Don’t say the words you think I want to hear,
No reassuring artificial cheer,
When life is grim,
As it just might be,
Instead of ‘holy’, give me tea.
Or wine. Something.
Maybe a fag.
(I’m going out for chips in Aberaeron later. That’s one answer to life’s pain.)
Don’t say the words that might sound saintly,
Or grasp my arm and whisper faintly,
And don’t! OH! Desist!
This one (in bold) resist;
Don’t throw the Bible at my head
Bring me laughter, or cake instead.
Or both. Or all. That’s it.
Bring all three. The Bible, cake and you.
And the laughter will bring itself.
Marrieds are oh so smugly married, and families are so tightly family, and sometimes you just need, need need someone to reach out. Not to comfort, or lecture, or jolly-up, or console, just to be there, to be a beating heart next to your own, and maybe to say just a few, few words like ‘I know. It’s a pile of shit just now.’
They don’t need to add ‘But God is good.’
Because when you’re deep in trouble, you know that God is good. Deep down, you know that God is good. That’s the one certainty.
Standing on the beach this morning, in the dark, I asked Him ‘Why do none of your followers care enough to be here with me?’ and He said ‘Because they are asleep. As in Gethsemane.’
And that shut me up. For a bit.
Smug marrieds. Was I ever that smug? Probably. How often did George and me reach out?
Prayers are so good. Shared prayers. So good.