You would think that a woman wearing a bright pink jacket, and equally bright pink tabbard and holding a bright pink bucket would be impossible to miss... yet standing on a busy street corner in Glasgow between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. this morning I was, it seems, largely invisible.

Invisible, in so far as some people studiously looked the other way, lest making eye contact might compel them to dig in their pocket for some loose change.  Invisible in that some people were so busy looking at their phones they didn't even see me standing there and had to swerve at the last minute to avoid me when I steadfastly didn't move.

Four of us collected for an hour, and between us raised nearly £160.  Other volunteers will cover another four hours of collecting, so hopefully the final figure will be around the £1000 mark. Which is not bad, I guess, for a day's 'work'.

The last time I remember doing a bucket collection was a dark December evening in the early 1990s, standing at the exit door of ToysRUs in Warringon, dressed as 'Santa's elf' and raising as much, if not more, more on my own than the four of us did this morning.  That gave me pause for thought - what was different about the two occasions, and what, more generally, has changed in those years?

Back then, no mobile phones, a lot of people still used cash for large purchases and in the run up to Christmas collecting for a children's charity is a sure fire success.  Young woman in red leggings and tunic top wearing a santa hat wouldn't do any harm either.

Nowadays a lot of people don't carry cash, and most are busy with phones as they hurtle out of stations and down the street.  Middle aged woman in luminous pink attire is not so noticeable after all!  And it's Thurdsay, in August... just another bucket collection for another charity. (And, if I am honest, I pass several such every week going about my daily life).

Still, there were people who stopped to give, a few who spoke or who had that tell-tale tear in the eye that spoke for them.  Mostly it was middle-aged men, perhaps their mothers, partners or even daughters had  direct experience of the disease... for that matter, maybe they did themselves.  One man told me his mother had died of breast cancer.  A younger man apologised that 'it was only a few wee coins'.  One woman muttered something which signalled all - she was part of this club no-one wants to be in.

It would have been a lot less effort to send a donation to the charity.  To have done so would have been to have missed out on the hints and glimpses of a world where charity collectors are so commonplace as to be invisible.  A world where people avoid eye-contact or are simply so engrossed in technology that they risk walking into lampposts (or charity collectors).  A world where, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle, are moments of generosity and humanity.  A world where a grieving man can honour the memory of his mother.  A world where a young man can make a difference with his few small coins (remember the widow's mite?). A world where middle-aged women in ridiculously bright clothes can still play their small part in supporting a cause close to their heart by giving up an hour of their time.

Overall, I'm glad to have taken part in this.  I learned a lot.  I smiled at strangers a lot (maybe that was unnerving?!).  I enjoyed the crisp autumn morning - and appreciated the chance to warm up afterwards!  A good morning.

There's only one podcast I listen to regularly.  I've occasionally tried others but not really found anything that 'does it' for me.   Maybe I need to listen to more talk radio or audiobooks to get me into the right 'groove'.  Who knows.

Anyway.

The August SmallVOICE podcast is available now - click HERE for the link.  It is a 'mini' version focusing on one item, a review of Vicky Beeching's autobiography 'Undivided'.  The review is handled with the trademark honesty, integrity, generosity and nuance of the SmallVOICE Team and is well worth a listen.  Some weeks back I shared some of my own thoughts on the book and its reception here and here

I know that as a minister, and as a person, I sometimes disappoint and let down those I know who are LGTBQI+. I admit that both fear and concern for my own long-term security (I like having a job, a pension scheme and the hope of retirement housing) are effective means of keeping me quiet, perhaps beyond my commitment to accept the disicpline of the Baptist Unions that accredit me (and are gate-keepers for the above).

At the moment I am in a very self-reflective phase of life.  My over-devleoped sense of responsibilty,  and my ability to self-flagelate really don't help much.  That said, I have always been of the view that if you get it wrong you admit it and say sorry.  To anyone reading this who believes I have failed you or let you down because of your sexuality, I am sorry.  I can't promise that I'll ever be all you would hope for, but I hope that my commitment to learn and grow is worth something. 

To round off our summer, we had a Songs of Praise style service (excellent choices by the way) to be followed by a picnic.  A slightly daft idea on my part - it always rains for the 'English' August Bank Holiday weekend.

However, around thirty of us simply set up a long table, piled it high with food, and shared a tasty lunch together.

As we reach the end of the summer, it was lovely to be together worshiping God and being community.  It felt like a 'good' morning - and hopefully we raised lots of money for Glasgow City Mission in our special collection.

Tired now! But good tired.  And that's good.

Later this autumn we are planning to have a short series of services on the theme of 'shame'.  It's an important topic, and the concept of 'chronic shame', which seems to be cropping up a lot in the reading I'm doing, definitely needs some thinking through.

I have a stack of books - and one audio book - on their way to me relating to this topic, so hopefully by the time we reach November and these services I will be well prepared.

I'm not sure 'enjoy' is a word I'd use in connection with this reading - some of it cuts quite close to the bone - but it's certainly important and relevant, which matters more, I think.

23rd August 2010 - a date indelibly etched on my memory.

It was a Monday.  My Mum was in Oxford John Radcliffe hospital undergoing pioneering heart surgery (with less than 50/50 chance of survival let alone success, amazingly she lived nearly eight years).

It was a glorious summer day in Glasgow. I had a morning meeting to discuss some financial matters for church. I had an egg sandwich from Tesco for lunch.

And it was the day that I heard the life-changing sentence, "I'm sorry, it's cancer."

Eight years on, and seven and a half years NED, the intensity of the memory is far less. 

I remember it, but it doesn't any longer disturb me. 

I remember it, and I continue to be grateful for the work of NHS Scotland. 

I remember, and I give thanks for all those who have journeyed with me since that date.

I remember, and I do my annual nag to those kind enough to read this blog to do the screening, to check their 'bits 'n' bobs', to report worrying symptoms. 

Caught early, cancer can be effectively treated - even aggressive, locally spread cancer such as I had.  Bottom line: I have beaten and continue to beat the statistics for the place I started - had I not been breast aware or had I not been proactive in reporting my symptoms, I wouldn't be here to nag.  Treatments continue to improve, prognoses are better. Whilst of course it's not nice being bald or bloated due to chemo, undergoing surgery or being zapped daily for weeks on end, at least I am here to tell the tale.  For the most part, life is good, more than good, it's great, fantastic, brilliant...

So please, for your own well-being endure the indignity of poo-sticks or smears or squishing or whatever it is... it just might save your life.