Many people have complained about the lack of warmth this month for, although we have had some wonderful sunny days, the air has been quite chilly. As Fred said recently: "Global warming does not indicate long, hot summers you know." This has not prevented exuberant growth along the lanes and the field edges - scarlet poppies mingling with purple mallow, sprays of golden ragwort, and garlands of dog-roses all intertwined with white bryony. I for one am not complaining for I work better in the cooler weather and my garden certainly prospers in damper, cooler conditions. During the hot summers that I recall from my childhood, I constantly developed a rash on my legs and arms. Mother used to send for the doctor, who consistently diagnosed "nettle rash" and prescribed "raspberry medicine". I adored the medicine and immediately felt better; mother adored the doctor and immediately felt reassured. I suspect it was in fact some form of heat rash.
Happenings in the garden this month have provided me with much interest. Putting aside my wonderment at the extraordinary height of the delphiniums and foxgloves, and the amazing exuberance of the alliums, it has been creatures rather than plants that have captured my attention, in particular, a small and wholly delightful rabbit. I first noticed him one sunlit morning nibbling away at a patch of yellow hop trefoil with which my lawn abounds. "What a dear little chap" I think to myself, reminding me of the delightful Peter Rabbit of the Beatrix Potter stories. I would see him occasionally scampering away into the herbaceous border and seemingly chasing his shadow. However, matters changed rather abruptly one evening when I was washing up after supper. From the kitchen window I saw him, nestling down on the earth, his nose twitching, inside the chicken-wire enclosure of my vegetable patch. I couldn't believe it! I rushed out shouting: "You horrid little creature. Get out!" The poor little thing leaped up and made a dash for it, straight into the wire, bounced back off it, shot forward again and disappeared. On close inspection, I could see no place where he could have got in or out - no gaps at the side or beneath the netting. There was only one solution: he must have got through the wire, the mesh being 2 inches in diameter. There was no sign of him for some days afterwards. Either he was too frightened to come back, which I rather doubted, or he had severely damaged himself and was now nibbling happily away in some heavenly meadow in another life. However, just yesterday, there he was again, nibbling away at the ever-growing patch of hop-trefoil. He seemed a little plumper than hitherto so I am hoping he can no longer squeeze through into the vegetable patch.
Further interest has been provided by observing both an excellent mother duck, who successfully marshalled her brood through to comparative maturity, and a very silly mother duck who showed no maternal instincts whatsoever, allowed her young to run circles round her, and I think lost them all in a variety of painful endings. Obviously it is not only in humans that parenting skills vary hugely. There has also been a Greater Spotted Woodpecker with two young ones gobbling up the peanuts in the feeder, a "first" in this garden, and then there is the pheasant. He saunters up most mornings, strutting up and down until I go out to put down a saucer of mixed seeds for him. Having had a good breakfast, he settles himself down in a hollow in the flower bed and just basks in the sun. What lovely life! I'm not sure where his wife is or what she might be doing? Perhaps he hasn't got a wife.
Of much wider interest than what has been going on in my garden is the excitement engendered by the appointment of the new incumbent to our seven parishes. The Reverend Rosie, our non-stipendary priest for some fourteen years, announced at the Bring and Share Lunch, that the Reverend Susan Loxton had been appointed priest-in-charge.. She has been a curate at a parish in Colchester, (not Ipswich, as I misinformed you last month) for four years and brings with her a wide experience of involvement with many different groups and with a variety of worship styles. It sounded as though acceptance and flexibility might be words to describe her. What a buzz of conversation followed the announcement! The majority were absolutely delighted, especially that a long interregnum has been avoided. An occasional voice expressed some disquiet: " How will Peter (our other non-stipendary priest, and a farmer) feel about there being two women and himself on the team?" And, "Oh dear! I rather wanted a man" and," Did Rosemary actually say it is to be a woman? Oh!" Someone else intervened solicitously, "Only four years as a curate? Oh, we'll be able to help her and point her in the right direction." Most voices were very enthusiastic. "We've had a very positive experience with Rosemary - it won't be a problem." So, we warmly welcome our new priest-in-charge who will be installed in October.
Of course there are bound to be different views about the appointment, that is inevitable, but it is interesting that some people in rural areas still have a lingering difficulty with seeing women in a priestly role. In part that must be due to the fact that change comes slowly to East Anglia, and folk tend not to just jump onto any old band wagon. But then, that it one of its joys. One of the issues that has caused such pain in the wider Anglican Church has been that of women being accepted for ordination, an issue that has raised its head yet again now that the question has been asked about women becoming bishops. I am uncertain on what the various arguments are based, but one side seem to be saying that Jesus called twelve men to be his disciples. The other side reply that when later in his ministry, Jesus sent out seventy-two, there is no indication whether or not they included women, for certainly there were many women who followed his call. However, I imagine it is all much more complicated than this but the pain expressed on both sides is palpable….
The reality is that without women priests, the Church could find it difficult to fill its vacancies, for fewer men are entering the priesthood than in earlier years. My daughter, representing the next generation, tells me we must be pragmatic ( = dealing with matters with regard to their practical requirements or consequences. O.E.D) and perhaps that has been one of the Anglican Church's strengths in the past. It has tried to steer a middle course. In the meantime, most members of the Church just want to get on with their own church life within their local community, doing their best to follow the teaching of Christ as best they can.
One of the people commemorated in the Church's calendar for June is Etheldreda. She was born in Exning in Suffolk in AD 636, and died on 23rd June AD 679 at Ely Abbey. She was some woman! She was the third daughter of Anna, King of East Anglia. (England at that time was made up of possibly seven kingdoms, all warring against each other.) Brought up in a pious household, it was her intention to become a nun. However, much against her will, and having to obey her father (how things have changed!) she was compelled to marry King Tonbert, who ruled over part of the Fens. It is uncertain whether Tonbert respected her for her monastic vocation or whether he just did not fancy her, for he allowed her to live as a nun throughout the three years of their marriage.
Subsequently both her husband and her father were killed in battle and once again, possibly for political reasons, she married, this time to Egrith, son of the powerful King of Northumbria. This may have been to form an alliance against the aggressive King of the Mercians, Penda, who was visciously hostile to Christianity. Egrith was little more than a child and just adored her. He "sat at her feet and learned wisdom". She lived in his house as though she were a nun in a convent. However, by the time he was about twenty-four, he was no longer content with this arrangement and wanted much more of her. Etheldreda took flight, supported in her decision by Wilfith, her spiritual adviser, the Bishop of York at that time. Her husband pursued her in anger, resolved to take her back with him. The story tells that she found herself trapped on a piece of headland jutting out into the sea just as the tide was coming in. The waters rose to an unusual height around the rock, making it inaccessible to her pursuers. Egrith resolved to wait until tide went down, but the waters remained high for seven days. Egrith, baffled and dejected, returned home without her.
In due course, Etheldreda founded a monastery at Ely supported again by Wilfrith, and by Cuthbert, high ranking men of the monastic system of the day with whom she shared a relationship of mutual respect and admiration, founded on their common love of God. It could be argued that that story has a moral in it for today's Church. But that is quite enough seriousness for the moment. I'm off to make strawberry jam with fruit gathered from Caroline's fields on the edge of the village. There is nothing quite like home-made strawberry jam!
