesus and isn't that what it's all about?"

Jesus wants me to kill my Husband???

I think it's a joke . . .

Playing Among the Stars

I was going to blog about last night's gig in Tighnabruaich, but Mrs Blethers beat me to it. It was like a step back in time. One of these events that takes you swirling back to your childhood and the church hall where people got up and did 'turns'.

Regrettably, I seem to have remained in that childhood because I still had to sweat and clamp my mouth shut to keep the giggles at bay. There is just something delightfully absurd and rather comforting about 'people of a certain age' (as Chris calls us) juggling specs and scrappy bits of paper with the words written on in case they forget and starting off in the wrong key and generally bumbling about. The actual performances, when they got going, weren't half bad for the most part, which was just as well because, as I've said before, my giggle threshhold is low, and anyway, we had our turn to do right at the end (fortunately not too many had gone home although by the time we went on it must have been well past their bed-time. It was certainly past mine!)

So that's our first gig over. It went okay, despite the incredibly bright lights suddenly dimming just at a page turn. No scrappy bits of paper for us. I felt it was almost cheating to stand there with the music in front of me after all the feats of memory that had preceded us.

Naked!

Poor Jess. She so hates going to the furdresser. It's not so much the experience of being there that is traumatic, although she is entirely uncooperative (unlike JD who adores being pampered), but the aftermath when she has to face the world effectively naked.

Jess feels the heat. When her coat's thick she pants in the least amount of heat and sits in any shallow water she can find (unlike her usual hydrophobic behaviour). She also goes into a panic if anything gets tangled up in her fur. The other day she threw a wobbler because she'd somehow managed to get bits of thistle stuck to her foot and behind. Since she's pretty low slung, it's inevitable she'll pick up stuff where we walk. So off to the furdresser she goes every three months.

She comes out looking gorgeous. Christine does a great job with both of them but Jess in particular suits a short coat with her ears and feathers left long but trimmed tidy. Trouble is, she considers herself naked and scuttles away to hide in the manner of someone caught with no clothes on (last night's 'Hustle' comes to mind with the naked Micky and Danny scuttling through the streets of London - pause to wipe brow and reinsert tongue in mouth). This morning she's still deeply embarrassed and has taken to her bed once more, hugging Rob's slipper.

Poor, traumatised baby!

After the Resurrection

Easter seems an age ago and yet this time last week we were sunk in the gloom of Good Friday! It was a good last Easter at HT for Hugh for lots of reasons. We hosted the town's Easter Songs of Praise, which as usual, Hugh made different from what folk are used to. The service was an arc - a parabola - beginning meditatatively from the cry of the penitent thief on the cross in the form of a Taizé chant, then gradually growing to a crescendo, using appropriate hymns and readings from John's gospel and finishing with communion (I am the Bread of Life). There were a few murmurings about 'proper hymns' (ie Victorian ones) at the end but most folk seemed uplifted by the whole thing.

Our little choir, Eight Plus One, became Four Plus One and we sang 'How Can I Keep From Singing' from the sanctuary arch. It went pretty well - fortunately the Four represented each of the four parts. I could feel myself sagging on the last note, no matter how hard I tried to keep it in tune :( It wasn't a high note, just a long one. Hopefully not too many folk noticed. Tomorrow night in Tighnabruaich I'll try to do better. At least we'll be Eight and I'll have a soprano ii mate. John is taking the keyboard and on Tuesday we tried 'Fly Me to the Moon' with the fake kit-drum rhythm. It sounded excellent to my ears, although I suspect we'll never quite come up to John's hopes. (I'm thinking of buying him a pair of cymbals to strap to his knees so he can be a complete one-man-band. On Sunday night he was playing the organ - hands and feet - directing the congregation and singing a solo obbligato thingy to 'Ubi Caritas').

I wonder if the maple leaves are out.

Number Two Son is off to Canada today bound for a conference in Montreal. You'd think that after all the globetrotting he's been doing recently, he might have it down to a fine art. But no. Apparently you need dollars in Canada - fancy that! The university pays his expenses, but retrospectively of course. Oh well, he's a big boy and I should stop worrying, I suppose, but I do wonder how somebody who is prepared to board a plane to a foreign country without a penny (or should that be dime) to his name can possibly be related to me.

Oh, and despite the coldness of the wind and this morning's drizzly rain, spring has finally sprung here at Heathbank. I heard the first chiffchaff the other day and the cuckoo flowers are out all along the wall in the back garden. There are even a few stray bluebells on the hill at the back. Nature is determined to go ahead whatever the capricious weather does. I'll be glad when some of the trees actually show some green though. The horse chestnut along the road, usually far ahead of the rest, is only just bursting its buds.

