AAA White Robed Angel & Other Stories

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WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

WHITE ROBED ANGEL

The patients knew she was an angel that white robed figure who slowly and silently moved

through the dim night hours in Ward Eight of Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. Some people do not

believe in angels, and I understand why they do not. But I do!

Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Their existence does not depend on whether people do or do

not believe in them. Most think of angels as diaphanous spirits floating down from heaven to

minister to people in times of need, before returning to ethereal realms. This angel was not

visiting from heaven. She was an earthling, who did not know it, but was on her way to paradise.

The angels name was Norma. We had been married for almost thirteen years when she became

ill. Initially it seemed to be nothing more serious than a sore throat. She took a turn for theworse, becoming hoarse, tired, and weak. I drove her to the hospital, insisting that a doctor

examine her. The doctor ordered tests and x-rays.

The test results and x-rays came back. The young physician was taciturn, avoiding my gaze. I

think well keep her in, he said. We need to do further tests. I wheeled her into the reception

ward, hugged her long and hard, and left for home. When I returned with her necessities, she was

in bed in Ward 8.

She was gratified that something was being done and after some rest, she was more like the

happy, laughing woman everyone knew. I spent each day with her and she had many visitors.

Friends and neighbours flocked to see her, bringing her flowers, fruit, chocolates, and themandatory energy drinks.

Her happiest day was the Sunday three of her four surviving children visited. They spent the day

talking, remembering, and laughing. She loved to laugh, but her greatest attribute was her

impulse to loving service. Although now enfeebled by disease, she obeyed the divine impulse to

serve others, shuffling painfully through the ward, seeing to the needs of others.

A young girl, struggling to come to terms with life, lay listless and morbid. Tattooed, pierced, her

arms bearing the scars of frequent self-mutilation, ostracised by her fellow-patients, brooding, and

depressed. Norma encouraged her to think positively about herself and the possibilities of her

life.

In the bed across from Norma was an old lady. Everything she ate came back. Norma soothed

and comforted, encouraging her to take a little nourishment to get strong enough to fight the

illness that was sapping her vitality.

One elderly Indian woman spoke little English. She had many visitors at one particular time of

each day, but for long periods after that, she was alone and unable to join in conversations.

Copyright Ronnie Bray 2000

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Norma, who spoke no Urdu or Gujerati, sat on her bed and painstakingly made contact. She

understood how important it was for people to have human company if they were going to feel

good about themselves.

Many others, scattered throughout the large ward, were grateful recipients of Normas

ministration. She was often up in the night, comforting those who were feeling lost, or lonely, or

who were anxious, or unable to sleep. It was not easy for her to move around, because her illness

sapped her strength, and made walking difficult. However, it did not stop her from visiting and

helping. The nurses and doctors praised her enterprise, appreciating the value of spiritual support

in healing.

In the next bed was a woman in her thirties. It was she, more than any other, who attracted

Normas most profound compassion. She was a tender little thing who apologised every time she

opened her mouth. She was so anxiety laden that it was painful to hear her. If she dropped a

crumb onto the bed covers, she apologised, looking as if some ogre was going to punish her. Sherepeatedly complained that she was being a nuisance, and felt that she caused trouble for the staff.

One night, she called for a commode. After using it, she began to cry that she was sorry, that she

was sure she had made a mess. Would they forgive her? Norma assured her that everything was

all right. She spoke softly and encouragingly. The woman came and sat on the edge of Normas

bed. Norma took her hands in her own, looked her in the eye and spoke softly but directly. You

have a Father in Heaven who loves you. These were the last words she heard. She smiled, the

only time Norma had seen her smile, then died. How fitting that the last words she heard in

mortality were words of love, assurance, and hope.

The White Robed Angel had performed her ministry. Three weeks later, she was herself called toa better place where, I do not doubt, she continues to minister to fragile souls who need to learn

that through all the disappointments and anxieties of life, they have a Father in Heaven, and he

loves them.


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COME BACK DEREK HARROWBY,

ALL IS FORGIVEN!As a child, I had an almost pathological dislike for red hair. The origin of my distaste is hard to

determine. Red haired people did not figure large in my childhood, so I am at a loss to understand

how my aversion began, and why it continued past my teenaged years.

One boy in my class at school had red hair. His name was Derek Harrowby. Our paths crossed

infrequently, except in my last year when he decided to take over bullying me.

I didnt like bullying. Probably because I was an easy target. A smallish lad with no fight in him.

The fight, if I ever had any, had evaporated before the power of all the grown-ups who haddominated my life since the first stirrings of my memory.

I first went to school when I was two-and-a-half years old. Then, due to the tragic event that took

place in Europe in September 1939, nursery school was immediately suspended, and I stayed

home until the following January, when my fifth birthday qualified me to attend infants school.

I have few distinct memories of those early years. Of some classes, I have but a single memory:

of others, none at all. Yet, though the events have slipped out of my mind, the pain of alienation

and oppression I felt remains distinct.

I should add that I did not suffer a lot of bullying. Most of the time I was merely treated with

disdain, as though I was invisible. That was less painful than the physical bullying that I

experienced from time to time. However, these episodes did not last long. Principally, because I

usually collapsed in a heap before the onslaught. The cave-in invariably ended the attack.

I was bullied by a variety of boys. Some of the smaller boys did so under the tacit approval of

their bigger, more fearsome friends, who stood near in case I ever fought back. I never did. I do

not recall suffering any serious injury other than loss of dignity in front of my peers, and the small

death that occurred unseen and unheard inside me on these occasions. Many others suffered at the

hands of the ferocious and bold who seem to have been regularly fed on raw meat. No small

accomplishment in war time.

To be fair, Derek Harrowby was not a regular bully, only an occasional one. It was a surprise,

therefore, to find myself being pushed backwards through the school playground one lunch time

by this ginger-haired lad. Surrounded by bloodthirsty boys, calling to see my blood, he poked and

prodded me into retreat until he had me trapped in front of the schoolhouse door.

Then, something inside me snapped. I will never forget his look of triumphant satisfaction as he

exulted in his absolute power over me. Nor will I forget the look on his face when my fist shot


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out and bloodied his nose, felling him as if he were a sack of potatoes. His supporters were

stunned onto silence. I was stunned into an angry tirade.

It was as if all the pent-up anger accumulated over the years by those times when I had been

petrified and unable to frame any response to bullies, except either to flee from them, or to cower

before them trembling with fear, unable even to raise enough voice to plead for mercy. Now, I

vocalised loudly and eloquently. The savage mob that, only a second before, had bayed for my

blood, fell silent, then evaporated, leaving my tormentor quite alone and sobbing on the ground.

Dorothy had unmasked the Wizard!

It would not be fair to impute my dislike of red hair to this incident. Yet, what else to assign it to,

I do not know but, from whatever cause, I did not like red hair, and that was undeniable.

Time passed, as time does, and I met and avoided several red headed people. Of them, I

remember little except my natural disaffection. Then one day I met one who changed my attitudeto red-haired people or ginger nuts as they are commonly referred to in England and who also

changed my life.

My wife had gone into the maternity hospital deep in the heart of Hampshires New Forest, for

the birth of our first child. The day she was born, I went to the hospital to see them both. After

seeing my wife, who looked radiant in the way only new mothers can, I went to the baby unit

where the new born were stored in serried ranks of cots, facing the viewing window like so many

codlings on a fishmongers slab.

A nurse, whose face I did not see, carried a pink bundle to the door. I was not allowed to hold my

daughter, but I could see two things that struck me. One was her absolutely beautiful face. Youwill understand that I am speaking without any special pleading or bias simply because she was

mine. She was utterly adorable - although I have been blessed with other children, none was as

beautiful as Andrea was. The second stunning thing was her hair. She had heaps of copper-

coloured hair. She was perfect and it was love at first sight!

How did I feel about her red hair? I loved it. My presuppositions and prejudices were swept

away as suddenly and as completely as the West Wind of late autumn sweeps away the dry dead

leaves of a forgotten summer in its sudden and deadly gusts. Come back Derek Harrowby! All is

forgiven!

