Trying To Write When Too Weary.

Trying to write when too weary.

Today I sat down to try and write a blog post. I try to get one written in the third week of the month.
Life has been hectic this past couple of months and my focus has been on getting through all that is necessary each day. No time for waxing lyrical!
Things are calming down now, but I am still finding I need to step out to regenerate.
I have just written a short meditation on dryness to give you a brief picture of how things are. You will see it is not all bad. However, as Peter Cundall used to say at the end of each ABC Gardening Show
“That’s your blooming lot for now!” See you soon.

Meditating on Dryness.

Dry and can’t write
Dry as chips
Dry as a bone
Dry the washing
Hung out to dry
Wrung out and dry
Dry the dishes
Dry the baby after a warm bath
Smell of powder and
Warm baby-ness
Snuggle up and cuddle
Take a deep breath and smell it
Dryness before rain
Landscape of longing
Parched and wasted
Dry after rain
Not quite dry of course, still dripping with sweet air and water
Dry under a roof
Listening to the rain and wind outside
Thinking of people not dry
Cold, wet, abandoned
Leaving addiction
Striving to get dry
Been dry and counting the time
Proud dryness
Dry eyes
Dry your eyes, there you go
Dry skin
My dryness of heart and soul

needing deep water.

waterhole sa

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Grit, Garlic and Not At All What Was Expected.

2015-12-08_11 35 58

Mum almost ready to go home, happy and confident with grandson Isaac.

The last post was titled ‘The Gritty Side of Love’. A friend responded wishing us grace and grit for the coming weeks. She could never have guessed how necessary those gifts were, that she wished for Mum and the rest of us.  So for Part 2 of the story:

True to form, Mum was shifted to a rehab facility. Although old and quite institutional, we knew that with the coming health changes in our state, not a lot of money could be spent on the facilities, so share wards and bathroom and toilets were the go. The gardens were beautiful and families could be there easily. The therapists were excellent and Mum was enthusiastically making every effort to do any exercise given and more, and was making a very good recovery. Mum was walking without supervision or support with her never before used walker. She could get in and out of bed and walk outside if she chose. She was back to her crosswords and soduku. We were invited to a planning meeting re her coming move to home based care.

There were a few issues re food provision as mum is allergic to garlic. It did take many representations to convince some of the staff that this was a real problem. Mum could have just eaten a meal with garlic, but she would have experienced severe diarrhoea, pain and nausea – for quite some hours afterwards. The only accommodation was for her to be given a punitive plain white bread sandwich for two meals a day, as if she was a small child fussing over her food. We were repeatedly told that ‘the kitchen said all food is cooked with garlic these days’.  Eventually enough staff realized they themselves were the beneficiaries of her not eating it, that the kitchen existed for the patients not vice versa, and the family could stop having to bring 2 non-garlic meals a day from home.  It took 5 requests from family members.  Perhaps looking back, we should have realized this indicated something institutionally systemic about attitude, but we didn’t pick it up.

Four nights before the exit planning meeting, at 10.30pm, mum complained of severe pain in her abdomen. Now our mother is not one to fuss about pain – she has lived with all sorts of pain for many years and is as courageous and tough as the proverbial boot. If she says she is in severe pain, she means it. She said it felt as if she was having a bleed – and she has had several so she knows what that pain feels like.  She was offered two Panadol, and it seems there was no follow up all night. She was still at a horrendous pain level when the doctor came the next morning. (I am not blaming him – I do not think he had been called). At 10 am one of my sisters arrived at the hospital unannounced and found a flurry of ‘happening’ around the bed. Mum was completely white from lack of blood – her blood count was 47, less than half of what it should have been. When I saw her at 2pm she was so white I had to look twice to be sure she had not died.

To shorten this story, she had bled all night into her abdomen. When the ambulance my two sisters requested arrived, the officer had to ask for her to be given pain relief, 12 hours after she had called the nurse. There was something mystifying about how mum left the hospital. The staff stood in a row by her bed, silent and observing. They didn’t speak a word of comfort. Not one of these people who had known her for about ten days seemed to remember that she was a person – and that she had full faculties and the power of speech. The ‘ambo’ God bless him,  was the one who reassured and comforted her, and told her he would give her extra medication for the journey as she was still in too much pain to be moved.

