"He makes wars to cease to the ends of the earth"

A pike man of the English Civil War Society stands over the scene of battle. Along with his comrades, he has just tried to make real for us the struggle, the fear, the life and death of conflict.

Where others fell, he somehow survived.

Maybe he will be greeted amongst survivors of his regiment. Stories will be told of his courage in the face of fearful odds. Some will speak of his quiet, gentle nature when not called upon to do battle, and how others took heart in his ability to take the higher road. Those about him will ask themselves if they would be able to walk his way; would they be able to carry themselves in such a dignified and honourable manner in the face of death.

Only days ago, the pike man, my brother, Gordon Hardy stepped up to the real challenge of a life and death struggle and passed into his glorious reward. I for one have marvelled at his steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds. At every meeting with him on this last part of his journey, I have been left wondering how he could carry on in the way he has, and have been challenged as to how I would stand in my day of battle. I can only pray for the grace he knew, for the heart-strength he lived in, the honesty and integrity that were his hallmarks, and his gentleness of spirit.

Two days before he lay down his arms, I was with him in the spirit. It was in the mist of an early autumn morning. We talked together and decided to walk together homeward after many years of battles faced and all survived. I helped him dress for the last time in the kit of battle. His shirt and breeches, his stockings and boots. Afterwards the breastplate and helmet, the belt and sword. He hefted his pike and I told him "No, at the trail will do, no more fighting. This is the march for home."

Together we walked into a brightening sunrise, clouds clearing and mist lifting. We talked of all the years together. Childhood to manhood, war and peace, heartaches and joys were all touched upon and all covered by the last words we spoke together face to face - "I love you."
The time came on the track when I knew that I would have to let him go. There was no parting of the ways, merely a knowledge that this last part of the journey was for him and him alone. He simply walked ahead.

As I write I fill with the same remarkable sense of loss and certainty - my loss, our loss, his certain future in the Son-rise.

A day later, Gordon died, but just before (and with no knowledge of the latest situation) I was again with him in the spirit. We lay together. We took heart in the certain knowledge that Jesus was with us.

"He's safe," I said. "His arms are under us now," and there was a sense of falling through the bed, both of us held secure, but in that child in a dad's arms way.

This is not re-enactment, not some show for the public. This is the real thing. It has all the noise and clamour of battle, all the unsettling quiet that falls across the field when the final shot has been fired and the last moans and cries have faded away.

In all the madness of loss there is the sanity of certainty.

If you knew him, you would salute him:

Gordon Hardy, January 24, 1956 - October 14 2009

Saving the planet...

I was saving the planet last week.

T’was evening, and I was gainfully employed in the upstairs office (Mahjong Matching Pairs actually.) I heard the dulcet tones of Mrs Goodwife, as she called me to be about her business.

I headed off downstairs with the lights out – carbon footprint, global warming, etc. – and anyway I know my own house don’t-cha-know?

Fully confident in my nocturnal wanderings, and striding out manfully to do my loved one’s bidding, I turned right for the stairs and walked into the bathroom door. (It has truly always been there, just to the right and just before the top of the stairs.)   

View of unlit Bathroom door

     Bathroom Door (lit)

“Ow!” was my watchword. (At this point you must understand that it is only when I am quiet that Mrs de Moi becomes overly concerned. Noise is the norm, apparently, where I am concerned.)

I duly removed myself from the doorframe and continued to help save the planet by walking down the stairs and, still in the dark, missed the last two steps.

Wife’s concern was immediate. “Oh! No!...Mercy me!...Oh Pete!...just look…You’ve gone and dripped blood on the carpet!”

First Aid was the order of the day. A piece of kitchen roll was thrust into my hand to stop further damage to the floor covering, and time was well spent clearing up the damage. (There is something in modern medical emergency thinking called the “Golden Hour” – treat a victim in the first hour and there is a much greater survival rate.)

Eventually, I was inspected at close quarters. “That could be a stitch or two” said my resident nurse. “It’s the Accident and Emergency Department for you my boy.”

I could not contain my excitement as I anticipated stitches in the head, as well as my new found street cred with difficult young men I meet in educational establishments. I had to call my daughter on the way to share my news. She just asked to speak to her mum and said she was sorry for her. (Is it just me, or are women really wired up differently to men?)

