A walk down memory lane to a war time wedding.  

Our memories are rather like the posts seen on Facebook. Sometimes just a single picture; sometimes like a small video clip, but never a full-length movie. Neither are they always in chronological order. Another help we have with memories is being able to talk them over with someone else who shares that time.  Hearing my own adult children discuss their childhood I am amused at how sometimes they can remember an event so differently from one another. So how am I to know the accuracy of the event I am about to recall if I am the only one left who was close to it; and only six and a half years old at the time? But I will plunge back into memory lane rather like going through a time warp, and see what fragments of that time are left to bring back to the present and leave with those living now. 

Our journey down memory lane takes us to 23rd December 1944. We arrive at a house in what was then Essex, but just 9 miles from the centre of London, and has long since become part of outer London. The house stands proudly at the end of row of terraced houses. It is slightly bigger than the others in the row. Whereas the others have only outside toilets this house also has an  inside, upstairs bathroom, which included a toilet. It also has a garage at the bottom of the garden. Behind the gardens runs an alleyway, which was the main thoroughfare to the backs of the houses. 

As we enter the house we see a flurry of activity; food is being prepared in the small kitchen, or the scullery as it was always called.  I see a little girl looking at the biggest cooked bird she has ever seen, she is informed it is a goose, and has been brought all the way from Norfolk. Her hair is wrapped up tight in strips of white rags, to make curls. She looks excited and very happy. I recognise the girl as myself.  I can remember the sensation of that happiness, but I don’t think the fact that Christmas was only two days away had anything to do with it. This was the day my sister was getting married, and I was to be a bridesmaid. 

Sometimes we can choose to be in a memory, or to just look at it from the distance of time, as to enter fully in is too nostalgic. As I choose to step back in time to reclaim these memories before they grow more obscure I find myself doing both. Sometimes I am in the past totally lost to today, and sometimes I am in the present looking back through the distance of time. This is how we will continue to wander through this tunnel of memories. 

I realise that whenever I look at this memory I only see mostly women. I know that not long before my eldest brother had returned to England after 4 yrs in Africa with the R.A.F. War had been declared on his 19th birthday, and it was not so long before he was sailing away from these shores. I was too young to know what was happening being only 14months old when the hostilities began. He became just a figure in a photograph for me, until his rather unexpected, and for me, rather dramatic, return late one evening. Within a day of his return the brother sister bond overcame age, and time, and we were enjoying each other’s company. Now he was a most welcome guest at the wedding, but not in my memory picture only in the the photos tucked away in an old album. 

I can describe what I see but realise I know nothing of the feelings and emotions of these people around me that day. What did my my mother feel having her son back safe after so long, 

and the first of her children getting married? It frustrates me to think I was there with them that day but know nothing other than a child would see. I want to step right into the memory and shout at them “tell me what are you thinking?” Maybe my mother would reply that she was anxious this beautiful goose would not be properly cooked, and was also worrying that there would not be enough food for the guests, due the rationing restrictions, and would I stop worrying her when she was busy! 

But there was someone looking out for me that day. It was the lady who had brought the goose, and had patiently wound my hair in rags the night before, and would later on arrange my hair in beautiful curls. The way she spoke fascinated me.  When we were dressed she said we looked ‘bootiful’. Later I learnt this was how people from Norfolk spoke. I had heard very few regional accents, and it fascinated me. Her husband spoke the same. It was explained to me that they were the bridegroom parents. But like all the other men the father does not feature in my memory pictures of that day. A few years ago I stood at the war memorial in Singapore looking at a name carved in the stone, of a young pilot shot down in the sea in 1941. The eldest son of the lovely lady who curled my hair. I cannot begin to think what her emotions, thoughts, and feelings were that day in my mothers’s kitchen keeping a little girl amused, yet with her own heart so newly broken. 

