David's Pen

 “I forgot I was supposed to be bringing pizza…” was John’s greeting to Bob as he entered the flat. “Ah, never mind, we’ve got the ingredients here, you can make me one with everything – I’ve been dying to say that all day.” “What?” asked John, bemused. “One with everything – it’s a classic – a whole sermon series in that.” Then seeing that John was still not getting it, “here, you chop the veg, I’ll make the dough. You can tell me about your day whilst we cook.” “Make me one with everything – I’ve just got it, a pizza called ‘shalom’, nice. My day was good, actually.   Surprisingly.” “Ah, I’m pleased. And was Mubina part of the goodness of the day by any chance?” “She was – we had lunch together in the park – I’m glad you encouraged me to get to know her.” “People are different when you get passed the labels, that’s part of the fun.” “Yeah… and maybe God is different when you get passed the labels too…” said John wondering if that was a step too far. Bob lau...

Strangely, it seemed to John, he left the flat with his stomach churning less than normal and didn’t even get irate at the Fiat Panda that cut him up at the roundabout and then took the last place in the carpark. He glanced at his watch and had an idea. Fifteen minute later, he arrived at work with an Espresso and a milkshake and dropped in on Mubina before his newfound self-assurance leaked.  She wasn’t at her desk – he saw her further down the corridor speaking with a colleague. Embarrassed to wait, he nipped into her office and placed the milkshake on top of a hastily written note and left. He wondered if she might call him, but all his calls were the dull, work-related types and he realised that his familiar anxiety had returned, worried that he had offended Mubina or overstepped a mark. He recalled that Bob had said he understood how hard it was not to be anxious and made a mental note to ask him, realising as he did that he was both glad to have Bob around and mad at him si...

Breakfast got off to a shaky start. For one, the smell of curry permeated the flat making it hard to ignore last night’s events. And the pain was still raw and surfaced, but John had no idea how to process any of it, meanwhile Bob seemed to be waiting for him to take a lead. It was all very British; polite with a veneer of civility covering over the reality.   In the time BB (before Bob) John would have listed his presenting issues to God in his quiet time. It didn’t generally change anything, but the ritual, the sense of having done the ‘right’ thing definitely helped him feel better. But now that Bob, that God, was somehow in the flat with him, the idea of a ‘quiet time’ seemed faintly ridiculous. Which meant he was even more lost – dislocated, perhaps. He decided that was a safe thing to talk about. “I know my ‘quiet times’ were often rushed and I realise they kind of missed the point, but now that you’re actually here, I don’t know what to do…” Bob looked up from his toas...

With trepidation and something else fluttering inside, John entered the house. It was silent and with no smell of cooking. Having been anxious about Bob’s presence, he was now angry about his absence. He half-stormed into the kitchen and saw there was a note on the table. “Hi John, I’ve gone to get us some takeaway, I thought Indian, easier to talk when there’s fire in your mouth as well as in your heart. Bob.” So, he knew. Knew the pain his crass words had caused. Well, that made things easier, the barriers to his anger that had been getting smaller all day were now completely gone. He heard the door open as Bob arrived. He came into the kitchen, no words, no apology, nothing to defuse the ticking bomb. John turned to stare Bob in the face and mimicked his words from the morning. “Feeling bad is good. Your body is wonderful, it heals itself.” He turned away, unable to look at Bob anymore as he screamed, “No, it fucking doesn’t! She died.” A sob broke from his chest as he tried to ...

Tuesday morning didn’t start well. John woke up with a sore throat and a pounding head. He desperately wanted to throw the alarm clock across the room and go back to sleep, but he was well aware that being late for work two days in a row was not a good plan. He struggled out of bed and headed to the kitchen. Bob was already up and cooking some eggs. “Morning John, you look like death.” “I feel like it.” John rasped, sitting down and holding his head in his hands. Then a thought crossed his mind. “Er, I don’t suppose you’d like to heal me or something?” Bob chuckled – it was becoming annoying – “Why, are you out of paracetamol?” John stared at Bob in disbelief. “What? Aren’t you supposed to, I mean, you don’t want me to suffer, do you?” “Of course not, that’s why I suggested the paracetamol.” Then seeing John’s gaping mouth – a habit that was becoming annoying – relented, “Why didn’t I heal everyone in the gospels? Why don’t I just heal everyone now? Is it a lack of power or...