Well, to cut a long story short, the next four hours were spoken for so to speak. I was smacked on the hand at regular intervals and scolded for trying to make the cut more dramatic by poking at it. I was a ‘Non-urgent’ case, would not be stitched, merely glued and, as Mrs Wife pointed out it had cost us £4:00 for travel and parking, and £2:00 for snacks (did I mention  the carbon footprint involved in the journey and in keeping a whole hospital on standby for my visit?)

Cost of lighting the landing and stairs for two minutes – 0.16p; cost of putting things right £6:00. You do the maths (or “math” if you happen to be one of our North American cousins.)

Of course, explaining the facial damage was not easy. I carried a note for some days in order to keep my story straight.

Saving the planet, huh?

Next morning I read a nice bit of a book called Isaiah. God gets to talk in it some. He says that my thoughts are below His level, and my actions seem to keep in step with my thoughts.

The aim seems good, it’s just worth doing that old ‘think before you jump’ routine.

Much love

Pete 

prism my ism...

I had my eyes tested the other day.

I know that they are not quite the full picnic.

 

I was paying particular attention to the astigmatism (or should that be astigmatisms?) Yup, one for each eye folks!

 

Apparently the left wanders upwards (see diagram attached) whilst the right veers to the right somewhat.The thingymabob used by the optician should have red lines passing throught the point of light in the centre of the black box. My starting point for each eye is as shown above.

The great thing is, she just like pushed a  button and said, "Is this better than this?"

I was interregated thus until finally both eyes had the line on the spot.

I was put in mind of all my funny little 'isms'. Seeing off-field right, above the spot left etc, etc, etc.

It's like Jesus has been busy sticking in prisms to pull my view into line with his. It's been a life-time's work and it's not done yet.

 

Then again, I've been wearing specs since I was six years old and the optician says she's looking forward to a return visit in a couple of years time. (With the over-rider that I can pop back in should I feel the need.)

I guess prisming the ism ain't over 'till it's over...

PS: note the glue spot and scarring over left eye - more next time under the title "Saving the Planet".

clouds and glory

As far as I know, my uncle Ernie hit the headlines twice.

 In 1936, he was fined heavily (and rightly so) for doing serious damage to a pit pony with a pit prop.

 “You are very fortunate not to be going to prison”, said the Beak.

 Then, in May 1956, as a Battery Quartermaster Sergeant with the Royal Artillery he gets the British Empire Medal (letter from the Queen, etc, etc.) for services rendered in the Far East.

 So, Ernie leaves the village under a cloud and returns covered in honour!

 Believe it or not, that’s the whole Gospel story. Come to Jesus under a cloud, take him at his word and come out covered in glory.

 Early season’s greetings to one and all! (Especially those in the clouds)

Fire Proof...

I've got this friend right. 

A friend for years OK. 

He comes out with just some of the best stuff!

He was chatting to a guy who runs a crematorium. 

The crematorium man was talking about the realities of disposing of the human shell when it's run its course. Obviously it makes you think.

Into the middle of this conversation my mate says "The human spirit is fire proof."

When he told me this, I absolutely loved it. Couldn't get it out of my mind. FIRE PROOF!

'See, I've been reading all sorts of challenging stuff lately. Stuff that has been going down to the root of how I live, how I think. The fact is, I have been following Jesus for some 37 years. At times I've been regarded as radical. At times I've thought of myself as a close relation to the traditional English suet dumpling - a bit thick, a little on the heavy side, stodgy maybe, and very well boiled. The truth of the matter is that this is a journey and it has its ups and downs. Destination certain, mode of travel interesting! 

During times like these, it's great to hear again that the spirit is FIRE PROOF. 

I guess we could relate it to a trip on the space shuttle. Re-entry is the really interesting bit. If you're going to live to tell the tale of all your adventures, you'd better just hope they got those little tiles on the outside right! All kinds of bits and pieces will be burned off during re-entry, it's what's left that will matter and will really tell the tale.

So folks, during this particular part of the journey, it came as a reassuring reminder from my mate, "The human spirit is fire proof."

Good thing too, I say.

