The Parable of the Cold Island

The Parable of the Cold Island

Update 2019... I think it right to repost this parable every year until it happens... This may take some time... Convert the Christmas spirit...

This is probably the most important parable that I will ever write. It is also the one I have worked on for the longest period of time. The central metaphor will perhaps give the appearance of being trite, schmaltzy or twee. That was not my intention. I chose this metaphor as I still feel it is the most appropriate for the subject. It is not intended to be unnecessarily didactic in tone, but the nature of parables is to send a spiritual message.

Anyone who tells parables has to decide whether they will explain them or not. In this case I'm trusting in your intelligence and imagination.

'Let those who have ears to hear, let them hear...'





There was once a good king, a king like the sun, who ruled over a cold island with three peculiar children. It was winter and they say that winter is the end of the story of the seasons. But it depends on when you start the story.

Some people hated the royal family, but that was because they tended to get a bad press. Most of the people thought the king was harsh. He always seemed to be on some long journey and his absence caused many of the people to doubt that he even existed. After all, he was never on TV or the internet.

From a distance, he often seemed negligent or downright cruel, if it is possible to be both at once. He did not do terrible things, but he allowed them and would not explain why.

Two of the royal children were as disobedient as vultures. But the third child was as faithful as a robin, refusing to fly away when the winter sun grew austere. Her kindness was all the more remarkable because she was unable to walk. She was as loyal as frost clinging to a car window (for which the people also cursed the king in the mornings).

There hadn’t been a real Christmas on that island for over a hundred years. Although there had been some imitations of it. No-one even knew what Christmas was like anymore. Those who had heard of it either thought it brutal and regressive (following a highly popular Netflix series about what Christmas may be like and a series of stereotypes which were expressed in the arts and media about the character of those who might like Christmas) ... Or else they thought it was yet another money-making scheme, heavy on the merchandise and manipulation.

But the faithful robin-child, after reading of true Christmas, asked her father if they could celebrate too… as the people in far-off places were said to do. She had only read stories of Christmas and it was because she had lost a friend in one of the past winter months that she found her courage.

She entered the throne room in her wheelchair and the king looked sadly at his cold iron sceptre, like a man haunted by ghosts which only he knew about.

"We need Christmas father. Things are getting worse on the island," said the robin-child.

"The island is sick," replied the king.

"Then there is hope of healing. You have healing in your power."

"What do you think Christmas should be like anyway?" the king asked, "Like water? Like the sea's tide turning? Like rain after a drought? Like a river flowing?"

"I don't know."

"Or like the earth? Like an earthquake and a shaking, or a kind of sifting of the good and bad?"

"No not that, Christmas should be for everyone and that sounds destructive."

"Or like the air? Like a wind blowing across the land? Like a change in the atmosphere?"

"I don't know."

"Or like fire? Like tongues of flame? Like a wildfire?"

"I simply think it should be like a new, better season. Like Christmas in the old stories."


But the king went on to tell his daughter yet again that if his children and people continued to misbehave, they would never see Christmas. It was within his power to make the winter months warmer and lighter since kings and queens still hold great power. But it was catch 22 – without the comfort of Christmas, people found it hard to behave, but if they did not behave, the king would not give them Christmas. The king's conditions felt very patronising and simplistic.

It had become increasingly dark and cold in those winter months in so many ways. And the dark and cold had soaked into the hearts of the people, so that even the streets saw puddles of blood. The blood had a voice, but by this time only the king could seem to hear it. Nobody cared about all kinds of roses crushed underfoot. Gentleness had emigrated. It was as if the island was under a curse.

At the start of December, the king sat on his throne and wondered whether he should allow his island child her peculiar request. He was undecided, since two of his children were so naughty (they were always fighting and rarely did what he asked). When he told them to love, they hated. When he told them to forgive, they held grudges. When he told them to not be too proud and condescending towards the people, they simply looked down their noses at the less privileged. It had got so bad that the people were cursing the royal family because of the actions of the princes. “The royal family are judgmental bigots!” the people would sing. Or else, “The king is in the altogether, he’s altogether not there!” And blood on the streets didn’t help. The people would take strange, dangerous potions and dance wildly into the night or else treat each other as badly as the princes treated them.

