On a Mass, a liturgical dance and the slaughter of some innocents

Yesterday's Mass was celebrated by the Monsignor and, in the absence of our regular (and talented) young altar server, I was drafted into the role.

The temperature was high and the sanctuary airless but all was serene and calm as I awaited the M's descent from the top step to the foot of the altar for the Ad Deum qui laetificat.

Until.......at the bottom step some impish hand had pulled the carpet out so that it stood a good six inches proud of the step; it was, in fact, a faux step and the poor Monsignor went into freefall. I went, automatically, to save him and we both clutched at each other like drowning sailors in some grotesque liturgical dance.

Being the good man that he is the M recovered, kicked the carpet into place and commenced the Mass. I had broken out into a sweat at the prospect of him breaking a hip and the subsequent ambulance and hoo hah. My concentration and composure had gone and I struggled throughout the Mass to keep a grip on things. At the Orate fratres I noticed (oh, horror) that the top step had been similarly rigged and that the M's feet were no more than 8 inches away from yet another faux step. He was certainly heading for a fall. By now I had developed a nasty twitch above my right eyebrow and  had a throbbing pain in my temples. My mind went into overdrive trying to foresee an opportunity when he might leave the altar so that I could put the carpet back in place. For a second I thought that he might proceed to the tabernacle but then remembered that he carried the unconsecrated wafers with him onto the sanctuary. No hope.
As the moment of Holy Communion approached I devised the only plan open to me. I would whisper to the M before I received the host, that the step was dodgy. Not a very reverent way to receive the Body of Christ but better than remaining silent and the M going flying together with the Blessed Sacrament.

I knelt on the top step (unable to kick it into place as the M was standing on the main section of carpet). As he approached me with the host I hissed at him (in order that there could be no confusion caused by a mumbled whisper), to "watch out for the top step." The poor man recoiled in horror at this unseemly hiss but recovered and avoided the pitfall while I dutifully, kicked the carpet back into place.
The throbbing and twitch were now of mammoth proportions but we got through the rest of the Mass without incident.

Arriving home we found that the Collie dog from the farm opposite had breached our garden defences and had run amok amongst our prize flock of Old English game bantams. All but two had disappeared and bodies lay strewn around the orchard.

Some of these were
among the fatalities

It took but just half a second to change from a 'full of grace' post Mass feeling to one of maniacal anger. I regressed several hundred years and took on the characteristic of an Irish/Scots Gallowglass intent on driving out the English/Viking villains. I picked up a fork and my Irish temperament came to the fore as I hurled it at the brute of a murdering hound. 'Twas my English temperament that caused me to miss target and merely strike it a glancing blow. I am glad, in the cold light of day I would not wish to injure an animal in this way.

Now some may consider an affection for chickens to be a paltry (sigh) affair but, in the absence of a cat or dog, they are our indulgence.
Then the visit to the farmer opposite and the fruitless task of trying to count up the dead and missing. Most appeared to be missing and the farmer was quick to offer compensation but money would be as dry as dust after the ten years of breeding and rearing that went into producing the 25 beautiful bantams that have graced our patch of land for that time. I counselled waiting for a few days to see how many return and then I shall ask for the dog to be destroyed. And if that seems somehat biblical in its retributive context let me explain. Having killed once and tasted the thrill of the hunt, the brute will return. It spends most of its life at the end of a chain in a concreted farm yard. On rare occasions it is allowed off the chain. I make no judgements, it is a working dog, not a pet.

It will have to face the penalty of any stock killer; the biological solution. The only redeeming factor for us is that it will put an end to the problem.

So Sunday evening found me somewhat out of salts and my wife suggested, indeed commanded, that I read a passage from The Imitation of Christ. Now it is a common held belief that, whatever page you open this book at you will find reference to your particular problem of the minute and so it was:-


...When you think that you are a long way from Me, I am often quite near; when you imagine that everything is lost, you are often on the point of acquiring great merit. Everything is not lost just because something has gone wrong. You must never judge by what you may happen to be feeling; and whenever life is proving difficult for any reason whatsoever, you must not abandon hope and behave as if things would never improve. Do not imagine you have been utterly abandoned, even if I send you distress for a time, or take away some comfort. That is what the journey to the heavenly kingdom involves.......
...What I have given, I can take away, and I can give it back again when it pleases Me. When I have given it, it is still Mine; when I take it back, I am not removing anything of yours.
Whatever gifts are worth having, whatever endowments are perfect of their kind, they are all Mine....