Yesterday, Sophie was at the vet for some dental work... it turned out she needed five teeth removed, at least two of which were quite tricky, so she has soluble stitches in her tiny kitty mouth, and two kinds of meds to take.  In the course of her treatment it was discovered that she has laryngeal paralysis, a potentially life-threatening condition with no viable treatment options.  This news, 'she might die suddenly' was delivered in a very matter of fact way - so very different from my experience as a cancer patient where the initial diagnosis was prefaced with 'I'm sorry but...'

It got me thinking, and that's a good thing.

I am a facts person, I'm not good at small talk and I've never been taught how to deliver bad news. 

I still recall, with embarrassment and a degree of shame, the time when someone was newly diagnosed with stage 4 cancer (news delivered appalling badly on a Saturday afternoon when she was alone, and only because I happened to be visiting was I called in by a nurse to pick up the pieces).  She asked me to tell her husband, and to stay with him until he had told their children.  I arrived at the door, asked if I could come in, something he was reluctant to allow, and so I stood on the doorstep sayong 'I'm really sorry, I have bad news for you...'  I stayed with him a while, listened, clarified, repeated, then, at his insistence, left before his (adult) children were told. Not my proudest moment.

Sophie is doing just fine - in my household all three of us, the two cats and myself, now live with a degree of uncertainty.  I defy the statistics my consultant doesn't believe in, Sasha fares better off the meds, Sophie is her cheery self.  After Dusty and Holly, I've learned that kitties who don't get run over risk the same horrid conditions as people.  And after all these years of doctors and vets, I continue to learn from them how to - and how not to - deliver bad news.

The last time I had to break bad news, and it wasn't unexpected or terrible, was by phone at 8 a.m. I did my best, but still feel I have lots to learn.  I have editted this a few times because it was too 'bald'.

Every day really is a school day, and I, like the young vet yesterday, have a lot to learn.

Andy had gone to work as usual that morning.  It was a nice day, the sun shone and life felt good.  Business was going well, sales were steady and the income more than enough for what he needed.  But he couldn't help thinking about what he'd heard over the weekend.  As usual, he'd been to worship, and as usual one of the local preachers had preached a sermon.  It had been inspiring, interesting, relevant - all the things he longed for a sermon to be.  Justice for those who are poor. Equal value for all humans, irrespective of age, gender or race. Healing for those who are sick... it all sounded wonderful, and how he hoped it was true.

Sensing someone was looking at him, he lifted his eyes and saw a man standing near to him.  In response to his quizzical expression the man said, 'drop everything and come with me.'

The rest is, of course, history. Venerated by some, chosen as an icon by Scots, Greeks, Russians and, indeed, many more, St Andrew as we know him left his nets, his boat, his business, his family, his hopes, his security and set off in the footsteps of Joshua ben David, also known as Jesus of Nazareth.

What would you do?

What would I do?

And what difference might that decision make?

One of my favourite sights each year... when the crocuses/croci bloom. Just beauitful.

Many, many moons ago, when I was at vicar school, we were required to read 'Things Fall Apart' by Chinua Achebe, a striking novel that draws it's title from the W B yeats poem "The Second Coming". As I've listened to the news over the past few days, and seen things falling apart in a country I love, seen anger and vitriol, intolerance and bitterness, I've found the opening lines of the poem flooding into my mind...

 THE SECOND COMING

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I cannot claim to understand the poem, but its first stanza rings horribly true just now.

Kyrie eleison - LORD have mercy

Today I am moved, very strongly, to pray for justice, peace and truth:

For a young woman whose citizenship has been stripped from her (wrongly in my view) because having made a poor choice she now seeks to return home (think Prodigal son story...)

For a young man whose trial for the rape and murder of a young girl reveals a complex web of disorder and dis-ease at the heart of those affected (justice is not revenge, sentence should be rehabilitation, if at all possible)

For the family of a six year-old girl who went to bed happy, and whose life was ruthlessly cut short.

For the countless unknown ones whose lives are irrevocably changed by the foolish, selfish and sometimes even malevolent decisions and actions of those who wield power, elected or imposed.

Things fall apart - the centre cannot hold, and yet, in the brokeness of it all is the inexteingushable flicker of light that is Love, that is is Life, that is Hope. Amen.

The Prayer Room in Glasgow Airport.

When I arrived very early last Thursday morning nothing was open except the Prayer Room.

It's a very quiet, still space in a very noisy, busy place. The sound proofing is incredible, by use of effectively an airlock, no noise from the busy areas gets into the Prayer Room itself.

It's also an inclusive space. No-one may remove or cover the religious artefacts that have been placed there... there are prayer rugs, icons, candles, Bibles, leaflets, and many more.

The stained glass is lovely, incorporating the symbols of the largest world faiths, and some gentle, soothing colours.

I spent a very relaxed half hour in there, praying, reflecting and simply being... when I emerged the departure gates were just opening and I set off on my way to Florence.

Chaplaincy spaces are so important, and so valued by people of all faiths. I'm grateful to God for this space and the time it gave me in the wee small hours.