A Short Story: I am here

Again, I have based this short story on a poem I wrote ages ago, loosely based on Isaiah 58:9.

I Am Here

The rain had been falling for hours, soaking the streets of Reading and the spirits of those who walked them. Marla stood beneath the awning of the shelter, arms crossed, watching the line of people stretch down the block. Some clutched blankets, others held plastic bags with all they owned. Most just waited, silent and soaked.

She had volunteered here for years, but tonight felt heavier. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the man who had shouted at her earlier, angry that there weren’t enough beds. Maybe it was the way her own heart felt clenched, like a fist she couldn’t release.

Inside, the soup simmered. Bread was sliced. Volunteers moved with practiced rhythm. But Marla lingered at the door, unsure why she couldn’t step back in.

A voice broke her reverie: “You alright?” It was Thomas, the shelter’s night manager. His coat was damp, his eyes tired but kind. Marla hesitated. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m failing. Like we’re all failing.” Thomas nodded slowly. “It’s easy to feel that way. But this isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about showing up.” She looked at him, unsure what to say.

He continued, “Isaiah says, ‘Share your food with the hungry, and do not turn away from your own flesh and blood.’ That’s not a strategy. It’s an act of love.” Marla blinked, surprised by the scripture. “You quoting prophets now?” Thomas smiled. “Only the good ones.” They stood in silence for a moment, the rain softening to a mist.

Then Marla saw her. A girl, maybe ten, standing at the edge of the line. No coat. No shoes. Just a soaked hoodie and a plastic bag clutched to her chest. Her lips were blue. Marla moved without thinking. She grabbed a blanket from the bin inside, a bowl of soup, and a pair of dry socks. She knelt before the girl, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and offered the soup.

The girl looked at her with wide eyes, unsure whether to trust. “It’s okay,” Marla said gently. “You’re safe now.” The girl took the bowl, hands trembling. She didn’t speak, but her eyes said everything.

Marla sat beside her on the wet pavement, not caring about the cold. She didn’t ask questions. She just stayed.

And in that moment, something shifted. The clenched fist inside her heart loosened. The bitterness she hadn’t named began to dissolve. She felt the warmth of the soup, the weight of the blanket, the quiet presence of a child who had been brave enough to show up.

Later, as the girl slept in one of the last beds, Marla stood in the hallway and whispered a prayer—not polished, not perfect, just honest. “I’m tired. I’m angry. But I want to keep showing up. Help me.”

And in the silence that followed, she felt it: not a voice, not a miracle, but a presence. A nearness. As if the answer had already come. As if the words were already spoken: “I am here.”

Short Stories: You Will Become Clean

You Will Become Clean
(A short story based on a poem of mine based on (2 Kings 5:13)

Naaman had always been a man who filled a room. Even before he spoke, people straightened their backs, adjusted their cloaks, and tried to look useful. He was the commander of Aram’s armies, a man whose victories were sung by soldiers around their fires. Yet for all his strength, Naaman carried a private dread beneath his armour: the creeping, mottled patches on his skin that no ointment, no priest, no whispered charm had ever eased. The scourge of leprosy.

He hid it well. A general learns to hide many things. But the disease advanced, slow and relentless, and Naaman felt his world narrowing. He feared the day when his men would recoil, or when the king’s favour would cool into pity.

It was a young servant girl, an Israelite taken in war, who first spoke hope into his despair. She told Naaman’s wife of a prophet in Samaria, a man of God who could heal what no physician could touch. Naaman resisted the idea at first. It seemed absurd that a foreign holy man might succeed where Aram’s finest healers had failed. But desperation has a way of loosening pride, and soon he was on the road with a royal letter, gifts, and a caravan of soldiers.

When he reached the house of Elisha, he expected ceremony. He expected the prophet to come out, wave his hands, call upon heaven, and perform something suitably impressive for a man of his rank. Instead, a servant opened the door and delivered a simple message:

“Go and wash in the Jordan seven times. Your flesh will be restored, and you will become clean.”

Naaman felt heat rise in his chest: anger, humiliation, disbelief. The Jordan? That muddy trickle compared to the broad rivers of Damascus? Was this a joke at his expense? He turned his horse sharply, ready to leave the whole foolish errand behind.

But his servants, who knew him well enough to risk honesty, rode alongside and spoke gently.

