A cold, wet, evening

It is a cold, wet, evening. The threatened rain is falling, running down the window in a steady trickle. It is not quite dark in spite of the heavy black clouds and the street lighting. In the distance, a tiny patch of almost-blue is trying, vainly, to stop the onset of night. The steady roar of traffic and the occasional sound of a plane or a police car rise above the pitter-patter of raindrops, whilst a slight wind nudges the branches of the tree outside, creating a waving silhouette against the buildings.

Across the road and on, into the distance, lights are appearing in windows as people return home from their various occupations. In the apartment opposite, someone has dumped a large black holdall, perhaps in relief after a long day? Is he or she planning a quiet evening at home, or is there something rather more active and exciting on the horizon? Whilst others hurry past, hidden underneath multi-coloured umbrellas, is someone else curled up with a hot drink and a book, luxuriating in a few moments of peace, quiet and solitude?

We really know so little of the lives of those around us. We pass in the street and perhaps offer a greeting, or perhaps we just walk by, oblivious of each other’s presence. Is that why one young man whom I saw this afternoon had chosen to have his face heavily tattooed? It wasn’t a cultural thing. Was it merely to attract attention and make a statement to the world? “I am here. I exist. Look at me and do not pass me by.”

Two little girls chattered on their way home from school. Afro-Caribbean, their curly hair lovingly plaited by their mothers, their giggles sounded above the adult murmurs of those they passed. What was the source of their merriment? How much do we really know of the things that bring happiness into the hearts and lives of others?

I sat in the Internet café in a fruitless effort to open my e-mails. The connection was so slow that, after several attempts, I gave up. Nothing would open. The content of my e-mails remains a mystery, but not so the cheerful helpfulness of the Muslim owners of the business. Were they Bangladeshis or Pakistanis? I do not know because I cannot tell the difference between their languages. How much do we understand of the words of others, even when they speak the same language? How often do we listen only on the surface, oblivious of the deeper thoughts and implications? How often do we see those who figure in our daily lives, or perhaps, on the news, and see human figures, but not human persons with hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, successes and failures?

It is a cold, wet, evening. Yet, in the darkness, there are people laughing and crying. There are people who are full of hope and who are full of fear. There are people who are simply ‘getting on with life’, whatever it might hold for them.

Lord, be with each and every one of us, whoever we are, wherever we are, whatever we are. Guide us. Bless us. Draw us closer to you.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Burning hearts

He wore a wide, leather belt over his tunic and short leggings that came to just below his knees. His sleeves were hidden by arms that extended across his chest and face, a futile act of self-protection that ended in his inevitable death almost 2,000 years ago when Vesuvius erupted and buried the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum. He wouldn’t know that, in Herculaneum, as the population sheltered, safe, or so they thought, in the warehouses dotted along the shore, the first wave of hot air, escaping from the volcano crater, would sweep down the slopes, dessicating everything in its path. Scientists two millennia later, would conclude that it took less than five minutes to kill and skeletelise more than four hundred people as they slept, unaware of their impending doom.

Not so in Pompeii. Even today, the figures, carefully excavated by archaeologists, show the horror of those who had tried to escape but couldn’t avoid the torrent of hot ash and stones that hailed down upon their thriving city. For sure, the unexpected end of a heavily populated, affluent centre of commerce that housed the rich, the very rich and the very, very rich just as much as those who lived at the opposite end of the economic scale, preserved the records of daily life. Visit the museum in Naples and glory in the vivid colours of mosaics that might have been created this morning. See the magnificent sculptures, enshrined forever in newness and it is hard to visualise the contorted bodies of their creators, huddled over, vainly trying to save themselves from the volcano’s wrath.

Pompeii, Herculaneum and London are far apart, but are they?

Yesterday, I stood on the Thames embankment, across from St. Paul’s Cathedral as the sun was vainly attempting to break through impossibly heavy layers of grey clouds.

To the left of Wren’s masterpiece, the memory of our first three martyrs of the Reformation live on, Carmelite friars, who went to a horrific end in …. because they refused to accept Henry VIII’s desire to divorce his wife and marry his mistress, Ann Boleyn.

Yet, looking at St. Paul’s, there is also another story, one that dates back to a bakery fire in Pudding Lane and the Great Fire of London in 1666.

What was it like for the people of the time to stand exactly where I stood yesterday, across the river, watching the conflagration on the opposite bank? Were it not for the Thames, Fleet Street and St. Paul’s could be reached within a few minutes. How many watched from the embankment, knowing that there was little or nothing that they could do to help those whom they knew and perhaps loved, who were caught in the fire? Were they also showered with dust, hot ash and scorched splinters of wood from the burning buildings? Were the flames reflected in the sluggish waters of the Thames? Did they feel helpless, not knowing that the fire led to the end of the Plague and the establishment of the first fire insurance? Would that knowledge have mattered in any case? What value did the later benefits hold in comparison to the lives of people they loved and for whom the bystanders had responsibility? Samuel Pepys could write as an eyewitness, to some measure dispassionately and with some humour, but for most of his contemporaries, they were watching the end of their lives as they knew them to be.