Love

Pete

They call him Mellow Yellow. Quite rightly.

Laugh!? We all fell off our corporate chair!

Once again I have become the object of derision amongst family and friends and the cause of mirth for any stranger passing.

Yes, dear ones, I am like a letter publicly read by all. Now, I share myself with the virtual world.

We all know that topping up the water in your flower vases is not a straightforward affair. It’s so easy to find the life-giving liquid dribbling down the side of the container, or directing itself along the leaves and pooling on the newly polished tabletop and eventually cascading to the floor.

And so it was that I found myself amongst the Longiflora Lilies. Moving in closely to avoid overspill, I directed the jug to the best possible spot. I carried with me the cloth of mopping (at the same time working the said cloth of mopping into a state of redundancy by my careful orchestration of jug, vase, flowers and water.)

Not a drop, ladies and gentlemen, not a single drop went anywhere but into the vase!

Oh the ecstasy! The outpouring of self-congratulation as I stood back to admire the work of my hands! See the dryness of tabletop and floor! Feel the cloth of mopping unused and available for future and immediate use (by one, no doubt less careful than myself.) Sense the joy of thirsty stems reborn through water, oh my word! Anticipate with mounting excitement the approbation of the lovely wife as she realizes that man is capable of such homely activity as topping up the flowers!

And so we fast forward to the following morning.

Hair washed and body prepared for the new day, our heroic bloom dowser casts a critical eye over his morning’s toilet before unleashing himself upon the world.

What is this he sees?

Has his hair – previously silvered by the ravages of time – been touched miraculously in the night? What are these strange and wonderful straw-like tints? How now the move from aging man-about-town to blond bombshell? Is this a “Stars in their eyes” home production?

“Yes, Matthew, tonight I am going to be…STING!”

Nope. It’s simply a case of pride coming before the fall. Getting close up and personal with Longiflora means coming into close proximity to some of the most powerful pollen known to man. Witness the bright yellow of its hue! Experience now for yourself the tenacity with which it bonds to any passing scalp! Behold the new man.

Oh brave new world that hath such creatures in it.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere waiting to get out. More later.

Love
The Artist Formerly Known as Pete

Lost? What me? Lost? How do you mean, lost?

I love that God specialises in finding things! (My diary just returned after three weeks of heart pounding uncertainty.)

There are a lot of spooky ideas circulating around the “I was lost but Jesus found me” idea. I’ve concluded that the lost-ness is the confusion, the mess I make of stuff, the sense of “How was it I ended up here? I didn’t set out to get here! But here I am anyway!”

I am enjoying the thought that Jesus didn’t die on the cross to make us Christians, or live to show us how to be good Christians either.

No. I think that the whole show was about getting us back in touch with our Father ( the one in heaven) so that he could get his arms around us, settle us down and unpick the deep-seated loss lurking in all of us.

Now, where did I put my keys?

Highest of all possible regards

Pete

Now where did I put that...

"And when did you last see your father?"

Dear Dad,

I think I might be getting to a “certain age”.

Physically there are the usual suspects. Mostly grey to white on top. I’m waging a kind of trench warfare on the trouser waist-band (you know the sort of thing – short, sharp, bloody conflicts for little gain or loss.) I have this piffling issue with the middle finger on my right hand, for some reason it doesn’t want to bend as well as it used to. Oh, and I’ve gone and got a pillow to help me sleep at night without waking up with a stiff neck. Par for the course I guess.

Then there’s the memory. I had something really enthralling to say about memory but it seems to have slipped my mind for the moment. Never mind, if it’s that important I guess it will come back to me. I have a lot of stuff out there at the moment. I’m considering patenting the “Pete Hardy Custom-Built Black-Hole Filing Cabinet”. It will provide handy storage for all those lost things, thoughts and ideas that were so very important but have been miss-laid, who knows where, who knows when. It may even prove to be a springboard for a modern day “Peter Pan” featuring “Lost Ponderings” in place of “Lost Boys”.

I’ve been through all the lines.

“Whatever you are looking for is just not where you are looking for it now.” (Dead helpful!)

“Where did you last have it?” (Thank you very much!)

“Just stop thinking and it will come back to you”. (Some people are of the opinion that I stopped thinking a long time ago and look where it’s got me!)