The king wondered whether he should simply give a present to his daughter and ignore the others. But then he considered that Christmas should be for everyone and an exclusive Christmas had never happened before. But why Christmas on his island alone? There was the Commonwealth, and the people there could be said to be worthier? One last worldwide Christmas for everyone (even though that had never happened before). What had happened before can happen again, for good or for evil. He had told all his children to behave and they had largely ignored him. What should a good father do? He, did, after all, have his enemies and ghosts. And the land had enough problems already, ready to break and divide for the sake of a freedom which was only hoped in.

One of the naughty children didn’t believe Christmas was healthy, he thought it probably meant, a pair of socks as a present, a lot of disappointment and probably a lot of grief. He didn't like anything about Christmas. The other thought it was unlikely to happen again before the end of the world. He simply thought there would never be a genuine Christmas again. But the faithful robin child would read old stories and she believed that even if they were only to have one last Christmas it would be a good thing for everyone on the cold island. It would help them to prepare for the coldest and darkest of days. She too loved the people of the island.

But the winter winds pummelled them all and the thunder made it seem as if the sky may fall at any moment. And the naughty children started to doubt that their father really was good – not because they wanted Christmas, but because he seemed to allow so many bad things and then said it was some kind of test. And never explained why. The tests were always the same anyway, they were either endurance tests or self-control tests, but the king, because of his ghosts, considered that an unfair criticism. Kings can do that and you can't tell them that they are wrong.

The king had set out conditions for there to be a Christmas. He had said that if his children talked to him, keeping their conversations secret, and if they were well-behaved and if they trusted in him, he would give them Christmas once again and the Christmas would be both a relief and a healing for them all. Hearts would turn warm and there would be more light, like the light of a baby in a manger. But the trouble was that he had three children and only one of them was behaving. The majority were not. In a sense, it was because of the naughty children that the whole island did not get Christmas, especially the fault of the naughtiest leading prince who had been given more than the others and who was relatively healthy.

So, the king faced a quandary – he had promised that he would order Christmas throughout the land if all his children behaved. But how could they behave when all was cold and austere and there was no Christmas? The robin princess had talked to him on countless occasions about this, about how Christmas would be good for both him and the people, about how it would make things better, about how a good father should not deny the request of an obedient daughter simply because others were not so obedient. About how Christmas itself would swing the hearts and souls of people onto his side. About how, while he delayed, the people and the children suffered together. About how he had also promised to grant any request made persistently. About what kind of good father would deny Christmas to his children anyway? About how he wanted free will love from the people and he would get that if he gifted Christmas.

But the king simply looked at his cold iron sceptre, shrugged and said that unless his people and his children talked to him, behaved, and trusted in him, he couldn’t send Christmas.

“But you also once said nothing is impossible for you,” said the robin princess.

“These are the conditions,” said the father with a stern face that did not suit him.

“But you once said that even a bad judge would rule in favour of a petitioner if they persisted, and I have pestered you about this for years.”

“These are the conditions,” said the king, his face like flint (which did not suit one whose glory was supposed to be greater than the sun).

“But how can the conditions ever be met on this island where the streets drink blood without conditions changing so that the conditions are more likely to be met?”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why must you win every argument?" replied the Princess, "It isn’t endearing. People are suffering. What kind of good father would deny Christmas to their children? You told us that you love us.”


So here is the quandary, the mystery and here is the parable – that the good and kind king had seen how cold and dark his land had grown and truly understood the suffering of his people (having lived as one of them, in another land, a long time ago). Yet he denied them Christmas, saying it was the fault of his enemies, or of his children, or of his ghosts. Saying that conditions needed to be met, saying that his timing was perfect. And often saying nothing at all.

And still, the faithful robin princess and the people waited to see if a good King and Father would really delay Christmas on that cold, dark island for reasons known only to himself and his ghosts. And the robin princess, her heart broken because of the blood on the streets, knew that the only thing left to do was to keep on asking.

Halloween story - The River 2

This short story leads on from last year's Halloween story in which two teenagers narrated a tale at a campsite near to which a river ran. Their names were Joe and Danny. The hero in their story was named Huckleberry. Sadly, all of the characters died in the end. But ol' man river carries on...

The River 

Part 2

“Last year two teenagers drowned in this river.”

It had, of course, made the news. But the campsite hadn’t closed down. Everyone had assumed that the teenagers were drunk. And after a few days and a little grief, the news agenda had moved on, leaving only a few people to invisibly grieve. The dead teenagers may as well have been invisible for all the world cared. All that was left was a gaudy yellow and black sign on the riverbank warning people not to swim there.

