Sunday, February 20th, 2011
I am cleaning out the chickens, bending over the chipboard floor, cleaning off the muck and disinfectant with a few scraps of kitchen towel.
My MP3 plays out John Waller's "While I'm Waiting".
Suddenly, I hear Dad calling my name and look up, removing one earplug from my ear. A horrendous racket hits my ear from some loudspeaker.
Dad, grimly: It's Arabic.
Me: It can't be!! It's Sunday, not Friday!
I run to the fence and look over the next two gardens to the street, then turning my head to the right so I can catch a little more of it. I listen, intent. The Church of St. Peter's is chiming its bells. It is 10am.
At first I think it could be someone driving around speaking the Gospel, since it is Sunday morning, and I cannot distinguish any words. Then I hear a slur on a sentence and I have no doubt. The accent is too clear.
I turn to Dad: Why?
Dad: Either because it's Sunday, or they could be calling out to their comrades because of what's going on in Egypt and Libya.
Me: So? This is Britain - they wouldn't leave their comfy homes to go and fight out there.
Dad: No, but they could be stirring them up to do the same here.
He goes back inside, closing the door. I look up at the blue, blue sky with the fluffy white clouds.
England, my Britain. How I love you, with fire and passion and all the energy of my heart's patriotism.
I continue gazing up, and whisper: Oh God, spare my country yet. For the sake of those who still serve You, save my country. For the sake of those who are gone before, for the sake of John Wycliffe, William Tyndale, Thomas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Oliver Cromwell, John Bunyan - spare my country yet!
I fear that is not the last time a foreign cry of a foreign religion will sound over the beloved air and streets of my country.
In Christ,
~Jane
My MP3 plays out John Waller's "While I'm Waiting".
Suddenly, I hear Dad calling my name and look up, removing one earplug from my ear. A horrendous racket hits my ear from some loudspeaker.
Dad, grimly: It's Arabic.
Me: It can't be!! It's Sunday, not Friday!
I run to the fence and look over the next two gardens to the street, then turning my head to the right so I can catch a little more of it. I listen, intent. The Church of St. Peter's is chiming its bells. It is 10am.
At first I think it could be someone driving around speaking the Gospel, since it is Sunday morning, and I cannot distinguish any words. Then I hear a slur on a sentence and I have no doubt. The accent is too clear.
I turn to Dad: Why?
Dad: Either because it's Sunday, or they could be calling out to their comrades because of what's going on in Egypt and Libya.
Me: So? This is Britain - they wouldn't leave their comfy homes to go and fight out there.
Dad: No, but they could be stirring them up to do the same here.
He goes back inside, closing the door. I look up at the blue, blue sky with the fluffy white clouds.
England, my Britain. How I love you, with fire and passion and all the energy of my heart's patriotism.
I continue gazing up, and whisper: Oh God, spare my country yet. For the sake of those who still serve You, save my country. For the sake of those who are gone before, for the sake of John Wycliffe, William Tyndale, Thomas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Oliver Cromwell, John Bunyan - spare my country yet!
I fear that is not the last time a foreign cry of a foreign religion will sound over the beloved air and streets of my country.
In Christ,
~Jane
Comments
Post a Comment
Thanks for sharing your thoughts. :)