Since that time, I have loved red hair. I have also learned that particular characteristics are a poor

foundation for character assessment. My prejudice had been exposed, tested, and forced intoretirement and my life is the better for it.

See that ye do not judge wrongfully


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BRAINS VERSUS BRAWN

It was a long way down to the kitchen from the attic bedroom I shared with my Granddad

Bennett. Seven days a week he woke before the rest of the household was stirring, lit the fire, and

turned on the electric oven to warm up the lodgers breakfasts that had been prepared and placed

in it the previous evening.

His scraping out of the coal ash from the fire grate in the room that served as dining room and

sitting room for everyone except Nanny, as we called Grandma Bennett, could be heard through

the wide chimneys in each of the rooms on the three stories above. This acted as an unscheduled

alarm, rousing the occupants from deep sleep to meet the demands of each new day.

Only on Sundays were breakfasts cooked from scratch. Sunday was a special day; the day offried eggs and bacon. Even in my rooftop haunt, I could smell Sunday, as its special aroma

drifted upwards through the house. However, on common days, the breakfasts were piled into the

ageing Creda cooker the night before to await a flick of the on switch.

The lodgers grumbled down to breakfast according to their job commencement times. Most

works started at 7 30 am then, although one job I had meant a 7 00 am start. However, due to my

inability to get up in the mornings, I never ate breakfast. I would jump from my bed, dress whilst

still asleep, and leave the house at a gallop, racing to see who would reach the bus stop first, the

diesel fume belching conveyance or me. Most days it was a close run thing. This unfortunate

condition of rising late and with reluctance lasted until I became a soldier, when less licence was

given to individual preferences such as what time to rise.

There was only one occasion when I got up before my Granddad, and on that occasion I decided

to play the good fairy and switch the oven on for him. I had never turned the oven on before. In

our house, there were many things that children did not do. Among these, housework and

cooking were pre-eminent. Because I never ate breakfast, I was not familiar with the culinary

delights provided to titillate the palates of our Epicurean boarders. Nevertheless, it was common

knowledge that Granddad turned the oven on after he had got the fire started.

Although I rose in time for breakfast on my Good Deed Day, as was customary, I did not, eat

breakfast. My thinking was that I was being helpful to my Granddad for whom, of all my family,

I had most affection due to his kindness and the attention he paid me. The switch-knob made a

satisfying click as my helpful fingers turned to the on position. My work was done. I felt

satisfied, almost, but not quite, smug. How that would please him, I mused as I imagined his

face at finding the oven turned on and breakfast warming nicely. It has been said that what you

dont know cant hurt you. That morning, I learned that this was not an absolute truth.

At his usual time Granddad came down, lit the fire, and then went into the kitchen to see to the

oven. He came back a few minutes later bearing his morning pot of tea. Of the oven, he spoke


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not a word. I imagined that he would thank me later: now his incredibly bushy eyebrows were

buried down to their roots in a hot, sugary pot of strong tea. I waited in timeless silence.

Children did not initiate conversation with adults, so I was not able to broach the subject of the

oven.

What I didnt know was that when he went into the kitchen, he did not check the

oven.

What I didnt know was that he did not check it because had no reason to check it.

What I didnt know was that not all breakfasts needed to be warmed up.

What I didnt know was that some breakfasts couldnt survive heat.

What I didnt know was that the physical properties of slices of the inexpensive butdelicious meat-jelly, known locally as brawn, would melt into almost nothingness even

in the presence of a gentle heat.

What I didnt know was that by some quirk of the malignant fate that dogs the

faltering steps of fools, the oven was filled with plates of brawn.

Five lodgers duly went to the oven and collected plates of puzzling warm gravy. Gingerly

carrying them to the dining table, they scrutinised breakfast in minute detail before reaching for

doorstep-sized pieces of bread with which to soak up the brown slop before eating it. The

comments at the table were mostly negative.

Some people, like brawn, can not stand heat. They need special treatment, special care, and more

tenderness than most folk, to safeguard their fragile natures. There are times in each of our lives

when we will need special consideration for our own special needs.

Children need our gentleness. There are also adults who need special nurturing and care, who

would wilt and dissolve if we were not to shield them from the fires of anger, the heat of

disapproval, the flames of harsh criticism and the bitter antagonism of enmity.

To these we must extend out protection from the harshness of life, shelter them from what they

cannot bear, and surround them with our tender love. It is a duty that cannot be lightly laid aside,and will not go unanswered.

Because thine heart was tender I also have heard thee, saith the LORD


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MAD DOGS AND SINGAPOREANS

GO OUT IN THE NOONDAY SNOWChandra became our lodger after we saw him standing bewildered in the foyer of our church on

his first Sunday in England. He explained that he had just arrived in Huddersfield to study Law at

the University. He said that he had come to England from Singapore with nothing but a few

clothes and a lot of faith that the Lord would see him alright as far as getting his tuition fees for

the university and the means to pay for a place to live.

He had found a room in a lodging house on his arrival, but told us that it was costing more than he

could afford. We took him home for dinner, got to know him better and then arranged to collect

him and his few belongings from his lodgings and provide board and lodging for him at less thanwe had ever managed to collect from our own children.

Although he was twenty-six, Chandra was not possessed of that kind of wisdom necessary to

make his way in the world without careful guidance. We became quite protective towards him,

gave him good advice when necessary, and became his surrogate parents.

He was a young man who loved discovery and met it with unconfined joy. Chandra had no

median. Either he was in the deep pit of hopeless despair, usually over some point of law that he

could not understand, or elevated on wings of joy to the very pinnacle of excitement.

One day he came charging into the house after attending a service at a local evangelical church,

and began a harangue against David Jenkins, then Bishop of Durham. He had just learned of the

Bishops beliefs apropos the Resurrection and the Virgin Birth. He and a few of his like-mindedfellows were setting out for the Bishops palace the next week to confront him and make him

retract his unconscionable views. If no such retraction were forthcoming they would destroy his

office and smash his desk! It took but a few moments to douse the flames of his ardour by

pointing out that if they did demolish the Bishops office, they would do their faith a disservice.

Everything that Chandra did he did with utmost enthusiasm. However, since we had never been

to Singapore, there was something for which we were totally unprepared Chandra and snow!

Chandra came to us in October. By the following February we thought that we had seen every

facet of this interesting and volatile personality who had become our son. We were wrong. One

Saturday in February, during the lunchtime conversation, his eyes turned to the window. His

mouth dropped open and his chin almost struck the table. With eyes widening alarmingly, he

pointed to the window, seemingly speechless. We had our first snow of the year. In a matter of a

few minutes about four inches lay on the ground and covered all the trees with iridescent mantles,

transforming the bleak deadness of the winter landscape into a portrait of a world made brilliantly

white. Breakfast forgotten, Chandra made a bolt for the door, leaped into the garden, then danced,


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and jumped around in the snow with uplifted arms as if it were gold pieces falling from heaven.

His cries of delight alerted our neighbours children, who watched bemusedly at his apparently

bizarre antics.

Being used to a long succession of cold, wet Yorkshire winters, and finding less enjoyment in

each successive one, we failed to understand why snow should be the cause of such emotion.

When he finally came back inside, eyes wildly bright, cheeks glowing, and sodden but ecstatic, he

explained breathlessly that Singapore was sub-tropical, and in all his years he had never seen

snow.

To us, snow was a nuisance that we got through the best way we could. To Chandra, snow was a

miracle - a gift from God.

The difference in our attitudes caused me to ponder how it was that what was a nuisance to me,was a blessing to Chandra. I carried the example into other areas of my life. I was surprised by

what I found.

I discovered that I had not recognised many blessings that it had pleased God to pour upon my

head. Often I had failed to recognise Gods goodness, by failing to identify his hand in things that

had happened and, therefore, missed the enjoyment of his miracles. I complained, but Chandra

rolled in the snow. I learned a valuable lesson. No matter what comes my way now, I do my best

to roll in it. Only after we have rolled in something can we know whether it is just another

nuisance or a blessing from God.

