Spooky or heavenly intervention?

Now let me begin by saying I'm not one of those people who see God at work in absolutely everything. I do believe that he is interested in every aspect of our lives but I also believe that He expects us to do things for ourselves as well. Like looking before we cross the road or not jumping off a tall building. And also I think some things are just coincidences. 

But now and again it's a coincidence too far.

You may know that I sometimes go into prison for the Sunday morning service. Sometimes I'm just part of the congregation, sometimes do the talky bit and sometimes, as yesterday, I lead, that that is, I introduce the speaker and the songs and stuff like that.

Yesterday the musician had chosen the songs and the first one was Amazing Grace. We're restricted in the songs we can sing as they have to be fairly well known or easy to pick up so we sing Amazing Grace quite a lot. While we were singing I was suddenly struck by one line: 'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far.

It's never hit me before but I felt I had to say something about it to the men. I've told the story on here before I'm sure but this will be a slightly different perspective.

When I was nineteen my mum had a serious stroke and was in hospital at the other side of town. We didn't have a car so one evening my cousin's girlfriend, Anne, offered to drive us there in her mother's car, us being me, my grandmother and my gran's sister, Auntie Gay.

When we came out of the hospital to come home my gran sat in the front passenger seat as was her God-given right as elder sister (!) and I went to sit behind Anne. Then my gran said, 'No, let Auntie Gay sit there so the car will be balanced.' (She and my great-aunt were both quite large ladies so I think she imagined the car toppling over if they both sat on the same side.) I duly swapped seats.

One the way home we had a crash: a lorry drove into the side of us and Auntie Gay was killed.

For a very long time I blamed myself. No, not blamed but felt I was the one who should have died. 'It should have been me.'

Then, as I say, yesterday the words of the old hymn struck me: 'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far.  Was it God who initiated my change of seat? I think maybe it was. 

Maybe he had plans for my life, plans for me to be an amazing servant for him. If that's so he may be a bit disappointed now; or maybe there's still time for me to be Billy Graham-like and travel the world evangelising millions. No, okay, I don't think that's likely either. Or maybe my purpose was to bear three wonderful children. Or just to make cakes every week for Zac's. Or as a friend has often been heard to say, 'My life is meant to be a warning to others!' Who knows? Well, God does, thankfully.

And do you know the strangest thing about this story? The thing that only struck me last night when I was in bed - which when I tell you what it is will make me sound like an idiot for not seeing it before?

Auntie Gay's real name was Grace. Spooky? Or heavenly?

Just call me Sucker

Before I was married I'd give a lift to work to one of my colleagues. He used to say that I had SUCKER written across my forehead in ink only other drivers could see because if ever a car was waiting to pull out, it'd pull out in front of me.

I reckon I still have SUCKER written across my forehead but now it's in ink that everyone can see. Except me.

So, tomorrow, I'm speaking in prison. I wasn't supposed to be but ...

I'm not sure when or how I became the sort of person who speaks in church. (When I say 'church' I mean Zac's or prison, of course, not 'real' church; they wouldn't have me.) Strangely enough I usually enjoy it - once it's over. 

Tomorrow I'm using the notes from the study we did in Zac's women's group on Thursday about Judas and Peter for my talk. It's going to end with something like: don't be a Judas (unable to forgive yourself and wasting your life), be a Peter (accepting that you'll fall and allow Jesus to help you up)! If I can just remember the rest of it I'll be fine. 

Having finished writing it out this morning I've read/orated it several times and I'm starting to confuse myself so I guess it's down to God and my memory from now on. I'll have my notes but I prefer not to use them too much.

I'll let you know how it goes.

And in the meantime I'll practise saying, 'No.'

Postscript, Sunday afternoon
Went okay. Apart from the whisperers, gigglers, sitters and man who knew more than me.

What not to say in prison

Wandering over the tip yesterday I was reminded of a talk I gave in prison one Sunday morning. 

When we first walked over the tip about 25 years ago it hadn't long closed and it wasn't the most attractive of places with rubbish still visible through the top soil. In fact the very first time when we returned home our dog then kept licking her paws as if they were stinging so we didn't go there again for a long time. Now nature has done a fantastic reclamation job and it's a lovely place to walk.