Mum was treated well with clotting agents and transfusions and admitted to a ward in the Royal Adelaide Hospital. She has been very well looked after, but the consequences are huge. She has lost all the improvements in strength that she had made, and more besides,  and has to start all over again. This time she feels weak and discouraged, and very apprehensive. At 91, finding the energy to face the unknown all over again is tough. Sometimes to her it feels impossible. She has repeatedly expressed that she would rather she had died – that same person that had a rocking party, complete with Irish dancers,  for 120 of her family and friends last year. (She came with me to the bottle shop to do the order herself, as she suspected I might go a bit light on).

We are meant to be her supporters and encouragers now, and we will be.  I ask myself, though, how do I balance this with listening to her grieving her shattered confidence, her loss of her hopes for the kind of future she wanted, the loss of her life as she knew it, and her appraisal of what ‘getting better’ means. Where is the space for her mourning her losses while at the same time she has (necessarily) to do all she can to focus on what can be achieved?

Yes, she is better and yes, she is worse. It is a roller coaster of emotions every day. The worst is trying to come to terms with the knowledge that while she and we knew she was at risk of a bleed (and so did the rehab staff) the severity of both the pain and the consequences were entirely unnecessary. Oh and that when the head doctor from the rehab facility called by in the RAH ward,  we discovered that the extent of the happenings that night had not been disclosed to her.  I draw no conclusions, but you can bet she will.

Grit grace confusion anger gratitude sadness frustration pain love love love – and my seventieth birthday is certainly one I will never forget.





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The Gritty Side of Love.

It wasn’t hard to find the place to take off my shoes for this post.

On Saturday our Mum was taken to hospital with a stroke.

Mum lives alone, independent by choice, but through a wondrous chain of events one son was there when it happened and was able to immediately get her an ambulance. She was at the hospital, through the CT scan that revealed a clot in her brain, and being given the clot-busting treatment before the hour was up. She has made a remarkable recovery and will make more, but it is a very hard road to have to walk in the oldest stage of life.

A stroke is such an aptly named event. Even though Mum had a medical condition and took medication that still left her at risk, when it occurred it was in the space of time that a downward chopping stroke of your hand might take. Plans and certainties rudely proved in that moment to be  illusions, as she fell to the floor immobilised and speechless and not comprehending what had happened to her.

We, all her sons and daughters, were confronted by the precarious of existence – hers and ultimately also our own. It was so good to be able to all be there together, sharing the fears, talking over our responsibilities, watching out for each other, loving each other. We shared the surge of joy and relief when she emerged from the theatre alive and with us still.

As Mum has regained speech, movement and brain function (yesterday, 5 days post-stroke, she was back on to the crosswords and soduku) we have all talked about living in such a privileged part of the world, and in this advanced stage of technology. So many factors came together to allow her such a good outcome that has not been the case for others we know and love.

Mum has always been a very fit and positive person and was blessed with a strong constitution. She worked in every way she could to make her body strong and for it to be able to support the busy life she has led. She is probably one of the fittest 91 year olds to pass through the hospital ward. This does not take away her grief at losing the reality that was hers before that second. She is shocked and sad, exhausted and apprehensive, as well as rebuilding hope and making her choices about what she wants. With her usual courage she is facing working out the dimensions of what has happened and what the implications are for her.

She is surrounded by love and the most superb care, from the ambos and doctors, the surgeon who removed the clots for half an hour, the nurses and therapists, who attended to her with skill and gentleness (and to all of us with patience), to the cleaners and food deliverers and volunteers who quietly attended to her needs, to her Parish Priest and friend who came that very night with the sacraments that fed Mum’s faith and trust.

The love and concern for other people that Mum has lived by, has been overwhelmingly returned. So many people want to care for her that we have to go by roster so her brain has a chance to have the rest it needs to reweave itself. Her personal friends have kept her in their hearts and prayers, understanding that staying away is the gift that they can give for the present. They will soon be able to come and help her talk her way through this massive disruption, and be there for her after it.

