A quick trip to Spain

We needed to view an olive farm which was for sale, and which we had an interest to purchase.

A quick review of possible dates when our son was able to drive us there, showed that a windown of opportunity existed from the very early morning of Friday to return by Sunday around eleven p.m.

We duly booked a chunnel crossing to coincide with the time we had, and off we set.  This, on 24 hour notice.

Why didn't we just fly out?  Reus airport was the nearest to our destination.  However we are a retired couple who only know a smattering of Spanish and no Catalan at all.  Which was why our son came with, he having spent four or more years teaching TEFL in Spain.

Catalan is not Spanish.  Franco, when he ruled Spain, would not even allow Catalan to be taught in schools, or be found in print anywhere.  Which is probably one reason why now Catalans want autonomy from Spain.

The chunnel crossing was really a culmination of a quite extraordinary piece of engineering.  You are not aware of actually going under the English Channel. One supposes it must be a journey of perhaps 30 miles, as the exit from the UK is Folkestone and the arrival Calais.  The time this takes is 35 minutes of mostly darkness.  35 minutes.  That is all.  Your drive on and you drive off.  Just imagine if the walls gave way and the chunnel flooded!

Refugees have tried walking through it to get into the UK.  They managed to get about half way,
before being spotted.  How wretched are their circumstances that they are willing to risk walking
along in the dark (maybe had a torch?) next to a fast moving train.

Our outward journey was as smooth as the sea which the owl and the pussycat sailed on.  Our return chunnel journey was a little wobbly, but none the less uneventful.

OK! So we travelled about 3500 miles in 72 hours. That included 2 nights in an hotel plus time to actually view the property.

France does more farming than Spain.  Vineyards were plentiful.  We took the route north of Paris and then south along the border with Germany and Italy then through Peripignan, where we spent our first night and across the border into Spain.

The hotel accommodation in Peripignan was exactly what we needed.  A double room and a single room with bunk beds very clean and tidy.  An en-suite easily accessible from both rooms, and a
lovely filling breakfast fuelled us for the next day.

We left slighter later than planned.  Our destination was Benifallet on the River Ebro.  Thing is, we had no post code, just hand written directions on how to get there.  And that was a big mistake.  When you go 1700 odd miles to view a property, you really, really need quite specific directions. 

Once off the main motor way, the satnav hiccupped. It got the hump and persisted on staying on 'walking' mode.  So we went to Reus, which was south of our destination and had to turn north again. Actually this didn't turn out badly because the hand written directions were from Reus going north.

We crossed the wide tranquil River Ebro at riverside town of Benifallet with its dominant Church and started the climb up to the olive farm.  All was well.  Our directions were to look out for 3 specific road signs and once we had seen those we were to turn immediately left onto a dirt track.  Great, we did that.  It was an appalling little stone track that came to an end pretty quickly.

We took to our feet and crunched uphill as far as we could go.  Then we went horizontal for as far as possible. Then more uphill.  Happily, a gentleman had come to tend his olive trees with his dogs.  No doubt he had grave concerns about our presence Once we showed him our map though, he was sympathetic. We needed to go further down the road, he said.  (His olive trees were in good shape and from the branches of six or seven, hung the simple fly repeller.  A 2 litre plastic bottle with a hole near the top and bait inside at the bottom.)Simple, environmentally friendly and effective.

There were at least 3 carob trees growing.  Their pods have such a pleasing scent.  Animals eat them and they were probably the pods which the prodigal son ate when he found himself penniless and friendless.  'And he would gladly have filled his stomach with the pods that the swine ate'.

So off we went.  The owner had posted a photograph of the entrance to the property from the main road.  Remember we were hundreds of miles away from home and his specific road signs had not
worked.

We found the photograph entrance.  The problem was it was on the wrong side of the road from our first effort.  What to do?  Try.  Well that was fruitless too, and involved a lot of walking.  Still no sign
of the farm we had seen in the photographs.  Each time we met a dead end we would go back to the entrance and start again.  Walking around in the bush trying to find the property, one became aware of the neglect of many many olive groves which were obviously cared for in times past.

Ones shoes took a toll.  My husband's soles separated from the upper part of his shoe.  He didn't tell us though.  It was only at a petrol stop sometime later where we went on to buy lunch that the flap flap flap sound of the leather hit us!

