Page 24 - Contact Winter 2018

HARVEST MUSINGS
‘We’ and ‘but’ are two key words of
that well-loved hymn: ‘We plough the
fields and scatter… but it is fed and
watered…’ Humankind ploughs, prepares
and sows, but the miracle of growth
belongs to Almighty God. Growth,
alongside the miracle of how our bodies
are able to heal themselves, is a
wondrous thing.
During my shortish marriage, while in the
midst of a family of farmers, I was aware
that the farming side of the family never
stopped working. To hold up the milk
tanker after milking was almost as
unthinkable as delaying the Royal Train!
In the summer, when fine weather was
at a premium, the harvest was often
gathered in under spotlights until maybe
two in the morning. Their work ethic just
commanded total respect.
Almost akin to farming, my brother-in-
law’s allotment produced almost every
kind of fruit and vegetable imaginable.
The taste of produce that only had to
journey from soil to kitchen just had to be
experienced to be believed. My sister’s
roasts, always excellent, took on an
entirely new level of pleasure. Family
meals are always comforting and an
invaluable part of our emotional and
spiritual wellbeing. So, I sometimes
feel saddened by the queue of cars
parading through the McDonalds
‘drive-thru’ around tea-time. Have we
lost the ability to order our lives so that
they include a space to cook and spend
an evening together with our families?
‘Time was, when a man missed a
stage-coach, it didn’t matter because
there’d be another one next week. Now
he’s thrown into despair if he misses the
section of a revolving door’.
Then again, I have found the phrase
removing myself helpful. I remember a
simple meal of sausages, beans and mash
at a monastery in Hertfordshire… just
then at least, it tasted far better than any
kind of fancy meal, simply because I had
removed myself and undertaken a
twenty-four hour fast and prayer session.
And when I was obliged to remove myself
into a ‘basic’ Galgorm Road basement flat
after my separation, I found great peace
and enjoyment in simple meals like carvery
ham, new potatoes and coleslaw. I had
begun to free myself from hurt and
sadness and it was a new beginning.
Living in London included volunteering
at several ‘Crisis at Christmas’ Open
Christmases. Volunteers queued randomly
with homeless guests for the meals
that meant so much and there was no
hierarchy whatsoever. Having, through
the night, peeled a mountain of
sprouts alongside three cheerful nuns,
several friends and myself, completely
time-disorientated, made our way to my
flat and there we cooked a modest, but
very tasty Christmas Dinner of orange
duck and trimmings.