Last Wednesday, my world changed. A very dear friend died. The view outside remained colourful but in my heart that colour in an instant became muted. Outside, cars and pedestrians continued to pass by but in my heart, life suddenly became emptier.

My friend’s name was Christine McCrudden. We met at the start of 1996, outside St. Andrew’s Cathedral in Dundee – where I was studying English at the university. I had just told Canon Ken, the parish priest and university chaplain, that I would like to receive instruction with a view to being received into the Church that Easter. He said he knew just the person to help me. I followed him out of the cathedral (I can’t remember now but I presume we were speaking right after Mass), and he introduced me to Christine who happened to be still outside. Christine and I spoke. In the course of our conversation, she mentioned John Henry Newman. You should read him, she said, he would suit you. I took her advice and before long, I had a copy of Newman’s Apologia Pro Vita Sua in my hands. Thus began my interest in and love for the sons of St. Philip Neri.

Within a few days, I (and another person who Christine was instructing) began the course. I can no longer remember when exactly, but I feel certain that it was during these classes that I learnt about the (Discalced) Carmelites for Christine had a deep devotion to the way of St. Teresa of Ávila. As a result, I learnt about Teresa, John of the Cross, Thérèse of Lisieux, and Teresa Benedicta (Edith Stein). Unfortunately, I can’t remember when I received my first Carmelite scapular. I imagine it was, however, a gift from Christine. And what a gift to receive!

Well, Christine instructed me, and, on Holy Saturday, 1996, I was received into the Church. Afterwards, we stayed in touch, meeting every so often for a coffee and a chat. I remained in Dundee until 2000. After I returned to London, Christine and I fell out of touch. There was no particular reason for this. For me, it was one part being a lazy correspondent and another, life: work, etc. But I never forgot her, and she never forgot me. In the 10s we made contact again. And from then on, we exchanged occasional text messages and phone calls. She was a wonderful friend, wise counsellor, and spiritual guide. I received so, so much from her, and I fear gave very little back in return. 

I said at the end of the first paragraph that ‘a very dear friend died’. But Christine didn’t die last Wednesday. She actually died on 23rd January this year. How did I not find out until now? That answer is sadly simple: we didn’t really share any other close friends, and I didn’t know her family well. Our friendship was focused on the spiritual life and involved just the two of us. As a result, I would have been the last person for anyone to think about contacting in January. And as it happens, I have no anger, distress, or resentment about that. Rather, I am just grateful that upon seeing a text I wrote to her on Wednesday her husband made time to let me know what had happened. God ordained it thus, and that is enough for me.

But still, the world is now a little less colourful and somewhat more empty. It is also more confusing. One minute I accept that she is gone. The next, that fact seems too strange, too absurd, to be true. How can it possibly be so? Christine was in her 70s but the Christine that I knew was healthy. How gone she be gone?

“And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.” 

J.R.R. Tolkien The Lord of the Rings 

But, of course, she is not gone; at least, not wholly so. She now lives in the Lord, and so, lives more fully than you or I. She lives in the eternal far green country, in the land of the Risen Son, that one day – please God – I too will enter.

For now, even though her passing forth means that I will no longer hear her kind and ever-encouraging, and ever-loving voice, even though we will no longer be able to say Vespers over the phone together, or just exchange text messages I know that we are not completely separated. Her new life means that just as I pray for her soul, I may also pray to her: talk to her, ask for her prayers and intercessions just as I do the canonised saints. It isn’t the same as speaking to her directly, but the good Lord called her and as hard as it is to accept, He knows what He is about.

As I conclude this post, I ask for your prayers: for Christine, for her husband, B., for her sons and their families, for her friends, and for me. You are assured of mine for you.

St. John Henry Newman – pray for us
St. Teresa of Ávila – pray for us
St. Thérèse of Lisieux – pray for us
St. Teresa Benedicta and John of the Cross – pray for us

Following a four year break, I have started serving Mass again. I stopped at the start of the first Covid lockdown and closure of the churches. When the latter reopened, I was happy to sit in the pews. Prior to the pandemic I had been active in my parish for nearly twenty years so the break meant a lot (BTW: as I write this, I am sure I mentioned all this in another post, but can’t see where, so apologies if I did and am repeating myself).

I forget when (either late 2022 or late 2023), the parish priest asked if I would like to serve again. I umm’d and ahh’d and promised to get back to him. Which I never did. I am very good at putting off and not getting round to. Then, last month, the current sole server at the 8am Mass came up to me and said, Come and serve. I said, Okay, when shall I start? That, I guess, is how to make me do something: don’t ask, just tell me to do. Anyway, we are now taking it in turns every month to serve. I am Feb. he will be March, and so on.