The roadside stops for food and petrol are very much better in Spain than France. Spain gave one more choice a hot meal.  France offered the same food in virtually all its petrol stops.  Pity really, one could assume they have enough variety in their town shopping to make the road stops more interesting,

Providentially, a police car came and parked in the entrance opposite us.  In desperation, we eventually decided to elicit their help. One wonders if they were considering ourselves to be up to no good!

Our son's Catalan was very useful.  The Police were very ready to help.  We needed to turn off on their side of the road, in the entrance to where they were parked.  And we were to keep left.  Keep left
all the time.  I guess it is OK to say 'keep left'  if you know where the main track actually is.

After many trips on the network of dirt tracks that spread out like the branches of a tree, we finally, literally, found one which went up another hill, at the top of which was the T junction we had looked out for.

This was IT.  Take a right turn and shortly after we were there!  In retrospect I guess, we would have
been in a more positive frame of mind when viewing the property.  The location was brilliant.  Quiet,
peaceful with a gentle cool breeze.  No-one could fault it.

The house though was disappointing.  Probably because the resident caretaker had moved in and his belongings were scattered everywhere.  There was not much leg room to get through it all, making the layout of the house difficult to visualise.

The terraces of olives and almonds still existed but needed care as the overgrowth seemed to be what
Had benefitted most from the years of non occupation of the premises.

We were there for about 90 minutes.  We enjoyed the water from the cisterna on the premises, a very big plus because drinking water is scarce in remote mountain districts.

One can however get agricultural water to the premises fairly easily.  The water comes from the River
Ebro.  Solar power drove the lighting system. A stable block for horses completed the building on the property.  All in all, it was a very viable proposition for what we wanted to do.

Our journey back was again, a rush.  This time we crossed the neck of Spain/France entering France from the Pamplona, the bull fighting city of Spain.  From Pamplona to Bordeau then Tours, Rouen, Calais.  It was fortunate that we had bought a road map because our satnav wanted to send us to Paris all the time.  By choosing the city we wanted to go to we avoided Paris.  Rouen is on the other side of the river Seine, and there is no direct bridge crossing. The road jiggles around until you point to Le Havre and along the way you get back onto the road from Rouen.

We got to Calais early.  Our booking was the last that evening, but there must have been fewer passengers because we were put on an earlier hour crossing.  We were extremely grateful for that because it meant an earlier arrival in Oxford, our son's final destination.

Why oh why does the UK block off parts of the M1 and M25 at night.  There is NO warning of this.  Suddenly you find yourself unable to continue your journey and are given no clear instructions on how to get to one's destination.!!  It is so difficult to navigate around London at night.  Now if I were in charge of the Department of road workers.... LOL

Have to say, the Lord Jesus ensured we had a safe journey.  Our prayer was, "make our journey safe both for ourselves and others, please Lord Jesus.

El Salvador's working class

Walking to Plaza Merliot meant we crossed the busiest intersection on the way.

A little boy, about 6 years old was at the front of the stopped traffic.  He had taken the opportunity, while the lights were red, to earn some money by entertaining the driver's of the mainly huge trucks waiting for the lights to change.

He had two sticks to which was attached a cord.  A sort of bobbin was thrown up and down and caught in the middle of the cord.

He was totally not put off by the fact that he couldn't really do the trick, he was entertaining them by walking in between the huge trucks which would hardly have been able to see him if they moved off quickly.  He was earning 'bread' for his family, and was enjoying doing so.  The family consisted of 3 youngish women and at least 4 other younger siblings.  All quite accustomed to what was going on.  What a spirit!

There is a disparity in income in El Salvador.  This is nothing new among the nations. In El Salvador though, street vending does not bring down the long arm of the law on your head.  Citizens wheel their carts around making themselves visible to the population.  They employed no coercion.  You buy if you want.  And people bought.  The days were really hot so shaved ice in a cup, sweetened with whatever syrup took your fancy, was very refreshing.

Another vender had a backpack filled with thermos flasks containing coffee which thirsty customers in the cooler evenings purchased.  People gathered in the parks after work with their families providing a ready footfall of potential buyers.  One cannot help thinking that the Almighty looks down with tender love on these 'less fortunate in cash and education' people who nevertheless find joy and a reason to live in each day.  Reminds one of Jesus' response to Peter when Peter told Him to 'pity Himself'.

