He is not here. He is risen!

Mary from Magdala, Joanna, and Mary, the mother of James, and others went too; their hearts were heavy with grief as they made their way to the garden, where their beloved Yahweh had been placed in the sepulchre of Joseph of Arimathaea.
They brought with them precious herbs and spices, oil and clean linens, intent were they to cleanse most gently, then embalm and rewrap in fresh linens this most Precious of men. This Man who had cast demons out of some, healed others, and brought new life to yet others. This Man who had lived His short life caring for others. This Man who, in His last agonizing moments, gave hope to the penitent malefactor: Truthfully speak I to you. This very day we shall be together in Paradise!
Questions swirled among them: Why did He have to die? What was the reason for it all? How will they continue without Him? Where will they turn? When will they see Him again? And now yet another one posed itself to them: How on earth will they roll away the stone? For they had been there on Friday, and seen where He had been lain, and seen how that huge stone had been rolled across the front of the sepulchre, sealed, and was now guarded by Roman soldiers, who guarded it with their lives.
It is curious to note that all these questions did nothing to deter them from continuing their mission. Something compelled them on to do that which common sense would have them not. Something was urging them on, filling them with faith and courage as they went. promising them answers.
And courage they would need, by and by. For an earthquake heralded the angel's descent, as he rolled away the great stone of the sepulchre; and he sat upon it, waiting for the women. His eyes and face blazed like lightening fire, and his garments shone white as sun-drenched snow, causing the Roman soldiers unspeakable fear as they fainted dead away. And so he sat, and waited.
They didn't run away. The Lord had prepared their hearts, and the angel of the Lord assured them: Don't be afraid. I know that you're looking for Jesus, Who was crucified. He is not here, for He is risen, as He said. Come and see the place where He lay. And go quickly, and tell His disciples that He is risen from the dead, and that He will see them in Galilee. I have told you the truth.
Just imagine their joy, their exhilaration, their fear, as they ran back to tell the disciples. Their abrupt astonishment, as they beheld Jesus Himself in the garden: Salvete! Just imagine their utter bliss as they bowed down at His feet and worshipped Him. He, confirming the message of the heavenly being at the sepulchre, urged them to go, tell.
And down through the ages echoes the sorrowful cry of the Centurian, as, grieving, he proclaimed: Truly, this was the Son of God!
Hope for all whose hearts are moved by sorrow at their need for a Saviour! For a broken heart He will not despise! He will cover them with His feathers, and they will find refuge under His wings! For the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead will bring to life that which was dead in us: He will quicken our mortal bodies and give new life to us! Halleluia!

If I had an alabaster jar filled with precious ointment, I, too, would break its top and anoint Him, and honour Him, so thankful am I for this new life that He has given me; a life once devoid of all hope, most wretched. He has turned my mourning into joy!

Maunday Thursday

Tomorrow's Maunday Thursday,
A sad day, to be sure,
The things that had to happen
Grieve me to the core.

He rode into Jerusalem,
He broke bread with his friends,
He washed their feet and prayed for them.
What love is this He sends?

He suffered so, my Saviour dear,
They whipped him to the bone,
Then bore the cross to Calvary,
Our sins fore'er t'atone.

Tomorrow's Maunday Thursday.
I wish I could be there
To lay my Mum to rest at last,
And help to bring good cheer.

I'll be in England next week
A day I'm sure to save
To bring a bunch of freesia's
And lay them on her grave.

...riding on a donkey

It's Palm Sunday, and all kinds of memories come flooding back to me. I'm 8 years old, and we've just come out of St. Mary the Virgin church, and we all have our palms. They have all been painstakingly woven into crosses, but to an 8 year old it looks more like a tiny sword, and far more useful it was as a sword, than as a cross. For goodness' sake, what can you do with a cross, but hang it on your bedroom wall, or stick it in your Bible or prayer book. But a sword! Just think of the adventures you could have! 'Let's go to the graveyard and play pirates!', someone suggested. And so, swashbuckling our way down the lane, we opened the little wrought iron gate and did battle. All sorts of lovely graves were to be found at Marston Magna. My personal favourite was a huge stone box-like affair, made from the beautiful local Ham stone, a rich yellow, enormous. It had a lid that was laid on top, over-lapping the bottom part. Ivy grew all over this, fertilized by the bones inside, Cally said. All around the tomb was a black wrought-iron fence, to keep out robbers, I suppose. But it didn't keep out pirates! If you jumped on top of this tomb wielding your sword, you were the master of the world, just daring anyone to come aboard your pirate ship, and just see what would happen to you should you be so foolish as to try. Sometimes prisoners were taken, and God help those poor blighters! But not this day. Cally and I soon tired of the game, and went to read our Sunday stamp in the hollow tree. Every Sunday when you went to Sunday School, you were given a stamp to stick in your stamp book, and on it was a story from the Bible. This Sunday, Jesus came riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. The people were breaking palm leaves off the trees and, waving them, shouted, "Hosanna!" Well, there's only so much you can write on a stamp, so off we ran to Cally's house, down the lane, to get the whole version from her Mum, who was very keen on the Bible. What an amazing story she told us! And so inspiring! We couldn't wait to go back to church on Friday to find out what happened next. Anyway, because we were in the choir, we had to go back that night for the Evensong service; but, full of inspiration from the Bible story, Cally and I had other ideas! Unbeknownst to our mothers, we dressed up in the purple robes in the dress-up trunk in Cally's cloakroom. They had hoods. This time, instead of swords, we carried pampus grass. Giggling hysterically, we ran down the lane, and entered the graveyard by that same side-gate. We waited, hidden from sight, until we were sure all the choir children were in their places, then groaning mournfully, we waved our pampus grass across the window of the church, and wailed, "Hosanna!" The children couldn't sing they were laughing so hard, and poor Mr. Batson had quite a time of it coming out of the 1000-year old side door without it creaking its head off! We ran away screaming down the lane, sure and certain that we were protected from the wrath of the church warden, because of the purple robes. He couldn't possibly have known it was us, could he? I think Jesus would have loved our purple robes and pampus grass!

