THE LINK

Journal of the

Scottish Unitarian Fellowship

THE CHURCH WITHOUT WALLS

CONTENTS

The Family these days is frequently the target for a great deal of criticism, being accused of an ever increasing range of short-comings from being over- protective to being totally neglectful of its members. Over the past 50 years or so the very concept of Family has changed from the traditional parental group' to households whose members may have no genetic link whatsoever. In the end what binds a family together is not their shared genes but their love of and respect for each other and a common vision of how they should live their lives. In this issue, we reflect upon the potency of love within a traditional family setting. The Rev. Eric Breeze writes about "Family Values" and "On Being a Dad" and a Minister, and the juggling act required of him to satisfy home and work, an experience most parents have these days. Margaret Robinson's frank and moving account of coping with breast cancer reveals how a loving family working as a team can overcome the most appalling difficulties.

Those of us who are fans of Dawn French's TV series, "The Vicar of Dibley", are well aware of the difficulties faced by a woman minister among male chauvinist parishioners .......... at least in the Church of England. Women ministers in the Unitarian Church fare better, and have done for the past 100 years, since the Rev. Gertrude Von Petzold joined the ministry. We celebrate the centenary of this event.

We've been to the cinema again to see the latest development in agitprop documentaries as liberal film-makers in the U.S.A. attempt to bring their government and big business to task for their pursuit of power and profit at the expense of ordinary citizens, a situation not unknown in the U.K.

The activities of our government as they try to manage the aftermath of the Iraq war also elbows one of our regular contributors into print again.

FAMILY VALUES - WHAT ARE THEY?

by Rev. Eric W. Breeze

What has happened to the ideal of family life these days? And is there still such a thing as family values? If we are honest I think we are actually seeing a breakdown of the family - and this is reflected in the actual values of society as a whole - or perhaps we should say the lack of values. Obviously I can only go by my own experience, but I remember well how my Gran used to hold the whole family together - being the central figure - especially was this felt and seen during Christmas and New Year when they would all gather together. It was such a warm experience. And little did we realize the value of it at the time - I think we just took it for granted. When she died, they all drifted away - to such an extent that I don't think I would even recognize some of them now. (And their families have probably got families of their own.) The sociologist tell us that this is called the 'extended family' - but it has become so 'extended' that many of us have lost contact, and the very idea of what a real family is lost or forgotten.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote: 'Most people have forgotten nowadays what a home can mean, though some of us have come to realize it as never before. It is a kingdom of its own in the midst of the world, a haven of refuge amid the turmoil of our age, nay more, a sanctuary. It is not founded on the shifting sands of private and public life, but has its peace in God. For it is God who gave it its special meaning and dignity, its nature and privilege, its destiny and worth. It is an ordinance God has established in the world, the place where peace, quietness, joy, love, purity, continence, respect, obedience, tradition, and, to crown them all, happiness may dwell, whatever else may pass away in the world.'

I think we have drifted a long way from those values and ideals, as here outlined by Bonhoeffer. Life may not always be a bed of roses for many people, but the ideals and values of family life are something that we desperately need to get back.

I like to equate it with Church life. At one time the Church used to be the focal point in many peoples lives. Sadly with the decline in numbers, and a growing distrust in religion in general, many have come to see it as the place that is used only for baptisms, marriages and funerals. It reminds me of what was once written in St. Chad's Magazine: 'When you were born your mother brought you here. When you were married your wife brought you here. When you die your friends will bring you here. Why not try coming on your own sometimes?' The ideal of the Church being the focal point is no longer there - and so too with the idea of family life.

Do you remember watching The Waltons? Whatever may be said about it there was something good just being able to sit down together for a meal and saying grace. But at one time, I think, there was a genuine closeness, there was trust (remember when we could leave our doors open), and there was a real sense of belonging. And yes it was a true question of values - of what really mattered - because people felt that these things were important.

As we have often heard it said, 'it all begins in the family'. If that is the case then let us try to get those values back.

