Sunday October 30th

Attended a lovely confirmation service, at which the four grand-daughters of a singing friend, and several other people I knew, were confirmed by the Bishop of St Asaph. It was one of the best confirmation services I've attended, and I've been to a fair few. A good sermon, a service well planned to work within the church (Holy Trinity, Penrhos) in which it was held, and a real and welcome sense of a church family in good heart, with a real desire to serve and to witness. We can be seduced into believing all is gloom and doom within a fading and failing Anglican church, but that was not at all how it felt today.

Of course, the commitment to active discipleship of those attending will have varied enormously. I'm sure there were a few folk in that congregation for whom this was their first church visit for a while. But I'm also sure that all of them will have felt something of what I felt, a sense of hope and purpose and of the saving love of God for us, expressed in baptism and in holy communion, expressed in those things that bring us to the foot of the cross, there to discover that (in words used by the bishop at the point of confirmation) God claims us as his own.

(The sketch of Penrhos Church was made by an old friend of mine, Simon Harrison)

Thursday October 27th

A rainy morning here in Montgomeryshire, and we certainly need the rain - as all my farming friends are telling me . . . but I'm sure they, like me, will hope that all this year's shortfall won't be made up in one go! I like rain, and I am really quite immune to such lyrics as "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down" (for the record, I've nothing much against Mondays either!). Without rain, we'd be living in a desert; because we have plenty of it here (usually), the land around us in Wales is for the most part green and pleasant.

I remember a former colleague telling of meeting a visitor from West Africa at Heathrow. It was a grey and dismal London morning, full of rain, and my friend felt obliged to apologise for the English weather. "What do you mean? This is wonderful!" his guest replied. And my friend was reminded that, in Scripture, words like "the rain falls both on the just and on the unjust" are speaking of the distribution not of woes but of blessings, in a land where water is precious and rains are eagerly awaited.

I shall hope always to find blessings even on the grey days of my life . . .

Friday October 26th

A character in a novel I've just finished reading says of modern (Italian) society that "our problem is that we've ceased to believe in the things we used to believe in, but we have failed to find anything new in which to believe." Those words will stay with me for a while, and I find in them an essential critique of modernism, or post-modernism I suppose, that we ignore at our peril.

The new atheism propounded by Dawkins et al with what one can only describe as evangelical zeal can be very persuasive, but ultimately in this new unbelieving world there is a silence at its heart that ought to be more terrifying than we allow it to be. This silence is not so much the absence of God as the absence of Good - or, indeed, of any moral absolute that might encourage us as human beings to feel we have anything more in common than a genetic identity that is the result of chance mutation.

But this has less to do with the annoying buzzing of the new Darwinians as with the fracture of society into virtual communities, a dubious privilege granted us via our ready access to swift transport, good communication facilities, and the various manifestations of the electronic media, along with, of course, the freedom and prosperity to use these as we choose. Virtual communities may seem superficially similar to real communities, but of course they are not, not least because we can edit out those we find difficult or irksome in a way that we can't so easily in the traditional geographical community, and, I suppose, because we can hide and pretend more easily. We're much more able than we used to be to choose and live out our own version of truth without being even in serious contact with other interpretations of reality.

"And who is my neighbour?" Jesus was asked. Not an easy question even then, and clearly a harder one today, but the answer is still the same. My neighbour isn't the person I like, or the person who thinks like me, or the person who belongs to the same clubs as me: he or she is the person who is in my power, because I can help them, support them, comfort them, befriend them - give them things they need, enhance their own freedom to choose. Or I can choose not to.

On the Jericho road, two people went past on the other side, one man - the least expected - stopped and helped. There are still plenty of Good Samaritans around today, I'm pleased to note, and I should I'm sure take comfort and hope in the fact that something intrinsic within us seems still to motivate good and kind and often sacrificially courageous action on the part of my fellow human beings. Even so, though, am I right to worry that to act in such a way is to swim against a stream, a tidal flow, that - while making us feel more powerful and in control - in fact restricts our vision and takes away the incentive to recognize our neighbours and to care for them as we should?