“It can’t be all that important or you wouldn’t have lost it in the first place.” (So where does that leave us when we lose our heart to someone, or we lose our mind, or our shirt on a horse, or track of time?)

Sometimes, I grant you, things go missing and we settle on a kind of “lost stuff truce.” A ceasefire on the searching front brings a temporary peaceful lull in the “Have you seen my…” daily / hourly warfare that is life. I thought that only teenage boys suffered from this particular ailment.
“Dad! Have you seen my…”

“Have you looked under the bed?

“Yeah!”

“How about with the pile of dirty washing on your Hi-Fi?”

“Grunt!”

“Well in the drawer?...What do you mean, you can’t get the drawer open?”

The standard conclusion to this exchange is that you climb the stairs, enter boy’s room (following a suitable course of vaccinations) and immediately locate said lost item just beneath the pile of washing which has remained untouched save for the prerequisite cursory stir at the top.

Of course the old adage “It isn’t lost, it’s just not where you are looking for it” eventually comes into its own. A case in point is the old friend who rang up out of the blue. Like, over 20 years out of the blue!

“Hello. Sorry to bother you. Is that the Hardy household?”

“It might be.”

“Ah! Well, is there a Mr. Hardy there?”

“Could be.”

“A Mr. Peter Hardy?”

“Possibly. Who’s asking?” (This born of interminable conversations with people trying to sell me the latest in underwater ballroom dancing kit, or rubber spanners for dealing with awkwardly placed plumbing joints.)

“It’s Barney. Barney Coward.”

“You’re kidding. We haven’t seen each other since…”

The upshot is that we did get together. It was as if we had never been apart. The story really began when Barney cleared out his office. Would you believe it he said. All these years I spent looking for your telephone number. All those times I thought about the old days and wanted to get in touch. Could he find that number? Not likely! Till the day of the office clear-out. Emptying a box file Barney came across an address book. He claimed that it fell open at my name with an address which fitted our family three house moves ago!

“So on the off-chance that you’d kept your old telephone number I just gave it a whirl” he said. “And would you believe it man? There you were.”

See? I wasn’t lost. I simply wasn’t where Barney was looking at the time.

Lately I’ve been especially blessed by my wife. She hates clutter with a vengeance. Of course, like many of these attitudes in life it all stems from childhood. Her mum stored things up. Well you would, wouldn’t you if you had lived through two world wars? She stored tinned salmon in the wardrobe “Just in case”, and shoes two sizes too small “Well you never know, do you?” The upshot is that Ruth was minimalist before there was minimalist and there is little chance of Feng Shui catching on at our house since I believe it hangs on the principle of rearranging things to some deep spiritual effect. If there is little or nothing to rearrange…Well, I rest my case.

Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining. The silver lining in point is the welter of “lost” items turning up as a result of the latest sort out. All manner of vital things have come to light. Not, of course, lost at all. They were simply not in the place I was looking.

Pieces of slag from the bottom of the James River, Virginia, USA. Wondrous to gaze upon (even better to handle with their silky-smooth surfaces.) I always felt they looked fetching when tastefully placed on a hearth or mantle-piece. On the other hand, our daughter said that they looked like something a dog had just evacuated onto a pavement. Thus proving, that beauty is indeed, in the eye of the beholder.

The Time Fuse from a First World War shell. Not of its purpose an attractive object. Nonetheless it is of historical note and provides something of a talking point when displayed on a widow-sill. (A council of war was called when the said fuse came to light again and it was decided by one vote to one vote that it should reside in future on the desk of my town office, not, note well, on the desk of my home office!)

I could go, some would say, at length. I withhold, for instance, any comment on my fossil collection or the particularly fine examples I have of old receipt books. These being the really delightful, not to say, in their time, useful artifacts that came with a piece of carbon paper inserted to make copies – one for the customer and one for the retailer. There is also something endearing (nay, even enduring) about the blue marbling effect on the covers. I mean to say, who would go to all that trouble now? There definitely remains something to be said for the good old days.

Enough, the point is made. Things not lost, not even miss-laid, but simply not in the place we are looking for them.

