by Pam Rhodes
Claire wasn’t having much luck. She remembered that, faced with all the decks and different locations on this large ship, Harry had become quite confused about which end was which, what deck he was on and where he was heading. He always preferred to be in the company of someone he knew, so being alone today might well have left him disorientated. She’d knocked on Arthur’s cabin door, as well as Val and Peter’s and Brian and Sylvia’s, but there was no reply from any of them. They were obviously all at “Songs of Praise”.
Next she tried the library, thinking he might have settled down to his favourite pastime of completing the Pilgrim crossword, as he did most days. She looked into each corner and around every shelf of books, opening doors which led to rooms containing computers, jigsaw puzzles, handicrafts and a selection of CDs and videos. There was no sign of Harry.
The cinema! She remembered him saying earlier in the week that he liked the look of some of the films that were being shown there. Perhaps today he’d realized that a favourite of his was playing, and he’d gone down to watch in comfort? After a few minutes of being totally lost as she tried to locate the cinema, she eventually opened the door to find it completely empty.
Where on earth was he?
The first person Pam welcomed onto the stage to chat to her was Brian, who had retired from being a builder about ten years earlier. Soon after, he had received a call from his daughter, who was doing voluntary work in a particularly needy area of India. They had a problem and she wondered if her dad might help. There was no school building in the village, and one was badly needed. Would Brian give them some guidance from England – and then, please, please, please, would he come out to India to supervise the building? She was sure that under his direction it wouldn’t take long. Much against his better judgment, Brian found himself agreeing to go, and set to work designing a very simple building, then sending over a list of supplies she’d have to requisition before he arrived.
Two weeks before he was due to leave home, she rang with bad news. She’d managed to find everything except bricks, of which twelve thousand were needed. Bricks could easily be made and baked by men in the village, but what they required was a certain type of clay and a plentiful supply of water. The clay was only found on one particular plot of land, which was owned by a lady who was very sceptical about their plans. She said they were welcome to the clay, but what would be the point? It hadn’t rained for months, and the water hole near the village had completely dried up. No one could argue with that. Their task was impossible.
“Well, there’s no point in me coming if you haven’t got any bricks for me to build with,” Brian had said, quite reasonably. “If you’ve not managed to sort something out within the week, I’ll have to postpone my visit.”
But Brian hadn’t reckoned on the absolute faith of the local teacher who, like many in the village, was a devout Catholic. He called a village meeting and told them all that they had to pray as never before. Hopes faded, as for days nothing happened – and then one night, without warning, it started to rain for twelve hours non-stop. The curious thing was that the rain was very local. It fell heavily around their water hole, but a mile up the road on the land where the clay was, there was no rain at all.
“Quick!” ordered the teacher, calling on every available pair of hands in the village. By the time they had worked non-stop for the first day, they had crafted nearly two thousand bricks by hand. The next morning, though, they arrived to find that the land was drying out quickly in the hot sun. All around the water hole the ground was cracked and dusty.
“But look, it’s a miracle!” said the teacher. They realized that the water level in their hole had not gone down at all, in spite of all they’d used the previous day.
“The sun will have dried it up by the end of the day, though,” the elders warned, so villagers of all ages worked tirelessly, mixing, shaping and baking brick after brick until, by the end of the second day, they had one third of the bricks they needed.
For five more days they worked, and for five days the water level in the hole stayed high. The morning after they finished, the hole was empty again.
Obviously deeply emotional, Brian halted his story at this point, aware of the gasp of wonder that echoed around the audience.
“And did you go and help them build their school?” asked Pam.
“I did. The villagers worked alongside me for two weeks before we hung the last door and put the paint pots away. That school teacher was taking lessons in there a few days later.”
“And looking back, what do you think about the way those bricks were made?”
“I think prayer has power. I think that the teacher and those villagers had the kind of faith that moves mountains. I think God was in that project.”
“Did that experience change you?”
He nodded his head thoughtfully. “We live very comfortably in Britain, don’t we?” he answered. “Our faith isn’t challenged every day in the way it is in communities like that. That’s the kind of faith that keeps them alive, working and praying together. I find that so humbling. Never again will I doubt that prayers are heard and answered. It’s amazing.”
Turning to the audience, Pam thanked Brian, then introduced the hymn he had chosen to express the wonder he felt at God’s goodness and grace.
“Let’s all stand to sing ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’.”
Claire was beginning to wonder if Harry had decided to take a stroll off the ship after all, and got confused about the time. Panic gripped her as she realized the ship was due to set sail in about ten minutes’ time. Surely they wouldn’t leave unless all passengers were accounted for. Reception – that’s where she could find out – and her purposeful stride had turned into a frantic run by the time the reception desk came into sight.
“I’ve lost my Uncle Harry,” she panted to the receptionist. “Harry Holloway, Cabin 126. I’m worried that he might have gone ashore and not come back. Is there a way you can check?”