Edge

The dark storm-clouded skies of these parts
are really quite thin. And sometimes
as I stand upon these rocks
I can hear angels singing in the tidal flow. For here
is the old bardic gateway to heaven;
and in former times, when poets were giants,
here is where they stood
and talked with God.

Monday October 24th

I've spent this morning getting poppy collecting tins and boxes out to local pubs, cafes and shops (using a borrowed supermarket trolley - thanks, Iceland!). The usual small band of helpers, and we are I suppose a dwindling and aging band. But this is a time to think hard about what freedom really is, and what it has cost in human life over past years. The work of the Royal British Legion continues to be vital and necessary, and I hope that it will be as well supported as ever this year. Certainly we were warmly welcomed (nearly) everywhere we went, as we pushed our trolley through the local streets!

I am by inclination a pacifist, and I've from time to time faced some criticism for my active support of the Royal British Legion. My response to this is to make a careful distinction between peacekeeping and peacemaking. They are not the same thing. Peacekeeping may silence the guns, but we may still be left with the reality of an armed stand-off, which is still an unquiet and dangerous place. Peacemaking requires more of us - a real and active concern for the welfare of others, for a just and compassionate response to every situation of hurt and need, the beating of swords into ploughshares, spears into pruning-hooks. And this means that there will be times when those whose desire is to make peace must nonetheless take up arms against tyranny and oppression.

Those who have gone to war, ordinary men and women called up or offering themselves to serve, have mostly done so with dreams of peace in their hearts. I have the same heartfelt desire as I remember them at this time, and as I support the Legion in its support of those who have served and who serve still, in the defence of our realm and of human freedom. And if my hands are dirty, they need to be, in this real and broken and fallen world, in which our highest call is simply to do with best we can with what we have - but as we do so to continue to dream dreams of angels and to believe in that peace which is God's alone.

Saturday October 22nd

What a glorious sunny day! At this time of the year, every day like this is a bonus. The news of the capture and subsequent death of Colonel Ghaddafi is everywhere in the news just now. I have to admit that it leaves me with some very mixed feelings. I certainly wish the Libyan people well, and hope that as a nation they can make a new start that will enable a real sharing of resources and a real opportunity for freedom of expression, action and political choice. I am also very aware that the Colonel's long period of power was often a time of brutality and cruelty, and that there are many with good reason to hate him and to seek vengeance against him.

All the same, I am sad that he was not kept safe in captivity, once secured, and that he will not be standing trial and facing his accusers from the dock. This is in part because I do believe that every death, even the death of someone who has himself killed, diminishes us; in part also because I believe that those who have acted unjustly should be treated in a way that makes clear that 'our' standards (whoever 'we' may be) are not the same as theirs.

Speaking very personally, I should like to see even dictators dealt with with mercy and a degree of compassion, for this is to re-assert humanity over what is dark and satanic in our world - but I recognize, of course, how difficult it would be to argue that case in today's Libya. Even so, for the new regime to produce the sort of open, tolerant and egalitarian society that we might wish, at some point there will need to be the application of mercy within a process of rehabilitation - the purposeful beating of swords into ploughshares. This will always be a difficult and perhaps a dangerous task, insofar as such a process will run counter to some of the deepest desires of those who have been grievously hurt.

But it is for this reason, surely, that scripture warns us away from vengeance. "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord; I will repay": human justice requires that those who have committed crimes be confronted and punished, but good justice is founded in a determined decision that we live together in tolerance and peace, and must be carefully distinguished and separated from our natural, but ultimately destructive, desire for vengeance.

Even where scripture supports the notion of vengeance ("An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth") it is careful to place boundaries and restrictions on what can be claimed - so that proper restitution is not undermined by a descent into some kind of 'arms race', and estrangement is tackled and dealt with, rather than allowed to drift into feud.

There will be an investigation into the circumstances of the Colonel's death, sand at least one British MP has already described such an investigation as unnecessary, because he deserved all that was coming to him. That may be, but his death in the way it happened is still for me a matter of regret, and I would hope would be a matter of regret for the new leaders of Libya; and it does need to be investigated.