But what of the bride where was she? A leisurely lie in bed followed by a long soak in a perfumed bath? I can imagined the astonished looks on the faces of our memory people, they would wonder what I was talking about. Even at my own wedding 15yrs later there was none of the pampering we hear of today. Up and doing was the order of the day. All hands to the pump with maybe a quick visit to the hair dressers fitted in between chores. My memory  of my sister that morning  was not what I saw, but heard. Someone must have asked where she was and the reply was that she had gone with our father to collect the flowers! Where were the men? Was my brother keeping the bridegroom calm?

The day moves on but I have no memory of getting dressed in my beautiful lavender bridesmaid’s dress so skilfully made by my mother; an excellent seamstress. My cousin Joan a little older than me was dressed identically. Our outfits were finished off with beautiful bonnets making us look like children from a Jane Austen novel. By the time we arrived at the photographs my cousin had managed to bend the buckram in her bonnet which did not pleased my mother, and was mentioned every time the photos were looked at in future years! Our hands were kept warm with an article that we tucked our hands into and was edged with a white swansdown. I refrain from using it’s correct name, which although the dictionary tells me is still a legitimate word, some of my family were shocked to hear me saying it some time ago, as they now know it as a rude word!

 

My sister looked stunning in a classic white satin dress. Even now when I look at the photos I think it looks timeless, as classy and beautiful as any wedding dress I have seen. The amazing truth was that unlike the thousands of pounds that can be spent on wedding dresses in today’s world this was a borrowed dress. Not borrowed by one bride, but as was the case in those frugal war days, more than one. A few years ago I went to an exhibition of fashion during the war with a daughter-in-law who is a fashion designer. As we strolled around the Imperial 

War Museum she explained to me about the materials that were used, and how they were made, and I told her stories of our clothes at that time. As we stood by the display of the borrowed wedding dresses, we realised that we had drawn a small crowd who were attentively listening to the story of my sister’s wedding dress!

The next picture of the day was in the church.  I recall my sister, father, myself and the other other bridesmaids sitting just inside the church door, on pews opposite one another. My mind tells me that the bridegroom and best man were there as well, but the definition of this memory is not good. Why were we waiting and not walking up the aisle? But definitely I can remember suppressed laughter. It was as if we could not look at one another as it would have released a raucous sound that would have shattered the dignified silence around us. Again I want to shout to my memory people “what was that all about?” But I never did ask and now it is too late as they have all passed on, only I am left with a question mark always hanging over that memory. 

There is not even a blurred memory of the service or even leaving the church. If there ever was it has been ravaged by time, and new memories jostling for space in my now aged over crowded brain.  It seemed I was even oblivious to the air aid warning that sounded during the service. But it was a noise I had lived with nearly all my life until then. Someone would have told me if I was meant to take cover as the teacher did at school when she ushered us into the long green metal huts that stood outside our classroom door. It was only my mother’s comment “ I could have run out of the church and ducked behind a gravestone when that air raid warning sounded”  to another adult as we headed out to have our photographs taken that sealed it in my brain enough to carry down the years. I guess the all clear siren went as well or we would not have all been so relaxed looking in the photos. 

 In the grounds of the church were the historic ruins of an old abbey. Something  the people of the town were very proud of, linking us as it did with the centuries past.  Many a bride and groom had stood proudly on the  sweeping steps that had survived the centuries, their guests rising up behind them. There could not be a more perfect a setting for such a blissful occasion. A moment of joy in a long and tiring war, no wonder we were all smiling. There at last was the bridegroom smiling broadly looking very smart in his naval uniform. The occasion allowed him to replace the navy ribbons on his tunic for white ones, adding to the festive look of the bridal party. But this sailor’s war war had been anything but festive. On more than one occasion he had narrowly missed joining his brother in a watery grave. He bore the scars of his physical wounds, but as with thousands like him they would soon bury the mental scars deep within them,  and slip back into normal life. As I write this it is just days away from the 75th anniversary of VE Day, and maybe only now can I really understand what it means to say ‘they gave their yesterdays for our tomorrow’. Yes, even the ones that came home. 

