What day is it, again?

The people you meet. The three individuals who came to the morning Mass (it is still a nice surprise to see who finds their way to the daily Octave Mass - today, two older ladies: Stella who is, I am discovering, a regular weekday worshipper, and Peggy, a lady I met for the first time a couple of days ago and who remembers worshiping in the old St Francis Church and whose statue and altar have, in addition to her, found their way into St Saviour's. And then there is Sue, whose face is a familiar one from attending the regular diocesan youth events with her husband and High School son). After Mass I spend some time sorting a few things out in church and I meet a collection of people wandering up the Church path. One of them recognises me - she works at St Teilo's School. The rest are her visitors looking for names on the war memorial outside. They find the name they are looking for, and I hear the clicking of the camera as I leave them to their business of remembering. An elderly lady in the queue behind me at the Co-op Store asks what day it is. I pause awhile not being able to recall the actual day of the week. We are, for a little while, united in our confusion. I have no excuse. Age is on her side.

Later that afternoon, a phonecall. I have forgotten a funeral visit, and I rush out of the house, grabbing my coat and scarf and remembering the old lady in the Co-op store. What day is it, again? I rush across to Grangetown to meet someone whose elderly mother has died and whose funeral is next week at St Saviour's Church, and, for the duration of my rather brisk walk, I wish I had never abandoned my car several years ago! The son and his wife accept my apologies graciously. His mother had been born and brought up in Splott and had, in fact, been baptised at St Francis' Church. We talk awhile. Memories. Sadness. Some laughter. Leaving the couple behind I walk back across the bridge on the Taff Embankment. A lady in a red car beckons to me. She is a worshipper from St Dyfrig and Samson's Church and kindly stopped to give me a lift over the bridge and back to the house. She is on her way to her son's house in Splott to walk his dog, and she takes a slight detour to deliver me safely home.

When I get in I check my diary to make sure I haven't missed any other appointments or that there aren't any looming over me and which I need to pay attention to. But the rest of the day is free, it seems. I double check to make sure I have the correct day. What day is it again? Ah yes, Tuesday. The 30th. In my mind, the lady in the Co-op smiles at me. There is a twinkle in her eye. Age is on her side. I wonder what she remembers and what she forgets and if we have more in common than just forgetting what day of the week it is. And I wonder too if, one day, I will stand in the middle of a shop asking the person in front of me what day it is and if I will remember forgetting a funeral visit.

Home is where...

Back to blogging, I think! It's merely an excuse to do something constructive after sitting at the computer for over an hour trying to find some work to stimulate me, and discovering that I'm not really in the mood! I spent a a few hours the other day filing and refiling and so, apart from a miscellaneous pile of junk that seems to cling to my filing tray from one re-sorting to the next (and which should really be thrown out)there is nothing that I want to do. There are plenty of things that I could do but nothing that I want to do, which means that anything I choose to do will take twice as much time and twice as much effort. I am a great advocate for putting off until tomorrow anything that can wait! And so that is what I shall do!

On Wednesday I will be licensed as priest in charge of Roath St Saviour's. My ministry will change somewhat, I am certain - but that is a good thing, and I am looking forward to it. One can soon find themselves meandering through ministry and, whilst that is a good image (reminiscent of the Israelites wandering or meandering through the desert!), it cannot go on for ever! Having said that, God speaks in his own time and in his own way - even through our meandering lives and thoughts. In fact, I am reminded now that the footnote to this blog page involves something about 'meandering thoughts and roving reflections.' Journeys don't always appear to have any direction. In fact, there is nothing better than just wandering around sometimes, going for a walk nowhere, enjoying the scenery, or allowing your mind to wander! There doesn't always have to be direction to a journey. In fact, even when we do have some direction to our journeying, and we reach our destination, we always end up back home!

So, wherever God is leading my meandering life and meandering thoughts and meandering miniscule ministry, I hope I will end up back home! And you know what they say about where home is!