This afternoon I went out pastoral visiting.  Nothing especially amazing about that, you say.  Indeed not.  Except that it is one area of pastoral ministry I perceive myself to be especially bad at.  I know all the theory of how to do it, why to do, when to do it, but it still fills me with a sense of dread that I am rubbish at small talk and not that hot at bedside/fireside prayers (though many genuinely seem to appreciate both).  Recently I was talking with a couple of other ministers who share this sense of inadequacy, albeit for different reasons.  Some of it, we concluded was down to personality (my Myers Briggs 'I' as distinct from 'E' being one they identified), some of it down to self imposed pressure to be 'useful' (i.e. a need to have answers to questions or practical skills to offer), some of it just down to the fact that we all dread fouling up and some, if we are honest, because it can be flipping hard work talking to people who offer monosyllabic answers to open questions, have no books, photos, ornaments, pets or other cues to start conversations, have 'difficult' personalities or homes worthy of a TV series on domestic hygiene*...

And yet...

And yet, so often when I do the visits I'm sure it is me who is blessed.  Blessed by the grace and humility of people who allow me to share their frailty and vulnerability.  Blessed by people who grant me the privilege of seeing them at their lowest points and to share in significant life-events.  Blessed by the wisdom of age.  Blessed by the generosity of spirit.  Blessed despite the flea bites or dodgy tea that has unpleasant side effects (you learn when to decline!!).  Blessed by smiles and tears.  Blessed to be the hands and feet of Christ.  Blessed to allow Christ in others to reach me.

Today I enjoyed wonderful conversation, was well fed and watered in a comfortable and friendly home and shared a moment of meaningful prayer.  It is somehow in God's grace that when we do the things we find hard we are blessed... and by God's grace our best is good enough.

*Such extremes are rare but they do exist (at least they do in England!)

Yesterday my new Traidcraft catalogue arrived, as ever brim full of lovely items to persuade me to part with my money.  Amiong them was this new item, the twin doll. The idea is that you pay for two dolls (total £16) and one of them is sent to you, the other goes to a child in Zimbabwe whose life is affected by HIV.  In an age when few people knit or sew, and when food miles and carbon footprints are all the rage, this seems a great alternative to more traditional approaches.

For those who do knit, I learned yesterday of teddies for tragedies, a charity some folk at church knit for.   I have known quite a few people over the years who have knitted bears for various good causes at home and overseas, bringing smiles and sharing love.  A few 'knit and natter' type groups do exactly this kind of thing.

Recently I have been pondering what might be suitable 'church gifts' for babies brought for blessing/dedication and am quite attracted by the principle of the twin dolls whereby one is given to the child we bless and another blesses a child we'll never meet.  I wonder what others think?

I have had two different friends to stay recently, each of whom told me they were glad I was here to interpret the speech of shop assistants.  I have another couple of friends dropping in next week and they have been warned not to make such comments - for goodness sake this is the west of Glasgow it's hardly a strong accent.  The response of the latest was, 'yes, but you're half Scottish anyway.'  I'm not, not really, though my Mum periodically claims to be a Scot, and I'm told the SNP define a Scot as 'someone who chooses to live in Scotland' (does 'someone God sent/brought to Scotland' count?!).

Anyway, to my lovely Scots and Scottish (my Mum regularly reminds of the distinction 'people are Scots, things are Scottish' but it seems lost in much general speech) friends and neighbours I apologise for my sassenach friends.  Although I do know someone who tells me they can't always understand Estuary English and another who claims an inability to comprehend Geordies... maybe it evens out?

One of the amusing aspects of Monday's outing into the west end of Glasgow with my visiting friend was bumping into people I know through church... one member of the walking club, one carer from the toddler group, one church member.  My friend was quite surprised that I knew so many people.  It reminded me of a similar experience in Leicestershire, only that time was with someone from church with whom I went to a (local) Christian event.  I wouldn't really call myself a 'people person,' like a lot of minister types I am, according to Myers Briggs an 'I', and as an ISTJ evidently the perosnality type least suited to ministry.... (discuss!), but I do seem able to get along with most people, most of the time, and value the interaction enormously.

The older I get, the more it seems my world is just one big village, with people I bump into as we go about our everyday lives.  One of the folk I got to know in Leicester used to observe that 'strangers are just friends you haven't met yet' and she was great at chatting to new people who happened into her life.  One of the things I loved, once I got used to it, about the north west of England was the way total strangers would tell you their life stories at bus-stops or in shop queues, along with the custom of saying 'bye' to shop asssitants as you left (if you live in the midlde or south of England try it, it really confuses people!).  Glasgow is not disimilar - I often have brief conversations with strangers I meet at pedestrian crossings or in museums and I love it.  There is a sense of villageness, not in the 'everyone knows everything about you' of literal villages, but in the sense of a shared world with shared concerns.

I wonder how many familiar faces I will pass today and how many unfamiliar will belong to people who exchange a smile, a greeting, a grumble or an observation?

Yesterday, being my day off, and having a friend staying over, I took the opportunity to go along to the Glasgow Boys exhibition at Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum.  I have to confess to being an ignoramous and something of a philistine when it comes to art: I see things I like but am not able to say why or how and sually haven't a clue what it is I'm meant to appreciate or admire in great works...

I enjoyed the exhibition greatly, and we had fun making up stories for characters in some of the paintings, wondering why the artists chose to paint people in cabbage fields or sitting under large white umbrellas (most of the umbellas didn't quite seem to work but I wouldn't know where to start).

There were many paintings that seemed to stand out, not necessarily because I liked them, but because they interested or intrigued me.  From Venetian gondolas to French pastoral scenes; from tramps (with huge feet!) on doorsteps to colourful stylised scenes of druids; from a highland funeral to lot of geese and ducks, there was plenty to ponder.

On reflection, there was nothing that I really, really liked, but plenty I enjoyed studying for a few minutes.  The druids and the funeral probably stand out as those I most connected with... which probably says something about who and what I am.  I may well go back again before the exhibition closes.  Well worth the £5 (or £3 for those of us with NUS cards)