Saints and Sailors

by Pam Rhodes

  “Hello, I’m Lydia, your guide for our visit today to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. Unspoiled and steeped in history, it lies just off the north-east coast of England, about twenty minutes’ drive south of Berwick. It has stood for centuries at the mercy of the elements, with the tides cutting the island off from the mainland twice every day as the causeway is submerged by the North Sea.

  “People seek out our island for a variety of reasons. We welcome bird-watchers, walkers, fishing parties, artists, writers, photographers and film-makers, historians and natural historians, scientists, theologians, wildfowlers, yachters, golfers – and, of course, pilgrims in their thousands, some of them traditionally Christian, others seeking God’s truth in their own way, just as the ancient saints did more than a thousand years ago. What they all find here is peace. In the midst of God’s creation at its most raw, people are drawn here to find the peace of God.”

  “Is she a hippie?” Iris leaned towards Claire, whispering under her breath.

  Claire smiled. “Perhaps a little alternative – but then so am I. You always told me you half expected me to put flowers in this spiky haircut of mine!”

  “I am a member of the small community who live and worship on this holy island,” continued Lydia. “I will tell you more about why it’s always been so special as we get nearer, but this is a place you should travel to with purpose and prayer. So still your minds and open your hearts as I share these words with you:

  In the roar of the wind and the sway of the waves,

  We see your power.

  In the cry of the birds,

  We hear your voice.

  In the calm of dusk,

  We feel your peace.

  Lord, with the depths around us,

  We find rest and solace in you.”

  Neil sensed rather than heard the sob that came from the man alongside him. He’d turned his head away, so Neil felt he couldn’t intrude. Instead, he bowed his head and said a heartfelt prayer for himself, his ministry, for those he loved – and for the man beside him who was so obviously hurting.

  A silence fell over the passengers as the coach turned onto the causeway that stretched out ahead of them for more than a mile across to Holy Island.

  “Imagine how this island must have looked to St Aidan when he first saw it, just as you are seeing it now, nearly fifteen hundred years ago.” Lydia’s commentary was quietly dramatic, catching the hushed mood around her.

  “In 635, St Aidan and a group of twelve Irish monks were summoned from their community founded by St Columba on the Scottish island of Iona. They were invited by one of the first Christian leaders in England, Aethelfrith, who established himself at nearby Bamburgh Castle as King of Northumbria. He was determined that his new subjects, who were mostly pagan, should have the opportunity to hear the good news of Christ.

  “So Aidan was sent to establish a monastery here on the island. In those early days, there would have been little more here than a church, a cluster of small circular dwelling huts, workshops and probably one larger building for communal gatherings. The monks led a disciplined life of prayer and poverty. They studied learned texts, and by the end of the eighth century they’d produced the beautifully illustrated Lindisfarne Gospels, all in Latin.

  “Mission was a great part of their work too, and once they’d mastered the English language, Aidan and some of the brothers who crossed from the island to the mainland, where they walked the lanes, talking to everyone they met. Gradually they began to sow the seeds of Christianity in the communities around them; seeds of faith that eventually flourished to bring the knowledge of Christ to every corner of the British Isles.”

  Allowing a few minutes for her listeners to soak up both the information and the spectacular vista around them, Lydia didn’t start talking again until the shore of the island came into clearer view.

  “St Aidan founded the monastery in AD 635, but St Cuthbert, who followed Aidan as Prior of Lindisfarne, went on to become one of the most celebrated of this country’s holy men. When Cuthbert died in 651, he was buried on the island until, eleven years later, the monks removed his body from its tomb in order to place it in a specially created pilgrim shrine. It was then that they became aware of the great miracle of Cuthbert: that his body had remained undecayed, a sign of great purity and holiness.

  “At the end of the eighth century, the isolated island with its rich monastery became easy prey for Viking raiders. Eventually in 875 the monks left, cherishing their saint’s remains as they fled, carrying him with them across the north of England. Their wanderings lasted for more than two centuries, until finally they were able to lay Cuthbert to rest at a bend in the river, where Durham Cathedral and his shrine remain today.

  “It was only after that time that the Durham monks felt able to return to re-establish a priory on Lindisfarne, and the dramatic ruins of the richly decorated priory church they built at the start of the twelfth century, with its famous rainbow arch, still stand on the island today.

  “A small community lived quietly on Holy Island until 1537, when Henry VIII caused devastation across the country by dissolving the monasteries, Lindisfarne amongst them. It’s said that stones from the demolished priory church were used to build Lindisfarne Castle, which can still be seen from miles away, standing as it does on an ancient volcanic mound. It has passed through many hands and renovations since, but it’s still an evocative and fascinating place for you to visit today.”

  At this point, the coach pulled up alongside several others in the car park by the village.

  “Right!” announced Lydia, her voice now snapping with authority. “Please pick up a map of the island as you leave the coach, and then you are free to wander at will until quarter past two, when everyone must, I repeat must, be back on the coach, so that we can cross the causeway back to the mainland before it’s submerged in water. Did everybody hear that loud and clear?”

