Muriel Ashby Thanks for the memories

My first memories are of going
through London pea soupers
to mum’s family home in Cricklewood
and the smuts from the engine in the train home.

At home in St Albans she helped out the Tory party
and as Townswomen’s guild Drama secretary
produced flyers on a flat bed copier that came in a tin.
Elocution lessons smoothed out the cockney
into proper English.

The daughter of a tailor she made all my clothes;
dresses for school
plays – obviously.

There were always word games
– Lexicon cards before Scrabble arrived
and books from the weekly visit to the library van.
Films too, at the local cinema,
always the Odeon, never the ABC;
war films in the fifties, usually naval battles then musicals.
TV only came later and then only BBC, never ITV
(until she discovered The Bill).
And an annual trip to the theatre:
pantos at Golders Green first then shows in the West End
– My Fair Lady, Sound of Music, Oliver
and a local Gilbert and Sullivan.
And she went specially to get me (and cousin Susan) tickets
for Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl.

Mum had a lifelong love of Gardens
– introducing me to flowers and borders, nasturtiums and coleus;
With visits to country house and national trust gardens
Bodnant and Woburn;
Then Arley and Dunham Massey in recent years.
And was it those elephant rides at Whipsnade
that gave me my longing for Africa.

There was always time for holidays.
In the fifties in the UK,
Mum packing the trunk for British Road Services
to take ahead into the depths of Wales.
And however dry the summer,
dad always found some mud for mum to slip in.
Her memories of Crinkle Crags still fresh
just a few weeks ago.

In the more adventurous sixties
mum and dad began to explore:
France, Switzerland and Austria,
mum writing in her schoolgirl French or German
to guest houses for rooms to stay in.

Moving to Devon she found a new life;
New places to explore and new groups to join:
Quilters and embroiderers
needlework and goldwork.

And then as a widow, freedom at last.
Sherry and cake with Mae and Josie.

And the accent slipped,
once she knew it was me:
“Ello pete ow are yah”

More tolerant than others,
when the vicar strayed
and the hypocritical parish wanted him out,
she hoped they would get a
“black disabled lesbian”.

This prim and proper lady
never a word out of place,
came into her own.
After her stroke
When I asked how she was
There could be only one reply,
“F-<&ing awful”

And for the past few years
finding a new home and new friends
at the Old Rectory.
Receiving for herself the care
she had once given to others,

Delighting in news of grand (and greatgrand) children
And relishing their visits.
With a mind still active,
winning the quiz, winning at Mah Jong,
enjoying visits from family and friends.

And leaving to all a wealth of memories.

© Peter G Ashby 2009
Photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/pegash/

Stumble on the stable

Why did Jesus get born at such a busy time of year?
He should have known
we would be distracted
by everything else that is going on.
Too busy to notice his arrival.

The town is full,
everyone come for the celebration
of a successful registration,
not yet allowed a vote,
but at least included, recognised as citizens.

And he would be pushed aside,
no room in the hotels,
or the inn,
or even the backpackers hostel.
Joseph should have booked ahead,
what did he expect,
he should have known what it would be like,
and what she is like,
typical to have the baby at the most awkward time
in the most awkward place.

So a stable round the back,
easy to miss, easy to pass by,
except for the donkeys
trying to get some sleep
after carrying their burdens into town.

To find it you need to look,
you need to search,
make a journey,
you can’t stumble on the stable.

It would take angelic guidance perhaps,
a voice in the sat nav,
rising to an insistent clamour which you try to ignore,
as the shepherds did:
dragged from their sheep
or their sleep in the night.

Or the wise men,
posher, so star nav for them,
fortune tellers,
tools of their trade to hand as they come
from the familiar east into the west.

All travel far from their comfort zone,
letting go of the past,
take hand luggage only, leaving baggage behind.

Travelling unfamiliar roads to distant places,
avoiding the distractions,
the false turnings,
the celebrations and the celebrities.
And there they find Jesus
was always there,
at the centre,
at the heart,
in their hearts.

© Peter G Ashby 2008

For whom the cock crows

How many times did Jesus call?
Andrew started it -
he followed John;
then changed to Jesus.

He went to get his brother
Simon would rather have carried on fishing.
"I will make you fish for people"
Jesus said.
Not giving him much of a choice.