I guess, after the photos we went back to the reception set up in our large back room to enjoy the goose, and whatever else my mother had been able to gather together, on our limited rations. Later we would have wandered into the front room which was kept for ‘best’ occasions. It was there the piano and gramophone lived side by side. In later years, the piano and  myself developed a hostile relationship, as I blamed this innocent object for the lonely hours of  piano practice which bore little or no fruit! But at that stage of my life I loved that piano, and the sing-songs, the would always be a feature of these special occasions. So they sang, eat and drank and maybe raised a glass to our other brother still at sea. 

So this wonderful day past. I really thought it had been the very best day of my life. But it looked as if I was going to be robbed of a beautiful memory to end with.  As the evening wore on so did  the pain in my ear. It was not an unknown pain to me. Earaches had been a feature of my childhood. I was torn between not wanting to leave the party, and wanting the pain to end. Suddenly my mother who had been so occupied all day was giving me  her undivided attention.  Cotton wool and warm oil were put into the offending orifice. I was whisked off to the cellar (my bedroom until the war ended).  I shared it with the coals that were delivered through a grating by the front door, and the rats that visited the part of the cellar we could only reach through the lounge floorboards.  I must have been given some pain relief, although I have no idea what it would have been for a child back then. Soon my mother had soothed me into a fitful sleep. 

I was woken abruptly by the cellar door opening, and people hurrying down the rickety steps into my bedroom. Mum was soon by my side, and urging me to go back to sleep. assuring me that as soon as the raid was over they would all leave!  As I drifted back to sleep (the pain must have subsided) my last picture of that day was my sister, still in her lovely dress, standing near my bed. That memory is as vivid today as it was when I opened my eyes on that night. As sleep claimed me again and took me to dream of a fairy princess dressed in a beautiful white satin dress,  I knew it would be a day I would never forget. The best day 

Entrenched

Entrenched

My grandmother was entrenched. It was as simple as that. Nobody was going to make her change her views on the subject. You may think nothing unusual in that, we have seen plenty of people entrenched in what they believe in these past few months. It is nothing new in history. But when you see a loved one who refuses to believe what is happening around them, and that refusal could cause them, and others, to be in danger of their lives, it is a difficult situation. This was the dilemma that faced my mother in the summer of 1939. 

While everyone else was preparing for what seemed an inevitable war, my grandmother, who lived with us, totally refused to let the war dictate what she did in the later days of her life. She had had her life disrupted more than once by the horrors of war, and she was not going to let it happen again. She was going to play this one by her own rules.

What made matters even worse was that my mother was a women who played life strictly by the rules. And the thought of having been caught out breaking  one would have mortified her. She must have had more of her strict Scottish Father's genes in her than those of her mother. I never knew him, but had heard stories of how everyone had to be in the house by 10 at night, and that included my mother and father who had lived with my grandparents in the early days of their marriage. 

The first battle with grandmother came over  the gas masks. The government had issued 38 million of them that summer so we could be protected in the event of a gas attack. Well, they could have saved themselves the cost of one of them, as grandmother had no intention of trying it on, carrying it around, or acknowledging it even existed.    When others were practicing how to put them on, she was probably finding suitable hiding places to loose hers, and mother would have to go on a mask hunt,  including looking in the dust bin! But maybe Gran knew something we did not, as thankfully no gas attack came,  and we did not have to use them. I think Gran would have liked to get rid of mine as well. The thought that they would put that 'horrible rubber thing' over a child's face was more than she could tolerate? The fact that it was designed to look like Micky Mouse made no impression on her. In fact I became very attached to mine, and only lost it a few years ago when it was accidentally sold with some of my late husband's military collection. 

But then the inevitable happened. On the 3rd September war was declared. and we had a party at our house! The later had no relation to the former. The party, not to be confused with the type of party young people have today, was because it was the day of my eldest brother's 19th birthday. A gathering of young people, some refreshments, and a sing-song around the piano, and after a little persuasion my sister playing her accordion. Grandmother totally ignored the main news of the day, and celebrated the birthday, as if  bright peaceful future lay ahead of these young people. I don't think my parents shared her thoughts. 