So far, so ordinary. My item related amnesia has, I fear, moved on to a second stage. My new condition came to light only a short time ago.

I guess I’m back to discuss loss with you again.

You remember when my other dad died. You were very good to me then, and lots of things fell into place for me when we talked it all through. Your patience seemed never-ending at the time. I’m just sorry it took so long for me to get that one straightened out.

Well the fact is that I’ve recently become orphaned (in a manner of speaking.) I only say “in a manner of speaking” since I seem to have managed to hold on to you. Or is it that you have held on to me? No matter. To put it bluntly, my mum died.

Now, in this matter of the recent bereavement, you have already proved your weight in gold. The bottom line is that I just know that it is, and that it will be, alright. It’s just the old memory problem rearing its head in a new and somewhat disturbing way. A close, caring, and undoubtedly well-meaning friend asked how I was doing.

“Well you know, I’m good. My other dad has been looking after me. Things were as good as they could be in the circumstances. Very peaceful. Not a lot of loose ends. We were all there when the time came. Thankfully mum was compos mentis. Not a lot of suffering. Like people say, “She’s in a better place now.” (I mean to say, almost anywhere might be better than Intensive Care.) It’s just…”

“Sorry? Just what?”

“Hard to put it into words just now.”

“Try if you like.”

“I’m not sure I understand myself yet. I know I’ve lost something but I’m not quite sure what it is. If you see what I mean?”

“Hmm.”

Well there we are then. Memory Loss, Stage Two – not, in fact, forgetting where you put something, but instead not being entirely sure of what it is you’ve lost!

This, I think, is where you really come in to your own. I remember feeling pretty lost myself once. Actually more than once. And for some considerable time. I seem to recall that when we got down to brass tacks, you and I, the issue wasn’t so much my state of lost-ness. You went to considerable lengths, if I remember rightly, to get to the bottom of just what it was I had actually lost. As I got clearer in my own mind about that, well then my state of being lost came ever so slowly into focus. Once again, you played the ace card. Ever so surely, you manage to dig below the surface, scratch where it itches, soothe where it aches, etc,etc,etc.

So then, memory loss, another of your specialties. Can we skip stage one? The truth is I know exactly where I lost my mum. Maybe I’m beginning to think like you (like father like son huh?) Stage two, begin!

Now what is it exactly I seem to have lost?

Please, please, please, write soon

Love, you know who.

falling in love again what am I to do?...

Grand-daughter, six weeks old. Mum and baby doing fine (dad too!)


We are not long back from sharing her first two weeks with them and are both truly besotted. Canada seems further away than ever!


Ruth and I remember each moment with great relish. We think particularly of how we could just watch and watch. Even asleep little Addie is never boring.


Now I keep thinking of how God looked on Jesus. “That’s my boy!”
See? Never bored, always besotted.


Somehow we lose track of the fact that Easter, and the death and
resurrection of Jesus is not about law, and religion. Easter is a
reinstatement. God looks at us like I look at Addie – in love, and truly
besotted.


Pete

best foot forward eh?

So then. Long awaited. Into the world on the 6th February.

Now we're jumping just like countless grandparents before us.

But this is our walk. This is our time. This is our leap into the faith pond. It never stops does it, this faith walking business? It never gets less challenging, never less exciting, never less demanding.

I thought that the whole Jesus thing was for the faint-hearted. As it turns out it seems to be more for those who can admit to just being faint of heart.

The call is to put your best foot forward. One step - light. Another step - light. And another...

So baby, now it's your turn. It's your time to run the race. And all those who have run, and are still running will cheer you on.

Interesting that they put a little label on you so that everyone will know who you belong to.

A lesson for us all there I think. Knowing who we really are allows us to really get on with the business in hand.

Go baby, go!!!!!

Love

Pete

Jaw Dropping Good!

So we decided to take our son’s Christmas presents over for him. We could have posted them but it seemed better to take them in person.

Of course there had to be an element of surprise, so we never mentioned that we were coming. We just dropped in at his work.

His face! You couldn’t have bought it! We stayed a week to make the trip worth it. (Did I mention that he lives in Toronto?)

As we left for the airport he said, “Every night, we just say, “Mum and Dad came all this way!””

