Happy Easter!Memories of Easter Sunday and Easter Monday, real holidays (holy days) when everything is transformed, finally everything comes together and all the waiting is worth it. Childhood lessons in death and resurrection, remembered with much gratitude.
The day dawned bright and early on Easter Day, when everything was made new. The long waiting was over and the clean house on Serlby Rise felt warm and welcoming.
On the polished, dark wood sideboard stood a line of chocolate eggs, wrapped in bright foil and adorned with satin bows.
Why don’t Easter eggs have bows around them anymore?
A special treat was one from my godmother, which had my name iced onto the chocolate. How magical was that?
Breakfast was boiled eggs. We all recognised our own egg because dad had drawn cartoons of our faces on them!
Later, we would eat roast dinner and for tea there’d be cakes which mam had baked. That day was a feast day, a real holiday (holy day), for Jesus was alive and everything was made new.
For me, even better than chocolate eggs, personalised boiled eggs, roast dinner and cakes were my new shoes. Easter day was the day I wore my new brown sandals with their lovely leathery smell, shiny buckles and crepe soles. Whatever the weather, this was the day for summer shoes, which I would carry on wearing until September.
I’d known about them for weeks and would open their box, unwrap the tissue paper and delight in their beautiful newness.
When we’d eaten our breakfast, and were washed and dressed as smartly as possible, mam took me to church. There, a miracle had occurred. On Good Friday, I’d been glad to leave the dark, sad, tomblike space to get out into the sunshine, but on Easter Day we walked into dazzling light. The scent of flowers and beeswax hit us first and then the sight of Arum lilies, candlelight and polished wood, brass and silver.
Everything was clean, fresh and bright. The contrast couldn’t have been starker and that childhood lesson has taught me more about death and resurrection than anything I learnt at theological college.
I am so grateful to the women (I assume they were all women) who worked so hard in church to make Easter so real and meaningful.
In our house, the holiday (holy day) didn’t end at bedtime on Easter Sunday. Easter Monday was a day for packing up a picnic and getting into the countryside. It felt and still feels like a very welcome rule that we have to be outside, enjoying spring and new life, whatever the weather and happily for me, it always involved Hot Cross Buns. That’s a rule I’m happy to carry on keeping!
That’s what I’ll be doing this Easter Monday.
What about you? What memories do you have of Easter?
However you celebrate Easter and whatever it means to you, have a very happy and blessed time.
Memories of a childhood Good Friday and Holy Saturday. A fond memory of a friend, church and home and a celebration of Hot Cross Buns! Early lessons which have stayed with me.
The sun was shining on a cold Good Friday in the 1960s. I stood by the post box on Serlby Rise chatting to my friend Coleen.
We were both on our way home from different churches. Coleen had been to St Edward’s (Roman Catholic) and I’d been to St Bartholomew’s (Anglican). I’d walked past our house, to spend more time with Coleen.
At church, I’d joined in a little group of children, walking the stations of the cross, kneeling in front of each picture and giggling when we heard that Jesus was stripped. We had done this every week during Lent, but on Good Friday it was different. The church itself had been stripped of anything beautiful and what couldn’t be moved was covered in black cloth.
I was left in no doubt that Jesus was dead, and this was a sad day. I was glad to get out into the sunshine.
Probably, Coleen had had the same experience and we talked about it. We asked the question why that day is called good when what happened to Jesus was so awful.
Eventually, we said goodbye and went our separate ways. I went home to the longest hours of my life. At home, the house was in turmoil. Mam was cleaning everything to within an inch of its life, all the windows were open, and it was cold and tense.
I recognise this tension in the house when I’m cleaning, and I apologise to anyone affected!
The fish that we ate was lethal with bones.
How come we can buy and eat fish that isn’t full of bones nowadays?
Jesus was dead and buried. The afternoon and next day stretched before me in empty desolation.
There were compensations though, mainly in the form of Hot Cross Buns, which were and still are, one of my favourite foods. Mam was a forgiving mother, but she was very strict when it came to hot cross buns. To eat one before Good Friday was unforgiveable! Thankfully she always provided plenty so we could eat leftovers right up to Easter Monday!
