Stranger than Fiction! (Sequel)

Stranger than Fiction (Sequel)

 What was I to do?  Should I tell Mrs Hamilton about the words ‘le quatorze juillet’ ( the fourteenth of July)  which I had ‘heard’ that morning as I woke up?  I decided against it.  She had just sadly told me about her mother’s sudden death the previous summer, early on the fourteenth of July.  What good would it do to add my ‘weird’ story to the account of her loss?

In any case, I myself was still feeling shocked by this ‘coincidence’.  What unseen power had led me to this sitting-room, to comment on her mother’s photograph?  Bob and I had intended to spend the night at the Peebles Hydro, before changing our minds because of Bob’s exhaustion.  We had been given Mrs Hamilton’s B&B address only at the last minute before the tourist office closed.

Now, over thirty years later, I wonder if perhaps I should have told her.  Even if neither she nor her mother spoke French, Mrs Hamilton, who had just returned from France on the 13^th, might very possibly have mentioned the preparations for the fireworks display due that night, to welcome in the French public holiday on ‘le quatorze juillet’.  These words might have featured in the very last conversation mother and daughter had together.  To hear them again in this mysterious way might have helped my hostess to move from the sad mindset of:                                        

 ‘Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not’

 to the much more positive: 

’We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, 

but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day’.

But that evening my main thought was “Gosh!  That’s another amazing coincidence for my notebook!”  However, if I’m honest, I must add that I steered clear of giving any hint of a message ‘from the other side.’  I remembered my own bewilderment and alarm when, after my dear father’s sudden death, I had apparently received a message from him – seemingly to reassure me that all was well with him.                         

(In my book Joyful Witness* I describe how I came to terms with that overwhelming experience, and how it ultimately deepened my faith in God.)

Later, as Bob slept, I began to read Catherine Cookson’s Hamilton, the book I had bought that morning.  Maisie, the girl on the front cover, found spiritual comfort and inspiration in her visions of the symbolic horse which she called ‘Hamilton’.  Not daring to tell anyone of her visions lest people thought her crazy, she recorded them secretly in her notebook.      ‘But if she could not talk about Hamilton, she could at least write about him.'                              
 “Just like me and my notebooks!” I thought - because I had found it better to keep quiet about all ‘my’ amazing coincidences, as my family tended to find my enthusiasm for them somewhat strange and disturbing!   I smiled when I read in Chapter 4: ‘I tore the ten pages out of my notebook and put them in a brown envelope, then looked for a loose board under which to place them’.  That sounded familiar!  Only in my case, the hiding place was in my underwear drawer!

On our return home I decided to write to Catherine Cookson, telling her about how her book had been part of a series of (Hamilton) coincidences.  Shortly afterwards I was delighted to receive a letter from her, in which she wrote: 

'Dear Mrs Bates,                                                                                                               

Thank you for your letter, which I have read with interest...  I can definitely understand your coincidences, for I feel that my life too has been made up of a series of them...  Life is full of strange happenings, and, as you indicate, most people consider one to be fey if one expresses one's feelings in this way.                                                                                         
You ask me why I wrote HAMILTON.  I think perhaps, mainly because I understand loneliness, having had periods in my life when I experienced this to the depths.  Also, this was the kind of thing I used to write in my middle years, but nobody seemed to want it.  But such has been the response to this book that I wrote a sequel, GOODBYE HAMILTON.

Once again, Mrs Bates, let me say thank you for your letter and all therein.  I did appreciate it...

Yours very sincerely, 

Catherine Cookson'

This letter, along with photographs and postcards, is included in an album which I created to commemorate our little 'Easter pilgrimage'.  

The causeway to the Holy island of Lindisfarne

*If you’d like a copy of Joyful Witness for yourself or a friend, you will receive a free signed copy (postage paid) if you send a donation, however large or small, to Shelter Scotland’.  

Send a cheque payable to ‘Shelter Scotland’ to

Shelter, 107 Main Street Prestwick KA9 1JS

On the back, please write ' Joyful Witness', adding your name, address and postcode, and indicate if GiftAid applies.

