these are the days.

My friend ian left me on the shores of iona when I left. He didn’t want to see me cry (which I didn’t.) because he doesn’t do well when girls cry (he has an emergency protocol when/if such a travesty occurs.). He is an English friend met in Australia who came up to holiday. We explored mull together. (see following posts.)

I was ready to leave iona. Not in the sense that I wanted to bid good riddance, but it was just simply, time.

However, as the significance of the past few days sank in, I put my big, red, plastic sunglasses on that covered half my face and stared intensely into the bottom of my plastic coffee cup from the corner shop as fat, heavy tears rolled down my face. I had an hour before ian’s ferry from iona to mull, and sat, looking at this tiny island, marveling at how such a small space: one mile by three miles, could have so much power and strength.

The night before I was asked to read names for the Tuesday healing service for the laying on of hands. You will just need to ask me about it. It was profound in ways I am currently still unable to express. The strength of intention, coupled with faith and hope are powerful to heal. There was kneeling and their were hands.

Have you ever felt privileged and humbled at the same time? Maybe that’s what this was like.

by the time ian arrived, my face was still sticky with salt, but ready ... for ...