So, anyway, I'd noticed the variety of grasses that grew there and one day, just for fun, picked a sample of all the different ones in an area of about 1 square metre (which leads me, incidentally, onto another topic but I'll leave that for now), I used this great variety as the base for my prison talk on the uniqueness of every individual (and the love God has for each of us etc). I actually got up early on the Sunday and went out and collected a sample of grasses to take into prison with me.

When the service had ended and the men left to return to their cells the chaplain put his hand on his head and shook it despairingly. 'I can't believe you talked about grass in prison,' he said. I thought it had gone down okay but obviously he had other ideas.

'It reminds me of the young man you brought in once to speak,' he went on. 'He was talking about St Paul and how he held the cloaks of those who stoned Stephen. Do you remember?'
I shook my head penitently although I'd heard the story several times before.
'He asked the men if they'd like to get stoned.'

On the plus side, the chaplain hadn't been there the day I'd talked about pencils. Which would have been all right if I hadn't then spoken about having rubbers on the ends. I don't think I said anything about having lead in your pencil although peace of mind means I've had to delete some things from my memory.

Big Brother is watching you

Some people have a death wish; I appear to have a stupidity wish.

In between prison and the outside world is a room I like to call purgatory. When you arrive at prison you are first let into this room (and locked in) before someone comes from the other side to (unlock you and) take you in.

So, this little room has recently been refurbished and where there used to be lockers are now empty plastic-covered noticeboards. Waiting in there this morning I glanced around at the changes and my eyes happened upon the inevitable security cameras. 'Do not do anything stupid,' I said to myself. 'They are watching you.'

A stupidity wish. It seems that no sooner did I tell myself to behave normally than I spotted the mirror effect of the plastic-covered noticeboards. The distorting mirror effect, like you see at fairgrounds. Like the song of the sirens it drew me in and I began moving this way and that to see what peculiar shapes I could create.

I was just contemplating whether I could pull off the Harry Worth effect ...

when I heard the door being unlocked. The arrival of the chaplain saved me from myself.

I'm going to a wedding on Friday

So yesterday I thought I'd better go and buy something to wear.
'What?! More clothes?' Husband said. 'What about all the clothes in your wardrobe?'
I shrugged and set off for town. 

Or rather I set off for prison where I was being supportive at the service. Do you remember the Friday before last I was propositioned by an acquaintance recently released from prison? He's back in. In fact he was back in the same day.
It was his turn to shrug when I said, 'Oh Cookie!'
'It's my home,' he said.

So, anyway, back to the shopping.

I spent an hour that lasted a lifetime in Debenhams, tried on a dozen frocks and finally settled for a red lacy one. By the time I'd queued, paid and got back to the car I was already having second thoughts. Husband's reaction when I tried it on to show him made up my mind. 'I don't like it. Red doesn't suit you.'

I rummaged through my wardrobe; perhaps I could wear something I already owned. The best I could come up with were a lilac shift dress and a pair of white trousers. 
'I could wear that dress but I'll have to shorten it a bit.'
'You? Sew?'
I had to admit Husband had a point.

Today I returned to town to return the dress. Perhaps I could find a pretty top to wear over the trousers.

There was a pretty top in Monsoon that I liked but when I tried it on it was very low in the armpits. I assumed it was the design and it wasn't until I'd taken it off that I discovered it wasn't a size 12 but a size 22. (Note to self: wear glasses when shopping.) (Notice that other than the armpits it was fine; I just thought it was meant to be loose and flowing.) (And they only had it in 22.)

Three shops in and I was giving up the will to live partly because most of my time seemed to be spent avoiding eager youngsters trying to guilt me into sponsoring a child, taking up zen buddhism or joining the socialist worker party and partly because no-one ever make anything exactly as I want it. (Maybe I should give up writing and become a fashion designer. How does one go about that?)

It was on my fourth tour of Debenhams that I set myself this rule: you will not leave here without buying something to wear. Even if you hate it.

