Mum died nearly a year ago. I miss her. I did not visit very often. I let the perceived demands of ministry get in the way. I regret that. It stinks a little. It is a failing of mine to want to be needed, and thus not make time for the things that are important.
In August, I wrote these words. They are apt still today.
Whispers and memories intertwine
Breathing colour into the monochrome
alas though only fleetingly
Shadows sit in unfamiliar places
Laughter is caught on the wind
and does not yet return
Even the cat treads gingerly still
For what was hallowed by departure
becomes gloriously ordinary now
Monotony broken by the promise of
fuller living to come
Today is different
The colour takes focus now, and the shadow of death fades a little
Although at certain times it is intense
The hard edge of grief is softer,
yet more painful as its jaggedness on occasion pierces the light
Laughter has returned, but there is an empty space in the room
and it sits on pause momentarily
The smiles return, yet the sadness is deeper
As the resurrection blues hum their now familiar tune
Christmas is a time when the absence of someone through death is particularly poignant. I knew this of course through my ministry as a priest. I know it now because I am a human being, which I realise for some will be an observation that surprises.
On 23 December, which would have been Mum's birthday, my brother and I scattered her in ashes somewhere near Bradfield. In the midst of Storm Barbara, another goodbye was said.
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