reverendjaneausten

He is an old soul, this Patrick.  I have known several lovely Patricks in my life, but this Patrick somehow connects me to the Saint we celebrate today. After all, 1620 years ago, he was a little boy too. My modern friend is one of the kindest I have ever met. On the first day of our acquaintance, as his family and ours were sitting companionably on our wall at 1008 St. Patrick Street, (really!) he thought the conversation might be going too long to continue without sustenance. Before we knew it, we were handed granola bars and mugs of milk so that we might be fed. Mind you, we were on our side of the street, but we had not thought of such a thing. Patrick’s ‘wide boundary’ version of hospitality has continued, from a glad cry of greeting to impromptu gifts of flowers. He cannot know this—-or might he?—-but these wee flowers, which are the float-in-a-bowl variety as the stems are left to live on for another day, take me swiftly back to the early days of my own mommy-hood. T

Thursday Morning Moment “Hey!! Janey!! . . .What is this thing?" . . .The "thing" in question was some kind of delectable lemony cupcake. For the girl trying to limit gluten, it looked fine indeed, even partially consumed. The little one inquiring was one of our youngest men. I was flying around Memorial Hall as though on roller blades; some Wednesday nights the time between Evening Prayer and teaching is short. This night, some emotional pastoral concerns had shortened it even more. I stopped to answer, frankly charmed because I had been flagged down with such urgent —but affectionate informality. We are neighbors, so he does not always see me as the priest. But we are all neighbors. And I am so grateful that our children do not see me as someone costumed and distant, pontificating in some sort of foreign language. It matters to me with all my heart that they want to talk to me. I shamelessly savor their hugs and loving glances when they come my way.

“Slow to chide and swift to bless….” Those 19th century words from Hymn 410, (Praise my soul the King of heaven,) written by Henry Lyte, were a refrain in my heart from 3:00 on yesterday. Things were actually going well; we had had a lovely 7:30 service and I had made 7 individual Imposition of Ashes and Communion visits. It was cold, but the sunshine was cheerful. I arrived at the Albemarle pleased to see that the extra chairs we had requested were present in the hall outside the tiny chapel. As we organized, a boisterous group of staff came through our chairs into the auditorium. I gently asked them to make sure their doors were shut because we would not be able to close ours, something we have had to do more often lately. With my cassock, purple stole and collar, I was quite positive that they would not fail to recognize my pastoral authority. (If you are picking up a bit of prideful vanity, you are on track.) We are used to distractions in that service, from within and wi