Chapter 15 - Tom

“Come on in.” Ruth opened the door with a smile, which Tom tried to return. She reached out for his vestment bag, tucked awkwardly under his arm. “I’ll take that.”

“It’s all right… thanks.” He surrendered it to her and pushed the door shut behind him.

“Let me show you your room, then we can get dinner and figure out how much we actually want to talk.”

That drew a small, awkward laugh from him. “Thanks.”

She nodded knowingly, then turned and led the way to her private flat. Inside, she deposited her keys on a shelf just inside the door then him up the stairs and through a door on the right. He looked around with interest as he followed, struck by the difference between this and the offices which took up the majority of the Palace.

The room she showed him into was the sort of room one might expect to find when visiting an archbishop: spacious, antique-looking furniture and a double bed, a good view through the window, everything immaculately turned out. He dropped his case on the bed, while she opened the wardrobe and hung up his vestments.

“There’s an iron in the utilities room downstairs, I’ll show you later. Rochet’s looking surprisingly okay, considering it's new, I'll teach you the tricks of ironing it tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I need to do my shirt too.”

“Plenty of time in the morning - we won't be doing anything or going anyway, just spending a quiet morning here. I’ll let you unpack and then join me downstairs when you’re ready. En suite is in the corner there. If I say dinner in twenty minutes, is that long enough?”

“Sounds great.”

“Good. How do you like your steak?”

“Um, medium rare? That’s a treat.”

“Having you round’s a good excuse.” She gave him a warm smile. “See you in twenty, if not before.”

“Sure.” He waited until she’d gone, then sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around. There was a knot of anxiety at the bottom of his stomach, which he was doing his best to ignore. He wasn’t on Lindisfarne anymore, and without the waves Bishopthorpe felt perhaps even more silent. Except that after a week in silence, he now had to talk.

He unpacked, had a three minute shower, spent a few more minutes trying to calm his thoughts, then descended the stairs slowly, pausing at the doorway to the kitchen to greet the elderly dog who’d padded across to meet him.

“Well timed.” Ruth didn’t turn, busy with pans and plates. “Take a seat, I’ll be two minutes.”

He washed his hands then did as he was told, sorry to see Dot pad away back to her bed in the corner. A moment later, Ruth turned and set a plate before him, sitting down opposite. “I’ll say grace. Benedicamus Domino.”

That caught him by surprise. “Laus Deo.”

She smiled at him. “Tuck in.”

He took up his knife and fork and started with a potato.

“I know you’ve just had a week in silence. Do you want me to be chatty or would you prefer quiet companionship?”

He chewed his first bite of steak. “Not chatty. This is great.”

“Thanks. And yes, of course. Water?”

He pushed his glass towards her. “Ta.”

They ate in silence for a while, before she offered him dessert and he accepted. Finally, she placed both of their bowls next to the sink and barred his way when he tried to join her there.

“Sitting room. I’ll deal with this in the morning.”

He nodded, and led the way through the open door to flop onto a sofa. She sat in an armchair, leaning back with eyes closed. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Thanks for… having me.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.”

He pursed his lips slightly, looking down to the side rather than at her. “Sorry about last week.”

She opened her eyes to look at him. “That’s okay. Are you feeling better now?”

He nodded. “I guess. I mean, I’m terrified, but also… calm. From Lindisfarne.”

“I’d love to go there again. Collect enough beads for a rosary.”

“Am I supposed to be talking to you about tomorrow?”

“Only if you want to.”

“It’ll be okay, right?”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a long while.

“Sorry. I can’t really think about… anything else.”

“Of course not.” She opened her eyes again to smile. “Talk if you want, not if you don’t. I don’t mind silence.”

“Thanks.” He smiled back. “I don’t really know what to say.”

She made an expansive gesture with her hands. “I’ll answer all the silly questions. Or we can have a deep conversation about difficult things. Or anything. I mean that.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He was quiet for a while. “I just can’t imagine it. I’ve no idea what it’ll feel like.”

She nodded slowly in return. “You’ll have to wait and see. I have some idea that for me, it’ll feel absolutely awesome, because these moments always do. Ordaining is great. For you, maybe a bit like being priested, maybe completely different. You’ll just have to live in the moment.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not long now.”

“Waiting sucks.”

“I know. It’ll go by really fast, though. But then there’s all those decades of ministry to follow.”

He pulled a face. “I guess… I just want to get on with it? These last few hours… are the worst. Like it could still not happen, but I can’t really back out… I mean, it’s great to spend the evening with you, I just… wish I could enjoy it more.”

She nodded. “You'll have to come back another time, when you're not being ordained the next day. Would you rather be praying? Or reading, or doing something distracting?”

“Dunno. Maybe I’d quite like to pray, I dunno. Don’t really know what I want.”