I must have looked pathetic as I loaded up my arms with things I didn't really like to try on because the Personal Shopper spotted me and hollered, 'Did you want to try those on?'
Now I didn't know she was a personal shopper at that point or I'd have said, 'No, no!' It wasn't until she led me into a little room labelled Personal Shopper that I began to get an inkling. Now I'm a bit wary of personal shoppers fearing that I will be talked into spending lots of money on something I hate but this one was very good and did find me the dress I ended up buying. 

And she said I was petite. (Okay they're paid to make customers feel good but it worked.)

And Husband liked it. And, even though I bought a top as well - to wear with white trousers - both items together came to less than the price of the original dress. And despite what Husband thinks the whole kerfuffle wasn't a cunning ploy on my part to make my purchase seem like a bargain.

But I might bear it in mind for future purchases.

Note to self

When I speak in prison I use personal stories to illustrate whatever the theme is and sometimes I think how crazy they must sound. I mean, what possible interest could there be for young men in their twenties, many of whom struggle to read, and for whom life is a struggle, in the stories of a 61-year-old middle class well-educated woman?

But if I tried to talk about my drug habit or my heavy drinking binges they'd soon suss me out as a fraud and I'd lose all credibility. So instead I tell them how, when I was in junior school, I was humiliated after falling over in the skipping race and having to finish it on my own. And how I was going to Bristol but I missed it and ended up in Bath. (Good grief, these stories sound even more pathetic when written down!)

But they listen and pay attention. One young lad must have been so engrossed in my story that when I said that I still struggled to think of myself as lovable or worthwhile, he piped up spontaneously, 'You are, Miss.' The boys around him started to laugh and there was a look of absolute horror on his face as he realised he'd said it out loud, and he quickly reverted to 'hard man not listening to this old biddy' mode.

And, remember I said there was a visitor who was very encouraging to me? At the end he asked me, 'Were you nervous?'
I thought he was joking so I said, 'No, of course not.'
But then he said, 'Only I noticed that you gave a - here imagine a deep 'Phew, I'm glad that's over' exhalation of breath - when you'd finished and we were starting on the last song.'

Although I was anxious beforehand I suppose that once I'd started I wasn't nervous. I'd prepared as much as I could; I just had to get on with it.

Just before the last song that we sang I played a track from a Jake Bugg cd. It's called Note to Self and that's what I wanted to encourage the men to do: write a note to themselves to remind them that they're special enough for Jesus to die for. And this blog post is my version of a note to myself. So that next time I feel a failure I can look back at this and be reminded that I'm special and worth dying for.

God rocks!

The first couple of times I spoke in prison just doing it was such an achievement that I came away with my confidence high; the more often I did it the more conscious I became of my short-comings and the more nervous I became prior to it.

This weekend I've peaked: really anxious, not being able to sleep and generally stressing about it.

I actually consulted God before deciding what to talk about _ I usually tell him after I've chosen - and then things just seem to come together so my decision to talk about 'loving yourself' seemed to be the right one. But that didn't help conquer my nerves.

I woke at 6 this morning, got up at 7 and began practising ... again. Then, as if that wasn't enough, when I arrived early at the prison (in itself a miracle for someone who is habitually late), finding myself on my own in the entrance foyer, I sat down and got out my notes for a final run-through.

After quite a few minutes I heard a voice saying, 'Can you hear me?'
Like Samuel I ignored it.
Then it came again. 'Can you hear me?'
Again I ignored it.
When it happened the third time I looked up to see the prison officer behind the glass screen peering at me.
'Are you talking to me?' I said.
'Yes, come here,' he said. 
I did as bid.
'I've been watching you,' he said.
'Oh dear.'
'Reading your notes, closing your eyes and moving your lips.'
'Oh. I didn't think you could see me through the darkened glass.'
'Oh I can see you very clearly.'
'Oh dear.'

He'd guessed that I was speaking in the service and asked me what I was talking about. I told him and he said, 'Oooh, hard one. Lots of us have skeletons in our cupboards that make loving ourselves difficult.'
I agreed and we went on to have a lovely chat before the others arrived and we had to go across to the chapel. As I went he said, 'You'll be fine.'