In nothing doth man offend God,or against none is his anger kindled,

save those who confess not his hand in all things.

Chandra taught me a great object lesson, and I have learned to grumble and moan less because of

it. It is this:

those who look for Gods hand in all things will see it,

and it will transform them.


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LUKE

Norma became ill around the beginning of September 1997. Late October her doctor told us she

had bronchial carcinoma. With treatment, he said, she might have as long as eighteen months

before she would have to leave us. She took this in her stride, sustained by her profound faith in

the Saviours promises. Three weeks later she died in my arms.

After her funeral at the end of November, Joanne invited me to stay with her and Nick at Telford,

120 miles from Huddersfield. I needed that. I wasnt ready to face an empty house.

Jo and Nick have three bright sons. At that time, Joseph was four, Thomas two, and Luke a

bubbly 10 months. Spending time with the boys and being a full-time grandfather helped ease

some of the pain of Normas death. I planned to stay with Jo and the boys through Christmas,then return home.

I felt a wonderful peace knowing that Norma was in a better place and that her suffering had

ended, but I missed her terribly. Ours had been a loving, happy marriage lasting twelve and a half

years, and even being with Jos family, I felt alone.

One day, I laid face down on the living room carpet in front of the fire to rest. Luke toddled over

to me, climbed onto my back and snuggled down, his face wreathed in smiles. It was so cute that

someone took a photograph.

From that time, Luke and I have been inseparable. When I sit, he climbs onto my lap, looks intomy eyes, and snuggles his head into my chest with his arms reaching under my jacket. At times

he pulls back, looks into my eyes, smiling broadly, before planting kisses on my mouth, then

snuggling down again.

Since the time my own children had been babies, I had never known such affection from a child:

it was unexpected, miraculous, and fulfilling. By some miracle deep inside him, Luke had

become my consolation. He supplied the balm that eased my pain and assuaged my loneliness.

Jo said that when I was not there he could be a monster, but that he was always angelic in my

presence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After almost a year had passed, I told Jo that I was planning to remarry. She was horrified. Shefelt that I was being disloyal to her mother and that I should never remarry. I tried to explain,

but she could not understand. She made it plain that I was no longer welcome.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For almost four months, I did not visit Jo and her boys. It was a sorrowful season and while I did

not yield to melancholy, my spirit brooded, distressed by the awful anguish of separation.


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Eventually, I decided to risk a hostile reception. I bought some sweets I always had my pockets

filled with sweets when I visited and drove to Telford. I decided to and ask her if she would

give the sweets to the boys, so they didnt think I had forgotten them. When I got there, they

were out in the garden in the sunshine. The boys were so excited, and Jo took me in the house

and made me welcome.

What happens to time in childhood? It must be that children do not mark the passing of time, but

stack events into broad categories unrelated to time. The boys were overjoyed to see me. Luke

saw me, beamed, and raising his arms for me to lift him up, snuggled into my shoulder as if he

had seen me only the day before. I was home again. I still had painful moments when I knew

that I was not fully accepted by my daughter and that my upcoming remarriage was viewed with

hostility.

In December 1998, I travelled to Arizona to marry my bride, Gay, returning to England with her

in January 1999. It was some time before we felt able to visit Jo and the boys. But, when we did,although Jo was guardedly friendly, the boys were as warm as ever, and Luke was still my baby.

Then, Luke decided he would become Granddad. Pushing a cushion up his shirt and tying a

pretty hair bow around his neck as if it was my bow tie, he announced, Im granddad! I got

sweeties! whilst dispensing Lego bricks from his bulging pockets.

Sometimes he would come toward me with outstretched arms, calling me My baby, as I call

him. Often, he breaks off from his play to come across, hug, and kiss me.

Because babies change everyone thought that Luke would outgrow this magical affection.

Children grow up and find other interests. But they dont grow out of love, nor do they tire ofbeing loved. And granddads dont stop loving their grandchildren or their children, however hard

that gets!

One thing is sure: some kinds of love, like some friendships, are made in heaven, and thats the

kind Luke and I have. The sort of love that never wears out, whether we are in the world or out of

it.

I thank God for Luke, my blessing, and my consolation. I thank God for love. Love is the source

of life, the gift of a loving God. It is solace to the despairing, and a light to those who dwell in the

crushing darkness of loneliness.


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Meadomsley Days

When I was about thirteen, I went on a weeks holiday to Meadomsley near Consett in County

Durham. I stayed with relatives of my stepfather, Tommy Scott. The house was an old

farmhouse whose people had retired from farming to enjoy their old age.

Like most country folks, they couldnt cut their farming ties and so they kept a pig to fatten and a

yard full of hens. It was a small quaint house built of small red bricks made in ancient times.

What remained of the farm had that comforting smell of permanence and the tangible memory of

deep roots, settled customs, and country manners.

It was a sunny week and the people were nice, gentle, and not demanding. I enjoyed the sunshine,

watching the hens, sketching the house, and stroking the pig whose name was Bonny. It was aplace where I enjoyed that strange feeling of otherness that always came when I had escaped by

distance and custom from my own home and family. Consequently I have always loved to travel

and experience the freedom of being unknown and unjudged.

For a whole week, Meadomsley was a springboard to other joys. Country walks began just

outside the house door. Leafy lanes invited me to walk along them and gawp at the sights. The

country church, older than living memory, had been the place for the rites of passage for those of

simple faith whose ancestors had wrested their living from the land round about, and were now

laid to rest in that fertile soil.

Walking through the countryside on sunny days was the nearest I ever got to timelessness. I havefelt this in different places and different lands when lifes demands have been eased for a time and

duty briefly laid aside. The pleasant warmth of the sun is akin to being caressed: an important

event for those who need to be caressed and touched as confirmation of their humanity and worth,

however small that worth is felt to be. It is for a stolen moment to be and to know that one is,

and is, perhaps, a foretaste of true heaven.

Those sun-bathed days spent within the kindliness, patience, and generosity of an old couple I did

not know, and whose faced have long since slipped from memory, but who selflessly extended

their simple benevolence to an unattractive town boy they did not know, stand as some of the few

truly Golden Days of an unhappy childhood.

All too soon, the week was gone. I was wistful on the journey home. The nearer I got to home,

the more the dark clouds gathered themselves about my head, plunging my thoughts once more

into the fearful mode that was normality.

Yet, like Wordsworth with his daffodils, I had a treasured memory that permitted at least

temporary escape from the harsh realities of my unhappiness, back to a time of sweet, sweet peace

in another place, in another time, under the gentle eyes of people who were at peace with


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themselves and the world. Thank God for such places. Thank God for such times. Thank God

for such people.

Even now, as I slowly climb the foothills of old age, the recollection of my Meadomsley Days

fills me with the glowing brightness of timeless sun-filled summer days, when tranquil the silence

of Gods wonderful countryside was broken only by the gentle sound of bees about their work,

and by the sweet songs of birds praising their own days of plenty. And I feel again the peace of

those placid hearts; the warmth of simple kindness remembered; and the miraculous genesis of a

half-glimpsed vision that life could be good. And my heart sings with gratitude to God, who

makes all things possible.

Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing:thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.

Psalm 30:11


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FROM A FRIEND

When I was a young man, I ended up in jail for a spell. When the judge passed sentence, I was

immediately burdened with a burning sense of injustice that made me look at everything through

hate-coloured glasses. I grew fierce and hard to get along with and took it out on everything and

everybody.

It would not be far from the truth to say that I developed an attitude that the devil would be proud

of. No matter who spoke to me or what they said, my response was hostile and bitter. Before I

was aware, I was fast establishing a reputation of someone to avoid.

Unlike most prison inmates, I had very few friends. That was OK by me - just how I liked it.

