Meet my ...

 

Meet my cat Rex. He makes a good living as a masseur.

The Gate

 

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul;
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me.
Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou anointest my head with oil;
my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life;
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Psalm 23. 

In the Gospel of John Chapter 10 Jesus says several times "I am the gate".

In Chapter 10 - 9 He says "I am the gate. Those who come in by me will be saved; they will come in and go out and find pasture."

This seems strange at first. We can understand when Jesus says "I am the Way" or "I am the Good Shepherd"; but gate? What does all that mean?

To understand this we need to visualise how a sheep pen at the times of Christ looked like. It was a circular or square enclosure built out of stone, wooden fencing or just hedges. And it had an opening through which sheep got in and out.

But shepherds in those days were poor people. They certainly would not have the money to build gates at the opening of the pen. They stayed "watching their flocks by night" with their sheep.

The pen looked something like the photo above.

And the shepherd would lie across the opening, sleeping with his sheep, and making sure that none would get out during the night. Also protecting them from wolves or other predators.

So, the shepherd was in fact the gate.

That's what Jesus meant when He said He is the gate.

He protects us from evil and stops us from going astray.

A Confrontation

 

After the war Britain was in a state of flux. It may have won the war with its allies, but things had changed. People were confused. Many had lost friends and relatives at the front or in the bombings of many towns and cities. Many more had been wounded, injured or disabled for life. Soldiers were returning home to find there was no jobs for them. Some had lost their homes. Others had lost their families. Marriages and relationships were under strain with many couples not having seen each other for three or more years whilst fighting abroad or lingering in prison camps. The order of things as we knew them were not the same any more and people found it difficult to adjust.

One significant change was peoples' spiritual lives. Some continued to believe in whatever deity they felt comfortable with; whilst many more seemed to rebel against a God who allowed all the evil and suffering to happen.

Father Ignatius was in London for a conference. On his way back home, whilst at the railway station, he decided to kill time by going to the corner shop for a cup of tea. His train was not due for an hour or so.

As he sat at his table reading the newspaper a man in his late thirties approached him and asked, "It's crowded here. Do you mind if I share your table?"

The old priest smiled and invited him to sit. Noticing that Father Ignatius was wearing his white clerical collar, the man said, "You're a priest are you?"

"Yes, I am ..." replied Father Ignatius.

"I'm surprised there's still any people like you around," said the man, "after all that's happened these last few years I can't see how you believe in a God that's let it all happen."

Father Ignatius thought it best not to respond. He just smiled feebly.

"I was a soldier you know," continued the man as Father Ignatius nodded to encourage him to go on. It was obvious that the man wanted to vent out and Father Ignatius was to be the recipient of pent up anger.

"I was a soldier," he said, "if I could tell you of the horrors I've seen. But we're not allowed to talk about it. I lost many friends; one of them died in my very arms. He was only 19. 

"How can a loving God not intervene and stop it all? There was a time I believed you know. I was brought up a Catholic, I was an Altar boy. Now I believe it was all a hoax. Either God does not exist or He does not really care."

"I can understand how you feel," Father Ignatius said gently.

"Do you? Do you really? What do you really know?" interrupted the man putting his cup down forcible that it rattled the saucer.

"I was a soldier too ... in the First War," replied Father Ignatius.

"Oh ..." said the man uncomfortably. Father Ignatius chose to continue talking in order to dilute the situation a little. "You are not alone to feel as you do towards God," he said, "several of my parishioners have told me the same as you. 

"Whether you believe in God or not is your own prerogative; a personal matter. But let us assume for a moment that He exists. Which side would you have Him on in this war?"

The man was surprised at this line of questioning and said nothing.

Father Ignatius continued, "Let us assume that in the opposing army there is a devout Christian believer. Should God protect him from our soldiers? Should He take sides on an individual basis protecting only those who believe in Him and love Him? You said you don't believe in Him, so where does that leave you? Should He abandon you in the heat of war? Or does He love all His children as His creations regardless of whether they believe in Him or not?"

The man shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

"Does God love you?" asked Father Ignatius.

"I don't know ..." replied the man shrugging his shoulders again.