I still have that sense of emptiness through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. For me, the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday is Holy Saturday, not Easter Eve, because it’s a day in its own right. Having said that, I’ve appreciated being part of churches which celebrate Jesus’ resurrection on Saturday evening!
This year, in 2026, I will wait until 6am to walk up a local hill for our sunrise Easter service.
I’ll publish something to describe the difference a day makes!
In the meantime, have a blessed Holy Saturday.
Wander Well towards Easter (almost there!)
Mandy.
What memories of Good Friday and Holy Saturday do you have?
If you enjoy reading this, please like and subscribe!
An imaginative reflection of Good Friday, weaving in characters and miracles from Jesus’ life. An afternoon when the sun refused to shine and a chill ran through onlookers but when words of forgiveness, compassion, hope and trust were heard.This will be used in a church service, so may read a little differently to other blog posts.
Every public spectacle leaves debris behind. Concerts, rallies, executions, all leave their mark. After the excitement is over and the crowds have gone home, their litter is left for someone else to pick up or to blow across fields and hills, into hedgerows and gardens. Public spectacles do not end without trace.
That Friday in Jerusalem, was no different.
While three men hung dying on crosses, a small crowd gathered. There’d been some jeering, men were in a volatile mood, ready to celebrate their people’s freedom, but as the afternoon became surprisingly dark and cold, they quietened down and shivered.
One by one, they drifted away, earlier than expected. That afternoon, home held more appeal than usual because lamb was roasting, and wine was waiting to be poured.
So, the crowd thinned, leaving picnic remains behind. Bread and fish scattered on the hill outside the city. That day, there was no one to make sure everyone was fed or that the leftovers were gathered up, with nothing wasted.
An older woman felt her recently found energy dropping and she clutched her middle in fear of the old pain returning. There was nothing else to grab hold of. The man who’d called her daughter was gasping for breath and his own energy was bleeding away. The robe which had brought her life and health lay muddied and bloodied, coveted by the gambling soldiers
One man limped away, an old pain returning to haunt him. Weeks ago, he’d sprung up from the ground, picked up his sleeping mat and strode away with Jesus’s forgiving and healing words ringing in his ears, but now he thought he’d have to walk alone.
A young woman’s hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She lived because Jesus had spoken up for her and rescued her from the murderous mob, but no one had spoken up in his defence and from a distance she’d watched the deadly blows that she’d been spared rain down on him.
A man who’d been born blind and another who’d been born deaf covered their eyes and ears and wished they couldn’t see or hear what was happening. The hands that had touched them with healing were nailed to a cross.
Another woman adds to the Holy Week pattern. An imaginative retelling of The Widow’s Mite, in which a woman makes her way to the temple on a busy day and reflects on her advancement in life. S
She walked steadily through the busy city streets. She knew her way around and avoided being shoved out of the way by earnest pilgrims who were looking out for family and friends, carrying luggage or buying food for the feast. She kept her head down when she passed yet another group of soldiers taking up more room than they needed to. Not that she was worried; she’d got used to being invisible. That’s what being older and widowed did for you. She’d also got used to making every penny she had work hard for her.
As she climbed up the hill to the temple, she couldn’t help but remember other Passovers, when, with her husband and children she almost ran, singing psalms I was glad when they said to me, “Let’s go to the temple of the Lord.” (from Psalm 122) and laughing with excitement.
That sort of happy excitement felt like a dimly remembered dream, but she anticipated the festival with a quiet certainty and under her breath muttered a different psalm Do not reject me when I am old; do not leave me when my strength is gone. Even though I am old and grey, do not leave me, O God. (from psalm 71).
When she arrived at the outer temple courts, she instinctively drew herself in. She was used to a barrage of men selling doves for sacrifice, and she had no intention of handing over her money in exchange for some poor creature doomed to die. Still, she was surprised by the quiet spaciousness in that court. Unusually in festival week, there was space to breathe and to pray.