Gosh, during Holy Week I feel as if I'm never away from the church! Today I was up there along with Chris transforming the Gethsemane garden into an Easter garden. It's much more fun than flower arranging and saves me from thinking of myself of a worthy 'lady of the church' *g* The great clods of dripping moss gathered from Puck's Glen are hardly authentic for a desert garden, but we have to rely on artistic licence. We do that a lot. We plotted how to depict Mark's account tomorrow morning and John's tomorrow night. The young man in white robes is played by a rather coy angel who could do with his wings clipped. The folded grave clothes (a folded hanky) are a little small to accommodate the Risen Christ who waits in the wings to replace the coy angel tomorrow evening.

Tonight we will light the new fire with a wonderful big bonfire under the trees (hoping not to set either them or the rector alight) and then renew our baptismal vows by candlelight. Magic.

Thing is, so few folk actually take part in all this. After the bittersweetness of Maundy Thursday and the bleak despair of Good Friday the feeling of release and renewal as Easter morning arrives with such joy and hope is something I couldn't bear to miss. But IMO you have to experience the down before you can appreciate the up. You have to suffer with Jesus as well as rejoice with him.

On the Heathbank garden front, Rob and I, with some help from Michael who just thought he was coming to walk the dogs, shifted four tonnes of stones from the gate into the new parking bay in our drive yesterday. Despite my specific instructions to the supplier to send the 'wee' lorry, they sent the big one that can't get through the gate. I even measured the darn gate for them! My muscles are reminding me that I'm not as young as I think. See, I'm really 15 - this grey hair's a mistake.

So where's Spring?

Finally it's a nice sunny morning here at Heathbank and I'm planning a morning's digging the veg garden. So far my spring gardening has been curtailed by all the frosts and the late snow. I pruned the clematis and hydrangeas and a few other shrubs last week and immediately we had a hard frost - something we've hardly had all winter! Anyway, the grass got its first cut yesterday - in between snow showers! The lawnmower is on its last legs. Rob had to savage an old computer HD to mend it (don't ask - I haven't a clue). The smaller mower I used to use blew up last season, alas. The grass is mostly moss anyway, but at least it's green - except for the brown patches on the back lawn created by the dogs.

Talking of dogs, it's a well known fact that dogs and owners look alike, or at least share similar characteristics. Last week up at the church there were three spaniels - Jess and JD and another belonging to a small, anxious person. The small, anxious spaniel certainly bore a distinct resemblance to its owner and I looked at JD and realised that with his goofy overbite and scruffy appearance we did indeed share some characteristics. I'm not sure who Jess resembles. Perhaps she's her own dog. At the moment she looks like an animated furry gonk - a visit to the furdresser is long overdue.

Birthday Boys

Belated wishes to Jimmy:

Happy Birthday Jimmy the Poet!

And today is my wee brother's birthday:

Happy Birthday Stevie!

Holy Rude and Wholly Polite

Any qualms I had about being one of the oldies at the Church of the Holy Rude yesterday were swiftly allayed when we walked in to a sea of grey heads. The poor conductor, who was used to conducting two of the finest choirs in the world, let alone the UK, gradually lost the will to live as he tried to coax top C's from a soprano section with an average age of about 75 and to get the moribund alto section to sing anything but flat. The basses had two dynamics - forte and bawl - and the tenors, despite the conductor's polite suggestion that it was better to sing sharp than out of tune, droned along like a batch of elderly pancakes.

I enjoyed myself though. I did my best with the singing, and since I was on the front row, I was one of the ones who did look at the conductor - in fact we were eyeball to eyeball much of the time. He was a lovely man and tried so hard not to be irritated by our failings. I met up with some folk I haven't seen since I left Glasgow and got myself invited to an ordination, enjoyed the lovely atmosphere of the ancient church and had some very pleasant company.

Hot, cross bunnies

Today I'm making hot cross buns for the first time this year. The name always appeals to my childish sense of humour and I imagine lots of overheated, angry rabbits scurrying about to fulfil their Easter Bunny duties. It's traditional to eat hot cross buns on Good Friday, although I'm not sure why - something to do with the cross on the top for sure. Anyway, mine will be my contribution to the picnic tomorrow when I go to Stirling with Mr and Mrs Blethers to take part in a choral workshop in the Church of the Holy Rude (yes, that *is* how it's spelled - cue more childish humour).

Thanks to the wonders of my beloved iPod I've been able to practise some of the music for the workshop - much to the startlement of the dogs who both suddenly remembered urgent doggy business outside!

Mother?