The wind that evening was like a messenger, as if a reminder of grief. There was something about the river, especially at dusk, which made people think of stories. Maybe it was the rush of the current, a flow which seemed to speak of a flow of words. Or the bulrushes, long since having split open with their gentle inner-life seeds to a cold reception.

Ezra and Jeremy were work colleagues on a fishing holiday. Both were middle aged.

“I hate this time of the day,” said Ezra.

It was getting harder to see the orange fishing float as the light faded. They had pulled up that morning in a huge campervan owned by Jeremy. Work had been kind to them both. They were prospering and it seemed right to take a break from their latest office success.

“It always reminds me of those stupid ghost stories I would hear as a child. And I hate stories.”

Jeremy was not immune to being spiteful. In fact the two men's entire relationship seemed to be based on a kind of teasing banter devoid of any expression of outward concern.

“You arse. Why don’t I tell you a quick story and then we’ll pack up?”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

“So, I’ve just got to think of a name for my hero…” Jeremy looked around in the dying light, from the dark voice of the river to the black silhouette of the trees.

And a whisper in the ear.

“’Huckleberry’. Yes, that’s right. Like Huckleberry Finn. I like that. That’ll do. It just came to me. Anyway...”

“Please shut up. I hate stories.”

“I know you love them really Ezra. Anyway, Huckleberry, our hero, found himself hunted by a werewolf.”

Ezra sighed, “Is that a spoiler? Was he in London? Isn’t there a film about that?”

“Shut up. Huckleberry owned a massive campervan. Not as big as mine, but okay for a civil servant's wage… Sure, he’s a civil servant, that’s right… In fact Huckleberry’s campervan was so large that it caused huge problems in terms of parking until Huckleberry secured some rental land for the van to be parked on. He decided to go on holiday to Cornwall. That’s where certain kinds of Londoner will always holiday. He had booked a spot on a caravan site in Cornwall near the sea. There were woods nearby, huge pine trees and a forest. And a monkey-puzzle tree, because they say that the devil sits in them…”

“Are there many pines in Cornwall, I thought that was just Devon?”

“Shut up. Huckleberry found himself surrounded by pine trees on a camp site in Cornwall and he enjoyed his holiday until the last day. He had got into bed in the massive campervan and he heard some strange noise at the window. All of the curtains were drawn and there seemed to be a tapping noise or a scratching at one of the windows. Annoyed by the sound, Huckleberry got out of bed and went to the window, pulling open the curtains. Guess what he saw…”

“Your pretension personified?”

“Nothing. There was nothing at the window. Except for this clawing in his heart and soul. It was like hypnosis, it was like a fever, it was like the smell from some strange flower or like the song from a siren…. Do you like that bit Ezra? That was really clever… Suddenly he felt an overpowering inclination to leave the campervan and walk into the woods. So he closed the door behind him, absent-mindedly locking it. Perhaps to prevent any werewolf from getting into his bed and pretending to be his granny…”

Jeremy stopped there because he remembered that Ezra had just lost his grandmother who had lived to a respectable 103. It was a little like verbally falling into a river and getting a foot stuck in the muddy silt on the river bed and not pulling the foot loose and climbing out. The river sucked him deeper and he should have struggled but he didn’t struggle and didn’t climb out for a moment or two.

“Anyway, storyteller-hater, it was to stop any intruder. And Huckleberry turned towards the woods and there was a deep darkness. The cover from the pines seemed to make the woods so dark. Pine needles carpeted the floor. A little prickly, a little threadbare, but a carpet of a kind. And Huckleberry was drawn into these woods. He had walked for a hundred or so metres when he turned back and could only just see a light or two from the caravan site. And he turned back up ahead and he saw something moving in the woods and the calling, the pull of whatever it was still clawed at his soul and he felt a hunger deep within him. It was a madness and yet it was like a beautiful aroma which kept drawing him on…. Oh, that’s a clever bit too, I like that…

Anyway, he pushed through the harsh, sharp pine branches and continued into the woods. All around him there were noises, a strange snuffling noise. He though he saw a boar and he remembered tales he had once heard back in London of how the devil had once turned into a black pig and the people of the city had seen the black pig and that those who had seen it had soon died. But he continued on and he saw something ahead. He realized that it was the full moon and that he could see its light because there was a clearing up ahead. And he stepped out of the woods into the strange circular clearing which was surrounded on every side by thick woods. And up in the sky was the full moon which seemed to laugh at him. Did you like that bit too Ezra? And look at the moon tonight…” Jeremy pointed into the darkening sky.

