The Ebb and the Flow
(based on a St Luke's Parish note in "The Pilot")
Margaret stood at the edge of Havre des Pas, her coat buttoned against the October wind. The tide was low, revealing the jagged rocks and seaweed-strewn pools that had fascinated her since childhood. The sea was grey today, restless but not angry - its mood somewhere between melancholy and anticipation.
She had walked this stretch of coast for years. As a girl, she’d raced along the promenade with her brother, daring each other to leap the puddles left by the tide. As a young mother, she’d pushed a pram along the same path, whispering lullabies to the rhythm of the waves. And now, retired and alone, she walked slowly, deliberately, as if each step might unlock a memory.
The seasons had changed. Not just in the air, but in her life. Her husband had passed two winters ago, quietly, after a long illness. Her children had moved away, their visits warm but brief. The house was quieter now. The kettle whistled to no one in particular.
She paused by the railings, watching the sea. It was never the same twice. Some days it shimmered like glass; others it roared like a lion. Today, it murmured. A hymn, perhaps. Or a prayer.
She thought of the old church at St Luke’s. She hadn’t been in years - not since the funeral. But she’d read in the parish newsletter about a new Monday night prayer gathering. “Open to everyone,” it said. “To pray and to practise. To learn new ways of prayer.”
She wasn’t sure she knew how to pray anymore. Not properly. Not like she used to. But something about the phrase - “new tides and seasons” - had stirred her.
She walked on, past the sea wall and the curve of the coast road. The trees were turning now - gold, amber, rust. The air smelled of salt and damp leaves. A gull cried overhead, circling once before disappearing into the mist.
At the end of the promenade, she sat on a bench. The plaque read: "In memory of those who loved this view." She smiled. She could name a few.
She closed her eyes and listened. The sea, the wind, the distant hum of traffic. It was all movement. All change. And yet, somehow, it felt held. Not chaotic. Not lost. Just… transformed.
She thought of the old hymn: “Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me.”
She opened her eyes and stood. The tide was coming in now, slowly reclaiming the shore. She watched it for a moment, then turned toward home.
That evening, she boiled the kettle and set out a mug. She found the newsletter again, folded neatly beside the fruit bowl. Monday night. 8 p.m.
She circled the time with a pen.
And as the tide rose outside, she felt something shift inside too - not dramatic, not loud. Just a quiet readiness.
A new season.
Margaret stood at the edge of Havre des Pas, her coat buttoned against the October wind. The tide was low, revealing the jagged rocks and seaweed-strewn pools that had fascinated her since childhood. The sea was grey today, restless but not angry - its mood somewhere between melancholy and anticipation.
She had walked this stretch of coast for years. As a girl, she’d raced along the promenade with her brother, daring each other to leap the puddles left by the tide. As a young mother, she’d pushed a pram along the same path, whispering lullabies to the rhythm of the waves. And now, retired and alone, she walked slowly, deliberately, as if each step might unlock a memory.
The seasons had changed. Not just in the air, but in her life. Her husband had passed two winters ago, quietly, after a long illness. Her children had moved away, their visits warm but brief. The house was quieter now. The kettle whistled to no one in particular.
She paused by the railings, watching the sea. It was never the same twice. Some days it shimmered like glass; others it roared like a lion. Today, it murmured. A hymn, perhaps. Or a prayer.
She thought of the old church at St Luke’s. She hadn’t been in years - not since the funeral. But she’d read in the parish newsletter about a new Monday night prayer gathering. “Open to everyone,” it said. “To pray and to practise. To learn new ways of prayer.”
She wasn’t sure she knew how to pray anymore. Not properly. Not like she used to. But something about the phrase - “new tides and seasons” - had stirred her.
She walked on, past the sea wall and the curve of the coast road. The trees were turning now - gold, amber, rust. The air smelled of salt and damp leaves. A gull cried overhead, circling once before disappearing into the mist.
At the end of the promenade, she sat on a bench. The plaque read: "In memory of those who loved this view." She smiled. She could name a few.
She closed her eyes and listened. The sea, the wind, the distant hum of traffic. It was all movement. All change. And yet, somehow, it felt held. Not chaotic. Not lost. Just… transformed.
She thought of the old hymn: “Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me.”
She opened her eyes and stood. The tide was coming in now, slowly reclaiming the shore. She watched it for a moment, then turned toward home.
That evening, she boiled the kettle and set out a mug. She found the newsletter again, folded neatly beside the fruit bowl. Monday night. 8 p.m.
She circled the time with a pen.
And as the tide rose outside, she felt something shift inside too - not dramatic, not loud. Just a quiet readiness.
A new season.
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