Today is Mothering Sunday in this part of the world. It's a weird feeling, because although I'm a mother myself - I could easily be a grandmother - I still feel a daughter on this day. I find this very strange because my mother has been gone for eleven years, and although I frequently talk to her, I know she's not around any more. She died in the spring and her ashes were scattered among the bluebells in a wood she and my father loved (he's there with her now). I always feel very close to her when the bluebells start to come through as they are now, with promise of a mass of blue on the hillside behind my house as spring progresses.

Ain't technology wonderful?

Last night I had my first taste of iChat's video link chat. It's really awesome - Skype with pictures! My husband Rob is in London setting up a computer for a colleague. They each got the camera so that they could conference (can that be a verb?) while working at the computer. It's just a wee gizmo that sits on top of the computer, and although seeing myself on camera is always a shock - where did all those wrinkles and grey hair come from? I still feel 16, dammit - it was great to see Rob and Bill (neither of whom appear to have *any* wrinkles) and to 'look' around Bill's new flat. The dogs went bananas when they heard Rob's voice in the room and rushed to the door to greet him, barking joyously, but eventually settled down once he didn't actually appear - just another human mystery dogs have to live with, like why their owners could possibly eat smoked salmon without sharing.

Okay, next time I'm on video link I'm going to put on some make-up and brush my hair *g*

What's happening to my posts?

How odd. Blogger is eating my posts. They appear in the archives but not on the main page.

Judging others

It's surprising how quickly we judge people isn't it? And surprising how often we're wrong.

Yesterday my 'work' started up again and I spent the day closeted in various cupboards in the school. I had met the first boy before for a maths exam and, to put it kindly, it was a struggle. Yesterday was music and when I opened the envelope and found a Credit paper there I thought there must be a mistake. Surely he'd not manage Credit level! How wrong I was - he did really well, better than any other kids I've scribed for.

The last couple of weeks have been spent in the process of choosing a new rector for Holy T. I've felt a great weight of responsibility over this because, for the first time in my life, I'm one of the folk doing the choosing, and what's more, as secretary of the Vestry I have to co-ordinate the whole process. We were duly offered a candidate and told to discern whether that candidate was right for us. How terrifying is that? What if we got it wrong? Church is such an important part of my life that to have to live for the next five years or so with the result of a failed discernment process would be disastrous!

All the incredibly spiritual people advising me - the bishop, the present rector and a couple of others whose perception I trust - told me not to worry, God would help. Fine. But how do I know what's God and what's me?? All I know is that *I alone* am not a great judge of character and I have been known to get things very wrong.

Well, the process is over and the candidate chosen. I think it's a great choice and I'm delighted. So is everyone else concerned. Time will tell if we're all right.

Snow at last

I've been wishing for snow all week since everywhere else in the country seems snowed in. A meeting in Perth was postponed because the folks from up north are snowbound, but here it was wall to wall sunshine, albeit freezing!

Rob and I decided to take the dogs up Blairmore hill since frozen is good for walking up there (Blairmore is roughly translated as 'big bog!). We set out in lovely sunlight, but by the time we were halfway up it started to snow. Below us, the weather remained sunny, but at the top we could hardly see a thing - including the way down. You have to find a certain wall and follow it for an easy descent. We missed the wall completely, so our way down was 'interesting'. The dogs loved every minute and charged around in the snow, noses to the ground in ecstacy.

When we got down, there was no sign of snow at all. However, I got my wish.

Argh!

I'm beginning to understand how the grumpers and complainers in my church must feel when all is not going as they want it. God hardly got a look in from me yesterday - I was far too exercised by what was going on around me.

Allow me to explain.

First - it was a DIY Sunday. I usually quite enjoy these; there seems to be a unity among the congregation, as if we're all pulling together to get things right for God, and if we make mistakes - well, we did our best. But yesterday, wrong decisions seemed to be rife. Despite the fact we've been singing the Schubert setting of the 1982 liturgy for nigh on two years, a decision was taken to use Merbecke, which is a setting of the 1970, so the words were all wrong in the liturgy books, and we had several visitors who must have been floundering! I wanted to argue the decision when it was taken, but went along with it for the sake of peace - I should have stuck to my guns. Grr!

Second - the new ghetto-blaster and CDs provided the music. Not bad in itself, but of course the recordings don't take account of the bellowers in the congregation who drag every tune back to a plod. To overcome this, presumably, the person in charge of the ghetto-blaster *conducted*! Most of the tunes happened to be in 3/4 time which, taken as one to a bar, lilt along nicely, but alas - the conducting reduced us to a heavy plod once again. I can't even bring myself to describe what the bawling plodders did to 'Shine, Jesus Shine' - not one of my favs, but okay if it's done with a swing - argh!

We're spoiled with the music in Holy T. I just wish that as soon as the organist is away we didn't revert to mediocrity with such alacrity. Surely the Mass would be better just said and we could simply sing the hymns - I don't suppose God has any objection to being bawled at but it might help the rest of us keep our minds on what we're there for.