You can be sure that as Mum sets off today to the Rehab facility, she will be at those exercises and tasks that lead her back to independence – and if all the love she has received could become a physical manifestation, she would be carried so high she would fly.

mum in rah

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The Third Good Fortune

Over the course of my life, I have bought many hundreds of raffle tickets – maybe even thousands of them. I am a sucker for a fund raiser that has a flutter attached. Blame my Catholic upbringing in the era of raising money to build all those churches. In Primary school, I was familiar with ‘Games Nights’ – my favourite game was Crown and Anchor, though destined to be a frequent loser. (We were not allowed to hang out at the table with the higher priced adult games). We thrilled with the impressive need not to tell people where we were going, with the conspiratorial nods between the adults to the nit-keeper out in the front garden of the house. We all knew he was Mr M…. well, I can’t bring myself to dob, to this day.
I think in the ensuing sixty years I have won three things. One was a Christmas cake (3rd prize) thirty years ago. There was a problem with this win. It was left on our front doorstep without a note, just wrapped in Christmas paper. We were mystified. We thought it must have been a neighbour making a lovely gesture, so somewhat awkwardly, we embarrassed ALL our neighbours by asking them if they had been the donor. It eventually emerged it was from a long forgotten ticket in the local Primary School’s Christmas raffle.
The second win about twelve years back, really is hard to count as a pure win as I had bought nearly all the chocolate eggs, for our school’s Easter basket raffle to raise funds for a camp, and then bought nearly all the tickets too. Nonetheless a feast of chocolates is definitely a Good Thing, especially when your class goes home with a bag each to share with their families. Some families of course, may be surprised to know they nearly had Easter eggs… there was a little school bus journey involved.
About a fortnight ago, the SA Writers’ Centre sent out an email offering a free double pass to the Kev Carmody documentary in the Adelaide Film Festival. Now I keep Kev Carmody on my spare list of people to fall in love with, if ever I am crossed off the list of my old mate. There was no room for a doubt. I admit I was shamefully fast as I hopped on to the computer, and that I wrote one word only in the body of my application: Please! Whether it was chance, or someone was impressed with my eloquence, I WON THE TICKETS.
On Sunday we two Olds hobbled off to see the Doco.
It was a good fortune indeed, but not in the way you might think.
The first surprise was that there was an introductory short film that was set in Mimili, where one of our daughters worked a couple of years ago. We had intended to visit while she was there, but her plans were changed by a nasty car accident and we never made it there. This gave us back the opportunity to understand more of her life and experience, but far far more than that as we sat with the whole of what we were seeing.
The landscape of Mimili is beauty on beauty. The colours are rich and filled with the millions of years of sun and light. The quality of the film was so strong that I could feel the dust in my nose, feel the warmth on my skin, feel the deep soft red of the road….and maybe the bindis too. The town sits in the arms of low hills that seem to hold and bless it in the light. (Our daughter cried when she read this, and says she misses it badly).
The documentary was an interview with two young men, Mark and Zibeon, who had been away to high school in privileged situations in Adelaide, but who had both chosen to return home. They each explained their reasons: in a nutshell, family, place, culture. They were both glad they had had the chance to explore another world, to learn how it works, to have new experiences and to make new friends. One returned after six months when his father became ill, and his sister needed support to care for the family. The other finished Year 12 but said he wanted a gap year, just a different kind of one. (He has now almost qualified as a nurse after three years of study.)
When I looked at that country and heard those strong young men speak of the way they yearned for their families and their culture, and of their desire to learn and pass on the wisdom of the past to the future generations, I was envious. What a world to live in, in every way!
It makes our hearts sing, to know that our eldest son, stolen only days after his birth, has regained his place in the ancient desert world, and loves it. He is in his right place at last. For all of us, a circle is complete. We know how fortunate we are. So many others never got that ending to their story.
The Kev Carmody documentary was just as good as we had hoped but that story will keep for another day. (If I miss telling you about it, watch out for it on ABC TV early next year).
The film about Mimili, Zibeon and Mark was a different sort of good fortune because it was unexpected and unsought, arriving in our laps through serendipity, or if you will by sheer grace.
This film in the old Masonic Lodge building, was the common bush afire with God. This is where today I take off my shoes.


Photo by  Hannah Grace        

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Two Ways of Seeing. Two Ways of Living.

There are terrible things afoot, it is true. War, destruction, loss, death everywhere across the globe it seems, and sometimes I wonder when it might be our turn. There have been times to be ashamed and times to be proud. Our best selves seem to be rising again, although there is still much work to be done by all of us. There always is.
Sometimes the challenge is to stay positive without allowing either anger or despair to destroy us. I was searching for hope, but was amazed at the way it came to me, through an experience that had nothing to do with my head, or my intention, and everything to do with allowing another way of seeing.