Just like Christmas really. God could have posted his love, but turned up in the flesh. Once that registers, it doesn’t half make your jaw drop!

Happy New Year.

Highest regards

Pete

PO Box 29376354

Overheard on my travels:

“Kids like me don’t do education.” … “People from there, well they’re all

the same aren’t they?” … “If you knew what my family was like

you’d…” … “Never tried it, don’t want to try it, won’t ever try it!” …

“Don’t give me that Jesus stuff… seen the church…seen the people…”


It seems that from day one we are either building a box to live our lives

in, or having it built for us. As we get older the box gets tighter. The

walls get thicker. Any sense of the freedom Jesus died for becomes

a distant dream, some say a myth.


His challenge to us is to live outside the box. The challenge starts today

Box or freedom – it really is your choice.

Highest regards

Pete

are you old enough to remember winkle-pickers?

Dear Dad,

I’ve been sussed. Seen through. Uncovered if you catch my drift.

Sorry to start so abruptly but I think that I may be getting into this letter writing business now. I find that I’m doing what I do so easily (and maybe a little rudely too I fear) when I meet up with friends. I don’t know if you have ever had the same kind of problem. Probably not. There you are trying to chat something over with one of the family when in rushes another one of the kids, full of vim and vigour, excited about whatever it is and can’t hold back a moment longer.

I do know that it’s been like that at our house from time to time. We had a really nice lad came to visit. No, I mean really nice. Well mannered, made his bed after him - everything you hope for in your own children when they stay at someone else’s place. Actually he did have one small shortcoming. It was his appetite. Bless him, he could empty a chest freezer single-handed and still have room for afters. I remember sitting around the table after one particularly satisfying feed – Jay was just mopping up after the rest of us.

“Are those Yorkshire puddings still free?” he enquired with a nod to the six or seven still lying on the plate. “I could sure help out with those at a pinch.” (Did I mention that he was one of our American cousins?)

Typically, he had to wait for a bit of a lull in the conversation before he got his chance at the leftovers. Ruth and I are not sure what they put in the water round our way, but everybody shouts across the table all the time. We were right in the middle of a really deep discussion about the lyrics of an R.E.M. song when I noticed that he was looking just a bit weepy.

“Go on then,” I said encouragingly, “help yourself man. No standing on ceremony. If you are still a bit peckish I’ll get the lovely Mrs Hardy to boil up a couple of goldfish from the garden pond. They just might see you over till tea time.”

Of course, I’d put my foot in it again. It turns out he wasn’t; actually crying with hunger.

“Whatever’s the matter?” I asked moving into caring, father-like mode.

“I was just thinking that we don’t get to do this at my place,” he replied. “You know, like just sit around and shoot the breeze. I was enjoying it so much it really moved me somewhat.”

Well, I must admit that I thought it must have truly moved him ”somewhat” if, for even a passing moment, he had been put off his stroke in the scoffing department. But the point is, I think, reasonably well made. ‘Fact is that, in our house, it can be a challenge getting a word in edgeways. So, do you ever have the same problem? Do you have kids who interrupt each other when you are around? Or do they all behave with just incredible and impeccable manners? Do you ever have to get to the point of shouting “Can you all just pipe down and give a body a bit of peace and quiet in his own home?” Well, do you?

I’m sorry. I know I wander off at a tangent far too easily but you seem to have the knack of drawing stuff out of me just when I am least expecting it.

Which brings me round full circle to the real business in hand. I have been sussed.

For over thirty years I have been trying to spring surprises on Ruth. I long to manage it just the once but I think I am condemned to failure in this area of life. It all began with the first serious present I ever bought for her. It was a wristwatch. I bought it in Leeds when we went out on a Christmas shopping trip. I worked so hard at disappearing for a short while. I had a great excuse and took only moments to do the deal as I had well and truly done my homework. I knew exactly which shop to go to, how much it cost, make and model number. I got back with the watch burning a hole in my pocket.

“Where have you been?” she asks me.

“Oh, just…”

“Getting me a watch?”

“Well, err, err, no, err not exactly…”

“What do you mean, “Not exactly”?”

I can’t bore you with the rest of the sordid details – how apparently my mouth turns up into a sort of wry smile when I try to lie, how the words fail me as I try to explain myself.

