Some folk have suggested frustration that my two-day chronicling of my perilous faith-state then lurched into silence. If chronicling can lurch and silence is a direction, that is. Well I went on holiday and had a lovely week on and around The Gower. I didn't go to church on either of the Sundays, I didn't take a Bible with me and apart from 'I'm still listening if you want me' didn't pray any particular prayers. It was great.
I waited for the mixed-bag of stress related minor ailments to hit, as they usually do once I relax, and soon embraced itchy skin and mouth ulcers like old friends.
Back at the ranch busy weeks set their first challenge - do I go to everything my diary suggests I ought to go to or do I keep my public promise and make being with Mrs WWA one night a week a priority? I opt for the latter and thank those who will be disappointed by my occasional absence for their understanding.
And gently, quietly and unspectacularly, in the everyday life of talking to people, chatting to enquirers, meeting strangers, helping the bereaved, trying to fix a vision and generally curing souls I recall who I am and what I should be doing.
Then last Sunday I arrived, in front of a small congregation at a Book of Common Prayer evensong ('We like to do something different on a fifth Sunday evening'), at that lovely verse from the beginning of 1 Samuel 3 which ought to set the tempo for our lives far more than the spectacular:
In those days the word of the Lord was rare; there were not many visions.
It reminds me that feeling empty and faithless is normal for most of the people most of the time. It reminds me to wait, hope and trust.
Which I will gladly do. Thanks for those of you who were concerned and offered words or hugs. Kind of you.