“There’s no moon, it’s hidden behind the clouds and my moon phase app says that it is fourteen percent waxing, so it’s not even full. You're deeply depressing me.”

But Jeremy was getting engrossed in his story and hardly noticed the interruption.

“And Huckleberry wondered why it should laugh and why he should imagine that it laughed. And there in the clearing were other dark forms. There was a stone circle. In ages past, the ancestors had built a stone circle in the middle of these woods, woods very much like those surrounding us now, for a reason long forgotten. And Huckleberry wanted so much to stand in the middle of the circle and yet he didn’t know why. But he obeyed this strange compulsion, a compulsion which overrode even his most basic instinct for survival (and for Huckleberry, that was no mean feat). So, he stood there, in the night, under the laughing moon, in the middle of the dark woods and he suddenly came to his senses. It was as if a spell had broken and suddenly its hypnotic effect had no power. But there were now things moving on the periphery of the woods. Strange shapes. Inhuman shapes. Forms which were not quite human…”

“Did you clone yourself again? Or was it Cthulhu?”

“…and then he realized what the forms were because they came out from the woods and approached the stones. And he could see them clearly now in the light of the laughing moon. They were werewolves. And their faces were long, like the faces of wolves and their torsos were covered in fur and the claws, the claws, can you imagine the claws?”

At this, in the latter dusk, Jeremy pressed the flashlight function on his phone, shone it against a tree and set his hand far away from it but brought it down closer to the torch light so that the shadow looked like it was a huge claw coming towards Ezra. The shadow of a claw at least. The kind of trick which could be played on a three year old.

Ezra was unimpressed.

“I’m only listening to this crap because I have to work with you.”

“The claws Ezra, the claws…” he switched off the torch. “The claws were huge, like serrated knives, like scimitars. Longer than any claws he had thought werewolves (if he had believed in such things in sophisticated London) could ever have had. And they approached. Now Huckleberry knew that there was only one thing he could do. Well, there were a number of options, he could surrender his life to those werewolves and those claws or else he could run. But someone like our hero Huckleberry knows how to keep his head in a crisis situation. So what he did was the action of a man who uses his brain. He used the adrenaline in his body to climb one of the tall stones and then he crouched at the top of the stone he had climbed…”

“Wait a minute, how did he climb the stone again?”

“He had good quality trainers and the stone had a rough surface allowing him to climb.”

“Then why didn’t the werewolves climb too?”

“Their claws Ezra, their claws. The instruments which made them such successful and merciless killers also prevented them from climbing. So, they circled the stone on which Huckleberry crouched. From on top of the stone Huckleberry could see that there were ten werewolves, and there were ten stones and there was some kind of sacrificial stone in the centre, but he was on top of one of the outer stones. And beneath him the werewolves howled in hunger and frustration and he could see their hunger and he could see in their eyes their hatred of what they themselves were but their powerlessness to change that.”

“You stole that line from that writer Angela Carter. That’s plagiarism.”

“How would you know? You don't like stories. They simply did what they did naturally, but part of them seemed to hate that, like the community of the damned might. And Huckleberry’s legs hurt from his crouching but he was afraid to let them hang down the stone so that the werewolves might tear at his feet with those claws, so instead he had to sit cross-legged on the stone like a gnome. And that was all he could do. He had nothing to throw at them. He would have to wait until either help came or else morning came. But he took to screaming in the hope that someone from the campsite would hear him. The people on the campsite did hear the screams and the howls but they were too afraid to explore the woods.”

“I don’t think Huckleberry would have gone into the woods in the first place. Did you steal that idea too?”

“He was under a kind of enchantment from the werewolves, Ezra, which they use to take their prey. So he sat on top of the stone and waiting for morning. Soon his throat was ragged and sore from screaming and no-one came to save him. But the morning was coming and he felt in his heart and in his knowledge of folklore that the werewolves would retreat back to the woods to their lairs or else revert to human form. So he waited. He was clever, so he simply waited, as, if he was patient and kept his calm, he knew he could survive this as he had survived everything else life had thrown at him… that’s character building Ezra, did you like that?”

“You really are a pretentious anus.”

