Waiting for an MOT

Candle flame flickers for someone I barely know
I stand before Jesus and hope the guttering light will continue my prayer
I'm sure that's not orthodox evangelical thinking, but I know Jesus listens anyway.

It's hot outside and this building is dark stone cool and echoing.
I sit with a chunk of local pebblebed stone, smooth against my hand
"building a cairn of hope" says the information board above the pile of similar stones.

I turn it over and around, it fits against my fingers and palm; it's a good fit.
Brown clay, it reminds me that I am mortal, that life is limited here.  I realise that I've stored up the sadness of leaving and new starting so it's a good place to be a bit reflective.

Silence is a friend sometimes - however, the stone starts to look a bit like a chunk of soda bread or a pasty.  I've never been good at being serious in a sustained way - a black sense of humour has got me through most situations and taking the rise out of my intensity is advisable or I become horrible company.  I was always a poor drinker - it brought out the iceberg depths that surprised me and meant I had no shell to crawl back into.