Mothering Sunday

Just occasionally over recent years I've been with some or all of my family on Mothering Sunday - but usually we're here, in church, and they're there, with their own wives and families. Today, our eucharist was taken by Paddy, our friend who's been away for the past two months visiting relatives on the other side of the world with her son,  and the church family was out in numbers we've not seen for several weeks, including three children under the age of ten. Himself and I were heavily involved this week: I was doing the Intercessions, in which I prayed particularly for the mothers  iin Palestine who, with their children, are suffering perhaps more than any others in the current attempt to wipe out their country. I was also singing parts of the Lent Prose, and at the Communion the pair of us sang the Ave Maria that the crowd sang in Paris in front of Notre Dâme as its roof blazed through the night. (This is just one of many recordings on YouTube - I love it.)

We both fell asleep after lunch - mornings like this are very tiring - but roused ourselves to go out, reasoning that if we didn't we'd feel worse and not be able for dinner. Although it felt wet and windy outside the house, the walk we chose, along the old road, was sheltered and peaceful; the rain more or less stopped and there was a thrush singing ...

I've chosen a recently-surfaced photo of my own mother for today, with my father in Switzerland. I think it may have been on their honeymoon in 1938, and I think they look sufficiently glamorous to feature in a movie adventure of a couple observing the spread of Nazi ideology in immediately pre-war Europe, as they travelled by train. No dedicated outdoor clothing - anoraks and the like - in these days! I don't know who would have taken the photo - my dad always preferred to be behind the camera. 

I just saw the weather forecast before I came upstairs: there were suggestions that it's going to become a lot milder. I may have to reconsider the disposition of duvets ...