"I am certain that He does," Father Ignatius said smiling a little to ease the tension, "whether you believe in Him or not. He loves you and He understands how you feel. even though I may not, as you said. 

"God has witnessed all the hurt and suffering on all sides of this war. He did not intervene in order to protect our own freedoms to do as we want. Even to the point of not believing in Him. He hurts and He grieves at all the deaths and sufferings that this war has caused. He grieves just as you grieve. The only difference is that He grieves at how evil we have become."

There followed a short period of silence. It was only for a few seconds; but seconds can be an eternity at certain times such as this one.

The man spoke first, "I also had difficulties," he mumbled, "when I believed that is ... I had difficulties in understanding that the host we have at Communion and the wine are really the body and blood of Christ. How can that be?"

Father Ignatius replied in softer tones. "As you may know," he said, "the Catholic Church takes this teaching from the Gospel of John Chapter 6 where Jesus says several times that He is "the Bread of life" and that unless people eat His flesh or drink His blood they will not have eternal life. Look it up in the Bible.

"This is a central belief of our Catholic faith and the Church invites its followers to believe this is so. Of course, there are many, including Catholics, who believe this is all symbolism. Christ did not really mean it as such. 

"Now then ... let us assume, as I said earlier, that God exists. I believe He does. But for the sake of argument, seeing you no longer believe in Him, let us assume He exists ... is that OK?"

The man nodded.

"Let us assume God exists and you believe in Him. But you do not believe that at Communion we receive the real body and blood of Christ. You think it's all symbolism.

"Let us then assume, which I believe to be a certainty, that we will all one day meet God face to face. Who would you rather be? ... ... ... Someone who did not believe Communion is the body and blood of Christ and you find out that it is so, just as Jesus said? Or someone who believed and found out it was symbolism after all? 

"You see the subtle difference?"

The man smiled and said nothing.

"You see my friend," Father Ignatius smiled back, "I take the view that Jesus was not a liar. He said something that we do not understand, and many theologians and learned people have debated over it for years. For me, it is easier to just accept what Jesus said and believe it in good faith; even though I don't understand it. The alternative is not to believe and in so doing imply Jesus was a liar."

"Thank you, Father," said the man, calling the priest by his proper title for the first time, "you have given me a lot to think about. I wish I could talk with you for hours on end. I have to go now and catch my train."

"Go in peace, my friend," replied the kind old priest, "I shall be praying for you!"

About the right

 

Q - Why do you have a column on the right of your posts?

A - Because there was no room to put it on the left side.

Q - What is it there for?

A - To advertise various books and provide information.

Q - About that clock with the flies. How did you get all the flies to stay still on the clock face?

A - I glued their legs to a blank piece of card board.

Q - Really?

A - No, I was joking. I actually trained them to stand there according to their size and numerical formations.

Q - Did you make all the videos on the side?

A - Yes; they are there to advertise my books?

Q - How many books have you written?

A - 47 so far. I am writing another one right now. They are all available from AMAZON. Or from my website.

Q - 47? That's a lot of titles. Can you name one of them?

A - The Soup Waved At Me ... it's a selection of humourous stories, and it's available FREE for everyone. 

Q - Do your other books cost a lot?

A - The price is mainly to cover production costs. The books are available in paperback, KINDLE version and some are in Audible or Alexa format. As I mentioned, some are actually FREE for people to download on their computer. Just check them out at www.holyvisions.co.uk

Q - Who is Richard The Lion Liver whose crest you have on the right?

A - He's an ancestor of mine. Click on the crest to learn more about him.

Q - Do you have your own website?

A - Yes, www.holyvisions.co.uk and then there is also this one. Click HERE And there is also my YouTube channel HERE. My readers and friends can also contact me at my website - enquiries@holyvisions.co.uk

Q - You're very busy.

A - Only on Wednesdays. The rest of the time I sleep. 

Q - Sorry ... I'd better not disturb you.

A - ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ .... ZZZZZZZZZZ ..... 

About those tabs ...

 

 

Q - What are those tabs or folders at the top of this Blog all about?

A – They are there to help you navigate your way through the Blog. Just click any of them and find out more.

Q – How much does it cost?

