Vicar's Wives

I am writing this post in the light of Vic the Vic's tribute to the Mr(s) Vicarages that support us priestly types in our lives. I promised him that I would take up the cause of his call for Sunday to be declared Mr(s) Vicarage Sunday - though I have broadened this to include the testicular-enabled vicar's wives, those chaps who support their lady vicars too. 

Because my gorgeous wife hates me using her picture on this thing, I am afraid you are going to have to cope with this image, which is as close as I can get. It is a poor substitute, of course, but I just have to have a picture. 

Public ministry is a funny old thing. For us who do it, it is often the very best of lives. We gad here, we gad there, we gad everywhere. We work funny hours and almost certainly more than we have to. We live in 'the office' which is to say that to all intents and purposes, our front door is that of the business address. The telephone rings at odd times, day or night, and rarely for our spouses (who have wisely arranged that all their incoming calls go to their mobile phones). When we have a fit of hospitality, it is on her settee that it takes place, with her cups and drinking her coffee, and without her say-so. Yes, she smiles and yes, she is gracious, but she would have preferred to have got dressed first. 

Then we vicars have a bad day. Only then does the real work begin for our Vicar's Wives, as it is then that they become personal counsellors, motivational therapists, family liaison workers, personal secretaries, firewalls, bouncers, door-keepers - and so much more. We vicars can up-sticks and toddle off to some monastery or other after a bad day and reflect, while our Vicar's Wives become baby-sitter and single-handed child-entertainers. 

Then we go out somewhere, for a nice evening out as a couple - like the old days. Not a moment after we have taken our seats does the procession of goodly local folk who know the vicar start, a queue forms, and an extended form of pastoral ministry is meted out at the table while the spuds go cold. Their vicarly husbands or wives are public property, always working. Or their Vicar partners take them to a nice party, and promptly abandon them while they work the room. 

So, it is with all this in mind that I second Vic the Vic's proposal that this Sunday be known as Mr(s) Vicarage Sunday, and that we in Holy Orders should put aside our absorption of glory and acknowledge that most amazing person who sustains and supports us every moment of every day and tolerates our mini-Messiah Complexes with much grace. Lest we forget, without them we are nothing and as vocations go, that to our spouses trumps all others save for vocations to parenthood. 

And to my beloved Jo, the eminent and faithful Mrs Acular - thank you for just about everything! 

Maggi Dawn or My Wife?

Every once in a while, circumstances collide in order to illustrate a very useful point, and yesterday was one such occasion. 

I was sitting in a soft-play centre while the kids burned off some of their superfluous energy, all the while nursing my Blackcurrant, my new gadget of choice. I can now text my wife, speak to her and others, read and send emails, order pizza, Tweet, update Facebook, and a whole manner of other things - all from one delightful little handheld gadget. While the kids played, I busied myself with said forest fruit of the gadget generation!

Then an two interesting things happened - simultaneously, I recieved a text from the Mrs Acular and a Tweet (direct to me) from none other that one Maggi Dawn, of blogging and other fames. Wow, she tweeted me! The thing is, Maggi Dawn or Mrs Acular - which message do I read first (what would Tommy Zoom do?). The wife lost - sorry wife! This quandary hadn't escaped me, but rather reminded me of something that I saw once that is now something of the frequent flyer - gadget world versus real world. 

Once, a couple I know were sitting next to one another on a settee in a room where I too was sitting. Both were texting ... each other. It turned out that while the bonhomie of the moment flowed like good Rioja, they were entwined in a grotesque marital bicker which they continued electronically underneath the good conversation we were all having. 

At said Soft-Play area, I looked around. Easily a third of the adults in the warehouse in which we sat were engaged in an electronic encounter. I could see Facebooks, Twitters, texts, games, pictures of the kids, and so on. It is seeming to me that the most prolific relationships are those that involve none of that filthy personal contact stuff - Heaven forefend. On my Facebook I have two-hundred-million friends (well, a few fewer than that), on Twitter I can engage in dialogue with both Maggi Dawn and Banksy (of graffiti fame) at the same time - and I could easily burn away hours doing it. 

These were once hours I used to grant my wife, do chores and the little jobs that 'keeping home' demand. I am guilty as charged m'lud! I am now starting to spend more quality time with my gadget friends than I do with the centre of my universe, the fragrant and wonderful Mrs Acular. I am in good company, because it seems that we are all 'at it' - even the aforementioned Uberhomefuhrer is Facebooking like a woman possessed - to friends who themselves are married. 

This extrapolates easily into the world of our faith. No wonder some eejit is proposing to celebrate the Holy Mysteries on Twitter - the eejit might have a point. I am willing to bet that many Christians spend more time 'logged on' that at church ... so I am secretly hoping that God has a Twitter account too.