Mud Season

The robins came back weeks ago, the phoebe's here as well,
How long they'll have to wait for worms is more than I can tell.
There's still snow on the garden, it's turning slightly grey,
And I, for one, have had enough! Be gone, dull snow, away!

My car is filthy dirty, from muddy roads and lanes,
And I must get the Windex out to wash my window panes.
My seeds are coming shortly, they'll be here any day,
But spring-time planting'll have to wait until the snow's away.

The air is filled with misty scents of maple and wet earth,
And birds are busy making nests, a-waiting the new birth
That happens each and every spring, it always comes around,
When new life bursts and pushes up through cold, dark, frozen ground.

Cold Feet

I just walked out in the snow without shoes or socks, and now my feet are cold, and I was thinking about that expression 'cold feet'. Usually when one talks about someone having cold feet, it's understood that that someone has lost courage. So I shall pause for a moment and contemplate the connection...nothing. The American Heritage College Dictionary calls it 'slang', and goes on to describe 'fearfulness or timidity preventing the completion of a course of action'. Why is the origin of the phrase not included?

'It was a dark stormy night in the late winter of 1864. America was at war with herself. A brave soldier was found by the side of the wagon lane, his feet rudely bandaged up in scraps of cloth, no boots were found near his exhausted body. He was carried by his mates to a nearby farmhouse, where they were offered hot stew and peppermint tea. Blood began to circulate through his recovering body, and when questioned as to why he hadn't ventured the previous night to the welcoming farmhouse, he explained that he couldn't have been sure that he would have had a friendly reception, and "besides", quothe he. "I had cold feet!"

Well, that's my version! Anybody else have any bright ideas?

The Turkey Trot

Today I saw a turkey trot, twelve to be precise
They came a-running carelessly across the snowy ice.
Hunger must have driven them, for worry they did not,
I could so very easily have put one in the pot!

Had not the kitchen wall been there, had not the window pane,
My hand extended tenderly upon their backs had lain.
I felt so warm and satisfied that I had spread the best
Of sunflower hearts onto the ground to fill their croppy breast.

My Grandfather's Walks

Over the hills? Or by the honey lady? Whichever way we chose, it was sure to be an exciting adventure back to Pa and Gramsie's house in 'the Old Grey Mare", one of the Austins that my grandparents owned in the fifties. If I knew ahead of time that we would be going through the New Forest, I would always make sure that I had a sturdy piece of string, in case we saw the wild ponies...
My mother's parents lived on the south coast of England, right on the cliffs, but far enough back from the edge to know there was little danger of the house sliding down, as was the case further down the way towards the Bears. So-named were the white cliffs, afar off. On a clear day, 3 polar bears carved by the wind into the chalky cliffs, plodded along toward the east.
Pa loved to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. "Miss A." he'd say. "Please go and get my walking shoes." Pa's room was a room of strict order. His bed was always made, tops dusted, everything in its place, including his shoes, which were lined up under his bay window which overlooked the sea. His driving shoes, walking shoes, eating shoes, shopping shoes and shoes to wear to the barber were all lined up, ready for inspection! They all looked pretty much the same to me, beautifully polished leather, some with tiny holes that formed feathery patterns on the sides. His walking shoes were just plain brown lace-ups. There were a few things that absolutely had to come along with us on Pa's walks: his penknife, a crisp juicy apple such as Cox's Orange Pippin, and his 'ticker' pills. Invariably, we'd walk to the pier, a good 5-mile trot there and back. He'd let us choose: Along the top there, and back along the sands and up the Zig-Zag. Or, down the Zig-Zag and along the sands there, and back along the top. Really, the only way to experience the Zig-Zag was to fly down it, arms stretched out and slightly back, with a high-pitched whirring sound, Sopwith-style! Pa was no fool! A couple of hours walking by the sea in the strong wind, and we'd be sleeping like babies before you could wink an eye. We'd have to stop every now and then, to give Pa's poor old heart a rest, and to perk it up with one or two of his 'ticker pills' and off we'd go again. If we were lucky, and it was clear, we'd watch the huge ocean-liners sailing along the English Channel, America bound. Pa was a whiz at identifying the different ships. You could tell by how many funnels they had. We saw the Queen Mary, now docked permanently at Long Beach, California. There was a band-stand at the pier with deck chairs lined up in front, so we'd sit and listen: oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. And out would come the pen-knife and the Pippin. Everything Pa did was quite deliberate, and extremely perfectly executed. Never was anything done slap-dash, but with the utmost care and attention. And so it was when he peeled the apple. The trick was to start at the top and peel a thin snake round and round and round until you reached the bottom of the apple, and it absolutely was not allowed to break! I don't remember it ever breaking...We'd eat the snake, and he'd divide the apple equally among us. Pips and all, down it would go, even the stalk. Not one bit of the apple was wasted. Then we'd go down Fisherman's Walk and feed the squirrels some nuts, then the dreaded walk home. The wind was always strong along the top, and he'd have to hang on to his titfer (hat) ((Tit for tat - hat)) I remember the most awful earaches in those days, from the constant buffeting of the wind, I expect. The final climb up to the house, off with the shoes, wash the sand glittering on our feet in the pan of warm water set out by the back door. Gramsie would have warm milk waiting for us, then bath, then bed. If there was a story, after a line or two, I'd have drifted off, to the muffled voice of a loving Gramsie, and the constant pounding of the wind and waves through the open window...