Stranger than Fiction!

Stranger than Fiction!

 

Okay, so I’m not trendy.  I admit it: I didn’t watch one single episode of Game of Thrones.  When it comes to escapism, I don’t fancy fantasy!  I much prefer a good detective film, trying to figure out ‘whodunnit’.  And in any case, I find everyday life so great a mystery that I’m far too busy trying to figure out the significance of the latest amazing coincidence to need any far-fetched fiction!

And despite seeing my grandchildren’s excitement about going to London to see Hamilton: an American Musical, I haven’t rushed to buy a ticket (though I dare say I’d enjoy it).  Perhaps the reason is that I have my own Hamilton story – which I’d now like to share with you.

 *  *  *

“C’est le quatorze juillet” I heard in my head as I gradually woke up.  “No, today is not the fourteenth of July, it’s the twelfth of April,” I thought crossly.  But again I heard the insistent “C’est le quatorze juillet.”

Goaded into action, I jumped out of bed, announcing to Bob that it was time to get up and get ready to go downstairs for breakfast.  We were in a small B&B in Berwick, just over the Scottish-English border, as part of a precious little Easter holiday of only three days away from home, in Edinburgh, Berwick and Peebles.  Life had been particularly challenging recently, with a divisive teachers’ strike, Bob’s cancer treatment, his mother’s increasing frailty, in addition to all our usual responsibilities at home and at work.  Desperately in need of a change of scene, we had decided to visit the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, just off the coast of Northumberland.  There we wanted to see the famous Lindisfarne Gospels, an illuminated manuscript dating back to the 8^th century.

 To allow ourselves to travel at a leisurely pace, we had agreed to go via quiet country roads to Edinburgh, where we would spend the night.  Our route took us through the little village of Drumclog.  There we stopped to look at the monument put up in memory of the battle fought in 1679 between the Covenanters and Government troops.

 We read the list of the “Christian Heroes who on Sabbath the 1^st of June 1679 nobly fought in defence of Civil and Religious Liberty”.  Four of the eight surnames are Hamilton – which was my maiden name.  My father had told me that one of them was an ancestor of ours, but he didn’t know which one.  Because I am all in favour of ‘Religious Liberty’, I am pleased to be a descendant of …Andrew or Gavin or Robert or William…?

We spent a comfortable night in Edinburgh, at the Halcyon Hotel.  ‘Halcyon’ is the Greek word for ‘kingfisher’, and I had specifically chosen that hotel because I remembered the large painting of a kingfisher in the dining room!  For me, the kingfisher is symbolic, being a creature which waits patiently to spot a fish, then suddenly swoops down on its food – just as I do when I spot another coincidence,  then carry off this spiritual ‘food’ to preserve in my current notebook!  Bob took a photograph of me at the breakfast table, with the kingfisher above. 

After crossing the causeway to Lindisfarne at low tide, we explored the island, then studied the wonderful facsimile of the monk Eadfrith’s richly decorated manuscript of the four New Testament Gospels, in Latin.  Each begins with an illustration of its author sitting on a rectangular piece of furniture, writing his testament about the Good News brought by Jesus.  Above each writer is an image of a symbolic winged creature.  Matthew has a winged man (‘imago hominis’), Mark has a lion (‘imago leonis’), Luke, a calf (‘imago vituli’) and John, an eagle (imago aequilae’).  I bought a souvenir card showing Mark and his winged lion.

The next morning, the 12^th of April, we set off for Peebles. I was still puzzled by the ‘announcement’ I had heard as I woke up: ‘C’est le quatorze juillet’.  Meanwhile Bob told me that he was feeling exhausted and somewhat unwell.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll manage a big meal tonight, and I’ll just have to collapse into bed whenever we get to a B&B”, he said apologetically.

At Kelso we stopped at a newsagent’s to buy that day’s newspaper.  While Bob was at the counter, I looked at a bookstand for a paperback to read that evening when he would be resting.  Immediately I caught sight of one by Catherine Cookson which seemed exactly appropriate – because of its title: Hamilton!