Thursday October 20th

"The world is charged with the grandeur of God" (Gerard Manley Hopkins). So I would want to assert that there is only one place in which to find God, and that is everywhere; for surely if the God we acknowledge and worship is located only in some places and not in others, only in some parts of our lives, our itineraries and lifestyle choices, and not in others, then we have a distance still to travel - we don't yet really know him. I am entranced and inspired by the example here of Francis of Assisi, who in his wonderful Canticle of the Sun, written when he was bed-ridden and almost blind, spoke of the praise of God as being found and given in and through all created things.

And so it is our sacred task, I believe, never to be content with a superficial awareness of the world, which, though we may delight in what is beautiful, or enjoyable, or useful to us, fails to comprehend more than that this or that pleases us. All that is made by God and given by God shines with the glory of God; and if this may not always be immediately apparent, it is a holy task to work at such a Godly awareness: as we do this we shall draw close to the creative power of our Maker, and shall find ourselves newly vulnerable to his love.

Wednesday October 19th

A Wednesday blessed with bright sunshine and heavy showers; after a very pleasant evening out last night with friends (and I did after all meet my friend for an afternoon walk together), today feels good and hopeful. I found myself this morning reflecting on the stature of waiting, and on stillness, awareness and vision. A Syrian mystic wrote (7th Century), "The entire way of the life of stillness is interwoven with the following three virtues: with faith that comes from listening, and with hope and with love, out of which real faith is made known."

There is a worldly way of waiting that is demanding and impatient, that unsettles and discomfits those around us, and that aims to jostle for attention (and, sadly, we all do it). Faithful waiting on God needs to be very different: we are called to wait in stillness, called to an expectant waiting that recognizes and understands that our needs are already known, that the place for us is prepared, that there is already healing and forgiveness for our hurts and pains and sins.

Well, I have spent long enough waiting impatiently, waiting like the child who, told to wait while this or that task is completed by mum or dad, does so sulkily, moaning and fidgeting, and cross at not being the centre of attention. I remember, incidentally, a previous Bishop of Lichfield telling us (perhaps in his farewell sermon) that the children he had known in Africa would, if told to wait, simply do so - silently, uncomplainingly and with a serene stillness. I can't help but wonder whether that would still be the case today: everywhere, even in Africa, our attention span is getting shorter, everywhere, we are becoming less able to accept things as they are rather than wanting it all on a plate straight away, everywhere we get bored so quickly.

So if we have to wait, let's learn to wait well. Of course, there may be tasks for us to do while we are waiting; there are often ways in which we can be useful, ways in which we can care, things we can offer one another. I'm sure that's true for me now, and I know I need to make the most of the opportunities I have. But that expectant stillness of heart is something to be aimed for, worked on, prayed into, so God is able to do in and through me (as through you, as through all of us together) those new things that are his will and desire.

Asters

The saltmarsh asters lead my eyes to where

a single bird stands in September air:

a kestrel holds the wind beneath her wings,

and scans the salty wastes for creeping things.

Late summer: days grow shorter, time moves on -

I watch: the kestrel flicks her wings, is gone.

Too soon the gold of evening fills my eyes,

turns purple flowers to grey as this day dies.

Nature Notes

I write a monthly nature notes column for a couple of community magazines. Here's the one I've just prepared.

We quite often look in at the Montgomeryshire Wildlife Trust reserve at Llyn Coed y Dinas as, despite the annoyingly large numbers of Canada geese, there are often some interesting water birds to be seen there. We’ve enjoyed watching two young great crested grebes growing up and learning about life and fishing, through the latter part of the summer. Several species of grebes can be found in the UK, but the large and showy great crested grebe is, I should think, the most often seen. Some of the other species are quite scarce, but one that is also widespread is the small, quite unshowy little grebe or dabchick.

I was able to observe a juvenile Little Grebe at Llyn Coed y Dinas late in September. I watched as it climbed out of the water onto a shingle bank quite close to the hide, where it sat for quite a while preening itself, surrounded by lapwings. Some of the ubiquitous Canada geese noisily approached, and the grebe nervously rushed back into the water, but it was quick to return to its spot in the shingle once the ‘danger’ had passed! I could tell it was a young bird because of the cryptic markings on the head, but its general air of nervousness might have been a giveaway too.

