More tea vicar…
A weekly reflection on life with hints of resurrection joy and glimmers of hope…
Last week was the funeral of my mother. At the age of ninety-five it was really a celebration of a life well lived rather than a grieving. A mourning of the end of an age but also a huge legacy of love and laughter and memories that I will carry with me always. She left quietly and her selfless presence I realise was only really missed when she was no longer with us. You don’t realise someone is a saint until they’re gone- and perhaps that the point after all? How we surrender in that final moment is really a reflection of how we surrender in life and love too.
Reflecting on her long and colourful life I wrote the poem below. It sums her up and seems the appropriate place to start my first ever post. Her death marks the end of an era for me, this post marks the beginning of a new one.
It is my wish that you will by reading my posts be able to face your fears a little more, laugh a little longer and embrace the joy that is found all around us, and within us, if we just stop to look, and… be blessed!
Jean -never alone - a place called home
You were the homespun wit,
With yards of patience and oceans of loving kindness.
Setting sail on your wee Bonnie boat,
From mainland China - to Chee foo school - Running alongside Lyddel on Beidahe beach, with your own quiet passion for goodness,
Modelled on those Scottish eternal hills,
Mirrored in the kind twinkling eyes of your father, like dad,
The mischief not bad, but from a deep joy that overshadowed all in a comforting blanket of calm.
Behind the cups of tea and ‘jelly piece’
And cream “making a dish of it” as you stirred it into the porridge.
Listening to tales of “raspberry funnies” and ‘utter butter’ related on repeat at breakfast, lunch and tea- and such weak tea -dishwater to me.
There was always a cheerful smile, a twinkle, a little sandwich or snack for the long journey.
The ‘half a Cadbury’s cream egg’ at Easter, or the squashed mini mars bar, next door to the hankie with the flower embroidery, in the black miss Marple handbag.
The immaculate dress sense- hair in curlers- set with pink rollers at night and each morning ‘putting your face on’ you greeted the world- a throw back to all that was elegant and good about the fifties; the hair, the figure, the polite words and hardworking ethic. Stories of fruit-picking “I’m dying”and ice skating, mountain skiing and motorbike racing.
In breaches that match the forest, your faded red coat disappears up the path, as you trample the hillside stopping to pick the “blay berries”.
You were that eclectic mixture of practical skills for another era, the home made jam, the fudge, the elderflower cordial and champagne- with the black bodies of fruit flies for added fibre and flavour, and totally impractical ability to embrace technology-even the video player was beyond you- yet alone the mobile phone. You simply talked at someone, or listened to them face to face - no video calls for you…
The endless hours of patient listening to me, to Mary, to dad, to others and gently nodding off on Sunday whilst dad preached, the third or fourth time you had patiently sat though his sermon that week. Lastly, at the very end, listening to Classic FM- from your frail, throbbing, bed.
You were always allowing love to wrap round us, as you rubbed our backs hard against the cold-you warmed us up inside and out.
Moss nests for Easter, candles on the Christmas tree, embracing the traditions of our father and bringing your own Scottish riches also to the feast.
We would indeed feast, overflowing with love. The beef, the salmon, Mr. Mustard’s sausages and the “songs of the north” played often on the out of tune Broadwood. I first heard the “moonlight sonata” at your hand. Inspiring me to create and just to be.
Judge no one. Compare yourself with no one. Do not gossip. Never judge a book by its cover. Inside the old, battered, paperback you had become, lurked golden letters brighter than any comet or illumination, your illuminations.
You turned out to be the rock on which we stood, the shoulders on which we saw beyond, the face of acceptance and deep love, expecting no returns.
It was your love that taught me first, that held me tight and sang, ‘it’s rather dark in the earth tonight’ and squeezed me with baby bear hugs and Eskimo kisses and butterflies wings .
Little body, muckel-cuddie, wheesht you wee beastie!
Tinsel strands and “thumb tacs”, going on holiday “in the fall” and calling me “honey” all remnants of your Canadian teens.
The sounds of a well travelled life across Siberian planes on your tongue from China to Edinburgh via Vancouver - a six year sleepover during the war - that led to more… that led further still to…
The healer who cast her net wide, sent out with love and light to the world’s hurting poor and saw the need to heal, to give a warm, kind, hand.
Always a dog in tow, always another thing to do before you go…Nigerian timing stayed with you until your last breath, when, facing death - you left early.
Exiting quietly in the small, still, room that had become your home, your final resting place. Almost still, there amidst the hum and the bustle of the care, as if unaware, peace residing on your frail throne… you are not, nor were you ever alone.
And now those purple clad mountains you so often trod, call you on that last winding road, a dog trotting by your side, where the wind is cool and view is glorious….to the final peak.
I shall miss the peace you held in the palm of your hand, knowing you are loved and known, making my whole life whole. The spot we lived in, not just a place to rest, but a place called home.
In memory of my mother, Dr. Jean Barrington-Ward, penned on 21st February 2024, Helen Orr
Thank you. A weekly brew to help revive the soul…
There she is and always will be. Frozen in time forever. What lovely memories to treasure and share. Looking forward to the second cuppa Rev Helen.