A – Nothing. They are FREE. Like everything else on this Blog.

Q – Can anyone use them?

 

A - Yes of course!

 

Q - I am a vegetarian. Is it OK to use them?

 

A - Yes, help yourself. Click on any of them and find out more about this Blog and its author.

 

Q - What do I have to wear when using this Blog ... or the tabs?

 

A - Dress is optional.

 

Q - Do you mean I can wear nothing?

 

A - I mean you can wear what you like; or indeed nothing. As long as you are not on a train ... ... ... or a bus  where you might distract the driver. 

 

Q - Why does it say Donate a Prayer on the third tab at the top? 

 

A - Click it and find out.

 

Q - I am going to click on all of the tabs to discover what they are.

 

A - What will you be wearing?

Monastic Visit

 

Some time ago I visited a monastery high in the mountains far away from society and the rest of the world. The monks there were self-sufficient, growing their own food and praying all the time. The monks had taken a vow of silence.

When I arrived there, unfortunately, a monk was leaving the premises for good. He had been a monk for exactly three years. The Monk Superior explained that monks are not allowed to speak apart from one sentence once a year when they get to meet Monk Superior in private. 

After spending a whole year at the monastery, this particular monk was invited to speak to Monk Superior. He said, "the food here is too salty!"

After spending a second year at the monastery, he told Monk Superior, "the bed is too hard to sleep on!"

On the third year which ended yesterday he told Monk Superior, "my room is too cold!" At which Monk Superior replied, "I think you'd better leave; you've done nothing but complain since you arrived here!"

I was given permission to tour the monastery as long as I did not talk to anyone to preserve their vow of silence.

I went to the carpentry workshop where two monks were working quietly. As I got in, one monk was distracted by my presence and hit the hammer hard on his finger.

He stopped what he was doing and picking up a pencil he wrote "Ouch!" on the wall.

The other monk approached him and wrote underneath, "Did you hurt yourself?"

The first monk wrote under it, "OF COURSE I DID YOU ****"

The second monk wrote, "You don't have to shout! And swear!!! I'll tell Monk Superior on you!"

At this point, another monk came in the workshop. Picking up a pencil, he wrote, "Who's been writing on the wall? I've just painted it yesterday!" 

This monk who came in had a pet parrot on his shoulder. The parrot could not repeat what the monk had just said because he could not hold a pencil with his wings. he could not write either!

The first monk who'd hurt himself wrote, "What's it to do with you? Why don't you just **** off!" And then he pushed the monk who'd just got in, making the parrot fly away silently by flapping its wings ever so lightly so as not to make a noise.

A fight ensued. One monk held the other by the neck like wrestlers do, and before long they were both rolling on the floor cassocks aloft. I noticed that they wore white underpants with red polka dots. It's part of their habit I understand.

They knocked over one table and the various tools and instruments fell to the ground without making a sound. That's because the floor was insulated with thick foam.

At one point they stopped fighting and one of the monks wrote on the wall, "AAAAAAHHHHH! That hurt!"

A fourth monk came in and wrote, "Please stop fighting both of you! Or I will write to Monk Superior on his wall!"

The monk who'd hurt himself stormed out of the workshop slamming the door behind him. The door did not make any sound. I noticed that the edge of the door was padded with heavy cotton material to stop it making a sound when closed.

The remaining monks then left too without saying a word.

At this point Monk Superior entered the workshop and wrote, "Have you been writing on the wall?"

I said, "Of course not!"

I was thrown out of the monastery for speaking and breaking the vow of silence.

QUESTIONS FOR YOU TO PONDER

Is writing on the wall "talking"? 

If someone writes on a wall, or in a cave, and no one reads it; is it "writing" or just scribbles? 

Is "writing" when the scribbles are understood and interpreted in a language one understands? 

If you write on the wall, and there is someone there to see it, does this break the vow of silence? 

If a parrot repeats what you have written does he break the vow of silence? (Think before you answer this one - can a parrot read?) 

Does sign language break the vow of silence? 

If you had Rice Crispies for breakfast does the "Snap Crackle and Pop" break the vow of silence? 

Was graffiti invented at a silent retreat? 

Have you seen the writing on the wall? 

