God Encounter

God Encounter! In June 2019

I had been summoned to York. A benefits assessment I was sure to fail! In a way I wanted to. It would be an act of defeat, admitting I had a debilitating illness - well more accurately enfeebling side effects to chemical treatments that leave me raw and vulnerable for weeks after.

The sound of vulnerability filled me with the u, e and a of its phonemes. It was too exposing, too sensitive and defenceless; dare I say it, weak!

So I rallied my downcast soul and suggested I turn this intrusion into an adventure, for I was going on a train journey and to a place I had never been before. I would anticipate and expect. I would be open to new encounters and go exploring. Or I would give in to my fears and weep.

My nana Doris told me when I was a little girl, there was nothing to cry for or be scared of, even when the bees menaced to sting and the spiders threatened to bite. They were only doing what God designed them to do, she said. You see, nana told me that life was short, not that I understood looking up from the bottom of her mountain; but she knew life was worth investigating, of finding out, of never giving up or giving in and it wasn’t just the war years that taught her that.

She said that along life’s way I would walk with Bravery and Expectation. I was sure to meet with Jealousy and Greed and she hoped I would never encounter Poverty. Once, when she was five she had no knickers to wear. Nana went to her dad and asked for some money so she could be decent and go out and play with the other kids. He replied, ‘go an’ get me a piece o’ chalk’. Bewildered nana then watched her dad draw a five bob note on the flags, on the living room floor. ‘’ere,’ he said. ‘Tek that an’ don’t ferget to bring me t’change’. Nana ended up sewing her own knickers. She was a great recycler.

When I slipped over, Nana would paste my grazes with butter. I believed in that dairy healing power as it shone its shiny brilliance on my knees and dribbled down my shins. It awarded me for being daring and soon dried up my tears.

So what the hell happened fifty years later after fighting the good fight and wrestling in the lands of giants and ogres? Where was Nana’s fighting ‘don’t let the buggers get you down’ spirit and the dairy butter healing, now I needed them the most?

I was facing a bridge, that one in York, where Billy Goat Gruff was going to try to toss me into the wayside and hurl me into oblivion. Or so he thought! I could plead poverty of body, mind and spirit as each joint seized with inflamed painful flares; I could speak of weakness that tormented my mental well-being as the pain wore me down; and I could fall headlong into a spirit of poverty and self-pity, but I wasn’t born on nana Doris’ birthday for nothing. As I dressed in formal smart wear, I knew I was ready for something.

It wasn’t easy walking in shiny black Gabor boots and I nearly missed the train. Well, I would have, only as I’m trying to get through the turnstile with an upside down ticket the muffled announcement said the York train was delayed due to ‘ nehehemmen’! I was so pleased to hear the word ‘delayed’ at least.

The platform was packed like currents in a garibaldi. I looked around for somewhere to sit, needing to quiet down my shouting feet. They’d lived in memory foam trainers for months, not leather bottoms that were millimetres thick and gave my poor metatarsals zero protection from concrete causeways. There was absolutely no space except behind me wedged between the bike lockers and the cast iron steps going up and over the line. I noticed that two thirds of the bench were taken by a rather large, striking looking older woman, perhaps in her early seventies, who ‘ushed’ up a bit when I asked if I could sit down next to her. I noticed on sitting beside that her legs were massive and muscular in blue jeans. She was dressed in a teeshirt that revealed a deep brown, golden tan.

‘You’re not from round here’, I smiled observing her left hand clutching a heavy suitcase.

‘I’ve flown in from the Azores’, she smiled back with wide pink lips. Her eyes were framed in heavy red round glasses and her accent boasted north London or posh Hertfordshire perhaps. I was mesmerised by her powerful presence and was drawn into her colourful post modernist performance.

With time to spend, I made a polite introduction that would see our 45 minute journey time travel through forty extraordinary years.

It began in the 1970s as a veterinarian employed by DEFRA to travel the length and breadth of the country to farms large and small. Dreams soon turned into blackened nightmares as Government sought to slaughter whole herds of cattle when bovine TB was discovered in a single cow. Setting light to mounds of livestock and watching innocence incinerate shattered her, for her mission was to save life, not destroy it.

