The Lord's My Shepherd

I really do like writing this blog. My mother recently called me a God-botherer, which is rich, considering she converted fron the Cof E the Catholocism to bring her children up in the Church. I think this is because I called a priest to give her the Sacrament of the Sick after a recent and very grave spell in hospital. My sisters' husband took quite an exception to this too, although absolutely none of his beeswax....
At least I can write this in peace, I haven't had any comments, adverse or otherwise, unlike the time I appeared in the press for a complaint I made to a supermarket...Phew talk about knives out! You should have seen the number of inarticulate insults I got, but that's another story.

There are so many lovely things to remember in life, like my baby son handing out pickled onions to everyone at his Nana's birthday party, and when my 5 year old makes me laugh when he still says, 'Ozzerwise' and 'Lellow' from babyhood.

But I have chosen, definitely, one of the hymns for my funeral. I know this sounds weird but in the past year, I have grieved and had to face death and illness of people close to me and chosen/listened to some very poignant hymns. When I'm at Mass I'm often reduced to tears by hymns, and the St Anne Mass (Macmillon) which is most touching when sung by the fantastic choir at St Marie Cathedral in Sheffield.
It's awful, the more embarrassed you feel the worse you can control the tears. I got huge comfort when I read that St Augustine, a noted former sinner but a great reformed person/speaker/writer, said that sung hymns overcame him and reduced him to tears. He famously said that, 'He who sings prays twice' and I was taught at school that the greatest praise for God was when you sing enthusiastically.

Anyway, back to the point..my hymn of choice is Psalm 23, The Lord's My Shepherd. Sung by the Kentwood Choir. The solemnity, pathos and beauty of the singers is breathtaking to me and it has been on repeat in the car now for two days (my poor children!).

The 23rd Psalm

The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name' sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

-- KJV

PS. I prefer the above version, although there are a couple of more contemporary ones you can see if you Google this Psalm.

Philosophise or get consumed by Stomach Ulcer causing Bacteria...

I heard on the radio this week (let's face it, most of my interesting, or otherwise, conversation is led by my radio programmes) that a Nobel prize winning Aussie discovered that stomach ulcers are not really caused by stress, but by a certain type of bacteria. He won the prize by proving that it was the bacteria by downing a glass full of liquid containing the bacteria, and henceforth getting an ulcer. The killer move in gaining the prize was that he further proved it was bacteria by taking anti-biotics and thereby curing the ulcer...the discoverer of the cause and the cure for stomach ulcers in one swift programme.

So not much fear of getting an ulcer no matter how much stress there is in life, although I never really hear of low stressed people getting an ulcer, it always seemed to be the super-charged Wall Street traders in the 80's. Must've been the bad diet I guess.

At the moment I'm trying to download some CAD software for a one off technical job (the first time in 23 years I've been approached to do private work, woo hoo!), and I have got to say that I earned the same amount in 2 hours sat on my bony butt as I have been doing in 3 weeks, tramping up and down the (mostly) well heeled streets of a local village, plying my Avon books to interested and sometimes blatantly uninterested parties.

Ii have to say that the humbler residences are really my cuppa, lovely friendly and encouraging people, who give you smiles, eye contact and a warm feeling. The more priveliged, the grander, the bigger the house, generally the colder, the ruder, the more condescending the occupant. They seem to automatically assume that, because you're selling something, you must be an under educated low life, and less than a human being for that. Which is really not cricket, as, if you're a decent person, who gives a stuff about how educated someone is, or their background (as long as not a danger to anyone else, of course).

But great chuckles also, reading about fellow Avon plyers-of-books' experiences of the rudeness of folk, one saying that a lady had told her, with a look of, yes, sure it was pity, 'Don't be too hopeful dear, I find it all rather cheap'. Guffaw!
I got a note in a book, which I'm absolutely positive was meant kindly, but saying that she had Avon from her neighbor and she 'hopes it works out'...Bless her, but made my heart sink for a minute with foreboding of hard times ahead..

Fish & Chips and the Great British Seaside

Just to start this posting, I want to say how disappointing life can be...I have posted Gulag Voices..and one of the views I have had seems to be from India, the viewer clicking on during a search for a nasty wierdo perverted website, where my blog has somehow appeared because it contains the words cruelty and gang rape (and will probably now appear again)..My reaction to this is, perverts, low lifes, wierdos etc, mend your ways!! Judgement will be upon you!! I could say more but don't want to waste more time on the pervs.

Just been for a couple of days to the coast, a lovely traditional, small and historical coastal town with a lovely Abbey. Picked a room last minute for us, and it was really quaint. Attic room with low beams and a perfectly decorated bathroom with a bath stand-alone (the kind with feet and chrome fittings, yum) and a metal wall hanging in the shape of a tree. Atmospheric lighting too! My boys had a field day with the fake tulips in a vase very low down, which made me think that the proprietors had no small children (it is attached to a family room).
Breakfast was perfect, huge and well presented/cooked. The porridge was served with maple syrup and cream, and was the best I've ever tasted. They had cleverly used last nights left over baked spuds fried with the skins on with the egg, bacon etc..brill, will use this idea too in future.

