Recently I posted, then took down since it caused offence, some thoughts that arose from my experience of being asked to conduct a wedding blessing for someone who was terminally ill.  There was a key question underlying the problem, namely whose story it was and who could legitimately tell it.  I think that's an important question, though it really isn't so easy to answer since the experience arose from the interplay of two stories.  I remain convinced that my reflections are legitimately mine, but that may not mean they are suitable to share.

Today I am very mindful of someone else whose life story is - or was - interwoven with mine because of some shared experiences, but am a little apprehensive to share any thoughts, lest they cause offence.

Suffice to say, that this weekend a young woman I came to know and admire ought to have been celebrating her thirtieth birthday.  Instead, following her death from breast cancer at the age of just 27, her family and friends have organised a massive charity fundraiser in her memory.

Thirty years ago, as L was entering this world as a baby, I had just graduated and begun work as a professional engineer.  I was then, just 22 years old.

When I was 27, I owned my own home, was building a flourishing engineering career and life was good.  I was also 27 when my Dad died, at the comparatively young age of 65.  At 27, L faced the news of a terminal diagnosis with courage and died within a few short weeks.

On my 30th birthday my car suffered engine failure as I drove south for a family celebration meal.  I remember that a friend of a friend's teenage daughter gave birth that day and I wondered what lay in store for her son.  I celebrated my birhtday with my mother, siblings, and such nephews and nieces as had by then arrived.  Life was good, hope was high... I dared to imagine my future.  No thirtieth birthday for L, but she will be remembered.

Thirty years ago had anyone said I'd be a Baptist minister or that I'd live in Scotland, that I'd have visited New Zealand to speak about my cancer at conference or that I'd be a prolific blogger (whatever one of those might have been) I'd have laughed in derision.

But here I am, thirty years on from the start of my engineering career, lots of unexpected twists and turns along the way, lots of stories that have interweave with my own.

Today I will pause to remember L.  Her story is not my story, but part of it is permanently woven into mine.  The weaving, the reflecting - the making of meaning - this is what I try to do.  And sometimes determining how much of that can appropriately shared is a tricky call.

This post is a fairly shameless plug for my latest charity fund-raising effort.

On 23rd August 2010, in the whitewashed room of Victorian hospital, now in the process of being closed, I was looked in the eye by a surgeon who uttered the words, "I'm sorry it's cancer."

Back then, I was terrifed that I would not see Christmas, despite his assurance that "we'll talk about this infive years time."  Suffice to say, I have long since learned to trust my surgeon.

Then I thought, well, if I get to five years, that'll be cause for celebration.

Then I grew up. 

Perhaps that a little harsh. 

Since then I have come to appreciate what a vile, unpredictable set of diseases cancer is, destroying hope, gobbling confidence, tearing families apart, leaving a trail of pain and sorrow.  To celebrate my good fortune, when friends whose initial prognoses were so much better than mine are no longer here, seems crass and inappropriate.

But I do want to mark the date, a paradigm shift in my experience and understanding.  And I do want to express my gratitude to the many, many people who have shared those five years.

So I am creating a 'thankfulness' playlist.  In exchange for a donation of £5 to CRUK, donors can choose a song/hymn/piece of music which I will download, add to the list and play on the afternoon on 23rd August 2015 (between church services!!)

I chose CRUK after a lot of thought... I have been supported by folk in all parts of the UK, so it felt appropriate to choose a UK-wide charity.  For all the vital work done by support charities, in the end it comes down to research.  And because I have friends affected by many types of cancer, it needed to be general.  So CRUK was the best fit.

The link is here and I look forward to finding which songs etc are chosen.

It was one of these conversations that crop up now and then about ministerial life.

The other person was very clear that certain things were/are not my job and that my time ought to be spent ... well doing things I already do but, seemingly, to the exclusion of the things they think are not my job.

Reflecting, it kind of makes me smile, because, were I to ask people at church what they consider is or is not my job, I have a feeling that there would be a small core of expectations and beyond that it would vary quite considerably.

Which makes me step back a little and ask myself, so what is my job?  And do I allocate time and energy according to what I perceive as my priorities?  Am I more reactive than proactive?  What do I shy away from facing that needs to be addressed?  What would I happily spend all day and every day doing?

Lots of stuff that I do is "not my job"... but really, so what?  I have a job that allows me immense privileges not afforded to folk with tight job descriptions.  I have the liberty to work from church or home or even in the park.  I can order craft materials and call it work or listen to music online in a quest to identify something to use in worship.  I might have days that stretch to 14, 16 or 18 hours (one such tomorrow), I might end up feeling bruised by conversations, I might have to apologise for some actual or perceived error of judgement... but such is the cost of the flexibility I enjoy.

So I think I'll carry on with the stuff that is "not my job" that is part of the way I feel ministry ought to be shaped.  I'll accept that that won't match everyone's (or anyone's) expectations or desires, but that's OK.  And every now and then, there will be the conversations that make me pause and reflect - and that's got to be a good thing too.

My decision to travel by coach from Glasgow to Northampton and back for, essentially, a day trip was necessitated by the fact that a late decision meant the there were no bookable train seats left and no workable flight combinations.  Apart from being slower and cheaper than the train, it all worked very well (at least National Express allow p-l-e-n-t-y of time for connections so that a coach running 30 mins behind schedule won't mess it all up for you).

What I hadn't bargained on was the free nostalgia tour because of the routes the three coaches took.  The 11 p.m. from Glasgow was in fact an Edinburgh to Plymouth service, calling at lots of places en route.  So I saw Hamilton, Carlisle, Lancaster, Preston, Salford, Manchester, Manchester airport and Stoke on Trent all en route to Birmingham.  Then Birmingham international airport and Coventry en route to Milton Keynes.  Lastly Milton Keynes to Northampton via Milton Malsor, Collingtree turn, former Blackey Moor, Queen Eleanor Cross, and Far Cotton ending up where the bus station used to be, very handily across the road from where my Mum lives!!

I started to spell it all out - and it soon became too long and too self indulgent but lots and lots of memories, mostly happy ones, and a surprising summary of much of my life.  Places I lived, places I travelled, places  I passed through travelling, places I walked, places I know or knew, places that haven't changed and places that were barely recogniseable...  A summary of a life, from the relative comfort of a long distance coach, and the continuation of lives there and here...

(photo found on line)

Between 11 p.m. on Saturday evening and 6 a.m. this morning I spent something of the order of  22 hours on National Express coaches.  A fair chunk of that was sleeping (or trying to), the rest looking out of the window and seeing familiar and unfamiliar places.  Passing through Stoke on Trent at around 6 a.m. on Sunday morning, I happened to spot this pub... I must have passed that way dozens of times driving in my car, but had never seen this, set back from and below the ring road (or whatever it is called).

The Holy Inadequate - a great name for a pub, with some excellent west midlands humour.  Also, I think, a good description of a minister!  No, this is not me self-flagellating yet again, just the reality that all ministers are in some senses inadequate and in some senses holy.

I'm very tired after my travels - sleeping in 20 minute chunks, puntuated by loud speaker announcements that "ladies and gentlemen we are now approaching such-and-such coach station" was not very restful.  Spent much of the morning making zeds... and think an early night is in order too!