4 April 2015
It has been a chaotic Holy Week, not at all as planned. It began with a funeral — the third in as many weeks. Then the suicide of a neighbour, and two convictions for abuse — both accompanied by pathetic protests of innocence on the part of relatives.
A thin drizzle, a howling gale, temps well below the norm, and grey skies have not helped lighten the gloom; neither did a sharp shower of destructive hail. Add to that the persistent visit of a muntjak, intent on eating anything it can lay its teeth into, specially young rose shoots. I have deteriorated into a miserable old lady.
No, muntjak are NOT dear little bambi-like creatures; they are blunt and rather stumpy with horrid tails. A friend told me they “eat well” — you can imagine my reply.
So Good Friday found a tearful rather cross old lady, dishing out hymn books and leaflets.
The blank emptiness of the day, the dark solemnity, and the silence that punctuate the Liturgy, never fail to concentrate the mind on the hideous crime commemorated. How I hate to cry out “Crucify him! Crucify him!” along with the rest of the raucous guilty crowd. How I try to persuade myself that of course I would never have been shouting that out. How I have to admit dolefully that oh yes I would – and still do.
Now Saturday has dawned and the forecast is for quiet weather, getting warmer. There may be sunshine. There will be Stations of the Cross at ten o’clock. And then serious cooking for tomorrow’s Feast.
Our little daughter (actually she’s 47 but still little to me) gave me a woolly lamb, made of sponge, the wool rendered by a generous plastering of dessicated coconut. The Lamb is the centre of Easter, and so it shall be, in every manifestation.
Easter Greetings tomorrow.