Last weekend I visited my sister in Brighton.
Whilst there I baptised my Great Nephew, Manny. The service was great fun and because it was a family occasion we were able to break the rules somewhat, which was helpful as one of his God-Parents is a Muslim.
So instead of the Bible reading one of his cousins read a poem that I had written to celebrate his birth and then instead of the usual music we ended the service with Judy Garland singing Somewhere over the Rainbow downloaded via 4G on a mobile 'phone.
I observed that there were two reasons why this was a good choice:
One because the film Wizard of Oz, begins in black and white and, as Dorothy steps into the Land of Oz is the film is transformed into colour, the implication being that baptism is the spiritual equivalent of transforming life into Technicolour!
The other because the Rainbow is a sign of God's promise that he will be faithful to us even if we occasionally fall from Grace ourselves.
The next day was typically sunny and warm on the South Coast and we had a lovely day walking on Brighton Beach exploring the shops in the town centre and walking back for fish and chips on the sea front.
(Sadly the fish and chips were disappointing).
Then with a terrible forecast for Tuesday we set off to drive home.
The drive was however uneventful and we made excellent progress.
At some point, North of Knutsford services on the M6, which I always think of as nearly home, even though that was when I actually lived in Manchester rather than further North, as I do now, but somewhere after Knutsford, I caught and overtook a small green car with a roof box on a roof rack.
As I drove by I noticed that the car was extremely tightly packed with the rear seats full of luggage.
As sometimes happens on Motorways I noticed that the driver had increased speed slightly, both of us within the the speed limit given the strong wind and rain which we were being reminded of not only by the gusting but by the overhead signs advising us to limit our speed.
His slight increase in speed meant that he overtook us and I realised that the driver was not the woman on the right but that it was a left hand drive car and was being driven by a man on the left.
As they drove past I noticed that the car had a European registration number and a Romanian plate.
I mused that whenever I write Farage the spell check on my computer changes the word to Garage although on one occasion it changed it to Farrago.
As motorway driving is in fact dangerously boring the indoor critic and I started a conversation reflecting on what exactly might bring a couple to drive from Romania across Europe and into Britain and then keep on driving, taking the narrow road to the deep north?
I began to sense as we kept company with our fellow travellers that their destination might even be Scotland although we lost touch with them after we stopped at Tebay for refreshment and diesel.
Maybe they were tourists?
Maybe they were refugees?
Maybe they were visiting family?
Maybe they were Romanian reporters preparing a documentary on the the Scottish Referendum?
Who knows?
But what we did reflect was that visiting a Britain that is in the grip of an irrational fear of immigrants, where words such as swamping fall easily from the lips of people who should know better was in itself an act that was either very brave or foolhardy especially when your chosen mode of transport carried a large sign indicating that you were indeed Romanian.
So we wished them well in their spirited enterprise and as they followed the Yellow Brick Road North we hoped that they would not make the mistake of confusing Farage with Garage.
They might need one but they could do without the other!
Whilst there I baptised my Great Nephew, Manny. The service was great fun and because it was a family occasion we were able to break the rules somewhat, which was helpful as one of his God-Parents is a Muslim.
So instead of the Bible reading one of his cousins read a poem that I had written to celebrate his birth and then instead of the usual music we ended the service with Judy Garland singing Somewhere over the Rainbow downloaded via 4G on a mobile 'phone.
I observed that there were two reasons why this was a good choice:
One because the film Wizard of Oz, begins in black and white and, as Dorothy steps into the Land of Oz is the film is transformed into colour, the implication being that baptism is the spiritual equivalent of transforming life into Technicolour!
The other because the Rainbow is a sign of God's promise that he will be faithful to us even if we occasionally fall from Grace ourselves.
The next day was typically sunny and warm on the South Coast and we had a lovely day walking on Brighton Beach exploring the shops in the town centre and walking back for fish and chips on the sea front.
(Sadly the fish and chips were disappointing).
Then with a terrible forecast for Tuesday we set off to drive home.
The drive was however uneventful and we made excellent progress.
At some point, North of Knutsford services on the M6, which I always think of as nearly home, even though that was when I actually lived in Manchester rather than further North, as I do now, but somewhere after Knutsford, I caught and overtook a small green car with a roof box on a roof rack.
As I drove by I noticed that the car was extremely tightly packed with the rear seats full of luggage.
As sometimes happens on Motorways I noticed that the driver had increased speed slightly, both of us within the the speed limit given the strong wind and rain which we were being reminded of not only by the gusting but by the overhead signs advising us to limit our speed.
His slight increase in speed meant that he overtook us and I realised that the driver was not the woman on the right but that it was a left hand drive car and was being driven by a man on the left.
As they drove past I noticed that the car had a European registration number and a Romanian plate.
I mused that whenever I write Farage the spell check on my computer changes the word to Garage although on one occasion it changed it to Farrago.
As motorway driving is in fact dangerously boring the indoor critic and I started a conversation reflecting on what exactly might bring a couple to drive from Romania across Europe and into Britain and then keep on driving, taking the narrow road to the deep north?
I began to sense as we kept company with our fellow travellers that their destination might even be Scotland although we lost touch with them after we stopped at Tebay for refreshment and diesel.
Maybe they were tourists?
Maybe they were refugees?
Maybe they were visiting family?
Maybe they were Romanian reporters preparing a documentary on the the Scottish Referendum?
Who knows?
But what we did reflect was that visiting a Britain that is in the grip of an irrational fear of immigrants, where words such as swamping fall easily from the lips of people who should know better was in itself an act that was either very brave or foolhardy especially when your chosen mode of transport carried a large sign indicating that you were indeed Romanian.
So we wished them well in their spirited enterprise and as they followed the Yellow Brick Road North we hoped that they would not make the mistake of confusing Farage with Garage.
They might need one but they could do without the other!
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