“It took such a long time and the werewolves prowled around the stones continually. But Huckleberry was patient and he simply waited and concentrated on breathing techniques to keep himself calm and keep himself from the strange enchantment which still clawed at his soul and made him wild and willing to sacrifice himself so that it would all be over. In for seven, out for eleven. In for seven, out for eleven. You should remember that, it's useful. Breath with me Ezra…”

“No.”

“He resisted this delusion, this imp of the perverse (look that phrase up online Ezra), and he resisted the werewolves and after a long, long time the dawn arrived. And it was cold now and he shivered. One werewolf tried one last time to reach him and failed. So the werewolves slunk back into the woods.

Soon Huckleberry was alone in the clearing on top of the stone and the sun rose in the aching sky. His legs had locked and were painful. And when he jumped to the ground they gave way from being in the same position, because the night had been a physical torture as well as a psychological and spiritual one. But it was day now and he lay on the ground breathing gasps of joy at being saved and being alive. He was about to get to his feet and make his way back to civilisation when he saw something once again on the edge of the woods. It was the werewolves. They came boldly. No one had told them that they had to return to their lairs and they were clever. So they raced towards their food, our hero Huckleberry and tore into him with their claws. Huckleberry’s guts spilled onto the grass and he was still alive to see himself split in half by one of the claws on the central stone. He died screaming. Poor chap. Such is the fate of civil servants.”

“Is that it?”

“Yep.”

“He died?”

“Yep.”

“This is why I hate stories. And stupid abrupt endings which resolve nothing. It's dark, I'm going back.”

"Philistine."

And the river kept his secret that year.

Halloween party

I was wrong. I really thought that the EU would veto an extension and there would be no deal. I resisted the temptation to bet on it because of ethics, but a bet of ten pounds would have made 160 pounds if there was no deal. It didn't happen, but all this is likely to resume on January 31st and who knows what has happened to Operation Yellowhammer now? Surely they should keep that going?

This is all boring politics. Anyone who is anyone (that's you faithful reader!) knows that tomorrow there is the annual Halloween story on this blog. It's your personal invitation to a Halloween party... cool to turn down, but so much cooler to attend.

It's all ready to roll... the Government isn't the only one with a plan...

It is called 'The River 2'. No faith-based didactic content in this one. Next year's story is likely to be called 'The River 3'. Like world wars, I think it important to think in terms of trilogies...

Nine more days to Halloween (the harvest is coming)...

To anyone who is assuming that all 27 EU country leaders will agree to another extension before October 31st - have you ever watched how Britain does in the Eurovision song contest? And why is Operation Yellowhammer now in action?

Anyway, whatever happens, the new Halloween story is all ready to roll on this blog - and free to read (yes free). Please don't say I don't give back to the culture.

Think happy thoughts.

On the future...

On October 31^st there is an event which everyone has eagerly been awaiting in the UK. Yes, that’s right, it’s my annual Halloween story! It shall faithfully be delivered as sure as the result of a democratic vote.

Concerning Brexit, which I know almost everyone is fed up with (although I can assure you that some people are enjoying the whole process), I do have a few thoughts...

Firstly, put on a little weight. I have no inside information. The prophets today are all over the shop and some are predicting a no-deal, some are predicting a deal, some are notably silent. No-one is prophesying remain. The consensus in those wild circles seems to be that God wants no-deal. Who would have known that God was such an ardent Brexiteer? Yes, that’s right, I read these prophecies so that you don’t have to (although they are there to see if you are as sad as me). In the same way, someone has read Operation Yellowhammer so that you don’t have to (and if you don’t believe me, try to actually read the document, because I don’t think it is even behind The Times’s paywall. Isn’t that some ‘leak’?)

So we are mostly left fed up and I would suggest that everyone put on a little bit of weight. It is well known that in a survival (#nodeal) situation those who are overweight will fair better because they have more reserves to call on. Believe me, I am practicing what I preach in this. The panic buying hasn’t started yet, but they say that it is wiser to buy a little at a time – so as to avoid the rush.

I have been going round advising everyone to prepare a little for a no-deal. Ignoring the accusations of fear-mongering, I have been thinking it pragmatic. If you are not rich then there is reason to worry that the only ones getting hurt in no-deal are the poor.

And if everything is honky-dory, the only ones looking silly will be people like me who are advising the country to do a little preparation.