When the men came over the chapel was almost full and a number of them were quite giggly and chatty, suggesting that they possibly hadn't been in very long and were still drug-fuelled. It had the potential to be a rowdy meeting.

But they were amazing. They were completely attentive and quiet when I was talking and even though a few still had silly grins on their faces they didn't disrupt or disturb the service at all.

And afterwards a number of them thanked me and simply genuinely appreciative. A visitor, a friend of one of the chaplains, was most enthusiastic and encouraging - and I'd never met him before so it wasn't as if he was just saying it to be nice - and the chaplain himself said what a good message it was as the guys are so often put down by others and have been through their lives.

On my drive to the prison I'd asked God to use my weakness, to be strong in my inability, and to speak to the men even if it wasn't through my words. And He turned up and did just that. 

God rocks ... and so do I! (I say that now while I'm on a high; I'll be back to normal next time I do something stupid.) (So probably tomorrow.)

Magic, misery and meals

Has it really been that long since I last blogged? Doesn't time fly?

Quick catch-up then.

Sunday began with a Salvation Army major doing magic and ended with a 'communion wine' toast. No, strictly speaking it ended with The Village, the Sunday night BBC drama. It was the final episoe and it was rather a relief to get to the end: it was very black, physically and emotionally. In fact, they could have saved themselves some money by filming it in black and white, and they must have been penny-pinching because, if they were paying by word, they certainly didn't spend much on script. Most of the time viewers had to interpret significant looks to understand what was going on, which was fine if you interpreted correctly; not so good if you got it wrong. I have a feeling it will be back again with another series, which, no doubt, I will feel obliged to watch and Husband will have to put up with my regular, 'I really don't know what's going on in this,' comments. (He didn't watch it.)

But back to the magic. The Sally Army chaplain took the prison service and I have to admit I was so intent on his magic that I wasn't really listening to what he said. Which probably wasn't the idea, but it was amazing. Simple probably but I have no idea how he could flick through what appeared to be a child's colouring book to show blank pages followed by the next flick through where the pages had outline drawings followed by another flick through with full colour pictures. 

Then it was the first Sunday of the month tribal gathering in Zac's and as we were looking at 'Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,' we shared a meal together, rounded off with a raising of glasses.

I found out this afternoon that I'm leading the bible study this evening - or rather I volunteered as Sean has had reverse root canal work done today. But it's the final chapter of 1 Peter and is reasonably straight-forward so will be fine. (I am confident.)

Farewell Lionel

It was the last service in prison this morning for Lionel, the retiring chaplain, so a number of volunteers, supporters and old friends were invited along for the event.

It began strangely when the various clergy in full regalia 'processed' down what passed for an aisle. A brief interlude of normality followed before one of the older prisoners, a regular and old friend, who sits in the front seat and usually has plenty to say for himself, fainted and slipped sideways off his chair. To be caught - magnificently I must say - by one of the other chaplains. Medical aid was summoned but he insisted he was fine to carry on sitting where he was and refused to leave and miss any of Lionel's final words. 

Later he told me he'll be getting out soon and is getting married. I'm a little surprised by this news as I wouldn't have thought he was ever out of prison long enough to form a relationship. Let's hope she is good for him and can keep him sober.

Also turns out that the boys who took part in last year's Christmas service for me have all recently been given heavy sentences for heroin trafficking. And they're such nice boys.

In a funny sort of mood

I don't know how I feel. Just not quite right. I've been trying to cut down on my happy pills by taking half a day; perhaps I'll up it again. I obviously need the chemicals.

Anyway, what else? I've lost my blogging mojo. I think of things to write but then when I sit down at the 'puta I lose my enthusiasm. 

I had another rejection today for novel 2. It came as a surprise as I'd sort of forgotten I'd sent it to an agent and, initially, I just shrugged it off but I think gradually, during the afternoon, disappointment has crept in again.

Novel 2 is very different from This Time Next Year; it's a dark tale about a woman seeking her past. It's more literary - I like to think - but not proving any easier to get published. As Husband said when I was discussing it with him, 'Getting published seems to take more than talent.' And that's assuming I have talent! But it does: it takes the right person on the right day in the right mood to fall in love with your manuscript.