  A chorus of agreement echoed around the coach. Neil stood up to make his way down to the front and took the mike Lydia handed him.

  “Can I remind everyone that we are holding our own service of worship beside the priory ruins at one o’clock sharp? Everyone is welcome to join us. They describe this as a thin place, where the veil between heaven and earth seems to fade almost to nothing. So discover for yourself what a special island this is – and God bless you.”

  The passengers tumbled untidily out of their coaches, poring over maps to try to get their bearings.

  “This place is right up my street,” announced John Curtis, as he and his wife Barbara emerged from their coach. “Spectacular landscape steeped in history.”

  “John loves history, don’t you, love?” beamed Barbara, as she slung her rucksack over her very new waterproof jacket. “And we both love walking. That’s right, isn’t it, John?”

  “Certainly is, dear. And you have your camera at the ready to record every little detail.”

  John looked down at the map, up to the horizon, then down at the map again before glancing left and right. “That way, I think!”

  And with their unnaturally pristine walking boots squeaking slightly, the two of them set off at a determined pace.

  “Rob!” called Jill, hurrying towards her husband the moment she spotted him. “I’m really sorry we missed each other. Were you OK being alone on that other coach?”

  He barely looked at her as he replied, “Actually, the company was better than I’ve had for days.”

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry I got things mixed up – but now we’re here, what would you like to do first? Do you fancy walking up to take a look at the castle? Apparently there’s a shuttle…”

  “No. You go off and do your happy-clappy-churchy thing, and I’ll sort myself out.”

  “Well, we’re not meeting for our service until one,” replied a flustered Jill. “We could do a bit of sight-seeing before that.”

  “The only sight I want to see is a nice pint in that pub over there. A newspaper would be good too, but I sup
pose it’s too much to ask that they’d have a daily newspaper in a God-forsaken place like this.”

  “The one thing this place is not is God-forsaken,” interrupted Marion, who had been standing near enough to hear the whole exchange. “Come on, Jill, he’s not worth your worry. Just let him get on with whatever he wants to do. Come and join us. We’re going to have a cup of coffee, then head for that castle.”

  Jill hesitated, looking pleadingly at her husband, but he was already striding away. Her expression was bleak as Marion led her over to where Betty and Sheila were standing. They both reached out to put their arms around her.

  Mark had followed Jill off the coach, and he was appalled at Rob’s reaction to his wife’s obvious distress. He had a strong urge to march after him and punch him square on the nose.

  “I feel like giving him a kick on the shin,” said Deirdre, suddenly appearing at his side and staring after Rob as he marched away.

  “Hardly a good Christian response from either of us, then,” grinned Mark.

  “Ah, well…” agreed Deirdre, her eyes dancing with mischief. “What do you think? Coffee – or a walk to the castle?”

  Without thinking, Mark offered his arm, and immediately she linked hers in his.

  “The castle, I think.”

  Their eyes met in complete understanding. Then, as one, they walked out of the car park and veered off to the left, so deep in conversation that their heads were almost touching.

  It was getting on for eleven o’clock by the time Iris, Harry, Claire and Neil had wandered around the village and made a trip to the café. Claire soon realized Neil was getting restless.

  “Go on, hop it!” she smiled, putting her arms around his waist to draw him close. “I know how special this island is for you. You need some time on your own here. I’ll look after the others.”

  He bent his head to kiss her. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’ll see you at the priory ruins at one, OK?”

  He knew exactly where he wanted to go: down to the shoreline, then back past the causeway where, all those years ago, in the rolling sand dunes that lined the shore, he had stumbled across a corner hidden from man but known to God – because it was there his despair and confusion had been met by God himself.

  That moment had come just as he was reaching the end of his first year of theological training; a time when his confidence in his faith, in his understanding of God and in himself should have been steadily growing in depth and certainty. He could see that was happening for other candidates studying with him. His best friend had an easy way with people, combined with a talent for the theatrical. He always seemed able to connect easily with others, whether it was leading worship in a packed church, or being alongside a grieving wife as the life of her dearly loved husband ebbed away. Neil doubted that he would ever be capable of the right abilities, and that made him question whether he really understood what God wanted of him. Perhaps it wasn’t ministry? After all, shouldn’t there be Christians in every walk of life? Maybe he would make more impact on the faith and understanding of others if he were a teacher, a doctor or an accountant like his father?

  He had been so near to quitting. He had come to this remote place, this holy island where the shadow between heaven and earth was smudged and fluid. He needed time to question everything he felt and thought he knew. After all, for years he’d been absolutely certain that he could hear the “still, small voice of God”. He’d recognized its truth, reassuring, guiding and infinitely loving. He had no doubt of God’s plan for his life. He was sure he could hear his voice above the clatter of the everyday, pushing him towards ministry, focusing him on what he understood to be God’s purpose.

