encouragement from beyond the grave (or almost)

Yesterday, my first tweet in a few days (had to concentrate on MA reading for a while) said:

En route to my godmother's funeral, after practical theology reflection exercise on funerals & funeral practice.. match or mismatch?

I guess it was both. I'll probably write a blog post about her, but this is just to remind myself how often something helps me back up every time I doubt myself. Last year when I started the MA modules I didn't attend the induction, so this year I did both the general induction and the first part of the TPR (Theological and Practical Reflection) core module, which I didn't do last year but have to take this year.  Even buoyed up by my hermeneutics result I left yesterday to get the train somewhat depressed. On Monday we did some group marking of essays, and some talking about TPR seminar/summative essay structure. Yesterday I had to miss the example seminar that might have set my mind at rest, but was there for the exercise, where I was conscious that like last year, so many people in the room (actually more ordained than ordinands it seemed this year) had coherent and articulate things to say, and I had none to contribute to our group. Admittedly, I could probably have used it not being a funeral practice exercise, to be honest, however that is no excuse to any better likelihood of my having anything to say at any other point in time.

As I headed for the train there, I was seriously wondering not just where I am going to find the time to keep up this year, but extremely seriously whether I should go back in today and say, really, I don't think I can hack it, I'm too incompetent and inferior. The DDO (and possibly God) must have lost his marbles. I had absolutely no intention or desire to ponder the meta-narrative of the funeral practice whilst grieving as much as we were allowed (she'd outlawed it, to the point that the committal was before the service, so the coffin was no longer with us during the service) although I was vaguely interested by the different style that the vicar employed at the service of an 87 year-old church goer from the raw service he had to take after one of our best (not-religious) friends committed suicide in 2002.

As I headed for the train home, I was reassured by all the support from friends and family, and the stories of a life spent drawing out the vocation and talents of a woman I was proud to know and love echoed through me, as though she herself was telling me to get on with it. I'd pottered round the bookshop at Ushaw College on Monday, and brought The Parish away with me, to read on the train. That helped too. Great book. By the time I neared Darlington, I was a lot happier. Onward, soldier. Keep fighting.