Pray With Us

Dear Friends,

Well, here we are:  Holy Saturday.  For those who know us well, you will be aware that Holy Saturday, often a forgotten day, for us as Canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre, is a very special day.  Yes, it is a day of waiting, a day of disappointment, a day where failure seems to have won the day – the sepulchre is seen as the place of death yet we know that it is in fact the place of new life – of resurrection.  But when, in our lives, we are waiting, disappointed, feeling a failure, it is difficult to believe that the outcome may point us in the direction of life.  Our reflections today hold in balance the grief and the joy.  I like ‘Resurrecting’ which speaks of that time between snowdrop & daffodil although this year the daffodils have been with us for many weeks:


This time,

between snowdrop

and daffodil,

encourages me

to wait.


Often our ‘waiting’ seems very long. Unusually for a Saturday we are having a ‘zoomed’ Evening Prayer at 5.30 today – the link is

Do join us if you can.

The blessing is ‘My Peace’ from one of Keith Duke’s CDs, ‘Sacred Dance’

Sending love to you all & prayer over this special weekend: may it be a time of great blessing for you & all those you hold close.




Pete Anderson


The sun

warms my back

while the black

earth in my hand

carries the memory

of winter’s

iron grip.

Frost fingers


first bold beginnings



the budding of trees





of death and resurrection.

This is a good time for me,

between snowdrop and daffodil;

I would wish


to spend



on the threshold of things –



even here,

I grope for meaning

(instead of simply being);





suggest to me

a process

rather than

a condition,

an ebb

and flow,

a signpost

rather than

a destination.

For now

it is sufficient

to have caught

a glimpse

of that possibility.

This time,

between snowdrop

and daffodil,

encourages me

to wait.





“I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in me should not remain in the darkness” (John 12:46).


Fear of the unknown or of the consequences of the darkness can play a major role in our imagination.  Fear torments us with questions and shows us imaginary monsters of the future.  Doubts and haunting questions rise up in us and threaten to choke our hope: ”Will this ever end?  Am I doing the right thing?  Will I find my way out of this maze?  Will I ever trust another person?  Can I open myself to love again?  Will I be able to adapt to my changed body?”  When I allow fear to take over my imagination, I often believe that the darkness will overpower me and that I will not find my balance.  I fear that I will be beaten down forever, that I will always feel lonely, desolate, empty, and energyless, and that I will never regain my taste for joy and beauty.

The stirrings in the tomb of our darkness are the whispers of our soul, urging us to move toward a place where we have not been before.  We may be pushed to make changes in our lives that we would never have considered otherwise.  We may be forced to look at hidden wounds and inner issues that we had always been able to shove aside.  We may be led to appreciate life and our gifts at a much deeper level.  Most always, the womb of darkness is a catalyst for creativity and for a deeper relationship with God.  Always it is a time for trust in the transformative process and for faith that something worthwhile is to be gained by our waiting in the dark.



Holy Saturday

We tend to think of Holy Saturday as a day ‘in between’ Good Friday and Easter Sunday, without any particular significance of its own. But this could not be further from the truth. It is a day that resists all of our attempts to understand it, but nonetheless we must ‘live in the realities of Holy Saturday’.

It is only human to want to avoid the vast silence of this day, its stillness which stretches out without any promise of relief. It is only human to want to shake off the finality, the shock and numbness of death, to release ourselves from the lingering memory of what we have witnessed.

It is only human to want to flee from its emptiness, the stark, hard, unyielding bareness of absence.

If we enter into the silence of Holy Saturday, its bareness gives us no distractions. There is nowhere to go but inwards; into the very empty places of our own soul and imagination. Holy Saturday takes us beyond grief and mourning into the deepest purification of our faith.

Like the bare altar and the empty tabernacle, this Saturday strips us of all comfort. It even strips away faith itself, 

leaving us so utterly naked and impotent                                           

that we can only wait.

This is where we live, this human space,                                              

waiting before the cave in the tarnished garden                               

where it all began and ended;                                                                               

to begin anew, we hope, for ever.



Holy Saturday 

Aruna Gnanadason

Nailed to a cross because you would not
compromise on your convictions.
Nailed to a cross because you would not
bow down before insolent might.
My Saviour, you were laughed at,
derided, bullied, spat upon,
but with unbroken spirit,
Liberator God, you died.
Many young lives are sacrificed 
because they will not bend;
many young people are in prison
for following your lead.
Daily, you are crucified,
my Savior, you are sacrificed
in prison cells and torture rooms
of cruel and ruthless powers.
The promise of resurrection,
the power of hope it holds,
and the vision of a just new order,
you proclaimed that first Easter morning.
Therefore, dear Saviour, we can affirm
that although bodies are mutilated and broken,
the spirit refuses submission.
Your voice will never be silenced,
Great Liberating God.