One of the simple joys of having a bundle of church keys is that you can wander around in the building when others have gone home. Over lockdown, it has been my retreat from noisy children, an office, a sanctuary and a place to think. It is also where I get to say things out loud, testing thoughts out on the silence. “Please, help me!” I said to the altar the other night, more in anger than in expectation. I was surprised how it came out. Too direct to feel like a prayer, it sounded more of a demand I suppose. Or rather, the kind of demand that feels the presence of defeat at the door. News was just in that the husband of one of my congregation had just been killed by Covid. Another death in the parish.