“I need to take Dot into the garden before too long, if you want to come wander round? And then we can join the Sisters for compline in chapel. Can go early and stay afterwards to pray as long as you like.”

“That sounds like a good plan. See how I feel when I get there, if that’s okay.”

“Coming out now?”

“Sounds good.”

“It won’t be much, just a slow wander.”

“See the old place again.”

“Not much has changed. Oh yeah, we lost one of the pines in a storm last year. Otherwise… just a bit more grown, I guess?”

“I’ll go find shoes.”

“Good plan.” She stood up and stretched. “See you at the front door.”

He met her there a minute later, and she smiled before raising her voice. “Dot! Come on!” A moment later, the dog appeared at a slow limp. Ruth crouched to fuss her, then stood up straight, taking a torch and keys from a shelf by the door. She led the way out, Dot nosing along at her heel, leaving Tom to find the light switch and pull the door behind him, and then follow her down the staircase which led to a side door, her own private entrance and exit.

The air was warm, still, the sky not quite dark, crickets buzzing in the long summer evening. Dot limped off ahead, disappearing into the long grass, while Ruth and Tom stuck to the path. It really hadn’t changed, though he hadn’t often seen the place in this light. Oh, and the gap over there where the pine had been. The moon was waxing, almost full, causing the white in Dot's fur to gleam and the hedges to cast deep shadows. A bat flitted overhead, catching Tom's attention for a moment.

They walked for a while, a slow lap, before Dot met them at the door, casting a pleading look at Ruth before taking the stairs one by one. Ruth unlocked the flat door, leading the way in, depositing torch and dog paraphernalia before leading the way back out. "Chapel. You know the way. If I leave before you I'll leave the door on the latch, just lock it when you come in."

"Thanks."

It was, really, the only way to end this day, this last day of normality: kneeling in just the light of the presence lamp, praying long into the night, then slipping back through corridors familiar and now silent, letting himself into the flat, locking the door and turning out lights after him. Then settling into bed, staring into the blackness until sleep overtook him.

He woke slowly, lying curled in bed until a tap on his door broke through his drifting thoughts. "Morning Tom. Cup of tea just outside."

"Thanks." He got up slowly, stretched, and went to fetch it. Ruth had disappeared, probably back downstairs, leaving him to sit on the chair in his room and stare out of the window until the tea was cool enough to drink. Then a shave, physio exercises, t-shirt and jeans thrown on, and with vestments in hand he was ready to descend the stairs.

"Morning. I wouldn't mind having a cup of tea brought to me every morning."

"Coffee? Or more tea?" Ruth glanced over her shoulder. "Hang that up next to mine for now, through that door. Shut the door carefully, don’t want to take risks with dog hair… what do you want for breakfast? I was thinking of making scrambled eggs."

"I guess I should."

"Yes, you'll be even less hungry at lunchtime. Anything else you'd prefer? I have bacon too."

"Eggs is good. And coffee. Thanks." He stepped through the door she'd indicated, switched on the iron, and focused on his shirt. It wasn't too bad anyway, just a few creases from being in his case yesterday. The rochet would be the hard one, and he'd accept Ruth's offer of help with that, if just to give them something to do during the long hours of waiting. He glanced for a moment at Ruth's alb, hanging pristine from the rail next to her shirt, every pleat perfectly pressed. She was giving him her best.

"Eggs are ready… looking good, hang it up and come along." She smiled gently. "I know it's nerve-wracking, but can I tell you how much I'm looking forward to this? I'll look after you, don't worry."

He nodded, taking a seat at the table, taking up knife and fork. "This looks wonderful. Thank you.”

"You're welcome."

He had a sense of her appraising him as he ate, but when he glanced up she was focused on her own breakfast. He turned his attention back to his plate, grateful - he hadn't been hungry, but this was easy to eat, and it was settling his stomach. Eventually, he laid his cutlery down and sat back.

Ruth glanced at her watch. "Four hours until we need to leave. You got everything ready?"

"Shirt's ironed. Shoes are polished. I'm clean and shaved. Just need you to teach me the secrets of ironing a rochet."

"Of course, we'll do that later. Pectoral cross?"

"In my bag."

"And I saw your crozier case. I need to take Dot round the village, coming?"

"Sure." He stood up, then did a couple of stretches. "Body's still waking up for the day…"

She smiled, walking through to the hall, whistling as she went. Dot rose and limped slowly across the room, and Tom caught Ruth's tiny sigh.

"I'm going to leave her home. It's too long a day for her."

Tom nodded, following them out, down the drive and into the village.

"These beans are coming on well, look at them. I love seeing how things change…"

He smiled. "This doesn't sound like the old Ruth."

"That's what getting a dog does to you." She paused while Dot sniffed at the ground. "Come on, good girl."