Yesterday I woke in the hour before the sun rises. Happiness seemed to be all around me.
It is a favourite time of the year, the season when all those remarkable little birds return, and we wake to their presence. I breathed in the day, aware of the shape of my oldest and dearest friend resting beside me, his body heavy and warm.

The great clacking bird started its morning calls and I heard them being faintly echoed from a tree further down our still-dark suburban street. Twittering, chirping, fussing and excitement broke out all around. Magpies sing: I swear they sing and take joy in their own singing.

I lay still and listened. There was no need to open my eyes.

Today I considered for the first time, that their tiny bodies were on the other side of our closed window, outside in the big green street tree (the best one in street) but their sound was right here in our room, in the air, even in my body. It had travelled through the dusty glass and the cool dark room, retaining all the shapes and tunes of each individual song, and entered my ears. My ear drums were moving and the minute exquisite hammers were beating inside my head, setting off chain reactions of airwaves and chemicals, lighting up neurons and pathways, creating everything necessary for me to share in this miracle, without me organizing any part of it. All I had to do was to receive it, and luxuriate in its abundance.

I lay still even longer and let the happiness grow.

Ugliness and beauty do not exclude each other. I could choose whether to listen to the song, or not. It makes no difference to the birds. They have their own life, and we who think we are so important are actually irrelevant to their performance. At best we are a hazard for them to avoid. They attend to their business faithfully, that morning’s business being the pleasure of courtship and song.

There are still two realities, the harsh and the beautiful, in our world. Do you think that perhaps the tiny birds sing to cover the wounds of the world with their grace?

Thinking of it now, as I write, it is nearly time for the end of day flapping and bustle as they return to our big green best-tree-in-our-street to rest. I am smiling as I wait.

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Allowing for Surprise.

Allowing for Surprise..

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Allowing for Surprise.

ellis beach

We are on holiday : a real holiday. One where you get on a plane and change climate zones and feel warm instead of frosted over. For a while I have stopped moaning about living in such a cold house (while reminding myself that In summer I love that same thing about it.)

It is a strange thing to have to plan ahead for holidays. We have had to outline an itinerary and make some provision, as it is the high season for tourism in Australia wherever it is WARM. We did that knowing that we will expect the unexpected to happen somewhere along the way…

At first we found ourselves anxious to fit in all the required tourist destinations. It wasn’t until Day Two when we rushed off to see the village up a windy road to the top of a mountain (well, a hill really) that we learned we were going to give ourselves a miserable time. It was the perfect introductory lesson – there were tired markets exactly the same as in every other struggling town, cheap clothing by the rack full, and irritable and snappy shopkeepers trying to feed and coffee bus-loads of tourists. We were getting quite depressed until we were smiled at by a young man with a broom, happily cleaning up in his family’s business. It was a good omen: the rest of the family were also cheerful and happy and welcoming. They said it was because they were just that sort of people, and they just liked being together and working and having fun at the same time. Balance was restored, and sympathy for the people having to have their little town over-run daily by such as US.

We went back to our flat, and reassessed. We returned our glossy brochures to the rack, and recalled what we had actually come for. We let go of all that ‘stuff’ and changed this into our own time. It feels so good. We are back on track. This is our holiday where we are light hearted together, easy in being lazy with no responsibilities. If we feel like moving we do, if we feel like just sitting that is fine. We will eventually get to see the Great Barrier Reef, and the Daintree Forest, but other than that, we are ‘just hanging’.

When I booked our accommodation, I dithered so long, that all the cheaper places were gone, and so we are now absolutely forced to spend these next three days in a delightful little bungalow on the edge of the sand and sea. It costs more than we had planned, but it is so perfect that we just don’t care. I take it as a gift from She-In-Whom-I-Often-Don’t-Believe.

The sea is grey and choppy, and quite loud and heavy in its rhythm, so I swam in the pool today, in water just cold enough for that first dive to take the breath away and clean me completely from any fogginess of mind and intention. Two little girls swam near me, and counted how long they could stand on their hands with their legs in the air. They were so beautiful, so full of the promise of their lives, gently arguing about how fast to say ‘One elephant, two elephants….’


Did I say we expected surprises?

Just after writing that much, I walked back to our little pretend home and made a plate of lunch while my husband slept. As I walked out to the little deck, I slipped down a step, and sprained my ankle badly. Plans were turned upside down again, slow had to reach a new dimension of slower.