I'm waiting for my daughter and daughter-in-law to read and comment on my first three chapters of Novel 3, another light-hearted girly sort of book, before I start the submitting process. On days like this, in this sort of mood, I think, 'Can I really go through all that disappointment again?' But I know it's worth it because unless I get an agent/publisher I won't believe in my work. I may have published a novel that's been enjoyed but I still can't call myself a published novelist, not in my own head anyway. 

Big sigh. On to other things.

Speaking in prison yesterday I broke a cardinal rule: I asked a rhetorical question. In the chaos that followed, which felt like an hour but probably only lasted three minutes, answers were followed by questions such as, 'So was Jesus a Jew?' and 'What about Hitler then?' (No, I don't know what he had to do with the Easter story either.)

But I started my talk by saying sometimes it seems as if God ignores your prayers. I had a very swift godly rebuttal on that front.

There were a couple of lads in the back row, who during my introduction, were giggling and smirking. As we began to sing the next song I prayed that they would quieten down and not disrupt the others - or me as it doesn't take much to put me off my stride. Almost before I had finished praying two guards moved in and whisked them out and back to their cells. Not perhaps the ideal answer (which would be that hearing my words they'd realise their past mistakes and give their lives to the Lord, hallelujah, sister) but it'll do for me, thank you, God.

Oh yes, and when writing my talk I referred back to something in one of the bible readings we were having - except I'd decided not to include it after all and didn't realise until halfway through my talk. Hey, I handled it like a pro. 'Oh crumbs, are we on this song already? I meant to include ... but didn't so .. well, let me tell you a story.'

And all this with the new chaplain getting his first taste of what we, the little team that goes in to support, can offer him, should he choose to continue using us. 

I asked him afterwards if it was okay. He said, 'Yes, great,' but he would, wouldn't he?

A funny sort of week

I arrived in the office yesterday morning to find my computer not working. I began to follow some of its suggestions but then thought it might be fibbing to me so told it to try again - and it worked. So far so good

But then I had to spend 5 minutes in the Gents' watching the urinal.

My boss told me the flush was continuously flowing and to get a plumber in. I'd arranged for the plumber to come when I thought I'd better check out exactly what was wrong so I'd be able to show him but when I went into the Gents' neither urinal appeared to have a constant water flow - although I could hear water running. I wasn't entirely sure how a urinal worked and how often it was supposed to flush hence, had you come in, you'd have found me sitting and a'staring for 5 long minutes.

After flushing it continued to drip for a while but only intermittently. I'm not sure how many drips per minute constitute a constant flow but I was fairly sure this didn't. So I cancelled the plumber. No doubt when I go in on Friday the Gents' will be flooded.

I left work as normal and was about to drive away when a strange woman pulled up and gave me four bras. 'For Africa,' she said.
'Oh,' said I.

One of those days obviously.

Today I had to go into the prison for the second week of our Christmas carol service preparations.  It was brilliant last week, apart from the fact that I had 3 Scousers (Liverpudlians) who talked a lot and I needed a phrase book to understand them.

I always assume that everyone knows the Christmas story: they don't. So we went through it and then the question was asked: what do we celebrate at Easter then? So it was a fantastic opportunity to explain Christ's life and ministry in 5 minutes ...

Well, today, my Scousers were back and we made a good start - when I could keep them on the subject - but then the prison went into lock-down. They thought they might have lost someone so all the men had to go back to their cells and I was left sitting there like a box of figs at Christmas. 

I wasn't allowed out so I had to twiddle my thumbs and remember how very grateful I am that, usually, I can walk out when the session has finished.

Tonight I'm leading the bible study in Zac's because Sean's away and we're doing the bit where we're told that no-one who lives in Christ keeps on sinning. Yeah, right, that's going to be easy to explain.

My week can only get better. (Whoops, I shouldn't have said that before Zac's.)

My boys dun good

A good day's work. Just the ironing left to do and that can wait a bit.

Right, so where to begin? With the prison carol services I think.

Monday night's was a bit hairy as someone had set the lights on a timer and it all went dark just before the service was to start. We had to make do with emergency lighting, which wasn't the best for the men who had to read their words. They coped admirably though (and no-one took advantage of the dimness to divest the Lord Mayor of his chain).