"It's strange, being back here. It doesn't feel the same, I guess because I've changed."

"It's hard, losing that sense of belonging. It's still the same place but you don't fit it anymore. I've changed too, of course, but… it's changed with me."

"Sure." He wandered on beside her, taking in the gardens. "Butterfly!"

"Lovely!" She paused to admire it with him, until Dot shook herself, jangling her lead. "All right, come on then…"

So easy to pass the time, even easier than on Lindisfarne. And it was a good way to pass the time, just quiet companionship, slowed to a crawl by Dot's faltering limp, their walk cut short when Dot lay down on the path, nose towards home.

"Alright, that way then." Ruth took a step in the desired direction then stopped, looking down, waiting patiently for Dot to haul herself back to her feet. There was a side gate here, to which Ruth had a key, letting her back inside Bishopthorpe garden where she could reach down and unclip Dot's lead. "Come on then."

A lap from a bowl by the door had Dot perked up enough to climb the first couple of stairs, before she looked back pleadingly, and with a sigh Ruth scooped her into her arms to carry her the rest of the way. Once they were back in the flat, Ruth measured out her food and left her to it, leading the way to the living room. "Morning prayer?"

"Of course."

She pulled out her phone, flopping into an armchair. "You read I'll lead?"

"Sure."

That duty done, they dealt with the remaining ironing, then she gave him a book to read and they sat in silence for the rest of the morning, Ruth with Dot’s head on her lap until she got up to make tea. At that point the dog stood with a sigh and padded over to Tom, resting her full weight against his legs and gazing up as he fussed with her ears. Then, seemingly tired of this, she curled up on his feet, and he returned to his book. Not that he got far, before Ruth called him for a quick lunch, which she made him eat. And then they sat at the table in silence until with a glance at her watch she stood. "Fifteen minutes before I want to be out. Go get changed, what are your plans for afterwards, coming back here or not?"

"Going straight to the hotel with the family. Dinner out, just us."

"I won't offer to drive you then, you'll need your car in York."

"You, drive me?" Tom managed a small laugh. "That'd be a new experience!"

She laughed too. "We spent long enough in my car heading up and down to the camp, I was the one in the driving seat there…"

"I suppose so."

"But on this occasion you can drive me, like old times; Isla will drop me back, or I can get the bus. Now, go get dressed." She took his shirt off the rail, shoving it at him with a teasing smile before taking her own shirt and vestments down.

Alone in his room, he looked at the shirt before pulling his t-shirt off and slowly buttoning it up. A change of trousers too, and his shoes laced up tidily, collar on and a brief glance in the mirror. It was like the morning of his deaconing all over again: the wrong clothes. He zipped the vestments back into their bag, packed up everything else, cast an eye round the room, then headed back downstairs to wait for Ruth. She wasn't far behind him, now in her characteristic skirt suit, with purple shirt and cross around her neck. Shirt like the one he was wearing, though he didn't feel anything like comparable to her. Cross like the one in his bag.

"You look fine." She drew a small box out of her jacket pocket, opening it to show him the ring within, gold with a simple etched cross. "Chrissie will vest you with it during the service. Luke will give you the cross, if you give it to me then I'll pass it on to him."

He dug in his bag, taking out the box and passing it to her.

"Great." She hefted her own case. "Lead on, driver. I'll just say goodbye to Dot."

"Sure."

He opened the door and stood waiting as she fussed Dot and then returned, to follow him down the stairs and load her case into the boot of his car, climbing into the passenger seat. Up front with him, not in the back working.

"York Minster. You know the way.."

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 14 - Tom

In Tuesday’s post, the package came, heavy and bulky and delivered by courier. It sat on Tom’s bed until late afternoon, untouched, well taped shut. He'd have liked to leave it that way until Saturday at least, but common-sense warnings from all sides drove him on, a couple of hours before dinner, to start picking at the tape. Yet another reminder of what was coming, as though the silence were not enough.

He took the crozier out first, mostly out of curiosity. Took the pieces out of the case and screwed them together, practised holding it the bishop’s way around and walking a few steps just to find out what it would feel like. Reluctantly, he leant it against the wall. A little more practise would probably be wise.

And then the bit he didn’t want to do. Check all the shirts were the same, and then try one on. Yes, it was just the same as his black ones, although new and in need of a wash to soften it up before the service. He turned his back on the mirror to avoid it and dug, teeth gritted, for the largest package. Cassocks? Fine. But purple?

It was, funnily, less hard to put on the rest. Perhaps because the shirt and cassock had been so much already, had overwhelmed all instincts and reluctance. Just a fiddle working out how to sort out the cuffs of the rochet, and then trying to make the chimere lie comfortably. Finally, a deep breath and then turn around to look in the mirror. And see himself looking back, a bishop. Almost a bishop.