“My father,” one said, “if the prophet had asked you to do something difficult, you would have done it. Why not try this simple thing?”

Their words settled on him like cool water. Naaman slowed. Pride is a heavy armour, and he felt its weight now. He realised he could either cling to it or be healed, but not both. So he went down to the Jordan.

The water was cold, unremarkable, almost disappointing. But he stepped in. Once. Twice. Three times. With each immersion he felt something loosening, not on his skin, but in his heart. By the seventh time, when he rose and wiped the water from his eyes, he saw his flesh renewed, smooth as a child’s.

Naaman stood in the river, stunned. The healing was real, but so was the change within him. He had come seeking a cure; he received instead a lesson in humility, trust, and the quiet power of obedience.

And as he rode home, the sunlight warm on his restored skin, he understood something he had never grasped before: sometimes the smallest act, stepping into the water, admitting our need, is the doorway through which grace enters and makes us clean.

But Naaman’s story lingers long after. The water that restored him still speaks to us, still moves through the life of the Church. The water washes still today, when we follow on this way, in prayer and water, making us clean. In every baptism, even in the gentle lifting of a child at the font, and the pouring of water over the head, the same quiet mercy flows, the same invitation of grace and renewal.

The Sunday Archive: The Pilot, August 1997 - Part 12

The Sunday Archive: The Pilot, August 1997 - Part 12

SHORTLY after his arrival in a new parish, the vicar was asked to conduct a funeral service.

In the service he announced: "I'm sorry that I cannot pay tribute to the deceased as I did not know him. But if any of you would like to say a few words, please feel free to do so."

There was complete silence. "Now don't be shy," continued the vicar, "I'm sure some of you would like to say a kindly word about your friend." Finally a voice from the back muttered: "His brother was worse!"

—Rev John Dodd, Grouville

St Luke and St James
From
DAVID JONES Priest-in-Charge

The Winds of Change and the Challenge to Share

THE twentieth century crept closer to the Established Church in the Bailiwick of Jersey last month, yet the Deanery Synod again ran away from facing the need to look at the present conditions of the Church of England and what the future held and the challenge to change. Ours is the last Deanery in our Diocese to face the challenge! The "Other Island" has already done its job. Why is Jersey last? What a reputation, when we could be leading the way with imagination and flare! A lot was said about history and the need to preserve, and not in "my parish," and why not next door?

For those of you unaware of the issue, it was the need to release two clergy posts in the Island, so that places with greater need may benefit on the mainland. This is something new for us here but very common for the last twenty years in the UK. Back in the 70's it was realised that most of the Church of England's clergy were in the rural areas, when most of the population lived in urban areas. 

So a process of better use of the manpower of the Church was undertaken and the number of clergy, serving relatively small populations, was reduced by the uniting of parishes under one priest. Added to this there were, and are, less men (and now women) offering themselves for the Ordained Ministry and less money to pay for them. Thus there was a growing need, with less resources. Since those days country and town parishes have had to cut their cloth according to the means available.

I came to Jersey from three rural parishes of the size of St Mary's and St John's, scattered over 30 square miles. We had three church schools to run and to be chairman of the governors and trustee of. Three church councils to run. Three parish councils to attend and the raising of funds to maintain all three church buildings, and pay the Quota, and give to mission. Yes, with the visiting and the growing of congregations. That group of three is now, like many others, to increase to five parishes soon. Still with only one Rector. My situation was far from unique, as there were Rectors nearby with five, six and seven parishes.

Yes, I know that Rectors on Jersey are different and play a part in the civil parish administration, but they, unlike their UK fellows, get their church and rectories maintained by the civil authorities and don't have the burden of work, raising funds to do the repair and restoration, themselves (like, I might say, the district churches here do!).

The challenge all of the Anglican churches in Jersey have, is to take our part in the wider Church of which we belong (a wider Church that supports those parishes here who do not pay their full Quota, by subsidising them.) We have more than our fair share of clergy. We need to share our priests, and at the moment release two for service elsewhere. To somewhere with a great need (and population). We may need to release more, only time will tell. But this surely is part of being Christians together, helping where there is the greater need.