She had heard rumours about a travelling rabbi from Nazareth who’d lost his temper with the temple traders and thrown them out. She’d heard other rumours about him too, about good teaching, feeding and healing and was surprised he’d been so angry. Still, if it meant there was more space for pilgrims that week, then that was good.
She walked on into the court of the women. That was as far as she was allowed to go, but it had what she wanted. She reached into her purse and found two small copper coins. She’d worked out that if she broke her fast later that day and accepted her neighbour’s invitation to share their Passover meal, she could afford to give them as her festival offering. They barely clinked when she threw them in the treasury box and she breathed a prayer that they would be turned into food for the poor.
Before she’d finished, she heard the murmur of a group of men walking past and caught the scent of expensive perfume. Then, she heard clearly one man’s voice and realised she was no longer invisible.
Jesus said: “I tell you the truth, this poor widow gave more than all the rich people. They gave only what they did not need. This woman is very poor, but she gave all she had to live on.”
She raised her head and saw that his hand was stretched towards her, and he was looking her in the eye. She knew that God had answered the prayer of the psalm and not rejected her.
This story is sometimes called the widow’s mite, but I wonder if we should rename it “The widow’s might!” She seems like a mighty strong character to me.
I wonder how she fits into the pattern of Holy Week. Certainly, she was an example to help Jesus challenge the establishment and ideas of greatness. What if there was something more? What if she gave him a fresh memory of goodness when he was surrounded by evil?
Go well towards Easter,
Mandy.
You can read this Bible story in Mark’s Gospel chapter 12, verses 41-44.
If you enjoyed reading this, please like and subscribe!
In which Jesus takes a break from Jerusalem and visits a friend in Bethany. There, an unidentified woman anoints his head with very expensive perfume. This is a beautiful, caring, soothing gift but she is criticised and what she did shook things up again. Was this a bit of the week’s pattern which just didn’t match up?
The house in Bethany was warm and comfortable. The scent of bread and spiced lentils filled the air, mingling with warm oil when the lamps were lit. Simon, the host, prayed the evening prayer and blessed the light and the food, then with a grateful sigh, the men took their places at the table.
Walking the two miles from Jerusalem at the end of a long day had been worth it. The city crowds were oppressive. Everyone was ready to celebrate Passover and passions were running high. To mark the festival of freedom, the Roman governor Pontius Pilate had moved into town with military reinforcements, and they were making their presence felt. Talk about irony!
However much they wanted to leave the tension behind, of course they carried it into the welcoming house with them. Their conversation was brief and they looked from one to another to see if anyone had a clue what was going to happen next.
Eventually, they looked to Jesus, who must have been wearier than all of them. In a few days, he had arrived in Jerusalem, wept over it, looked around at everything, driven money changers out of the temple and taken his place there as teacher, giving out some hard lessons. He even said that the temple would be destroyed. He must have been goading his opponents. Surely this was the time for decisive action, the time some of them had been waiting three years for.
Thank God he had friends in Bethany. Surely, while they were safe in this house, he would tell them what to do next and how the pattern of this week would fit together.
Still, Jesus kept quiet, breathed in the peace and quiet and enjoyed the food.
Until that is, a draught cooled the air and a new scent entered. Simon looked up first to see who had entered his house and a flicker of recognition crossed his brow. He smiled to welcome the woman but stood up to stop her when he saw what she was doing.
The men around the table gasped when they heard the crack of alabaster and smelt the beautiful perfume which was poured over Jesus’ head. Quickly, they were all on their feet, apart from Jesus, who relaxed and smiled his first smile for a long time.
The scent of spices, oil, and shocked, tired bodies gave way completely to that perfume. The whole house was filled with it.
The horrified silence soon gave way to muttering, which became angry outbursts. It was hard to put their fury into words, so it came down to money. What we spend our money on is always an easy target for criticism.
“That perfume was worth a full year’s work. It could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” Mark’s Gospel chapter 14 verse 4.
Little did that woman know that for millennia to come, men would still be arguing about that and condemning her as immoral just because she had a valuable possession!