Once back in place on the bank, the grebe managed to resemble a stone so convincingly that I think I would have missed it if I hadn’t seen it arrive. And to be honest, for a supposedly highly aquatic bird, this little chap didn’t seem to like the water much. Once forced back into the water by a returning crowd of Canada geese, it rather grudgingly (I thought) headed off into deeper water, ducking under the water a few times before eventually diving.

Grebes are, in fact, consummate diving birds, and the dabchick is no exception. It dives frequently, and when it bobs back up the surface, this can be quite a distance from where it went down! It dives, sometimes with a bit of a splash, to catch the small fish and other water creatures on which it feeds. This bird can be found on all kinds of ponds, pools and lakes, though on larger stretches of water it prefers the more sheltered bays and inlets.

Grebes are reckoned to be fairly primitive birds. They are short-winged, and the legs are set quite far back, making them rather ungainly on land - though my little grebe proved itself able to dance along in an upright posture at quite a pace when threatened by the geese! They nest out in shallow water, building up a pile of water plants to make a sort of small artificial island. Between two and six eggs are laid, and the baby birds quickly leave the nest after hatching, often to be carried, as with many other water birds, on the back of one of the parents.

This is the least showy of our grebes, but the adult is still quite handsome, seen closely, with a dark crown and a brownish-red lower head and neck. Any seen now though will be in winter plumage, dull brown with buff underparts.

Tuesday October 18th

A day, it would seem, of sunshine and showers, cool and blustery and entirely seasonal. Just the sort of day to be out and about the place, provided one is properly equipped to face the elements; the air is clear, the colours are great, and although for me the changes of autumn have always about them a taste of sadness and loss (unlike the bright hopefulness of spring), they do engage my senses in, often, a vibrant and exciting way.

I had hoped to be out walking today with a friend (and his dogs), but as I write it looks as though our plans may be subject to last-minute revision. Reflecting on that, I'm struck by how often the things we plan and prepare don't turn out as expected, indeed may not happen at all. And yet, disappointment though that may be, I've often found that changes to plans and itineraries have led me to unsought and unexpected delights and pleasures. So let's see if today can be like that!

It's important we don't allow the times when we don't get what we planned, prepared or paid for to crush us with disappointment. Our God is always 'The God of Surprise', and faith in him helps me deal with disappointment and what seems and feels like failure and defeat. It occurs to me that much of our planning and preparation involves a doomed attempt to place God in a box, so we can know he's exactly where we want him. But be assured, he won't stay there: what we have inside such a box, however gilded and lovely that box may be, is not God! We shall find the true God as we dare to engage with the changes and chances of our world, and to set sail on uncertain winds, with faith and hope as our steersmen. Or he will find us.

Planting Pansies

To plant a tree is to express hope in the future, and is a gift to the world, or so it is said. I'm all for planting trees, though frankly here we just don't have the space, and generations to come would not be impressed to have our tiny front garden entirely occupied by an oak! But even to plant a few tubs of winter pansies, as I've been doing this afternoon, is some kind of expression of hope - having had so little to hope for for so long.

And it's certainly an expression of a more settled feeling; a sense of feeling at peace with the world and at ease with myself. Are my pansies a gift to the world? Not much of one, but perhaps a bright front garden as winter arrives will be a small but welcome gift to those who pass by this bit of the world!

Monday October 17th

Over the past few months, having left active Ministry in what was a traumatic, hurtful and confusing way, I have been so glad of the help and support I've received from family and friends, along with the counselling offered, which has been generously funded by the diocese. I don't know that I would have chosen to seek counselling, but I'm glad I was directed to do so. It has proved extremely helpful in all kinds of ways, and I feel it's helped open the way to my gaining a deeper understanding of how I relate to others, what motivates my emotional response to situations, and how I make decisions. If this helps me to be more disciplined and controlled as I continue on my life's journey, that's good . . .