On the back cover I discovered that ‘Hamilton’ was the name given by a young woman called Maisie to a symbolic horse which would sometimes appear to her in a vision, inspiring her to write about spiritual matters. ‘Hamilton … is proof of a deep spirituality’. I noticed that the picture of Maisie on the front cover seemed to be based on the Lindisfarne illustrations of the Gospel writers – the same symbolic creature placed above her.  “There really ought to be the words ‘imago equi’ (image of a horse) beside Hamilton!” I thought as I bought the book.

It was late afternoon when we arrived in Peebles.  We had intended to treat ourselves to the luxury of dinner, bed and breakfast at the Peebles Hydro, but now that circumstances had changed, we decided to try to find a less expensive place for the night.  At the tourist office I apologised for asking for B&B accommodation so near closing time. 

“Oh, that’s all right”, said the lady.  “I’ll fix you up with Mrs Hamilton.”

‘Hamilton’ again!  Once more I had the strong feeling that this was no”mere coincidence” and that, at this anxious time, we had an invisible source of help and guidance.

Mrs Hamilton gave us a warm welcome.  On hearing that Bob needed to go straight to bed, she invited me to join her and her husband in the sitting-room.  On top of the television set there was an ornament in the shape of a horse’s head – another imago equi! – and beside it a photograph of a smiling old lady holding a 90^th birthday card.

“That’s my mother”, Mrs Hamilton told me.  “She was 90 last summer.  My husband and I had been in France for my nephew’s wedding.  We hurried back for her birthday, and took that photo of her looking so happy.  But the next day we got a terrible shock.  We got the news that she had died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning. It was the fourteenth of July.”

                                   

Symphony on Ice

Symphony on ice

  "Would you like a bag for it?" asked the lady at the Gift Shop in the Edinburgh Portrait Gallery, where I had just bought a 1st birthday present for my sweet little friend Lily-Bow. I was amused to see the image on the bag - based on Raeburn's famous oil painting known as The Skating Minister.  (See the original on the internet!)        

Before delivering the present to Lily-Bow I took the above photograph, because the skater had reminded me of a true story which I'd like to share with you.  I've called it :

Symphony on Ice.

'It was halfway through the rehearsal – time for a five-minute break.  Carefully I laid my cello down, placing the bow on top.  I was looking forward to a chat with Margaret and Jane, two of my fellow cellists in the Ayrshire Symphony Orchestra.  The rehearsal was in an unusual place that evening – not in the lecture theatre of the local college but in a large hall, part of Ayr Ice Rink.

Just as I was about to sit down, I was surprised to see a couple coming towards me: my mother and father.  Both were looking very smart, my mother in a camel coat with a fur collar and matching fur hat, my father sporting his Bowling Club blazer over immaculate shirt and trousers.  He was quite tanned, having just returned from their visit to Australia. 

“Here we are, back from Down Under!” called Dad cheerily as they approached.

Full of joy, I rushed to give him a big hug.

But suddenly I realised that I was sitting up in bed.  It had all been a dream!  My beloved father had died fourteen years before, and the old Ayr Ice Rink was now a large supermarket.  Choking back sobs of disappointment, I quietly got out of bed, trying not to waken Bob, and made my way to the kitchen.  While I waited for the kettle to boil I thought that I had better put on the television – something I never usually did in the morning, preferring to collect my thoughts without any distraction. But today I urgently needed a change of ideas, so I switched on the TV news. 

To my astonishment, the newsreader was announcing that the skater John Curry, Gold Medal winner at the 1976 Winter Olympics, was about to present a remarkable new show.  London’s Royal Albert Hall had, for the first time, been transformed into an ice rink.  The skaters would perform to live music played by musicians sitting on chairs on the ice – giving the show its name Symphony on Ice! Instantly my sorrow was turned into joyful amazement by this powerful ‘coincidence’, and by its perfect timing. 

Throughout the day I grinned with delight whenever I thought of it, and that evening I recorded it in my special diary, describing how it had brought me comfort, joy and new energy.  As always, I ended this entry with the words ‘Deo gratias’ (Thanks be to God).'