MOVING FAST & BEING BUSY
TO TRY TO KEEP A BREAST

by Margaret Robinson

There was no reason to be concerned about the result of my routine mammogram; I hadn't detected any abnormality in my breast, I felt fit and healthy, there was no history of breast cancer in my family and, at all times, I had avoided the dietary and life-style predisposing factors that we all read about. Thus, the letter which arrived on the Saturday morning informing me that the result of my breast scan, carried out two days earlier, was inconclusive and could I go for a rescan on Wednesday, came as a surprise. Naturally I was apprehensive and as my husband and I did café duty at Skene Terrace that Saturday morning much of our kitchen whispering was an attempt to reassure each other that it was probably only a technical fault with the scanner. Yet, if so, why was I given the opportunity of bringing a friend along with me for my rescan? Our daughter accompanied me for the rescan; she insisted on being with me and for this I am now very grateful, for, as events unfolded that Wednesday (10^th September) it wasn't a time to be alone. Yes, there was a small lump, deep in my right breast, undetectable by feel even after it was confirmed and accurately located on the rescan. It had all the visible signs on the scan of being malignant; also tissue from an area around the lump appeared abnormal implying that the cancer was spreading. Reality hit! 'What's the next step?' I asked. A fine-needle biopsy taken under ultrasound scanning would be required in order to retrieve cells for confirmation of malignancy. Within half-an-hour of completing the biopsy I knew the worst; it was malignant. I had breast cancer! 'Okay. what do we do now'. I asked the doctor. 'You will require surgery but before that we will need to do a core biopsy in order to identity the cancer cell type and its grade" was her reply. 'It will be two weeks before we have the results of these tests', she continued. 'Can you do the core biopsy now?', I asked. 'Yes, if you feel up to it'. was the reply. Biopsies are not nice and the failed first attempt was painful; it required tolerance and some deep breathing on my part for the more determined and more invasive second attempt. This time it was successful. From the hospital's perspective that seemed to be it for the day but already I was anxious that this malignant invasion of my body be removed as soon as possible so I asked, 'When can I have surgery'? 'Is it possible to arrange a date now'? Probably because of what I had ,just been through, the doctor seemed somewhat taken aback by my desire for further painful invasion of my body, but she too responded positively. Looking at her diary of surgery dates she made a tentative booking for Wednesday 8^th October, less than a month away. A fortnight went by without confirmation so I decided to try and move things along. I telephoned the hospital to be told the surgeon was on leave. Her very understanding and helpful secretary however was able to tell me that my name was still pencilled in for 8^th October. Written confirmation came within a week.

Surgery

The worst part of the surgery was the insertion of a guide wire into the tumour while I was fully conscious. Again the first attempt failed and I sensed that this was a difficult procedure. The associated delay that accompanied the second attempt was disrupting the day's surgery schedule and I could see anxiety on the waiting surgeon's face. 'Don't worry about hurting me', I said, 'do whatever you have to in order to position the guide wire as quickly as possible'. I didn't want anything to postpone my surgery to a later date. It didn't, and with the guide wire positioned I was wheeled into surgery where under general anaesthesia. the tumour and surrounding tissue was removed as was lymph node tissue from under my arm. Apparently there was a slight panic towards the end of the operation when my body temperature unexpectedly dropped, delaying my return to the ward. Indeed failure of my temperature to return to normal when I did get back to the ward meant that they had to wrap my entire body in tin foil in order to conserve my heat and thus raise my temperature. I remember thinking that I must look like a very oversized Christmas turkey, ready for the oven!

By evening, and with my temperature back to normal, I managed to eat a little food but during the early morning hours I felt sick and passed out while returning from the bathroom. Apparently a nurse was close by and without delay I was back in bed. With my momentary out-of-contact episode over I began to feel better. Following an early morning bath and some breakfast I was able to convince my surgeon on her 8 am round of the wards that there must be others more in need of a hospital bed than me and that I could be discharged right away rather than a day later, as initially scheduled. My surgery wounds healed quickly. The only reminder now that I have had an operation is a minor discomfort when I raise my arm above my head.

The post-surgery Prognosis

The check-up with my surgeon, a couple of weeks after my operation, began with good news. The surgery had gone well, all the cancerous tissue had been removed and the lymph node samples were clear. It was only when the surgeon said, 'however' followed by an ominous pause that my husband and I both knew, from our rapid exchange of glances, that there was some not-so-good news. She continued, the aggressive nature of your cancer, coupled with the fact that it does not have an oestrogen receptor and therefore is not responsive to tamoxifen, means that our oncologist is recommending a course of chemotherapy prior to radiotherapy'. I was unprepared for the news that I would need chemotherapy. After a large swallow and a deep breath I was sufficiently under control to ask. 'How soon can I start my chemotherapy? 'You will need an appointment with the oncologist first, was the reply. My surgeon continued. 'Appointments are each Friday but I'm sure he will be fully booked for this coming Friday". I expressed disappointment, whereupon the clinic nurse who was with us butted in. 'I will go and check if there is any possibility of him fitting in an appointment to see you this Friday '. At the same time, my surgeon wished me well with my chemo - and radiotherapy treatments and rounded off our meeting with the comment 'Since you will be under treatment for most of the next year, make an appointment, on your way out, to see me in a year from now'. With the appointment made I turned to leave and there was the breast-care nurse with the news that she had got an appointment for me with the oncologist that Friday. No evidence here of any delay in the health service! The same was true when I met my oncologist. He couldn't have been more considerate, reassuring and efficient in outlining the nature of my chemotherapy drugs (two of them), the number of treatment sessions (four), their frequency (every three weeks), how the drugs would be infused (intravenously by syringe through a catheter inserted in the back of my hand). J would have protracted periods of nausea after each treatment but would be given tablets to reduce the severity. I would also have complete hair loss and, in his view, any attempt to reduce it by wearing an ice-pack on my head during drug infusion, was likely to be extremely uncomfortable and probably not worth the agony.