But there is no need to go back in time to understand the feelings of helplessness of individuals who must watch the sufferings of those who are precious to them. It happens today and in situations that are not confined to nationality, culture, creed, gender or religious belief.
There are also people today, across the world, who are helpless in the face of violence and threat to their lives, whether from natural causes or from others who cannot find peaceful ways to eliminate conflict.

Helplessness is not limited to ages past. That is why, in the hymn, we sing, “O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come…”

God bless,
Sr. Janet

The God of surprises

Domes and towers! It is quite spectacular to look out of my window and, on my left, is the dome of the Imperial War Museum. To the right is the towering splendour of the Houses of Parliament and the clock face of Big Ben, partially obscured only by the corner of a building opposite. From the window outside my room is the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the stunning London Eye, which, at night, is lit with a beautiful blue light. It is, after two days, still a novelty to be woken by the chimes of Big Ben. Will things change? I hope not.

Having arrived in London only the night before last, my e-mails may be rather erratic for the next few days as I’ll be dependent on an Internet café and the generosity of others who allow me to use their office connection after they have finished work, so please excuse me if I am sporadic in my efforts until I have my own connection.

Yesterday I had my induction into my new job with the Pontifical Mission Societies. Wonderful! I can definitely see plenty of opportunities for seeing the care and attention paid by the people of my own country to those in need elsewhere in the world. It is to be a real privilege and one to which I am looking forward, however much I loved Rome, Vatican Radio and the Beda College where I was able to treasure the opportunity to walk alongside so many students for the priesthood from all over the English-speaking world.

Today? Having spent so long packing, I am now unpacking and trying to find places for such boring things as plugs and cables, adapters and USB leads. Life is not always exciting. There are the mundane tasks that must be done. The floor has to be cleared of the bits and pieces that have been conveniently dumped and then moved around.

If life were always exciting, it would soon become boring, or else so stressful that we’d never cope. God is good. There are the moments of disorder, but there are also the times of order and accomplishment, when it is possible to look back, even at such a small thing as an emptied suitcase and feel a pleasant glow of achievement.

It is in the little things that we have time to appreciate the goodness of God. For sure, we can look at the big events and thank him for being there, but he is also present in the mundane details of daily life. It is there that he is truly the God of surprises, making himself present at the most unexpected moments.

Thank God!

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Journeying

It is early on Sunday morning. The grey sky, heavy with clouds, is only just starting to reveal the waking world. Trees are still silhouetted, almost black, as their branches wave in the wind.

Beneath the window, a horse grazes in the field. Is it the same Shire colt that, yesterday, threatened to bite a Sister who tried to clean its sticky eye? A few months ago, it was a small foal. Already, much grown, it is larger and considerably heavier, than many an adult pony. Yet its silly little tail is still that of a baby. One day soon, perhaps, it will be lovingly and colourfully plaited, the dusty coat groomed, the untidy mane carefully combed and entwined with bright ribbons for an excursion to the showground and the gaze of admirers, gathered around the perimeter of an arena to see the once commonplace gentle giants.

Yesterday, a very different but rather frightened child found itself led through the small town of Godalming. It is just not the sort of town that expects to witness a bullock in its streets. People stopped and stared at its frazzled female companion as she held the halter and tried hard to keep the animal on the road rather than in the shops. The heavy black animal did not like the shops, the traffic or the 16th century, black and white buildings that form the centre of the town. Its owner was also unhappy at having to take responsibility for the beast, appearing increasingly worried as the minutes passed by. Who was she? What was the story behind the unfamiliar journey? Where did they begin ad where would they end?

We all have our own journey. Mine from Rome to England has already passed into history (except for the mountain of not-yet unpacked luggage which must, somehow, accompany me to London on Tuesday).

Who is with us on our travels? Do they bring us happiness or pain? What effect does my presence have on others? Am I able to bring joy into their lives?

Someone once wrote:
“Do not walk ahead of me: I might not follow.
Do not follow me: I might not lead.
Just walk beside me and be my friend.”

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Gratitude

Strange as it might seem, there are advantages to insomnia!

Today is D-Day and in four hours time, I will be leaving Rome for England on the next stage of my journey in life. The packing is done. (The washing was in the machine before 05.00.)

Inevitably, with the busy-ness, the first casualty has been sleep, at least, this morning, with a mental list of jobs still to be done before departure.

Knowing that 03.00 was much too early to be bustling around a silent house, I switched on the radio and heard a beautiful programme about gratitude. People were brought face-to-face with someone to whom they wanted to say thank-you.

