Today I did some volunteering by helping to train other volunteers new to the service I volunteer with.  I was surprised to be told that I have provided telephone and/or email support to more than two hundred women affected by breast cancer.  That's a lot of privileged conversations, a lot of trust being expressed, a lot of vulnerability on the part of those I've supported.

In the eleven or so years I've been active, so much has changed - more people are being diagnosed than ever and waiting times for treatment are creeping up.  At the same time, there are so many new and better treatment options available now than there were back in 2010/11.  Yet, at the heart of it all are real people hearing those dreaded words, 'I'm sorry, it's cancer'. People of all shapes and sizes, ages and stages, people of every sex and gender, race, religion, political opinion, relationship status etc etc etc... 

It takes a lot of courage for someone to contact a support service, to share details of their diagnosis, their questions, their thoughts and feelings - yet they do.

It's a great privilege to be trusted by people in times when they are especially vulnerable, afraid, angry, bewildered, numb, or whatever unique mix of emotions it may be.  Sometimes I wonder if, almost fifteen years past diagnosis I still have anything valuable to share - then I speak to someone who just needs a 'good news story', a story that says there is hope, there is a future.

Sometimes someone church-related will refer to this role as a ministry, and perhaps it is.  Certainly, for me, it is a source of surprising joy and fulfillment, which is truly a great reward.

Yesterday felt decidedly unproductive - I did some essential stuff but not really anything substantial.  It may not have helped that a one point my desk was taken over by Sophie!

Sasha was also in her office chair, supervising proceedings.  Today I need to get my brain back into gear and do something vaguely constructive before the students return next week. (Also hoping the builders next door are quieter than they were yesterday!)

Sometimes Easter 'happens' and sometimes it doesn't - what do I mean by that?

Obviously, Easter happens every year - it is a date in the calendar, we prepare and deliver the services in faith, and with the hope that, somehow or other Easter will 'happen', that the wonder, mystery and joy of resurrection will somehow be our experience.  But there are no guarantees - there is no formula that is certain to give us a 'wow' or 'aha' moment when resurrection becomes real; there is no promise that we will feel anything at all.  

The danger of reducing Easter to an event, to a moment, is that we can feel as if we fail if/when we don't 'feel' it.  I am sure this is, in part, why most of the gospels have stories doubt and question, disbelief and fear... because Easter is a process, a working out (or outworking) that can take time, a lot of time.

But for me, this year, Easter did 'happen' on Sunday, as we shared together in something that proved to be very special - as evidenced by comments made to me by visitors and regulars alike.

For me, the highlight was probably the 'informal communion' where four children (supported by an adult just in case!) served the congregation with gluten free pitta bread and grape juice.  It could have been a disaster - plates held at angles that threatened to tip the entire contents onto someone's lap... near trips over the edges of pews that were saved just in time... small children weighed down by relatively heavy trays of glasses... and in that risk was rare beauty... a moment of 'this is what become like a child' means.  By chance, perhaps, we had two girls and two boys, two regulars and two occasional visitors, different skin colours, different ages and abilities, which simply added to the moment.

A visitor spoke of being moved almost to tears... a regular spoke of new life... many spoke of it being special... and it was, not because of what I did (though I did do a lot!) but because of everyone present and because of the mystery that is Easter joy...  

Probably, for me, Holy Saturday is the most important day of the Easter Triduum... Why, you cry, surely Good Friday or Easter Sunday... but no, it has to be the Saturday which, in most Protestant traditions, is empty... nothing happens, and we are left at something of a loss as to what we should do.  And that, surely is the point... Friday is the death of hope and there is no way of knowing what will happen next... ah but, you say, we know the ending, we do it every year... but we don't... we cannot know what tomorrow will bring and it may bring nothing at all... That's the point... as my Low Sunday service will remind us, so I have to refrain from posting my 'punch line' too soon... which is fine, because I am good at waiting, good at delayed gratification.

Yesterday, scaffolding was erected next door at around 3p.m., the time we traditionally have Jesus die - which felt so inappropriate it was utterly appropriate. Life goes on, people are busy with other things, the execution of a 'criminal', especially two thousand years ago, isn't newsworthy.

Today the sky is grey, rain is possible, and it's really cold. I have excused myself from the Churches Together event on the basis that this is my official rest day, and also because there seems to be no desire within it to embrace the ache, the emptiness, the questions, the unknowing... I would gladly have hosted a space to explore such feelings, which are the real lived experience of so many people, but it's not to be.  I do hope and pray that it's a good experience for all who take part, but it's not for me.

There is a well-known tale that a child, when asked what Jesus was doing on Holy Saturday, said that he was searching for his friend Judas.  Like so many, I have always had a soft spot for Judas, feeling he got a rough deal, and hoping that he, too, found redemption.  But that's what the 'harrowing of hell' is, isn't it?  Not that Jesus experienced something of what 'eternal conscious torment' is (Medieval twaddle) but that he overturned whatever hell might be, liberating all lost souls - including his dear friend Judas.

Part of today is spent on writing tomorrow's reflections - that's a necessity! - but I learned early in ministry that to write Sunday before Friday, and in ignorance of Saturday, for me at least, doesn't work.  There can be no resurrection without death, and no wonder without the waiting.

Many of my friends who work in colleges or translocal ministry comment on how they miss preparing for major festivals - and I get that.  It makes bi-vocational ministry extra work, as the peaks and troughs never align, but I am privileged and blessed to get to do these services.

So, I savour the greyness, the unknowing, and the life as usual, so that I, too, am open to the possibility of surprise...

Seven sayings from the cross... I adapted a reflection that emerged from the Hospice Chaplaincy Course I did more that twenty years ago (how is that even possible?).

A quiet and thoughtful service attended by around 20 people who wanted to experience something of the sorrow of the passion, and not race ahead to Sunday even before Jesus has died.

Afterwards we had hot cross buns and tea... and I am left wondering why it is that hot cross buns taste so much better on Good Friday than any other day of the year!

Following my own custom and practice, I now begin to work on the reflections for Sunday, without skipping past Saturday...