 

 DID YOU KNOW?

 

IF EACH ONE OF YOU INVITES

JUST ONE PERSON HERE

WE'D HAVE A FEW MORE READERS

TO THIS BLOG.

Guinea Pig Ahoy

 

A couple of days ago I was invited at my boss's house out in the country for "a little bite to eat and a festive drink at Easter," as he called it.

He lives in one of those big mansions that posh people have.

He had invited a number of people from work as well as a few of his friends and golf-playing pals and a number of people from his gentleman's club. It was mainly a stand-up affair where everyone stands in this large room mingling and talking whilst a multitude of waitresses come round offering you hors d'oeuvres, canapés and small little bites you would not give your dog; and a number of waiters offer you various drinks, mainly alcoholic rather than a good pint of lemonade, or a cup of tea.

Anyway, I had been invited and it was not the kind of invitation you would turn down. More a three-line whip as they say in political circles.

As it happens, just before I set off from my office I got a phone call from the family: "Could you pick up Bertie the guinea pig from the vet please? ... Please ... Pretty please ... We'll be ever so grateful for the rest of the year ... Please!!!"

Why can't they pick up their own stupid pets? Anyway, at the vets the nurse said that Bertie was still a little sleepy from the anaesthetic and will be so for the rest of the day. Have I got his little carrying cage?

Have I heck? I said yes and took the little creature and put him in my brief case to keep him warm.

At the party, everyone was mingling and being ever so polite and upper-class, don't you know, what? Jolly good old chap. And all that. 

Someone noticed my sleeping Bertie walk along the wall. He must have woken up and got out of my case when I went to fetch the Marketing Report for my boss and forgot to close the case again.

Now normally, any sane person would have said there's a guinea pig about.

Just point at the creature and say: "By Jove, there's a most magnificent specimen of the guinea pig variety, don't you know ... what?" Now isn't that something you have often said at parties?

But NOOOO. On this occasion some idiot from the golf club said: "There's a rat here, a damn big rat!"

"A rat?"

"Yes ... a rat!"

"Where?"

"Over there!"

"Where over there?"

"It was there. He's now gone over there I think ..."

"A big fat ugly rat ..."

"It's now ran over there ... look out ... he might bite!"

"Rats carry the platonic plague, you know ..."

"Yes, it's in their teeth. One bite and you're a gonna by Jove!"

"I don't want it to tear my 15 Denier nylon stockings ..."

"Don't be silly, man. Why are you wearing nylon stockings anyway?"

"Because I couldn't buy nylon tights to fit me!"

"Over there ... I've seen the rat over there ... it's big and furry ..."

Pretty soon there was pandemonium in that room. My boss's wife was mortified as well as mummified at the thought of having rodents in her house.

"We don't have rats in this house, have we Luis?" she asked her husband.

"No ... there's quite a few at work though," he replied referring to his employees.

Everyone was running here there and everywhere in no particular direction trying to avoid and escape a non-existent rat who happened to be my sleeping Bertie taking a walk.

Women, including the waitresses in their miniskirts, suddenly jumped on top of chairs, sofas, armchairs or whatever furniture of height, like the table at the end of the room, and held their skirts and dresses up high showing off their un-mentionables.

What is it with you ladies? What is the point of standing on a chair with your skirt held up high? Do you think the rat, or any other creature, would climb up your legs? The very sight of you screaming would most probably send him to apoplexy.

I noticed there was even a wimp of a man standing on a chair and holding tight to a young waitress. On second thoughts, maybe he was taking advantage of the situation.

The butler came in with an assistant and tried to find the rat and kill it with a heavy shovel in his hand.

Luckily, I noticed Bertie cowering in the corner just by the grand-father clock. I quickly bent down, picked him up and put him in my trouser pocket. The stupid animal thanked me for saving him from certain death by biting my finger. He then proceeded to tumble and somersault in my pocket in a most embarrassing display which I wouldn't want you to imagine right now!!!

Luckily, no one saw him or his acrobatics in my trouser pocket. And the rat was not found or seen ever again.

The party continued in a most subdued manner, and I noticed no one was eating the hors d'oeuvres.

