Whether we realise it or not, we all live on:
The Edge of the Otherworld

Monday 25 April 2016

A glimpse of eternity

PETER: I would have died for him then. It was so sudden, you see - one minute I was dozing, the next I was cold and bleary-eyed in the darkness. Before I knew what was happening, they'd surrounded us - demons in the flickering torchlight, or so it seemed. Then fear cleared my senses, and they were only human after all. Some I'd met before and spoken with, eaten with even, some I'd avoided. And then there was Judas, my friend, determined and angry as ever. He strode up to the master, as if to greet him, but a moment's indecision made him falter, his eyes darting a worried glance. But it was too late for him to stop. The frown became a smile and a kiss became a betrayal. Perhaps there were demons there. Then the mob swarmed around us and my sword was in my hand. I would have died for him then; it would have been almost easy.

SANDRA: I would have died for him then. I'd have stood my ground against an on-coming tank or spoken out against the concentration camps. I would have affirmed my beliefs whatever the cost and claimed my place amongst the martyrs. I would have done, I think, but those things never happen here, not any more. Persecution takes the form of the occasional sideways glance from a friend or pointed comment from a stranger that always makes my heart sink. I've never known what to say. I used to justify myself with babble, now I say nothing at all.

PETER: I would have died for him then. Of course I would. If he'd asked me to or I could have saved him or achieved something at least. But what good would it have done getting myself killed?

Friday 15 April 2016

Statement of Faith

I believe an awful lot of things.
But what's important? Sometimes I don't know.
That there's more to the world than meets the eye?


That God became man?


He lived to show us how to live.
He died to set us free from our own lifelessness.
His resurrection brings us hope.

What else?

Does it matter apart from:

God in all and through all.
God before and God behind,
Above, below and by our sides.
To be loved with heart and strength and mind and soul.
To be loved through love of others.
To be loved.

Sunday 10 April 2016

Upstairs at St Margaret's

What they were thinking when they built St Margaret's I'll never know. High and dingy it is, like our old school hall that used to double as a gym in the winter. It's probably about as old too and they knocked the school down years ago. Can't knock a church down, though, wouldn't be right. Wouldn't want them too, any road. Just wish they'd liven it up a bit, that's all; put up some paintings like the Catholics have, maybe. Dark wood and peeling green paint just gives me the urge to do press ups.

I always sit up in the gallery - always have. Used to be others up there with me, of course. Now I'm the only one. I still sit in the same pew, mind, two rows back from the rail and over to the side, so I can see the people downstairs but not so far forward that if I drop one of my sweets it'll hit someone on the head. Makes people laugh when I tell them that but old Mrs Arbuckle still hasn't forgiven me for those dolly mixtures and it's been thirty years I've been sitting in this seat. It feels like home now. I like to think I've worn some little hollows into, just the right shape for my own backside and nobody else's. Jack Renfrew says that's daft but I never said it were true - I just like to think it.

Any road, I had a strange experience a few weeks back. A young man came up to the gallery just as I were getting settled down. Watching out of the corner of my eye, I did feel a bit jealous. In my time, I wasn't bad looking, back when I needed a whole handful of Bryl cream rather than the quick spit I use these days. Yeah, a bit of grooming, a shirt and tie, I polished up to be a right shiny penny - only a penny, mind - but for a Saturday night at the Regalia that was enough to bring them flocking. This bloke, though, he looked like he'd been lifting weights down the gym and I don't know where he spent the winter but it weren't round our way. Must've been one of those sunny paradise places 'cos his face was what they call bronzed, his chest too, where you could see it through his robe. That were a bit strange now that I come to think of it, he weren't really dressed for St Margarets. Mr Jacobs - that's our treasurer - says we'll get the heating fixed just as soon as Miss Ramsbotham dies and we get our hands on the bequest she's always promising. I reckon, if she knows what's good for her, she'll hand over the money now and save catching her death one Sunday.