Caring El Salvador

A lot of good work goes on in El Salvador.  Many people care for others.

One group of Christians held a men's prayer breakfast weekly, seeking the Lord's face as to what to do for His work.  They met regularly over a period of months.  At some point during those months, one of the men described what he had unwittingly come across during his daily work.

He had entered an old delapidated building and found an elderly woman living, not on her own, but surrounded by 50 babies, all in various stages of neglect.  Some had big sores caused by over-wearing badly soiled diapers.  All were malnourished and the stench, he said, was overpowering.

This woman rescued unwanted babies and did everything she could to keep them alive.  Her task was overwhelming but she was undaunted.  She had no apparent means of support and was not a registered orphanage.

The men's group decided to take a look and they too, were horrified by the outward condition of what they found.  They did a clean-up for her and left, feeling vindicated to some degree by their good deed.

They continued to meet, asking the Lord to show them what they should do to further His Kingdom
on earth.  Slowly it dawned on them that G-d had in fact answered their prayer.  They had just been avoiding the answer as it was so very much outside any of their combined curriculum vitaes.

Still, having awakened to the need, they put hearts and soul into the work that needed to be done.

Today they have a 30 acre property for the housing and use of el salvadoran orphans.

This is just one group.  Another, seeing a similar need among El Salvadorans orphaned population have bought a 10 acre property and are working towards a sustainable community where house
parents look after 6 or 8 orphans per unit, and sustain the community with a hydroponic fish unit
combined with vegetable growing and poultry. This is a rural community.  The first thing that needed
to be done was to build a wall around the acreage to provide a degree of safety.  A gang culture still exits in parts of the country.

Sadly there is a culture in El Salvador of sexual misconduct.  Incest is common in some communities and women see little hope of breaking away from the cycle.  Their attitude is rooted in 'it happened to me so it is likely to happen to my daughter too'. This is not something necessarily connected to poor families.  In fact, many poorer families are free it.  (I am quoting an orphanage worker in this paragraph and cannot say for sure that the problem is country wide.). It is a generational problem which needs to be addressed.

A brief reference to the gang culture.  Our son has a small beach front property on the La Libertad
coast.  A river borders the side of the property and across the river is a shanty town area.  The employed builder related the previous day's events to our son when he went down to check on the building progress.

Apparently a gang from the shanty area had crossed the river (very easy to do) and used the accommodation on the property for a night's stay.  On leaving, he related, they marked the property on the outside wall with their logo, an X.  Sure enough, an X existed.  So the tale having been told, what should the outcome be?

" Scratch out the X"-  was our sons instruction.

This was met with disbelief and astonishment.  "If the X is scratched out, that will anger the gang so much that they will seek you out to harm you", our son was told.

He persisted though, and the X was duly removed.  There were no repercussions.

What he did notice though was that young people came to stand underneath the trees on the short rubbish littered drive to the property because they could connect to the hotel's wifi, the hotel being opposite to our son's property.  Sometimes there is a simple reason for what seem to be difficulties.

El Salvador's buses.

Where private transport is in short supply, mini buses are an acceptable way of getting around.  People can be packed in to capacity and more.

One day we visited downtown San Salvador with a young El Salvadoran Mum and her lovely young, well mannered son, on pirate bus number 42.  Downtown is the main market near the main Catholic Cathedral.  On arrival, we walked a lot. The young man came along to ensure that my husband, who looks around a LOT, was kept within sight of the young Mum and myself.  The young Mum was the tour guide.

The best part of the market was the best cheese and lorroco pupusas we had eaten in El Salvador at what could have been the dirtiest food stall in the market.

It was a well spent day though.  There is not a lot to say about the market that differentiates it from markets anywhere.  It was busy, varied and packed tight with people.  Oh yes, one stand-out happening was a shoe repair.  Repairs are done at a stall with every imaginable machine available.  All old-tech.

My shoe needed stitching where the cross strap had loosened from the buckle.  A similar repair at home would cost about ten dollars.  At this market it cost 25 cents as was done in 3 minutes.

The mini buses are not pirate taxis.  They just look like them.  You pay 25c for any journey within the outer limits of San Salvador.  This No. 42 was not to be outdone by any other in its fleet.  One felt thankful that the chassis used unseen hands to hold on tight to the cab partly because the nuts and bolts doing the job looked to have long given up the uphill fight. Why we weren't left sitting on the
seats while the driver and chassis took off is one of the less talked about blessings of El Salvador!

