Kindness and joy

Ron Ferguson reflects on the arrival of a new grandchild in the midst of the Coronavirus Covid-19 pandemic.

FOR UNTO US IS GIVEN A SONNY! That’s the good news that comes to you direct from the Ferguson electronic croft in Orkney. Or, mimicking Maggie Thatcher, I might have declared, “We are a grandfather, again.”

Little Sonny Ferguson made his debut on earth in the middle of a pandemic. His parents – our elder son Neil and his partner Lydia – are overjoyed.

I celebrated the wee guy’s birth on a family call by playing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy on the mouth organ. He looked happy – Sonny, not Beethoven, who happens to be deid – though it might just have been wind. If someone had told Beethoven (when he was alive) that 200 years later a mad old geezer in Orkney would be belting out Ode to Joy on the moothie, while dancing – me, that is, not Beethoven, the great composer might have turned in his grave. Mind you, he might be dancing in heaven for all I know. Are you still with me?

My own distinguished career as an accomplished musician dates back several decades when I played the banjo with a Fife combo titled The Saints All Star Rhythm Group. When I was minister of St Magnus Cathedral I played blues harmonica with a band called Jumpin’ John Knox and the Calvinists. Our first external gig was at the AGM of Arthritis Care. The joint was certainly jumpin’ there, even though most of the punters were in wheelchairs.

But I digress. What was I talking about? Ah, yes, Sonny Ferguson. To be born in the midst of a pandemic is quite something. There was a lot of breath-holding on the day of the birth when Lydia developed a fever and had to be tested for Coronavirus. The results came back fairly quickly. Negative. Breathe again.

It’s a shame we can’t go down to see Sonny and cuddle him, such are the times we’re living in. Watching Sonny on screen is a joy, but it can’t replace face to face interaction and embodied, flesh-and-blood loving touch.

Embodiment is at the heart of the Christian faith, a fleshly statement of God’s loving intent for us. We need more than the ethereal. The Coronavirus has taught us again and again that we need kindness at the heart of our lives, and our communities. And we need joy.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to handing over a very special gift to Sonny – a season ticket for Central Park, Cowdenbeath. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. (Though he might burst out greetin’ when it dawns on him that it actually represents a year of misery and defeats. Ach well, you can’t have everything.)

If he was living in Orkney, Sonny would be known as Peedie Sonny. “Peedie” is an Orkney word meaning “wee”: it carries a huge weight of affection, especially when applied to children.

It’s a shame we can’t go down to see Sonny and cuddle him, such are the times we’re living in. Watching Sonny on screen is a joy, but it can’t replace face to face interaction and embodied, flesh-and-blood loving touch.

Peedie Sonny Ferguson is already, in his helplessness and vulnerability, bringing us joy. Now where have I put that mouth organ? ¤

This article appears in the June 2020 Issue of Life and Work

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