Good. And Bad.

 

I had an email from Aloysius yesterday saying that he had a meeting in Oxford* and wouldn’t be here for silent prayer today, and would I hold the floor down in his absence?**  I’ve done this before.  I think I told you, months ago, the first time it happened, I asked him for suitable opening and closing reading-out-loud prayers***, which he duly sent me, a print-out of which I carry around in an increasingly frayed state in the little notebook in my back pocket.†  And I read them out, turn on my electric candle, set the temple-bell timer app on Astarte, and sit quietly—by myself—in St Margaret’s†† little side chapel.  But along with believing in prayer in the standard ritual praise/petition/penitence/doodahdoodah ways I believe in the consequences of ordinary mortal structure and schedule—if you commit to Wednesday afternoon silent prayer, then you have to go on doing it.  It matters.  Even if you’re the only one and you suspect your curate is humouring you.†††

There were three of us today.  My jaw didn’t smack to the floor, but that’s possibly only because I had an armful of blanket in the way.‡  It’s pretty amazing how many more people three is than one, you know?

I still read out Aloysius’ prayers and used the temple-bell app. . . . ‡‡

* * *

* a likely story

** These weren’t quite his words.  Aloysius is a polite young British priest.^

^ I have a long-downing hellterror at my feet again.  She is being afflicted beyond measure or bearing by the fact that Peter is kneeling on the floor not six feet away, groping in the bottom drawer of the freezer.  OH.  MERCY.  HE’S NOW LAYING LARGE FASCINATING PACKAGES ON THE FLOOR BEHIND HIM.  OH.  OH.  OH.

*** I think I’ve also told you that Llewellyn says all us Street Pastors should trying being a Prayer Pastor some time—which means staying at base and, um, praying.  I would like to try PPing;  prayer is very grounding and centring.  Both of which aspects of mortal life and character I’m a little short of, and, never mind the worshiping God part, is a lot of the lure of contemplative prayer for me—the Wednesday afternoon at St Margaret’s/Saturday evening at the monks’ effect.   Prayer Pastoring takes the spiritual strength of prayer (you hope) out into the practical world—or anyway the world rings you up on the Street Pastor mobile and asks you to pray for stuff.

The problem is that as a Prayer Pastor you have to pray out loud.  You have to make it up as you go along.  I’ve been known to mutter supplicatory phrases under my breath at home^ but PRAY OUT LOUD?  USING MY OWN WORDS?  ARE YOU KIDDING?

I haven’t volunteered for Prayer Pastor duty yet.^^

^Although a lot of this, sadly, is of the ‘God please send a thunder-bolt to blast this frelling object’ variety.

^^ And I’m denial about the fact that some day someone on the street will ask me to pray for/with them.  People do.  It’s one of the things they think Street Pastors are for.  They don’t want some invisible Prayer Pastor half across the city.  They want you.  Eeeep.

† The one that on several pairs of my jeans is coming off due to small heavy scrabbly hellterror hind feet.   The notebook is getting pretty frayed too.

†† Freezing cold, just by the way.  You expect an old church like the abbey to be cold.  St Margaret’s is newish and not terribly interesting . . . and freezing cold.

††† Aloysius told me a while back that one of the few legal requirements of being a priest is that you have to pray every day.^  So he can at least multi-task Wednesday afternoon.  Except when he’s in Oxford.

^ This is one of those ‘I’m an alien in a foreign culture’+ moments for me, the separation-of-church-and-state American.  Priests must pray every day or they’re breaking the law.  Jeepers.

+ And I don’t really speak the language.

‡ See:  cold.

* * *

‡‡. . . And at this point, Darkness, who has been obviously anxious and uncomfortable all evening, went and stood by the door in a worried and meaningful way.

We’re just back from racing over half Hampshire while he geysers—I don’t know what hurtling has to do with geysering but the latter seems to require the former.

It started raining and I get tired quickly, hurtling late at night.  So I brought them home too soon and he threw up magnificently all over the carpet, whereupon I had a meltdown of epic proportions.  I also cleaned up the carpet.

I can’t remember if I’ve told you I’ve gone back to my old homeopathic vet again.  I will ring him tomorrow, since the latest remedy is clearly not having the desired effect.

And, you know, I’m not sure how long I can go on doing this.

You’ll excuse me if I stop a bit abruptly tonight.^

^ Yo, God, why are you torturing my dogs?