After all, friends expected friendliness and I had little or no friendliness left in me. A chanceremark, made without antagonism might provoke a sudden punch to the nose, as the unwary

discovered to their cost.

I spent most of my free time reading in my cell. I preferred a single cell away from others so that

I did not have to either speak or listen to them.

At night, I dreamed of my children, living, I knew not where. My wife had found another love,

and had suddenly gone away taking our two small children with her. Almost every dream was a

search that ended in failure, serving only to deepen my despair.

And, in this way the months passed, and with their passing my bitterness deepened. Yet, therewas to be a turning point that came suddenly, unexpectedly, and decisively.

During the long months I had spent confined, I received no news of my wife or my children. My

own family is noted for not being letter writers, and so it was little surprise that I got no mail from

them. I had some close friends on the outside but for reasons known only to them, they neither

visited me nor wrote to me during the whole of my sentence.

On Christmas Day, after a breakfast that included the only fried egg I was offered during my ten-

month incarceration, and a dinner that was truly a traditional English Christmas dinner, we turned

out for exercise, walking in circles in the snow-covered exercise yard, beating our arms across our

bodies and stamping our feet to stave off the cold.

There was a stirring in the prison that could only be explained by the fact of it being Christmas

and that somehow, even within the grim, grey, confining walls of Winchester Prison, the Spirit of

Christmas had found place in the hearts of men more used to taking than giving, and it had made a

difference.


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But not in my heart! The hardness remained, unmoved by the day. That is, until exercise period

ended and I returned to my cell.

To my surprise, lying on my bed was an envelope. Mail? I never got mail! And on Christmas

Day when there were no mail deliveries anyway!

I picked up the envelope hardly noticing that it had no stamp and no address. Inside was a

Christmas Card bearing the logo of the Salvation Army. The hand-written message read:

At Christmas, God sent His Son to bring Peace

May you know His Peace

From a friend

I burst into tears on my bed, my heart softened by an unaffected but compelling message from an

anonymous benefactor, wishing a convicted criminal he did not know a Merry Christmas and

Gods Peace. I had forgotten the Peace of God; forgotten my Saviours Love, and was reminded

of both in a profound and touching way.

This simple experience of someone reaching out to me in love changed me from the bitter,

vengeful person I had become, into the softer, more tolerant and forgiving person I used to be. A

fellow-prisoner, who had tangled with me during my early months of detention, met me again

after my Christmas experience, and was forced to exclaim in obvious disbelief;

I have never seen such a change in a human being!

The lesson I learned that day has stayed with me. Not only do I seek the good in all people,

whether they are friendly-disposed to me or not, but I have learned to suspend judgement until I

know the whole of their story. As it has been said,

To understand all is to forgive all.

Of course, I never learned who my benefactor was. But I know that had he not been filled with

the true Spirit of Christmas, which is the Love of God, I might have been left to seethe forever in

the ferment of my own hatred, and been lost to humanity. The only way I can thank him, is to

ensure that every message I give to my fellow human beings is as full of love and compassion aswas his.

Now abideth Faith, Hope, and Charity

but the greatest of these is Charity


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WHAT I LEARNED

FROM A DUCKMy good neighbour, Michael, works in an abattoir. From time to time, he arrives at my front door

with a huge joint of meat, fresh killed, as a gift. Soon after that, I eat real meat. It is not that I

dont like proper meat joined up meat it is just that it if usually beyond my reach because of

cost, and thats why I buy minced.

One day, as we chatted in the street, Michael asked me if I liked duck. Duck is not the most

popular of birds in the North of England, usually gracing the plates of more discerning and

wealthier folk. Or, it is served in Chinese restaurants as crispy duck, and people go wild about it.

I had eaten duck once in my life, as a guest at Isaac and Joan Hughes when their daughter Helenwas home for a season in between her globetrotting. In response to Michaels question, I quickly

recalled that I had not enjoyed the duck and so I said, Yes. I love it!

The next day, Michael delivered a duck. I had spent some time the previous evening looking up

how to cook and serve duck in the many cookery books I have accumulated over the years. The

most straightforward way was to roast it. I prepared a roasting tin complete with trivet for the

arrival of Donalds distant relative. When I heard his knock, I opened the door and he handed me

the duck.

Thanking him for his kindness, I hurried the parcel into the kitchen ready to begin the process of

turning raw bird into a delicious dinner that I hoped I would enjoy, but was sure I wouldnt.

Only something was wrong. I thought, when I took the parcel from Michael, that it seemed a

little heavier than expected. I put that down to imagination and wondered whether I should go for

the simple roast or try a more adventurous duck a la orange. I got rid of that idea as quickly as it

came. This was no time to be breaking fresh ground.

However, it was much worse than that. As I pulled the bird from its wrappings, I found to my

surprise and horror that it was not oven ready. It still had its feathers, legs, and head. What was

more, it was full of its insides. I balked, replaced the bird in the plastic, put the roasting tin and

trivet back in the cupboard, and turned off the oven.

What to do next? I considered it would be churlish to ask Michael if he would pluck and dress his

gift. Yet, I was not equipped to do it. Michaels work at the slaughterhouse would mean that he

was able to do it, but it would not be polite to ask the giver to further embellish the gift. Other

avenues had to be explored. Then, I discovered something extremely interesting.

I asked many people if they could pluck and draw a duck. Everyone I asked assured me they

were possessed of the skills to perform the task. However, when I told them that I actually had a


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duck that urgently required their services as a plucker and drawer of wild fowl, each of them

hastily declined with what I can only describe as voluble abhorrence.

Why such inconsistency between what they said they could do and what they were willing to do?

I was completely foxed. Not only that, but I had a dead duck on my hands and had no idea what I

was going to do with it.

I recalled an incident many years ago when a farmer gave me a pheasant. That was also dead and

had its feathers and everything else that pheasants have. I knew that I had to hang it so that it

became gamey. Thats what happened to birds shot in the Scottish Highlands that were taken to

London hanging from the back of a stage coach: by the time they got to London they were gamey.

I hung this pheasant from a rafter in the cellar and each time I went down there I had to avoid it. I

was just stalling for time, because I hadnt a clue how to proceed. When I started having

nightmares about being pursued by dead pheasants, I decided to throw it into the back garden for

the cats.

I decided not to let the duck defeat me. Now I was older, smarter, and this was cheap meat!

Eventually I figured that if one man could do something, another man could, even if it was me. I

had read somewhere that if you plunged a bird into very hot water, its feathers almost walked out

by themselves. I did they didnt! I pulled so hard that, at times, lumps of duck came off with

them. In time, the duck was mostly nude. The rest of the feathers, I concluded, would burn off

during cooking.

A few sharp chops with my favourite Sabatier, and the legs, wings, neck, and head were severed

and discarded. The next bit brought me as close to nature as I ever want to be. How one medium-

sized duck can make such a mess in a kitchen, I will never know. It looked like the aftermath ofthe Valentines Day Massacre.

Whilst the bird was roasting on top of the retrieved roasting pan and trivet, and cooking nicely in

the rekindled over, I cleaned the kitchen.

Although I read the instructions carefully, and followed them precisely, the bird died for a second

time. In fact, the first time it had merely been killed, but this time, its goose was well and truly

cooked.

This was another one of those lessons you learn if you live long enough:

If someone says they can do something, but recoil in horror when askedto do it,

theres probably a very good reason why you should not try to do ityourself!


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NONE SO BLIND

Some years ago, I taught an early morning religion class in the Seminary programme of the

church I attend. The class was held in a town about ten miles from my home, which meant an

early start each weekday to get there in time for the 6 am start.

One morning in November, I set off on my 49 cc-engined Puch moped. It was a cold, frosty

morning, and my trusty steed needed a little coaxing before ripping into life. I wrapped myself up

against the cold, wearing a thick waterproof jacket, leather gauntlets, safety helmet, and a woollen

muffler wound tightly around my neck. Movement was difficult, but it helped prevent the biting

cold from gnawing at my still-sleepy bones during the journey of around forty minutes at a top

speed of twenty-five miles an hour, if I caught a tail wind.

