Aldham, St Mary's

The tower's old-hewed flint
Shone warm in my memories' Autumn sun.
Up here my soul was formed
Here on this antique mound swelled with the dead
His radiance first broke in.

From Saxon coffin lid
And polished pews once carved by roughened hand
The gospel words first danced
In sunlight sparkled through by diamond window pane.
Here Jesus came to me.

And is it true? These words
In cold quiet air on church-topped, wind-topped hill
First terrified me so.
Were these the times of the Apocalypse long-dread?
Were we near, unawares?

And I talked to that space
That drew the eye, twixt table and cross, 'neath bi-fold panes
The absent presence of God
His lingering, merciful echo, calling me then,
Rang down through centuries dead.

I wanted more than here,
These whitewashed stones, these wooden ranks that once were full,
When Lord of earth and sky
Was venerated and his Sabbath kept secure,
His just dues paid with prayers.

I was called away to more.
The thick wood set in its frame once more, the latch dropped,
The wind stirred, the still spoke.
The names that rose from crumbled stone spoke stillness.
Silence slipped into my soul.

Far from the rabbit's sprint,
The dark crows' wheeling, the spike of sheltering thornbush,
The sheen of winter green,
In a city of stony hearts and steepled minds
I sinned; yet found my faith.

Aldham, ne'er quite forgot,
Fell far from view, its promise done, its purpose filled.
Life wheeled ever on.
Not so for her: my mother ever true stayed with these stones
And now they stay with her.

The north side's wind blows cold.
Fresh flowers here, and photocopied verse attached,
Break death's hushed silence.
So vivid green, the fresh-cropped grass that holds my tears,
That damps my mourning knee.

The sun shines on for now.
In hedgerows near and far, life and death turn onwards.
So must it be. The pain
Of separation now, the joy of union found:
These all to memories turn.

And turn again. This green mound
On which Christ sat within St Mary's heart is pregnant now;
She mourns no more her dead.
The plague-black homes which crowded once her skirts lie still and green.
This crop of souls awaits
The final trump
The happy throng
The endless day.

And Mum's soul too
With secret smile
Will rise today.

On the Cross

Nulla dies sine cruce! No day without its cross!

This spiritual truth was recognised by St Josemaria Escriva, whose biography I recently read. This is one of the things that stayed with me after reading it. It is a transformative realisation: the natural human tendency is to flee from suffering - to minimise it at least.

Yet the Christian seeks to follow Christ who said, "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me". This is a radically unnatural thing to do: to accept suffering and see it as spiritually beneficial.

Yet the saints have always lived this mystery at a deeper level: not simply accepting the suffering given, but joyfully embracing it! Once one realises that suffering is not meaningless and destructive but unites one to Christ's cross and hence calls down graces upon us, our reaction is transformed from sorrow into joy.

Fortified by this realisation, it has now become my daily custom to greet my cross joyfully, as an old friend, when first I encounter it: "Hello, cross!" Nothing gives me more joy and serenity in the midst of daily life than this simple act of joyfully acknowledging that Christ is constantly offering me this means of grace, this flowering cross, this abundantly fruitful tree of life.

Serviam!

May God be glorified through these worthless words of mine.

May these words written in silence model me after the heart of St Joseph, holy, humble, hidden, sanctified through proximity to Jesus and Mary.

To the reader: these words are less for you than for me, that they might be a form of prayer for me, that they might express the love of God that wells up inside me. Since they come from within they must necessarily remain anonymous, following the command of Our Lord that he would pray must retire to his room and pray in secret.

The words I wish to share - which humility pulls me back from sharing, and yet nevertheless I feel called to share in some way - will draw on the inspirations I have been given in the course of a busy daily life, most often from meditating on the Rosary. One of my chief goals in writing this blog is to put into writing, at last, certain inspirations I have found which for me have given greater depth to this familiar prayer.

I must acknowledge at the outset my deep gratitude to the late Pope John Paul II of blessed memory for the inspiration he gave me through Rosarium Virginis Mariae, in which the Luminous Mysteries of the Rosary were first presented to the world, and after which I have named this blog.