The York train announcement saw the carriages pulling in and an entire platform empty. We entered through the sliding doors and found seats opposite and somehow without a loss of connection I was tuned into her like receiving radio waves.

Finding strength through comradeship she set up a veterinary practice with a friend, but had to take time out for failing mental health. On return the friend had gotten the practice into terrible debt and done a runner. With the Inland Revenue agents breathing down her neck they picked over every last asset and left her bereft. She was forced into bankruptcy. Ruined, so utterly ruined, she managed to borrow a few quid from her nephew to buy a second hand dilapidated touring caravan and a beaten up old blue banger. This was now her home and her escape.

Cut adrift from all ties and living on a meagre income her adventures began. Moving from place to place once a month when her benefits bought petrol and food, she learned to survive on very little. Threading her way north to the outer regions of Scotland was where her healing began.

Approaching Knaresborough, chugging our way east, I was hooked into her saga, as she spoke of restoration. Desperate to find, once more, my own inner strength, I was transfixed, hoping my own amnesty would one day come. Betrayed and broken by all that she believed in, she was approaching middle age bruised by an over riding sense of responsibility. Mmm! I knew that feeling. As the wheels of the train turned, we were on parallel tracks imagining our escape from a race we could not win.

‘Cattal, next stop Cattal!’ I barely heard the announcement for now my journey was engrossed in my new companion who left behind her cube on wheels seeking wind and sail.

She joined a sailing school to learn how to crew a yacht. As a trainee sailor, along with a team of wealthy young individuals, she learned to sail a seventy foot schooner heading out from Southampton to the Mediterranean port of Crete. The captain admired and appreciated her strength and competence. Quickly learning nautical and maritime skills, she was captivated by wind and sail leaving behind a life of confined failure. Alas, spite and intense dislike arose its cruel teeth in a youthful female who threatened to disembark with daddy’s money if she was not thrown overboard. Well, almost!

Pulling away from Hammerton, she was leaving the sailing boat in Malta with her competency certificates presented by a very apologetic and embarrassed captain. However, she very quickly found a place with a professional crew, sailing a yacht for a wealthy business woman across the Atlantic to the island of Antigua. The work was demanding but very rewarding. She found a new freedom in flying across oceans, interpreting wind speeds, fostering the elements and using navigation charts. She was accepted as an equal and free of prejudice at last!

With York station approaching my new found friend was mid Atlantic returning to Southampton in another sailing boat. A professional hand, she had saved up enough money to purchase on her return, a smaller second hand sailing boat.

Setting sail for islands off South America, we pulled into York. This virtual adventure, which was yet to finish, had transported me through bravery and strength to Caribbean seas of transformation and renewal. This woman, rising to leave her story behind, had discovered her inner courage. Determined to overcome tragedy and discrimination, she emerged victorious over fears and enemies.

Alighting onto platform 7, I clung to her as I walked with her.

‘What happened next?’ I asked in awe of her bravery.

‘I broke down.’

I gasped!

‘And was found by Portuguese fishermen, who towed me to their island in the Azores.’ Rushing to her connecting train she said, ‘they gave me a hut to stay in, in the harbour, while my boat was being repaired. I would make a barbecue for them every day when they returned from fishing. They made me feel welcome, so I stayed.’

‘What is your name?’ I asked, for I wanted to keep her in my life forever.

‘Penny.’

‘Well, Penny. I’m changed by our encounter. I am ready to face Billy Goat Gruff and smile, for I no longer feel afraid. I am ready to walk away and find a truer path, one where I can begin to dream and find courage again.’

With a wide smile we hugged for we both knew that this was a ‘God encounter’. He had sent me an angel to warn me not to be afraid when crossing the bridge and facing the faceless Mr Gruff hiding behind a computer screen of ridiculous, intrusive questions.

I am happy to say that I failed his examination, as now I can get on with finding out new adventures.

‘So!’ I said to my Nana Doris! ‘We just encountered Courage and Be Not Afraid … so where are we going?’