Life changed in our household after that day. The 19yr old soon wore the uniform of the Royal Air Force, the other son of the house hold did not wait to be called up,  but went and joined the navy. To be joined, as the war rolled on, by the accordion playing sister becoming a wren. The only person who did not seem to know life was changing dramatically was of course Grandmother. 

Perhaps these battles with Gran kept my mother from focusing on what could be happening to her family. But getting her mother  to conform to the rules of the blackout, was enough to give my mother grey hairs. Being herself a women of rules she was meticulous in seeing no chink of light escaped our windows, so it was with horror that one evening answering a knock on the front door, after  all light had been extinguished of course, that she saw an air raid warden standing there.

Without any preamble he informed my mother that a light was showing at the back of the house. Neither was it just a small chink of light, but a whole window shining forth like the Blackpool illuminations. I need not have to tell that it came from Grandmother's window. 

Mother apologised most profoundly to the warden, and assured him it would not happen again. She would make sure of that. So determined was she to keep her word that she resorted to removing the light bulb from Grandmother's room. I never knew how Gran found her way to bed.

But that was not the end of the incident. A week or so later the now less than friendly warden was back on our doorstep. This time not just a light, but several lights, that gave the appearance of Christmas decorations flickered from the same window. Gran had been to the shops and bought night light candles, which she had arranged in a row on her window sill. Mother's grey hairs increased. 

But possibly the most entrenched, and dangerous, of her ideas was that no one was ever going to  get her to take shelter when the air raid siren sounded. In the early days of the war we shared a shelter with the very elderly neighbours at the back of the our house, it was a mutual arrangement, as they had no family, and my Father as a serving police officer, was often away on duty in the London Docks. 

At first my mother used to try pleading with her mother to go with her, but nothing would make her change her mind. On one of these occasions, before my sister had left for the wrens, my mother assumed when she finally left the house that my sister had taken me to shelter. While my sister assumed my mother was bringing me as she usually did. When my mother got to the shelter the raid was well under way. But as they realised what had happened it was my sister who rushed pass my mother, and dashed to the house, grabbing me from my high chair, where I was still happily eating! 

It may have been that same raid, or another, that ended with the front of our house being blow out. The precious piano from the front room was blow into the railway goods yard opposite our house. Grandmother had been washing up during the raid, and the story goes that she was found on the piano with a tea towel still in her hand. Her injuries were thankfully only slight, but how true it was about her landing on the piano, I have no idea, but it does sound rather like her. 

Nothing lasts forever. The hostilities ended. Peace was declared, and street parties were arranged. But grandmother was not at these celebrations. She had died never knowing the ending. But then how could she celebrate the ending of something her entrenched thinking never let her believe was happening. 

A dream is a journey

The love of writing is generally birthed from the love of reading, and other forms of story telling, be it fact or fiction. So it may be no surprise to learn that I am an avid reader and can also be lost to the world in front of a good TV drama. So much so that there has not often been much time left to try my own hand at writing. But it was in fact a Christmas special of a well know, and loved, drama series that has made me switch off the television, resist picking up a book and whisk out my iPad. 

‘Call the Midwife’ is a TV series loved by thousands with it’s engaging story lines, and it’s brilliant portrayal of life in the times that it is set. I have had the added joy of seeing a reflection of both my working and personal life in the dramas that have unfolded before our eyes.

My nursing did not included midwifery, but there has been so much over the years of watching this engaging series I could identity with. Ward sisters may have been strict but they were women who taught us students as much as the tutors at the lectures we attended. The  uniforms that would not be recognised in hospitals now. The thrill of being even a small part of seeing someone recover, and the sadness that to be hid when an illness did not have such a good outcome, were all part of daily life. There was fun, and laughter, and sometimes tears of exhaustion after a long difficult shift. But always good companionship.  

