Open Air: Reeling In The Years

The GoPro records in segments of seventeen and a half minutes each, for some obscure reason - rather as films in “the olden days” (as my grandson likes to call them) were divided up into several reels for projection in the cinema. So, today…

Reel 1. It’s cold again, and the sky is grey; but, as we arrive, Janette is already in position and tracting away to good effect. As I grasp her hand, I’m pleased to note that it’s warmer than last week, when it felt like ice. Stephen goes for a coffee for himself and a hot chocolate for her. Then we pray, and it’s Stephen’s turn to begin. Today it’s “What Is The Message Of The Bible?” and, a moment later, Peter appears. His time of arrival depends on how well public transport is working on any given day, so it does tend to vary.

We talk for a short while. As he moves away, his place is taken by a middle-aged lady in a silvery, quilted bomber jacket trimmed with black fur. Her hooped earrings dangle down below what is known in these parts as “a ******* facelift”, i.e., the hair pulled up into a bun on top of the head so tightly that your eyes are wide open even when you’re asleep.

She wants a bible, to which I add Ray Comfort’s excellent little booklet “Why Christianity?” because it packs so much of the gospel into such a small space. She’s pleased, and so am I. As she goes, here comes a black lady in a black coat, unbuttoned and billowing out behind her in this frigid wind, set off by a pale scarf that threatens to fly away at any moment. We have a cheerful chat about the gospel and churches today, but she’s in a hurry and is soon on her way with a couple of tracts.

Reel 2. I’m trying to keep an eye on Janette and Peter, as well as on what’s going on around Stephen and myself - and - what’s he up to? Some idiot is trying to annoy Peter, walking round him, knocking on his text boards, and generally making a nuisance of himself. I set off in that direction, but before I’m anywhere near, he’s cleared off.

Walking back towards Stephen, I see a sprightly lady thanking him for his efforts, and then she comes to offer me some encouragement. She’s all in black, with a grey rucksack, rounded glasses, and (somewhat incongruously) a face made up with a tan inspired by President Trump. Ah well: she looks quite a bit younger than I do; and after all those years of Oil of Ulay (Olay, for younger readers), too…

Then a bearded bloke in a furry hat and a sleeping bag over his shoulders begins to tell me a tale in order to extract money from me. I cut him short with the offer of some loose change, only to have him refuse the tract that I try to hand him after that! Dearie me! A minute or two later, and it’s my turn to speak; as I launch into an old favourite, “Five Things That Money Can’t Buy”, the irony is not lost upon me.

Reel 3. It’s business as usual during my first stint: i.e., quiet in terms of activity, but noisy as the machinery over in Denbenhams-as-was roars into life again, and the trams and vans and police vehicles increase in number. Even a few bicycles are fitted out with sound systems to rival Altec Lansing’s “Voice Of The Theatre” speakers, deafening pedestrians as they speed past. As a student, all I ever had was a tiny transistor radio mounted on the handlebars of an old bike, as I cycled slowly through the mists that lay low over woodland and fen, on those bleak but oddly comforting Saturday afternoons.

I’m pleased to see that the tracts are going out at a rate of knots - and then it’s Stephen’s turn again.

Reel 4. “We live in a society where inclusion and acceptance are increasingly sought after by just about everybody,” Stephen says, beginning his second address. As usual, it’s well thought through and pretty persuasive; but such is the state of spiritual apathy in our nation in the present day that he has only a handful of listeners - and they keep their distance, for the most part, just as they did with me. And also, I suppose that it’s pretty cold to be standing still for any length of time.

My nose is running, and I have to remove my gloves to rummage through layers of clothing to locate my tartan handkerchief. Freshly laundered and ironed into a neat square, it’s the only bit of colour in my otherwise uniformly black outfit.

And then, everything continues as before.

Reel 5. We’re both shivering at the changeover, but I’m still keen to carry on. Stephen resupplies himself with tracts, and I turn to “forgiveness” as the next thing that money can’t buy. Nearby, two attractive young women are fawning over an ugly dog, which keeps jumping up at them both as they bend down to pet it, causing them to leap back again and again to avoid being bitten. Is the training of dogs a lost art today?

By the time I’m onto our inability to buy back the years or to fireproof our future, I’m in serious mode and trying my best to impress upon those passing by that the hour is getting late - for me, for them, for all of those within the sound of my voice, and then on to include the whole wide world. And then -

- but here, Reel 5 comes to an abrupt end. Some days later, Stephen suggests that the ageing battery in the GoPro is wearing out at last. And, unlike in later models, it cannot be removed and replaced. So, that’s that for today.

Or is it? Not quite. On our way to the Arndale, the pavement narrows, and pedestrians must walk between the boarded-up side of Debenhams and the tramway tracks. It's quite crowded, but not impossibly so. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some ruffian (who looks a bit like Ginger Baker, if he'd been a foot taller and on steroids with a side order of Ketamine) deliberately collide with Peter and then start shouting at him, claiming that he was the guilty party.

As I step towards the two of them, saying, “Come on now, sir, calm down!” he turns and hurls himself against me, sending me reeling, even though I manage to sidestep just enough to avoid the full force of the blow from his shoulder.

Hmm.

I remember those Saturday nights at ****** Football Club with great affection. Nothing to do with football, of course: it was the music. The live bands on those nights used to thrash their way through some of the best sets I’ve ever heard. We’d sit and watch the local talent trying out their latest routines for a time, then step out onto the floor ourselves and dance on until the obligatory rock and roll medley closed out the evening. If you weren’t soaked in sweat as you walked out into the sultry summer night, you hadn’t been having a good time at all.

And what might that have to do with this? Well, the fact that I managed to stagger backwards without going down onto the tramway tracks suggests to me that there really is some truth in the notion of “muscle memory”. What, I don’t believe in divine intervention? Indeed I do; but, since nothing is ever wasted in the economy of God, I tend to think that those Saturday nights so long ago might just have played their part in me avoiding a painful fall.

Be that as it may: by the time I’m ready to offer a rebuke to our overgrown Ginger Baker look-alike, he’s already lost out of sight in the madding throng - and perhaps that’s just as well.

According to the Met Office forecast, next Wednesday in Manchester will be fine but fairly cool. If you’re coming out to join us, then best put on several layers of clothing to keep yourself warm. Also, please pray, if our Lord puts it upon your heart to do so, for any or all of those mentioned above.

I would also covet your prayers for both Brendan (who is out of hospital now, but pretty weak) and R., that kindest of men, whose wife is recuperating at home after a course of chemotherapy. And don’t forget Peter, so patient yet so persistent, a man who has travelled the length and breadth of this land as a witness for his Saviour.

Every blessing!