farewell

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‘Look, there she is. Look.’
and heads turned and eyes lit up; 4-year-olds and 84-year-olds beamed in delight.

The eucharist ended early tonight since we had to go greet the queen.

The QE2 spent her 40th birthday today at home on the Clyde, and amidst much fanfare, sailed off on her final voyage to the indignities of old age: a face life, new joints, and a life locked in berth as a floating hotel in Dubai.

I think in years to come, I will associate Dunoon with standing outside in the cold waiting for things. Cruise-liners, pipe bands… We stand and wait.

And as I stood, I wondered: would I be here for the other QE2? Were her majesty to come, would I wait for her? Probably not. Not through lack of respect or curiosity, but because it would feel silly. Too much fuss over nothing. Just a monarch passing by. But for this QE2 it was different. It didn’t feel silly at all, but necessary. Even I, a perpetual ex-pat… even I, who have been on the Clyde for such a short time… know that when one of the great ships comes home, we must be there to welcome her.

And it was worth every cold and windy moment.

The wait was long. That first cry of ‘look, there she is, look’ came a good forty minutes before we could see anything other than her red hat hovering above the glass shelter of the old pier. The wait gave us time to chat. A young girl, who finally saw, then found it hard to care. An older woman, who had been up at 6 am to see her come in, but was too late, and determined now to see her, even if she missed dinner and returned from the cold of the promenade to the icy chill of her companion whose gold-sandled feet had stomped off 10 minutes before the ship came properly into view.

The wait built the excitement. Speculation over the movements of the coast guard, the police boat, the plane circling over head. A freight ship passed and we wondered if it would diminish our sense of her size. No, the opposite: it made us realize how vast she is.

And then at last: dozens of boats around her, three stately blasts of the horn as she graciously slipped past.

It is strange how deeply these ships are imprinted on our consciousness. I’d have thought I didn’t care. I’d have claimed to be fairly immune to the glamour. But as she curved around, and I suddenly saw ‘CUNARD’ so carefully lettered, my breath caught and a thousand dreams hovered in the twilight.

Up and down the coast, you could see cameras flashing (who knew? Gourock to Inverkip. Skelmerlie even. Lightning-bug flashes visible in Dunoon.) And then, we realised that as we stood photographing the ship, those on board were standing, photographing us (‘Look dear, do you remember: all those silly people standing in the cold…’)

It was a splendid evening. And it left me with a new question to ponder. Peter, if you’re reading this, this one’s for you:

Are three longs blasts of the horn the nautical equivalent of bowing to the altar?

(no, Peter, don’t tell me. Let me live in the hope that it is so.)

seekers

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I love the randomness of search strings people use to make their way here.

In the past 24 hours, we have been the tentative answer to the prayers of those seeking (among other things):

  • house exchange jewish
  • casual wedding barbecue
  • where does one kneel to pray in church
    (one presumes Jeeves is involved here)
    and (my favourite)
  • A furious devout church

And on a different note — there was an interesting sermon on seekers as part of yesterday’s broadcast of Choral Evensong.  You need to listen carefully to the anthem for the sermon to work to full effect.

the end of an era

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St A, St A

Today St Andrew’s, St Andrews said goodbye to Bob, Liz and Timothy. All in all it was very low key, which is as Bob wanted it. Mind you, there’s a limit to how low key one can make it with 180 or so adults and another 30-40 kids all wanting to make a fuss and say good-bye.

Despite Bob saying all the right things about how little depends on the rector, there were many there today who would contradict him. St Andrew’s, St Andrews is a remarkable church. Its strength does not depend on the rector, and they will do just fine without him. But that is precisely the legacy Bob leaves, the fruit of his leadership and nurture over so many years.

And now begins the search for someone who has sufficient skill and humour and humility and broad-mindedness to take the congregation on to its next phase. Suggestions on a post-card, please. There are lots of people praying.

some things endure

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Over at Limping Towards the Sunrise some of us have been remembering the fashions of the early ’90s. All that talk of pink shirts and floral trousers (not on me, you understand) brought back other memories, and I found myself reaching for John Michael Talbot’s Lover and the Beloved. I played this CD endlessly when I first found it (it comes post Taize, and pre-Tavener, if you’re wondering). I love it, though it may seem bizarre. I find it provoking & disturbing, for all that it seems to drip of honey at first. Typical mysticism, in fact — holding out the promise, and reminding you of how far you are from it.
I’m struggling to find a good recording on-line, but there’s a bit for you here.

Come my love,
pass through my will
as through a window
Shine on my life
as on a meadow
I, like the grass, to be consumed
by the rays of the sun
on a late summer’s morning

Thomas Merton/ John Michael Talbot