Note: This is a religious post.


During the month of Lent, the little Catholic church I attend in Phuket holds Stations of the Cross service every Friday at 6.30pm.

Last Friday, my children’s father and I went for the service. There wasn’t many people there, just a handful, no more than eight.  The guitarist and the singer were there as usual, with their three small children, singing Way of the Cross soulfully.

With his usual warm smile, Father John conducted the service. It’s such a small, simple church and the Stations were just plain wooden plaques on the wall.

At that moment in time, our youngest daughter was on the flight home. She just boarded the plane in Dubai, en-route to Phuket after a week in snowy London. In six weeks’ time, she will be leaving home for good. My family life, which have provided me with meaning for the past 30-odd years, is about to end, whilst for my daughter, a new chapter is about to begin.

In the midst of change, the church is my eye in the storm.  Just as when I fell ill, and I thought my world had ended, the church had been my one normality, lighting candles in church everyday after my hospital visit, even when I stopped believing in God for a while.

I hope this is the fabric that is woven into my children, that they will carry with them and give them emotional security, the knowing that somewhere in the world, possibly far away from them, their mother will be doing the same thing that she has done throughout their lives….just like I often think of my mother bustling around in her sunny kitchen of my childhood home ❤

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This is the route of the cross in Lluc, Mallorca, and it is one of the loveliest in the world. One of my favourite places on earth.