“Certainly,” smiled the smartly suited, rather glamorous receptionist. After long seconds of tapping into her computer, she looked up at Claire. “Mr Holloway hasn’t left the ship today.”
“And he hasn’t booked himself in for anything I might not be aware of? With the doctor, perhaps? Would you have a list of the surgery’s bookings?”
More tapping. “He’s not booked for an appointment anywhere that I can see.”
Claire ran her fingers through her hair with frustration and worry.
“Look,” said the receptionist kindly, “this is a large ship. There are so many places where people can get away from it all for a bit of peace and quiet, or even for a chat with someone they’ve only just met. He’s definitely on board somewhere. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”
“Maybe.” Claire still looked doubtful. “Well, I’ll do the rounds again, but can you bear in mind that an eighty-year-old man, who isn’t brilliant when it comes to his sense of direction, has gone missing? Could you pass the message on to the crew, just in case they spot him somewhere?”
“Of course. Perhaps you could let me know when he returns to his cabin, as I’m sure he will.”
Feeling she was being patronized and dismissed, as if she were an over-protective mother, Claire walked away, wondering where to try next. Slowly she climbed a set of stairs winding rather grandly up the decks in the centre of the ship. She was about to carry on climbing when she realized that on either side of the stairs on that level were doors leading out to the sun decks. She had walked right around those decks several minutes before, but perhaps Harry had made his way out there since she’d left.
Encouraged by the thought, she set off again.
There was complete hush in the packed lounge as Pam’s next guest told her story. Many of them had got to know Bishop Paul’s delightful wife, Margaret, but what she shared with them that afternoon stunned them into silence.
She explained how, four years earlier, she had been diagnosed with an incurable form of blood cancer which was a
ttacking the cells of her bone marrow. It was hard enough simply coming to terms emotionally with the word “incurable”, but the treatment she needed to fight the condition would also demand every ounce of physical resilience she could muster. There had followed a challenging period of five months of chemotherapy, then later a very difficult and painful session of injections to harvest her own stem cells. That left her traumatized and exhausted, dreading what else lay ahead of her. She knew the next step to be faced was when she’d be put under general anaesthetic so that the stem cells could be transplanted back into her. The procedure was known to be risky and the outcome very uncertain. She remembered feeling at rock bottom as she was waiting to be wheeled into the operating theatre.
“But I knew I wasn’t alone, that God was in it with me. I just had to trust him. And some of the old words I’d known all my life from Psalm 121 kept coming to me:
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.
The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.”
“Did that prayer help?” asked Pam.
“It wasn’t just my own prayer which became so important to me,” Margaret explained. “It was all the other people who I knew were praying for me too. I could feel its power in a way that gave me reassurance and comfort. And every day that followed, through three long months when I had to stay in a sterile environment, not seeing people or going out so that it felt as if my life had been put on hold, I never stopped being strengthened and reassured by prayer.”
“But now, four years later, you look wonderful, and we’ve all seen how full of energy you are. How are you?”
“Honestly, not as well as I look. The condition is taking hold again, and in two weeks’ time, after this cruise, I’ll be starting that whole procedure again. But I’ve been through it once, and I know that the strength I need to face this lies in my faith. This is the situation I’ve been given by God, and he’s in it with me. Through him I’ve learned the need for trust and patience. And I find myself looking at everything differently, valuing what’s really important, thankful for every morning, every person I love, every moment I cherish. As my health diminishes, so my faith grows all the more. That’s why I’ve chosen this hymn – because it speaks of Christ’s triumph over death.”
“Thank you, Margaret,” said Pam, as moved as every other person in the room by the impact of her words, especially knowing that she was shortly to face another round of painful treatment.
“Let’s all stand to sing with Margaret the great hymn of praise she’s chosen: ‘Thine Be the Glory’.”
Claire walked right around the decks on both sides of the ship, but Harry was nowhere to be seen. Finding herself back where she started, she was just about to open the door to step inside so she could check whether he’d returned to his cabin, when she spotted a small staircase she hadn’t noticed before. The stairs led up to a narrow gangway lined overhead by a row of huge suspended lifeboats. Surely, with his sore knees, Harry wouldn’t have come all the way up here!
Eventually the path opened out onto a small, almost hidden, deck area right at the front of the ship. There were just a handful of loungers there, and at first when she glanced around she didn’t see anyone.
“Harry!” she called.
Suddenly, she spotted him, stretched out in the pale, late afternoon sunshine, his book on his chest, fast asleep.
“Thank goodness I’ve found you. You certainly tucked yourself away up here. Come on, you’re missing ‘Songs of Praise’, and I know you were looking forward to…”
She stopped mid-sentence. He was so quiet, his face relaxed, with a secret smile as if he were having a dream he was enjoying.
“Harry!” she called again, kneeling down close to him so that she could stroke his face to wake him.
He was cold.
Snatching her hand back, the shock punched the breath out of her.
“Harry?” she whispered softly. “Wake up, Harry. It’s me.”
