The year was 1963, and we were caravanning from the Midlands to East Anglia, the caravan consisting of a removal van with all our furniture, and the entire family with both our cars. If I recall rightly, by that point we had a green Austin Cambridge mainly distinguished by a propensity to break down and a white Ford Anglia

Today we completed the process of taking care of Mum's earthly remains. Since the funeral and cremation, her ashes have been in the living room of our close family friends, Sue and Murray. Her wish had been to have her ashes interred in the churchyard of St Mary le Tower Church, where she worshipped from 1963 until her death. In a simple ceremony, attended by the close friends who supported Mum in her final years, we fulfilled that wish.

One feature of any journey of remembrance is that life keeps flowing on, current events impinging upon the time set aside for remembering the departed. 

When I think of war, and of the lessons of history, my mind goes first to the Romano-Jewish historian Josephus’ account of the siege and destruction of Jerusalem by Titus in 70 BCE. A vast number of civilians—over a million according to Josephus—were gathered in the city to celebrate Passover. They were besieged and starved until the final onslaught by fire and sword.

The dark time of the year is a time for hope. Light is reborn as we ring out the old year and ring in the new. What are our dreams and visions for 2018? What do we long to see in ourselves, in our world? Hope is one of the three theological virtues, gifts of God to the human soul. Our capacity to hope comes from divine grace

In these days when the sun is darkened by smoke
And the moon is turned to blood
In these days of earthquake, fire and flood