Language assault

Ever since schooldays, I've liked languages.  From a standing start, never having heard, let alone spoken, a foreign language before, I got 98% for my first term-end French exam.  It was all downhill from then, of course, but five years of French, a year of Latin, various attempts  at learning German from TV and in evening classes, a year of Dutch and post-retirement on-line Welsh for a nominal 1,000 days have all played their part in shaping my linguistic life.

And for the last three years I've been volunteering for WEBBS (the Worldwide Electronic Bible and Book Service), an operation of a charity called MissionAssist.  In that time, I've dabbled to a greater or lesser extent with almost 30 different and very obscure languages during the course of this work, and find it most enjoyable.

So, I think you'd agree that, over the years, I've gained an appreciation for languages are, how they hang together, and the meaning of several in varying degrees.  Our King once described what was to his mind an ugly building as 'like a carbuncle on the face of an old friend.'  This rather describes my feelings when - not for the first time, I have to say - I heard an event described as marking the "Six-month anniversary" of some event in our recent history.

What is it that makes me so annoyed?  The answer, as they say, is in the question.  What is an anniversary?  Something that happens every year.  It's annual, The word comes from the Latin the same as Anno domini, the year of the Lord, We talk of trees growing annular rings - one every year. The list is endless.  And here is some unthinking fool suggesting that a mere six months is qualification enough for an anniversary ... it's half-price claptrap!

Grunt to Grunt

The other day a couple of roofers came to replace a slate that had blown down in the recent winds.  They arrived about the same time that I was emptying the washing machine.  So it was that, armed with my basket and box of pegs, I encountered one of them waiting at the foot of the ladder as I came out of the back door and I greeted him, "how do?" and he responded.

As I hung the washing on the line, I reflected that 'how do?' had been the familiar greeting where I'd grown up, and I probably hadn't used it since moving away from that area over twenty years ago.  Why now?  While clothes hanging had been going on, the other roofer had been collecting materials from their van and now came past, spotted me and gave the usual local greeting, "are thee reet?", to which I grunted my usual reply.

By the time I returned to the door, the second man was atop the ladder, and it was to his colleague I spoke again.  I asked whether it was just one slate that needed replacing, and after an initial hesitation - had he not expected to be addressed again? - he told me yes, just the one, and his colleague was fastening the lead flashing.  I said it was good to have people round who knew what needed doing, and the conversation ended as I came indoors again.

Thinking afterwards about this exchange, it occurred to me, first, that the way I pronounced 'how do?' could have sounded similar to the Welsh 'heddiw' and, in isolation and in conjunction with my name, Evans, could have given the young man the not unreasonable impression that I was Welsh.  When I later addressed him at greater length, and in my normal East Anglian or home counties tones, might have been something of a shock ... hence his hesitation in responding, while his mind worked out what it was I'd asked.

They say we have more accents and dialects per square mile than anywhere else in the world ... I can believe that!

Peter

My Bible readings this week have been in the 'tail end' of John's Gospel.  John 21:3 quotes Peter making the announcement, "I'm going fishing."  When he did so he, and the others who followed him, met the risen Jesus by the lakeside.  I've being imagining how he must have been feeling at that time.  

Pretty high in his thoughts, I imagine, were two incidents from recent days.  While they were at supper, he'd sworn his devotion to Jesus: "Even if all fall away on account of you, never will. ... Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you."  But then, just hours later, he fulfilled what Jesus had told him in that exchange, "This very night, before the cock crows, you will disown me three times." (Matthew 26:33-35).

Let me relate an incident from over 40 years ago.  These were critical times: information was always wanted yesterday; decisions, important decisions, had to be made.  I had been asked to prepare something urgently but, to my shame, I had my own agenda.  There were a number of daily or weekly tasks I would prefer to get off my desk first.  A short while later, an enquiry how the job was going revealed that I was about to start on it.

It wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened.  I guess I didn't properly realise the urgency of matters: saw them only from my own point of view.  Later that day, when the immediate panic had passed, I was ushered into the conference room where, in a one-to one exchange that still fills me with fear as I recall it, my boss confronted me with the stark fact that, if I didn't buck my ideas up, I would be out of a job.

