Tag Archives: sleep

July 13, Readings from Mary Webb XXI: ‘How short a while.’

How short a while –eternities  gone by —
It is since book and candle, half the night,
Consumed the hours, and in the first grey light
I turned and strove for slumber wearily:
But the sad past complained too mournfully,
And wept before me till the dawn grew white;
And the stark future, stripped of all delight,
Loomed up so near — I could but wake and sigh.

Now they are gone. I lie with ungirt will
And unlit candle, sleeping quietly.
Love flows around me with its calm and blessing;
I can but let it take me, and be still,
And know that you, beloved, though far from me,
All night are with me — comforting, caressing.

Let us finish this week with Mary Webb by reading a poem that transcends, rather than denies sorrow. And we can pray that all may feel love’s calm and blessing, flowing around us. Love is not static! It is active,  alive now. Delight can return and will.

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July 2: Sleep is an act of faith

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“Sleep!” cried Father Brown. “Sleep. We have come to the end of the ways. Do you know what sleep is? Do you know that every man who sleeps believes in God? It is a sacrament; for it is an act of faith and it is a food. And we need a sacrament, if only a natural one.”

Even if we were ten in the bed, each one of us would always sleep alone, except for the one who feeds our mind and soul all through the night.

Not everyone sleeps soundly, physical or mental pain, or others’ unthinking noise may prolong our wakefulness. Sleep, like all the sacraments, is a gift. Let us hope that all wil be able to receive it.

But it’s time for me to partake of that natural sacrament. Good Night to all, and we’ll see you tomorrow.

And as the Compline prayer says:

MAY THE LORD GRANT US A QUIET NIGHT AND A PERFECT END. AMEN.

from The Innocence of Father Brown by G. K. Chesterton.
available on Kindle.
More Chesterton to come in the next weeks.
Stiperstones, Shropshire. MMB

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December 13: Saint Lucy.

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Why did Saint Lucy from Roman Sicily, prove to be so popular in Scandinavia, which was never part of the Empire, and became Lutheran at the Reformation? She must have touched the popular imagination! The reason must partly be her name – Lux means light in Latin – and partly the time of her feast day, in the dark, dark days of winter.

It’s a feast for the girls! In the North Countries they dress in white, carry candles and bring coffee and biscuits to their parents in bed.

We were once served small bowls of cereal by our elder daughters, who were under 5, and who got up very early (very early!) to bring us breakfast in bed. A joy for their parents despite the lost sleep.

Saint Lucy was one of those teenage martyrs who stood up for the truth, stood up for her self, and stood up for God. We remember her with just a few of the many other women martyrs of Roman times when we say the first Eucharistic Prayer: Felicity, Perpetua, Agatha, Lucy, Agnes, Cecilia, Anastasia. Let them stand for all the young women who lived and died for the love of God, whose names we will never know. Let us commend all our teenage girls to their prayers.

And let us pray that the Peace the Angels proclaimed at Christmas may reign in all hearts, that all persecutions may cease.

MMB.

 

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October 7. In the park: what would you do?

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This story turned out not to be about a beggar, but I have since seen the same woman walking by, talking to herself, but always wearing clean clothes. The last in this short season.

It was high summer, and what T and I saw lying on the grass was not a broken branch but a woman, who we thought might have been broken. More than once I have seen drunk and incapable people lying next to the cycle path. There was cause for concern.

T and I were indeed concerned but hesitated to approach the woman. She was warm and in a safe place after all. I said I would see if she was still there when I walked the dogs, Ajax and Alfie.

She was still there, but before we had done our round of the park, the Cathedral bell, Great Dunstan, announced five o’clock. The lady sat up, gathered her belongings and walked away.

T laughed when I told her the next day. It’s good when your fears are shown to be groundless. And no need to see the lady home, which would have been a challenge with two chihuahuas!

Thanks to NAIB for the photograph.

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Support Stalwart Sister Rose!

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Love in a cold hard place: Our friend Sister Rose, of the Littlehampton Sisters, will be joining a Sleeping Out in Littlehampton on Saturday 24th February to raise funds for Worthing Churches Homeless Project. If you’d like to support her, please contact:

St. Joseph’s Convent, East Street, LITTLEHAMPTON BN17 6AU
e-mail: fmslgen.secretary@gmail.com

WT

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7 February: Helping and Helping 5, The Lodging House Fire II.

 

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If we read his Autobiography of a Supertramp, we learn that Davies did spend time in the libraries but lacked the energy to get the most out of being there because of sitting in front of the Lodging House Fire. What would he have done with a mobile phone? Played mindless games all day?

I gave myself over to the influence of the coke fire. After going out in the morning for two or three hours, I would return at midday, often earlier, and sit hopelessly before this fire for ten or eleven hours, after which I would retire to my room. What a miserable time was this: the kitchen, foul with the breath of fifty or sixty men, and the fumes of the coke fire, took all the energy out of a man, and it was a hard fight to keep awake. It has taken the play out of the kitten, and this small animal lies stretched out, overcome by its fumes, without the least fear of being trodden on. Sometimes, when I endeavoured to concentrate my mind, with an idea of writing something, it was necessary to feign a sleep, so that these kind hearted fellows might not disturb me with their civilities. On these occasions it was not unusual for me to fall into a real sleep. And, when I awoke, it sickened me to think of this wasted time; for I was spending in bed more hours than were necessary for my health, and it was a most cruel waste of time to be sleeping in the day.