Still, Jesus spoke then in her defence. What a beautiful thing she had done. In that week of tension and danger, that woman gave all she had to comfort and soothe Jesus. He recognised that this was a preparation for his death. Maybe she was the only one in the room to get what was happening.
This was a piece of the pattern which just didn’t fit for some of the disciples. The group got a bit flakier.
A woman’s loving generosity and understanding didn’t fit the pattern and threatened the expectations of the men who were closest to Jesus.
What I wonder is this: did that beautiful perfume cling to Jesus through the rest of the week? In the middle of terrible cruelty, did that perfume act as a reminder of an act of kindness?What do you think?
Wander well towards Easter,
Mandy.
You can read this Bible story in Mark’s Gospel chapter 14 and Matthew’s Gospel chapter 26.
If you enjoyed reading this, please like and subscribe.
In which I struggle to make a paper cross and realise the Holy Week events didn’t match up for the people involved. Remembering Jesus getting angry and how that might have encouraged opposing parties and supporters alike. A poem from Mary Oliver with a reminder to pay attention.
At a day of preparation for this week which to me is holy, we made paper crosses. We used paper which was white on one side and patterned on the other. The making involved folding, which meant we ended up with plain white bits clashing with patterns and flowers hanging upside down!
This was frustrating, exasperating, irritating, even anger making. We questioned if we would ever get it right and were tempted to give up before we’d hardly started.
Maybe the lesson was in the trying. We were about to begin a week of meditating on stories which are hard to match up, even though we’ve had 2,000 years of making them fit.
When Jesus arrived in Jerusalem, with a jubilant crowd cheering him on, he cried over that city. How did that fit for anyone feeling triumphant?
When he visited the temple, he got angry (I mean angry – he overturned tables and used a whip!) He drove out anyone taking up prayer space and making money out of worship.
Maybe that did match up; both for the revolutionaries who were ready for violence and the religious authorities who believed Jesus was a threat to the establishment and to them, but that was just the beginning of the week. There were more surprises in store.
Read about Jesus getting angry and cleaning the temple in the Bible:
Matthew 21:12 – 17 Jesus clears the temple and leaves Jerusalem for Bethany.
Mark 11:12-17 Jesus curses a fig tree and clears the temple.
Luke 19:45- 48 Jesus clears the temple.
Sometimes it’s worth sticking with something, even when it looks like it’s never going to match up!
Here’s a poem by Mary Oliver, which reminds us again to pay attention.
Praying.
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Mary Oliver, from her book “Thirst.”
What have you seen today which is a doorway into thanks and a silence in which another voice may speak?
Wander well towards Easter.
Mandy.
If you’ve enjoyed reading this, please like and subscribe.
Seaside memories and the importance of donkeys. Palm Sunday processions and arriving in peace despite all expectations.
The hot, sandy pavement pressed hard against my feet that summer afternoon at the end of a long day playing on the beach at Mablethorpe. My beach shoes (plimsolls) rubbed against my sore feet which were still cold and damp from paddling and castle building and tiny, gritty, sharp grains bit into my toes, but still I walked on, holding my dad’s hand.
We had to find a good spot with the best view, because dad had looked forward to this all day.
Here they come, he said, look, they’re running because they’re happy. They’ve finished work and they’re going home to their field.
With a clattering of hooves and a scent of heat, dust and sweat, the beach donkeys trotted past. They’d spent all day plodding up and down a stretch of beach carrying children of every size.
Later in the evening, we would walk further away from the beach, where the grass grew lush, to find the donkey field, the place where they rested before another day’s toil.
This was important for my dad. He cared about donkeys. When he was a boy, his mother took the whole family to Scarborough for the summer, where she rented a house and took in paying holidaymakers. None of the family knew where they would sleep each night and everyone had a job. Dad’s job was to work with the seaside donkeys. No wonder he felt sorry for them and taught us to care about them.
In retirement, he “adopted” two donkeys at the Bransby Home of rest for horses. They were called Moab and Dylan, and it was a treat for his grandchildren to visit “Grandad’s Donkeys.”
