My sister, Brenda,
came to me one day
when she was wee saying,
“Uncle Hugh said something today
that made me feel sad!”
Intrigued, I asked
what Uncle Hugh had said.
“Uncle Hugh told me,” said Brenda,
“that today will never come again.”

“Oh!” I said, unhelpfully
and we sat down together
on the front door step
to ponder one of life’s great truths
glumly.

This morning,
more than forty years later,
Brenda’s words come back to me.

I’m standing at my favourite spot
on the Tow Path,
cup of tea in-hand.
This is my last day at work
before finishing for summer.
It’s far from perfect.
Last night’s rain
has left the bench beside me
pooled with water,
dark grey clouds threaten overhead
and all of the river wildlife
seems to have gone into hiding!

But there is beauty here
as the Lagan slips calmly by,
silently mirroring the trees and sky overhead
and I sense My God
standing quietly by my side.

I resolve to savour the imperfect beauty
and the peace
of this damp summer’s morning –
every … single … precious … second –
because, as Brenda said, all those years ago,
this moment
will never come again.

© Claire Murray, 1st July 2019

Dolores loved welcoming people
to her home
and when our wee family came to visit
she would fuss over all of us –
warm hugs, beaming smiles,
freshly-baked buns,
home-cooked meals.
Dolores would, quite simply,
surround us all with love.

When Dolores took ill
we were blessed with the opportunity
to live with Dolores
and to care for her.
We constantly popped in
to spend time with Dolores –
family dinners and news,
songs and Christmas carols,
holding hands and chatting
and even tea and chocolate fingers
at all times of the day
and night.

As a family we did our best
to surround Dolores with love
and I’m convinced
that we managed to do just that.
And even when Dolores’s world had shrunk
to the size of her bedroom
Dolores seemed to be content
and would greet each of us
with her beautiful, beaming smile
and conspiratorial wink!

Dolores spent her last night on earth
in her own wee house
with our wee family around her.
The next day, at noon,
she simply slipped away.

Thank you, Lord,
for the gift of precious time
spent with Dolores
in those last few months
and for the opportunity
to surround Dolores with love
in just the same way
that Dolores surrounded us with love
for so many years.

© Claire Murray, 30th January 2019

It’s only 2 am
but already,
it feels like a long, long night.
I’m in the kitchen filling a kettle –
a hot water bottle
to ease Dolores’s pain
and a cup of tea
to help me to sleep.

It’s so quiet now.

Outside,
an occasional car or lorry hums
as it passes on the motorway.
Inside,
Dolores moans in her sleep.

Suddenly, out in the garden,
a bird bursts into song
singing his heart out
in a joyful, melodic, celebration
while I fill Dolores’s hot water bottle.

The bird’s chorus persists
for some time.
Dolores settles in her sleep
and I sit down at the kitchen table
to enjoy a rare treat –
tea, toast and bird song.
And I wonder
whether this celebratory chorus
in the wee, small hours,
has been commissioned by My God
specially for me?

As I return to my bed
and drift off to sleep
I give thanks to My God
for tonight’s precious gift –
tea, toast, bird song
and, finally,
sleep.

© Claire Murray, 27th December 2018

During May of this year
medical staff told us
that Dolores only had weeks to live
and yet when I awake
on this Christmas morning
the first sound I hear
is Dolores’s slow, steady breathing
on the baby monitor –
Dolores is still with us!

Later in the day
Dolores’s confusion lifts
for a while.
Dolores is well enough to grasp
that this is Christmas morning
and she opens her presents
with a smile.

Thank you, Lord,
for such a perfect Christmas present –
the gift of the Dolores that we know and love
this Christmas morning.

© Claire Murray, Christmas Day, 2018

A voice wakens me
out of my sleep
and as I peer at my alarm clock
I can see the time –
4.00 am.

Downstairs, in her room,
alone and in the dark,
Dolores is chatting away
to an imaginary friend.
I go downstairs
just to make sure
that everything is okay.

As soon as I enter the room
I can see that Dolores needs help
so I roll up my sleeves and set to work.
Some time later
we’re both sitting chatting
and tucking into tea and toast.

It’s such an unlikely time
for a chat and a snack
but as I sit there
I have a sense
that what I am doing
is really important work –
God’s work.

Biting into her toast
Dolores bows her head
and softly says, “Jesus, help me.”
and I realise
that God answered this prayer
at 4.00 am
long before it ever crossed
Dolores’s lips.

Lord,
bless our wee family
as we care for Dolores day by day
in so many practical ways.
Remind us
that carrying out each simple task
may we be
the answer to a prayer
(especially when it means
getting up out of our beds
at 4.00 am).

© Claire Murray, 25th November 2018

In her illness and confusion
Dolores has spent
a rough few days
immersed in grief
for dearly beloved family and friends
both real and imaginary
who have died.

It has been very distressing for Dolores
and for us.

At night time
a baby monitor enables us
to see Dolores as she sleeps
in the darkness of her room.
But these past two nights
the baby monitor has puzzled us,
clearly showing a spot light
beaming down on Dolores
and shining a bright circle of light
on Dolores’s bed.
And yet each time I enter
I find Dolores’s room
in total darkness.

I can’t help but wonder
whether Dolores has company
to console her
in her distress?
Someone to brighten up
the darkness of her confusion?
An angel?
Or Dolores’s beloved Danny?
Who knows?

I watch the baby monitor
and I wonder.

© Claire Murray, 2nd October 2018

One evening this week
something very special happens –
everyone is able to come together
for dinner.
We head off to Kelstar chip shop in celebration
to get fish suppers for everyone.

The fish suppers arrive
and we all file into Dolores’s bedroom
where we are greeted with a smile.
We all sit on kitchen chairs
around Dolores’s bed
carefully balancing dinners on our knees
and cups of tea on the floor
as we chat to each other
and to Dolores.

Dolores isn’t really able to speak much
but she thoroughly enjoys her fish supper
and the company,
occasionally giving one of us
a massive, cheeky wink!

Shortly after we finish eating
we all disperse
and Dolores, now tired,
settles down for the night.

Fish suppers and family –
one of life’s simple pleasures.
So precious
and absolutely priceless!

© Claire Murray, 18th July 2018

Dolores isn’t well
and is having to spend several weeks
in hospital.
Nursing staff are wonderful –
taking blood samples
and giving blood transfusions,
administering medicine,
helping Dolores to wash and dress,
treating Dolores with generosity, patience
and dignity
at all times.

This morning at dawn
a member of staff approaches me
and asks me quietly,
“Tell me, are you a Christian?”
When I tell her that I am
she grins with delight,
clasps her hands
and exclaims, “I thought so!
I can smell Jesus in here!”

Wow!

I am absolutely amazed
to hear this
and I look around the room
as if expecting to see Jesus standing there –
but I see nobody
except Dolores and Paul
who are both fast asleep.
“It’s not just you in here, you know”,
explains the nurse,
“Jesus is here too”.

These words bring to me
a great sense of calm
and reassurance.
When I enter Dolores’s room now
I remember those words
and they remind me
that Jesus is with us at all times.
This calms me,
reassures me
and give me hope
that maybe, some day,
I too will be able to say
that I can smell Jesus!

© Claire Murray, 22nd May 2018