What was striking was that the benefactors had not thought that they had done anything special and were both pleased, but also surprised, to know that they had changed the life of another person: one Good Samaritan was a teacher, another an orthopaedic surgeon and a third, a busy Mum who found a missing dog.

Yesterday, during a similar bout of wakefulness, another radio programme interviewed people with terminal illnesses, talking about how they had come to terms with their condition, what they had learned, and the advice they wanted to leave for those who are not coming to the end of their time on earth. Interestingly, there was one theme: be grateful. Appreciate every moment of life, every sunrise and sunset. Notice all the little things for which there was never time to look and see their loveliness.

At the end of the day, no matter who were are, ‘thank-you’ or its equivalent in whatever might be a person’s language, is such a small word, but is there anything that can hold the same vastness of meaning? I don’t think so.

It would be wonderful if the whole of life could be one great act of thanks to the One who loved us into life in the first place.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Husband of Mary

The girl whom he was to marry was pregnant and the baby was not his. He could have spoken to others. He could have dumped her. He didn’t.

He could have had his revenge. It would have been so easy to kill her or to arrange her death. He didn’t.

He married her and made a home for her child. When the child’s life was in danger, he and his wife escaped from their own land and walked many miles to safety, crossing national borders and becoming a refugee, returning to their own land only when the political environment was safe.

He taught the boy his own trade, gave him the possibility of caring for his mother and of leading an independent existence. Nobody in the town knew that the child wasn’t his and he wasn’t the one to divulge the secret of the youth’s paternity.

The bare facts of the life of St. Joseph are very few, so few that people have speculated about him for centuries. Was he old or young? When did he die? Was he around to see Jesus grow up? Who was Joseph of Nazareth, the carpenter?

In actual fact, the few things we know about Joseph are all the biography that we need, albeit not as much as we would like. There are, of course, conclusions that can be drawn. He must have been a thoroughly decent person and someone who was so dependable and reliable that God could entrust Mary and Jesus to his care, knowing that Joseph would not let him down.

It was only from about the 12th century that the Church began to formalise a devotion to Joseph, only creating a feast in his honour in the 15th century. Great saints such as Bernard (1123), Thomas Aquinas (1274), Gertrude (1310) and Teresa of Avila (1582) have long been associated with his name, but it was the Franciscans, followed by the Dominicans and Carmelites who, at the end of the 14th century, actually introduced a feast into their liturgical calendars. This was only then extended to the Universal Church in 1847. In 1870, Joseph was made the official patron of the Universal Church. After all, he had looked after Jesus and Mary, so he would be sure to take good care of the Church also.

Throughout the world, people depend on Joseph for their practical needs. He was a carpenter, a builder, a husband, a foster-father, a traveller, a refugee, persecuted and poor, someone who, according to tradition, died in the company of Mary and Jesus. He knew what it is like to face opposition and hardship. It’s not surprising, then, that many see him as a protector and a guardian.

If God can trust him, so can we!

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Communicating with the Divine

How do they do it? The panpipers on a Sunday, standing on the road alongside the Forum, merely blow into hollow bamboo pipes. That is all. Yet, effortlessly, they create the sights and sounds of the Andes and the Amazon. The magnificent ruins of Rome are transformed into dark green, steamy jungle and dizzying mountain heights. Ancient music, carried on the wind, permeates every nook and cranny, bringing its own loveliness, a loveliness that is beyond anything that the Senate and the Roman People could have ever imagined. It is the sheer beauty of the heights of the condor and the depths of the Amazon basin that makes it such a joy to visit the Forum on a Sunday.

Yet there is also a different music. Switching on the radio in the early morning, I learned of a different musical instrument: the Maori pipe and again, as soon as the first notes issued forth, I was no longer in Rome. There were the boiling mud pools of Rotarua, the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean, warriors paddling decorative war canoes, women dancing in traditional robes made from feathers. It was magical!

The interview was fascinating. Apparently the Maori pipe was banned by the first missionaries to New Zealand, not understanding the sacred significance of the instrument. They probably also objected to the fact that the pipes were fashioned from human bones!

Today, three men, experimenting with emu bones, have resurrected an instrument that had almost entirely disappeared from its culture. They described whole communities sitting in tears of nostalgia as the men toured the villages, giving back to the Maoris a means whereby their ancestors had been in communication with their ancestors.

Perhaps the most significant part of the whole interview was towards the end when the interviewee described a conversation with a very old man. “When the pipes are blown, it causes my hair to stand on end. When that happens, I know that I am in the presence of the Ancestors. It is sacred.” The instrument was nothing more and nothing less than a means of going beyond the immediate and thereby communicating with the Divine.

How do I find God in my life? Am I touched by music or by nature? Does God speak to me in the sunlight or in silence? How does he touch my heart? If a Maori could know the presence of God by feeling his hair stand on end, in what way does God let me know that he is there? Is he carried on the breeze, or in laughter?

