I left the church (see my previous post) and continued on my way. My mind was full of memories. Farm scents lingered. A pink spray of spur valerian in an old wall recalled the flower’s profusion on the sea defences at the river mouth below. Up the hill was the pub where my father and I drank bitter during an Easter break – his last Easter as it turned out. And I recalled the holidays my family spent there, not always free of strife. What family is?
And as I walked I met a young man – though perhaps he was in his forties, now I think of it. We said ‘good day’, as one does in a country lane, and I told him I had just been to look at the village church which I had known many years ago.
He warmed to my love of it and said he belonged to it himself and felt the same about it. He also treasured the Easter Garden each year. The Garden’s message of reconciliation represented his mission in life, he said.
Then he walked on.
He was an impressive young man. It would be good to talk more with him.