It would perhaps have made sense to practise walking with the crozier in vestments, but in one day, this was enough. Everything fitted. He hadn’t forgotten anything important. Now he could just hang it all up in the wardrobe to let the creases drop out, iron later in the week if necessary. He'd throw a couple of the shirts in the wash to soften them up, and otherwise try to forget the whole thing.

He replaced the shirt with a t-shirt, and then after a moment’s hesitation he scooped up the teddy which Megan had snuck in for him. A bar of chocolate, too, kept cool in the fridge, and then he took the blankets from his bed and made a nest from them in a corner of the room. He’d earned it.

This was happening. It was really happening. He broke off a piece of chocolate. At the end of this week, he was going to leave here and go to York Minster and be ordained. What if he refused to leave? What if he hid until the tide had come back in? Or turned his car North instead of South and disappeared into Scotland? Come back once it was too late for them to force him into it.

What would it be like, being a bishop? He tried to remember becoming a deacon, becoming a priest. Would he feel different? Being a deacon, everyone had looked at him differently, and of course the same would happen here. Their expectations would grow, and perhaps their respect. It was strange enough being set slightly apart, now to be one of such a small number…

And then… within. Just as in becoming a priest he had suddenly felt himself a leader, a representative. When he’d straightened up so aware of the presence of God within him, weighing down on him, driving him forward. When he’d known that something had changed within him, that he was the same and yet different, a strength and an authority within him that wasn’t his own. When he’d been so filled with emotion that all he’d lain awake most of the night overflowing with awe and wonder and love. Oh, and then standing behind the altar the next day, his hands still although he was shaking inside… would it be anything like that? He hugged the teddy to his chest. It couldn’t happen to him, really. It just couldn’t.

Had he really changed, since those early years, with mam and Mick in a council house on the outskirts of Manchester? Had he really grown beyond the child he’d been then? Was he really grown up enough to be a bishop, had he really changed from the small boy crying in his room, his knee grazed from being pushed over by bullies at school? Hiding from mam, because she would be upset and he didn’t want that, although what he wanted most was a hug from her.

A hug from her. That’s what he wanted now, most of all – he hadn’t changed, had he? Except that now he couldn’t have that hug. Now he was bigger, and older, and people expected more, and she wasn’t there.

He pulled the blankets up tighter around him, cold despite the summer heat. Or perhaps not cold, not physically cold, but… cold inside, somehow. Chilled by the ice of death.

Death had lost its sting? Not for him, it seemed. Not for him, haunted by deaths across years, by the memories and the longing for those lost. Not for him, despite experience still torn apart by each new loss. Followed by ghosts, reaching out to them in longing, seeing them fade away at his fingertips.

Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon them. How much easier it would be, if he could see them there, if he could know the truth of those promises. Rather than relying on the faintest hope, on a promise never seen, passed on by those he’d never met. A promise he was expected to repeat, blindly, as though it were the most certain joy.

He said evening prayer alone, silently – because while the silence weighed around him, it was all he had. Occasional voices outside the window, gone in a moment. And the ever-present sound of the sea, waves pounding day and night, year after year, relentless as time itself. As the time which marched on and would not turn back, which insisted on carrying him with it into the depths of a future unknown, moulding him just as the waves moulded the land until he became something new, unrecognisable, retaining only a name.

He went out after dinner, to walk along roads now empty of the day’s tourists, first to gaze up at the jagged ruins of the priory, and then to walk back along to the end of the causeway where it led into the sea. On the other side of that, cut off by the water, reality, its street lights glittering off crests of waves. It was above that reality that the last purple clouds drifted, colour fading even as he watched, as the sun fled west and darkness took its place. The long twilight of summer was here, the ripple of wind across sand dunes causing dry grass to whisper, each blade passing its secrets to the next. He returned to the beach, finding a place to put his bag down. Wrapping his towel round himself he changed into swimming trunks then waded into the sea. The water was icy at first, a stark contrast to the thick evening air, to the sand still radiating a remnant of the sun. But after a couple of minutes, it became warm, calling him deeper, drawing him out into its endless expanse. How wonderful it would be to swim out there, to swim and to keep swimming until the world lay far behind.

Instead, he dried himself off and replaced his t-shirt then walked on round, sand moulding up around his toes with each step. Out here, not a house, not a streetlamp, and he lay on his back to look up at the stars, not a few constellations but a numberless expanse. So numerous your descendants will be… as many as the stars in the sky… as the sand in the desert…

He took a handful of dry sand and let it run through his fingers. Some promise, to a barren woman and her husband, a couple far beyond the age for children, and according to that promise nations had come into being.