This certainly had the desired effect.  I suddenly realised that others depended on me.  I had a wife and small children at home, how would they cope if I were sacked?  I couldn't even tell her about this threat ... and never did.  I just made sure it never happened again.  Every time the boss came through the office, I was doing the right thing.  Priorities were adjusted.  I didn't dare look up at him, unless spoken to.

That morning by the lake, Peter didn't recognise Jesus at first.  How would he behave toward Jesus?  Would it be the same as I did to my boss all those years ago?  When he saw it was Jesus, his work level increased, we're told: he put his coat on and leapt into the water.  How did Jesus react to Peter?  Was it in a way that Peter might have feared, after proving that his vow of support was worthless?  What came was love, care, and more responsibility.

Nothing we can do can make Jesus love us more - or less - than He does already.

Daffodils

No other bloom has the same power to brighten up life in general, and the roadsides in particular, as we enjoy from the lowly daffodil.  Coupled with a beam of sunshine, these golden trumpets welcome the spring faithfully, year after year, with no effort from us.  I remember a season of my life when, every morning, I drove past a bank alongside the A12 in Essex where someone had planted a bagful of the bulbs to pick out the name of his beloved.  It was a matter of daily fascination to watch the development of  the message.  I hope she appreciated the compliment.

What significance do daffodils have for you, I wonder? Apart from the above, many incidents come to my mind, beginning in childhood.  Unsurprisingly, since I attended a church school, the local parson was keen to encourage the pupils to come into the church building, and we were 'invited' to go along after school one day a week during Lent, to hear him talk about the meaning of Easter.  Naturally we were easily bored, sitting in a cold wooden pew, and my attention was often drawn to the many vases of flowers - usually daffodils - that decorated the church.

Fast forward a few decades, to a time when a friend, newly widowed, recalled that her late husband had spoken of finding peace in a troubled time by attending a Quaker meeting, and announced her intention of visiting the one near her home.  I asked if she would like my company; understandably, she said that she would prefer to go alone the first time, but the next week I went along too.  A couple of weeks before Easter, the garden doors were open, and the daffodils were waving cheerily in a spring breeze and this, my first ever visit to a Quaker meeting house, has remained a firm marker in my memory.  Last spring, some thirty-eight years later, and having in recent years begun attending a Meeting regularly, I took the plunge and applied for membership.

One reason for changing my mode of worship in recent years, was an abrupt relocation to another part of the country.  In a new home, new area and very much finding my way in new surroundings, I searched for a convenient and welcoming place to worship.  Although the actual removal didn't take place until the early summer, the motivation to make this move came from reflection on a Bible story, all bound up with Easter and daffodils.  Now, every spring, I find myself looking back on all these events and realising how blessed I have been in what some might call my good fortune to enjoy this brand new life I have today.

A New Beginning

I discovered a reference to one of my other blogs the other day, which prompted me to look back.  It's like reading an old diary: you turn another page ... and another, and you realise how different life was then, and then how imperceptibly life has changed, and there's no record of it.  I found that in the case of both of my previous blogs, when I stopped posting, it was very definitely not the end.  The first one was last posted to just over a year ago, and has had over 23,000 views since then.  I was posting faithfully every week, but some times it was hard to think of something to write.  There was a lot going on in life, but it was very 'samey', and often I would simply describe what my family history researches had unearthed.

The other blog was started about the same time, but I didn't post to it so often.  About six years ago I changed to using Wordpress for it, but I never really did understand the program, and probably didn't get the best use out of it.  I brought it back to Blogger, but it never really recovered from the move.  And yet, that said, more than 12,000 people have looked at it in the last year, although nothing new has appeared there for over three years.

So, one has to ask, what is the point of starting another blog - my third - and what chance is there for this one to be a success?  Nothing is certain, of course, but I feel my life has changed significantly in the last year and, bit by bit, those changes ought to show itself either in what I write about or how I write.  I'm making no plans for regular posting to this one.  I don't want to become 'trapped' in the way I felt I was before.  When I feel there's something to say, I'll say it, and if that happens to fall into a weekly pattern, so be it.  One of the many YouTube videos I watch is produced by someone who frequently uses the expression, 'It is what it is', meaning there is nothing he can do about a situation, so let's just accept it and move on.  I'd like to be a bit more flexible like that.

Join me in the adventure, and see whether I can manage it.