Conversations

 

I met up with two old friends from College the other day. There was Asparagus Tips and Mary Molehill. I can't remember why we called him Asparagus Tips. His real name was Rodney Green; so why the nickname Asparagus Tips I wonder. We called Mary Molehill by her first name. Just Mary. 

"Shoulder-Blade" Steve Saunders was not there. I called him "Shoulder-Blade" because years ago, after we left College and I was newly married, he borrowed a half-shoulder of lamb from me and never returned it. Or paid for it. Anyway, he wasn't at that meeting the other day. 

It was just Asparagus Tips, Mary and me.  

We discussed another mutual friend called Petri Dish. 

I remembered him from years gone by. He claimed he had a capuchin monkey which could play Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto Number 2 on the piano. I went to see his monkey one day. All he did was bang the piano keys with his hands and make a total cacophony.   

"That's not Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto Number 2!" I said, "he is playing all the wrong notes."

"He is playing all the right notes" corrected Petri Dish, "... admittedly, not in the right order!"

Which is what music is all about really. The right notes in the right order. A bit like writing a book. All the words you need are already in the dictionary. All you have to do is put them in the right order.

As it happens, I had met Petri Dish only a few days ago. 

In conversation he asked me, "What is it that a man does standing up, a woman does whilst sitting and a dog does whilst on three legs?"

"Shake hands, of course!" I replied.

He is an electronic inventor now. He has invented an air-fryer that can tell you the weather in Uruguay or Mongolia or wherever you want. So there you are in your kitchen frying some KFC and you're told what the weather is like where KFC was invented.

I asked Petri Dish, "what's the use of this?" He said, "so you can have a better air-fryer than your friend from church, Walter Kneecap!"

We call him Walter Kneecap because his knees click every time he kneels down to pray.  

"That's the problem these days," I said, "We all want to compete with each other as to what we have."

I don't even know Walter Kneecap's real surname, never mind whether he has an air-fryer or not. We're only nodding acquaintances when we meet in church not bosom buddies. If I had to identify him in an identity parade, or in the morgue, I'd have to ask him to nod to make sure it is him.    

As it happens, I asked him about his air-fryer after Mass yesterday. He said his air-fryer is called Thelma and she does all the cooking, washing, cleaning and sleeps with him as well!. Now that's modern electronics for you.

When I told my wife about Thelma she gave me the silent treatment.

I wonder whether Kneecap's wife, Thelma, talks or not. 

Or does she do the vacuum cleaning when sports is on TV? Why do wives do that? Start cleaning or go on with inane chatter when all their husbands want to do is watch TV? 

Why do husbands put up with all that? Is it because a husband is a man with the nerve taken out?

Well, that's not me. One of these days I'll really tell my wife to stop interrupting my TV ... but not just yet, I'm too frightened of her really!

(I hope my wife does not read this. I'd better stop, I hear her coming in now.)

Predestination

 

A difficult subject this: 

PREDESTINATION - (in Christian theology) the doctrine that God has ordained all that will happen, especially with regard to the salvation of some and not others. It has been particularly associated with the teachings of St Augustine of Hippo and of Calvin.

Your views would be appreciated. 

There was a Christian preacher on TV talking about predestination. He sited the story in Genesis 27 onwards where Rebekah, Isaac's wife, cheats Esau of his inheritance. Isaac was blind and called forward for his son Esau to be blessed. Rebekah encouraged Jacob, (the twin brother), to go forward instead dressed like Esau, (who was rather hairy), and Isaac mistakenly blesses the wrong son.

The story goes back to when Rebekah was pregnant with twins. She prays to God and, "The babies jostled each other within her, and she said, “Why is this happening to me?” So she went to inquire of the Lord. The Lord said to her,“Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples from within you will be separated; one people will be stronger than the other, and the older will serve the younger.” Genesis 25:22

Hence the theory that by encouraging Jacob to cheat his older twin brother of his inheritance, Rebekah was fulfilling God's prophecy and predestination that Jacob would become ruler.

Now, I have difficulties with this:

First of all, I do not believe that God would encourage cheating and stealing of one's inheritance. To do so would make Him no different to Satan.