Come on, Tom. You already have children. Why ask God for more, when you've already been given so much? God doesn’t work like that, doesn’t give you what you want, or at least not what you think you want. God gives you something else, something for which you never asked. Why be angry about Grace when you have so much for which to be thankful? When you have so many children for whom you never asked, a blessing so easily taken for granted?

But then he could be both.

So, God, you’re asking me to be a bishop. Are you? Go on then, I guess I’ll do it, but I need something back. I need you to help me, because I don’t know how to do this, and I’d do a terrible job on my own. And I need you to protect me, because it’s far too much for me, and you know that. So… yeah. Is that how things are going to be?

So many stars. He was almost tempted to count, just for the sake of it, but where to start? That bright one there, count circles around it? Or the big ones first, and then the smaller, and so on to countless infinities? How would he keep track? If he could reach up and pluck each one from the sky once it was counted, put it in a bag until he was done… more practically, take a photo and count them there, mark them off one after another. But what about those too small for the camera to see? And that one there, was it one star or two? Oh and even if he managed it, the Earth would roll on, and there would be more stars to see, more to count.

He could perhaps lie here all night. A bed of sand, sheltered by dunes, lulled by waves and watched over by the memories of saints. And look! New stars dawning, rising from the sea. It was nicer out here than in the house, and anyway he’d spent enough of the afternoon bundled in blankets. It was past midnight already, might as well do it properly, make the most of the cool and the quiet, before day returned again with its hordes of tourists and blazing heat.

He stood up, though, and wandered on round, replacing his shoes as the ground grew rougher. A little further, before he crouched and began to sift through stones, gathering beads in the palm of his hand. He should have brought thread, to string them on, but that would have to wait until he got home. Perhaps Mika and Mars would do it, if he found enough, an easy little something to take back for each of them.

When his hand became too full, he tipped them into his pocket and carried on. It was starting to get easier, the sky above brighter. Had it been so many hours? He’d done so little, and yet so much, and time had drifted by without him noticing. The first touch of pink across the sea, and then a glistening road across the water, a path which led all the way to the rising sun. Though no need to follow, as unseen birds began to stir, heralds of a new day.

Another night over. Five to go.

He sat on a rock to watch the sunrise, and then rose to walk back, around the coastline and then back up an empty road. Dawn, that treasured unseen time, clear and clean and new, the time when most of the world seemed most alive. Perhaps that was because one could hear it, God’s own world without human interference. Oh how he would love to stay out, perhaps to wander around the ruins and sit on the grass and build the walls again in his mind. But heavy eyes called him back, to tiptoe up the stairs and change into pyjamas and lay his head down on the pillow. He was too old for this, really, and when he had to get up again the mistake would be clear, but oh was it worth it!

Was it worth it? That was more questionable when his alarm went and he had to drag himself out of bed for breakfast. He yawned through morning prayer, and then burrowed back under the duvet, face towards the wall away from the light which now peered around the curtains. He’d sleep for a couple more hours, and then pray, and then read one of those books which Ruth had given him. Practise walking with the crozier, so that he could unscrew it and return it to the case and put it away out of sight. Oh, before any of that, meet with Mother Andrea, as though the silence were not already directing him without need for words. That silence, so dreaded, which seemed now to have formed a protective cocoon around him.

Though the greatest comfort of all, each day, was to walk to the end of the causeway and see the road cut off. Here was safe, here was easy. Here, the future was far away, way out across that barrier of water. Here he could rest, at last, in God’s embrace, concerns whisked away by the wind. Afternoons were hardest, lying sweating on top of his duvet as fear crowded in. As the sun pounded down, crushing through calm tranquillity, and thoughts rose unbidden to torment him. Sunday, getting closer, tightening his chest, a hood over his head. What if he couldn’t do it? What if it was too much for him? What hope did he have?

If only he could stay here forever. Or at least for a month, perhaps a year. How long would it take, before he was ready to go back? One week wasn’t enough, he thought, even as he polished his shoes and zipped his vestments into their bag and packed everything else back into his case. Saturday had come too fast.

Tomorrow, you will be a bishop.

And there it was, the reminder so explicit echoing in his mind. An entire week to process, and he still hadn’t processed, had spent most of it drifting around in a daze and hunting for tiny stones. But then a year wouldn’t have been enough. It was just going to happen, and maybe one day he would get his head around it but he wouldn’t pretend that to be likely. He’d be a bishop. He, Tom, would be a bishop.

And he couldn’t hide from it any longer. Only two questions to worry about, Ruth had told him, and he clung to that like a lifeline. Is your heart on fire with love for God? Well, buried a little beneath the weight of anxiety, but at his core… at his core he was. And it was his core that mattered.