Somebody sent me the following in an e-mail:
I asked God for water, He gave me an ocean.
I asked God for a flower, He gave me a garden.
I asked God for a friend, He gave me all of YOU...

If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it.
Happy moments, praise God.
Difficult moments, seek God.
Quiet moments, worship God.
Painful moments, trust God.
Every moment, thank God.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

The Real Epiphany

The world seems to be made up of witches of every shape, size and colour, some on broomsticks and some not. All of them are artistically arranged on every street corner, shop window and market stall. Even the salespeople are dressed as witches. Visit a restaurant and the chances are that the waiters and waitresses are similarly clad…although I must ask whether or not a bright green face and false, hooked, nose helps the digestion.

In Piazza Navona, the market stalls which, prior to Christmas, had sold Crib figures and sweets associated with Christmas, a few days later are groaning under the weight of witches, many of them made of straw and each one more improbable than the one before. Instead of sweets, fist-size (and larger) blocks of jet black sugar charcoal form mountains which, as soon as they are sold to the many thousands of teeming customers, tourists and children, are replenished so that the whole process begins all over again.

Why witches and sugar charcoal for the Epiphany? Well, it is because in Italy, children do not receive their presents on Christmas Day, but, rather, on the feast of the Epiphany on 6th January. Very early on in life they learn that, if they are not well-behaved during the course of the year, then instead of gifts, the witch (La Befana) will come and will leave them a lump of coal.

Of course, it is all good fun. Even the children wear masks, cloaks and black pointed hats. Sugar charcoal is apparently good to eat, although I have not had the courage to try.

For the feast of the Epiphany, it seems that the entire world meets at Piazza Navona, especially in the evenings. Rome becomes absolutely thronged with families, in an exuberant, noisy, impenetrable, moving procession towards the Piazza. People come from every part of Italy, apparently merely to walk through the city streets, enjoying themselves. The city suddenly feels like one huge family, with children of every age, shape and size filling every available centimetre of space.

Enter the Piazza Navona at night and it is almost impossible to move. Does every child in the world HAVE to be brought here and be given a balloon? Yet the balloons themselves are beautiful, amazing and memorable in their own right… especially if one escapes from a hot sticky hand to soar into the sky, catching the bright lights above the howl of disappointment of its erstwhile young owner.

Meanwhile, in all the churches and homes, the Magi have appeared at the manger, carrying their gifts of gold, frankinsense and myrrh. Because of the din outside and the magical atmosphere of happiness, the Magi’s coming is silent and unspectacular. They stand or kneel in reverence beside the Infant, wordless and adoring. They are there on our behalf. The noisy, colourful crowds only have meaning apart from La Befana. It is deeply within the heart that there is the real Epiphany: the real manifestation of a Baby who was born for us.


The Coming of the Magi ~ T.S. Elliot

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped in away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

A hug

Mary, Mother of God and Mother of the Church.

What does it mean to be a mother?

One of the biggest lessons I ever learned was when I was faced with a dead baby and his grieving parents, when I had not a single word of their language with which I could offer comfort. It was then that I did the only thing I could: I hugged the mother.

It was then that I learned that motherhood is knowing when and how to give a hug, whether it is of sympathy in suffering, encouragement in difficulty, of support in weakness, of love in loneliness, of happiness in joy, of pride in achievement.

Mary was at the beginning and the end of Jesus’ life on earth. She was there for his successes and failures, his joys and his degradation on Calvary. Mary knew when Jesus needed a hug.

She also knows when her hug is exactly what we need. After all, she’s our mother, too.

Happy New Year!

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Closing and opening

2007 is drawing to its close. Probably you are also looking back over the year that has almost passed. It is natural. We all feel a sense of closure at this time. We all feel ourselves to be standing on the threshold of the unknown.

Of course, it is entirely possible to make some predictions. Day will follow night. There will be clouds and sunshine. There will be winds and breezes, showers and downpours. There will be some mornings when it will feel hard to face another day, hard to climb out of bed rather than to curl up and go back to sleep. On some occasions there will be late nights and very early mornings, perhaps with sleeplessness and anxiety. On other occasions, a sense of excitement and anticipation might mean that the dawn cannot come soon enough.

It is possible to make other predictions: the year will incorporate mealtimes, conversations, journeys (if only into the next room or in a dream), washing and dressing….

The year that is closing has held these same qualities that can be anticipated for the next twelve months. Similarly there will be the unexpected joys and sorrows, just as much as those that could be foretold. There will be some things that we regret just as much as those for which we will remain ever grateful.

As St. Augustine said, “Leave your past to the mercy of God; leave your future to the providence of God; and leave your present to the love of God.”