The present case in point is not important. It’s more the principle of the thing, and I am beginning to think that you have had some kind of a hand in the matter.

My other dad was good at this kind of thing too. Always knowing stuff about me. It was like he was operating CCTV cameras on the streets of our village before we even had a television set of our own at home. (It was years before I uncovered the secret of his spy network. Thankfully this was just in time for me to work up my own version of it for use on my own kids.)

There was the time we (the other kids off our street mostly) decided to have a fire. Matches had to be bought after money had been “found” from somewhere or other. Someone had to go to the pit canteen for the matches and that someone was me. Everything went swimmingly. In fact we got on like a house on fire. All was consumed and we went home. Dad then appeared and asked about the fire.

“What fire?” (Was that a wry kind of smile accompanied by…)

“You know full well what fire. The canteen lady just happened to mention that you had called in for matches “For my dad like.” She saw me when I came off my shift.”

At this point all reason left me as I launched into a full frontal denial of all things incendiary. Unfortunately, the lingering smell of wood smoke and the singed appearance of my eye-length fringe may have helped give the game away. Rear facing parts of my anatomy began to sting and give off heat enough to match the front facing parts which had recently been exposed to the fire. It was certainly an afternoon to remember.

Which brings me unerringly back to you and your part in all this. It is just the way you get into the things that happen without actually appearing to be there at all. My daughter Laura made some sense of it once when she said that she didn’t get involved in some scam or other with her mates.

“Why not?” I wondered out loud. “I mean, it’s not as if I was even there.”

“Well, I knew that you wouldn’t have liked it” she said wandering off about her business and letting me work that one out for myself.

For some reason or another – maybe because I knew that I was thinking of writing to you – the smoking episode crossed my mind. My other dad was very philosophical about it. His spy network had provided him with all the necessary evidence. I suppose I might be even grown up enough now to credit him with some common sense of his own and admit that he worked most of it out for himself. The missing matches (not matches again!), the sauntering off just a smidgeon too early for the school bus, the packet of fags he found under my bed (that might have tipped the balance somewhat.) But, philosophical he definitely was.

“There’s not much I can say is there? I’ve smoked since I was eight. I wish you didn’t but I can’t stop you I suppose.”

End of story, or so I thought.

I managed to develop a well-rounded and satisfying habit. Forty a day was well within my sights with more during periods of stress. French cigarettes were always the most welcome and I remember a particularly generous gift for my twenty-first birthday. (Generous but, as it turned out, endued with a certain built-in redundancy.)

Two days after the event, and with plenty of the Gallic treats still waiting to be consumed it all came to a halt. The fire of desire fizzled as it were.

I was working at a local pub (as you will well recall.) As it happens, I had been chatting to a number of the customers about my “new-found” dad. (That would be you I suppose.) It was time to stop serving and (oh blessed relief) time to light up one of the French beauties lying under the counter. We had been just taking over the possibilities of us having a second dad (like yourself.)

I was setting a match to the Gauloise as one of my customers finished off his pint. “We’ve all got our gods,” he said as he consigned his beer to the depths and seemingly pointed at me lighting up at the same time.

To this day, I can’t say that I saw you there. Equally, to this day I can’t be certain that you were not somewhere lurking behind the bar. All I know is that you could at least have been there in spirit and I felt a bit like our Laura (“Well I knew that you wouldn’t have liked it”.)

The fact of the whole matter is, as well you know, I didn’t light up then, and I haven’t since. I must be a good fifty-four years between fags now. It’s my record for giving up.

As I look back on it – and so very many more incidents like it – I am put strangely in mind of my granddad. He was my mum’s dad and I found him irresistible. I think I loved nearly everything about him. The way he spoke – broad, slow, colourful Norfolk. The way he walked – legs supported by marvellous boots and iron contraptions since a road accident robbed him of much of his own power and ability. The way he sang everywhere he went. How he chain-smoked and could still beat anyone at billiards whilst blinded by the ever-present “Wild Woodbine”. The way he ate – deliberate and with a deep sense of thankfulness and enjoyment.

H particularly loved winkles.

“Nuthin’ better boy” he would declare as he inserted one of my grandma’s needles into the shell and picked out the “little booty”.