We face a challenge, country parishes and the parishes and churches around the town of St Helier; are we making the best use of our limited manpower resources? Let us make the creative choices, rather than have them imposed on us, because we have run away from the challenge. This time, is not a time of doom and gloom, though, but a time of opportunity. Sharing a priest can release the ministries of other people, as is evident in many a parish church in the UK where one man has charge of a group of two, three or four. It is a time to seek a new vision from God as to what is His task for His people in this generation.

The talking will go on, let us pray that we Anglicans in this Island may not duck the issues, but meet them with courage, imagination and the Spirit of Christian generosity. That come November we may have a plan for our future development, worthy of those who follow the God who makes all things new and is ever moving onward.

Much more can and will be said, but we cannot get away from the fact that we have more than our fair share of clergy. Let us meet that truth together. And together rise to the challenge.

DIARY DATES FOR AUGUST

1st-4th: Choir Tour singing in Sherbourne Abbey. 4th: Prayer School, 7.30 pm.
7th: MU Overseas Coffee Morning at church, 11 am-12 noon.
10th: Fun Day and Barbeque at the Vicarage from 2 pm.
17th: Songs of Praise in support of the Children's Society.
31st: Church Picnic and Scavenger Hunt at Gorey.

REGISTERS

HOLY BAPTISM. 1st June, Alexander Lopes; 15th June, Kerry McFarlane; 22nd June, Katherine Veitch, Samuel Allen; 6th July, Jamie Larbaliester, Sean Herbert, Luke Piziura; 13th July, Oliver Bybarezuk.

HOLY MATRIMONY. 28th June, Timothy Marsh and Jocelyne Le Guerne; 12th July, Michael Arnold and Tracey Huggett.

St Brelade, St Aubin on the Hill and Communicare

HOLY BAPTISM. 1st June, Robyn Wellman; 15th June, Fraser Barlow, Jemima Hill; 29th June, Stacy Benstead.

HOLY MATRIMONY. 7th June, Matthew Ahier and Silke Viola; Jonathan Williams and Sarah Mallet; 14th June, Robin Ovenden and Lucy Hackett; Andrew Chamberlain and Victoria Duckett; 21st June, Alun Evans and Sarah Pinel; 28th, Stephen de Gruchy and Fiona Macintosh.

 

The Font

I wanted to write a poem about the font in St Brelade's Church to show how the Eastern Church Fathers speak about infant baptism. The Fathers consistently describe baptism as grace given, new birth, entry into the family of God, and a participation in the Church’s living continuity across generations. This is something lost in the sacramental minimalism and iconoclasm of the Reformation.

The Font

Carved from granite, with loving prayer:
It stands in the church, and brings near,
The past, the ages gone, of babies brought
To be baptised, because they ought;
Forbid not little children, said our Lord,
And so the priest, the water poured,
Upon the child, and made the sign
Of the cross, of the love so divine;
Generations came on such a day,
To bless the child, to love and pray;
What do you see? To see mere stone,
Or the place where faith once shone,
And does now, not just times past,
But a sign in stone of faith to last,
Of baptism into the family holy;
Water and faith, to one so lowly,
Pregnant with the Spirit above,
Descending with grace and love,
As water is poured over the head,
A tapestry gains one more thread;

Heaven descends upon the earth:

A sign of grace, of second birth.


Appendix: The Font as Stone and Sign

The poem’s meditation on the font as both “mere stone” and “a sign in stone of faith to last” matches the Eastern sacramental imagination. The Fathers often speak of material things (water, oil, stone, bread) as transfigured bearers of divine grace. The granite font in the poem becomes a witness across centuries, just as they describe the Church’s sacraments as living memory embodied in matter.

Baptism as new birth: The poem speaks of “second birth” and heaven descending to earth. Eastern Fathers, from Irenaeus to Cyril of Jerusalem, speak of baptism as regeneration, a true birth from above, not merely symbolic.

Grace given to the lowly: The line “Water and faith, to one so lowly” resonates with their insistence that baptism is God’s action, not human achievement. Origen explicitly says infants are baptised  because they too need the healing grace of Christ. 

The child welcomed into the family: The poem’s sense of being woven into a “tapestry” mirrors the Fathers’ understanding of baptism as incorporation into the Body of Christ, the household of faith. [Here I have also drawn on Oscar Cullman's "Baptism in the New Testament".]