Yesterday, I visited the Shrine of Our Lady of Revelation, a 7 minute bus ride from here, plus Tre Fontane, just opposite, where St. Paul was beheaded. (I’ve mentioned the Shrine of Our Lady of Revelation before: it’s a spot where Mary appeared to an Italian Communist who was planning to assassinate Pope Pius XII but changed his mind after seeing her. I’ve never yet found the Shrine empty: its prayerfulness is profound.)

In both places I prayed a Rosary for all those who will read this message, for yourselves, your families and all those whom you love and for whom you care, for all your needs. May God and his Mother be with each one of us as we move from the old into the new year. May he strengthen those who need courage, gladden the hearts of those who need joy, give companionship to the lonely, healing to the sick, bring home those who are lost and be with us at every moment of every day in all that we say, think and do.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Christmas in St. Peter’s Square

The attention to detail is spectacular. No wonder it took from the beginning of November until Christmas Eve in order to finish the Crib in St. Peter’s Square!

Unusually, this year, instead of locating the Holy Family in a stable in Bethlehem, they are firmly ensconced in Joseph’s house, complete with its carpenter’s workshop to the right and the ‘eatery’ to the left. Large, jagged cracks run between the bricks on the outside of the building and, on the inside, crumbling plaster on the walls show the poverty of the village carpenter even if the faded green curtains separating the house and the workshop haven’t been noticed. Outside, a hen and a rooster, several sheep and two goats and, yes, the ox and ass, are clearly visible, as are, inside, Simeon and Anna.

In the ‘eatery’ (did whoever wrote the description intend to use that word or another?), whilst one person kneads and rolls out the dough, a man with a long-handled shovel (for want of a better word) turns to put a loaf into the oven for baking. A woman carries out a small tray with a carafe of wine and a cup to a man sitting at the table.

The carpenter’s shop is beautiful with its workbench, tools and a wooden stool. The occupants are hard at work. What are they making as the curtain billows in the breeze? How many hours did Joseph and Jesus spend together as the Boy learned his trade?

Within the single room of the house, the battered and ancient staircase stretches upwards to a balcony whereon are two angels, whilst a third hovers over Mary and Jesus, protecting them from harm. Only slightly beneath their feet is the start of the road that will take them to Egypt. It is green and flanked with plants of all shapes and sizes: olives, palm trees, poinsettia, cyclamen and others…

Yet it is not only the front of the house that has been lovingly created. At the back, a small wooden veranda and steps support large bunches of rushes, drying in the sun…

Towering above the Crib, the magnificent tree, the gift of the Tyrol, shimmers in the sunlight, laden with silver and gold baubles, tinsel and other decorations. As is the custom in Italy, they will remain until 2nd February, the feast of the Presentation, for everyone to see and enjoy. Behind them, hidden amongst the wonderful Bernini colonnade, an exhibition of Cribs from the town of Trentino is nothing short of captivating. Not all of the figures within the various scenes are expertly made: in one of them, Jesus looks about 10 years old as he lies in the manger! Yet what exquisite pieces of driftwood! How perfect they are in creating stables and caves! Where on earth did people manage to find such beautiful pieces of wood?

…and the carvings! So much love went into their creation…

The beauty about the Nativity is not only the story of God becoming a human Baby. It is the involvement of a family and real people. Most of us can identify with a mother and child. Most of us can admire the generosity, love and fidelity of Joseph, who took on a baby who wasn’t his, but became his child through adoption. The story of Christmas is the story of a family. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why so much love is expended in recreating the events of that night so long ago.

God bless,
Sr. Janet
PS Check out my website at http://pauseandpray.com/. I have added some recordings that you might find of interest. Eventually there will be a page of podcasts, but for now, you can have a taste of more to come….

A Christmas Prayer

Within a few hours, it will be Christmas. Around Rome, there is a tremendous sense of waiting. Just a couple of yards away from me, one of my Community is busily arranging the Nativity scene under the altar in our chapel. Downstairs, in the main chapel, one of our seminarians is likewise engaged. Both will be beautiful. Both will be peaceful and silent.

There is a special peace about Christmas Eve, even in the midst of all that needs to be done for the Feast. Yes, life is busy, but it is also purposeful. Wrapping gifts is also beautiful: it is people centred, other-centred. Christmas is not about ‘me’, but, instead, is about ‘you’ and ‘us’. As I walked through the market this morning, it seems that the entire population of Rome will receive stalls.

For my own part, I have been deeply touched by the e-mails I have received as a result of breaking the news of my forthcoming move. Even as I write, my room is littered with the inevitable sorting of papers, books etc….and I think of a young couple who travelled from Nazareth to Bethlehem with no more than could be conveniently carried on the back of a donkey.

What were their feelings? Did they panic as Mary realised that she was going into labour? Did Joseph worry that a slight stumble on the part of the donkey would hasten the birth, so that Jesus might be born on the roadside, with no shelter other than the love that he and Mary would shower on him in abundance?

Fortunately, their worst fears were not realised. Jesus was born in a stable, but it was a shelter from the cold and dark. There was a fire and some degree of comfort. There was joy and peace.

