Mark My Footsteps

Yesterday morning, I walked to chapel in the snow. In places, its depth was greater than the height of my wellies, and it proved difficult trudging through. Although the route was pretty, and I could see the tracks of deer which had crossed my path, the bright, white ground was somewhat dazzling as landscape and sky merged into one. I saw the footsteps of others who had been out before me, and resolved to modify my stride to better fit theirs, like King Wenceslas’ page:

"Sire, the night is darker now,

and the wind blows stronger;

Fails my heart, I know not how;

I can go no longer."

"Mark my footsteps, good my page;

Tread thou in them boldly:

Thou shalt find the winter's rage

Freeze thy blood less coldly."

Sadly, my good King Wenceslas had turned off after a mile, so my own steps I had to make.

I had emailed the deacons earlier in the week concerned about overcrowding on Sunday morning. Having the monthly church lunch, we might expect 80-90 congregants. Yorkshire Camps former volunteers had their annual reunion last week, so a number of them usually stop on for church. I had been advised that ‘up to 25’ of them might come. Our chapel feels a little cramped at 80, so 115 would have been tight. I arranged a new front row, with the help of a garden bench from outside and some extra chairs, and created a few more seats near the organ by removing the velvet curtain. It would be tightly packed, but most would be seated. How the plans of man come to nothing! How we worry about problems that never arise! Low numbers would characterise the day, not high.

Instead of that biggest congregation, we had our smallest: just five. The snow was heavy and most had wisely elected to stay home. We sang, we prayed, we read, I preached, and we sought God’s blessing on all those who would have been there but could not. One of the songs we sang was Abba Father, two lines of which go:

Never let my heart grow cold

Never let me go…

Whatever the state of the weather, the state of the church or the prevailing culture, may our love never grow cold, may we never become weary of doing good, may we never become so hard that our faith becomes frozen.

In his master's steps he trod,
where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
shall yourselves find blessing.