Secondly, to believe in predestination would mean that we are all destined to do what we do - good or evil. We have no free will. We are robots pre-programmed by God. 

I don't believe God plays games with us. He has given us free will to do as we choose and He will not interfere with our choices, however wrong and evil they are. He will often nudge us, and give us opportunities to change our ways; but He will not force His will upon us. To do so would mean taking away our free will.

To believe in predestination would mean that Judas had no choice to do what he did. Neither had Pilate a choice, or the Sadducees, Pharisees and all the people throughout the ages who have done many wrongs to society and humanity. They are all guiltless because they were programmed so to do. I think such logic, and the preaching of such logic, is faulty.

I do not believe in predestination. But I believe an all-knowing God knows in advance what choices we will make in life.

What do you think?

Time Flies

 

If I were to play this song ... ... ...

How many would remember it was a hit 60 years ago? 

What were you doing then? What can you remember from that year in 1965?

And if I were to play this song ... ... ... 

Would you remember it was a hit 50 years ago in 1975? What were you doing then and what can you remember from that year?

How about this ... ... ... 

It was a hit 40 years ago in 1985. What do you remember from that year? Any good, or not so good, memories?

Yes, time flies. Let us look back with wisdom and not regrets. And let us make good memories for our future and that of our loved ones.

Road To Discovery

 

What a terrible winter evening it was that day when Father Ignatius had to visit Theodore Luxton-Joyce at his mansion.

It was about six o’clock in the evening, it was dark and it had been raining all day. It was that kind of annoying drizzle that you get for hours on end sometimes in England. Father Ignatius was glad to be indoors in the warmth when the phone rang and Theodore’s butler asked him to come over urgently. There had been some sort of emergency which he was “not at liberty to discuss on the telephone”, as the butler put it somewhat pompously.

The priest put on his coat and went out driving in the dark and in the rain. Something which he hated to do immensely.

Half-an-hour later he’d arrived at Theodore’s mansion and he noticed a police car parked outside.

The butler opened the door and said “let me take you to the library where all will be explained to you!”

Father Ignatius nodded and said nothing, following the butler and leaving a trail of water dripping from his coat and wet shoes.

Theodore was in the library with two policemen and a man in civilian clothing. As soon as he saw the priest the man in civilian clothing got up and signaled Father Ignatius out of the room again. “May I have a word Sir?” he mumbled as they walked out of the room.

Once out of the library the man asked, “Are you Father Ignatius?”

“Yes … I am” said the priest.

“It’s good you’re here Sir,” said the man, “I am Detective Chief Inspector George Drayton … we’ve been called because Mrs Luxton-Joyce has gone missing.

“She left here at about lunchtime to visit some friends down South. She drove her own car and has not phoned her husband to say she’s arrived safely, as previously arranged.

“Mr Luxton-Joyce should have heard from her two hours ago. He phoned her friends and they say she has not arrived.

“He’s in a bad state Sir … he refuses to see a doctor and he’s asked for you.

“We’re pursuing our enquiries with other police forces and hospitals … at this stage we’re keeping an open mind on what may have happened.”

“What do you mean?” asked the priest.

“Well … him being very rich and all that … anyway. I’ll keep a policeman on the premises should you need to contact us urgently …”

“You don’t mean …” Father Ignatius hesitated, “you don’t suggest she’s been kidnapped?”

“Well Sir … at this stage we have very little to go on … there would have been a phone call by now had she been abducted … we’re tracing all phone calls. I should be grateful if you could calm him down a little … in case anyone phones.”

As they entered the room again the detective nodded and the two policemen got out leaving the priest alone with Theodore.

Father Ignatius said a silent prayer in his mind, a habit he’d developed long ago, and approached Theodore quietly and placed his hand on his shoulder. The man looked up from his seat and said “Where is she Padre … why has she not phoned?”

His eyes were red albeit he maintained his composure.

“I pray it will be all right Theodore …” replied Father Ignatius gently.

“I’ve been praying too Padre … I’ve been praying so much I’m tired of praying … I doubt God is listening …”

“He is … just keep believing Theodore,” said the priest, “would you like some tea?”

Theodore shook his head.