I was so proud of my boys. And they did even better the next night when they could see properly.

From prison on Tuesday I went straight to Zac's carol service. A simpler affair - no Sally Army band and songsters - is it compulsory to be able to sing to be in the Salvation Army I wonder - with readings and favourite carols. And, as Sean commented, most people managed to sing the right tune ... most of the time.

But back to the prison. Afterwards I asked one woman what she'd thought of it; she said, 'Ahh, it was lovely.' I was very tempted to say that she can't have been listening if she thought it was lovely. Honest, raw, painful, yes; lovely no.

For weeks I've been meeting with a small group of men and we've been talking about Christmas and what it means to us. One man shared his story, which we used in the service. This is it.

I needed help. My life was in a mess and there was nothing I could do about it. I was an alcoholic and I’d spent the last 25 years of my life in and out of prison. I began to talk to the Samaritans, managed to get the help I needed. I went through the AA 12 steps programme and I got clean. I was so grateful I wanted to start giving something back to the community that I’d taken from for so long. I helped on soup runs, feeding the homeless. Things were going good for me.

Then my dad died. He’d been more than a father to me; he’d been more like my best friend. I could tell him anything and we talked everyday. Until he died.

I went back on the booze. The only thing that helped me from giving up all together was that I had to stay fit to look after my young son. But Christmas was the worst. I’d grown up in a large family and Christmas had always been special. We’d read the story in the bible and go to midnight mass. My dad had taught me the real meaning of Christmas and I missed him so much. That year I just about managed to get through the day while I had my son with me. In the evening, when he’d gone, I went up to the cemetery to talk to my dad. I woke up next morning lying on my dad’s grave, an empty whisky bottle in my hand.

And now I'm back in here. And in prison I have a choice: I can stay in my cell and do nothing or I can try and sort out my behaviour.

I've got to make the right choice, for my son’s sake.

Lovely? I don't think so.

Behind bars again

I'm in prison tomorrow. I think I'm in there more than some prisoners. I wasn't supposed to be in tomorrow but ... I am. And we're doing a presentation. There was a slight panic as, up till Friday, we didn't have a musician but wonderful Maureen, the Roman Catholic chaplain, found us an organist. Ande is doing the talky bit and I'll tie it all together.

Ande has said he's going to be talking on the verse in - um, can't remember - where the question is asked: who is this Jesus? I don't know what he's planning on saying but when I was walking in the woods I thought about the same question. I read my reflection in Zac's, and, apart from a couple of minor changes to make it flow more easily, I was happy with it, so I'll read this before doing the prayers in prison tomorrow.

Who is this Jesus?
He is mother, brother, friend, lover. He opens wide his arms and says, ‘Come, I call you by name.’
He is forgiver. He says, ‘Come, don’t be afraid. I may hate what you’ve done but I won’t stop loving you.’
He is healer. He says, ‘Come, with your broken body and your broken heart. Let me kiss you better.’
He is the beginning, the end and the middle. He says, ‘Come, I will be there for you. I have always been there for you. I am here for you right now.’
He is the assurance - no, he is my assurance that even a no-good like me is good enough.
He is my hope, my only hope.
He is my all.
xx

Just as I am

These words were written by Brennan Manning, an ex-Franscican monk. He's the author of The Ragamuffin Gospels, and if you ever get the chance to go and hear him, do go. Maureen read these words at the end of the services.

God loves me just as I am and not as I should be.
He loves me beyond worthiness and unworthiness.
He loves me beyond my fidelity and infidelity.
He loves me in the morning sun and the evening rain
Without caution, regret, limit or breaking point.
No matter what I do, He will not stop loving me.
And this is grace.
xx

So, prison

It didn't have a very promising start.

Members of Prison Fellowship attend the first service. They do prison visits and befriending and tend to be older and from the more conservative end of the church family. While we were waiting to be taken over to the chapel one of them was holding forth about the preaching that is done in many churches these days: "It's not based on the word of God. It's far too liberal." Maureen, the RC chaplaincy representative, tried to discuss this with him but he said, "You can argue with me until eternity and I won't change my view one jot." Hmm, right. And I was about to speak, suggesting a more sympathetic view of Judas. A totally unbiblically-based view.