Then - having taken away his job
Jesus took his name away as well:
'Peter' he had to be called from now on
Jesus would explain later.
Perhaps.

So Peter never belonged.
Not that anyone else did
but he less than most.

Every time he thought he had got it right
he was slapped down.
"Shall we make three shelters?"
"Don't be stupid"
"Why go to Jerusalem if you will be killed there?"
"Get behind me Satan."

Was it really that bad?
He was only trying to help,
only trying to belong,
to find someone to be close to.

So his natural place was in the courtyard,
outside with the servants,
outside with the outsiders.
In the kitchen at parties
Never at the centre,
in the thick of it.

Ignored for so long
naturally he thought no one would notice.
He could take up his usual place:
observing from the edge
on the outside looking in.
At least there he couldn't put his foot in it could he?

"You were with him"
"No I wasn't"
"This is one of them"
"No I'm not"
"Your accent gives you away"
"What are you talking about. For Christ's sake."

Oops

The cock crew

As Jesus said it would

Well it always did didn't it.
It's what cocks do,
close to dawn.
It's what they do best
It's in their nature.

As certain as human betrayal.
Second nature to look after number one.
And what was the harm
it wouldn't save Jesus, or condemn him:
to lie to strangers.
What did they know?

But Peter knew
and so did Jesus
That each betrayal
left Peter further outside
and Peter wept
From loneliness.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Build your house on the sand

Jesus got it wrong
He told us not to build our house on the sand
But to build on rock.

He should have known we would take it literally:
that we would do what we were told
and build our churches
on rock, out of rock.
Rock walls, rock floors,
rock roofs, rock doors
without an entrance and without an exit.

Rituals set in stone
tablets passed down.
Worship only
in fixed places, with fixed rules
and a fixed service, for fixed people.
No danger there.

A place of protection.
Safe from being washed away
of being swept up by the tide
and carried off to new places
new experiences.

And luckily
no space for the spirit to get at us
no embarrassing spiritual stuff allowed.

But also a place of imprisonment.
If no-one can get in
we cannot get out.
A place of isolation.
Others cannot join us
nor we reach out to them

But Jesus didn't build on rock
he didn't practice what he preached.
He went beyond the literal
and saw the creative
possibilities of sand.
He called Peter:
"On this rock I will build."
What a joke.
Not Peter
Mr Shifting Sands himself.
Always getting it wrong
always bottling out.
Unlovable
sink, not swim, Peter.

"Peter do you love me"
"Maybe, sometimes"

"Feed my sheep:
Not from rocks
Not from stones
But with flesh and blood
for people of flesh and blood.

"People living on sand
threatened by the flood
overwhelmed by the world
or taken by the tide of the spirit
they know not where.

"So build on sand
impermanent castles
which can be adapted to need;
or swept away
as God calls us on
or moves ahead of us.

"Build on people
Insecure people
Inadequate people
but real people
searching people
people who know their need of God.

"Like Peter
"On this rock
I will build my church."

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Tears and towels

Everything was just right
Crockery and cutlery ritually clean
Food strictly kosher
Each guest in their proper place
Orders of precedence observed.
Conversation turning to higher things

Then a murmur of disapproval
as the calm is broken,
a stranger come amongst them
a woman at that.
The distraction of scent and sexuality.
She can't be a member.

"I know I'm not good enough
but they won't notice me.
If I'm found they'll turn me away
I'll be rejected again
but it won't be the first time.
Only wanted when needed
only loved when used
Every time you think love is forever
every time you lose a bit of yourself.

"If I can just get close to him
If I can touch the hem of his robe
But the tears blind my eyes
as they sprinkle his feet
and I've no towel but my hair."

And the murmur grows louder
as right is proclaimed.
The woman must go
lest she sully the feast
with her earthy perfume
and the smell of her sex.

But Jesus stands up:
"Let her go free
Just bring me a towel.

"Have you, Simon, forgotten,
How you were caste out:
a leper unwelcome
till healed by a love
that cured by including
enfolding and healing.
Does your healing enable
your feelings of grandeur?
That you are entitled
to judge and condemn
those not yet whole:
to despise and exclude them."