But at the same time I've also been conscious that through this time I've been turned in on myself in ways that could be damaging, and the counselling could, if I don't use well what it's given me, encourage a somewhat narcissistic self-centredness - not so good. As I look back, I can see how often so much of my thinking time has been centred on my own needs, hurts, fears, sadnesses. Of course, that's not a complete surprise; indeed, to a degree that was bound to happen and needed to happen - after all, I had some deep seated personal issues to address before I could ever think of moving forward. But at some point (now, in fact) all the "me" stuff has to be placed firmly on one side, or I'll get stuck in a bad place. Authentic living is living with others in mind and heart.

The communion service I attended with my mother yesterday - in a church I'd never been to before, but where we found a warm welcome - ended with the words "Our worship is over; now our service begins. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord" (and we responded, "Thanks be to God"). The response is in the set liturgy, of course, but I hadn't come across the first sentence before. I liked it; even worship, even meeting with our Lord at his Table, can become a sterile and harmful thing when we do it for its own sake, or just to show that we belong; for the worship God seeks to call out of us is something purposeful, from which he sends us out to serve.

I suppose all I really want to say here is that I hope the experience of my own past few months will also develop into something purposeful, and for that I need to find the discipline and vision to re-contextualise, to discern God's will and ways, to start to look outwards again after having been looking inwards for so long. It's time to re-engage with ministry (small 'm', to begin with), and to get on with real life in the real world.

Thursday October 13th

I like pictures of gates and bridges, and often seem to take them when I'm out and about. To me they represent connection and the possibility of something special on the other side - but, I suppose, alongside this there is the hint of a selection process too: perhaps not everyone can cross the bridge, maybe not everyone will be admitted through the gate.

There are many ways of selection. Do you have the right ticket? Enough for the fare? The proper qualifications? Have you made the right friends, greased, perhaps, the right palms? In all sorts of areas of life, we have to sit tests, and all of us at some time have the experience of being stuck on the wrong side of the bridge, or shut out by the gate.

The Church can be as quick to exclude, and to create elites and hierarchies as any other human group, sadly; the spirit of the Pharisees with whom Jesus contended can be found among those who claim themselves as his followers. That's not surprising - it happens everywhere, it's human nature - but it is something to to be very wary of. For us, gates and bridges should be signs and places of welcome, invitation and safe passage.

Discovery

I tend to think
for some reason that
you’re more sensible than me
bound to be really
and so it always comes
as a bit of a surprise
not to say a shock
when I discover that
after all you’re really
not.

Monday October 10th

The headline in a daily paper I bought the other day for my mother-in-law promised that another winter of polar coldness was on its way, and told how local authorities had already laid in big stocks of rock salt to treat our roads. This is, of course, what local authorities always do at this time of the year, and this year they're bound to be using the experience of last year's icy blast as a guide - but we cannot with any confidence predict the weather more than four or five days ahead, only give rather vague guidance as to what just might possibly happen. But, for all that, we would like to know, and it's this basic desire that particular newspaper plays to . . . it seems to have a thing about extreme weather, and I recall a spring headline promising 100 plus temperatures all summer, something I seem to have missed.

We can't know the future, as regards the weather or anything else. Think-tanks, stock market analysts, opinion pollsters, crystal-ball gazers for that matter, they all have a go, but without much success. I have yet to see the headline "Astrologer wins top euro-lottery prize". As it happens, in a staged competition a year or two back between different kinds of future-predicters, the weather forecasters proved to be the most accurate, which doesn't say a very great deal for the others, I think.

I find myself longing to know what's next for me. I find myself longing to force the issue in some way, to get a result, a clear forecast, even if (as with predicted icy blasts) I don't much like what it says. It least it will be something. At present I'm in something of a no-man's land, waiting on the decisions of others, and wondering how strong and capable I really am by now in myself.

But perhaps I'm better advised to look back, rather than forward. We cannot know the future, we can only live the present. Nor can we dwell in the past, for yesterday is gone for ever - but it can be a good and healthy thing to look back along the road we've travelled in order to reflect and review and learn. And, for me anyway looking back, I can see how through some dark and difficult times there has been a real sense of God's presence and provision - of being held and protected and guided, and not abandoned. And so, knowing I am loved, I can dare to love, whatever happens next, and wherever life's road may take me.