There were drawbacks though; the little one who won't sleep anywhere but his cot at home, would not sleep. Think it was 11.15 ish before exhaustion got the better and then after an unsettled cool night on a very uncomfortable mattress and a constantly coughing 5 year old, little un was up 5.50 am. That day was quite tiring! I have about 8 bumps on my head from constantly walking into low beams and sloping walls and a couple of those were stunners. The baby was unimpressed with the glossy bathroom lino, which was like a skating rink and he unexpectedly did the splits once or twice. So, beautiful place but no return planned. Just wonder how they jumped over the health and safety hoops but maybe there weren't any, as I'm thinking that most of the tiny places in this old town are similar.

Just heard that Pope John Paul the Seconds remains have been exhumed and he will be beatified. John Newman was recently beatified, although the miracle performed could have been a little shaky. Will research this.

Passion Sunday, or Palm Sunday

To me, this is one of the saddest days in the Church calender, apart from Maundy thursday and Good Friday. I think this is because Jesus was let down so badly by his disciples. He knew that he was going to die a hugely painful death, and wanted his friends to support him, by keeping watch while he prayed for the strength he needed. But they kept falling asleep, and not only this, he knew they would desert him when he needed them most.
He must have been a hugely charismatic figure, with crowds of people gathering to listen to him, and the stories of his miracles must have made him a spectacle of hero worship although became his downfall as he himself knew it would (by making him a target of jealousy and suspicion).
Yet, at the critical moment, when he needed his friends most, they betrayed and deserted him. How many times have we been unpopular because of our belief? How many times have friends been unsupportive and surprised us by this? I think when bad things do happen to us, really bad things, the way we get comfort is knowing that Jesus knew exactly what we are feeling, even if his experience was different, he really knew the meaning of betrayal and pain. I think this is the answer to the faltering of faith we have when bad things do happen, 'How can God let such things happen?'.
I mean things like, when the good die young and the bad folk seem to hang around forever causing trouble? This is the answer, keep your faith because God is with you through your pain.
I think this is one reason why he brought Jesus into the world too, as otherwise, how could we identify with God in our darkest moments. When I think about God, reading bible stories I suspect that he grew and changed and had to alter tactics many times to manage the evolving people. I wish he would enforce stuff in a similar way now, I guess the prophets are unneeded now the Son of Man has changed the world forever.

Gulag Voices made me count my blessings...

After much pre-planning, chnaging my work/childcare days and the dentist, to achieve an important appointment this week...After over a week of gruelling tummy bug for the baby, night and day washing, cleaning, bathing, my older son became sick with terrible cold and cough on Wednesday. High temperature, the lot. Up 1am to 4am this morning, me sponging him with a cool cloth. I thought I'd got used to the lack of sleep but waves of nausea kept flowing over me whilst laying listening to his racking cough.
So all the plans are kyboshed too, I can't keep the appointment (my only hope, my mother has the sickness bug now, too, and with her not being too robust please to keep her safe), and still have to pay for the childcare I planned so carefully, and now can't see the dentist for ages.
Of course I'm not moaning about the boys being ill, I would cut off my right arm for them and it doesn't matter how little sleep I get. Even when all my letters and numbers  get mixed up when I write.

Especially when I read a piece my Mum had cut out for me in the paper, about the book just written called Gulag Voices. 'Gulag' is an acronym for what was broadly the Soviet slave labour camp system. It was terrible but at it's worst under Stalin.Torture, astonishing cruelty, gang rape, and starvation were the norm. So humbling, makes you feel so outraged, angry, hopeless and devastatingly sad.

I will describe the worst one for me, because the lady in question, Hava Volovich described her baby daughter reminding me of my youngest son, and what happened to her was unspeakable, and of course not at all an isolated case.

Hava was a newspaper sub-editor, (always a dangerous job in countries with unscrupulous governments)imprisoned for being publicly critical of the treatment of Ukranian peasants. She was 21, and was one of the tens of thousands of young prisoners to become pregnant and give birth in the camp.
Prison nurseries existed but because of punishing regimes, starvation and cruelty, the children often died. She worked in the forest felling trees in the day and at night, shared a tiny room with 2 other mothers. She brushed the bedbugs off her baby by night, and by day had to leave the babies with women who they knew would take the food out of the children's mouths.
'Every night for a year, I stood at my child's cot, picking off the bed bugs and praying, begging God to prolong my torment by 100 years if it meant I wouldn't be parted from my daughter.'
Eleanor had just started walking and talking when they were transferred to the 'mother's camp' in a freezing cold freight car. She saw her baby turn from a chubby little angel with golden curls to a pale ghost with blue shadows under her eyes and sores on her lips. Through wretched illness, she had to bribe the guards with firewood to see her daughter outside normal hours.
But the things she saw..Nurses shoving and kicking children out of bed before washing them with ice cold water. She saw a nurse grab the nearest baby, tie back the arms and cram hot porridge down the throat.
'My little Eleanor began to fade faster. 'Mama, want home', she cried one evening, her little body covered with mysterious bruises'. On the last day of her life, she could not even stand being breast fed, the description of pain is heart rending.
'In the evening, when I came back to my little bundle of firewood her cot was empty. I found her... in the morgue among the corpses of adult prisoners...she had spent one year and four months in the camp and died on March 3rd 1944'. I've had to mop my eyes so many times writing this, because I can't see the keyboard. It makes me hold my children fiercely close and defend them like a lioness, even more.

