18th April 1990 was the Wednesday after Easter.  I'd just got back to my desk after my lunch break when the phone rang... the news was simply that, after a long illness, my Dad had died.

27 years ago today, when I was 27 years old.  Half a lifetime.

Because of their age difference, my Mum was then not quite 54... whereas I am now 54.

The photo above was taken in May 1963, and is, I think, the oldest surviving one of me with my Dad.

In a few minutes, I will be heading off to conduct a burial of ashes for someone else's mother, who had lived to the remarkable age of 102.

Half a lifetime ago, I'd never have imagined the path my life would take.

Half a lifetime ago, the woman whose service I'm about to take was already an old lady!

Half a lifetime ago...

I'm not sure quite what this post is meant to say, but 18th April 1990 was nice and sunny in Knutsford, and in 2017 and it's equally bright in Glasgow.  Some things change, others stay the same.

Rest peacefully, PBJG.  Rest peacefully GLW.  Each held forever in the embrace of God's love.

This morning's service was an real pleasure to create and deliver, as I experimented with a take on 'Godly Play' or 'Deep Talk' methods of story-telling.

We had two stories: 'in the garden' and 'on the beach' with emphases on Mary, 'the woman', and Peter, 'the big fisherman', respectively.

I enjoyed the chaotic sharing of the peace, I loved the music (with the annual visit from a wonderful trumpeter), I felt the 'mood' of close listening and deep engagement, I left the service blessed and (although tired) refreshed.

After a delicious lunch with some friends, I am home and chilling ... it's been a Good Easter, and I am glad!

The skies are sliver grey, rain falls and a few, brave pigeons fly past... not a story-book Easter morning!

I opted out of the 'early' morning open air service, not because of the drizzly, mizzly, smir of rain, but because timing is too tight when celebrating in a borrowed room.

I was awake before the dawn (though then managed to sleep through my alarm! Despite which, I'd still have made the early service, had I been going), heard the birds trilling their praise, and my cats breathing as they slumbered on...

Surrexit!  He is risen.  Alleluia!

I slipped from my door to drop small boxes of mini eggs on the doormats of my neighbours (and a chewy bone, from the kitties, for the dog downstairs).  Slipper-shod, carefully closing each door, lest it bang and disturb slumbering occupants.  A gleeful, slightly mischievous exercise to bring a little surprise - and hopefully some joy.

Soon I will take my bucket of daffodils and my story bags and join with people I love to celebrate and remember:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!  Surrexit!

Blue skies or grey; sunshine or showers, these do not Easter make.  When Christ rises in the hearts of his people, when hope transcends fear, when life defies death, when love overcomes hate, when goodness is stronger than evil, when light defeats darkness... this is Easter!

(Image from web)

Enjoy!

I think my Holy Saturday experience this year is operating on a Jewish definition of when days begin, as I became aware of it late yesterday evening...

Good Friday this year was odd - no familiar markers along the way.  Apart from some private reflection on the Passion, it was mostly housework, until the evening when I joined a few hundred folk to listen to a performance of Bach's St John Passion.  The use of projected subtitles in English was definitely helpful, and easier for following than a full libretto in both languages in the programme!

The concert ended, we spilled out onto the streets and everyone headed off to cars, buses, or, on foot, to their homes.  I left my friend as she turned off to her home and began walking along the main roads (it was, after all quite late, not wise to do lanes and back streets alone).

For a Friday night, the streets were pretty quiet.  Outside one pub a few people were clearly having a disagreement, a little further along, a crowd spilled out from a wedding party.  The shops were, pretty much, shut up for the night, though a man sat alone in the 'healthy food' cafe with a smoothie.  In the children's play park, a group of youths stood round a "ghetto blaster" and danced by the light of their mobile phones.  A couple, hand-in-hand ambled homewards from an evening out; a young woman strode past me heading in the same direction...

Mostly though, it was quiet.  Shutters and curtains closed.  Very little by way of light peeping through cracks.

A population unaware of the significance of this day... which is, of course, how it must have been.

Holy Saturday is a strange, empty, what-shall-I-do-or-think kind of a day.  We know the end of the story, and we know we have to wait... our experience can never be that of those first followers who had no idea what Sunday would bring.

It's uncomfortable, this waiting... it doesn't neatly fit our nice rhythm of orderly religious observance.  But maybe that's the point: maybe it is in the sense of not knowing that we prepare ourselves to be surprised by what is yet to be.