On this return journey, my husband had basically disappeared down to the floor boards on his seat at the back, with young Mum and son doing their best not to sit on top of him.

Eventually I carefully put my elbows inside the cab part lest they scrape on the ground around some of the corners.  A jest ofcourse.  It just felt as though we leaned over so much as we took the corners.

We  made it home in the tic of an eyelid.

El Salvador really blessed us, as the man with the second world was helmet told us it would, first time we came.

El Salvador's airport - Comalapa or Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero International Airport,

Comalapa International Airport is now officially called Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero International Airport.  Flying into it can take you on a huge turn out and over the sea to approach the runway in the correct direction.  The airport staff are lovely and take their job very seriously.

Leaving from the Airport to fly home was an experience not easily forgotten.  Perhaps it was just a bad day for everyone.

Our son got us there on time and saw us safely through check-in where they take your bags to the hold. This involves a 'bags and feet' search.  Why one needs to take off one's shoes remains a mystery, especially since it happened frequently on this exit trip.  One's toes remain the same length throughout, nothing changes.

So.  We had at least two more 'bags and feet' searches before we arrived at the scanners.  Even though we had confessed all our airport sins at this point, they did not like either my husband's green book bag or the camera case.  The airport was really crowded and my husband likes notebooks with wire spiral bindings.  He packs these into every pocket and then pats all his pockets to find them at each search.

We snorkelled off to the regurgitating table where the lady with the glove went through everything, finding the used stick of shaving soap the most suspicious item of all.  On the suggestion that she break it in half, she finally satisfied herself be confiscating his penknife, parting him from a lifelong companion, almost.

Having exhausted us emotionally, we snorkelled some more, this time to the duty free area where we bought body cream.  Having always wanted to buy something from thr duty free area, it is no longer a desire.  It was not a good idea.  One can only reach the duty free once one's main luggage has been dispatched leaving hand luggage as thr only permissable item.

The next stop was the gate check-in.  More regurgitating and more husband's feet checks.  (They seemed not to ne concerned by my feet). 

My guy though was thrown off balance by the duty free.  He read and re-read the receipt, but try as he might, it kept saying the same thing.  An English speaking guard joined us.  The issue was that the cream could not be taken onto the plane in the hand luggage.  Can anyone see the oddness of this?

There was more to come.  The seating area in Gate 9 is cordoned off with a rope.  Got that?  With a rope, singular. Those inside the rope area must not talk to those outside the rope area, so a guard with a walkie talkie informs you.  

If you leave the rope area to go to the toilet or buy a drink, you have to be body searched to get back in. The two of us shared a coke which meant I was body searched to get out and having had my share, was body searrched to get back in.  Same with my husband but while he was outside the rope area, they 
began boarding our flight.  I was with the luggage so my husband made his way back first going through two more regurgitating of body but not feet.  This time the searcher did not like my husband's eye drops or the two tiny inoffensive underarms.  (What do they do with this confiscated stuff?)

Why did we share the coke?  Mostly to help pass the time.

Next, the intercom wishfully asked for my husband's upstairs presence.  We never found out why because the security guard told us to ignore it and board the plane to leave the airport, which we did though slightly lighter than our arrival.

No doubt there are good reasons behind all airport security though.

Retirement

There are those one hears about who suffer from a compulsion to be up and doing, activated by the calendar and clock to be earning money, even if they don't in fact need it, by effort and application from pay day to pay day.

My feeling for such folk is one of wondering admiration but I cannot imagine myself among their number. Effort and application are worth attributes, certainly. But my feeling is that if one has put them into operation for forty years or more in the business of getting married, raising a family, purchasing perhaps one's own dwelling, laying by, if circumstances permit, for the future, then, by the end of three-score years and five, retirement is a wonderfully thing.

Retirement, that is, if you received a pension that covers the necessary cost of living. if you have the goof fortune to live in a country that accords benefits such as health care, local bust travel, and others that transfer the burdens of life's basic essentials from you back to the broader shoulders of Government, then there seems to me to be no valid reason to keep working.

To help the children get on to their feet, perhaps? A fine and worthy sentiment, but do they really need your help? The quicker they learn how to live within their means, the happier they will be. If you pension is adequate for your own reasonable comfort and security, you can always put by each month to treat your offspring and their families to treats according to your ability.

