It's Pentecost, Tom, but not as we know it.

The photo above is by Giles Turnbull. Through the gate of Holy Trinity Church, Bradford on Avon. I particularly like this picture.

The story below is inspired by Thomas Hardy's poem, 'Church Going'. Make of it what you will. Maybe read the poem, too.

Tom sat at the back of the church. It was Pentecost, celebration of the day God sent His Spirit amongst his people. Fire, wind, comfort and inspiration for all time.

"No. I just don't get it", he said silently to himself. And not for the first time, as he sang the hymns, smiled at people about the church and tried, where appropriate, to look solemn and meditative.

"I mean, I keep coming here - I like the building; it's peaceful. But I don't feel what they all seem to feel. What has been revealed to them and why has it never to me? Are they arrogant and pleased with themselves because they are so sure about their faith? I'm not sure I even like that."

Tom found that, despite his best intentions, he was riled. Irritated because no one was helping him. If they were so close to God, why couldn't they sense that he was struggling? His chest felt a bit tight. He was getting the old, frosty demons again. Emma Gifford. How could it have all gone so very wrong and now she was gone, too. And here, in a place which was supposed to help him, he could find neither solace nor guidance.

"Out. I cannot stand it. I cannot do this any more; skulking at the back. I need some air. I don't want to hear all this talk of the Holy Spirit coming among us. What about me? No one or nothing has come to me."

Outside, though, his breathing came deeper and he felt a little better. It was a warm Spring day; May the 23rd.  He could smell the last of the cowslips, a warm honeyed breath. The lily of the valley mingled in their sweet, fresh scent and the earth, he thought, exhaled. The old gardener was at work; not in church, Tom noticed. Keeping the Garden of Remembrance tidy; mowing and clipping. When he saw Tom, he sat down.

"Morning, poet" (as was his wont).

"Well, as you know, I write novels, too", said Tom, unneccessarily.

"Church a bit stuffy for you, was it? Artistic type like you."

And Tom, without having intended to, poured out what he felt about church going. Even said some quite unpleasant things about it. And the old man listened without comment. Finally, Tom stopped, aware that attention was waning and that, perhaps, he was being boorish on this fine Spring morning when folk had gardens to tend and services to worship at.

The old man stood up and turned from him, lifting his spade, fork and trug. Still he said nothing. Tom worried that he had caused offence. Damn it all and damn himself, too. "Low born churl", Emma had once called him. Now he could add "blasphemer", "man with ideas above his station" and "berater of old men going about their peaceful business".

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that all to come out. I can see I have caused offence" he called after the man.

"No offence, no. But I must be going about my business."

The gardener walked on and stopped, still without turning around. But if Tom could have seen his face, as we do now, he would have seen a wry smile playing about the corners of the mouth.

"No poet. Never you mind. I always listen. I notice such things. And I'll tell you this. The garden is warm today and do you see the breeze around the flowers? Like a heat haze, isn't it now? This is my church right here. And you might want to take your jacket off and sit for a while. It's the Spirit, you see. Followed you out here. Dooesn't stand for none of your nonsense. Came to you because you couldn't come yourself."

The old man raised his fork above his head in goodbye and Tom was alone in the garden.