Generational continuity: Eastern tradition emphasises the Church as a living organism across time. The poem’s movement through “ages gone” and “generations came on such a day” reflects that same sacramental memory.

The font as a place where heaven touches earth: This is deeply patristic. Chrysostom, for example, describes the baptismal waters as “pregnant with the Spirit,” a place where divine life is poured out.

The Font as Stone and Sign: I wanted to place the font as both “mere stone” and “a sign in stone of faith to last” to match the Eastern sacramental imagination. The Fathers often speak of material things (water, oil, stone, bread) as transfigured bearers of divine grace. The granite font becomes a witness across centuries, just as they describe the Church’s sacraments as living memory embodied in matter. 

1986 - 40 years ago - March - Part 1

1986 - 40 years ago - March - Part 1

March 3-9

A MOTORIST is killed when his car crashes into a wall at Gorey in the early hours of the morning. The dead man is named as Mr Darrell William Gluyas (27).

A Jersey Evening Post inquiry reveals that motorists are paying at least 20p a gallon more than they should be for petrol and that garages are imposing a mark up three times greater than their UK counterparts.

As a result of the disclosures, the Economic Adviser is to look into the Island's petrol prices.

A 49-year-old man, Mr Norman Spence, is taken to hospital with serious injuries after he was trapped under a tractor which overturns on a St Ouen cotil.

Plans formulated by St Paul's Football Club to turn a near-derelict nursery in St Saviour into a football pitch are rejected by the Island Development Committee, but the club says that it intends to appeal against the decision.

Deputy Margaret Beadle is to select a committee to investigate the possibility of St Brelade returning to compete in the Battle of Flowers. The parish last entered a float 14 years ago.

The results of a survey carried out during the summer of 1985 reveals new geological information about the formation of the Channel Islands early in the history of the Earth.

Farmers throughout the Island use polythene sheeting on a larger scale than ever before to protect early potato crops. It is estimated that 3,000 vergees of Royals will ultimately be grown under wraps.

March 10--16

THE Constable of St Saviour, Mr Len Norman, collapses at work and dies shortly afterwards. Aged 64, he had only just been re-elected to serve a fourth term in office.

Vandals leave a two-mile trail of destruction along the east coast. Road signs are uprooted, equipment at Les Viviers de Ste Catherine is smashed and cars are damaged.

A Jersey Evening Post appeal results in donations of almost £2,000 in cash which will allow 20-year-old Graeme Humber, who is handicapped, to remain at home with his mother.

Miss Phyllis Haines, the former head-mistress of Helvetia House School, dies at the age of 80.

The Jersey Electricity Company's accounts are published and show that profits of nearly £3 million were made in the first nine months of 1985. This is almost £800,000 more than the entire profits for 1984.

Workmen resurfacing Vine Street reveal wooden cobbles lain before the First World War. The assistant town surveyor says that attempts will be made to preserve the cobbles.

A report from the Agriculture and Fisheries Committee shows that total borrowings under the States Agricultural Loans Scheme more than doubled in 1985 to more than £1.2 million.

It is announced by Public Works Committee president Deputy Don Filleul that a memorial to Islanders who were interned in Germany during the Second World War is to be erected in Howard Davis Park.

A Short Story: Integrity

My short story today is based on a poem I wrote, itself based on Ezekiel 18:22, another tale for Lent.

Integrity

A thin rain drifted across the dunes at La Pulente, soft as breath, barely enough to blur the footprints on the sand. Thomas Le Brocq walked with his head lowered, hands deep in his coat pockets, as if the wind might read the shame he carried. He had come here because the tide was turning, and he needed something in his life to turn with it.

He had spent years building a reputation as a dependable man in the parish. He chaired committees, read lessons on Sundays, and always had a ready smile. Yet beneath the surface he had been cutting corners in his work, telling small lies that grew into larger ones, and letting resentment shape his choices. When it all came to light, the shock in people’s eyes had been worse than any punishment. They had trusted him. He had trusted himself. Now both felt broken.

He stopped beside a rock pool where the water lay still and dark. His reflection wavered in the shallow basin. It looked like a stranger. He whispered the words he had avoided for weeks. “I did this. No one else.”