This morning, there was no wind; just a light frosty mist that made the landscape white and

ghostly. As I headed away from home, the haze gradually deepened. Undeterred, I pressed on,

trying hard not to wake up altogether.

The intensifying fog made houses along my route appear and disappear as if moved by some

ghostly hand. One moment they were invisible, the next they presented full-blown for a fraction

of a second before silently withdrawing into the wintry hinterland of secret things.

There was little traffic, which made my journey easier in increasingly forbidding conditions. As I

chugged over the top of Daisy Hill, my mount, straining and complaining at the steep incline,

threw out vast clouds of acrid blue smoke, from which my risible speed made it difficult to escapeuntil I topped the hill and sped down the other side

The short side of Daisy Hill ended abruptly at Duckworth Lane. I peered both ways before across

the junction to the precipitous descent of Crow Nest Lane, thinking that the sudden incline of the

lane would lead me into the clearness of lower ground. I was wrong.

The mist in the lane was denser than that it had been at the top of Daisy Hill. Before I had driven

yards from the junction, I came to a sudden halt. I could see nothing. The dim yellow glow of the

headlight lit up no more than a few pale inches of the profound, impenetrable gloom that was now

all around me. I was fog-bound!

My brave little mount, usually temperamental in damp weather, chugged noisily away as I

considered my options. I was less than a mile from home and could not foresee what conditions I

might meet on the road ahead, although it was hard to imagine anything worse than total

blackness that had reduced me to impotent motionless.

I had brought the bright yellow Puch moped when I lived at Heckmondwike, to ride to my early

morning Seminary class, because it was an arduous climb of almost a mile up Halifax Road from


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my home. When I was appointed to teach the class, rather than walk so hard, so far, so early, I

bought a second-hand pedal cycle. However, on my trial run I ran out of steam before getting

halfway up. That taught me an important lesson: my cycling days were over! I bought a

newspaper, scanned the classifieds, made a telephone call, took a trip, and bought my first and

last! moped.

Besides transporting a mountain of teaching materials and me, the moped made a notable

contribution to class discipline. Students who applied themselves to their work were rewarded by

driving it around the car park, while waiting for their rides home.

Now, its tiny engine rumbled cantankerously as it stood becalmed in an ancient lane on a frosty

Yorkshire morning, whilst I searched for a solution to my predicament.

I could dismount, I surmised, and walk beside the machine, feeling for the kerbside with my feet,

and hope that I eventually came out of fog. On the other hand, I could turn right around and gohome. It was about nine miles forward and much less back. Home, associated with warmth,

comfort, and safety, beckoned me with crushing logic.

My mind fleetingly turned to fishermen who trawl Arctic waters in winters treacherous

conditions. A sudden reincarnation of Walter Mitty rose inside me as I imagined myself as lost

and isolated in an iced up vessel, stranded in the dreadful darkness of an Arctic night. I came to

my senses with a long sigh of surrender.

As I sighed, I noticed that the breath of the complaint curiously warmed my nose, trapped

between my fog-damp damp muffler and the visor of the helmet. I ungloved a hand and pressed

my forefinger inside the visor to clear any condensation that might be there. It was a trivial

gesture made to delay a difficult decision.

As I slid my finger across the inside of the visor the world stood before me, uncommonly visible

and in astonishing detail as my finger swept aside the fog. The fog was of my own making, and

was confined to the few square inches of the inside of my visor! I laughed aloud at my absurdity.

A simple adjustment of my scarf prevented further self-deception, and I completed my journey in

good time.

Although I felt stupid, I was not embarrassed by the event, because it taught me a valuable lesson

about life: we can be blinded by our own thought and actions and the worst blindness within

ourselves that prevents us from seeing what is before our eyes.

As my old granny used to say,

None so blind as those who will not see.

Or, as another ancient wrote,


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Woe unto the blind that will not see.

As I press on through the journey of life, I remember when I was blind, helpless, and bewildered,

endeavouring always to avoid blindness and prejudice of my own making.


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I SHALL NOT LOOK

UPON HIS LIKE AGAINA TRIBUTE TO ALFIE CLEAVING

What can I say about Alfie Cleaving? Whatever I say will be inadequate to express the greatness

of the man because my impressions of him, gained over many years, are but one subjective

calculation of this interesting character. Blessed with profound sense and sensibility that

exceeded his poor education, he intuitively knew more than his education and understanding

permitted him to express. We met when I attended his "Health and Strength" club in

Huddersfield, Yorkshire.

Like everything about Alfie, the club operated on absolute essentials. The ring was a makeshift

constructed with ropes that had seen better days. The equipment was old and worn out, but it

served the needs of the club. The boxing gloves smelt of generations of sweaty hands; the

paintless weights were adorned with polished rust.

His catchment area was the world of need. He understood the imperatives of good health and the

right mental attitude - Mens sanum in corpus sanum was his watchword. He advocated Positive

Mental Attitude before it became a multi-million dollar business. All boys were welcomed, and

each received Alfies individual attention. He tutored with infinite patience and care, dispensing

advice like a machine gun:

If a boy was injured, Alfie tended him with his bag of potions, lotions, and liniments. His gruff,

soothing voice indicating the lads condition and Alfies prognosis. He healed everyone:

persuaded them to adopt the better life of honesty and uprightness, if that was appropriate, and

had cheerful words for all, although he never smiled. He was never jovial. His lugubrious

elongated face looked no better after shaving because of his ineradicable blue-black stubble. His

hair stood in a shock, untamed and unashamed. For Alfie, the measure of manhood was not

outward appearance, but the character of the heart - what one was when unobserved and

unaccountable.

Alfies dour roughness and emotionless common sense hid the greatness of this good man. He

probably never read a book, but he knew about health, strength, boxing, and character, anddedicated his life to these objectives.

Whatever measure of success Alfie enjoyed in his life came only through what he taught to his

lads. He was short, stocky, ungainly, bow-legged with an ambling gait, and had the exaggerated

features of a dwarf. He was not cultured except he that understood the need for 'please' and 'thank

you' and while he was rough in manner and short on schooling, he was inoffensive. His gruffness


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hid a sweet, generous heart. He was a man that strangers would not approach, because he seemed

an unattractive ruffian.

He had no children, no close friends, no support system, but himself. I came to know him better

than most because of my friendship with his stepson Eric. He married to provide a home for an

unfortunate woman and her tragic son, to whom he was a reasonable stepfather. The marriage

was not a love affair: he understood his limitations. His marriage was an opportunity to help

someone in distress.

He lived in a front terrace house on Turnbridge Road without electricity. It was lit by gas and

cooking was by gas stove. The kindest way to describe the house and its furnishings would be as

distressed. His was a make-do world that recognised poverty as the normal state of things.

Alfies trousers never matched his jackets; he never wore a shirt or tie, preferring a jersey. Even

when he was cycling (his other passion), he wore long trousers and a jersey as his short, powerful

form propelled his cycle at amazing speeds.

Alfies mission was not to make the world a better place to live in, but to make men better

equipped to live in it. He expressed no political philosophy or agenda. He was a denizen of the

real world at the point where you muster your wits to survive, or submit, and go under.

I never knew what Alfie did for a living, or whether he worked. His wife was a cinder sorter at

the gas works near their home.

Her stepson, was a likeable, self-effacing lad who became schizophrenic. His mother came from

a good family that disowned her when she turned funny then had a baby out of wedlock. Alfie

volunteered to be their family.

The last time I saw Alfie we were both in a hurry. At something of a pace, I saw him at the same

time he saw me. It had been many years since we last met, but recognition was instant and warm.

He told me only that he was now living in Halifax, then continued to rush for his bus. To my

regret I never saw or heard of him from that day.

How many lives he touched for good we may never know, but when the Great Timekeeper rings

the bell for the final round, it will be surprising if Alfie is not among the highest ranked saints.

