Evening at the chateau.
Heelers in the front room alone.
My eye falls on a photograph.
Mags Masefield has found it and placed it on top of the piano.
It is a photo I took years ago.
I peer at the image.
There are crumple lines on it. On the back there are ideas jotted for humour columns. It is undated and unsigned.
I cannot believe how I have disrespected it.
This was a photo that meant something.
Years ago it gave me the first clear indication of my calling.
Abruply I turn away from it and walk to the bookcase.
I pull out a book at random.
It is Hamlet.
I open it.
Tucked between the pages is the twin of the photo on the piano.
I sit down.
I am not surprised or shocked or weak.
But something has happened and I know it.
The chances of the first version of the photo showing up and then me finding the pristine version tucked in the book...
The chances...
I know what has happened.
I know that somewhere in my subconscious was the knowledge that years ago I had tucked another copy of this photo into Hamlet before replacing the book on the crowded shelves.
I know that's not how I found the book or the second photo tonight.
I sit and listen.
Just listen.
Why on earth did this happen?
God doesn't do parlour tricks.
With the spirit I listen.
I'm not being told to do anything.
There's no prophecy here.
What is it?
What was he doing?
It was the lightest touch.
From the hand that flung the stars.
Why such a light touch?
Such a trivial miracle.
A little gift.
A thought struck me.
This morning as I opened my eyes I had said: "Jesus are you real?"
It was a cheeky enough prayer.
Typical of me.
This is the answer I got.