Chemotherapy

Three weeks after seeing my oncologist, I had my first chemotherapy at the Anchor Unit in Foresterhill. I remained in hospital overnight for observation in case I had any extreme adverse reaction to the drugs. This is a routine procedure adopted by my oncologist following first-time drug infusion. The anticipated late evening, early morning feeling of nausea and accompanying vomiting did not happen and I was discharged after breakfast the following morning (Wednesday) firmly believing that for me, chemotherapy would be easy! How mistaken I was. As the week progressed the nausea kicked in and got progressively worse. I was constipated, felt bloated and at room temperatures too hot for others to bear, I felt cold and shivery. Old-fashioned 'syrup-of-figs' cured the constipation but as soon as I began to feel half well again it was almost time for the next chemotherapy.  Now, accepting that, just as I could not prevent the nausea, neither could I prevent my hair from falling out, I got my hair cut shorter than usual. It might make its loss less traumatic. My new hair style looked good, made me feel good and left me wondering why I hadn't gone for a shorter hair style years ago.

Coping with my hair loss

The morning of my second chemotherapy, three weeks from the first one, wasn't easy. At least half of my hair came out when washing it that morning and the chemotherapy infusion didn't go nearly as well as the first one. The late afternoon and evening wasn't good either. I managed to eat some tea but a few hours later it was back, accompanied by masses of fluid, in a viscous bout of projectile vomiting. Ah well, perhaps its best to get it over with early on I thought, but time proved differently. The nausea continued. My remaining hair was gone within a couple of days and the netting of my wig irritated my tender skin, yet without anything on my head I felt unbearably cold and uncomfortable. We were now into December, it was Christmas-party time and I had the idea that a Santa hat (£1.49) would be the perfect way to disguise my bald head at the numerous Christmas social functions. It worked a treat. For round the house activities and shopping I found a buff (worn by athletes during outdoor winter training) light, warm and comfortable. Wig wearing was limited to Sunday Church going.

Christmas

With my third chemotherapy session on 23^rd December I had no desire to self indulge at Christmas. I did manage to help the family prepare Christmas dinner. eat a little of it and participate in the joys of present giving and receiving. All of  these activities were enriched even more than usual by the excitement and delight expressed by our two-and-a-half year old grandson, One couldn't feel down in his company.

The new year and a new project

It would have been nice to be able to say good-bye to chemotherapy before the start of a new year but there was still another session of it to be faced. Also, additional side effects of the chemotherapy were now expressing themselves. Mouth ulcers made eating a slow and painful process, my nails felt fragile and uncomfortable and the 'get-up-and go' which had always been easy for me and indeed was an essential part of my feel-good factor, was now very difficult to generate. I had to make a conscious effort to fight the listlessness. It was then that my husband said to me 'How about a new project, Margaret'? 'What do you have in mind'? I said. 'A new kitchen' was his reply. 'That would be wonderful,' I said. He knew how much I wanted a new kitchen. Could I cope with the upheaval just now, J wondered? Within seconds I was convinced; of course I could. The rest is history and since early February I have, given the nature and size of our house, my dream kitchen. Designing it, selecting the fittings, the cooker, dishwasher (never had one before) and fridge, as well as choosing the wall tiles, floor type  were for me, the perfect antidote, to chemo and radiotherapy. It is so good to walk into first thing each morning; so therapeutic too to get in there, switch on the radio, bring out the recipe books and try a new starter, main course. dessert. or a little something special for morning coffee and afternoon tea.

Radiotherapy

Of course, even with the new kitchen, there were times during my five weeks of daily radiotherapy when I had to push myself to keep going. The beginning and end of the radiotherapy were the worst. At the beginning it was the moulding of my protective shield that caused discomfort. For this, I had to lie completely still for almost an hour in what was a very uncomfortable position. By this time all the feeling had gone: from my arm making redressing almost impossible. The correct positioning of both the shield and my upper body parts prior to each daily treatment also was invariably difficult and uncomfortable but in the overall scheme of things this now seems a relatively minor irritation.

The first four weeks of radiotherapy didn't produce any very noticeable adverse effects, other than feeling a bit more tired than usual. Radiotherapy was very mild compared with the chemotherapy; that was, until the final few sessions when the radiotherapist dispensed with my protective shield and blasted my breast and lymph nodes. I understand this is a routine procedure. A few days after the final session the flesh under my arm could best be described as 'raw-meat', despite liberal application of protective cream throughout the treatment period.

Research

The surgery, chemo- and radiotherapy are now distant memories. I am due my one year check up on 8^th October and my appointment with the surgeon on 26^th October. I still go to the Anchor Unit every third Tuesday, and will do for the next two years, as part of a research programme. Each visit involves a one-and-a-half hour intravenous infusion and is part of a trial to test the efficacy of a drug that is likely to be effective against my type of cancer. Participating in this research means that I am regularly seen by the hospital doctors with additional check on my heart and lungs as part of the trial procedures.

Gratitude

As I write this, one year on from when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I now feel that my body is returning to normal; well, almost. My missing bits were either diseased or surplus to requirements. My hair, which was fair, fine and straight is now dark, thick and very curly. It hasn't been an easy twelve months but I have never thought 'why me'; rather 'why not me'? There is much that I have to be grateful for. Grateful that my routine mammogram was due when it was; not earlier when the tumour would probably have been undetectable or later when the cancer could have unknowingly spread to my lymph nodes or even further. Grateful for such wonderful hospital treatment by such modest yet so highly competent doctors and nursing staff. Grateful for a very supportive family. Grateful for the birth of a second grandson the week following my surgery. He and his older brother have been an additional double tonic leaving me with no time for self pity. Grateful for so many very good friends and neighbours who intuitively seemed to know the best times to telephone, call at the house or arrange to take me to a show, a function or for a bar supper and a good old women's natter! Grateful also for the support, friendship and that special camaraderie provided by members of Aberdeen Unitarian Church. My sincere thanks to you all for your help in amplifying both my inherent optimism and my determination to continue enjoying life.