During my association with Alfie Cleaving, I passed from boyhood to ladhood. Although I had

eagerly anticipated this part of the growing up process, it went by unmarked. Like a traveller whohas slept past his stop and finds himself at another destination I discovered that I was older

without the sense of so becoming. Being grown up was more difficult. I expected that when I

grew up, the quality of my life would improve. It was disappointing to miss that rite of passage. I

grew older but not wiser. Yet, my life is richer because Alfie Cleaving touched it.

Knowing Alfie Cleaving taught me a great lesson. Yet, it is only in my mature years that the

lesson has found its full force. Each time I read the words that Jehovah spoke to the prophet

Samuel, I remember Alfie Cleaving, and my heart is glad.


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Look not on his countenance,

or on the height of his stature;

for the LORD seeth not as man seeth;for man looketh on the outward appearance,

but the LORD looketh on the heart

Alfies heart will stand up to the Lords scrutiny. Thank you, Alfie.


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THE DAY MUSHROOMS FLEW

Its a funny thing, but I always wanted to write a story entitled, The Day the Sea Boiled. Since

I make it a rule only to write about things I have actually experienced, it could be a long time

before I lay that title down and actually tell the story. However, I have seen flying mushrooms.

The most common unlikely flying non-flying things are pigs, but since I have never seen pigs fly,

I cant write about them. In any case, if I did youd never believe me, so Im going to tell you

about flying mushrooms.

I once drove an asphalt wagon for a road building company. One job was laying a new airstrip at

a small airport in East Anglia. It took several weeks to get the strip ready for the final surface, so

that when we went to lay it, one of the road gangs had already been on site for some time.

The surfacing gang had a supervisor whose robust manner and lack of human understanding made

him an outcast. He did not eat with the workmen, and spoke only to grunt instructions or rudely

bark his displeasure. He had a rich vocabulary, and in the heat of an angry delivery of opinion

would confuse syllables from several common cuss words to create new ones. This had the

opposite effect than he intended. The gang, all grown men, took all this in their stride, allowing

his individuality to be his own concern.

His social history was unknown. The feeling was that if he was married, everyone had sympathy

for his wife, and, if he had children, that sympathy was extended to his offspring. Two things

were known about this enigmatic man, one, his legendary greed, the other, his love ofmushrooms. This is not much to know about a man, but no one had any grounds for delving

deeper.

Although he was halfway respected he was the boss after all he was also held in derision.

Some of the bolder men jested at his expense. Sadly, although he knew how to surface roads, that

appeared to be the extent of his wisdom. He could have been a classical idiot savant, but we

could not be sure, and no one was going to get close enough to find out. Humour was the pattern

of the asphalt gang. Even the presence of the dark overlord couldnt change that.

My wagon was first to bowl onto the airfield that morning. The sun had risen early and was busy

warming the dew and flashing off the windows of airport buildings as I drove to the delivery

point. Ten tons of hot asphalt smouldered behind me discharging its heady fumes.

The road-laying machine was being fired up, the pans having heat applied by fierce blue flames.

With the engine switched off, I rolled down my window to talk to some of the workers waiting for

the giant machine to start. It has been said that the devil finds amusement for idle hands: here

were idle hands and the devil knew it.


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Giddiness was already in the air as the dark blue car carrying our anti-hero swerved up to the

gang, his face peering through the windscreen, already contorted with signs of fury as he prepared

to deliver his first missile of the day. Down came his window as he swung his face round to the

aperture and opened his mouth. He was stopped in his tracks.

Do you like mushrooms? asked one of the more laconic asphalters, aware of the mans passion

for them.

Yes, answered the puzzled and unsuspecting executive.

Take a look up there! The speaker pointed straight-armed to a spot about three hundred yards

away on the brilliant greensward.

Sure enough, the grass was speckled with hundreds of white balls. It was enough. His foot hit the

gas pedal and the car lurched forward at breakneck speed.

People handle disappointment in different ways. Some take it in good part, knowing that life has

a habit of not delivering on time, and that, often, it delivers not at all. This was to be one of those

occasions. It is at times such as this that our sense of humour rescues us from the awful

consequences of delusions of self-importance.

This poor man had never been known to laugh or even crack a smile. Had he done so, he might

have survived with his dignity intact. As he approached the mushrooms with his engine racing

noisily, each one of them stood up, unfolded its wings, and flew away, converting themselves into

seagulls in the process.

The mirth-ridden crew rolled onto the floor, legs buckling beneath them and hands clutching their

shaking abdomens. The car rocked but did not move. Time passed in the bright sunshine of the

morning, the asphalt smoking in the clear blue air, the pans grew hotter sending a heat haze up to

challenge the sun: still the car did not move.

Not a single gull remained. There was nothing to show where the mushrooms had assembled

themselves as if anticipating the joke. Eventually, the car eased away, crossing the field to a

different exit. He was done for the day.

When next he visited that merry band, he was noticeably quieter. His rages became less frequent,

and his language more congenial. This signalled a significant shift in the dynamics between thegroup and their overseer, and allowed something approaching normal human relations to be

placed and maintained. In time, the warm miracle that human personality alone can generate,

overtook them and friendship set in.

Was it a mistake? Was the event that led to the humanisation of a fiery demon and the dissolution

of a relationship whose essential characteristic was the savage interplay of animosity and ridicule,


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ONE MISERABLE SATURDAYOne miserable Saturday

I learned the soul-destroyingbitterness of disappointment.

The house where I was born was a large terrace house at the top of Fitzwilliam Street, directly

opposite the end of Wentworth Street, which is why it was called Wentworth View. That legend

was painted on the plaque above the shared passage way between our house, 121, and the

Barratts house, 123.

Entrance to the house was by the back door. Only ladies, gentlemen, and Doctor Hanratty used

the front door. In fact, since ladies and gentlemen never called on us, so our Irish physician was

the sole ingressor through that hallowed portal. Lesser, therefore, ineligible mortals who knockedon the door, were brusquely directed to the back door. Nanny had been in service for many years,

and knew a thing or two about protocol.

We used the back door for all purposes. When I was older, friends who came to see were

admitted just inside the back door. Peter West was my only friend, but if I had had others, they

too would have had to wait inside the back door. The only children who ever got in the house

were my cousins. They did not come often enough, but were good, friendly, happy children.

Three-fourths of the way through the passageway was the coal chute. This was a round hole cut

in the huge sandstone slab that paved the passageway and formed the roof of the coal place in the

cellar living room. A round cast iron lid closed it with leaf shapes cut out in a roundel, almost starlike. This balanced precariously on a narrow ledge that ran all around the top of the hole. The

regular coal man would drop bags of coal with a hundredweight each down the hole into the

keeping cellar. We would count the bags, since coal men could be dishonest, letting one bag go

down with a pause halfway so that the householder counted two bags for one. When taking in ten

bags or so, it would be hard to tell if there was one short by looking at the mountain of coal in the

coal ole.

When I was about six or seven, I was told that my father was coming to see me and take m e out.

My sister Rene was not invited. He did not accept that she was his child, although he had married

my mother during a moment when he had thought he must surely be. This inconsistency was

typical of everything I remember of my fathers later years. My stepfather was referred to as

your dad and my biological father as your father, usually with a qualifying but unflattering

adjective.

On the day, someone washed and dressed me, stuck my hair down with corporation hair oil, it

would spring back up when dry and sent me to wait outside for father was not welcome inside

the house.


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It was a beautiful day. The brilliant sun shone almost audibly, and caused a haze to shimmer up

from the wide stone paving slabs. It made the gas tar, in which the cobblestones of Fitzwilliam

Street were set, bubble out into exotic-smelling pools of irresistible sticky stuff, that added to the

ecstasy of the heady summer fragrance of June blossom and honey that hung in the air as if

waiting for homage. The glory of the day suffused every breath that warmed its way inside me.

It was one of the longest days I have ever known.

