The Last Post: Happy Easter!

I have mud under my feet (a LOT of mud), but the weather has cleared to fine sunshine, though still cold. Our Easter eucharist was last night, with the New Fire lit and the Resurrection proclaimed. I have walked through the woods, with primroses and wild daffodils and the first signs of wild garlic all around me. I have been sitting at the top of Ten Acre Field with skylarks singing overhead. Tomorrow I shall return to the sorting and disposing and packing. Less than 60 days remain now. For the moment, we have Easter celebrations, rib of beef for lunch with eighteen people.

This is my last post on this blog. Thanks for reading. There will be a new blog from the waterways sometime in the future, but for now, this is it.

Alleluia, Christ is Risen! He is Risen indeed, Alleluia!

Holy Saturday

At Sheldon. The rain is pretty well continuous now, but the signs of Spring are more evident than further north. There are daffodils and pink camellias in bloom. There may soon be cherry blossom. But it is still cold. We have greased the field gate latches and hinges; put preservative on the greenhouse shelves; cleaned the mud off the tractor; prepared a mailing of 1400 leaflets to supporters; and done all the Holy Week ceremonies as well. On Good Friday we took the life size cross to the mound in the Barn Field, and three strong men erected it, hammering it into place, while the Passion was read in drizzling rain. Today we rest, as our Lord rested in the tomb.

The End of the Tunnel

It's Palm Sunday. It's a bright Spring morning, with just a few flecks of rain. I've had a lot of dry sunny Palm Sundays, and a lot of cold wet and even snowy Good Fridays and Easters. I walk the dogs over the hill to look at the view of the little town spread out below me. The church bells are ringing. We have a lovely Palm Sunday procession, with a very obliging donkey, processing through the town for the service in church. This is my last Palm Sunday, but I'm not there. The Bishop is taking the service. I shall go off to keep Easter quietly on retreat and then come back and carry out the process of extracting myself from the vicarage. I hope, as always, for a meaningful Holy Week, and a joyful celebration of resurrected life.

The Final Furlong

One does not need to be appalled at the behaviour of paedophile priests, or the alleged covering up of such behaviour by church authorities, to find the Church an increasingly difficult organisation to deal with. Not only does it develop arcane and convoluted systems that people outside don't understand, but it seems that very often the people on the inside who operate the systems don't understand them either.

Nothing is more certain than the fact that on a regular basis clergy will leave parishes and other clergy will arrive. is there any system to make sure this happens smoothly? What do you think? i can't find out how to make sure that the phone number stays the same for my successor (This didn't happen when I came. The phone number, having been the same since Adam was a lad, was suddenly different, and everyone was very lost for the best part of two years).

How does one actually resign?

Before Christmas:

Archdeacon: You'll need to sign a Deed of Resignation, at least two months before you finish, so that the formal processes of finding a successor can begin.
Me: I don't think I do that, as I'm not the incumbent and don't have the Freehold.
Arch: No, you do. it's just the same.

This week:
Me (in phone call to Archdeacon's office): The paperwork for my Deed of Resignation hasn't arrived. What do I do?
Secretary: I'll get back to you.
(Later)
Sec: You don't need a Deed of Resignation, as you are not the incumbent and don't have the Freehold.
Me: I said that before Christmas!
Sec: Have you sent the bishop your licence for him to cancel it?
Me: No.
Sec: Well you'd better do that this week, otherwise things could be held up.
Me (after putting the phone down): Aaaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

The Last Stretch

We have got into the sorting and downsizing big time now. the boxes are piling up in the bedroom formerly occupied by the Dude. Our music collection is digitalised and stored on two iPods. I have a slide scanner copying batches of slides, which go back thirty years to our backpacking days in Greece, turkey and Morocco, so we can look at them all on our new laptops. The study is dismantled, and most of the theology gone to younger clergy or into the diocesan resource library. We hope our old sewing machines might get a new lease of life and be shipped out to Africa by Tools for Self Reliance. Oxfam bookstores and the local hospice shop are swamped. It's an emotional time; releasing and invigorating, but also confusing as our past is spread out on the floor, and packed away or given to others. A needful thing, I'm sure, but hard in some ways.

Flicks in the Sticks 2

What a success the Border;lines Film festival was! We saw eight films in two weeks, including Up in the Air, The Road, Frozen River, In the Loop, Nowhere Boy, and the great Ian Dury film, Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll to finish. Films are good for me at the moment, as I can't seem to get back into reading novels, and just browse on newspapers. A two hour film is just right. Unfortunately, i can't really manage to write about the films either, but they were all well worth seeing. And watching films in a cosy venue not too far from home, often with a bar that will let you take a drink in, with people you are on first name terms with, is great. one venue even shows supporting programmes of old newsreels and has an interval with choc ices on sale! Brilliant!

A February Sunday

One advantage of being on light duties or "therapeutic work" as my doctor calls it, is that I can do some of the things I've wanted to do but never got around to. Last Sunday was bright sunshine after overnight snow, so i crunched off across the fields to the small Friends meeting house, to the weekly Quaker meeting for worship. I've always been around Quakers, and have great respect for them, though I did find on peace actions in the eighties that some of the old lady pacifists were in fact some of the fiercest people you are ever likely to meet. I've been to meetings for worship, but mainly in big cities. Here the meeting is held in the upper room of an old building that used to be a barn - i suppose it was a hay loft or some such. The beams are old and low, so it's easy to crack your head. The focus of the room is not an altar, or a candle, or a picture, but a huge woodburning stove, crackling merrily. Chairs around the edge of the simple room accommodate the dozen of us who turn up. Outside we can hear the bleating from the farm mother and baby unit, with new lambs and protective mums not sure whether to approach the gate because we are going to feed them, or stay back because we might do them some harm. An hour of silence, broken by a few well chosen words, and then hot coffee and flapjacks. Then a walk back, the sun still shining, and home at 12.