Back to contents

 by Terence Skene

In a Florida class-room, reading a story, My Pet Goat, to a Primary One class, sits the President of the United States, George W. Bush. What could be more folksy or homey.....or more chilling, for this is 9.12 am, on 11^th September 2001, and the most powerful man in the world was told seven minutes ago that the World Trade Centre is under attack ..... and yet he just keeps on reading to the kids.

Remarkable self control or is he totally nonplussed about what to do next? As the camera lens examines the President's face,. Michael Moore asks the question, "What is he thinking?" with the implication that the Commander in Chief hasn't got a clue. This is typical of Michael Moore's film, Fahrenheit 9/11, as he explores the absurdity of human ambition and pretensions to control events, in his deconstruction of the Bush presidency. Rumsfeld, Cheney, Rice, Wolwowitz are in turn frog-marched to the dock, and, denied the amplification of power, are revealed by Prosecutor Miles, as rather ordinary people with extraordinary egos and a large share of human frailty. There is a some wicked footage of Bush and his buddies getting made-up for their various TV. appearances, preening themselves ,before the mirror, fussing like prima donnas about their hair, their skin blemishes and eye-shadow etc. The face they wish us to see is not the one that Miles is interested in: he lampoons the "spin" in order to attack the posturing and demagoguery that usurps serious political discussion these days.

The film moves rapidly, questioning the legality of George W. Bush's election, claiming more than 100,000 black voters had been deliberately disenfranchised in Florida and showing how the U.S. Senate, Senator Al Gore presiding (superb irony), had refused to hear the petitions of the Caucus of Black Congressmen making this very point; accusing Bush of spending more than half his time on holiday before the attack on the twin towers; examining the business relationships between the Bush family interests and the Saudis; and questioning why members of the Bin Laden family and other Saudi expatriates resident in the U.S. were allowed to fly home immediately after 9/11 when all other civil aircraft were grounded.

Although his whole film is a classic exercise in agitprop, he is at his most provocative when attacking the decision to invade Iraq. Here he is particularly effective because he lets the people speak for themselves, sometimes encouraging them to condemn themselves, as in the case of the U.S. Senators he buttonholes outside the Capitol building. He asks if they intend to send their sons to Iraq to fight in the war they voted for. They all reject his suggestion out of hand as sheer craziness. He films a U.S. Marines recruiting team in his hometown, Flint Michigan, targeting unemployed teenagers (mostly black) in a down-at-heel shopping-mail, and offering them education, wealth and status if they join up. Most of the soldiers serving in Iraq are from poor families. He interviews Lila Lipscomb whose son, a raw recruit, was killed in Iraq. He joined up to escape a jobless and empty future. She is devastated by his death, and confused, because she has no clear notion of what the war is all about or why he was in Iraq in the first place. His death seemed to have served no purpose at all. "He died for nothing." An Iraqi woman expresses similar dismay and outrage as she points to the pile of rubble that was her home, destroyed by an American bomb. She looks straight into the camera and asks Allah to punish the American assassins.

Although Miles claims that there are no factual inaccuracies in his film and has offered an award of $10,000 to anyone clever enough to detect one, several of his claims are unfounded. For instance he says that Bush favoured the Taliban masters of Afghanistan, initially, to facilitate the construction of a pipeline; however, it was Bill Clinton who instituted the pipeline and allowed Taliban leaders to visit Houston in 1997. Irresponsible and unfounded accusations of this kind do irritate on reflection afterwards, and we feel manipulated, but while sitting in the cinema, viewing the film, although aware that it is political propaganda, one is swept along by the intensity of his anger and moved by the tragic predicament in which the U.S. the U.K. and Iraq are now trapped.

Democracy, as well as the many thousands of human victims is also a casualty of this conflict them . Miles suggests that the political institutions and structures have been hijacked to serve the ends of a small but powerful group of people, principally, the American oil barons, and that millions of ordinary Americans, feeling powerless and cynical, have cold- shouldered the entire political process. He hopes that this pugnacious, out-spoken and often outrageous expose will alert the torpid American electorate to the disastrous policies of the White House buccaneers and push and shove them towards the voting booths this month.

By Denise Wood

What happens to a healthy, fit, thirty-something, human male if he eats three McDonalds' meals a day for 30 days ?

Well, he gains 25 lbs in weight, he turns his liver into pate defois gras, raises his cholesterol, blood-pressure and blood sugar to dangerous levels, risks kidney and liver failure and coronary heart disease, becomes addicted to junk food, depressed, easily tired and eventually impotent. He also gives his doctors anxiety attacks and many sleepless nights. Why would any sane individual do such a daft thing?