Hour after hour, I stood in Fitzwilliam Street, looking up and down its length for the arrival of the

mysterious stranger whose face I could not remember. I trembled with anticipation at the

prospect of reunion with someone who would surely love me and take me, if only for a while,

from the darkness, despair, and misery of that awful house with its bizarre population.

Hour after hour passed as the leaden weight of an increasing sense of futility grew in my heart.

He wouldcome; He had promised! I did not go in for dinner from fear that I might miss him.

From time to time, I ran through the passageway, avoiding the coal hole lid in case it gave way tomake sure that the back of the, house was still there. Of what can a child be sure, and what are the

certainties of a powerless existence?

I do not know how long I had waited before I was forced to admit that my hero was not coming.

All the hopes I had entertained, that someone might, somehow, rescue me from my unnamed

fears, and lift the dark ceiling that oppressed me, were dashed as the hard echo of despondency

rang in my ears with a piercing Munchian scream. I was frozen by the noise; paralysed by the

awful awareness of my wretched self-deception.

In the calmer, still sunlit early evening, I was called from my solitary vigil and sent to my attic

bedroom. I drew the blankets over my head to shut out the cruelty of life, curled into that positionwhich provides comfort for all wounded souls, and cried myself to sleep, not understanding what

it was that hurt or why.

The experience wounded me and contributed to my lack of competitive spirit: what is the point of

competing if you are bound to lose? From then, I expected very little from life and I have not

often been disappointed.

While I may not have been the best father in the world, I never made any promises to my children

that I did not mean to keep, and have never broken a promise to them. As I make promises my

children and grandchildren, I see the ghastly spectre of a little boy who trusted a promise, only to

have his faith crushed, his trust repudiated, and his heart broken.

Who would thoughtlessly harm the sweet, trusting innocence of a child? Promises to children are

sacred and must be kept, whatever the cost, or the world will not seem safe for them.


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INASMUCH AS YE DO IT UNTO THE

LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN, YEDO IT UNTO ME

Some years ago, when I was running the annual national Single Adult Conferences, a young man

who had registered turned up, and by his appearance caused mouths to flop open with

astonishment, and tongues to wag in barely disguised whispers.

His leather jacket had seen better days, and his blue jeans were of roughly the same vintage. But

what caused most stares, nudges and whispers, was the wonderfully exquisite and extensive

Mohican hairdo that he sported.

Once inside the building, among all the customary and noisy bonhomie of a Singles function, he

was not overtly sociable, preferring instead to remain in the small group of saints with whom he

had arrived.

There was much talk about him behind selfish hands that should have been extended in welcome.

Arms that should have gone around his shoulder were left to hang limply in studied neglect. I

found him very shy, almost painfully so, and he was hard work when it came to personal

interaction. Yet, there was a compelling innocence and sweetness about this gentle young man.

I caught glimpses of him from time to time during the Friday evening activities. He stayed in the

cradling comfort of the darker corners, away from the bright lights, isolated from the closeness of

the many huddled groups full of the chatter of the forging of new friendships, and the awkward

business of old ones being repaired.

He ate breakfast in silence. Nothing unusual about that. Travel the previous day had been long,

tiring, bedtime had been somewhat late, and breakfast always came too early for most. He was no

exception.

After the devotional service, we went into workshop sessions. Emerging from the one I had

presented, I was greeted by a distressed sister. "Brother Phil has gone!" she blurted tearfully. Idid not need to know any more. I knew why he had run away. Those in the group that had

travelled with him came to me to tell what they knew about the gentle stranger.

He had been a member for about ten years. Struggling against the de-laminating effect of

schizophrenia on his mind, and its destructive effect on the integrity of his personality, he had

sought to ease his pain with the anodyne of alcohol, but it had served only to hasten his descent

into the fractured world of his terrible psychosis.


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He had been inactive for several years, but through the ministrations of a caring sister, had begun

to attend Church again, and was trying to get some order and sense back into his life. His

outward appearance was a symptom of something profoundly troubling in the deep wells of his

questionable humanity, a problem most of us will never experience.

As his monsters were devouring him from the inside, he sought to establish a recognisable

identity and this was what he had come up with. It was his best shot, but not good enough for the

rest of us. The trouble was that no one else could see his monsters or feel the effects of them

tearing into his brain with their bloody claws. Mental illness has no face. We can only see the

misery, but can not see the cause, and so we judge foolishly according to the wisdom of man.

For me, the rest of Saturday and its activities passed satisfactorily, although under a cloud of

gloom and failure. Phil was eventually dropped as a subject of speculation and gossip. How sad

that he should so soon vanish from the consciousness and conscience of this happy company ofthe Lord's people. Of the 250 attending the Conference, only one person spoke about the runaway

to me consistently over the weekend. Through Hilda's narratives, I built up a picture of "the

Mohican," as he was commonly referred to.

Sunday morning devotional was accompanied by a Testimony Meeting. This was always the high

point of the Conference, when one after another would movingly express their faith in the Lord

and how they had felt the Holy Ghost uplift them through the activities of the weekend.

As was customary, I stood to speak first, principally to call for brevity in testimony bearing to

allow as many as possible to testify. Otherwise, the meeting would run all day, and one of the

wards needed to get into the chapel to hold its service.

The Conference Choir sang. As I stood to speak, I was overwhelmed with a sense of what had

happened there. For what seemed an eternity, I stood silently looking into the sea of happy faces

who had been moved, some to tears, by the beautiful singing of a choir that had met for the first

time less than a day ago, but who had found unity, peace, and love through sharing music. I

thought about Phil and tried to grasp why he had felt it necessary to escape from us.

When I found my voice, I said simply,

"This weekend, the Saviour Jesus Christ has been with us.

But we have driven him away. Most of us did not recognise him.He wore blue jeans, a leather jacket, and had a Mohican haircut."

The effect was electrifying. After a moment of stunned silence, the recognition of what I had said

sunk in to the hearts of these good people. Many cried, most hung their heads under the burden of

guilt and shame that they now felt. Until now, they had not realised what had actually transpired.

In my head, I clearly heard the slow and deliberate words of the Saviour:


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"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Each person that came to the pulpit to bear testimony spoke about Phil and about their sorrow at

having seen him only as an object of rude comment, and for not having seen him as a Child of

God. They had learned that hearts and minds are not won by ostracising those who are different

from ourselves. Over two hundred of the attendees wrote to Phil expressing their love for him.

He answered my letters for several months before he slipped back beneath the murky waters of

his illness.

At the end of the Testimony meeting, we did what we always did at the end of a Single Adult

event. We stood and held hands in a huge circle and sung "I Am A Child of God," the Single

Adult anthem. Only this time we thought about Phil instead of ourselves. The anthem was

transformed from being one of self-identity, into a celebration of the divine identity of others, and

we were all the richer for it.

Later that day I sat quiet and alone and thought about my daughter Alex. I remembered the first

time I had seen her as a Gothic Punk. I remembered standing with her in Queensway London, in

the swirling crowds of people from every clime and culture and recalled how one nose and ear

pierced Asian woman had done a double take at Alex' multi pierced ears, nose and lips, taking in

through her wide-eyed stare all the chains that ran from one place to another in an untidy web

across her face.

I remembered how my acceptance of her self-identity helped bridge the gulf that she was sure

would spring up when I saw her like that. I didn't like it, but I heard the cry of a girl fighting to

become herself, whatever that might be. I also recalled the day in the crisp sunshine of an early

Spring when we had stood for our farewell in a back street in Colchester after talking togetherthough the whole of the previous night, emptying our hearts about who we were and what we felt,

and how, for the first time since she was a little girl, she threw her arms around me and cried that

she loved me.

I had not travelled the miles with her, in the same way that I had not travelled the miles with Phil.

Yet it was not hard to realise the truth of the old saying that to understand all is to forgive all. We

sometimes need to exercise patience and get to know the person behind the persona. The effort is

usually worthwhile.

May each of us so live that the Holy Spirit will have before our eyes continually the true images

of others, rather than the image of the false god of ourselves as the Significant One, whose needsblind us to, and outweigh, the struggles and needs of others.


