St BENEDICT and widely scattered OBLATES

It was a cold and damp night: the wind was keen but dawn was approaching.  These women had a task to do:  the remaining office for the dear friend who had so intimately shared their life and their home.  His death had almost broken them: so hideous it had he been.  He had brought their brother back to life.  Could he have not saved himself?  No use mulling it over.  Habit:  the dead must be honoured.  He was securely entombed in Joseph of Arimathea’s recently excavated grave.  They, with their spices, must tend the body, but who would roll away the large stone that blocked and secured the entrance? This worry nagged at them on their way.

We know the answer.  All too often anxiety bedevils those faced by some awesome or trivial task.  As one grows old, little routine matters assume disproportionate importance.  Often someone unexpected is at hand to assist.  During my long life it is partly the Communion of Saints that has kept me going.  In a hot sticky solitary outstation in a remote corner of Africa, the recitation of the Rosary seemed a tiresome task. However – sheltering under a tree at the bottom of the garden – Sunday Mass really came to life:  first was the thought of which country along the same line of longitude could be celebrating at the same time.  Missal in hand, the full text could be followed.

I am a Martha rather than a Mary, so St Benedict, with his practical approach to conducting our lives, is an admirable mentor.  Working abroad in regions where secondary schooling was not available, it was essential that our children, who were to be raised in England, should be boarded in establishments with a strong sense of pastoral care.  For our son, we chose a Benedictine first school, followed by years at Ampleforth; for our daughters the Convent where I was educated.  In my Oxford days, I had the benefit of residing at the Catholic Hostel run by the Holy Child nuns.  We women may have been members of the University but during the Chaplaincy of Monsignor Ronald Knox we were not admitted to the Chaplaincy.

For me the stone has so often been found rolled away:  against all the odds, a sea passage to Ghana (Gold Coast), shortly after the outbreak of war in 1939, allowed for marriage which was normally forbidden for Colonial Service Administrative cadets. (He’d got his wings with the University Air Squadron and his survival prospects were uncertain. He did survive being shot down in the bay of Biscay one December and was rescued by a Polish destroyer but his mother was killed by a stray bomb). After a year of unexpected quiet in a very remote ‘station’ in Ghana, the outside world caught up.  I landed in Cape Town, heavily pregnant, riddled with malaria, not knowing a soul, but with the telephone number of a UK friend’s aunt.  Hospitality for Christmas…followed by care from a nursing sister. Later, my husband joins us in RAF training schools in Rhodesia before being posted to the UK.  There is unforeseen hospitality in Bulawayo and in late 1943 passages for two small children and myself in a trooper returning to Glasgow: six weeks and two days from Cape-Town to Glasgow.  There was the troops’ kindness in allowing us three RAF wives and babes to spread a rug and ‘share’ their recreation deck.   We were expected to climb from D deck to A for recreation and boats:  not a hope.  The men decided that if we were hit they would see us into a nearby raft.

And so back to Africa.  Some of the stones have proved almost impossible to move, but others so unexpectedly shifted.  Desperately ill children with surprising assistance: a plane diverted, a visiting MP who proved to be a doctor…

With old age, the stones have become pebbles but there is still the amazing restoration of sight three years ago. Recently, a grandson, also educated at Ampleforth, programmed a Kindle for easy reading of the Liturgy.  I asked to be considered as an Oblate when my local parish, due to a shortage of clergy, had to be absorbed into the city church.  For most of my life I have had the privilege of enjoying the friendship of several Priests.  Now I am Catholic cargo:  grateful to anyone who will give me a lift to wherever Mass is being celebrated.  The local taxi service also provides considerate drivers at a ‘contract’ price.  Despite the care and company of a large family –  modern means of communication have allowed us to remain very close – I  so missed the recognizable support of fellow parishioners that there was the need for a Spiritual Anchor:  The Ampleforth Oblates.

Yvonne Fox
Oblate of Ampleforth