This fire exerted a strange influence over us. In the morning we were loath to leave it, and we all returned to it as soon as possible. Even the books and magazines in the libraries could not seduce me longer than an hour.

There was one seat at the corner of a table, which I have heard called “the dead man’s seat.” It was within two yards of this great fire, which was never allowed to suffer from want of coke. It was impossible to retain this seat long and keep awake. Of course, a man could hardly expect to keep this seat day after day for a long winter, and to be alive in the spring of the year. This was the case with a printer who, unfortunately, had only three days’ work a week. The amount he earned was sufficient for his wants, so, in his four idle days, he would sit on this seat, eating, reading, but more often sleeping, until before the end of the winter, he was carried away a dying man. Some of these lodgers claim to be able to recognise in the public streets any strangers who are suffering from this coke fever.

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Support Stalwart Sister Rose!

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Love in a cold hard place: Our friend Sister Rose, of the Littlehampton Sisters, will be joining a Sleeping Out in Littlehampton on Saturday 24th February to raise funds for Worthing Churches Homeless Project. If you’d like to support her, please contact:

St. Joseph’s Convent, East Street, LITTLEHAMPTON BN17 6AU
e-mail: fmslgen.secretary@gmail.com

WT

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January 15: Reflections from the Little Flowers of Saint Francis. I.

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Of Brother Bernard of Quintavalle , first companion of St Francis

THE first companion of Saint Francis was Brother Bernard of Assisi, who was converted in this wise: While Saint Francis was still in the secular habit, albeit he had already despised the world, and went about being wholly held in scorn of men, mortifying his flesh by penances, in so much that by many he was thought foolish and was mocked at as a mad fellow, and was driven away with stones and foul abuse by his kinsfolk and by strangers, yet bore himself patiently amid all manner of ignominy and reproach, as though he were deaf and dumb: Bernard of Assisi, the which was of the noblest, and richest, and wisest in the city, began wisely to take heed unto Saint Francis, how exceeding strong his contempt of the world, how great his patience in the midst of wrongs, so that albeit for a two years’ space thus evil intreated of all persons and despised, he ever seemed the more constant; then he began to ponder and to say within himself: “In no wise can it be that this brother hath not abundant grace from God”; so he called him one evening to sup and lodge with him: and Saint Francis consented thereto and supped with him and lodged.

And thereat Bernard set it in his heart to watch his sanctity: wherefore he let make ready for him a bed in his own proper chamber, in the which at night-time ever a lamp did burn. And Saint Francis, for to hide his sanctity, when he was come into the chamber, incontinent did throw himself upon the bed and made as though he slept: and likewise Bernard after some short space set himself to lie down and fell to snoring loudly, in fashion as though he slept right soundly.

To be continued. But did Francis sleep?

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August 25: The truth about a camp

 

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Pattie said that morning, ‘Do you know the opposite of Faith? It’s certainty.’ Perhaps, in a ‘naught for your comfort’ way, certainty belongs to hope – or deep hope against hope – rather than faith?

But this passage from Roger Deakin’s inspiring book, Wildwood – A Journey Through Trees (Penguin 2008, p 14) makes Pattie’s case very well. The writer is describing sleeping in a shed in an orchard on an August night.

To sleep half a field away from the house, tucked into the hedge, with an open door facing south into the meadow and plenty of cool night air, must surely add very much to the chances of sleep.

…There’s more truth about a camp than a house. Planning laws need not worry the improvising builder because temporary structures are more beautiful anyway, and you don’t need permission for them. There’s more truth about a camp because that is the position we are in. The house represents what we ourselves would like to be on earth: permanent rooted, here for eternity. But a camp represents the true reality of things: we’re just passing through.

And as Saint Francis would say, welcoming Sister Death: Laudato Si’ !

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July 27: Portraits in a Mirror.

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The silence in the lounge continued. No one said a word. They all

seemed to be staring into the distance or searching for something to

gaze upon.

Yves Rivière’s face was depressingly sad. His expression was one of a

person stuck in an empty shell, a person who holds an unfamiliar

sorrow within and a shame unrecognised. Everyone in the lounge

felt it. As if thinking aloud, they revisited the part they played in the

whole issue.

If you were there and could just look at each of their faces, your

heart would be broken. They all exchanged painful glances with

moist eyes. The lounge felt cold with a quality of sadness. Every eye

was tearful. It was a desperately solemn sight to behold and even

more painful to retain in the memory.

Yves kept staring at the portrait of Felix hanging over the

fireplace. To distract himself from his emotions, he reached out to the

book on the walnut tea table next to Florence. The book was entitled:

Portraits in a Mirror. The words on the very first line on the first page

were:

There were four poems …

Yves gently took his eyes off that page and I think he dropped

the book suddenly on the floor, I am not entirely sure. Letting his

gaze fall on the floor, he bowed his head in shame. One feeling was

reawakened in him: guilt.

Meanwhile in the bedroom, tucked in their cot, the twins: Flora

and Felix seem to have stopped crying.

It starts to rain.

The End

VE

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