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AN UNLIKELY HERO

Granddad and I shared the little attic bedroom. Lodgers occupied the big front bedroom on the

first floor and the big attic room on the second floor where the steps narrowed for past servants.

Going to bed involved the longest walk in the house, because the trip started in the cellar.

Sleeping in the attic was perfect training for lighthouse keepers, not only because of the vertical

distance, but also because of its isolation.

The furnishings and appointments of the house were basic; the last gasp of Victoriana, offering

minimal comfort while serving to remind one of the temporary nature of ones welcome. I lived

there for the thick end of seventeen years without feeling accepted. To feel tolerated was very

heaven, but rare.

The front room - Nannys sanctum sanctori on the ground floor- had a lush Persian carpet,brocade curtains, and a three-piece suite whose settee converted into a double bed. No one shared

its comforts with her. Only once did I sit in a chair in her room that boasted the coveted Pianola,

a radio that never played, and a clockwork gramophone that remained permanently silent. To

enter the room one stood outside, not a little fearful, knocked at the door and waited for the

stentorian command, Come in!

Admitted to the Presence, ones petition was delivered in suitably hushed and reverent tones. It

was usually granted. I sometimes think, at the luxury of distance, that Nanny may have been a lot

nicer than she appeared. However, no one ever got close enough to find out.

Granddad was banished to the cellar-living room and the attic bedroom. He never entered the

Middle Kingdom.

I remember standing at Granddads knee, as he sat on a kitchen chair furthest from the crackling

coal fire (he knew his place), and asking questions of him. His answers were thoughtful, usually

true, and delivered without haste. No one else engaged him in any discussion. As I grew older, I

became aware that some of his answers were works of imagination and fiction. It was a game I

learned to play to amuse the lights of my life, my sweet grandchildren.

Any love that had ever existed between my grandparents was gone long before I came. The

family whisper is that he philandered when Nanny was giving birth to Auntie Nora. If that is so,

he remained forever unforgiven.

Although he worked with my stepfather, and walked to and from work with him each day, in the

house they did not interact. My grandfather lived a solitary life, much as I did, but for a different

reason. Whatever the offence, there was but a single punishment.


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What endeared me to Granddad was that he always had time to talk to me. He seemed to know

everything. He was a very small, inoffensive man with a propensity to chunter, a form of

speaking without saying anything. No one can disagree with chunter. Nanny took it to be the

desperate attempt of a sub-specie to impress his opinion on the gathering.

Nanny squashed his opinion with a savage Stop your chuntering! He never could bring himself

to stop. It was the last act of defiance available to him. He could not levy economic or moral

sanction, since he had neither money on the one hand, or the moral high ground on the other, but

his voice, though tactfully muffled, could not be stilled.

His was a lost cause, and all one can do with one of those is chunter. In keeping with the

standard practice of our family, no one paid him any heed except me. I knew what he was going

through.

In my stumbling efforts to fit the demanding profile of a perfect grandparent, if I dont know theanswer to a childs question, I make something up. Always having the answer, whatever the

question does my credit good, and I will probably be dead, buried, and forgotten before Im

rumbled. My grandfather taught me well.

Grandparents should be attractive, generous, and benign dispensers of hugs, kisses and all the

trappings of love. In addition, their pockets should be permanently full of irresistible sugary

treats. My grandparents had no commitment to those ideals. They were preoccupied with their

own heavy burdens and disappointments that kept them from seeing the needs of small fry.

Though Granddad imparted no skills to me, left me no pearls of wisdom, did not share his

Werthers Originals, and never took me anywhere, the times he spent talking to me in the cellarsitting room made the brightest and warmest memories, that stand out like oases of reality in a

desolate and denying landscape.

Our conversations were not marathons, but for a few moments, I was somebody. He affirmed my

humanity through the medium of simple encounter. Granddad never knew how much his words

meant to me, for I had not the words to tell him. It may be that he was using me to maintain his

own humanity, and that what I took from the encounters was mere spin-off. I shall never know.

But I am inclined to the view that he was moved by simple kindness for a struggling boy, whose

circumstances, to some extent, mirrored his own, and for whom he had compassion tinged with no

small sorrow.

He died while I was in prison. Grandma had long predeceased him, and he became confused, and

deteriorated through self-neglect. Although he was the only adult male with whom I had

established any kind of emotional bond, I was refused leave to attend his funeral. He lived lonely

and he died lonely. I would have liked to have been present to weep over him.

Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that


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thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die

No life should be regarded as insignificant, nor any child made to feel so, when simple acts of

kindness can soothe hurt souls, and make the unloved feel less so.


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SOCK IT TO ME

I know that you have either said it yourself, or heard others say it. I have been hearing the

complaint since I can remember. Even in the olden days when mother did the laundry in

galvanised vats and a dolly tub, sloshing the clothes up and down in the sudsy water with the

posser to force the soap in and the dirt out before taking each garment or blanket and wringing the

water and the life out of them at the same time, she would wipe her hair back from her eyes with

the back of a bubbled hand and sigh through the steam-filled scullery, Where do they get to?

Understand this; my mother was no philosopher. The object of her impassioned query was not

the Lost Tribes of Israel her mind never went down that road. Nor was she enquiring after the

familys lost millions. That would have been mere wishful thinking. No! The dark matter that

occupied her grey matter whilst scrubbing, possing, rinsing, and wringing was the ancient,ubiquitous, and vexed question of where odd socks get to. Ill bet that in the days when washing

was beaten to death on the rocks by the rivers edge, some socks escaped. The question is where

to?

Its not that I am really interested in just where maverick hosiery ends up thats not the burden

of my reflection. I just wanted to point out that losing things is not a modern plague, and neither

can lay the blame on newfangled contraptions.

That being said, I did discover where one of my strays landed. The satisfaction of knowing was

tempered to a remarkable degree by the cost of my finding out where it had gone. Well, to say

that I found out is not exactly true. A man of few words informed me. But the few he managedto squeeze out of himself were as expensive as those used by exorbitant lawyers who get paid for

their verbosity.

This is what done it, mister, he said, as if it was my entire fault. He offered me a chewed-up

soggy sock. I took the item and examined it. I tried not to look as guilty as he made me feel.

That was a new pair, I said with manifest mortification.

You was lucky. It didnt do any damage, he said. I just had to take the machine apart to get at

it! I hated the way he grinned. It was all part of his power play. Trouble was, it was working!

He had done this before.

I had had enough. It was my home, my washing machine, and, er... my sock! How much, I

managed to squeeze out of my tightly closed throat.

Forty two pounds, he grinned. Why did he have to enjoy it so much?


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I paid him cash and ushered him out of the house before he could improve on his transparent

moral ascendancy. Moralising is all well and good when you have gained the moral victory, but

palls somewhat when you are the vanquished.

I looked on the bright side, I still had the washing machine, and the pump was working again,

now that my sock had been snatched from its greedy maw. And, I still had the sock. But it was a

poor thing and hardly matched its non-mutilated partner.

The more I thought about it the brighter I became. The repairman had my money, and his well-

developed sense of superiority over those that used washing machines but didnt know how to get

inside them or are afraid to try, was still intact. He walked away with his superiority, his hybris,

and my forty-two hard-earned pounds.

Yet rising from the ashes of this signal defeat, was a maturing realisation that I had won the

laurels. It slowly dawned on me that was an improvement, because for most of my years,nothing dawned on me at all that for a measly weeks wages, I had learned that little things cant

hurt, unless we let them get inside us.

Its not the size of the bothersome thing that matters. It's whether we let it get inside us. The

indifference we feel for someone may be small beer. But once we let hate get inside us, it will do

irreparable damage to our souls.

On the other hand, it doesnt take a lot of love burning inside us to transform our lives. All the

love we talk about is useless unless we let it in. All the religion in the world will do us no good if

we only pay lip service to it. We have to get it inside us even a sock full will make a mighty

AAA White Robed Angel & Other Stories

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