Friday, April 20, 2007

Thanks for the good advice and encouragement for the "traditional" funeral. It happened yesterday, - a blend of illegality, using material from the 1928 Prayer book, and readings from the Authorised Version plus a hefty chunk of Francis Thompson's The Hound of Heaven. By the end, I was heartily sick of the sound of my own voice, and really wished that the family had felt able to provide at least one reader to give a little variety....However, I'm kind of relieved that no-one else was reading from my script, which included the notable typo
"grant us grace so to follow the example of thy blessed Saints in all virtuous and dogly living, that we may come to those unspeakable joys..."
They nearly were unspeakable, as I struggled briefly with hysteria,- to emerge victorious.
Apart from that, the whole service went smoothly and the family felt that their mother's wishes had been honoured, while I felt that I'd preached the Resurrection rather than eternal gloom, so all is well.

In other news, my washing machine has moved on from eating mere socks to a whole surplice. I can think of no other explanation. Here's the story. On Easter Sunday night when I staggered home from church, I brought with me cassock-alb, cassock and surplice, reckoning they deserved a wash after recent frenetic activity. I put them in the washing pile, and went blithely off on holiday, returning to find cassock and cassock alb waiting for me in the study (HG is a top daughter, you know). It wasn't till I looked in the EU ironing mountain for the surplice for yesterday's service that I realised I might be in trouble. An extensive search of the house, in both likely and unlikely quarters, has yielded no fruit, though HG thinks she remembers hanging it in the airing cupboard to dry. Now, though, it is vanished as if it had never been. A Bermuda triangle for vestments? or just a domestic appliance getting above itself? Anxious curate wants to know.

8 comments:

Caroline said...

maybe giles has been playing at dressing up again... :)

marcella said...

I'm going to suggest your alternative wording to my father for his funeral - much prefering dogs to humans I'm sure he would LOVE to have clerical sanction to live a dogly life.

Cal said...

Or perhaps someone somewhere is telling you not to wear vestments!!

It's a sign I say.

Caroline said...

Don't blame the washing machine - it's the airing cupboard and the sock dragon that lives there. The sock dragon takes single socks to use as sleeping bags for her babies (they all have to be different). I'm not sure what she is using the surplice for, but I'm certain the scok dragon is at fault, not the washing machine. After all, H said she had hung it up in the airing cupboard...

Songbird said...

dogly...heeheehee...

St said...

The giggles at a funeral is just the worst thing to do. I once had trouble when I committed Grace Burns to be cremated. Bless her.

Mate Bob once realsied that his habit of praying for 'all the other (insert name)s' was going to be a problem having just buried Mrs Loonney.

Keeps us on our toes. Robes are evil and so the undead (lurking in your airing cupboard) have clearly claimed back that which is rightfully theirs.

sally said...

Oh, imagine presiding at a funeral, and getting the giggles..a good friend of ours, a lvoely Christian musician was playing a keyboard at a funeral and hit the drum/disco beat button by mistake......

dumb_soprano said...

All of that made me laugh; I had to work hard to control myself in the corner of the office - the last straw was Mrs Loonney!