Mayday, M’aidez,
Cookham Resurrection by Stanley Spencer.
Some mornings you can wake and feel the energy of the day is as clear and refreshing as a chalk stream and this Mayday was one of those days. Our day was clearly mapped and all would be well.
So imagine my dismay, dear reader, when things began to unravel. We took our very evangelical and lovely neighbour ( a member of a sect so small it had less than ten in its congregation) to see the film Conclave. The Pope having recently died and I had heard great things of the film. I had great expectations and consequently on seeing it, great disappointment. What a clod-hopping collection of banality with every cliché regarding women crashing down the line at regular intervals. I could rant on but suffice to say that I can not agree that the perfect female is a man with external male genitalia plus a fully functioning womb ( for added compassion) that does not, as far as we could tell, do anything quite so vulgar as menstruate.
Did you like the film asked my husband to our neighbour during the drive home. I did not! she replied while I secretly cheered on in the back. The film, she thought, was another symptom that we are living in the End Times. We have war, rumours of war, earthquakes and general disaster all around. The Anti-Christ is coming and the day of judgement is almost upon us. What happens then? I asked. Our neighbour informed us that the dead will rise from their graves to meet the Lord. The good news was that despite the film, we were still 'sisters in Christ . as I definitely need someone to put in a good word when I meet my maker.
Having spent a good two hours fuming about film and thinking about the end of times, Alexa popped up with a reminder that we were due at our new Vicar’s inaugural service. We had completely forgotten this! Hurtling down the stairs and pulling on best frock, I called my husband and off we sped to the church. Where on our arrival, we realised we were practically alone. A woman, cooking up a storm in the kitchen said it was Rotary Club night and she knew nothing about any vicar, new or otherwise. Disconsolate we checked the notice board and realised we were two weeks early. We walked out into the church yard into perfect spring evening, warm and fragrant. Well, said my Husband. Let’s go and check on the family grave as we are here. So we did.
We passed under the lych-gate when I saw something that brought me to a stop. I clutched my husband’s arm. Is that man dead? His form lay motionless by a headstone, as though he had just crawled out from under it. Was our neighbour was correct and the the day of judgement dawning? I glanced at the other mounds that remained, thus far, tranquil. On approaching the man and calling him, he roused himself and sat up. He looked amazed at the sight of people from the land of the living but he assured us he was ok and we walked on to check the family grave that was neat and tidy.
On our return it was immediately clear all was not well. The man lay racked with grief, sobbing on a grave; looking as though he was trying to crawl in rather than out. There was nobody else around . We observed him for a while and then my husband walked over and sat down beside. Please God, I prayed fervently, please don’t let this poor man be in a psychotic state and attack him. I glanced at my phone that was flat out of battery. To run for help to the church or nearby pub would take a good four minutes. For a densely populated village it seemed as though we three souls were the only people existing in this moment.
Please don’t worry, said a voice close by me. Its really going to be alright. I looked around There was no-one there but there was a warm comforting presence very near. I looked again. By my side a copper beech bursting with life had seemed to waken and was observing the scene. I moved closer to it and felt it had the wisdom of ages. Calmed we watched together. After twenty minutes both men rose and my husband led the way to the family grave. I looked at the tree and wondered what it was. A small tin sign was at its roots. Copper beech planted in November 2000 by the W.I (sensible women) The tree gave me a little poke. Go join them.
Taking a step forward, I realised that I had no clue what to say. The tree shook and the words a foot high appeared. Do you mind if I join you?
I walked through them and the words came out of my mouth. The stranger turned toward me and took my hand and then my husband’s. He then gave a lyrical prayer over our family grave, summarising the person who lay there so beautifully that it touched our hearts. (1) Then he started the Lord’s prayer and all was calm. We walked from our grave (so to speak) to his and there he told us his story. A story which is ours to hear and his to tell but not ours to share. He decided to made his way home as so did we.
My husband and I returned through the lych-gate and into a perfect spring evening, warm and fragrant. An evening where all the energy of the day was like stepping into a chalk stream, clear and refreshing and all was well.
Written by Sarah Keen
(1) though he did not know this person