He wasn’t a great churchgoer, but he loved Palm Sunday, when a donkey took pride of place in the story. Sometimes, a real live donkey led our procession through Nottingham streets.
I am sad to know that this year, 2026, there won’t be a Palm Sunday procession along the original route into Jerusalem. Jesus had better freedom of movement than current Palestinians.
Donkeys play an important role in the Bible.
A man called Balaam had a wise donkey who saw an angel before his master did, then found a voice to warn him with. This averted disaster and turned a curse into a blessing.
A man called Saul was sent to look for his father’s lost donkeys and found the prophet Samuel, who chose him to be king.
When a king approached a city riding on a donkey, it was a sign that they were arriving in peace, and Jesus arrived full of peaceful intent, though some of the crowd cheering him on probably wanted something different.
Father Patrick Van Der Vorst says this about the donkey which Jesus rode:
The donkey was not swayed that day in Jerusalem by the joyful acclamations, nor later by the screaming words of hate. The donkey did a particular job, which was to bear a particular burden. It did this, humbly, not expecting praise or reward.
I suppose the same could be said of Jesus. He wasn’t swayed by cheers, jeers or false accusations. He carried on being himself.
How would we like to see a leader with peaceful intentions, not swayed by popular opinion?
Here’s a poem by UA Fanthorpe which takes us back to Christmas but looks ahead to Palm Sunday:
What the Donkey Saw.
No room in the inn, of course, And not that much in the stable What with the shepherds, Magi, Mary, Joseph, the heavenly host – Not to mention the baby Using our manger as a cot. You couldn’t have squeezed another cherub in For love or money.
Still, in spite of the overcrowding, I did my best to make them feel wanted. I could see the baby and I Would be going places together.
Childhood memories of Sunday School in the Christian season of Lent.
The photographs were taken in the first week of March.
I spotted this at Harwick Hall (Derbyshire) Sculpture trail.
Walking to Church.
The afternoon was chilly and the streets were quiet when I walked to the end of my road, past the phone box, across Gordon Road, up Hudson Street, past the Post box and turned right along Blue Bell Hill to St Bartholomew’s Church, which stood on a hill. Indeed, St Bartholomew’s Road, which led from Gordon Road to St Ann’s Well Road, is called Donkey Hill by anyone who knows it, because it is so steep. Still, living on Serlby Rise, I’d already gained height, so it was an easy walk.
It was a well-worn route for me and on Sunday afternoons I sensed the lonely quietness of it all. Shops were closed and no one was playing out. There certainly weren’t crowds flocking to church, but I walked on, clutching my penny for the collection, held safely in my glove.
Trees grew in the churchyard.
Arriving.
As always, I could see one light shining through a window when I got near to the heavy, open church door and the first thing I did when I walked into the dim, musty building was turn towards that light and kneel down. That candle, which was never allowed to go out, told us that Jesus was there, in the form of a communion wafer which had been consecrated by the priest. I was taught to reverence that presence from a young age.
This belief takes this Bible verse seriously:
Jesus took bread, and when he had said the blessing, he broke it and gave it to the disciples “take and eat” he said, “this is my body.” Matthew’s Gospel chapter 26, verse 26. New Jerusalem Bible.
But is Jesus present just in the blessed bread or does it have to be shared and eaten? That’s a topic for another sort of blog!! What do you think?
When I reached the central aisle of the church, I bowed towards the altar before finding my seat. Once, I got in trouble for going near to the altar, because only the priest was allowed there. I don’t suppose any woman, never mind child, ever crossed the forbidden line in St Bartholomew’s!
Sunday School teachers.
I will be forever grateful to my Sunday School teachers, a small gang of ladies whom I thought were ancient, but they were probably about forty! They’d known me since I was born and some of them kept a close, caring eye on me into early adulthood. They also reprimanded me for refusing to take off my gloves to write, but that building was cold!!