To make a film documentary to disprove a point, made by McDonalds in a recent court case in U.S.A. that their products are nutritious, in defence of an action raised by two obese teenagers who claimed McDonalds were responsible for their condition.

The product served up by the Director, Morgan Spurlock, is a taut, well-researched, well-argued expose of the American fast-food industry, of their advertising techniques, the way they target children in particular and encourage over-indulgence.

Spurlock interviews fast-food addicts, McDonalds' customers and counter staff, nutrition experts, the Surgeon General, anti-fast food campaigners, teachers, school- dinner ladies, school children, fast- food lobbyists who appear to be able to control the Government's nutrition policy and influence the advice the public receives, but fails to persuade McDonalds' Head of Corporate Communication and Social Responsibility to answer any of his 15 telephone calls.

The film is presented as a very intimate, close-up Diary of Spurlock's month. He sets himself the challenge of eating, at least once, each dish on the McDonalds' menu during the month, and to accept a "Supersize" portion every time it is offered (9 times in all). The supersize meal includes a triple-decker cheese burger, 1/2 lb of French-fries, and 1/2 gallon of coke (not diet). His first attempt to consume this super-carb banquet, is filmed in close close-up, so that we can appreciate the virtuosity of his teeth, lips and tongue, as they munch and masticate, gulp and gobble, dribble and slurp, all the way to the grand finale, when his digestive system rebels and the whole glutinous mass is ejected in one impressive gush on to the car-park tarmac. Undeterred by disapproving doctors, increasing waistline, diminishing libido and shortness of breath, he reports regularly to a McDonalds, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and so chews his way through the weeks, consuming a lb of sugar a day and a toxic amount of fat. He eventually has to admit he has become a fast-food addict, and only feels at ease when he is eating.

Spurlock's doctors are appalled by the rapid deterioration in his health and warn him he is not only risking long-term, irreversible damage to liver and kidneys, he may not even survive the month. He does, of course, but it takes two months of a vegan diet and a great deal of exercise to restore him to full health and fitness again. His diary is punctuated by shots of very over-weight people, trouping sadly across the screen like a Greek chorus, lamenting their condition and reproaching the manufacturers and advertisers who made them so. Spurlock admits that people have a responsibility for their own health and well-being and that Americans willingly embraced a consumer culture which values quantity and size, whether it be in houses, cars or portions of food; but he also demonstrates the unrelenting pressure exercised by the food manufacturers and retailers upon every level of society to eat and drink much, much more than is good for them.

Although this is a keen-eyed, penetrating film, it is not heavy- handed or censorious, but humorous, even whimsical and personal. The "hero," Morgan Spurlock, is a frank, engaging personality whom we are ready to trust. He allows people of all shades of opinion to speak for themselves without any obvious editorialising. Nevertheless, he leaves us in no doubt as to the destructive effects of galloping materialism and the dire consequences of the sin of gluttony.

After viewing Supersize Me I went straight to the supermarket salad-counter and made a mental note to have my weight, cholesterol and blood-pressure checked.

I have three children, Jonathon, Bethany and Aaron. Jonathon, who is 24 enjoys travelling around the world - I think that he must get his travel bug from me. I missed out on a lot of Jonathon's upbringing because of various circumstances. However, when we meet up it is always special. That's being a Dad.

Bethany who is now 11, is a very independent girl - stubborn at times - and growing far too fast. I remember well when she was two years old and we were travelling on a monorail together, and out of the blue she said to the other passengers, "That's my Daddy". A small event, but that's being a Dad. 

And Aaron who is 9 going on 40 (sometimes I think he is going on 99) seems to be doing everything that I have always had an interest in (apart from Play Stations, that is) - and it is so easy to try and live your life through his - which is not recommended for any parent. Aaron has a real talent for music, and we like to encourage him in this. And that's also being a Dad. 

These are only some small things, but it is the small things that sometimes stand out more.

The conflict for myself, however, in being a dad, is being in the ministry - well it's not exactly a nine to five job. Children do like you to be there for them - even when they are developing their own independence. And being a dad, and being a minister at the same time can be quite demanding. It's getting the balance right. And it's not always easy. And they don't always understand even when you try to explain to them the situation. The conflict, on the other hand, for the children is simply having a minister for a dad - or that is how some folk see it. (They only see the minister and not the father.) However, I try just to be their dad - and not their minister.

Parenthood for many people can mean a variety of things, but being a good parent, and in particular being a good dad, is somewhat different. You see dads are not always perfect. I mean, lets be honest, very often we can get it wrong. And your kids soon tell you. But that is part of being a parent and a father. You can't always be up to the latest Play Station Game, or know how to operate a Game Boy or fix a toy that is beyond repair or even tell one story after another every single night - sometimes you do run out of ideas. And yet it is often expected. There may be a number of books on the subject, but somehow I don't think you can really learn something like parenthood, or being a dad, from a book. It is something that you do and something that you are - not something that you read - no matter how interesting the material may be. One may get ideas from a book, but it is just by being a parent being a dad - that you really learn. And it is a constant learning process.

I was standing at a bus stop on Union Street, Aberdeen, at 10.30 on Saturday night.