“I couldn’t have anything … I’m so worried Padre … I couldn’t live without her … not after losing my first wife … if anything happened to her I’d die …”

“Hey … hey … hold it right there!” said Father Ignatius firmly, “you’re running ahead of yourself Theodore … just take a deep breath … that’s right … hold it there … now exhale gently. Do it again a few times.

“Let us trust in God … let’s keep calm … the police are doing all they can and they’ll let us know as soon as they hear something …”

“Yes … sorry Padre” mumbled Theodore, “but … what if she’s been kidnapped … I’d give everything to have her back …”

“Don’t even think about that for now …” interrupted the priest, “let’s keep calm shall we …”

Theodore nodded and said nothing for a few moments, sitting there staring at the telephone and willing it to ring.

“She’s changed my life since I met her …” he said eventually. “I never thought I’d meet someone else again … not after my first wife died and at my age … then Rose came into my life and changed it …”

Father Ignatius said nothing, preferring to let the man speak and perhaps calm down a little. Theodore continued.

“I so hate to be away from her … I have to travel sometimes for business and it’s hell being away from her …

“When I’m in a hotel alone I go crazy just thinking of her … when I’ve finished my business meetings and I go to my room … I dread it … I dread being there without her … I sit there and close my eyes and imagine she’s with me … I hold out my hand and it’s as if she’s there … I feel her love … I feel her presence near me …

“We may be miles apart … and when I phone her I can see her smile right there as we talk …

“And when we finish talking I just sit there in my room … I close my eyes and I’m with her … I could almost touch her … I love her so much Padre.”

Father Ignatius smiled gently.

“That’s wonderful …” he said, “have you ever told her how you feel?”

“Good Lord no …” replied the elderly man, “you don’t talk like that to a woman old boy … she’d think you’ve gone soft in the head … you must be strong old boy … expected of you and all that … what?”

Father Ignatius smiled again noticing that Theodore had rediscovered his usual impetuous character of speaking spontaneously without thinking.

“I believe you should tell her how you feel about her …” said the priest, “I’m sure Rose will love to hear what you’ve just told me … and how much she means to you …”

“But … but … it goes without saying old boy … she should know how I feel … there’s no need for me to spell it out …” blurted Theodore forgetting for a moment the situation they were in.

“No Theodore …” said Father Ignatius gently, “it does not go without saying … it needs to be said … and repeated often …”

“Sheer nonsense …” interrupted Theodore, “amorous words and lovey dovey affection is for young people … not for the likes of me and Rose …”

“That is not so …” continued Father Ignatius gently, “there is no age limit on love …

“Love is like a delicate flower which needs to be nurtured and cared for tenderly to help it grow and develop …

“I have met many couples in my days as a priest who love each other deeply … yet they never say it … they leave things unsaid … and perhaps take things for granted …

“Until sometimes it’s too late …”

The priest bit his lip as he realized he’d perhaps said too much. Theodore looked up at him as if awakened from a nightmare.

“It’s not … It’s not too late … is it Father?” he mumbled, his lip trembling uncontrollably.

It was the first time Theodore had addressed the priest as Father instead of the usual Padre which he was accustomed of using. It punctuated perhaps the seriousness of the situation and the depth of despair which Theodore had reached.

At this very moment God must have intervened, because before Father Ignatius had time to reply the door opened and the police inspector came in.

“We have some news …” he said, “Mrs Luxton-Joyce’s car was found half-an-hour ago in a ditch in a secluded country lane. It appears she took a detour on her way to her friends to avoid road-works. She lost control of her vehicle in the rain and slipped in the ditch causing her to lose consciousness. She’s been taken to hospital in an ambulance …”

“Is she all right?” shouted Theodore standing up.

“Yes sir … she appears not to have been hurt seriously … I have a car waiting to drive you to the hospital.”

Father Ignatius drove back home with a thankful heart that fateful evening when God heard his prayers once again.

And Theodore discovered for the first time not to keep his love silently hidden within his own heart.

SINGER - LEO SAYER

 

The story above is an excerpt from my book

AMAZON LINK HERE

 

KINDLE VERSION HERE  

An Honesty Dilemma

They say honesty is the best policy. Is it? Would you always tell the truth? Really?