But life moves on and I soon found myself identifying with other characters; the pregnant mums!  The series moved along at the pace of my own life, my babies having been born in the early 60’s. So many of the rules and regulations that applied then came flooding back to me. The fact that fathers could not be at the birth of their child was, and at times still, is a source of sadness for me. How I would have loved to have shared that wonderful moment of the birth of our firstborn, a beautiful daughter with my husband. But rules were rules! 

My second pregnancy was going to be different. Booked for a home delivery, with my best friend as  my midwife meant that no one was going to stop my husband  being with me. That was until six weeks before my due date it was found that I was expecting twins. 

Just as dramas define the storylines in Call the Midwife, so did our sudden change of circumstances give us our own small drama. In that grim winter of 1962-1963, lingering snow was still on the ground when we rushed through the late evening to the hospital when our twins very suddenly let us know they were on their way.  Three hours later we were now the delighted parents of three lovely girls. But still my husband had to wait outside the labour ward! But it was the ‘twin birth’ episodes of this fabulous series helped me 
understand how twins often got born! 

But as the episodes moved on through the years there was nothing new to identify with until the remarkable Christmas episode. It was a few days after it’s first showing on Christmas Day that I got to view it on iPlayer. It felt a surreal experience. I had lived this! 

A dream is a journey. A dream to have child is a journey of pregnancy. Of maybe months of trying to conceive. Sometimes a dream ends in sadness or maybe never develops into reality. And so does the dream to add to a family in a different way. A dream you may have been told is impossible. A dream that has to be pushed through all the difficulties as hard as any pushing in the labour of birth. But a dream really worthwhile pursuing. And so this different form of labour product our fourth daughter, a precious Chinese girl from Hong Kong.

But there are others who dream. Children who dream that one day a forever mum and dad will come for them. They were in that last episode, but in reality there are thousands at 
this time still dreaming and waiting. 

Will future episodes catch up with what happened next in growing our family? If they don’t I may in future blogs. Because for these children still waiting the story needs to be told. 

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The journey

The story below is my small tribute to the men and women who served in WW1. My own father being one of them. This is not his story except for one small aspect of it. The rest is the fantasy of my imagination. 

The journey

Major James Robertson-Willerby sat back and relaxed.  The train started to get up a head of steam, and soon the guard blew the whistle. Much to his delight, James had the carriage to himself, which was a rare occurrence in these days.  The war had caused far more people to be mobile, and travel was not always a comfortable experience. 

The train had just started to move when the door was flung open and a young lady literally fell into the carriage. James was quite used to young women, both literally and metaphorically, swooning at his feet, but all rather more delicately and purposeful than this clumsy young woman. 

Although feeling rather frustrated that his journey was to be shared, but remembering that he was an officer and a gentleman, James quickly got out of his seat to assist her. In fact he stood just in time to catch her before she fell to the floor, then he almost lifted her into the seat opposite his. Next he retrieved her case which she had flung in ahead of her, he mentally noted that it looked much travelled, then placed it neatly on the luggage rack above her head, hoping that now he could get back to an uninterrupted journey, he returned to his seat. 

As James settled back into his seat, the girl was busy straightening her skirt, and adjusting her hat which had ended up at a very peculiar angle.

Suddenly she looked at him and said in a soft lilting Scottish accent, which for some reason took him by surprise, “I apologise for my inelegant entrance, but I dare not miss this train. Thank you for helping me” 

For the first time James really looked at her, and found himself gazing into the most beautiful deep blue eyes he had ever seen. But it was more than their colour that gave then there beauty, they seemed to sparkle and laugh even though she herself was being extremely serious. 

“Perfectly all right” James hesitated, he had no desire to get into a conversation, this was his thinking time, time adjust to the fact that he was going back to a world that this young woman could not know anything of. A world of which was beyond description to the uninitiated. But politeness made him continue, “I hope you did not hurt yourself”

 The girl laughed, “no, only my dignity”. Her laugh had the same effect on him as her eyes.  It was not the silly giggle of some of the girls his mother was always trying to match make him with, but made him think of a fast flowing stream of clear water. 

Would she laugh like that if she saw the sights and heard the sounds that he had lived with for past two years he wondered?

