Â鶹Éç

Available for over a year

Good Morning. This week I was called to Carlisle Infirmary for the imminent death of my beloved Great Aunt Margaret. She suffered months of illness and Covid without her family around her. At 86, she was the wrong generation for a mobile phone, though she died surrounded by many cards and paintings. The nurses and doctors were fully stretched but still made gestures to fill the family gap. She was from a generation for whom the local church was a home. She arranged flowers and knelt on the hand-stitched kneelers that commemorated generations before her, including her father who worked in the mines we’re debating re-opening under the Irish sea. She felt a deep sense of belonging there. So, I quietly sang her favourite hymns and rested in prayerful silence holding her hand, stroking her arm knowing from experience to wait for a grace that comes at the time of death. It’s peaceful but in fact quietly awesome in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Awe is something we live with all the time. In the moments we notice it, it’s like a veil is lifted and we see a glimpse of the eternal. It’s said to be a part of the Pargod, which is the tapestry of life that is ever created in front of the throne of the Divine. Each one of us is a new thread. On the same day my Aunty Margaret died, I went to the funeral of my father’s life-long friend. With only a few allowed in the church I stood outside in the rain sending my love and prayers into the red brick building. Having to stand outside made me think about the place of the church in the town and how we would all miss it so terribly if it weren’t there. And yet so many of us are unsure how to enter and reclaim it as our own. How to revitalise the sacred place of our ancestors. Nevertheless, as a symbol of the eternal amidst these short lives we have, these sacred buildings are so important. The most remarkable thing about standing outside though, was the people lining the streets. This pandemic has revived the old tradition of ‘paging’ which is the slow walk along the road to and from the funeral. The two main roads of Wigton were full of hundreds standing for William Ismay who for over 50 Years ran a café called ‘The Spotted Cow’. After the funeral, the small procession walked the long route back - still in pouring rain - my father at 81 carefully pacing behind William’s family, men taking their hats off, women bowing their heads. I saw that in the area of William’s café, people of every age suddenly began to applaud the coffin, thanking him for being the kind of man anyone could talk to, a friend to all and what is more, despite inevitable struggles and gifts in life, he remained an honourable gentleman. They applauded a life well lived and once again I felt a sense of awe not only for the appreciation shown but also that from the hardship of Lockdown, the church had returned to the streets and its ancient ceremonies were being reclaimed for our communities in a new way.