“Anyway,” said his friend, “it’s Monday, so we should eat – don’t you have your house-group later – I’d love to come along if that’s ok?” The thought made John lose any appetite he’d had. “Er, yeah, er, I mean that would be great… I mean… who, what…” “Bob.” “Bob?” “You were asking what to call me.” “But you’re not called Bob.” “You don’t know that.” “God isn’t called Bob.” “John, you’ve spent most of your life calling me things like ‘Sovereign Lord of Hosts’ – and I appreciate the respect and reverence, but I thought we’d try Bob for a while.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye, “Unless you’d prefer to introduce me as ‘my old friend, El Roi’ -Elroy, get it?” He’d enjoyed the meal in the end, he was half suspicious that ‘Bob’ had done something outside the laws of culinary technique, his spag bol never usually tasted this good. But now they were stood outside Rachel & Stephen’s house and panic was rising. He loved his house group, but they were an odd mix by any stand...

John tentatively put the key in the lock and turned it. He’d spent most of the day without the physical presence of, well, of whoever… and his brain was insisting on recalling the time with him as a false memory, an hallucination. He didn’t know whether he preferred the idea that he was going quietly mad or that God was waiting for him in his flat. He opened the door hesitantly and heard nothing, realising that he was feeling disappointed along with an internal sigh of relief. He hung up his jacket on its peg and went into the kitchen to get a well-deserved beer. God was sat at the table with an open can in his hand whilst another one was on the side, waiting for him. Disappointment was quickly exchanged for shock and he gaped, open-mouthed. “Thought you’d want a beer after the day you’ve had. It’s not the best I’ve ever tasted, but it’s cold.” And with that, he picked the spare up and tossed it to John. “Nice flat by the way, you keep it tidy when there’s no one else to see it – t...

 Numbly, and with some trepidation, John followed him inside. Would other people see him? Was he some kind of ‘holy ghost’ that only he could see? The answer was quickly answered, “Two of your finest eclairs, one espresso and one latte please.” The assistant smiled and replied: “You’re in a very good mood this morning!” “Ah well, that’s because I finally get to have some time with my good friend John.” Then, turning to said friend, “Pay the lady, John – you know I never carry any money!” Once they had their purchases they headed for a table away from other ears and John spoke first: “Ok, this is freaking me out. I don’t know what to call you or who you are or how long you’re going to stay or what any of this is about - I mean, I thought you were the holy spirit or something, but if you’re holy, surely, you’d have run away from my anger and swearing…” His new friend smiled and nodded. “John, I am who I say I am, but you don’t really know me. You’ve heard about me, and you’ve t...

  John’s brain was revving more than the car, which had stalled and come to a halt in the middle of the road. He rationalised: The Holy Spirit, is a, well, a spirit – not a middle-aged man in T shirt and jeans sitting next to you in your car. And yet he was fairly sure he hadn’t given anyone a lift, the car had been empty, other than him, when he had started. True, he had been in a tearing hurry, but a stranger getting into the car next to you is something you’d surely notice. He began to sweat – maybe the pressure he was under had finally made him crack. There wasn’t really a man impossibly in the car next to him, it was a trick of a disturbed mind, the lack of sleep, the slight hangover, the pressure of the interview… The stranger shook his head: “No, you’re not cracking up – well, no more than normal.” Then with another chuckle, “But I love the fact that you’re so surprised by an answered prayer that you’re more ready to believe in your own insanity than that it has been ans...

  John was running late. Again. He was so late that he was regretting squeezing in his quiet time before leaving.   He was caught up in the school run traffic and unless he got a parking place near the office, he’d be late. And not just for the start of work, but for the interview that so much rested on. He knew deep down that it was his own fault, but that was just adding to the angst. He decided to pray as he drove, briefly closing his eyes and putting his hands together before remembering that he was driving. He opened his eyes and put his hands back on the wheel, hoping that God would overlook the non-standard prayer posture. He wanted to do it right in order to make it more likely that his prayer would be answered, even whilst recognising this sounded a lot like superstition. Distracted, he began: “O Lord, maker of heaven and earth, sovereign Lord, the one who…” he interrupted his own prayer, realising that time was of the essence, “Actually, what I really need right ...