Still, for most of the year, Sunday School wasn’t my favourite part of church. I preferred the rare occasions when I went with my mam to “proper church” when I didn’t understand what was happening, but I wanted to. I remember everyone singing a hymn about angels and wishing I could read all the words in the hymn book and the vicar in the pulpit saying that Jesus died to save us from our sins. What did that mean? I still don’t know, and apologies to my evangelical friends, but I don’t believe I deserve to be tortured to death and should be glad that Jesus took my punishment! There are lots of theories about atonement, which means being made one with God, being put right with God and for me, Jesus absorbed all of human life, the best and worst, bits and took them into God, so now nothing can separate us.
March flowers promise new life.
Anyway, back to Sunday School.
Witches and Giants.
There was one time of year when Sunday School was my favourite thing and that’s why I’m remembering it now.
Lent is the forty days of preparation for Easter. I don’t remember giving up any treat for Lent as a child, but I remember the lessons I learnt.
In Lent, the vicar at church took Sunday School and one year he told us stories about witches and another year stories about giants. Wonder of wonders, he gave us all a sticker for each story we heard, to fix into the right place on a card!
I don’t remember any names of the witches and giants or what they did, but I do remember someone going on a journey and encountering dangerous, tricky characters along the way who tried to thwart them and make them give up.
Lent is a journey.
I am thankful for those stories which sparked my imagination and grew resilience in my young life.
Some journeys are hard.
I love the purple season of Lent, with its challenges, its lengthening spring days and promise of Easter.
February is such an evocative month for me. It begins with remembering a birth and ends with remembering death. It is all part of life and love.Here is part of the story of my parents’ deaths. I’ve written it in love and hope.The photos were all taken in the last week of February, in Sherwood Forest, which is a place they both taught me to love.
What did you say?
Wednesday 28th February 1990 lives on as a grey blustery day in my memory. I was walking up Haydn Road in Nottingham, alongside my friend. We’d both left two children in school and were wheeling our toddlers along in pushchairs. We chatted about the day ahead. I was looking forward to having my hair cut and helping at the Toy Library before the end of school. I was thinking about my dad who was going to hospital that day and my husband who was calling in to help him get up and ready for the ambulance.
Life can change in an instant.
A car pulled up alongside us and my husband jumped out. I was confused, the car was my brother in law’s, and he stayed behind the driving wheel.
There was no easy way to say it.
“Mandy, your dad’s died”.
I am sorry to say I was cross.
“What did you say?”
To my left, my friend gasped “Oh Mandy”,and her hand was over her face.
This was not unexpected, but it was the shock of my life. Lung cancer had done its work as predicted and taken a year from diagnosis to the end.
As I’ve said before, I am blessed with good family and friends. We all bundled into the car, pushchairs, friend, toddlers and all and my brother-in-law drove us home.
My friend took in my two-year-old daughter and promised to look after her and fetch her brothers from school.
Cancelling.
At home, I made phone calls to cancel the hairdresser’s appointment and apologise to the Toy Library coordinator. I found my address book in case I needed to make more calls from mam’s phone, then we left my day and all my carefully made plans and I was driven into a strange, sad and scary new world.
There were no mobile phones.
See this link for more about the part my hairdresser played.
Twenty-three years later, on Wednesday 27th February 2013, I spent a freezing cold day in Coventry Cathedral. We sat with our overcoats on, listening to distinguished speakers talking about conflict and how it could be a positive, creative thing if we’re not afraid of it and how it can be destructive when it’s ignored. It’s not a lesson I’ve learnt very well.
I enjoyed the day, I met some old friends from theological college and in the evening, we ate a delicious meal before we listened to the after-dinner speakers.
This was a two-day conference, and I stayed overnight in a travel lodge. I had been obedient to the rules and kept my phone switched off all day and evening. When I walked away from the cathedral into the strange city, I switched my phone on and got another shock which sent me reeling.
It lit up with messages to call my husband, but my brother had left a voicemail with the news:
“Mandy, I’m so sorry, mam’s died.”
Guilt.
I was full of shock and guilt that I hadn’t been there and was the last to know. I spent the night awake, alone in a strange place and fought the urge to just walk out into the dark, I was so desperate to get home.