A BMW drew up and two well-dressed, young women alighted. They raised the lid of the car boot, and took out a variety of worn, grubby garments which they donned. A very soiled duvet and two dirty grey blankets were thrown on to the pavement. The boot was slammed shut and the car drove off. The girls carried the bedding to a recessed doorway folded the duvet carefully on the steps, sat down, wrapped themselves in the blankets, pulled knitted woollen hats over their foreheads and set another hat on the pavement in front of them and a little cardboard notice with "Homeless" scrawled on it.

By the time my bus arrived they had collected several contributions from passing revellers.

******

A homeless young couple in an Aberdeenshire town eventually succeeded in getting a mortgage to buy an ex-council house. Their offer was considerably in excess of the asking price and they were fairly confident of getting it. To their dismay and anger, they were outbid by the local Council.

When approached, the local officials explained that they had bought the house to accommodate a homeless family. When the discomfited couple explained that they were homeless and had now been deprived of a home by the Council, the official replied that if they took their case to the housing department they might be given B & B accommodation in another town some 18 miles away.

I was within a few days of my 6^th birthday when my father left for the war. The day of his departure was the climax of a week of misery which had started with the delivery of his "calling up" papers on a chilly, Autumn afternoon.

In anticipation of this event, my father, being a methodical and practical sort of chap, had sold his business a few weeks earlier and then had employed himself re-decorating the house, inside and out, and "making arrangements" as he called it, for our well-being in his absence. These "arrangements" included consultations with his lawyer and bank-manager, and the appearance of a black metal box, the contents of which added considerably to my mother's distress one evening as she and my father examined them. Seated at the dining table, he drew from the box, one by one, the documents that proved our legal right to call ourselves a family and our legal rights to the property we owned and how it should he disposed of in the event ...... of an act of war, birth certificates, marriage lines, deeds, insurance policies, bankbooks, receipts, a favour from their wedding cake, a few family photographs, my first birthday card ....... his will. This last sheet of embossed legal paper, stiffly creased like a starched, linen napkin and very recently signed and dated, proved to he too much for my mother. He had signed away his future, or so it appeared. He did not expect to be coming home again. Everything was neatly disposed of by that document, all cut and dried, and any time now its provisions would be fulfilled. The fear that had haunted her for months, now appeared to he confirmed; she would be a widow and her son fatherless. She burst into tears and I joined her. Never before had I seen her weep and the shock of her alarm brought my world crashing down around me. An awful dread seized me. Something terrible was happening.

Change, I knew nothing of. Endings were beyond my imagining. We had been together forever. We were three. Each of us was different, but we were all joined together, all part of the same whole, and we only existed as a group of three. I had no concept of a time when my mother and father had lives separate from each other and separate from me. We made up this special number, Three. It was perfect, beautiful, balanced and never could it be divided. Everything we owned was "ours"; our family, our house, our furniture, our garden, our street, our cat. Not a day had passed since the beginning of time, when we three had not sat down together to dinner and tea and supper. There was a pattern to our life which I understood: while my mother prepared the meals, saw to the house, went shopping, my father went across the road to work in our restaurant, and I went to the school which my mother had attended and played with friends, who were the children of her friends, until it was time for us to come together again and be one in our home. All this I had taken for granted as the normal shape of things, and that it would go on for ever.

Sobbing, terrified by the solemnity of the moment, I watched my father lock the box with a bright, metal key. Locking things away was not done in our house. We were free and easy and never felt in any danger. Doors, drawers, cupboards all had keyholes, but never had I seen any keys, and years of rust and dust had frozen the locks. Everything was ours; no need, certainly, to lock anything away from ourselves, nor from our friends or neighbours. Who would want to cause us any harm anyway? But as I heard the bolt click home, I knew instinctively all that had changed. Now, locks and keys were to become important. Now, we were trusting a metal box to preserve for us the records of our life together since the beginning of time, as that time, unimaginably, had come to an end, and the seamless number three was to he violated after all and its elements torn apart.

Time, other than the business of reading the clock, a skill I had perfected some weeks earlier, had meant very little to me until then. I had existed in an eternal present, yesterday indistinguishable from today and tomorrow its inevitable continuation. During that awful week before his departure, I came to understand some of the complexities of time. The hours spent in school dragged on uselessly. I sat there in a cocoon of my own anxieties, staring at the blackboard or my slate but seeing and hearing nothing, my thoughts deeply grounded in our family misery. The time spent at home together slipped prodigally through our fingers, a precious commodity we could not hoard, try as we might. I left for school at the last possible minute; I ran home as quickly as I could, choking for breath and drenched in sweat. I followed my father around everywhere, begging for stories of when he was a boy, about the house they lived in, about his friends and the games they played, about his years in Canada, about his father and grandfather, the boats they had owned, the great storms they had sailed through and the places they had seen, anything to keep him talking about us and staunch the haemorrhage draining our measure of seconds, minutes, hours together. But as the day of his departure approached, our time together ran away ever more quickly.