It became a blessed time of gentleness and kindness between us. Accepting the limits opened the spaces for contemplating such dear things as the familiar curve of the body of a husband, time for laughing at our creakiness together but also sharing the trepidations  of our aging, time to treasure the memories of why we set out on life’s road with each other. Loving each other.

I think I hear a soft laughter from She-In-Whom….

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Ordinary Power.

Sometimes it get a bit hard to be positive and enthusiastic if you are trying to influence change, especially change for the ‘little people’ in the face of giants. I’ve heard and shared in conversations to this effect lately, many peppered with expletives, and found myself getting weighed down and overloaded.

We have all been asking similar questions. How do we keep going? Where do we find sources to renew our energy? Is it hopeless? These feelings were exacerbated, when we were confronted with both ugly overt racism and arrogant political corruption at the same time. I was angry but this time it was an energy for action that could not be denied. I had to do something. I cast around still just sharing the ideas and observations, still wondering if sharing on Facebook and Twitter was enough. We all talked and shared some more.

Then things changed. It was as if there was a tipping point at which enough people were angry and frustrated, for the energy to turn into positive communal actions. Instead of fuming separately, the actions manifested in many ways at once, reminding us that there is power for change in sharing amongst the ordinary people.

The many little actions erupted across the state and then the country. There were #statements, posters to put in the window, a whole football crowd dressed in red shirts with the number 37 on them, the NRL players decided to do a dance when they scored.  Little children at the Garma festival in the NT painted number 37 on themselves when they were dancing.

The energy of the actions was contagious. They were not grand undertakings, but what they released grew. People spoke out publicly and strongly about the racism in this country that is unspoken and denied. They named it, and showed that in spite of all the despair, this time there were many more who understood what it meant at both a personal and structural level.  It was targetted at one man and shown as support for that man, but there was no misapprehension that it was simply a personal thing.

Yes, it is a pity it didn’t happen earlier. Yes, our Prime Minister was missing in action.  Sure, there is still ignorance and arrogance aplenty being given airspace. But it did happen and I believe we are one step further forward because of it. I have to hang on to that.

By the way, it was a younger Aboriginal player who led the action to support Adam Goodes and to show that waiting for such abusive behaviour to go away was not an option.

His name is Lewis Jetta. It was a sweet moment when he kicked the first goal of the match this weekend and even sweeter that he did a celebratory dance…  Watch this man. He is a leader.


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A Man Sings.

I have just been listening to a man sing to his friend and his people, at a funeral service.

Such a gift is always something to move the hearers to tears, and I always marvel at the ability of the singer to ‘hold it together’ long enough to finish.

The music carries a meaning that is deeper than its words or melodies, as it is woven with shared histories, with shared memories and emotions. The choice of musician carries honour. Sometimes the audience sings the music, too, with tears of release. Sometimes they listen out of respect and ponder the reasons for the choice. As always, the music leaves us open.

In this case, the song was sung by Barack Obama, the President of the United States, at the funeral of nine black Americans murdered by a white supremacist, while in church.

Nothing could have said more powerfully to the grieving people, to the whole country, or to the world, that he was one of them.
It was not scripted or announced. He didn’t ask people to join in, although they did.
He didn’t ask for accompaniment, although after a few lines, the musicians gladly played.

He was simply a black man at home.

That is the thing. He owned all of himself and his heritage, all he is, in the way he sang. He was simply a black man opening his heart, expressing it in the way that is his by birthright.

I know there are many who criticize him for not being able to work miracles in his role, but today I saw a man unafraid to stand alone and say in his very person the truth that cries out to be said to racism, to structures of oppression, to histories we would all rather erase and forget.

He said it has not gone away, this is still present and part of our living now.

He knows the danger. He knows the fear for his children. He knows the fear and despair of the congregation. He too is never safe simply because he is black. He is outraged and angry, but he does not stop there…Even in the middle of anger and grief, as he challenges the evil that needs to be challenged, he reaches out to the whole nation. The offer is there.

He moves us to go further than tears. He moves us to respond, to find hope and courage to continue wherever we live or work. How we do that will be the measure of who we are.

He stands there and sings and people join in, reaching to be connected to hope again.

Amazing grace.

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Dragging Monsters From Under the Bed.

Did you ever have a fear of the looming dark as a child? Did you ever think there were monsters lurking in the shadows on the wall, or hiding under the bed or in your wardrobe?  What did you do if a large angry dog barked at you – even from behind a fence as you passed that house on your way to school?

