Try saying the name “Videniskiai”: for an Anglo-Saxon of nearly eighty years it was an almost insurmountable challenge which I got round by British mumbling. How cross my mother would have been! “Do speak up dear, no-one can hear if you mumble into your bosom.”
On Sunday I’m going on a two-nights-away trip, and if you could see the stuff I’m taking, you would think it was to the Pole.
When one hears or reads the gospel this Easter day, be it Matthew’s, Mark’s, or, as in this case Luke’s, the time-scale collapses and the centuries crumple. The event is old and new, years are meaningless.
Saturday has dawned and the forecast is for quiet weather, getting warmer. There may be sunshine. There will be Stations of the Cross at ten o’clock. And then serious cooking for tomorrow’s Feast.
“Give me again the joy of your help…”
May we join the chorus of angels in an endless Alleluia!
Just occasionally GK Chesterton whams you in the solar plexus and you shout Yes!!
I throw down the gauntlet: write your own Epitaph. Here’s mine for starters: “Here lies Ginny holding forth,/ gobby as we say up north. . .”
Last weekend I failed to mention not only the 70th anniversary of the D-Day Landings, but also the great Feast of Pentecost. Too late for D-Day, but today is the Feast of St Ephraem the Syrian.
What’s more, any day now he will send the comforter to show the way.