Accompanying this would be a slice off a brown loaf, fresh from his work at the bakery and buttered with no concern whatsoever for cholesterol or any other such related disease. His whole face would wrinkle up in delight as he made a banquet from so little. Looking back on it now, when he was eating and when he was sleeping were the only occasions I can imagine him being without the ever-present “Woodbine” – one out of pure necessity and the other out of pure and unbounded personal satisfaction.

It is that winkling action that reminds me so much of you. There was granddad, needle in hand, eyes screwed up to the task. He never missed, and each winkle came out oh so cleanly (“No trouble at all boy!”) And now I can’t think of you as being anything other than terrific with the needle. There you are – just out of sight - needle poised, and you give me the feeling that you can’t wait for some things to be out. Funny thing is, I don’t even seem to miss them when they are gone.

How good is that?

So. I’ve been sussed. Seen through. Just a bit uncovered.

I think, if I close my eyes for a moment, I catch a fleeting glimpse of you, some fresh pulled sea creature skewered, your eyes screwed up to the task and a look of pure, unbounded personal satisfaction on your face.
More love than I used to think I had in me,
Pete

come on home

I love you
as I love my own.
For, by your choice,
that's what you are.
By your own will
(that makes it twice the thing!)
And that's how Jesus sees us now;
yes bought,
but coming to Him
by our own desire
sets hearts afire -
both his and ours,
both yours and mine.
But finer still
(as He views the thing)
is how His father warms
to this old theme.
His words come fast,
and tumble out -
can't help themselves -
as He gives word to heart,
"I love you
as I love my own."

show far show good...

Overheard between low-level passes at the airshow...

“Hey mate! My son has been asking all year if that man who salutes him will be on the air-show gate. He was over the moon when he saw you. I don’t really understand it.”
“Well it’s because God likes both of you and does nice things for you.”

“Hey. The weather looks a bit bad for the flying. Fingers crossed for tomorrow eh?”
“Nah. Let’s pray and ask our Dad for something good!”
“Hi! So the sun is shining this morning then? Did you do that talking to God stuff?”
“Yup!”
“And you really think it works?
“Yes. He likes you, you know.”

“Oh sir, why the long face?”
“I was pick-pocketed yesterday at the show and they took every penny I had. I really don’t even know if I have enough petrol to get back home tonight, but I came to make the best of the last day.”
“Oh man! So bad. I can’t think of anything to say to make it better, but I will ask if my Dad in heaven can help out.”
“Well I never. I don’t know what made me look behind a different seat to mine in the grandstand. But there was my wallet. It was jammed in where it must have landed yesterday. Amazing thing is that there’s £200 in it – all still there!”
“Well that’s great. I could only pray for you sir. I think God likes you.”
(We gave everybody back their money donated in the emergency relief whip round later. Moral? Do something in approximately the right direction and God might just go the extra mile!)


“Morning madam. I was thrilled to see you walking so well this year. Even with the sticks you look so good now. It was a wheelchair last year and I’ve been asking God if He could see his way to improving things. I know it was so hard for you.”
“Yes, and that’s not all. I met my future husband on the grandstand here last year. He’s with me now. It’s been a fantastic year even though I still have a lot of pain.”
“Ever get the feeling that God likes you madam?”

“We still remember your bad jokes even months after the air-show. We sort of look forward to seeing you again despite them.”
Well thank you very much, we aim to please and we only want to brighten up your day. God likes you, you know.”
“Well, maybe. All we know is that there isn’t another air-show gate with entertainment thrown in!”

“Can we take you home with us?”
“No madam, but you can take my Dad – actually, He’s going your way anyway!”

“What sort of church are you part of?”
“Er. Church church!”…You know, Jesus is making it and he’s like restoring us.”
“What?”
“Well, making us what he always planned us to be. You know, more like “Will the real me please stand up?” and it’s starting to happen.”
“I’m looking for some of that.”
"Look. I’ll talk to my Dad in Heaven. You came back to the air-show next year and tell me how He surprised you. It won’t all be over by then but you will be on the journey!”
“Really?”
“Really!”
“You think so?”
“I know so!”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because He likes you!”

Love,
Pete