My mother had spent the week washing and ironing and packing away (in mothballs) my father's civilian clothes, baking scones and oatcakes, preparing huge meals, knitting khaki gloves, keeping herself busy, seeking comfort in every day tasks, fending off the grief that assailed her wakeful nights. Her face looked white, worn and haggard. She hardly ever spoke when people came to visit, and when we were alone, she would stand at the window, her knitting idle in her hands, looking seaward, lost in some sad, desolate world of her own, until I tugged at her apron or my father put his arms around her, to bring her back to us

The remorseless hour arrived; a grey, shadow-less morning. We stood holding each other in front of the living-room fire. Feeling swamped words. They had not spent a night apart since their wedding day and try as they might, they could not stifle the thought that this first separation might last for ever. Tearfully, my mother and I followed him to the front door and watched him stride away into the gloom.

That evening, we sat by the fireside, behind the black-out drapes, thinking of him, hurtling through the night in a darkened train, trying to visualise his journey, unwilling to let him go. Several times I asked, "Where will he be now, Mum?" She just shook her head. The room felt bare and empty without him. We both shivered.

"Nobody came to see him off," she said. "Your Granny, your Auntie.....all his people ... not one ........"

All my life, our house had been the centre of family gatherings. My father had two aunts and five cousins who all had children. My mother had a brother, several aunts and uncles and many cousins, and all seemed to get on with each other and visited us regularly. There was no formal invitation, they just called in for morning coffee or afternoon tea or supper. The majority were young and lively and full of fun, particularly my Aunt Lizzie and her friends, who played our wireless too loudly, danced to our gramophone, taught me the latest songs, showered me with sweets and toys and played practical jokes on everyone. My Uncle John would hide with me and his own son and daughter, under the table and tell us tall tales of haunted ships, and strange sea monsters and of a mermaid that sat on a rock just off the shore, where we paddled in the summertime. The adults would play cards, drink tea, discuss the latest films, gossip, play various musical instruments, sing comic songs, while we kids crawled about the floor, played games, ran up and down the stair and out into the garden to frighten ourselves in the dark. Our house was always vibrant, bright with good-humour and kinship, jolly as a merry-go-round.

Then the war came.

The men were all of military age and one, by one, they went off, until by mid 1940, only my father, being the oldest, was left. The women took their families inland to escape the air-raids that terrorised us in the sea town, until of all the kin that had partied in our house a year earlier, only one aunt of my father's remained. No one came to see my father off, because no one was left.

We sat in our cheerless room until the siren reminded us that we too were in the front line, so we dutifully turned off the lights and buried ourselves in the cupboard under the arms around us, we felt more vulnerable than ever. Gunfire beat against the windows, bombs screamed above our heads and as they detonated in the next street, the house leapt, spilling ornaments from the mantle-piece and crockery from the cupboards on to the floor. Above all this deafening racket we became aware of an urgent hammering on the front door. Shivering with fear, we felt our way to the front of the house. My mother tried to call out but could not utter a sound. The hammering continued and some-one was shouting incoherently. She drew back the brand new bolts and pulled open the door. The street was as gaudy as a fairground. Great orange flames were leaping into the sky where a wan moon peered down as if from a gallery. Pieces of glowing debris sailed overhead like kites, shedding bright red sparks. The air was acrid with smoke. It tasted bitter and gritty and made my eyes smart. The roadway was littered with pieces of masonry, smouldering timber and smashed roof slates. Startled by the sudden glare, we recoiled to the shadow of the staircase way from the open doorway. A voluminous, shapeless mass reared up against the light and collapsed like a deflated balloon on the hall floor. "Jim! "Jim'!" my mother called out and started towards the door.

Anther silhouette appeared against the furnace glow of the sky. "Ye've found yer friends, then. I'll get my cape the morn. I'll shut yer door, Mistress, for the blast." Blackness blinded us again.

"Is that you, Retta? Billy?"

"It's Auntie Bella," I whispered to my mother. "I've been evacuated. Half our street's burning."

"Jim's gone," said my mother. "He left  this morning. For Liverpool."

"Are you all right? I've come to see if you're all right. You're the only family left. Everyone's gone."

Still wrapped in the policeman's cape, she shuffled along to our bolt-hole beneath the stairs while the battle raged outside.

Much later, once the raid had passed over, we sat together drinking cocoa, and munching thin wine biscuits.

"If you'd not been here, I would have perished, this night. I couldn't go down into one of those bomb shelters. They're just like graves. Your Jim's away. My son's away. I wanted to be with my own folk. It's more comfortable with your own folk."

Two day's later she returned to her own home which had survived the fires undamaged, "To look after my things". That same day we abandoned our family home and fled inland to avoid the bombing

Before his departure my father had arranged a refuge for us should it be needed in a small village, a room in a tiny cottage that had neither a water supply nor electricity.

We sat, that first evening, by a smoky peat fire, in the dim light of a paraffin lamp, feeling awkward and lost. Nothing in the room, apart from our clothes, was ours; the table, the chairs, the bed all belonged to someone else. Everything that we had been, had melted away, and with it that naive trust I had conceived in the permanence of our family life. It was now borne in upon me that my mother and I were two separate beings, that our fates could be different, and that I could very well lose her as well. It seemed to me that everything I cared about was being taken from me, and soon I would be alone without parents, without a name, stranded in a loveless place, a hollow, empty place, forever a prisoner of loneliness and fear. That night I lay awake in the darkness listening for her breathing frightened to go to sleep in case she slipped away from me in the night.

