Praise the mayonnaise and call me holy!
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As you are aware, I am Greek Orthodox.
Well, perhaps a bit Jewish, on my dad’s side.
Yes, I know a person can’t be a bit Jewish, but I am.
The Greek Orthodox appeared miraculously on all our children’s school paperwork from grade 2.
I was curious of its origins, but I figured if the Greek Orthodox Church wanted me, I was in.
Most days I see myself as a bit holy. (But, you already knew that.)
What makes a person holy?
Paul Dennis is a Launceston man who is part of St John’s Church.
I think he’s got a bit of ‘the holy’ happening.
He’s the sort of man who makes you want to be better. He makes you want to do better. Not by saying he’s holy, but by doing comforting, holy stuff.
He’s a tall and quiet man and he believes in God. And if you told me Paul was ... you-know-who, I wouldn’t be shocked.
I also believe Paul probably doesn’t take any crap.
It’s his godly kindness and gentle presence that gives me faith in him, and others like him, and probably faith in his God.
Whenever something good happens at St Giles, where I work, I point up and say it must be the work of Paul Dennis. True. And most days we have some reason to give thanks.
He is gracious and spirited and he makes you feel safe when he’s about.
My friend Lorraine is not holy like Paul Dennis, but she is holy.
If holy means honest and true, loving and kind, then that’s Lorraine.
Apparently, she has trouble convincing some that she’s holy, because she’s not a church goer.
But, I don’t care ... to me she’s holy like a spring morning or a generous meal.
Like me and you, Lorraine and Paul are perfect.
Lorraine met me for coffee this week.
She wanted to give me some lemons, a birthday card and a bag of mixed lollies.
They were a deluxe mixture of lollies. The sort I would have wanted to buy at the shop when I walked home from East Nowra Primary School during the ‘60s.
The days when Drumsticks were a shilling and you could buy 10 cobbers for sixpence. Yes, before decimal currency and crossing guards.
There were liquorice allsorts, sugar-coated almonds, boiled sweets and love hearts. Tooth-breaking, heart-breaking and joy-making.
It’s not the first time Lorraine’s bestowed gifts. She’s donated to St Giles and a very long time ago she gave me a beautiful lace tablecloth because she imagined I could use such a gift.
I reckon I’ve known Lorraine for more than 20 years, and she’s never been any different.
She makes me want to be kind when I’m feeling cranky and makes me smile if I’m troubled. You see, holy.
On another matter:
When did crossing the road become so fraught with danger?
At approximately 8.05am on Tuesday, I was among a line of traffic on High Street brought to a halt when the crossing guard signalled us to ‘Stop’.
Instead of a couple of children, a dog and a parent we were stopped to allow one, fully-grown woman, wearing a headset and tapping on her mobile phone, to cross the road.
I don’t care if she was sending the nuclear code to Donald Trump or planning a Tupperware party, I’m over allowing for idiots.
And truly, I grew up before seat belts and breathalysers. I walked to school, crossed four major roads and, like all my mates, lived to tell the tale.