…and I think of those people for whom this Christmas will be a time of anxiety, loneliness and, perhaps, despair. May they find some peace, companionship and hope.

May those who are hungry and thirsty find food and drink, those who are searching, find the object of their search, those who are homeless, find shelter.

For so many families, Christmas is a time of togetherness. May those who are divided by discord, or by illness, or by death, know comfort and unity. May those who are waiting at the bedsides of their loved ones be at peace.

Where parents have lost a child, may they be comforted and may their child come home to them, at least in their aching hearts if not physically.

May those who are happy know even more happiness.

May the Christ Child be born in our hearts, in our lives and in this beautiful world that is sometimes a little bit crazy. I can never forget that, during the funeral of Pope John Paul II, when so many world and religious leaders turned towards each other and offered the Sign of Peace, for a couple of minutes, we truly had world peace. May that peace spread throughout the world this Christmas.

God bless you and all those whom you know and love,
Sr. Janet

Arrivaderci a Radio Vaticana

Well, the title is written with apologies to whoever it was who wrote the original song, which was saying goodbye to Rome rather than to Vatican Radio, but it has a certain appropriateness in the circumstances.

My piece of news for today is that yesterday was my last working day at Vatican Radio as I finished four wonderful, fulfilling and very precious years there.

As of 11th January, I shall also no longer be living in Rome, because I shall be heading back towards England after working outside the country for the past sixteen years.

On 28th January, I will be taking up a new position as Communications Coordinator for the Pontifical Mission Societies, (PMS) also commonly known as the Association for the Propagation of the Faith (APF), and will be based in London. (Check out the website at http://www.missionsocieties.org.uk/ )

That sounds a very ‘bald’ statement, but in fact, I am tremendously excited about the opportunity the new job. There will be enormous scope for working with all the Catholic and secular media within the UK, the dioceses, Catholic organizations… and you name it!… in order to promote the mission of the Church to reach out to the whole world and to proclaim the Good News.

It has struck me on so many occasions that most people do not see the amazing work that is done in their name by the PMS. So often, people collect money ‘for the missions’, making an act of faith that their hard-earned cash will be used wisely, and not always seeing the schools and hospitals that they build, the textbooks and medicines that they buy, the hungry whom they feed, the thirsty to whom they give a fresh water supply, the boats, vehicles and motorbikes that make it possible to reach the most remote places on earth, or the students they train for the priesthood. Hopefully, through my new job, I’ll have the opportunity to tell people even a fraction of all the good things that they are achieving on behalf of others through the work of the PMS.

Hopefully there will be the possibility of saying that in this day and age, where there is so often pain and suffering, there are also tremendously good people, giving of themselves to others. It will be an opportunity to proclaim God's goodness from the rooftops and to tell the world that it's not always easy, but that knowing God is there gives total meaning to everything in life.

Of course, it was sad leaving Vatican Radio yesterday, and leaving Rome will also be painful. It has been a wonderful experience working so closely with the radio station that is ‘The Pope’s Voice’ reaching out to the world. During those four years, I’ve had the privilege of presenting more than 100 live radio and television commentaries on papal ceremonies, including the Mass offered only hours after Pope John Paul II died, his funeral, the opening of the Conclave, the closing of the Conclave, the inauguration of the papacy of Benedict XVI, and so on. It has been an amazing and deeply humbling experience to know that my own voice could be, not only an instrument of the Church, but one that could touch people whom I would never meet in ordinary daily life.

Leaving Vatican Radio and heading towards the Pontifical Mission Societies does not mean that there will be an end to the website, the prayer board, the blogspots or the daily e-mails, as I’ve set these up in such a way that they can continue.

May I take this opportunity of thanking you for your support, your faithfulness and your prayers. Please pray for me as I launch into a new era, as I will continue to pray for you and yours, and for all your special needs.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

From Zimbabwe

The message which follows came from someone I would prefer not to name for his own safety. Just take it that he is someone who risks his life in order to speak out. To me, his message of love in the midst of suffering is the true message of Christmas.
God bless,
Sr. Janet

When a child is born you wish the little one all the best: the journey through life is hazardous. Even the most loving parents cannot protect it from war and violence, from disease and catastrophe. This world is beset by evil and full of hatred.

The Child born in Bethlehem was to meet evil and hatred head-on. Precisely because he was utterly good and loving he would be hated by the proud and arrogant whom he would challenge. Precisely because he would make the love of God present in this world the forces of evil would rally against him, and in his life and in his very person clash with God’s goodness. He narrowly escaped the massacre of the innocent children of Bethlehem - for the moment. The forces of evil would eventually catch up with him in Jerusalem. They would destroy him physically, but his love would triumph over their hatred.