Even the noises from the train merged with those in his head. The constant noise of the guns, the cries of the wounded men lying in shell holes in no man’s land, cold, and their wounds covered in mud and putrid water, with only dead friends and enemies for company.

He had tried to be light hearted during this brief leave home, joining in games of tennis and even accompanying his sister to a country house dance, but it was like a thin veneer covering what he was sure was a heart that had died alongside the fallen men under his command.  

Thankfully the girl seemed to have no more desire to continue the conversation than he did. But strangely her presence gave him a feeling of peacefulness.

The journey drew to its conclusion and both prepared to leave the carriage.  As one last gesture of gallantry, James lifted down the girl’s case, and could not help noticing that it was engraved with the name E.J. McDonald.

Apart from a brief “Thank you”, she took her case and was gone, and soon was lost to sight in the crowed now thronging the platform. For a moment James had a strange feeling of desolation, and then he remembered the last moment their eye’s met before she hurried off. It was as if they were conveying a message to him; a message of hope, a message that there was still beauty in the world. But then what could she know of the horrors of war. He shrugged his shoulders, then straightened them, and walked forward like an officer and a gentleman, to face whatever this futile war may throw at him. 

The ‘whatever’ came sooner than he expected in the form of a sniper’s bullet. Nothing too serious; the bullet had not lodged in his arm. “Just a glancing blow sir” declared Corporal Bates his batman, as he skilful bandaged up James’s arm. But for once Bates was wrong. Infection set into the wound, and although James tried to ignore it, the pain got worse, his arm felt on fire and he started to shiver.  He had had influence once, but this was ten times worse.  But he had to carry on for the sake of his men 

James had no memory of when he collapsed, or the bumpy journey in the field ambulance; thankfully neither did he hear the remark “don’t look like this one is going to make it” made by one of the stretcher bearers.    

James was confused, where was he?  The noises were different to the trenches. He still heard men give cries of pain, but then there were calm voices that stilled those cries, and stranger still they were female voices.

Someone was speaking, was it to him? He tried to focus his eyes. He managed to make out a tall man who was looking down at him. That was when he realised he was in a bed; a hospital bed. “So your back with us young man, we thought you were not going to make it. The man’s voice was crisp and efficient; he did not waste time on introductions. “Best chance you had was for me to amputate, but by the time you got here you were too ill.” Then his voice softened “well truth to tell I thought you would not make it, but Sister here was convinced we could clear the infection” as he spoke he moved aside and James saw that someone was standing behind the man who he now assumed was a doctor. “Yes Sister has nursed you for the last 48 hours; she must be dead on her feet”.  

The figure still was blurred to James, but he was aware of colour, mainly grey with a short scarlet cape on her shoulders. “Oh no doctor I’m just fine” the soft lilting Scottish accent brought James’s vision into sharp focus. His eyes travelled to her face and he found himself sinking deep into the beautiful blue eyes of Sister Emily Jane McDonald of the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service.       

T

The Gift

The Gift

I never really knew it was mine, or that it even existed. Like so many things in life it can be in us, around us, or even waiting for us, but until we become aware that it is ours and start to own it,  it has no life of it’s own. It stays dormant like a left over Christmas present under the tree, because the recipient never came to the party. A jumper never worn, a toy never played with, a book never read. Or maybe they did collect the gift, or it was sent to them yet they never opened the wrapping, to explore how it could enhance their lives. How often when someone’s house is cleared out are unused items found? Maybe even gifts bought for oneself remained unused. The dress never worn, the picture never hung, or a bottle of perfume that by the time it was opened no longer had the fragrance it was intended to have. All these are wasted gifts. 

But the gift I speak of is not the kind you physically unwrap.  It’s one that comes with you when you are born. It may get discovered early in life or lay hidden for many years. We can these days, if one is so inclined, see numerous video clips on YouTube of child protégés. Violinists, pianists, gymnasts, all vie with one another to gain the most number of likes and shares, the younger the child the more our enthusiasm for their performance. 