He sat down on the floor, eyes closed, and attempted to push away the thoughts. Real silence, so hard to find, even in a week without words. God, are you there? Help me to trust you, I really need to trust you… He caught himself drifting, admiring his freshly polished shoes. No, Tom, focus. Or… don’t focus. Silence. Just be. No, don’t panic. Just be.

Was he called to this? Well, other people were certain. He’d have to trust them. Did he believe it himself? Well, there were moments, he supposed, times when it seemed so right and so certain and so inevitable. Then others where it was unimaginable and terrifying, where he remembered how ridiculous the whole idea was, how impossible it would be, how he didn’t have a hope...

He put his sandals on and went outside, to walk through the ruined priory and then scramble up a bank, to sit beside a weather-beaten cross and stare out across the sea. Here, in this place, the shadows of the past all around, the Church’s great story in which he was asked to play such a small part. To be a bishop in the Church today, a successor of all of this, of those who had made this place holy, of those who had between them carried one faith around the entire globe. Of those who had built the Church, without whom he would not have been here today.

Will you be their successor? Will you build up the Church for those who come after?

He looked behind him again, at the ragged walls and pillars, at the shadows stretching out from them. Who was he, to follow that? To follow so many others who had devoted their entire lives to God and Christ and the gospel? To attempt to be like so many saints, who had done this job before him?

But apparently he was going to. Because it was time to leave this island. Leave silence and return to reality, and make the long drive down. A night and a morning at Ruth's, listening to her wisdom and trying to hide his fear. Then a rehearsal, then wait. And then the service. And then he would be a bishop.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 13 - Ruth

“Morning, Tom, thanks for coming in. Making a detour in your journey.” Ruth greeted him at the door with a smile.

“No problem, it’s near enough en route. How are you?”

“Ready for this week?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think I ever will be. Nor for Sunday either, but I don’t think I can back out now.”

“Not without the best excuse in the world. Or a trip to hospital; please don’t do that.”

“You could come give me anointing of the sick instead of ordaining me, it’s all sacraments right?”

“I’ve been too close to that with other ordinands, don't. Anyway, ordination is double sacraments…”

“Hospital communion?”

“Stop it.”

“Sorry.”

She shook her head and gestured to a chair. “Sit down.”

“No Dot?”

“She’s asleep in my office. Now, ordination.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t make me do all the work. You’ve been preparing?”

He made a noncommittal noise and she shook her head. “Would you like to expand on that?”

“I mean… I’ve ordered everything. Designed my cross and had it made. All of that.”

“Tom.” She said his name quietly, warningly.

“Obviously I’ve been busy with work, getting things tidied up before I go. Thinking about vacancy and handover and all that. I’ll really focus on it this week.”

She steepled her fingers together and looked at him in silence, as his eyes roved the room restlessly.

“Sorry. Time kind of… ran away with me.”

“Tom.”

“What?”

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not, it’s perfectly true.”

“Something can be technically true and still a lie.”

He shifted awkwardly. “Well? What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“You know.”

“Do I?” Her eyes were still on him, his still avoiding her.

He crossed his legs and then uncrossed them again. “Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you take the time?”

He shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Tom…”

“What? I don’t!” He glared at the floor. “I don’t know. I just… didn’t. Really. I mean I thought about it a bit, but then I... kept avoiding it. I’ve got this week, I’ll use that, I’ve been saving it…”

“And this meeting today?” She raised her eyebrows. “Have you at least spent even half an hour preparing for this?”

His silence answered for him, but she waited as he squirmed. “Sorry.”

“And how do you think I ought to respond to this?”

He stared at the floor. “I don’t know.” A pause as he waited for her to reply. She didn't. “Um, tell me to get out and stop wasting your time?”

“Hmm. Yes, I think that would be fair.”

He sat tight, staring at the floor. She watched him in silence.

“You want me to go?” he asked eventually.

She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Not quite. I want you to go downstairs to chapel. Engage with God, and with your own emotions. Return when you’re ready to work with me.”

“Sorry. I’m wasting your time.”

“You’re letting yourself down. Go, and take your time. I’ll be in my office, if I’m on the phone when you return then wait with Isla. My afternoon’s flexible.”

“Sorry.”

She waved him in the direction of the door, and then returned to her office to sit behind her desk for a moment of prayer. Then she opened up her diary, to get ahead on the afternoon’s work, beginning with such calls as could be moved. She’d prepared her diary to be flexible in anticipation, and it was just as well.

She waited about twenty minutes before descending the stairs, taking a silent look through the open door of the chapel. Yes, Tom was here, kneeling with head in hands. Good. She hadn't really meant to tell him off, just to shake him enough to get past that internal resistance, and it seemed to have worked. She went to the kitchen for more tea, then stopped in at Karen’s office for a chat with the publicity officer on her way back up. One more job transferred. And then back up to Isla to update her, and back to her desk to work. One more phone call, and then sermon time.

