him because of the pain and distress she experienced in giving birth to him. And Jabez prayed to the Lord asking that the divine hand might be stretched over himâbut here the texts differed as to the desired outcome; some making the prayer a plea for protection from distress in his own life, others a plea for his own distress to cease, but one curiously interpreting his words as a prayer for Godâs blessing to restrain him from evil, so that he would never again be a cause of pain. How strange , Esme thought, as she pondered the texts; I wonder why Jabez Ferrallâs parents chose â¦? Or maybe they just liked the name Jabez . Anyway, the prayer of his life seemed to be directed toward healing and peace, and in 1 Chronicles God had granted what he asked.
On Good Friday, Esme had an afternoon service out at Wiles Green. It was a circuit tradition to hike the four and three-quarter miles across country along the footpaths from Brockhyrst Priory. The walkers were joined at Wiles Green Chapel by the lazy and the infirm and kept watch for an hour in a vigil meditating on the cross and passion of Jesus before emerging into the Sunday school room for a robust bring-and-share tea.
Along with two or three others, Esme left her car at the chapel and returned as a passenger to the start of the walk. The wind blew chilly but the sun shone, and Esme enjoyed chatting with the various members of her churches, getting to know them a little better as they strolled along the hedgerows or stopped from time to time to admire the pastureland rolling away from the brow of a hill. As they walked together, Esme asked two of her church members, a husband-and-wife couple who ran the newsagency at Brockhyrst Priory, if they knew of Jabez Ferrall. They laughed, saying, âOh yes, Mr. Ferrall, yes, known him for years.â Before he retired, when Maeve, his wife, was still alive, they said, heâd had a newspaper delivered regularly, but like so many of the old people he had to cut back once he became a pensioner. They asked where Esme had come across him, and she said Marcus had mentioned him to her. They agreed that Mr. Ferrall was a bit of an oddity; then to her excitement Esme spotted a bullfinch, and the conversation moved on to recent sightings of birds.
On arrival at the chapel, the walkers had an opportunity to refresh themselves with a cup of tea before the service. Esme reflected that the sheer quantity of teacups washed up in the course of the afternoon overall required a stoicism worthy of Good Friday on the part of her Wiles Green congregation, nearly all of them well over seventy. As she came in through the door of the chapel, where the trestle tables ready with teacups and milk jugs and huge brown enamel teapots stood in the Sunday school room that formed an anteroom to the worship space, Esme paused to watch her church treasurer, Miss Lucy Trigg, divesting herself of her felt hat and plum-colored tweed coat. Miss Trigg, local preacher and senior steward at Wiles Green, had the entire congregation under her thumb. Though she was raised as a Strict and Particular Baptist, she had found her way to this chapel when still only a teenager and unstintingly lavished her considerable energies upon its spiritual welfare ever since. The Southarbour circuit preachersâ meeting had neither the backbone nor the foresight to refuse to accredit her as a preacher and had suffered the effect of her extraordinary gospel of chimera and retribution ever since. Esme had heard Miss Trigg preach, on one of the Sundays in August before she had taken up her appointment. Miss Trigg always came in handy for August. Ministers might be moving, preachers with schoolchildren in the family necessarily taking their holiday then; but you always could rely on Miss Trigg.
Esme remembered the sermon, vividly. Miss Trigg had preached about the Virgin Mary, with reference to the lamentable slippage of traditional interpretation in the credo of the
On Good Friday, Esme had an afternoon service out at Wiles Green. It was a circuit tradition to hike the four and three-quarter miles across country along the footpaths from Brockhyrst Priory. The walkers were joined at Wiles Green Chapel by the lazy and the infirm and kept watch for an hour in a vigil meditating on the cross and passion of Jesus before emerging into the Sunday school room for a robust bring-and-share tea.
Along with two or three others, Esme left her car at the chapel and returned as a passenger to the start of the walk. The wind blew chilly but the sun shone, and Esme enjoyed chatting with the various members of her churches, getting to know them a little better as they strolled along the hedgerows or stopped from time to time to admire the pastureland rolling away from the brow of a hill. As they walked together, Esme asked two of her church members, a husband-and-wife couple who ran the newsagency at Brockhyrst Priory, if they knew of Jabez Ferrall. They laughed, saying, âOh yes, Mr. Ferrall, yes, known him for years.â Before he retired, when Maeve, his wife, was still alive, they said, heâd had a newspaper delivered regularly, but like so many of the old people he had to cut back once he became a pensioner. They asked where Esme had come across him, and she said Marcus had mentioned him to her. They agreed that Mr. Ferrall was a bit of an oddity; then to her excitement Esme spotted a bullfinch, and the conversation moved on to recent sightings of birds.
On arrival at the chapel, the walkers had an opportunity to refresh themselves with a cup of tea before the service. Esme reflected that the sheer quantity of teacups washed up in the course of the afternoon overall required a stoicism worthy of Good Friday on the part of her Wiles Green congregation, nearly all of them well over seventy. As she came in through the door of the chapel, where the trestle tables ready with teacups and milk jugs and huge brown enamel teapots stood in the Sunday school room that formed an anteroom to the worship space, Esme paused to watch her church treasurer, Miss Lucy Trigg, divesting herself of her felt hat and plum-colored tweed coat. Miss Trigg, local preacher and senior steward at Wiles Green, had the entire congregation under her thumb. Though she was raised as a Strict and Particular Baptist, she had found her way to this chapel when still only a teenager and unstintingly lavished her considerable energies upon its spiritual welfare ever since. The Southarbour circuit preachersâ meeting had neither the backbone nor the foresight to refuse to accredit her as a preacher and had suffered the effect of her extraordinary gospel of chimera and retribution ever since. Esme had heard Miss Trigg preach, on one of the Sundays in August before she had taken up her appointment. Miss Trigg always came in handy for August. Ministers might be moving, preachers with schoolchildren in the family necessarily taking their holiday then; but you always could rely on Miss Trigg.
Esme remembered the sermon, vividly. Miss Trigg had preached about the Virgin Mary, with reference to the lamentable slippage of traditional interpretation in the credo of the
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