It seems I have a pet mouse.
She is nesting in the garage in my painting basket, having shredded my pink painting-t-shirt for a bed. She has made quite a remarkable little home, with several discernible rooms. She leapt at me fiercely when I went in for a brush, and then bravely stood her ground.
I don’t have the heart to move her while it is still windy and cold.
She is called Deborah.
The very first time I saw the pulpit, I knew what I wanted to do.
I nearly let fear and anxiety stop me, but in the end figured that if Jesus could rise from the dead, I might chance a few chocolate eggs.
Twinkly and lovely. Just as I imagined each time I let myself dream.
Lots of you know that I have found myself rather unexpectedly compiling the provincial magazine of late.
I suspect the task was given to me a lesson in humility since it constantly reveals my inability to proof read or spell, the ease with which I lose track of things, and the huge gap between a good idea and a well executed reality.
Gradually, I’m finding people who are willing (and able) to write, and — most crucially — I have found the key player who can accompany me through the process, make up for my deficits, and keep me sane through it all. But overall, inspires has been a source of more stress than joy — until today.
An idea for an article came to us on spec. The email bubbled with enthusiasm, and we said ‘yes, please.’ Then, the artcile came: formal and informative, respectable, but not quite the bright jewel we were hoping for. The author was clearly not feeling confident, unsure of her genre — and said she was willing to have another go.
I sent some questions to nudge her in the right direction, and promised she could send me unrelated paragraphs that I would weave together, so long as her voice shone through.
Well, there is not a bit of weaving left to do. From formal and hesitant, we have a lively engaging article, full of confidence and energy.
I love nothing more than to see something transformed before my eyes — and ‘scared’ to ‘shining’ is my very favourite sort of transformation.
I’m not going to tell you which article has so thrilled me, and the magazine isn’t due out till May. But it will be there fore you, glittering and gleaming. Such a shame I can’t show you the first draft so that you can rejoice in its transformation too.
A friend of mine talks about ‘the angel of the church’* — the one that expresses the basic spirit of the place, on good days and bad. This friend is better at spotting angels than I am — especially if they come in unexpected form.
Well, today, the angel of St Mary’s finally appeared.
It seems she’s a parrot.
I should have realised sooner, I suspect.
What a good day.
*(my friend admits to stealing the idea from other sources, but I suspect our private conversations about it spin off in direction the original authors never intended)
wonderful exchange 