Obviously, the more important event come October 31^st is my annual Halloween story and I have not neglected my dear reader on this count. The story has been prepared and has absolutely nothing to do with Brexit.

So, in the meantime…

Think happy thoughts.

The Pen is Mightier than the Knife

 

Metalsmith Mike Turner working hard

Around 800 young people and adults from across East London united on 15^th June to take a stand against the growing culture of violence and the knife crime epidemic.

Knives seized by police from the streets of Newham were melted down to make new garden tools and sculpture for display in an East Ham community garden.

The event was the first in the launch series of Red Letter Christians UK, a new interdenominational network of Christians.

Knife offences reached a record 40,000 in England and Wales in 2018. Last year, Newham also had the highest number of murders of any London borough.

Dr Sally Mann, Minister of Bonny Downs Baptist Church and spokesperson for Red Letter Christians in the UK, said:

“Today we’ve seen 800 people vocally and passionately calling for change. We’re determined, in our own small way, to create a legacy that lasts. The beautiful tools and art we’ve created out of knives from the streets will serve as a public reminder that hope can win over hate. We’ve committed today to delivering a knife surrender bin this summer, the only one in our borough. Perhaps above all, we look forward to discussing the great ideas we’ve heard today from many people already working for a safer community about how we can partner together better.”

One of the people attending was Paris Tankard, a young man personally affected by the violence on London’s streets. He said:

“I’ve seen first-hand how knife crime affects communities, having lost my friend to an attack just four months ago. I’m here today because events like this are incredibly important in helping communities to stand up against violence.”

Dr Sally Mann (Bonny Downs Church & RLC UK)

'Lures for the Landlocked' art exhibition

This is a shameless plug for my brother's latest art exhibition. He is very good, often using art and the written word together in his work. Check out some of his art at www.adamwhiteartist.co.uk.

You are personally invited to be hooked by

Lures for the Landlocked

on Friday 21^st June 6-9pm

An exhibition by Adam White

21^st June-7^th July

Stroud Valleys Artspace Gallery, John Street, Open Friday, Saturday and Sunday

10am -5pm or by appointment email: ichthy@outlook.com

Stone

Whenever I go on holiday (at least since the year 1999), I have chosen a small stone to take back home. I’m not quite sure why I do this. In hospital I read the book called ‘Hinds Feet in High Places’ and the heroine 'Much Afraid' picks up stones at parts of her journey as a sort of memorial to what she has been through and how she has survived and been helped by God. It just seems like a healthy thing to do.

The first I remember picking up as a child was a sandstone fossil from Portugal. I think it disintegrated.  Then came a beautiful stone made from lead topped with crystal which I found near a river at Hafod in Wales, aged ten. I loved that stone like a treasure, but as so happens with the things you love the most, you lose them. It is as if the universe sees your attachment and says 'He’s too fond of that, let’s take it away from him'. I lost it.

When I worked in London, I was amazed at how many churches were built from flint. So, I took a small piece from the ground in a graveyard. After that I became a little more disciplined in my task. I have containers with stones from all kinds of holidays from Britain and abroad. Most of them I cannot even place anymore, perhaps revealing how relatively lucky I am to have had so many holidays. Memorable stones include a piece of jet found on the beach at Whitby. It has become a bit of a tradition and a duty now and sometimes I almost forget and grab the nearest stone I can find in the last moments of a holiday. The stones do not choose me, I choose the stones. If I find one and then find a better one, I reject the first and feel a tinge of sadness for the rejected stone but remind myself that they are only stones and don’t really care.

As I write there is a stone which seems to be speaking: 'Anything to salve your conscience,' the stone seems to say. Silently smug or in such a fearful silence at what lies ahead that it dare not speak even though it has lived a tad longer than myself and will almost certainly outlive me till judgment day.

I think it is simply a nice thing to do, but it is not very edifying or healing. It is a quirk. Of which I have many. Perhaps they remind me of how much I have been through. But we are told not to be too proud to have survived, even though we are good at that and any one of us has the qualifications to write a book on survival in this world. They say that we should look at how many troubles God has brought us through. But when I think back, all I can remember is the pain of those troubles. A bad track record from God. Surviving long intolerable, unendurable circumstances does not necessarily make a person feel much peace for the future.

And the stones agree. 

But let’s end hopefully to please the optimists. In the dark grey slate of the rock of our lives there can also be a bright streak of silvery lead. Sadly, lead is poisonous. But it looks beautiful.