Eventually, she picked up a short conversation in Isla’s office, and then her chaplain stuck her head around the open connecting door. “Tom's back to see you.”

“Thank you, Isla, the other room.”

“Of course.”

Ruth finished her sentence and went through, resuming her earlier seat and raising her eyebrows at Tom. “The time was helpful?”

“It was. Thanks.” His face was tired and drawn. This week was going to be tough on him.

“Now, I printed this off for you.” She passed the booklet across. “The draft copy of Sunday’s liturgy. You can spend some time reading through it prayerfully on retreat, but for now we’ll start with something that's not in there, the oaths you will make in the presence of myself and the registrar between rehearsal and service." She passed him a separate sheet. "Obviously you’ve made them twice before, but I’d just like you to take a minute to read through them now – and of course at any point if you have anything you want to bring up, do, but since you haven’t done any preparation I’m going to guide this meeting a bit more than I might normally, okay?”

He nodded and did as instructed, following the text with a finger as he read, and as she watched she wondered if it was really right. Was he ready, really, when she had to treat him like this?

No, he wasn’t ready. But he would be. Unfortunately in reality it would be now or never, because really, if he backed out this late, would there be a second chance? And he was the right person, even if it didn’t show right now. He’d meet the challenge, as he always did… but he’d need all their help! And in the end, God was calling him to do it, and God knew best.

“Now. Is there anything in there which you would struggle to say with full honesty?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Now. Hymn, welcome, confession and absolution... and then page seven. The Declaration of Assent, now to be made in public. Obviously you’ve again made it before, but just read through it now. Any problems?”

He shook his head again.

“Okay. And then a period of silent prayer… and the readings… and I will preach – once I’ve written it! Creed. And… page thirteen? Liturgy of Ordination, my address to the congregation – bishops are called to… - got it? Now, we’re going to go through that step by step, line by line. Can you read just the very opening, first two sentences?”

He swallowed. “Bishops are called…”

They worked through it slowly, considering each part of the text, building up an image. Being a public figure, speaking with authority. The demand for perfection, the impossible standards, the scale of responsibility.

“I don’t think,” she told him, “that when I answered these declarations I had any idea how I would fulfil them. I’m not sure I do now – well, if I do come anywhere near it, I certainly don’t know how. But of course it’s in the answers, isn’t it? Will you try to do and be all of these things?”

He took a deep breath. “By… by the help of God. I…” he tailed off into silence.

“By the help of God. That’s right, that’s what you’re being asked, will you let God work through you? No more, no less. You can’t say you will, because there’s absolutely no way you can, ever, nobody can. But by the help of God, you will. Do your best, let God make up the difference.”

“Right.” He took another breath. “Sorry, I’m trying…”

She smiled reassuringly. “I know you are, Tom. Thank you – and well done. This point is the one you’ll be taking away with you, and I’m simplifying the whole thing down to two questions: is your heart on fire with love for God, and do you believe that this is what God is calling you to do and to be? If you love God, you can trust God. If this is what God is calling you to, God will make it possible for you. Those are the truths which will get you through when nothing else can.”

He massaged around his eyes. “That’s a comforting idea.”

“It’s a world better than trying to work out how to fulfil each of the declarations.”

“You mean, maybe actually possible?”

“It can be the most wonderful thing, you know. Being an instrument of God’s love in such a way.”

“I’ll bet it can.” He sighed. “Do not be afraid, right?”

She shook her head. “Be afraid, Tom. Be afraid. But don’t let fear win.”

“Let love win?”

“Now I’ve reassured you, do you want the other side?”

He swallowed. “I’m not sure. I guess.”

She smiled ruefully. “Conscience requires me to tell you. When I tell you, pray earnestly for the gift of the Holy Spirit, do so in desperation, though also in the confidence that your prayer will be answered. This life you’re embarking on, it’s going to hurt you. If you give yourself in this way, if you live out these promises, it will hurt you and those around you. Others will hate you – you will be persecuted because of My name? Yes, you will, you will be hated for what you represent. When you make mistakes, as at times you will, it will hurt people, badly. It will be hard on you. You will change, more than you can imagine; you will still be you, but a different you, perhaps even a deeper you. It will be hard on your family, I’ve seen that enough times; never forget to take care of them. You will find yourself drained, overwhelmed, you will question your faith, you will question your calling. You’ve seen me struggle enough, and I’d been a bishop for almost a decade before you even met me for the first time. You know the reality. But you know what? It’s worth it. I can assure you of that. Living out what you’re called to do, working so closely with God, relying so much on God… it’s wonderful, even if it’s also horrible. Even when the hope you’re clinging to is your eternal reward after death.”

