Saturday of this week is a funny old day. We have stopped focusing on pain. The young man is safely dead, and I feel as I have felt before when a beloved was in pain and then died: ‘Thank God for this release – this mercy.’ Instead, we go to church to clean and polish and dust. The worst of jobs is the kneelers. Heavy lifting and dust all over one. The best is the polishing of the eagle lectern, ‘my eagle’ – who to me is an icon. Through him I see the angel who become the symbol for the Gospel of John. [All my angles are gendered, this one happens to be male]. And through this icon, the window into heaven, I see how individuals each have a vocation, and yet may struggle to find it and see themselves clearly. This is an important lesson to me. Consequently, him being an icon and all, I am disproportionately fond of him and find it foolishly uplifting to polish him.
But behind these joys is a sorrow. Jesus is not there. A friend blogs of astonishment and misery of moving about the church, not bowing to him. The grief today is for ourselves, that we have lost the beloved.