  But, looking back, he knew that he had neither heard nor understood anything – not until he sat amid these windswept dunes, opening his mind and himself in utter surrender to God’s holy will. It had seemed as if the ancient saints were drawing him there, whispering to his soul in the swirl of the wind, the rustle of the grass, the whistle of the pipits and the heave of the waves. He remembered lying flat as if his body was rooted in the ground, his arms stretched out towards the arch of heaven, exposed, vulnerable, inadequately human. A line of Scripture was rolling around in his head, and he remembered hearing a voice, his voice, saying the words over and over again: “You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.” If you know me, Lord, he remembered praying in thoughts rather than words , if I am a creation of yours, let me know your purpose for me. Grant me the skills and wisdom to fulfil your will. Let me be all I can be, what you intended when you breathed life into me…

  Later, he was unclear about what had happened – what he heard, what he saw, what was actually real. He remembered how the roaring in his brain seemed to subside, as silence descended around him like a warm dark blanket. No stirring wind, no rush of waves against the shore – just dark warmth, like loving arms that enclosed him. If there were words, he couldn’t recall them, and yet he had complete understanding of what he heard; a deep reassurance in his heart of God’s presence and purpose. He would become a minister, a channel of God’s love to all. Thy will be done, O Lord; thy will be done.

  His mind racing with the emotion of his memories, Neil made his way now through the dunes. They changed with every breath of wind and yet seemed comfortingly familiar. This was it. Just here, in a basin of calm from the weather – this was where it had happened. This was where his absolute belief in God, his sense of mission and his truest love were decided forever. Exhilarated, walking faster as he neared the spot, he climbed until the long grasses cleared a little so that, at last, he could re-live that moment of facing his nemesis.

  And that was when he saw him. Hunched in a corner of the dip, his head in his hands, was the man who had sat alongside Neil on the coach. It was difficult to tell which of the two of them was more shocked and irritated by the intrusion, but finally it was Neil who spoke, thinking that if there was anywhere on earth where he had a responsibility to put care for others above his own wants, it was here in the place where the glory of God had been revealed to him.

  “I’ll go, if you like,” said Neil. “Unless you could do with the company of someone who’s a good listener.”

  The man stared at him through reddened eyes. “You’re a minister?”

  “Yes, in the Church of England.”

  “I’m an Anglican. At least I was a long time ago.”

  “Sometimes we drift away from religion, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we lose our faith…”

  “Are you asking if I believe in God? Yes, with all my heart. Do I think God has any business with me? No, I don’t. I don’t deserve it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because if I were half decent as a man, a husband, a father…” His voice trembled, pausing for a while before he could carry on. “If I’d been half decent as a father, my son wouldn’t be dead because of me.”

  Neil moved over to sit beside him on the sand, watching as the man tore off a long blade of grass, shredding it savagely between his fingers as he continued.

  “He died nine weeks and four days ago. Chris, our son. He was just eighteen.”

  Seconds passed.

  “He overdosed. Heroin. It was cut with something else, backstreet stuff, contaminated. It killed him.”

  His head dropped as he struggled to go on.

  “I could have helped him. I could have done something, the right thing. He came to me begging for help. As usual, I knew best. I gave him a lecture; told him he was a failure, a disgrace. Said I was ashamed to call him a son of mine. I turned my back and walked away – and he died. My son died in agony, in squalor, all on his own. Our boy, who was brought into the world with so much love and joy, died in pain and fear. I did that.”

  “Were the two of you close?”

  The man grimaced. “It’s hard to have a relationship with a father who’s always working. Well, of course I work. Dads do. A family needs money, and I’m the provider. I didn’t want to be awa
y. I had to be. That’s how things are.”

  “Who else is in the family apart from you and Chris?”

  “My wife, Joanne – and Livvy. Chris is two years older than her.” His voice broke again. “I mean, he was. They were always together, those two. She adored her big brother. Followed him round like a shadow when they were kids.”

  “And Joanne? How’s she doing with all this?”

  “Devastated. Grieving.”

  Another silence while he looked down at the mangled piece of grass in his hand.

  “Do you know what Chris threw at me the week before he died? He said he hadn’t asked to be born…”

  Furiously, he slung away the grass he was holding.

  “What do you say to that? What can a father say when his son tells him he didn’t ask to be born? He was blaming me, as if everything going wrong in his life was my fault – and my first failure as a father was to give him life. He wished he hadn’t been born.”

  “So how did you react?”

  “I left. I told him he was an ungrateful, selfish, immature little boy, then I left. Six days later, they found him in an alley – and he was right. That was my fault…”

  He wiped his fingers roughly over his face, taking a long, deep breath before raising his head to look out towards the sea.

  “Years ago, I came here to make a decision. Now I wonder if I got it right. I’d fallen in love with Joanne, but our lives were so different. I didn’t know if I could make her happy. I couldn’t imagine living without her, but was I right for her? I couldn’t think straight when we were together, because the passion between us was so strong. It was almost frightening that we wanted each other so much. So I came here to think things through. I sat on this shore for hours, thinking about her and me, and whether it was possible for two such different people to make a life together. There’s something about this place, isn’t there? Almost as if there’s old wisdom in the air. Is it the saints? God?