She had fooled us all. There had been many times when we were told she didn’t have long to live. There were mornings when I’d woken up convinced I’d slept through a phone call from the hospital calling me in to her bedside. Indeed, eighteen months previously she’d been admitted to a nursing home with only three months to live!
A couple of evenings before I went away, I’d sat with her and together we filled in a questionnaire about what sort of music she liked, what work she’d done and where she’d been on holiday. I think the nursing home staff thought she was there to stay!
In the end, I believe she did what she wanted, and passed away quietly in her sleep, with none of us there.
Full of apologies.
In Coventry, after a sleepless night, I dutifully went back to the cathedral and began apologising. I said sorry that I’d got to leave. I’d promised to show another woman the way to the train station, and I said sorry to her. Mam’s vicar was there, who was a good friend to her, and when I told him, I said sorry.
Happily, I was surrounded there by friends, for which I am grateful.
I walked to the train station, bought a new ticket and arrived home to a strange, sad and scary world.
Once more into the wilderness.
There is nothing like grief to banish you into a state of wilderness. With the loss of each parent, I felt exiled into a strange land, where I didn’t know my way around and didn’t know who I was. I was surprised at how physical it all was, with actual pain and infections, as if my body was grieving, one bit at a time. This is all part of loving someone and so I am grateful for it.
Thankfulness.
Thankfully, there were lots of glimmers of goodness along the way. I keep saying it, and I will say it again, I am blessed by my family and friends, and I thank them all for their kindness.
February.
February is such an evocative month for me, full of different aspects of love. It begins with memories of a birth and ends with memories of death, and maybe this is fitting for a month where darkness and light, winter and spring mingle.
See these links to read the happy stories of birth:
Whatever you are wandering through right now, wander well.
Mandy.
Things I love:
My parents, family and friends.
This quote from Saint Paul, which I believe: I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things to come, nor powers, nor heights, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Taken from Paul’s letter to the Romans, chapter 8.
A Pilates class, a Saint Christopher and a Blessing.
I pushed open the blue outer door and left behind the chilly, dark, January evening. The mingled smells of disinfectant and stale tea greeted me. The inner doors admitted me to boxes of tinsel and baubles waiting to be packed away in the under-stage storage as well as warmth and friendship, smiling happy new year and embarrassed groans about too much Christmas Cake. This was the first Pilates class of the year. I’d left my dog collar at home, and I was looking forward to stretching away the stress and tiredness of December.
I’d claimed my space and was laying out my mat when she came up to me. Can I have a word? she said, do you do blessings?
Well yes, I do, I replied, why do you ask?
I’ve been given a Saint Christopher for Christmas, and I need it to be blessed. She held out her hand, and I looked at the medallion lying in her palm. Ever since I had a car accident I’ve been scared of driving.
Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travellers, so this was a thoughtful gift for a nervous driver. This was a serious request and while I looked at the necklace, pictures of other objects I’d blessed flashed through my mind, a hole in the road, a merchant naval standard, a ship’s bell, a narrowboat, wedding rings and houses.
Each remembered object represents someone’s life and their significant events. My training incumbent (the priest who worked with me and taught me through my first years of dog collared life) taught me that when you bless an object, you are blessing the person or people it represents, so choose your language appropriately but always take any request seriously.
Here was a woman who knew me as the village vicar and was putting her trust in me.
We went into the kitchen, and I prayed for confidence in driving and safety on our roads. I blessed the saint’s image, praying that it would be a reminder of God’s care and protection.
She fastened the chain around her neck, and we returned to the main hall, ready for whatever the instructor demanded of us.
To bless someone basically means to make them happy and as a priest it’s my huge joy, privilege and responsibility.
Personally, I like to follow the ancient practice of counting my blessings. It’s an antidote to miserable self-pity!
I’m a great fan of new year. Everything feels new and lighter to me, as if I’ve turned a new page and can start again. On the second day of 2026, I went for a walk and was blessed with blue sky, birdsong, buds bursting out of wintry branches and catkins dancing in the cold wind. This itself was a blessing and made me cheery as I thought about the coming year.
What will bless you at the start of this new year?
Wandering Through The Land Of Nod. 