The tide pushed forward with a long sigh, filling the edges of the pool. The sound steadied him. He remembered a line from the prophet he had heard as a child: Turn from wrong, and you will see that life in truth is harmony. He had always thought repentance was a single moment, a dramatic turning. Now he saw it was slower, like the tide itself, advancing in small, persistent movements.

He walked on until he reached the slipway where the fishermen kept their boats. An old man was mending a net, his fingers moving with the ease of long practice. Thomas hesitated, then greeted him. The old man nodded, neither warm nor cold, simply present.

“You’re Thomas,” he said after a moment. “Folk have been talking.”

Thomas felt his stomach tighten. “I know. And they’re right.”

The old man tied off a knot and looked up. “A net tears. You mend it. Takes time, but it holds again. Folk are the same.”

Thomas let out a breath he had been holding for weeks. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start by not hiding,” the old man replied. “A man who lives a lie is already halfway drowned. Stand in the open. Let the truth breathe.”

They spoke a little longer, nothing dramatic, just simple words that settled like pebbles in the mind. When Thomas turned to leave, the old man called after him. “Integrity isn’t about never falling. It’s about choosing the next right step.”

The rain eased. A faint light broke through the clouds, touching the wet sand with a pale shimmer. Thomas walked back along the beach, feeling the weight inside him shift. He could not undo what he had done, but he could choose what came next. He could apologise without excuses. He could rebuild trust without demanding it. He could let truth shape him, not fear.

As he reached the path home, he looked once more at the sea. The tide had risen, covering the rock pools, smoothing the beach into a clean, unbroken sweep. It was not a promise of ease, but it was a sign of movement, of renewal, of the quiet work that reshapes a shoreline.

He stepped forward, carrying within him the first small piece of a renewed hope.

A Short Story: Not on Bread Alone

Based on a poem I wrote, which itself was based upon Deuteronomy 8:3.

Not on Bread Alone

The wind had been against him for days.

Elias trudged along the narrow path that wound through the barren hills, each step a small act of defiance against the ache in his legs. His pack was nearly empty now, just a crust of bread wrapped in cloth and a waterskin that sloshed with more hope than water. He had set out from the village with confidence, certain that the journey would be straightforward. But the road had stretched longer than he imagined, and the silence of the wilderness had begun to press on him like a weight.

By the third day, he felt the strain in his bones. Hunger gnawed at him, but he rationed the bread carefully, breaking off pieces so small they barely touched his teeth. He told himself he could endure it. He had endured worse. Yet as the sun dipped behind the hills and the cold crept in, he felt something inside him falter.

That night, he sat by a small fire, watching the flames flicker like fragile dancers. He held the last piece of bread in his hand. It was hardly enough to sustain him through the next day, and he knew it. The thought of eating it now, of surrendering to the simple comfort of food, tempted him. But something in him resisted.

“Remember the long road,” his mother had said before he left. “Not just the one beneath your feet, but the one within you.”

He hadn’t understood her then. He wasn’t sure he understood her now.

As he stared at the bread, a memory rose unbidden: his father, years ago, standing in the doorway after a season of drought. Their fields had withered, their stores had dwindled, and the whole village had felt the sting of scarcity. Elias remembered the fear in the adults’ voices, the whispered worries at night. But he also remembered his father’s calm.

“We do not live on bread alone,” his father had said, placing a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “We live on trust: on the words that remind us who we are and who walks with us.”

Elias had been too young to grasp the weight of those words. Now, in the wilderness, they returned with unexpected clarity.

He set the bread down beside him and closed his eyes. The fire crackled softly. The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of pine: fresh, clean, alive. He breathed it in, letting it fill the hollow places inside him. He whispered a prayer, not for food or rescue, but for strength to continue.

When dawn broke, he rose with a steadiness he hadn’t felt in days. His hunger remained, but it no longer ruled him. He ate half the last piece of bread, tucked the rest away, and stepped back onto the path.

By midday, he reached the crest of a hill—and there, in the valley below, he saw the roofs of a village. Smoke curled from chimneys. People moved about like small, purposeful figures. There was life, a community and at last shelter.

Relief washed over him, but so did something deeper: gratitude. Not for the bread he had saved, but for the lesson the wilderness had carved into him.

Strength was not found in what he carried, but in what carried him.

And as he descended toward the village, he whispered the words aloud, letting them settle into his bones:

“Not on bread alone.”