I heard this song by Amy Grant on Aled Jones' Good Morning Sunday and it seemed to strike a chord:

God loves a lullaby
In a mothers tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.
God loves a drunkards cry,
The soldiers plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries are breaking hard
Are better than a Hallelujah

The woman holding on for life,
The dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes
The tears of shame for what's been done,
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries are breaking hard
Are better than a Hallelujah

Better than a church bell ringing,
Better than a choir singing out,singing out.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Another plea for authenticity in worship methinks.

You can hear it here

Way back when, in the days when I was a lousy violinist, I had a book of Scottish fiddle tunes (J Scott Skinner I seem to recall) in which many of the tunes were entitled 'MacThingy's Lament or Rant.'  Tomorrow in our evening service we are using Walter Brueggemann's 'Psalms of Disorientation'  as the framework for a quiet - and maybe slightly intense - act of worship.  Lamenting and ranting, as commonly understood, seem to go pretty much together.  The disorientation psalms express regret and remorse (by people and by God) and also some pretty serious, even scary, rants.  It is good to be reminded there is a place for both in worship.

Whilst on holiday I picked up a CD called 'The Last Journey' the title track of which is a hymn I love very much.  However, it is one of the other tracks I want to share today, which has the feel of a disorientation psalm:

All the fears I need to name but am too scared to say;
all the shame for what I've done which nothing can allay:
all the people I've let down and lost along the way;
all the hate I still remand:

Must these torment me to the end of time?  Who is there to understand?

All the wasted years in which I struggled to be free;
all the broken promises that took their toll on me;
all the love I should have shown and all I failed to be;
all I longed to take my hand:

Must these torment me to the end of time? Who is there to understand?

What the cause of pain is and, much more, the reason why;
what my final hour will bring, how suddenly I'll die;
what the future holds for those I'll miss, for whom I cry;
what, too late, I might demand:

Must these torment me to the end of time?  Who is there to understand?

'All the wrong you now admit, I promise to forgive;
all that you regret, you are not sentenced to relive;
all the love you've never known is mine alone to give;
you, my child are understood.'

So do not fear all that is yet to be, heaven is close and God is good.

John L Bell (born 1949) and Graham A Maule (born 1958)© WGRG, Iona Community

A version of this is in HymnQuest and it is published in a book called When Grief is Raw

Hope someone finds this helpful in some way.

So I was once described by one of my research supervisers (who endeavoured to escape by taking a job in Australia!).  Well, yes, maybe I am, or can be anyway.  I certainly have just been, having been told quite clearly I would have a follow-up hospital appointment six weeks after nuking ended and nothing transpired.  After seven weeks I phoned and left a message.  After eight weeks I did the same again, only to be told that it would quite common for six weeks to mean 8-12 and sometimes as much as four months.  But today I was given an appointment for next week... which will be nine weeks, so midway through the extended window, or 50% longer than 'advertised'.

Two thoughts...

1) If I hadn't nagged, how long might I have had to wait?

2) There seems to be a bit of a parallel with a parable about a widow and a judge.  See, there's a Biblical mandate for gentle, persistent nagging!

To be fair, in the early, urgent days appointments were quickly arranged, but if people allow their non-urgent stuff to stack up eventually the whole thing will become unmaneagble.

Over the last nine/ten months various people have said to me, at various times, 'you ought to write a book about your experiences.'  The answer to which was, and still is, a resounding 'no.'  Many reasons for this.  Firstly check out any online book retailer and there are dozens and dozens of books telling people's stories.  Secondly, and this perhaps relates to the first, everyone's story is unique, just as they are.  Thirdly, well, just plain 'no' I don't want to; I'm a reasonable blogger and a competent preacher but writer I am not.  Lastly, if I stay NED for at least two years, I am contemplating doing some serious research arising out of the experience, but I need time to process it first.

However.

I have noticed that I get quite a lot of keyword searches on my blog from people seeking cancer info, and lots of hits on the post I did summarising my chemo experience.  So here's the compromise... at some point over the summer I will write up my experiences of surgery (as far as it's gone - still some 'tidying up' to be done!) and radiotherapy and post them on here.

To be honest, part of my motivation for this was reading some comments on radiotherapy experiences written by people who did not know, and had not had explained to them, why most hospitals don't use gowns for this (why would anyone but me know about low active waste and nuclear laundries?!) and feeling that maybe I do, afterall, have something useful to add to the plethora of stuff people can access.

But also.

My calling is to be a minister - a weird muddle of preacher, theologian, pastor, mentor, chaplain and travelling companion - and that has to be where most of my energy goes.  My experiences are part of me but not my raison d'etre.  Maybe sometimes I need to be reminded of that!

After several days of rain (albeit with some pleasant evenings) the sun is shining in Glasgow... so on with the sun hat for my stroll to work, and carry the rain coat just in case.  But it's Friday, the end of the working week for most people and the weekend looms large.

I am looking forward to catching up with some friends of mine from the North West of England who are up this weekend - and hopefully with some others next weekend.  Summer is on its way!

There's a song, isn't there, that says 'the sun is out, the skies are blue, there's not a cloud to spoil the view, but it's raining, raining in my heart.'  I know far too many people for whom this is true right now.  Some with the ache of recent bereavement, some with new diagnoses of primary and /or metastatic cancer, some with the ongoing agony of chronic conditions, some who are in families and/or relationships that are difficult.  Were I to list them it'd be a very long post.  Some of them read this stuff - to them a cyber holy hug - some of them don't, but each one of them matters.

Thoughts today especially with Annie, as she gets a second opinion on her treatment options.

Suffering God, who in Christ has felt the depths of human sorrow, hold safe in your embrace all for whom today brings pain, fear, sickness or hopelessness.  Grant wisdom and compassion, skill and courage to all, professional or otherwise, whose task is to care for those who are dis-eased in body, mind or spirit, whether acute or chronic.  And when the words fail us, and we stare into the dark, let your voice be heard in the sound of silence... Amen.