***

A year later my mother and I were returning by train to Glasgow from Manchester after attending my two nieces’ baptism.  Suddenly Mum produced a postcard from her handbag.

“I found this in a box of souvenirs which belonged to your Gran Hamilton”, she said.  “You can keep it if you want.”

On the card was an old black and white photograph. It commemorated the opening in 1907 of Glasgow’s Crossmyloof ice rink.  This new rink had an unusual feature: four pillars supporting a small bandstand, with a quartet of musicians providing live music.  More ‘music on ice’!  I was amazed - not only by the coincidence but by the thought of the musicians crossing the ice with their instruments then climbing the ladder up to the bandstand - especially the double bass player!


(Footnote:  I never tire of watching John Curry's brilliant performance when he won his Gold Medal.  You can share my pleasure if you search John Curry 1976 Winter Olympics, Innsbruck.   Aren't we lucky to have YouTube!)

TRY the HS Helpline!

TRY the HS Helpline!

This past week we have been commemorating the 75^th anniversary of the D Day Normandy landings on 6 June 1944.   Tomorrow we will be celebrating the anniversary of the foundation of the HS Helpline.  I’m afraid I m not sure of the exact year when this facility was set up.  But as a regular user I can thoroughly recommend it.

The HS Helpline offers various kinds of assistance: advocacy, friendly advice regarding changes in health and life-style, reassurance and inspiration, consolation in distress.  This service is free, and is available 24/7, all year round.

When you contact the Helpline you will NOT be asked to give your  

first name or surname
date or place of birth
marital status
present address, including postcode
nationality
ethnicity
sexual preferences
religious affiliation (or none)
financial status

(All these are already known.)

You will NOT be asked to prove that you are not a robot!

It is recommended that, before contacting the Helpline, you switch off devices such as mobile phone, iPad, computer, TV, radio etc. and find a comfortable seat in a quiet place.  (But this is not essential, as the Helpline can be reached however noisy the environment, and there is no need to worry about the availability of online reception.)

The HS Helpline password is THANK YOU.

You may be surprised to find that - despite needing to use the Helpline – you actually have many reasons to be thankful.  However, if you are in such mental distress that you find this password inappropriate and difficult to say, please consider any physical reason you might have for expressing thanks, e.g. good mobility, recovery from illness, or even something very basic, such as relief from constipation  - or the satisfaction of scratching an itch!  (This last one was what I myself resorted to many years ago when in terrible mental and spiritual distress …)

Having said the password (aloud or silently), now concentrate on your reason(s) for contacting the HS Helpline.  These may include: hurt, injustice, anger, loneliness, fear, illness, jealousy, despair, bereavement, weakness, alcoholism, drug dependency, confusion, constant worry, poverty, etc.

Then ask for help.

You may now confidently expect assistance.  This may take the form of: surprise help from unexpected sources, startling coincidences, sudden feeling of joy or peace (or both).  You may be silently advised and helped to re-think your life-style.

If necessary, repeat your application to the HS Helpline daily until you experience relief.  (Tip: To speed up the process it is recommended that you ‘google’ The Lord’s Prayer, then try to memorise the words.)

Recently, when waiting for a friend in Edinburgh Waverley station, I was delighted to see this advert for the HS Helpline.  Have you seen it?

Please note:  www.ourgoldennetwork.blogspot.com is affiliated to the Holy Spirit's Helpline.

The Dream Picnic

The Dream Picnic

Last Sunday on my way to church I saw this banner in Sainsbury’s car park.  What an impact it could make if it appeared above the church entrance, where earlier this month the red Christian Aid banner fluttered in the breeze!

Tonight, I hope to attend a concert given by  Edinburgh’s splendid LGBT choir Loud and Proud, of which my daughter Linda is an enthusiastic member.  It is now thirty years since Linda finally plucked up enough courage to “come out” to me.  It was no real surprise to me that she is lesbian, and I was glad that she felt able to discuss the matter frankly.  However, I was very distressed on her account, thinking of how hard life was probably going to be for her, how difficult it would be for her to feel accepted.  I felt like a tigress ready to defend her cub!

