Ffald-y-Brenin

Getting lost on the way was part of the fun.
Singing along to Queen at the tops of our lungs,
in the back of Hannah’s car
on that dark country lane at night;
that’s the stuff,
that memories are made of.

Out there, where the chill in the air and the tingle of being alive,
were just a part of the wonder,
the starkness of the cross on that hillside,
framed against the ice-blue winter sky,
united us all.
Hope burst over the hills in a morning blaze of blood and gold,
Liz and I watched, awestruck;
silent companions,
in the presence of His glory.

The cosy comfort of sitting together talking, singing, praying
was deliciously new with each other.
The smell of the sea in January
and the slapping of bare feet on freezing sand,
twinned with the slamming of hands at Irish snap,
and helpless giggles at midnight.

The contemplative quiet of the fireside lent itself
to observing the gentle beauty of rain
on the window-sills.

The joy that flowed in those few days was as
a foretaste of heaven.
The sudden wisdom
of my friends,
gave out a fleeting glimpse –
a sunbeam-illumination –
of Glory Divine.

It is true, of course,
that we are broken clay vessels for His Living Water;
yet to us He so freely gives.

In the Sheepfold of the King,
There was joy, laughter, fun;
Military graces, the prayer cave,
Boys’ banter, girls’ chatter,
Singing, stillness, love – and yet –

A deep awareness in us,
a new song to sing,
Of the One who rescued us from death,
to glorify Him.

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