Zimbabwe has become a DANGER ZONE. Its leaders are driven by hatred for their enemies, not by love for their own people. Hatred is a destructive force. It does not build anything, it only tears down and demolishes. The potholes on the roads, dead traffic lights, power and water cuts, patients left without treatment, empty shelves and empty stomachs, empty spaces where Murambatsvina demolished homes, witness to this. Fear of police brutality and torture is all-pervasive and ever-present.

Christ showed up the irrationality of hatred. That is why he did not meet hatred with hatred, releasing a lethal virus and starting a doubly destructive pandemic. He saw the humanity even of his opponents, though damaged by sin, and restored it by reaching out to them, in other words by love.

Our ears are ringing with the din of hate speech, and yet love is not dead. There are people caring for HIV positive babies, and others resisting torture and healing the tortured, there are thousands toiling away in foreign lands for their destitute loved ones at home, there are some left speaking the truth in the midst of lies and deceit.

Hatred shouts and screams, love is quiet and inconspicuous. But the outcome is certain: love will overcome. Perhaps not fully in our lifetime, nevertheless love will overcome. That is the message of Christmas, of Christ, of this Child, vulnerable and yet unconquerable.

Jonathon

God is so good! Who could ever think that his attention to detail would encompass even the beautiful, golden-ringed eye of a seagull and who would think that he would make it possible to watch its snowy-white head, first at one angle and then at another as, in turn, it watched me, hoping for some food?

Jonathon, for we have named him after Jonathon Livingstone Seagull, has begun to stand on the window ledge of our office at Vatican Radio, peering through the window. He’s much larger at close quarters than he would appear when his broad wings suddenly spread and lazily take him over the buildings on either side of the Via delle Conciliazione. Sometimes he soars over the Tiber. Sometimes he merely circles before our admiring gaze. He is beautiful.

On occasion, Jonathon will even take food from an outstretched hand. For sure, we all know that, as with other seagulls, he is greedy, but there is something almost magical in the way he waits, judging his security before he stretches out his beak for a piece of bread or a biscuit. Yes, we know that bread and biscuits are not the normal food for a seagull, but the food is offered almost in grateful homage for the unique privilege that Jonathon offers: a completely wild and free bird coming to share our lives for a moment. Even as he stands for our admiration, he makes sounds that none of us knew to be part of a gull’s repertoire. There are not only the high-pitched cries so typical of the species, but also gentle noises that cannot be heard from a distance: a soft, mewing that has its own beauty and peacefulness.

This morning, Jonathon had a companion, an immature bird still marked with some of the dusty-brown freckles of youth. The newcomer tried to take its share of food, but was driven away by the older, stronger, Jonathon. It was a treat to watch the brief squabble. Neither bird was hurt and, as they overbalanced from the narrow ledge, we were rewarded by the sight of a double beauty circling and soaring before the window.

God is so good! There is such beauty around us, if only we can be patient. Jonathon would never have come into our lives had it not been for Linda’s gentleness that made the first overtures. Gentleness and beauty can transform the mundane and the ordinary into the exciting and the extraordinary if only we have the patience.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Ready and waiting

The Christmas tree looks wonderful in the early morning. Emerging from the station at the Coliseum early on Friday morning, whilst the rest of Rome was still in darkness, the blaze of white light against the dark silhouette of a massive pine tree was unmissable. Behind it, the terracotta-coloured magnificence of the Coliseum created its own unique and unforgettable scenario.

As with the rest of the world, Rome is accelerating towards Christmas. Streets are festooned with beautiful arrangements of white lighting and increasingly ornate shop windows. Laden with bags of pre-Christmas shopping, people scurry backwards and forwards. Adverts in prominent positions on the public transport announce free ‘shopping buses’ in central Rome during the last few days before the feast.

Hidden from the rest of the world, finishing touches are added to the Cribs in churches throughout Italy. In many places there will be competitions and exhibitions where, hidden in scenes of towns and villages, the Nativity is set in the midst of a bustling humanity, firmly locating the Incarnation in the midst of everyday life. Often, just as in real life, it is necessary to search before, tucked away in the corner, the Holy Family comes to view.

Amazingly, some confectioners have, in their shop windows, cakes that are surely, too perfect to eat, with their cascading chocolate-covered ‘rocks’ and tiny plants made from icing sugar providing a wonderful shelter for, not only the traditional Nativity scene, but also shepherds, Magi, animals and villagers. Were they not on display in bakery windows, anybody would feel justified in thinking that the base had been created from wood, clay or some such material rather than a very edible sponge cake.

What preparations am I making for Christmas? Am I feeling frazzled because there is just too much to do and too little time… or is there a little place in my heart that is ready and waiting?

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Cry, my beloved country

Many years have passed since my last opportunity to wander down Oxford Street in order to enjoy the Christmas decorations…Hah! What a change! Selfridge’s window, where once there was a magnificent display of the history of the Christmas card, is, this year, festooned with sexy models in colourful if rather scanty clothing. Nowhere in the street was there any reference to the real meaning of Chrsitmas and, thanks to political correctness, not only is there nothing to offend the Muslims, there’s also nothing to delight the Christians!