I hope I'm not breaching any copyright laws. My Dad was in a Russian POW camp and spoke very little about it. His friend, Roman Rodziewicz, a noted war hero, (and involved in the film Major Hubal, 1973, because of his real-life involvement) told my mother that he'd tried to drive a nail in his own head, due to the brutal treatment by the Gestapo and in Auswitch, Germany.
You can not even call some people animals, animals can't be this evil. People who endured these camps, slavery, war crimes in the past and present must have surely already been in hell or purgatory now and go to paradise no question. It must be the case of, Happy are the poor in Spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven, a huge understatement in some cases.

Mothers and Sons, and Attila the Stockbroker

There was a great programme on Radio 4 this week, with Jenny Murray and included Dr Miriam Stoppard, about the mother/son relationship. I had to identify with much of what was said, including one description of how special the relationship is.
At one point, JM remarked, 'How are we going to get through this without bursting into tears?', which made me laugh because tears were already rolling down my face making white lines down my hastily applied 'bronze' face powder. This is always scrubbed on at top speed in the mornings, accompanied by a sinking, 'Oh Lord, I'm late' feeling.
The programme discussed the mother in law aspect of the relationship, which can be a really touchy subject in some families, and so much of what I worry about for the future of my sons.

One point that was discussed that I pondered on and now come to a conclusion for myself..is the love unconditional. I think as they get older (and develop behaviour issues at times), yes the love is unconditional but approval is conditional.

Attila the Stockbroker read out a poignant and very touching eulogy he'd written about his mother, well worth a listen. He obviously bursts with pride about her part assisting the scientists to crack codes at Bletchley Park during WW2, and I totally identify with this, being so humbled and having so much respect for my parents' very different War experiences. My late father was a Polish prisoner of war in Russia and carried the scars from shot wounds suffered during the war on his body and head. He was also at Monte Casino. My mother was younger and endured the war as a child, it ended her education and scattered her family.

PS On a totally different note, why are some programmes on tv obsessed with bonking? If you leave the telly on it appears unnanounced at any time, my 5 year old thinks I have a nervous tic, jumping to the remote to switch over all the time, even in the afternoon. I think it's a good filler of time when the story is weak, plus it's bound to sell but can't we have a choice to opt in instead of out? Sure, you have the option to 'not watch', but as I don't have the time or inclination to peruse the pogramme guide to scan for adult content per day, I'm at a disadvantage. No wonder tv is more often off than on here.

Adam Ant

On the Ropes on Radio 4 on a Tuesday can either be cringe or very good. Max Mosely was cringe. A self indulgent, selfish and self deceiving person (in addition to deceiving his wife of course). Not that I should be judging anyone, as a Christian but everything that came out of his mouth made me really sad, and mad.
Adam Ant, or Stuart Goddard, on the other hand made me feel sad but in a good way. He came across as a decent bloke really, who tried his best and cracked under the hard work and pressure from the record company, earning only 9% profits in the process...
Probably still a decent wage but seems awful whan you listen to what he went through as a result.
It tickled me when he referred to the mental institution he'd been in as a 'nut house', and was rebuked by John Humphries. After all, he'd been committed to the place so he can call it what he wants, in my view. What did annoy me was when JH called Bipolar disorder a disease, and SG did pick him up on that.

What was so sad about it all is that people like him can be very creative and productive, then they crack and are totally helpless in some awful situation they didn't want. They have to deal with the repercussions and stigma forever.
Mental illness is so misunderstood. It seems on the increase, maybe due to the pressures and pace of life. The mentally ill ae treated like cattle and forced to take medication that has awful side effects. It may have the desired effect in one way (stopping dangerous behaviour, keeping the patient quiet, lessening the 'nuisance' factor) but the long term health and wellbeing of the patient seem almost never to be taken into account. The description of what SG experienced sounds appalling and I know that it's not an isolated case. I hope he can acheive what he wants, and that is never to be in that vulnerable state again. Let's hope for a better future for all mentally ill people, and better treatment.

On a lighter note, one lunchtime this week, I saw a van with the logo advertising 'Photography at heights'. It had all kinds of equipment strapped to the top. You could only imagine the stuff they did, from mountain tops etc. Then the guy stepped out of the van carrying a little step ladder, all of 2 steps. He climbed to the very top of these and took a picture of a sign face in a car park. Just wish I'd had a discreet way of taking a photo.