Sunday October 9th

Just a thought, arising out of things spoken and heard today: never belittle or write off the people who do small things (or the churches, for that matter). There is no mighty river whose journey did not begin as a series of small streams and trickles; and a long journey is best begun with small steps. I think that within the Church (and this I'm sure this is true for many other spheres of human activity too) we can be all too easily seduced by the lure of the Big Project. Better I think to create a safe and trustful place in which there is space and incentive for small initiatives than to invest huge amounts of time and energy on the sort of organisational framework, brokering of agreements, setting aside of funds, that a Big Project needs.

I remember reading that while Small Science often produces better and more exciting results than Big Science - that is, people following their instincts in small ways, rather than organised into big projects and dancing to a tune called by others - when budgets are cut and savings made, it's generally Big Science that gets ring-fenced while Small Science gets chopped. Is that really true, I wonder? If it is, that could well be a measure of the sexiness and headline status of Big Science, together with its bureaucratic framework and backroom support staff (and of course it'll be bureaucrats rather than frontline scientists who analyse cost benefits and advise on budget cuts). And then again, whoever we are . . . we all feel so busy and important when we're holding or attending all those meetings, don't we?

But good management, good hierarchies - the real test of this is surely that people are challenged, encouraged and given space to do the small things well at the local level at which any organism or organisation properly flourishes. In other words, a good and effective organisation should be serving you, rather than you serving it. You're why it exists, it isn't the reason why you do. Don't belittle the small stuff - value it, learn from it, share the insights: here is where we're most real.

Saturday October 8th

Wales win in the Rugby World Cup, to make the semi-finals; England lose and queue for the plane home. Both those results have gone down very well this side of the border this morning. I attended a coffee morning where almost everyone seemed to be following the England-France match, and most of them were hoping for the defeat that saw England off.

I can be as passionate as the next person at following 'my' team, but it has never included any temptation to crow over the defeats of others. I suppose that, in a vague and unformed and rather Anglican way, I'd really quite like everyone to win. In theological terms, that makes me a universalist, I suppose . . . at any rate, it sets me at odds with those of my fellows who seem quietly to rejoice that not everyone is as saved as they are.

I confidently expect that when I go through the pearly gates (or however it is we get into heaven) that I shall meet people there whom I don't think ought to be there! But God isn't bound by the rules - just as well, really. Most of us don't take seriously enough the last few verses of the parable of the prodigal son . . . we do win, we get the prize, but we find it hard to approve when others who haven't maybe tried as hard as we have, or given enough up, or been able to tick off all the rules as securely kept, get to win as well.

But that's grace, and I'm glad of it. Hard luck, England (though I suspect Wales will do better against the French)!

Elegy

A scattering of petals beneath the rosebush
and the rain pattering against the spread leaves
of sycamores, dark-shading; it has come to this,
our sunshine days all done, departing footsteps
along the gravelled terrace. We had held a magic morning
close between the palms of our two right hands,
held it there together, delighting in birdsong
and in the dancing flight of butterflies,
the new-born sun that sparkled through a myriad spider webs.
But we had held it too long, and too close,
and had required too much of it. And so
the golden flame guttered, and silken wings
fluttered brown-edged to the ground,
spent petals, to be crushed against the stones
by falling rain. And with them, our near-grasped dreams lay
stranded, lost and broken, beaten into the dirt
by our fears and vain ambition.

Friday October 7th

One of the things I most miss, a little to my surprise, is taking funerals. For the busy parish priest, a funeral is inevitably an unplanned intervention, disrupting the smooth arranging and carrying-out of one's diary commitments, and, of course, requiring a much greater investment of time and energy than the hour or so of the service itself. Nevertheless, I still miss them, and I can think of some quite special times when God, I think, was able to use me to great effect within situations of bereavement and loss.

I still seem to attend quite a few, of course, being the age I now am. And from time to time - today being one occasion - I set up sound equipment for funerals in small country chapels where it's likely there'll be more attending than can be seated inside. When doing this, I'm on site for longer than anyone else - setting up, taking down, and attending to the equipment throughout the service itself - giving me the opportunity to observe the customs and interaction.