I awoke. The little room and its unfamiliar furniture smiled in the morning sunlight. I yawned and stretched, unburdened of the terrors of the night. . Realising that there was no movement in the room. I sat up to look around.. I was alone! I shrieked until I had emptied my lungs and was struggling for breath. I jumped out of bed, barged through several doors and emerged in a small court yard behind the cottage. Nothing stirred. I was lost in a vast landscape of trees and fields under a sky that stretched away forever. I ran barefoot into the lane, still shouting and looking wildly about me, not knowing where to turn to, unaware of the cold air and muddy ground. Here my mother found me, as she returned from the well at the end of the lane.

We sat opposite each other across the breakfast table. "We're not doing very well, are we, Billy," said my mother. "We've been selfish. We're missing your Dad, because he looked after us. I think we're feeling sorry for ourselves because he's been taken away from us for a while. We need to start looking after ourselves. We should be thinking of him, not for what he did for us, but for himself because we love him. Even if he is not here we still love him and he still loves us."

I was struggling with this. For me love for and need of a person were the same thing. I had thought that my love for my parents was the same feeling as my need for them and when I was without them the anxiety I felt was for myself only. But now I was thinking it might also be for them.

"It's awful being without your Dad, but it's love that keeps us together, even when we are apart."

Finding value in the feeling and taking comfort from it was too sophisticated an idea for me to grasp. Faith was beyond my understanding, although I dare say I was living it. But when my father came home on leave the following Spring, although almost everything else had changed in our lives, the joy we had in each other's company that wonderful week was as great as it had ever been. We climbed a hill and had a picnic to celebrate. We were still a family, indivisible, the magic number three, in spite of war and separation, had survived intact.

by Rev. Dr. Colin Wicker

Recently I was in conversation and the question arose about the Biblical phrase...."You shall love thy neighbour as yourself". Does this mean that you shall love only your next-door neighbour? To which I replied that out neighbour is the whole world in which we live .... the people, the animals, the hills, the rivers, the seas etc. And I then quoted the first two verses of Robert Burns' poem: 

So as Robert Burns claims we are all fellow-mortals, so we should all love, not only our next door neighbour, but all that makes this world a place, within which, we may live.

Back to contents

Hundreds of people pushed their way into the Narborough Road Free Christian Unitarian Church in Leicester to get a glimpse of the new Minister. The date was the 29^th September, 1904, the Minister was the Rev. Gertrude von Petzold, the very first woman to have charge of a Church in England. In addition to the members and well- wishers, the curious and the sensation- seekers were present, eager to witness for themselves this oddity, a woman, standing in a pulpit, conducting a Service of worship as if she were a man. Incredibly, the priesthood, of all male preserves, had surrendered to a woman, and such a woman, an elegant, dark-haired girl with striking black eyes, pale skin, a pretty face, and a clear, musical voice which charmed everyone who heard it.

In 1895, the 18-year-old, Gertrude von Petzold, arrived in Scotland to study at St. Andrews and later Edinburgh University to acquire the education that she was denied in heir native East Prussia. Six years later she moved to Manchester College Oxford, to study for the Unitarian ministry, the very first woman ever to do so. She made regular visits to Britain in the 1920's and 30's lecturing and taking services, but her popularity had waned and on her last visit in 1937, was all but ignored.

In 1947, a glittering career followed in Leicester and Birmingham, demonstrating beyond any doubt that a woman can cope with the pressures of a demanding profession as competently as any man, and do so without sacrificing her femininity or changing her personality. She travelled widely in America and Europe, conducting services, lecturing, promoting women's rights and encouraging girls to take up higher education and seek entry to the professions.

The onset of World War 1 ended her British career. She had been in Britain for 18 years, regarded herself as British, but because she had travelled widely in America and in Europe, the legal process of naturalisation was not completed by 1914, and so the Home Office regarded her as a German citizen and expelled her. Ironically, when she arrived at the German border, the authorities considered her to be British and threatened to intern her, a fate which she subsequently avoided. She became Pastor of the only two Free Christian Churches in East Prussia and then taught English at Frankfurt University.

In 1947, she wrote a letter to the Inquirer, in an attempt to repair the damage inflicted upon British/German relations by the Kaiser and Hitler, by recalling that Protestants fleeing from the tyranny of Mary Tudor in the 1550's had sought refuge in Frankfurt and had been kindly and generously received, establishing a, warm, friendly relationship between the two countries which could still be resumed.

The last years of her life were spent helping refugees fleeing into West Germany from Eastern Europe. She died in Bad Homburg, near Frankfurt, in 1952. Her death went unnoticed in Britain.

However, we now appreciate her courage, determination, and commitment in oversetting an ancient tradition in England that men only could minister as priests, and her enormous contribution to the cause of female emancipation. Over the past century, fifty-one women have entered the Unitarian Ministry in Britain, and many other Denominations, including the Church of Scotland and the Church of England, now have women ministers. Over the next few weeks her centenary will be recognised all over the U.K. at Services, conferences, lectures and seminars celebrating the contribution of women to the Ministry.

Back to contents

Back to contents