God Incidents

"I was on holiday in North Yorkshire, with my friend, Joy, a fellow widow. Joy is a steam train fanatic, thus I found myself on a crowded train, travelling back from Whitby to Pickering, on the scenic North Yorkshire Moors Railway.

The seaside town had been crowded with August holidaymakers and this was the last train back that day. The weather had been good, so everyone had stayed as long as possible at the seaside. So as a result, around 2,000 day trippers were waiting impatiently, from one end of the platform to the other, complete with bags, inflatable toy, windbreaks and cool bags.

Joy and I looked anxiously at each other. We would have to move quickly once the train pulled in, to ensure that we got a seat. Both of us suffer from joint problems, and on top of that, I had my dog with us. Neither of us fancied standing for the two-hour journey back to base. There were many small children amongst the hordes. Hopefully, they would sit on their parents’ knees and free up a few seats for the older folk, like my friend and me!

Ten minutes late, the steam engine pulled up at the platform and folk began to surge forward and press to board. I had to lift my dog and carry her as we mounted the footplate. Glancing round, it was apparent that seats were at a premium, and that the thought that Joy and I would be able to sit together was out of the question. At the near end of the carriage was one unoccupied seat, and likewise, at the far end, I spotted a second. I called over my shoulder

“Joy, you take that one and I’ll sit there”.

So it was that I found myself, dog squashed in on the floor, under the table at my feet, sitting opposite a young man, who told me his name was Gary, and child, Rebecca, -about ten, -and what I presumed was his attractive wife. They were talking animatedly; discussing the events of the day and pointing out to the child things that we passed as the train chugged along.

I can’t recall which little country station it was where we spotted him, but it wasn’t far beyond Whitby, and so must have been Grosmont or Goathland, I guess, but there on the platform with a film unit, was Aled Jones. (A well-known singer and TV presenter here in Britain).

“Maybe he’s filming for one of those daytime shows he presents”, I said. “Or maybe for ‘Songs of Praise’”. I added as an afterthought, “I don’t watch daytime TV”.

“No. Me neither”, the lady confessed. “Do you watch ‘Songs of Praise’ then?”

“Oh yes. I never miss it. It’s one o my favourite programmes”.

The couples’ faces broke into wreathes of smiles. “Are you a Christian too?”

And so followed an avid conversation which lasted the whole journey home and made the two hours fly by in a trice. They told me they were from Cromer, on holiday like me. They worshipped at the Parish Church there, and evidently, it was a lively place, with a vicar who was keen to encourage involvement with those often overlooked or reviled in our society. And when I mentioned that I had a particular calling to prisoners, well, Gary could hardly contain himself, and described two visits he’d made to Africa. He’d conducted worship in a prison there, and encountered a 6 year-old boy. Incarcerated with adult men, many of whom were convicted of horrendous, violent crimes Gary was obviously deeply moved by the child’s plight. And all the more so, when age boy appeared to snigger and the guard immediately approached him, threateningly flexing his evil looking whip.

Gary and his family were keen to hear about my life, both as a visitor in English prisons but more particularly, on Death Row in America and we shared many similar experiences and opinions about life behind bars. When the train pulled in to Pickering, its final destination and the end of the line, Gary and his family invited me to drop in to their church and introduce myself to their parish priest, who they assured me would love to meet me, if ever I find myself in Cromer.

As we parted, I marveled that out of the two thousand souls packed onto that train that evening, I should have found myself sharing the journey home with such kindred spirits. And I just know for certain that it was no accident. Some might call it fate. I call it God’s hand at work. And what a privilege to be part of His plan. Wow! What a day out that turned out to be!"

Across the Pond Penny