Anyway, apart from a mildly-stuttering Doris Day the first service was fine. Oh, and apart from the fact that the singers on the recordings Alun had downloaded all sang at a slightly slower pace then the prisoners were used to so we all got a bit out of sync. But as Maureen said, "No-one understood what was said on the day of Pentecost either."

At the end Mr Critic shook my hand. I don't know if it were a sign of approval or an 'I'll pray for you, sister,' handshake but I didn't care. One of the young lads, as he left, said, 'Thanks, Miss, that was a great sermon.' Way-hay! That was far more valuable.

The second service of the morning is a RC mass. I asked if I could stay in for it and I was amazed at the silence and the respect with which the young men behaved for what was a simple spoken service. There are things I don't agree with in the RC faith but I was happy to go up at the end for a blessing. I couldn't take the host (bread) not believing that it had become the flesh of Christ but there's no such thing as too many blessings!

Then it was time for the third service and Mo and me again. I'd asked Maureen to read some Bible verses first time round; one of the prison officers asked if he could read some in the third service - that was a first! Also during the mass Maureen had some written prayers that she asked for volunteers to read. I thought this was such a good idea that we included it in the third service too. This time Doris got a serious case of the judders: ad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad-admiration, but by that stage nothing could bother me. I think I had a mild case of hysteria.

So all in all it was good morning although I dread to think what the chaplain will say about these women running amok and messing up his neat services as soon as his back is turned ...

Oh, yes, and Maureen asked me if I regularly led services at my own church. I laughed and said, 'No'; I didn't add what I was thinking: 'They wouldn't trust me!'
xx

I could be gone some time

You may be aware that I'm part of a team that helps in the prison on Sunday mornings. Every 6 weeks we do a presentation. That means that 3 or 4 of us go in and take the whole service, twice. Well we're doing a presentation tomorrow - or rather, I'm doing a presentation tomorrow.

Yip, just me.

I wouldn't mind but I wasn't even down originally as part of tomorrow's team! But thus is the lot of the organiser. Anyway I won't be doing it entirely alone. The two chaplains are away so Maureen, the Roman Catholic lady on the chaplaincy team is the 'facilitator'. That means she would normally let us in and introduce us and let us get on with it, but she's said she'll do any readings or anything I ask her to do.

One minor problem is that we won't have a musician. And my voice would frighten grizzly bears. But Alun solved that for me yesterday by downloading some songs from the internet.

So we'll starting the service accompanying well-known Muslim teacher, Yusuf Islam (once known as Cat Stevens), in Morning has Broken and we'll be ending with a reggae version of How Great Thou Art.

I'm rather glad the chaplain won't be there as Maureen and I will go with the flow and 'wing it', and I suspect the chaplain might be a bit doubtful about that attitude.

But if I don't blog again after tomorrow, you'll know they'll didn't let me out:

Doubting

I've been a bit lax on visiting especially over the weekend: I didn't even do many Photohunter calls. Apologies. I was a bit stressed on Saturday.

We were taking the services in the prison on Sunday and I was doing the talky bit. We'd met to plan and decided we'd look at Doubting Thomas and darkness. Saturday lunchtime I still hadn't got a grip on the subject and what to say. It wasn't until later in the day - after I'd considered playing ill, calling someone else and begging him to do it, having a service completely made up of singing - that I got my head around it. Sort of.

I wrote Thomas's story from his viewpoint (you can read it if you wish in The Bits That are Too Long) and after reading that, linked it with what I really wanted to say. It was a very seamless link I have to say. Mainly because there wasn't actually one but if you blather around long enough no-one notices.

What I felt was the important message to get across is the message that Sean presses on us at Zac's, the message that I'm finally getting, that God loves us just as we are.

On a sort of aside, when I posted Thomas's story on my other blog, I realised that there are comments on the first story that's there. I hadn't been back there for a long time so hadn't responded but I'm grateful for your kind words. It's perked me up no end at a time when I'm a bit in need of either:
a) a kick in the pants;
b) a lift up from the floor.