Third - a certain flamboyant member of the congregation kept us sitting for ten minutes at the end while he said the same thing twenty different ways (how wonderful am I) and nothing was mentioned about the rather successful Links lunch that was provided by a couple of hard-working but unassuming folk on Saturday for the benefit of a project in very poor region of Africa. It would have been an opportunity to collect a little more money. Why didn't I stand up and say something? I hate myself when I'm so wet!

Trouble is, all this makes me realise that I'm no better than the folk who object to any tiny thing being changed from what it's always been. I want it done MY way, dammit! I can feel a tartan skirt and a blue rinse coming on . . .

Enneagram

This amused me enough to try posting it here. Despite being only two questions long and despite none of the profiles given being wholly accurate, I thought the results close enough to the mark. Plus I want to see how it turns out in Blogspot.

the Peacemaker Test finished!

you chose BX - your Enneagram type is NINE. "I am at peace" Peacemakers are receptive, good-natured, and supportive. They seek union with others and the world around them. How to Get Along with Me If you want me to do something, how you ask is important. I especially don't like expectations or pressure. I like to listen and to be of service, but don't take advatage of this. Listen until I finish speaking, even though I meander a bit. Give me time to finish things and make decisions. It's OK to nudge me gently and nonjudgmentally. Ask me questions to help me get clear. Tell me when you like how I look. I'm not averse to flattery. Hug me, show physical affection. It opens me up to my feelings. I like a good discussion but not a confrontation. Let me know you like what I've done or said. Laugh with me and share in my enjoyment of life. What I Like About Being a Nine being nonjudgmental and accepting caring for and being concerned about others being able to relax and have a good time knowing that most people enjoy my company; I'm easy to be around my ability to see many different sides of an issue and to be a good mediator and facilitator my heightened awareness of sensations, aesthetics, and the here and now being able to go with the flow and feel one with the universe What's Hard About Being a Nine being judged and misunderstood for being placid and/or indecisive being critical of myself for lacking initiative and discipline being too sensitive to criticism; taking every raised eyebrow and twitch of the mouth personally being confused about what I really want caring too much about what others will think of me not being listened to or taken seriously Nines as Children Often feel ignored and that their wants, opinions, and feelings are unimportant tune out a lot, especially when others argue are "good" children: deny anger or keep it to themselves Nines as Parents are supportive, kind, and warm are sometimes overly permissive or nondirective Renee Baron & Elizabeth Wagele The Enneagram Made Easy Discover the 9 Types of People HarperSanFrancisco, 1994, 161 pages You are not completely happy with the result?! You chose BX Would you rather have chosen: AX (SEVEN) CX (TWO) BY (FOUR) BZ (FIVE)

My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 33% on ABC You scored higher than 50% on XYZ

Link: The Quick and Painless ENNEAGRAM Test written by felk on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Psalm for Hugh's retirement

Psalm Twenty-Three-and-a-Half.

Hugh is our gentle shepherd; therefore we want for nothing.
He maketh us to sit down and listen to the Lord; he maketh us to sit upon the pew and wait for the Lord; he maketh us to kneel upon the hassock – yea, even upon the bare wood.

He drifteth silently through the sanctuary of the Lord as a benign spirit.
He calleth upon the Lord in a loud voice; he calleth upon the Lord in a quiet voice and in the silence; and the Lord cometh.

And he explaineth to his sheep with exceeding diligence that the Lord shouldst be their refuge; he exhorteth his flock to worship the Lord in all things, to see the Lord in all things and to hold fast to the Lord alway; and the Lord cometh.

He moweth the green pastures, and keepeth them short; he braveth the wild beasts of the air that bite, and the Lord rewardeth him; He giveth unto him a new mower – yea, a mower to sit upon.

He climbeth to the very roof of the Lord’s house and cleaneth the gutters; he dangleth upon the ladder so that his flock may have light; even to the top of the bell-tower he climbeth and he showeth no fear: he putteth his trust in the Lord and the Lord holdeth him upon the ladder and he doth not fall.

He hath cut the very trees from the hill and hath lit many bonfires; he hath created a new view to the waters; he hath shewn the Lord’s house upon the hill to the weary traveller across the sea.

Hugh is our gentle shepherd; therefore we want for nothing.
He putteth his trust in the Lord and the Lord sees that he is good; he waiteth upon the Lord in the quiet places and in the wet places and in the cold places; he leadeth his flock in the paths of righteousness through the dark moments and he rejoiceth with them in the times of plenty.

O give thanks to the Lord for his servant Hugh, for he hath had a right judgement in most things;
Give thanks to the Lord for his good shepherd who hath led his flock with a gentle and loving hand.