While I was visiting friends this weekend, a few people quizzed me about the mystery life of a curate. We all know ministers work on Sundays, but what about the other six days of the week? You know, all those days off…
A few months ago someone gave me a miniature rose plant. It was very kind of them, and very pretty! Unfortunately though, I’m terrible with plants. Within weeks, the leaves went greyish, brownish and crispy. Dead, in short. I almost threw it out, but I’m also not very tidy, so for weeks it sat in my kitchen looking like dead twigs in a pot.
Today is World Cancer Day. This morning my social media streams contained a steady drip of reminders about it. Some were stories of hope and healing, but more were of battle and bereavement.
Even the word “cancer” is difficult. As a descriptor of illness it’s so incredibly general as to be practically semantically empty, but simultaneously its utterance has an almost unparalleled power to conjure deep fears about our mortality and the inescapability of death. Of course, not all cancer stories end that way, and I’m glad to know many who have battled and won. But the fear reaction still prevails, doesn’t it?
Everyone seems to have a personal cancer story of some sort. Mine is of the loss of my father. Read more