Introduction: 3rd May 2021 May Bank Holiday & Feast of Ss. Philip & James

Introduction, Preamble, Apologia

Why?

As a Dyslexic Extrovert when faced with whatever life throws at me, my first instinct is to bend someone's ear, and not put pen to paper (or keyboard!). News is there to be shared over food, wine and, in my case, the family and church. I have never felt a Pepys-like desire to keep a diary, or Clarke-like desire to use the pen to expose a political friend, foe or hubris. However, over the past couple of weeks, the world in which I find myself has driven me into the arms of the Journal, and, prompted by friends, it is these musing I now offer.

On the 14th of April I found myself being examined, prodded and poked. I had tubes inserted, the tentative questions doctors asked, the caring administrations nurses bestowed; and for the first time in my life since my birth I spent a night in a hospital. 

I had now entered a realm unwanted and uncharted, and what a tea-soaked Madeleine did for Proust, a cannula in the back of my hand did for me. I was, uncontrollably and without invitation, transported into reflection and reminiscence. I felt an involuntary urge 'to write'. This rather pompous sounding urge was exacerbated by the illness shrinking my world from a metaphorical landscape into a hyper-realistic still-life.  

Who?

Who is this reluctant Diarist? Well, I am a 53 year-old vicar in a wonderful suburban West London Parish who lives with Sarah (wife), two children (Izzy and Alexander), a dog (Keble), cat (Thomasina) and 'lodger' (friend, and on-loan son) Ben. I'm very blessed and so pretty happy with life. The only "Doctoring" I have done involves the Body of Christ (my PhD thesis was on eucharistic sacrifice and mission), and definitely not anatomy. 

Hence, any reflections that follow come from a place of medical ignorance (which I could argue makes me an objective observer, but that would be twaddle). 

These past couple of weeks dealing with the vagaries of diagnoses, pain and fear put paid to any pretentious ideas of impartiality. The, as yet, unidentified and unexpected items in my intestine and activity in surrounding lymph-nodes means I still wait  for my 'Roadmap to Recovery'. If I were a day in the year at the moment, it would be 'Holy Saturday'. I wait, I long, I hear the cries of death, and keep stretching out my hand like Adam in the underworld longing for my Creator to pull me free.

Final mitigation

I have quickly learned I hate not knowing - the fourth fruit of the Holy Spirit is sadly wanting. Hence, as I re-read what follows I am aware that I consequently over-step marks 'on the record' I would otherwise not touch out of frustration, and, at times, the daftness of what I see and feel. 

Under normal circumstances Jill and Sue, the Editors of our Parish Magazine, offer caring breaks which suppress my over-active pen. Sarah, on reading these entries, has suggested I might want to 'tweak' the content, and I am sure she is probably right (she usually is!).

However - and for fear of sounding like I am spouting the worst type of self-justifying, consequence-free nonsense one often hears from reality TV, err, 'stars', "this is real, I'm telling as it is, I'm just being honest.... etc, etc, etc, ad nauseam" - the truth is, there seems little point doing this if it goes through the PR mincer. Hence, in the spirit of Montaigne: "These are my humours, my opinions, things which I believe, not to be believed. My aim is reveal myself..."

I am not writing with a specific motive in mind. For instance, this will not be the definitive guide to the theology of suffering or a 'self-help' book. What follows are thoughts, reflections, outpourings, feelings, and possibly absolute drivel at times. 

If you do persist with what follows, I hope you will be amused and ultimately hear my cry for prayer for myself, those whom I love, and those facing similar and much worse things.

Finally, it is my sincere intention not to demean, ridicule (well, not always!) or judge. I am profoundly aware of Jesus' instructions on judging, and the Church's symbolic reminder of that instruction at my funeral (hopefully a long way off!). 

On that day my feet, like all priests', will face the congregation and not the altar. For on the 'Day of Resurrection' when I arise I will face those over whom God, and the Church, have called me to serve. For on that day you, as well as God, will be my judges.... so please, be kind.