No, I see no problem, ethical or practical, to hinder the enjoyment of one's 'declining years' as they are so insensitively sometimes termed. Of course, in the nature of things, general circumstances may change, causing conditions to arise that affect the normal course of life, in which case you, as a grandparent, will wish to assist those affected to the limit of your ability.

That situation changes everything, and it could be argued that his happens so often during a lifetime that an emergency reserve should be factored in to the regular cost of living.

So, just as a general rule then, it still seems to me that those who have served their country and community for most of their adult life, raised a family to the point of being able to fend adequately for themselves, deserve to enjoy their autumn years doing those things they always wanted to but never had the time - or just, with a clear conscience, take things easy. That's the theory anyway. But if you want to keep working in a job, and it's not too much for you - why not?

This is the day the Lord has made

It is the third week of September, summer should have been over but instead it is clinging on with bravado, twining its fingers into the wispy sky and smoothing the sunshine into hidden corners, prying into winter's domain. We went sloe picking. We noticed them on our walks last year. One tree in particular had an abundance of large sloes, well rounded and glistening with the familiar musky covering that picks up the sunshine and turns them a deep-hued purple. We found a recipe online and used them to make slow berry jelly, musical, like sloe belly jelly, though the inference connected to a slow belly is unwarranted. The jelly turned out well. The apple padding for pectin and bulk, meant that it set perfectly, like one would expect purchased jelly to be. It's tart taste makes it a favourite for people without a very sweet tooth. This year, the sloes are everywhere. Each tree competing with another to display the prolific crop. We are still picking pailfills, hoping to freeze as many as possible for future use. Traditionally, they are picked after the first frost, which traditionally is supposed to be around now. But summer had different ideas...or is it better to say the Lord Jesus had different ideas? Our recipe this year has been to use far less apples, just one or two cupt us, pips core and all, for pectin. Surprisingly there is little difference in the taste, but it does make the jelly more authentically 'sloe berry' and not so much 'apple and sloe berry'. It takes time to pick sloes. Many of the best are out of reach. The physical job of picking them causes one to ponder. Each sloe is picked by hand, much like olives used to be. The community, one supposes, got together and went from orchard to orchard hand-picking the olives, eating, resting and chattering in the warmth as rest times allowed. Communal, productive and caring. No heavy equipment to give the tree hiccups after the determined shake. Does the shaking affect the fruit? Do the olive trees say 'No not again! Last year my roots broke up near the surface and it has taken all year to recover?' Who knows? And gone too is the community spirit. The young people are left with little means of self support and wander off to the cities looking for a 'better life'. No life in the open air, no enjoying the beauty of the world around them, no bird sounds, no simple meals. Is this really progress? SLOE BERRY RECIPE Wash the sloes. You do not need to de-stalk them Add one or two apples, cut up, core pips and all. Place in a pot and just cover with water. Boil until sloes are mushy. Use a potato masher to help this process if necessary. Skim foam off the top. Allow to cool down enough to handle Put through a muslin sieve. Mine looks like this. Allow to drip overnight. Do not squeeze. Measure the liquid in litres. Add sugar weight 75% of the liquid measurement. E.g. 900 ml = 900 x 75/100 = 67500 /100 = 675 grams Add the sugar to the pot, squeeze in juice of one lemon and bring to the boil. Turn down heat to medium and allow to boil until a sample of the liquid in a spoon starts to set. It turns tacky. Turn off heat. Pour into prepared jars (sterilized and hot) (I used clingfilm to cover the jars without lids unil I could get wax to seal them. Then just add a cloth cover sealed with a rubber band. Makes a nice gift for a friend.) This is the finished product

El Salvador on a personal level

We lived for 3 months in a secure housing area in Santa Tecla, at the bottom of El Boqueron, San Salvador's volcano. What blessings the Lord gives to those that love Him. Now we know why people live in a volcanic area!  It is quite spectacular having a soaring mountain as a backdrop to a town sprawled at its feet.  What if it erupts though?  It has done so before, the last eruption being recorded between June and Novermber 1917.

The slopes of the volcano are being developed for tourism.  At various points up the side of it there are restaurants and cafes where paranamic views of San Salvador can be viewed in the valley below. These facilities are aimed at families with young children with activities to keep them busy. Then there is the much much more daunting offer of climbing down into Boqueron's caldera with its high vertical sides to view the pimple which is the cinder cone from the 1917 eruption.

