As I am waking up on Sunday morning, in the muddle of thoughts about the day, one thought stands out. ‘Go for a walk in the lower part of the village with J’.
I have experienced thoughts like these before. They tend to be specific. There is a certain clarity about them that I think is God. When I have listened in the past, good things have happened. But they are easy to let drift, especially when they don’t fit with plans for the day.
J sits up on his side of the bed. I know he is going to go downstairs to get ready for church. I could go for a walk by myself. I could stay home and cook Sunday lunch..…Before I can think myself out of it, I say ‘do you want to go for a walk in the lower village this morning?’. I can sense his mental adjustment - he is tangibly tackling this potential change of plan - cogs are clicking into different positions. ‘Yes, let’s’, he says.
Down at the crossroads we are both enjoying the walk - we take the longer route. We cross the field with the pylons and walk through the forest. Recently the path through the trees has seemed shadowed, I’ve not wanted to linger. Today the sun is on the silver birches, fallen, moss-covered branches seem to shine, it feels lighter. We come out of the wood and turn right along the river towards the boathouse. There are banks of pink flowers, and last time I came through they smelt incredible. ‘Breathe in,’ I say. And we do. No scent any more, and then a drift of something foul. ‘Not that,’ I say, with a half laugh.
‘That’s something dead,’ he says.
I stop. I turn around and look at him in silence for a full thirty seconds. Now it is my brain machinery that is shifting, sifting. I am making connections, putting two and two together. But if I say something we’ll have to do something.
‘What?’ he says.
‘There’s a search for a missing person at the lakes today. I saw it on Facebook.’
We look at each other.
The lakes are about a mile away. Noone is searching here. The early morning nudge to walk here, specifically. God cares for our community. The search is a community prayer. God knew I needed J here too. Knew I would breathe deeply just here, looking for the scent of flowers past.
‘I should look,’ he says. ‘Don’t,’ I say. I don’t want him to see something bad. ‘But the family needs to know. I have to look.’ He is brave and kind, and if something is right to do, he will do it. He steps, gingerly, through some broken branches by the river. Nothing. Relief.
‘We can ring 101.’ I struggle with my phone to figure out how to find ‘what3words’ for where we are standing. The smell comes back once in a while, but we don’t go until I have managed it. Eventually I do and take a screenshot. They are three words I won’t forget.
We sit on the bench at the boathouse and take out our coffee. This is where we normally come just to be - we usually sip, and savour, and talk and pray and drink in stillness. Today the coffee seems unscented, a bland hot liquid taken in absent gulps. I am trying to get through to 101, the police ‘non emergency line’. They definitely don’t want me to tell them about my urgent ‘non-emergency’. There is a barrage of information trying to put me off, to get me to report online. I try, but it’s like a rabbit warren - I keep finding myself popping back up at the homepage. Too complicated. Instead I call again and decide to wait through the ‘extremely high number of calls’ they are experiencing. A kind voice of authority answers in under two minutes. They say they will radio through. To the search, I guess.
(If you need to call 101, don’t be put off, wait for a real person.)
J and I get up to walk home. We round the corner and there in front of us is an Inland Search and Rescue van with a massive aerial on top, and a smaller van full of panting, alert collie dogs. If only we’d known. I knock on the sealed up van, and a woman in a red top slides open a door. She is kind when she hears what I say, and there is an air of sympathy when I describe the details. She clearly thinks we may have found what they are looking for, but nods encouragingly when I say we hope it is just a deer. She relays my 3words to a man with his back to me, who is facing a bank of computer screens. They each repeat every letter in police speak…. Sierra, Charlie…that kind of thing. I wonder why she doesn’t just show him my mobile phone screenshot.
‘Enjoy the rest of your walk,’ she says and slides the door shut.
When we are nearly home I glance back over my shoulder to see two red jacketed men driving past the end of our road towards the lower village. They must be going to search. It is quarter to twelve.
In the evening I check Facebook. The local police have posted an update. Stark and simple on a black background. They are sorry to say that they found the body of a man at 12.40 today in woodland near the lower part of the village. Relatives are being supported.
Please pray for the relatives.
When I go to bed that night, I open my ereader. The page I see on the screen shows John 11:35-40. I stopped there when skim-reading this morning. I wasn’t fully focusing then. God cares so much for this community. And yours too.
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