Liberty’s, at Christmas, is usually a magnificent sight to behold and, sure enough, a huge amount of trouble had gone into the decorations even if, once again, instead of the beautiful décor I once associated with the shop, there too, the model lying across a counter with her back arched and legs in not-very-ladylike positions, rather spoiled the tastefulness of the rest of the shop….and then, just as I was marvelling at the Christmas card for £295 and the crackers costing £150 for two (containing, for him, socks and a sleep-shade and for her, a sleep-shade and jewellery roll), a Japanese girl really did buy a handbag for £850!

Hamley’s, the largest toyshop in the world, was, as ever, filled to overflowing with all sorts of toys. Beautiful hand-made teddy bears (not one of them named Mohammed!!!) emerged with exciting regularity within the skillful hands of the young girl who received the empty shell from an eager child. Everywhere, toys had been laid out for the adults, as well as the children, to test. Just like everybody else, I enjoyed hearing Winnie the Pooh laugh and chatter in time to music, watched a salesman demonstrate a sort-of illuminated bolas and played on a laptop computer designed for five year-olds.

…and then I saw a young couple, thin and worried-looking as they wandered around Hamley’s. It was difficult not to see some of the gifts that they had bought. How on earth would they manage to pay for them? Are they to be in debt for the next year because of their spending-spree at Christmas? Did they really need to pay £19.99 for some coloured pens? Why not buy similar ones for 99p at the local market?

Where is Christ this Christmas? Has He been lost altogether? Do people have more money than sense?

Cry, my beloved country. You are letting Jesus be hidden in the Christmas rush. Bring him back! Then, you will laugh.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Inconvenience

Travelling down from Liverpool to London yesterday was an experience.

Torrential rain and cold weather did its best to make sure the journey had a good chance of being miserable: it was long, but not really a source of misery. Roadworks stretching for several miles, slowing traffic to a snail's pace lengthened the trip considerably. Then, on a Saturday afternoon, there is no congestion charge operating in central London. The congestion charge might be a pain for motorists, but it is a wonderful invention for some of us commuters, especially those of us who were stuck in long traffic jams and gridlocked crossroads. Christmas shoppers bustled to and fro, inseperable from their umbrellas as the torrential rain became even heavier.

Arriving at Victoria Coach Station was something of a triumph. When the bus driver apologised for the delays which he said were none of his making, everybody agreed with him. Still, much as the passengers staggered from the coach, there was something exciting about emerging, even in a torrential downpour, into the sights and sounds of a London evening with only a few days to go before Christmas. There was a thrill about being warmly wrapped with an effective umbrella, the inconvenience of the bus journey a thing of the past.

...and then there were the homeless along the way: a woman tucked up in a soggy blanket, a man pushing a trolly laden with plastic carrier bags of belongings...

Inconvenience is relative. Does a long wait in a warm, dry,bus compare with a longer wait through the night in a shop doorway, a wait that is continuing from one night to the next because there is no home at the end of the road?

Spare a thought and a prayer for whom 'inconvenience' has become a way of life.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Interesting

Have you ever met people who leave you with the feeling that you would love to spend some time with them in order to learn more about what it is that they are doing?

During my time in Rome, I’ve discovered that my colleague’s father is the one who invented striped toothpaste. Then there was the young computer programmer who is designing a programme for butter packs in which the butter is already cut into four segments. There was the woman who works as an engineer for NASA and designs spaceships…

People are interesting. Every one of us has something that is fascinating to others. Are we not silly when we don’t open up to others and miss out on seeing the wonderful beauty within them? What would happen if God were to decide that we were boring? What would it be like if we truly thought God could be bored by our requests? Are we not fortunate that God thinks that each and every one of us is fascinating?

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Hold His Hand

Ever been frightened by somebody else’s reaction to a situation?

Yesterday I flew from Rome to London and found that, as we travelled across southern England, there was a great deal of turbulence. Yes, I was frightened and, yes, out came my rosary, prayed ever more urgently as the plane bobbed around in the high wind.

The trouble was that a group of youngsters, a couple of seats in front of me, were thoroughly enjoying the ups and downs of life at that moment and made strange whooping sounds with every bounce of the plane. It was scary! The more they shrieked, the more urgent my prayers became. They made what was probably unimportant something of danger and immediate threat to life.

Of course, we landed safely. Had that not been so, then I would not be writing at this moment in time.

When we are in danger, it is very normal to immediately start to pray and to have God’s help uppermost in mind. Everything else disappears in the attempt to reach out to Him and hold his hand.

When the danger is over, is there the same urgency to say ‘thank you’? He deserves it!

God bless,
Sr. Janet