Snow, Scaffolding, and Psalm 23

Which have nothing to do with each other - except they all featured in my weekend.

Snow.

On Friday I had lunch with Catharine Morris in Cirencester. Lovely - arranged for quite a while in order that we would have a chance to meet up before I disappear off on my forthcoming sabbatical. It was terrible weather, pouring down, indeed so much so that on the drive there I almost turned back.

But I had booked a ticket to go on to Hereford in the evening to see the Syd Lawrence Orchestra, and I did want to see Catharine, so on I drove.

I left Cirencester at 4pm, the rain having turned slightly sleety. I looked at my fuel guage - quarter full. Should I put more diesel in? No need - I'd fill up in Hereford later. But ten miles or less out, on the A417 towards Gloucester, I am stuck in snow. There's no snow on the forecast. The radio is only talking about flooding. But for the next FIVE HOURS I move one and a half miles. Quarter of a tank of fuel. Am I going to be here all night? Slight panic. It's a dual carriageway so I can't even turn back. I have a blanket, & snow boots in the car - though my mobile is dying fast.

When I can turn off the dual carriageway, I do - only to get stuck in those floods!

I eventually reach home just after midnight. A journey of 70 miles took eight hours, and I missed the concert - though so apparently did Chris Dean, leader of the Syd Lawrence band, who was also in the same snow drift as me, though he found a pub to hole up in. There's a committed musician for you.

Scaffolding.

Ian, site manager on the car park next door to us, rang yesterday (Saturday) afternoon.

"It's late notice, but we're a bit stuck, it's a money thing for us now, we have to work through this weekend, and we're pulling the scaffolding down off the site, so I'm just letting you know."

"Which side of the site?" I ask.

"Yours," he replies, embarrassed. "We don't want to disturb you obviously on a Sunday, so when are your services?"

"8 till 9, & 11 till 12.30," I reply.

"Oh, that's most of the morning," he says, unhappily. "We're going to have to do it I'm afraid, as I say it's a costs thing, we're behind and have to make up time. We'll try not to make too much noise."

And I'm thinking, they are pulling down a mountain (eight floors) of scaffolding right next to us. That ain't going to be quiet. Plus I know the planning permit for them, so I have a question:

"Ian, doesn't the planning permit have a condition on it that you don't work on Sundays?"

"Er, yes," he says.

"And have you sought an exemption from that for this weekend, cos I haven't seen any of the bills around the place that I'd expect to see if you have?" Because if they want to change any of the conditions of planning they have to put notices around the site and get permission to do so.

"No."

"Well, then I don't think we have a problem, do we?"

"Is that it?" he asks plaintively, hoping for mercy. And we chat a very little more, and that is how it is left.

Till 8am today, when just as I start the service, the scaffolding starts to come down. So I leave the service in Richard's hands, whispering to him "I'll be back", and I go outside. Because as far as I can see, the business of the construction of a car park has made a choice: their money is worth more than the people sitting in front of me coming to worship. And I disagree, and actually so does the Council who gave the planning permit. These people have rights. Money isn't everything.

You have to get the picture. It's still semi-dark. We are a Victorian building with a spire. Next to a building site covered with scaffolding. I am robed up - cassock, surplis, stole.

I call out to the nearest worker - "Excuse me!" He looks at me, shocked.

"What's the matter?" Irish accent.

"It's a Sunday, and by planning permission you can't be working here today." I was not at my most eloquent and most charming. I was straight to the point.

And then this guy was brilliant. Motioning with a cutting action across his neck, he called up to all the workers and told them to stop. "Guys, stop, stop!" he called, "the priest's here! Stop!" Then he turned to me: "I'm going to have to call the guy in charge, can you wait?"

"Sure," I said.

He gets his mobile out. "Kevin, get here now, the priest's here & he says we've got to stop!"

And I'm thinking - Irish Catholic. You've got to love them. I'm one picket line he is not going to cross.

Kevin comes: Ian has told him it's OK to work today, he told him on Friday. Which makes me slightly irritated that Ian waited till late on Saturday before mentioning it to me - in the hope that I wouldn't do anything, I guess. And that he then didn't get back to these guys. And now he isn't answering his phone (he never does on Sundays - I could have told Kevin that).

The scaffolder says: "Would you mind if we worked on the other side of the building, on Mill Street?" He's not upsetting 'the priest'. But he's got men there & he wants them to work. I admire his style.

"Technically you are still breaking the planning permit," I said - "but if I can't hear you, you can do what you like." And the scaffolder took control, and moved his men to the other side of the building, leaving me to arrive back in church just as Richard had read out the Gospel & I was due to begin my sermon. It is possible that Ian will be calling me in the morning...

Psalm 23

After Ian's Saturday phone call I headed out to the hospital. Gladys was very ill. At 92, she was diagnosed with cancer last year, and has been failing for a while. She was taken in to the Royal Glamorgan this last week. A lovely faithful lady.

When I arrived, her son Stuart was still there, and I chatted to him briefly before he left me alone for a while with his mother. Stuart was one of my church wardens when I first came here. He's always been a member of this church. Gladys tells stories of them coming up from her home when Stuart was a lad, of choir trips to Barry Island, of church days gone by.

When it was just the two of us, Gladys said, "I've lived long enough now". And so I told her I was going to read her a Psalm & pray with her. Those Irish Catholics would have a name for this; as a Protestant, we don't call it "Last Rites", but that's what I was doing.

I'd pulled an old, tiny white King James Bible off the shelf & popped it into my coat pocket. I think it was my Gran's, or maybe Dad's from school days. It seemed the right version for the occasion. And I opened it at Psalm 23.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

"I learned that as a little girl," Gladys said, as I finished reading it, "I could say every word with you." And we talked about the Psalm briefly.

Then I took her hands and blessed her, assuring her of forgiveness & the love of Jesus. We prayed the Lord's Prayer together. At the end she added, "Thank you Lord for helping me".

We sat in silence a while. Her breathing altered, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to go there and then. Eventually I took my leave. I told her I would see her again, but we both knew I meant in heaven. She blew me a kiss. I squeezed her hand and said thank you - for the delight of being a friend.

I walked out, & turned back in the doorway to see her waving.

It was lovely, peaceful, wonderful. We said goodbye, and knew what we were doing. I committed her into God's care, and she was ready to leave. This job has so many sides to it, but being the gatekeeper is the most sacred, precious thing.

My phone rang again at 9am to tell me she had passed during the night.