I mention all this as background. After Mass yesterday, as we were clearing the Sanctuary and preparing the Sacred Vessels for the 10am Mass, I went into a side room to take off my surplice. As I came out, for the briefest of moments, memory, desire and imagination embraced.

It had been a wet morning walk to the church. Under the rain, the tree lined streets were quiet, and ahead of me, soaring above the walls of the railway line I could see a church spire. Anxious to avoid getting too wet, I hurried on. Then, at around 8:50am, as I came out of the side room, something in my heart took me back to a place I have never been but would love to be: my idyll. You see, my favourite place to live would be anywhere in the English countryside where trees surrounded me and church spires greeted me like old friends. And my favourite occupation in this place would be to serve Mass early every Sunday morning, rain or shine.

What reminded me of this exceedingly pleasant thought? I think it was the memory of my walk to Mass combined with seeing the outside through the corner of my eye. I was able to do this because door connecting the sacristy area to the church and the open doors at its back was open. For a split second, therefore, until I turned towards the sacristy itself, I was able to see the street outside. It reminded me of my walk, which reminded me of my idyll. Or something like that. Either way, it was an incredibly sweet moment! Like St. Peter on the mountain, I wish I could have held on to the thought. Like St. Peter on the mountain, it was probably for the best that I couldn’t, however, as things needed doing.

With that said, it is good to stop doing things from time to time and dwell upon that which is of God, which I trust and hope this is. I guess that is what I am doing now. I don’t know where it will take me, perhaps nowhere; maybe its value is in making the present moment happier, more God focused, than it was before. That would be enough.

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nabbed from pinterest

[Evelyn Waugh] was once very rude and his hostess remonstrated: “How can you behave so badly – and you a Catholic!” Waugh replied: “You have no idea how much nastier I would be if I was not a Catholic. Without supernatural aid I would hardly be a human being.”

This quotation may or may not be completely accurate. If you would like to know more about it, the Evelyn Waugh Society discusses the quote in more detail in this article.

As for me, I have for many years thought it a truthful statement, and one that applies to all of us. I still do. It makes perfect sense. God is love. No God, no love.

And yet, there are a great many people in the world who do not believe in God but are still people of love. They might be followers of other religions, or atheists, or something in between, but they love. Whether they love deeply or only with difficulty, whether it trickles or pours out of them, they love. Conversely, there are Catholics who appear to, or in actuality have, very little love in them.

What’s going on? I don’t think that it is a great mystery. To be a Catholic doesn’t mean to be good. Quite the opposite, in fact. It means to recognise that I am bad and need He who is Good. To be a Catholic is to admit to my failure, and His Success. Only when I do that can His love enter into and flow out of me. If I at any time withdraw my admission, I close myself to His love.

But what about non-Catholics? Or rather, non-Christians, as the above applies to all Christian believers. They do not know God so cannot be open to His love, and yet, they still have it. Well, it’s simple. They may not know Him. They may actively reject Him. But He knows them, and He does not reject them. As a result, He still works in them, and in the love they show to themselves and others, they demonstrate even without knowing it, the reality of God. This is why no Catholic, no Christian, should ever dismiss a non-believer. God is in them.

Depending on our spiritual state, He may be more in them, than He is in me. That is a sobering thought. It is also a very beautiful one.

One final question: if someone is not open to God, how can He work in them? Well, God is Love, and God is very cunning. He knows how to get past all our walls and barriers. A scary thought? Maybe but not, I think, if you believe in love.

Evelyn Waugh – Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

image: Britannica

“I would have followed you my brother. My captain. My king,”

If you are a fan of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings films, the above words will be instantly recognisable to you. They are spoken, of course, by Boromir, moments before his death, to Aragorn, his friend, band leader, and future king of Gondor. The words ‘my king’ are of particular strength as up until that moment Boromir has been dismissive of Aragorn’s royal lineage. Like, I am sure, all fans of the Jackson trilogy, I have never forgotten Boromir’s words – in my case, since I saw the film at the cinema in 2001. Indeed, for the last few years, I have carried them with me even to Mass. In 1997, when I was being instructed in the Catholic Faith, I was taught that when the priest raises the Host (following the consecration), we – the congregants – say, My Lord and my God. I have done this ever since. One day, I think in the mid 2010s, the words happened to remind me of Boromir’s last words to Aragorn. Just as he recognised Aragorn as family, war leader, and lord, we recognise Jesus in the Host as Lord and God. One thought led to another and it occurred to me that I might also recognise Him as my brother, so I added that to my words: My Lord and my God – and brother. I can’t vouch for the orthodoxy of this practice – and I have to admit that there did come a point a while back when it seemed to me that to say ‘and brother’ was in that moment out of place – but I have always appreciated the intimacy that the words ‘and brother’ brings.

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Tolkien Gateway