But this was only a few months after my dear husband Bob’s death, and I was still emotionally drained.  How could God expect me to be strong now for Linda when I still felt so weakened by grief?

That night, after praying hard for strength and guidance, I was granted the following vivid dream.

I dreamt that Bob and I were on a little tour of the Scottish Borders, enjoying the pleasure of one another’s company as we sat side by side in our car.  We stopped for a picnic at a beauty spot – by the spectacular waterfall known as the Grey Mare’s Tail.  I was spreading out a square cloth on the grass when suddenly Linda arrived on a motor-bike, with her friend ‘Janice’ (also lesbian) in the side car.  They were both wearing black leather jackets and trousers and black helmets with visors, which allowed them to remain unrecognisable.  They stopped, removed their helmets and came to join us on the grass.

Placing the food and drink on the square cloth, I asked us all to sit down, one on each of the four sides.  This was very important because it emphasised that we were all absolutely equal.  With the breaking of the bread, this simple meal took on the solemnity and blessing of a Communion service.  It was impressed on me that, even though we had ben provided with different kinds of vehicles to travel in, we were all heading along the same road, in the same direction.

As I woke up I had a wonderful sense of peace, and over the past thirty years I have often had reason to thank God for the help and guidance I received that night.  As a symbolic reminder of that special dream I have this old photograph on my bedroom wall.  Bob had taken it about ten years previously at the Grey Mare’s Tail car park when a stray sheep came up to share my ginger biscuit!

Glad as I was that Linda had felt confident to “come out”, I now felt that I was now the one “in the closet”!  At that time there were very few people with whom I could discuss the matter – least of all, alas, my friends at the church.  So, in 1990 I was glad to attend a conference at Churches’ House , Dunblane which was entitled ‘Changing Churches’ Attitude?’ and to which parents of gay people were invited.

I have three vivid memories of that conference.  The first is of a talk by the mother of a gay son, who had set up a form of Samaritans in her home city (Birmingham?)  She spoke of the misery of some of the young  people who had contacted her: girls confused and depressed because they just couldn’t conform to the “normal”  prince-and-princess-lived-happily-ever-after culture, and boys who were in despair at being totally unable to live up to a father’s hope of a macho son.  The lady asked us which adjective best described most parents’ reaction when their child “came out”.   “Disappointed? Angry? Bewildered? Horrified?” we suggested.  “No, bereaved is the most common” she told us.  “They feel that the child they thought they knew has died.  So, they need to be helped to realise that he or she has actually been that way since birth.”

My second memory is of sharing dinner at a table for eight, where I was the only female and the only “straight” person.  So now I knew what it felt like to be the odd one out!  The man on my left told me that it was only after both his parents had died, when he was forty-five, that he had at last felt able to admit to himself that he was gay.  On my right sat a bitter misogynist who spoke angrily about all women in general.

My third memory is a very poignant one.  I had been asked to play the piano for the Sunday morning worship, and to choose suitable hymns.  The first was a favourite of mine – Christ’s is the world in which we move (to the tune Dream Angus) by contemporary hymnwriters John L. Bell and Graham Maule, both of the Iona Community.  I asked all the men to sing the second verse and chorus on their own.  The tears still come to my eyes when I remember their lovely rich tenor and bass voices singing these words: ‘Feel for the people we most avoid – strange or bereaved or never employed.  Feel for the women and feel for the men who fear that their living is all in vain.  (Chorus)  To the lost Christ shows his face, to the unloved he gives his embrace, to those who cry in pain or disgrace, Christ makes, with his friends, a touching place.’

After the service the “misogynist” approached me, to my surprise, and gave me a hug, quietly saying “Thank you.”

Over the years since then the Gay Pride movement has slowly increased awareness and acceptance of the fact that a percentage of the population will always be homosexual- not by choice but by birth.  Alas, there will too, no doubt, always be homophobia – for all sorts of reasons.  But inclusiveness has increased – with the result that Linda and her beloved Bex will, this Sunday, be celebrating their seventh wedding anniversary.

Deo gratias