One takes one's hat off to those who conquer this.

On the far side of the mountain lies lonely Coatepeque, not yet drawn into the warm enticing circle of tourism.

We took an easy walk up to the top of the caldera to look down into the hole blasted out by molten rocks.  A barrier exists at the top to prevent accidents and stop people falling into the valley below.


Entrepenerial el salvadorans circumvent the authorities to offer for sale water and snacks to puffed out tourists who have not taken along anything remotely resembling a picnic, being unprepared for the physical exertion they experience.  One such entrepeneer was perched on a sliver of rock outside the barrier with his wears which he sold all the while in danger of falling into the valley below.

One had to admire such industry and fortitude.  He would almost certainly be without education yet this had not crushed his spirit or damned him to a pauper's early death.  He was doing what he could with what he had, even if he risked his life to do it.  With so many natural resources, why are Governments so miserly with their largess? Are we all so afraid of looking out for ourselves instead
of sharing what we have with others that we are blinded by the fact that G-d's provision is for all, and all should be encouraged to partake?

Another family seated themselves on the bench just outside the barrier on the circular pathway down into the caldera, ready to sell to those who went down and those who returned.

Why do Governments oppress the poor?  Yet El Salvador does it less than other places (not many) we have visited.  Most media outputs about this country are downputs.  We found it and its people delightful, humble, simple and human.

Might this have had something to do with Archbishop Romero who served the poor more than the
rich?

Vendors existed outside the car park selling flowers, hand made jewellery, bulbs and anything else that might produce a sale.

The people were invariably friendly and pleased to see visitors to their country. The poor have a dignity unparalled elsewhere.  They do menial jobs without demur, many like the coffee pickers, live on a dollar a day.  (Woe to an industry which so exploits the poor.  Zimbabwe coffee pickers fare no better).

Riding to raise funds

Our daughter, Carmen and her husband, Reuben undertook a day's cycle, aiming to reach 200 km, last Saturday in order to raise money for Tammy and Rob's (sister and husband) voluntary trip to Zimbabwe to work for a year in Zimbabwe's mental health and education sector.  They were joined by cousin Disa on the way back.

Unfortunately, Carmen's bike (new) got stuck in one gear which slowed their progress.  The total was 131 km and another 19 was added at the gym on their return in the last 55 minutes.

All of them, except Rob, were born in Zimbabwe and are giving something back - seeding for the future there.

Halal

Early Christians were regularly admonished not to eat 'food offered to idols'. Here are a few ideas about what this might mean. Starting with 'halal'. We lived opposite a 'halal' butchery. Having had an unpleasant experience with issues over islam, i became wary of all things connected with it. Knowing what 'kosher' meant, i understood that the killing of meat had to be done in such a way that the blood did not remain in the flesh, it needed to be allowed to bleed out of the animal, because 'the life is in the blood', and as a result, the eating of blood was forbidden. Halal follows the same general guideline, with one specific difference. At the slaying, the abbatoir worker faces Mecca and offers the animal as a sacrifice to allah, praying over it that allah is the great god etc. This was confirmed by the halal butchery opposite us. This to me, is offering a sacrifice to an idol, for allah is not the Christian God. Food outlets like Pizza Express, Nandos, KFC, Redhot and Subway are pretty much all halal. They don't advertise this though, unless explicitily asked if you ar eating halal meat. This is pretty offensive. One does not expect halal in the West. Then there is the more specific explanation where the Greek word for 'sacrifices to idols' has been examined by men of learning. One outcome of this is that 'sacrifices to idols' is that which commonly took place in communities at that time, amd still does in some communities today. This is where a meal is partaken in a shrine set up for the dead. The shrine may be large or small, but the theme behind the offering stays the same. Because of the amounts of alcohol consumed at these gatherings, impropriety easily resulted, manifested by sexual immorality among the guests. There is ofcourse always the option of going vegetarian. That solves the 'halal' issue, but does not solve the 'meal to the dead' issue. El Salvador, for instance, honour their dead with a display of flowers. If you believe, God is a God of the living, and we all live before Him, then graveside vigils are unnecessary. It is better to aim for the fullness of the Holy Spirit in this life and hope for eternal life, making love your aim now, while you can.