 I

Others who have probably had their gift from just such an early age fail to get any recognition, or at least only a limited amount until they have almost given up believing that it would ever be recognised, unless they are unusually persistent, like one Susan Boyle showed herself to be. Achieving fame and recognition in middle age and without hardly any of the attributes that usually are part of the package that accompany the gift in a modern young singer. But the gift won through, as it should. Not just to achieve fame or fortune but that the gift was not wasted. 

A gift can be a means to an end. A gift can provide an income. A gift can achieve satisfaction and enjoyment. Gifts are as diverse and numerous as their recipients.

My parents were gifted. A cabinet filled with cups and medals showed my father’s excellence is his chosen sport. The lovely clothes I wore as a child despite clothes rationing testified to my mother’s excellence with a needle. She upholstered chairs, decorated rooms as well as having a brain as sharp as the needle she used. I followed in none of these attributes. Neither did I follow my siblings. I neither excelled in art or music.

I feel  guilty about the amount of money  my parents paid out over five years of music lessons and yet still my hands failed  to work together to produce the sounds expected. 

Not that my parents didn’t try to encourage me to pursue what they thought would lead to excellence.

 Music lessons lingered on for five years, trips to athletic meetings and training nights filled many an evening but never enthused or inspired me. 

All the while I was as unaware as they were  that what I enjoyed could be a gift. Nobody took any notice when I organised the children in our road to produce a magazine. It was all about their pets, why I chose that I do not know. I didn’t even have one or want one! But as the other children collected the pictures I wrote the text. I organised them. One mother even came and thanked my mother that I kept the children occupied during the school holidays. Mother never even thought about how somewhere in that activity at 11 yrs old, there could be the seeds of a gift that could be developed for my future life. 

Maybe it was too fluid to be defined even in my mind. Being able to organise, to lead, inspire and encourage did not seem definable next to a beautiful painting produced by one of my brothers, or the exquisite bridesmaids dresses made for war time weddings by my mother. Also a shyness that developed in my teens acted  as a cloak that hid these embryonic gifts.  

Yet they remained, emerging a little more boldly as the years advanced. The thrill of  running a hospital ward with both it’s mundane and drama.  Leading a church with the person who was the most special one in my life, seeing how gifts could compliment one another. Pioneering a women’s ministry. Rejoicing again that my gifts were not ones that  

worked  in isolation but needed the gifts of others to get the full benefit they were meant to have. 

Yet there was another gift that had been in that 11yr old. Or more a desire that did not know that it was a gift. The desire to write. Occasionally that gift would pop it’s head above the parapet, two published articles. The offer from a publisher to write a book. 

And now a collection of short stories. But still a gift that never reached it’s full potential for so many reasons.

But who knows that maybe these octogenarian years will be the ones when the other gifts no longer needed as before will make space for it to thrive and flourish. 

Because a gift should never be wasted. 

National siblings day.

I understand that yesterday was National Siblings day. Seems we have a day for everything now days. But maybe that is not such a bad thing as it makes us stop for a moment and reflect and be thankful, as I am for the brothers and sister I had. Even if we did not have a good experience of siblings maybe it is a moment to forgive or ask forgiveness. A day when a relationship could be restored.
Maybe it is a day to pick up the phone and connect with a sibling who you have just not had time to call lately.
When this photo of my siblings was taken I was not even born and would not be for a few more years. So I did not share a childhood with them.
Then just as I was becoming aware of them they all went to serve 'King and Country' (yes even my sister) and another separation occurred.  But as I grew up I learnt to love and appreciate these special people in my life.
I am grateful that they were spared to grow into old age so that I could get to know them better. Now they are gone but always remembered.
So am I without a sibling?  No.
' Then he(Jesus) looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, " Here are my mother and and my brothers! Whoever does God's will is my brother and sister and mother." Mark 3:34
Not just my Lord and Saviour but my brother as well.

Maybe He is the sibling we need to connect with.

THE RAMBLINGS OF A GREAT-GRANDMOTHER