Slowly, so slowly, she stretched out her fingers to touch his arm. He didn’t move. She knew he couldn’t. He would never move again. And as she leaned her head forward to rest on his shoulder, she felt something flutter down and brush past her face.
It was a single golden petal.
The next person to share their story on “Songs of Praise” reminded everyone of the fateful events of 7th July 2005, which shocked the whole country.
Nigel was the chaplain at a private school in Reading, and he had gone to London that morning to take part in a conference. He’d taken the tube from Paddington to Kings Cross shortly after half past eight, then headed down to the Piccadilly southbound line. When the first train came in, it was packed, and he became aware that a lady near him was desperate to get on. As he was in no hurry, he let her take his place and remained on the platform to wait for the next train – a gesture that was to seal his fate. When the train came, he got into the third carriage from the front, standing shoulder to shoulder with several others near the door. Minutes later, in the middle of the tunnel, there was a deafening explosion and they were plunged into darkness. With panic all around him, he was surprised to hear himself saying very clearly above the noise, “Lord, if it’s possible, please get us out of this mess.”
That seemed to calm everyone down. There followed thirty endless, harrowing minutes while they waited for help, thinking that any minute they might be engulfed in flames, and in that time he found himself considering the possibility that he might die. At last they saw lights through the gloom as rescue workers prised open the door and told the passengers to follow them back down the tunnel to the platform at Kings Cross which they’d just left.
Making his way upstairs, lending an arm on the way to other people with various degrees of injury, Nigel emerged at ground level into a scene of chaos. He realized for the first time that this was not a simple accident or a fire. It was a bomb – and as news came in that other bombs were going off in strategic places around London, the order came to evacuate the station.
Dazed and covered in grime, with all tubes and buses halted, Nigel set off to walk the two or three miles back to Paddington station. There he got a train for Reading, then a bus to his church, where he knew his wife would be helping out with the senior citizens’ lunch club. When he walked into the building, exhausted and covered in dust, cheers rang around him as his wife fell into his arms, sobbing with relief that he was safe.
“How do you feel now,” asked Pam, “about the people who planted those bombs?”
Nigel’s eyes clouded with the memory of the carnage caused by the explosions that went off in central London.
“Fifty-three people were killed that day, twenty-six of them in the front two carriages of the train I was on.” He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing. “But I believe in a loving God, a God of forgiveness. God’s love is revealed in Jesus Christ and, more than ever, I know we must stay true to his commandment to love one another. So, for me, there is nothing to forgive. It has made me realize, though, that you just don’t know what’s round the corner, and because of that, we should never let the sun go down on anger, or leave important words unsaid. Seize the day and every opportunity to put things right.”
“It’s interesting to hear you say that when a lot of people would find it very hard to forgive such violent acts against innocent people,” said Pam. “How much has the support of others helped you through this?”
“I simply couldn’t have managed without their love and prayers, not just from people I know, but from so many others I don’t know from around the world – people who were moved to hear what happened.
“One thing I ask, though. If someone you know has gone through a traumatic experience, make sure you’re a good listener. One thing I noticed was that after some people had asked me how I was, I barely got a word out before they announced that
they knew exactly how I felt, because of something they’d been through. They couldn’t possibly know how I felt, because every experience is different. I needed to talk and for them to listen, but it often ended up the other way round. So my advice would be this: if someone opens up enough to want to talk about pain they’re going through, remember that your compassion and love are what they need most of all.”
Just as Nigel went on to answer Pam’s question about which hymn he’d chosen, Neil became aware of someone making their way across the room. Looking around in surprise, he saw the assistant cruise director, Jane, come up to kneel beside him.
“Neil, you’re needed urgently. Dr Osbourn sent me.”
“Oh, I know what that’s about,” Neil said. “Tell him I’ll come down for a chat as soon as this finishes.”
“No, Neil.”
He frowned at the urgent tone of her voice.
“You have to come now.”
Neil leaned across to whisper to Iris that he’d been called away very urgently, but she was engrossed in what Nigel was saying, and just shrugged with irritation.
A sense of foreboding swept over him as he followed Jane through the audience towards the door. Something terrible must have happened to Brad – but what?
As Nigel’s hymn, “In Christ Alone”, came to an end, Pam introduced the last person to share their story that afternoon. Fiona, a middle-aged lady, talked about her early career as a nurse.
One night she was working in a special care baby unit in a London hospital, looking after twelve newborns who needed the help of incubators to give them the best chance of survival during the first vital hours and days of their lives. One little boy was so desperately ill that the hospital chaplain was called to be with him and his parents. The child was expected to lose his fight for life at any time. Fiona helped to detach the baby from all the tubes and lines in the incubator, gently handing him to his mum so that she and his dad could hold and talk to him for a few minutes as his life ebbed away. They sat in a circle of light as the chaplain prayed for the baby, asking God for his blessing and protection for the tiny child.