A friend of ours went on holiday and I was made to volunteer by the family to go in his house twice a week and feed his pets. By pets I don't mean dogs or cats or something just as ordinary as the rest of us would have. No ... this guy is an entomologist. In case you did not know this is the study on how to be totally and utterly boring.

Believe me, he is the world's most boring person. I believe God must love boring people seeing He created so many of them. Perhaps He created them so we can appreciate more normal people, or jovial people.

This fellow keeps insects in his house. Hundreds of them. All kinds of insects in every room. In glass cages, or tanks or whatever you call glass boxes. Some are under constant lights to keep their contents warm.

He left me a list by his front door as to what creature eats what food and how often.

Did you know that Madagascar hissing cockroaches eat fresh vegetables and dry dog food pellets? No, neither did I. But I had to throw in some pellets quickly in their tank before they got out and escaped. Do they fly, I wonder?

Now I happen to know a thing or two about dry dog food pellets. They contain all the nutrients a dog, or a human, needs. I used to carry a few in my pockets for my dog. And every so often, when I felt peckish I would eat one or two. But this soon landed me in hospital. I bent down in the street to sniff at a dog's backside and a car hit me.

Anyway, in another tank this friend had stick insects. Also known as stick-bugs or walking sticks. Basically, they are insects which look like dried sticks; sometimes green sometimes brown depending on their camouflage. They seem to stand there motionless for ages doing nothing.

He had about seven in this glass tank with a few twigs in there to make them feel at home. I looked at them and they looked at me and we made our acquaintance by just staring at each other and ignoring each other. They did look very much like the twigs they were on. I wondered, what do you call a collection of stick insects? A branch, I suppose. Of if there's more of them you call them a tree; or a dead tree.

Speaking of which, I noticed one of the insects was at the bottom of the tank on its back with its feet in the air. At first I thought it was asleep. I tapped the glass tank gently to wake it up. It did not move; but neither did the other insects. They all remained still on their twig. Part of their camouflage I suppose. There is no point in being a stick insect if at the first sight of a predator you jump up and down waving your arms in the air and shouting "Here I am!"

I tapped the glass again a bit louder. No movement whatsoever. Especially from our sleeping beauty on the bottom of the tank.

Perhaps it was a heavy sleeper. Or ... maybe it was hibernating. Do stick insects hibernate? Who knows. And who cares. I certainly was not going to search the Encyclopedia Britannica to find out. The only good use for these heavy books is to beat the hell out of insects in your home.

I remember once in a cheap hotel when I was travelling for a cheap employer I killed a cockroach in my bedroom by hitting it with a book. Within minutes the room was infested by other cockroaches who had come for the funeral.

Funerals are dull events aren't they? Not much fun in there, or hilarity. I had to attend a colleague's funeral the other day in a church I'd never attended before. I remember the church had bad wifi reception. I could not get the football scores on my cell-phone.

Anyway, there I was with a dead stick insect on my hands. Or on the bottom of his tank to be precise. What do I do? Leave him there? Will that upset his companions who might go into mourning, or go on hunger strike perhaps?

What if our friend came back from holiday and found the insect dead. Would he blame me?

Would he think the smell of my after-shave killed it? I tell you, it is the best quality after-shave I buy from the market for a few cents.

I took the lid off the glass tank in order to pick up the insect lying on its back. Perhaps I could tickle it and it would wake up. I'd have to be quick in case the other insects fly out. Do stick insects fly? Who cares?

I picked it up quickly and put it on the table. It did not move one bit. It lay on its side. I pushed it with my finger and it rolled on its back and on its other side. No sign of life whatsoever. It was as dead as the proverbial dodo. It had gone to meet its maker.

Then a thought occurred to me. What if ... ... ...

Anyway, I put a very tiny drop of glue on the end of its many tiny legs, then I opened the tank and quickly stuck it there on one of the twigs.

Now it looked just like its companions. Happily standing and doing nothing.

A few days later our friend having returned from holiday told us that something strange had happened. Apparently the female of the stick insects species lays eggs in the autumn before dying, and the new generation hatches in the spring. He was surprised how one of his females which had died before he left came to life again on his return.