Just discovered that my old college has (finally) appointed a new Biblical studies tutor (here, for now anyway - no permalink on the site that I can find) an Anglican priest just completing his PhD and sounds like he has quite a lot of offer.  I am pleased they've got someone but, if I'm honest, disappointed there aren't any Baptists they could have found  - maybe our biblicism trumps our desire to get to grips with this complex work?  I do wonder how easy he'll find the transition to Baptist ecclesiological thinking, lack of hierarchical authority and the like, but I'm sure he'll bring lots of new insights from his own world.  I hope it is a great move for all concerned and that he and they enjoy a fulfilling future.

One of the summertime/autumn aspects of life in rural Dibley is the mysterious appearance of plastic bags on my back doorstep containing food offerings - yesterday some home grown potatoes and a large lettuce.  On balance of probabilties in the next few weeks there'll be a few tomatoes and several tonnes of windfall apples.

Moving to the city will, I guess, bring this quirky practice to an end - but no doubt introduce some new ones all its own... like getting paid in money rather than turnips perhaps?! ;-)

This evening I have been juggling my digital camera and various tables, boxes and books to try to get a photo to send to my new church for them to put on the order of service for the induction.  It was tempting to send my old blog photo - one of the very few photos of me I actually like, but I was six years younger and a stone lighter in those days so it wasn't very accurate... that and the fact I'm a lot greyer now than then!

So, I tried to get some more formal and some less so (with and without a jacket) but still reasonably authentic.

Seemed a good opportunity to change my blog photo - and I'm secretly quite pleased with how this one worked out.

Of course, if you want to see the more formal one you'll need to get yourself to Scotland in October...

Whilst I was at it, I've also moved things round a bit - not a lot, don't want to be radical or anything - so some links have gone and a few new ones have been added (but you'll have to look for them, it's called 'exercise for the reader' as I recall it from engineering maths text books).

I have been good the last couple of days - I have forced myself to sit at my computer and type up the very dull paper I have to submit in September - well at least five of the seven sections anyway (the other two are in outline form and I will turn them into sentences tomorrow).  I am moderately please with having typed 5000 words in two days given the frequent interruptions but know that once I've finished I have to get my editting head on and start hacking the word count back down to the prescribed limit because it'll be well over.

Meanwhile, the builders have been having deliveries of goodness knows what which necessitates large lorries parking literally on my doorstep.  The new houses are growing steadily and it seems likely that some may be close to having rooves before I leave.  It will be interesting to return in a year or so to see what the finished product looks like.

Now it's time for a break - five minutes to talk twaddle to the www and then a proper break away from the typing.

Silence in this bit of blogland might mean I'm actually getting this paper sorted!

As posted yesterday, I have had some fun playing with this story and trying to find a new (to me) angle on it.  Those suggested by Jim and Julie are wonderful and would be well worth looking at, but as I started writing I  found myself recalling the Rembrandt 'Return of the Prodigal Son' which so inspired Henri Nouwen.  Not being a parent may mean I've misread how she might feel, but I've tried to tell the story through the mother...

A woman had a husband and two sons whom she loved dearly...

My husband is a good man, hard working and moderately prosperous; there is always plenty to eat, the servants and hired hands are paid properly and there is usually some money over to save.  My elder son is, as is often the way with first-borns, obedient and compliant, working hard alongside his father, diligently learning the family business and sticking to all the rules.  One day he will inherit it all, and he needs to understand every detail of what’s involved.  His younger brother is very different, happy-go-lucky and mischievous, often in trouble for some minor misdemeanour but with a winning smile and sunny personality.  No responsibility to weigh upon his young shoulders, but the knowledge that he will be well provided for after his father’s death.  Ours was a contented family and life ambled along uneventfully until one fateful day…

When my husband walked in that evening I knew something was up, but I wasn’t ready for what he had to tell me.  My younger son, my baby, was going away!  He had come to his father and asked for his share of the inheritance now, in cash, and, after thinking it over, he had agreed.  I was angry and devastated, just about to shout at him when I caught the look on his face – he looked as if the bottom had fallen out of his world.  “He might as well have wished me dead,” he said sadly, “but he has to be free to make his own choices and find his own way in life, so what could I do?”  I was tempted to tell him what I thought, but I held my tongue, and held him as he wept like a child himself.

We tried to carry on life as usual, but every evening I watched my husband walk to the end of the road, peering into the distance, hoping against hope that today news would come, but it never did.  Thank goodness for my elder son, I thought, he keeps things on an even keel, getting on with his work, never complaining, just doing what must be done.  He seemed quieter and more serious than ever, his humour dried up and he filled almost every hour with work.  He rarely saw his friends, and when they did meet up it was just for a quick chat before he was back to work.  It seemed as if I had lost both of my sons – one literally, gone away, and one figuratively, to a silent world of obedience.

Laughter was no longer heard in our house, we just got on with what had to be done.  Sadness and bitterness crept in to every corner and the ache of it was almost unbearable.

One evening my husband went out as usual to walk to the end of the road.  I thought how tired he looked, how all this had aged him: he was a shadow of his former self, empty and broken.  It wasn’t that he loved my elder son or me any less than before, but something was missing and he longed to find it.

As I watched, I saw him break into a run – robes flying everywhere as he tried to cover the ground at speed.  Someone was coming the other way… was this finally news?  Would it be good… or would his worst fears be realised as our son was lost forever, dead and buried in some faraway place?

I turned towards the field where my elder son was still hard at work and a shiver ran down my spine.  How would he react if it was bad news?  What if it was good?  What was all this doing to my wonderful proud, loyal son?

The sound of laughter and raised voices drew my attention back to the road.  My husband, walking arm in arm with some ragamuffin who looked in need of a square meal!  As they drew nearer I realised that this ragamuffin might be… could be… was… my own little boy, back home after all this time.  Grabbing a robe I ran to greet them and the three of us danced for joy in the middle of the dusty road!  A party – we must have party.  The order rang out, the calf was slaughtered and the meal prepared.

We were so caught up in the moment none of us thought to call in his elder brother, to tell him his brother was safe, to bring the two of them together privately.

He came in from the fields much later, tired, grubby and hungry.  He walked into the room to hear happy voices singing, to see people dancing and to smell wonderful food being cooked.  What should have been a moment of great rejoicing turned sour as an angry voice cut through the air.  “What about me?  I’ve slaved away all this time, worked extra hours, and done all I could to keep things going.  What thanks do I get?  Not even a goat to share with friends.”

I stood, speechless as angry tears rolled down the cheeks of my wonderful, strong, proud older son.  I saw him turn away from his brother’s outstretched arms and run from the room.  Silently my husband followed him, crestfallen but not angry.  In measured tones he responded, “My precious son, I love you as much as ever I loved you.  You are always with me and everything I have is yours.  But can’t you be glad with me that your brother who was lost to us is now found, that the one we feared was dead is so very much alive…”

As I peeped round the doorway I saw them, clasped in an embrace, my gentle, wonderful husband tenderly holding his son as the sobs wracked his body and the bitterness spilled into tears…

~"~

What happened next?  Did they come back into the feast?  Were the boys reconciled?  Did they come to understand one another and find their place within their father’s affections?  What do you think… how would you tell the tale… how would you live it?