So he took up the towel
and began to wash the feet
of all those at the table.
Till he came up to Peter

"Not me.
Wash them Lord not me."

"Yes you Peter,
especially you.
This woman has known love
and has shown love.
If you don't accept love
How do you expect to give love."

"Then it's not just my feet
That need to be washed
but my mind and my heart
both need to be cleansed."

"Too right," said Jesus
"Too right."

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Healing Peter

If he could heal the mother-in-law, he could do anything
Walk on water
calm a storm
raise the dead
all came naturally to him.

It began with fish
153 of them - he made us count them. No one knows why.
We had fished as usual through the night and caught little.
Then Jesus called from the shore
"Throw your net on the other side."
As if carpenters knew how to fish.
We could hardly pull the net in.

But although he had suggested it,
it wasn't his miracle. It was ours.
Well OK. He did it through us.
Or he showed us that we could do
what we thought was impossible.
That miracles are about believing in yourself.
Something I have never been good at.

"Heal the sick," he said.
As if we knew how
"Go out in twos and get on with it," he said.
"Bring the dead back to life and drive out demons."

The first time, a shadow
watched from the back as tentatively
I stretched out my hands.
"Three hands touched me," the sick one said.
"Of course," I said, startled myself,
"the hand of God rested on you beside mine."

And is the pain inside
the revenge of the demons I've driven from others.
The needs of others leaving my own needs unmet.

Jesus says, "come. Don't be afraid."
But often the water has risen around me
threatened to overwhelm me.
Even his outstretched hand cannot keep me from sinking.
Save me Lord.

And the beggar at the gate
begging bowl out
as if we had money.
"Look at us," I said.
"Worn sandals, torn cloak,
does it look as if we have anything.
But we'll share what we have
if you get up and walk!"

So the man got up and joined us
then went and shared his healing,
praising God, sharing the gift.

It's as natural as breathing
to reach out and touch
to include and enfold
across the divide not just of illness
but of fear and prejudice too.

To reach out and touch
is to reunite God's fractured spirit
to reignite the fire of his love.

It came as a bit of a surprise though
when even my shadow healed
just as the shadow of Jesus
had supervised me.

Simon Magus wanted to buy the gift.
Which was daft
Since he already had it for free:
He just had to accept it as a gift
and offer it freely to others

"Go and do likewise."
"As I have washed you so go and wash."
The young the old
The dispossessed
All have the gift
All are ministers now
All are healers now.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Fly away Peter, fly away Paul

The gentiles were mine
Luke had even put it in the minutes
at Jerusalem.
You can read it there
'Peter stood up and said,
"God made a choice that I should be the one
through whom the gentiles would hear the message."'
No one disagreed.

The vision was mine
The prompting to meet Cornelius.
When I saw the vision:
A cloth from heaven:
Bats and slugs and spiders and snakes.
I knew these too are God's gifts to us.
I knew enough to see it meant
God has no particular favourites.
No chosen people or chosen creatures -
all are his favourites:
to be used and abused
for good or ill.

Salvation is about
overcoming the division
between rich and poor
male and female
Jew and gentile
black and white
Christian and Muslim
Israeli and Palestinian
sick and well:
all are part of the greater wholeness
of God's world.

So what does Paul think that he's on about:
telling the Galatians that he was made
an apostle to the gentiles
and I was to go to the Jews;
calling us dogs,
telling us to castrate ourselves.

Since when did he follow the rules anyway
he stayed with Jews and preached in synagogues.
If he had stuck to the gentiles he would have had less trouble.
Both of us were in the same boat
both at times close to sinking.

We thought we knew what was right and wrong
and especially who was right and who was wrong.
"Wrong," said Jesus

What makes you unclean
has nothing to do with what you eat
or even what you do
or who you associate with.
It's what you are inside:
Angry, jealous;
Creating rivalries or factions;
but guilty and depressed too.

And God
with his infinite sense of humour,
sends you to those who most wind you up.
The rich find themselves in the slums
the fisherman are sent to preach to rulers.

And our arguments and jealousies
over religion and politics
pale into insignificance
against the needs of the world.
The need for inclusion
the need for acceptance
which religion cannot answer.

So fly away Peter
Fly away Paul
Make way for God

©Peter G Ashby 2008