Faith and Love

I was standing in front of a full-length mirror this morning in my dressing gown, but not looking at myself. I'm no narcissist, as one glance at my wayward eyebrows and deviant nasal hairs will tell.  No, I was looking at the dog sitting beside me, a view of him I hadn't seen before. He was gazing up at me with puppy eyes as I gently stroked his head and face, and when he looked down for a moment he nuzzled his head against my leg, trusting and happy. It's the sort of image I've often seen before, usually of sheep dogs with eyes only for their owners, but didn't realise that that's how Hugo looks at me. It was such a beautiful moment, and I only moved away because my bath was in danger of running over. So just my cup then (runneth over, keep up).

Talkng of Christianity, I've been thinking about it a lot just lately. When I use the C word I mean of course the Church of England. I haven't had proximity to other religions so can't speak of them, and I exclude Catholicism for reasons that will become clear. Living in Suffolk for the past nearly 10 years I've spent a lot of time around church people. I have no interest in the church and never attend, but I know a lot of people who do. The ones I've had close contact with, usually of my age and older, have a quiet faith that I haven't really come across before. It's non-judgemental, simple and calm. They just believe in God, as their parents did, and grandparents, and as they were brought up to. Like the Queen. They don't question it. It runs through them strongly, and it informs their lives and their behaviour. They don't make demands, unless it's for much-needed funds to save the church roof, and they're not exuberant in their expression of faith. I know I generalise. There's no evangelism here, no happy-clappy types. But the contrast with the Catholic church in which I was brought up could not be more marked. Here you carried sin and had constantly to expiate your wrong-doings. You prostrated yourself metaphorically in a dark box every week, admitting private thoughts and actions to a hidden priest. You were condemned unless you repented. I find myself envying my neighbours though I cannot join them. I just don't believe. I wish I did.

My final resting place, but not yet

My lack of faith won't apparently exclude me from ending my days in the beautiful churchyard down the lane. Having tea with Caroline and Glenda the other day, the conversation somehow moved on to funerals. I didn't declare my current interest, but the pros and cons of cremation and burial were discussed, and the relative merits of sprinkled ashes or a permanent gravestone were considered. Glenda is moving away to live near family, but I was confident that I would leave my house for the last time in a box. I would love to end up in Cransford churchyard, I told them, not sure it would be possible. "Get Patrick to walk around with you and show him the spot you would like," Caroline said. "Really?" I asked. "How would that work?" Patrick is the churchwarden, and he would mark the place on his map and make my choice official, she told me. Just like that. Suddenly considering my mortality like this was a bit unnerving, but where else would I go? I wonder if my children could be persuaded to disinter Hugo's bones and place them in the wicker casket with me. That would be a comforting thought.