“Real talk…”

“Indeed. Make sure you have good people, like I had you and now have Isla, who can pick you up when it’s too much and remind you that you are safe in God’s arms. I’ll be around, if down in Cambridge, for hopefully another twenty years or so - God willing - and will happily mentor you. You can always pick up the phone or hop on the train when you can’t work through something by yourself. You should also work closely with a spiritual director, because your relationship with God is the most important thing and your lifeline and it’ll be strained at times.” She shook her head then relaxed her seriousness with a teasing smile. “Put you off yet?”

He pulled a face. “You tell me that and yet I’ll bet you still won’t let me back out.”

“Good guess.”

“Why does anyone do it? Are they all dragged in?”

She looked at her hands, twisted the ring on her finger. “Perhaps a little, at first. Nobody really knows what they’re signing up for, when they get a hint they often feel much as you do now. But they keep doing it, and do it well, and nobody could do that against their will. No, whether you believe it or not now, it’s worth it. It really is, I promise you. And so, so much better than holding back and being left to wonder what might have been. Life, to the full? That’s living out your calling, with God, through all trials and despite the pain. That’s finding out there’s joy in every bit of it.”

He leant forward, burying his head in his hands, and she let him in silence for a while, until he looked up at her with glistening eyes. “You’ll pray for me, of course..?”

“I always have and always will. That I promise you.”

He smiled, looked past her, took a couple of breaths. “And your blessing? Please?”

“Of course.” She rose to stand in front of him, looking down on his cowed figure. He’d find his own strength, but first he needed a simpler reassurance to tide him over, perhaps just to get him out of here and on the road to a retreat which would force him to find his own strength. A hand on his head, just as for children at the altar rail, taking her time to wait for the words. Her hand, through which God’s blessing was given... that privilege, of which she’d hinted to Tom, one of the things which made it all worthwhile.

His hands were clenched tight together, knuckles white, and she reached down her free hand to touch them, to release that anchor of tension. “Tom.” She said his name quietly. “According to the promises of Christ, know now that your sins are forgiven. May God’s blessing rest upon you now and always, especially in this week to come. May God’s love envelop you, and may you know the presence of the Holy Spirit ever with you as guide and comforter. May you have the strength to walk the path before you, pure and blameless in God’s sight. May you have the grace to stand in God's presence and to make the declarations put to you in honesty and trust. May God cause your heart to well up as a fountain of love, and give you strength to bear the pain that this will bring. May God protect you, and set angels to watch over you, and may you know yourself held safe in God's arms through joys and sorrows alike, and at the last enter into the promised rest. And may the blessing of God Almighty, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you now and always.”

“Amen.” His response choked off, and she dropped her hand from his head to his shoulder, to rub circles of comfort until he looked up into her eyes.

“Buck up. You can do it.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” She stepped back away from him. “And now, I send you off on retreat.”

“I guess so.”

She moved across to the small table beside her chair, reaching down to pick up two books. “I have these to lend you. You may choose not to read them this week, that’s fine if you have better ways to use the time. You can read them afterwards. I think you’ll find them both useful. Then after your ordination, before you’re installed, I have a few more for you, a couple to prepare for confirming and ordaining and a couple on the more day-to-day life of being a bishop. But that can wait. For now, are you ready for me to walk you down to your car and see you off on retreat?”

He pulled a face. “Go on then.”

“See you on Saturday night. Any changes in your dietaries? Don't tell me you're planning on fasting because I will veto that...”

That made him laugh. “Nope. I'm not that much of an idiot! Thanks for having me.”

“No worries, it'll be nice to have some time together - even in the circumstances. Don't worry, once you arrive here I'll look after you. Anyone here you want to say hello to on the way down?”

“I chatted to Holly on the way in. Right now, though, best just get on the road again.”

“I understand completely. Take these.” She gave him the books and then held the door for him. “Just to run through the checklist as we walk down the stairs,” she continued, as she led the way down the corridor, “you mentioned you have the cross? I’m looking forward to seeing that on Sunday. Then… crozier? Episcopal shirt and cassock? Rochet, chimere? Black shoes and non-garish socks?”

“Black socks, in fact.”

“Excellent. Purple would also be acceptable but over the top.”

“The vestments are being delivered this week, hopefully on Tuesday.”

“To Lindisfarne?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Just checking. Try them on as soon as they arrive, just in case. Your ring is sorted, no worries about that. Now, you won’t need it on Sunday, but mitre?”

He pulled a face. “Not yet.”

“Right. Obviously Sheffield will have a set with cope but you really will need one of your own. However it can wait. Hi, Holly, just showing Tom out. Now, I don’t need to tell you to take this week seriously. Make good use of it, though look after yourself too. I’ll see you on Saturday. Let me know if you're going to be early or late. Travel safely. God bless.”

“And you.” He gave her a weak smile. “See you. Saturday, I guess.”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson