Starberns here in Green Park/New James Bonders is buzzing with security passes and business persons. Bernstar Zovaro has paused amid the working day to join the Harpster (as some do call me) for a hot water and 'azelnuts - I've been here listening to various recordings of Bach on youtube and abusing the hotspotality of the generous Seattle hosts.
Funeral this morn was very grim. He was a 53 year old security guard and the occasion was more distraught than I've ever seen at any service - excepting infant Baptisms. A child pours it's very heart and soul into it's cries and for them the universe has sundered when they're grabbed by a stranger in front of other strangers and strange things are done them involving water and oil. How did you like it? "Today's" relatives struggled but managed to keep a slipping grip.
I'm not in any way trying to be irreverent about what was obviously (the funeral) horrific, just commenting about the church being the place people go to or not at these transitional moments; when stuff happens, people either run away from the Lord or run towards Him. An ex-monk I met once (at a Baptism) was unconvinced by Jack's "GOD'S MEGAPHONE!" understanding of the problem of pain. It's a clever expression and neatly Lewinian; I suppose we do moostly muddle about and then stuff hits us and whatever we can see first or find first or blame first gets the fallout or captures us in our emptiness and the falling into it that happens to us all. Do children blame their mum or dad if the nasty dog/pavement/door/splinter/ or tummyache snaps at them etc? I don't know myself, only being a godfather, but mostly I see the munchkins running to pappy and mammy when puppy gets snappy.
"If we shout into the void loud enough, God answers us back" (Kuba?)
Jack Russell Harmer nearly booked himself a trip to the pound when he snapped at the small child who was being very annoying at the time back in the summer. Praise the Leader no damage was done or drawn as it would have broken my elderly dad's heart had poor Jack met an... I shall not write the words. Father Michael commented in the car a la Norbers ce matin 'I don't do anyone any harm, I only harm myself'. How little did Jack think (?) those jaws were dicing with death when he merely obdogged his doggy nature (and protected his eyes from prodding fingers.) Still, ask me again when I'm a parent. Anyhow, kiddywink concerned ran straight to his ma and pa. Anecdotal evidence, but then again most is.
But apparently we over 12's are pretty much all recovering from puberesence for the next 50 years, until we're too old to make a noise other than the words 'pension' and 'regrets, I've had a few'. Maybe my as-I'm-typing abuse of the aforementioned hotspotality of the free 'leccy chez Starberns is going to be a contributing factor to the fact of the fact that the facts about pensions in this country, factually speaking, are not factastic. It's quite a deal though, the several hours of free workspace at the Coffice Shop, actually on the canteen face, in exchange for a mere £plus or minus.
With the culture of death's malevolence (never heard the expression? - think abortion on demand and eugenicide, theodicide, and moralicide,) we shall probably all be celebrated for our goodness to the taxpayer in choosing to be a shufflin' off the cortal mile before our allotted course is spent.
"He could have spent a lifetime malingering in coffee shops, but no! s/he was the kind of godfather/mother who knew their prayers would increase in efficacy if they were closer to the King than was presently possible in Starbucks."
Cue rejoicing with heart and wallet by the assembled tax payers.
Mere relatives and friends will be paying the price of love:... tears.
Afterwards - will people think more about the price of funeral baked Scotch buffet delicacies than the answer to the riddle of the one about the chicken and the egg? Surely they can taste the difference between mere theory and practise?
If there is a God, I hear me say, (and He was here well before any poultry or dairy products) the crying I heard today means a life means more than a 45 minute newscast round-up; more than staring at the buffet in the church hall with a bunch of almost strangers. It means that in our grief, as in other moments of crisis, we are obeying some law that is our human version of the doggy nature - nobler though - and that law of love is written into the fabric of the bits of stardust to which we return.
It means we are more precious than many sparrows.
Or Jack Russells.
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