There is a whole field of children’s books that deals with fears, mostly of the unknown. Adults are attracted to the crime and horror genre, and if you want to get published that is the best way to go. They sell well because they meet the common need to exorcise fear and see a happy restoration to order and safety.

On two days this month, I had my schedule cleared unexpectedly. I considered the messy cupboards and the cluttered shelves, but then decided to take a while to decide what best use I could make of these free gifts. That is how I ended up watching the live streaming of The Royal Commission into the Institutional Responses into Child Sexual Abuse. It was Case Study 28, the one set in the Catholic world of Ballarat.

Although you may think it odd, I thought that I could be a witness to all that pain and suffering. Those courageous men and women who were standing up to tell their stories will probably never know that I watched, but they deserved to have my attention to honour them. There is no way I can adequately describe their courage: to dredge up so much humiliation, fear and anguish, and to give voice to it in front of an audience and cameras and in the formality of the court process. Whole lifetimes of grief were spilt out there, grief for people’s own lost lives, and for those of others. Each person recounted the deaths of other people who did not make it through the despair, and it seemed to me that they had a community of love between themselves that left me with awe and trembling.

It was hard to listen and to watch, and it drained me. My intention to stay was not changed though. It became more intense. If they had had to live through this horror, as vulnerable little children, then the least I could do was ‘stay and watch a while’, to listen without defensiveness and understand what I was hearing – accepting that this knowledge would change me.

So now I ask: Did your parents comfort and reassure you that there was nothing in the shadow or under the bed? Have you ever comforted and reassured a frightened child – your own or someone else’s? It is an adult human reaction to protect the child, surely…surely?

What though, when there was no comfort? What then, when the monsters were real and they didn’t go away or shrink to size? Even worse, what when you were young and in terrible pain and torment, and you hoped so desperately for it to stop that you tried to ask for help – and were punished for asking? What happens inside you when, after risking everything, you were raped again and again by other people – even the ones you asked for help?

What if the people who did this to you were in your eyes, and in all your training, the voice and representation of God?

What if you were the parents, when you realize that you had been unable to protect your child from people you trusted totally and revered? It breaks a parent, that. Witnessing the destruction of your child destroys you too.

I wonder how the survivors are going to cope with the after effects of their public disclosures. When every vestige of safety has been ripped away from the foundational core of your identity, as an adult this exposure – even when chosen in an act of freedom – takes you into the very area of danger in which you were so powerless. When survivors talk about PTSD, this is what they mean: life is always a constant fight to retain an even keel, and the past pain and terror can suddenly come alive and overwhelm without warning, as if it were happening again. They can’t be offered a few sessions of counselling and then it will be over for them. Only they can say what they need to rebuild the rest of their lives, as best they can.

The church as institution has the responsibility to open its heart and provide for these needs. In the realm of theology this was called having  ‘a firm purpose of amendment’ wasn’t it? Didn’t we say ‘restitution and reparation’ and link that to forgiveness for our sins?I don’t recall anything about ‘what we can afford’  or ‘what that will cost us’ being in there at all.

I hope their courage will bring them freedom, but to have that freedom they need to have the affirmation that they are heard and believed. They need witnesses who stand up and say so. It isn’t ‘nice’ and it isn’t impolite to talk about it, although I have been clearly given the message that I am hurting the church by doing so, and in some way disloyal.

I have discovered much about secrecy, lies, Canon Law and the desire to protect an image: a desire that is twisted in and out of culture and history until it is eating the heart of what it was developed to serve. It is time to see that the glow of vestments in candlelight can either uplift to the transcendent, or hide naked emperors and corrupt systems of power. It is time to stand in the shoes of the survivors and see the whole story from their point of view. It requires a complete and permanent change of mind and heart, and nothing else will suffice.

It cannot be done to ‘save’ the church so that it can reclaim its effectiveness. It can only be done because it is the right thing to do. If the church has started to learn anything surely it has learned that motives matter.

The witnesses who have voluntarily returned to this trauma and stood up in court, are not making  an act of revenge. It is a decision to stand in their own truth. The teaching of Christ is that the truth will set you free. Opening our hearts to freely accept and understand the full dimension of that awful truth, and take on all its associated challenges, is the only way we can stand in ours.

This is a collective act of truth, a collective act of justice taken by heroes.

Holy truth and holy justice.

blog photos

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