Today's was a well and sensitively taken service, I thought. And there was, as I saw it, a healthy balance of genuine grief tempered both by the comfort of a faith sincerely held and by the greetings, conversations and general good humour to be found when country folk get together for whatever reason. It was a sad occasion, but not a time to be washed away by sadness: a parting but also a celebration. This is what should happen; the dominant feeling was one of goodwill, within which those most affected by the loss can find themselves treasured, comforted and affirmed. I felt privileged to be in that place today.

Thursday October 6th

Until my sudden departure from paid employment (last March), I was a vicar, let it be known. On a single day, over thirty years of - I hope - useful and effective ministry was brought to what at the time seemed like a permanent end. It felt almost as though I had ceased to exist - for almost the whole of my adult life this had been not only my job but my identity. I had lost not only my paid job but my status and position, and of course my home. The journey on from that point has been a hard one, but it is beginning to feel like a journey with purpose and destination. I have been tempted to give up hope, tempted into believing that I have never had any genuine call into this work. I'm not in that place now - but that doesn't mean there aren't flashbacks.

I don't need to go into the whys and wherefores that lie behind the events of the past few months; they're not important. But I probably should say that, for me, the life of faith has always involved the persistent reality of doubt. You can't have the one, can you, without the other? So what is the origin of faith, and what are the reasons for its persistence, given that doubt also persists? I have found my faith to be renewed and revived through the witness of others, and because of the ministry and prayer they have offered. This has been so important to me through the past weeks and months. I have known myself to be surrounded and sustained by love - despite the times when I have been spiky and difficult and quite unloveable . . .

For now, I continue to be work in progress.

Reflections

I looked into a moveless pool
where a younger self looked up with hopeful eyes
and met my frown with an open smile.
Startled, I cast a cynical stone
and watched as the splintered fragments of my long ago
rippled away into oblivion.

Wednesday October 5th

Tomatoes are gradually building up on our kitchen windowsill, there to complete the process of ripening. We have a small lean-to greenhouse which is in fact on the north side of the house, pretty much - so it often feels cooler in there than outside! But it's a sheltered place, and will be a good frost-free refuge for some of the tender stuff from the garden when it gets colder. And the tomatoes haven't done badly. I probably left a few too many trusses on, though, and not all the fruit are as large as I'd like. I planted two different varieties, but as usual I've forgotten what they were! I'm in awe of those gardeners who have everything identified and labelled - it isn't something I ever manage to achieve. A lot of the plants in the greenhouse will be cleared out in a fortnight's time to be put on sale at the church autumn fair, and it's then we'll be able to move some of the tender plants in from the garden.

Tuesday October 4th

A sunny, windy afternoon here at Brookfield, and the end, I think, of a remarkable last blast of summer. Black-eyed Susan still flowering happily outside my window, but that'll soon change if we get the predicted early frosts. Six months now since I temporarily (I hope) finished work, and I've finally decided to sign on the dole, for the first time since I left uni. It was easier in those days - all you had to do was join the line and stare at the peeling paint in the crowded dole office until your name was called. Now - if you do it on-line, anyway - it takes page after page of probing questions. I very nearly gave up! I think now HMG knows more about me than I had thought I knew about myself. All part of life's rich tapestry, I suppose (I know, to use a phrase like that is to admit to having little in the way of original thought - but can you be surprised after all that form-filling). Why did they need to know quite so much about my wife? Or my mother-in-law? Gissajob, I say - that's all I want.

Autumn Poem

Brown-curled parchment driftings of the green lane's ancient haws

crunch beneath my boots; once again the year is dying,

and this shaded path is in transition. Those screaming swifts are now long gone

that once possessed this sky.

Quarrelsome starlings arrive to take their place, and only

the last few nervous swallows hold conversation along the wires, debating

their overdue departure. Beneath the coursing swifts of June

there had seemed so much time, too much to ever spend; but now

the north wind on my face breathes its tale of coming frosts,

and my account is overdrawn.

The farmyard beasts eye me across their muddy gate. For them

time has a different measure

and is not reflected upon. I walk on

towards the yellow smear of the disappearing sun,

leaving the swallows on their perching wires, to climb the hill path

and gaze across the hard land they will leave.