eventide

 A lovely October sun blessing the heartland.

I betake myself to the Costa Cafe in the town of Newbridge.

A mother with a little boy and little girl sit at an adjoining table.

Some yobs preen in the corner.

There is a gentle buzz of life in the place.

A characterful guy with a special need who knows me comes in and chats for a bit.

He is gregariously excoriating Irish politicians.

"I'm going to vote Sinn Fein," he tells me and I blanche.

An attractive waitress streels past.

Another habitue of the cafe comes over and sees I have an Anthony Beevor book about World War Two.

"Is it any good?" he asks.

"It's okay," I say, "but he basically just redoes Cornelius Ryan's and Alan Clarke's books on the same topic. And of course I feel a bit ghoulish for being so entertained by it. The sweep of history and the drama and all that. But really when you think about it, it's about human suffering on an unimaginable scale."

"I love those books," says the man.

Evening draws on.

I begin to think of going to church.

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

I hum and haw.

Maybe I'll just linger in the cafe till closing time.

Aunty Mary told me last night that the gospel choir would be performing today in the church in my home town of Kilcullen.

That's not much of an incentive for me to get moving.

Don't get me wrong. 

I'd quite like to be in God's house and praise him in fellowship with other people but I have no wish to do so while being forced to listen to the souless caterwaulings and infernal tootlings of a collection of atheistic narcissists. (The Gospel Choir.)

I check the news feed on my mobile phone,

There has been an attack on Israel.

My mind goes quiet.

Amidst the journalistic hyperbole of the initial reports, I sense a new horror.

Something touches my heart.

A feeling.

The church is the place to be.

I go.