It's also reminded me that I don't have a link to it in my blogroll. I am so dozy.
xx

Have a good Christmas?

In prison yesterday morning. The service was a musical presentation by two women whose uncle was the last person to be executed in Swansea prison. He's buried in the prison and it's only in the last few years that, through the chaplain, their mother has been able to put flowers on her brother's grave. And finally lay him to rest in her mind after fifty years.

I played no role in the meeting; I was just there. But one of the prisoners gave me a Christmas kiss as I shook hands with them as they left. Knowing how strict the rules are about everything, I fully expected to be kept in prison! It's a different world with its own set of regulations. Not that I could have stopped him kissing me! At least we weren't in the segregated unit where the sex offenders are; in the chapel you just get the men who've stabbed their partners.

You know what it's like at this time of year: it's automatic to say, 'Have a good Christmas,' but how can you say that to someone in prison? I stuck to the old favourite, 'God bless you.' It's a pat saying but God's blessing can transform lives.

It was the same in Zac's on Tuesday.

On Thursday evening Zac's is the venue for a coffee bar for the homeless. Tuesday night was very cold and when I arrived there, several homeless men and women were collecting clean clothes or sleeping bags, and a few were tempted by the warmth to stay for the Bible study (and mince pies and hot drinks).

It was an eye-opener. I'd been thinking pretty well of myself for going to Zac's and blending in with those on the edge but I'd been fooling myself. Those who go to the Bible studies are on the edge and include addicts, ex-addicts, bikers, homeless, but fall off their edge and you'll land on a ledge that's a few steps from the sheer drop.

And that's when I was reminded of how meaningless a phrase can be. The homeless men were generous and wished me a good Christmas, and one said, 'May your angel go ahead of you.'
'You too.'

Stormy weather

In prison for church yesterday morning. We (Jez, Claire and I) took the service - or rather the services as we have to do it 3 times during the morning, for the different blocks. We were looking at the story of Peter, the disciple, who, when he tried to walk on water, was successful until he realised what he was doing, and then sank and had to be pulled out by Jesus.

What struck me about the story was not the fact that Peter stopped believing he could do it; far more amazing was the fact that he got out of the boat in the first place. How many of us, at sea in a storm, would trust someone enough to get out of the safety of the boat and walk on water? Not me, I'm sure.

Peter is my hero because he's such a doofus. He keeps getting it wrong, even denying Jesus after he'd spent three years living with him and knowing the sort of man he was. But in spite of that Jesus calls Peter his rock, and tells him that the church will be built upon him.

I think that's because Jesus saw beyond the man who wavered and had doubts, beyond the impulsive and foolish man that Peter appeared to be. Jesus saw the faith that made Peter get out of the boat, the faith that led him to give up everything to follow Jesus in the first place. And when Peter got it wrong, Jesus didn't give up on him; he just held out his hand and helped him.

* * * * * * * * * *

One of the songs we sang during the morning was 'This is the day'. We later noticed that the music for it was a traditional Fijian tune. We wouldn't have sung it if we'd realised beforehand! The previous day's defeat was still too raw for us to be magnanimous.
xx

My busy Sunday

The clocks said 8.15 when I left the house but really it was 7.15.

I'd somehow manged to put myself on the prison rota and, as we were doing the presentation, it meant being there for 8.30 am and doing it three times.

Yesterday was Amazing Grace Sunday (or Freedom Day), the day on which events were taking place all over the country to commemorate the 200th anniversary of the passing of the Act to abolish the slave trade (although slavery itself wasn't completely abolished until 1833), so that was what our meetings were based on.

In the segregated unit, I sat next to the man I mentioned a few weeks ago. Then he had been cheerful and confident, yesterday he was subdued. He goes into the witness box today to begin to tell his side of the story. He has been painted very black in the local newspaper; I hope his words get unbiased and fair reporting, and that the truth will be uncovered and justice done.

Another man in the seg unit had had to give permission for his brother's life support machine to be switched off. I don't know what he's in prison for but that is an awful decision to have to take when you can be there to say goodbye; how much worse when you don't even get to see the man whose life you're effectively ending?