Wet

I've just realised that it's a week since I've been here. No, I haven't been away, it's just been a bit busy what with Holy Week, and trying to get work all tidied up and finished so I can have a few free days over Easter.

This morning, a beautiful spring morning, we had the usual silent Good Friday procession through the town. At the park, we sang and prayed. Somewhere along the way, this little story came to mind. Apologies if I've told it before. At first glance it's nothing to do with the Good Friday story, but in another way, it is.

Just after Christmas I told you about the devastating floods in the corner of West Yorkshire where we used to live. There was flooding in 2012, when we still lived there, and that was terrible, but it looked like a minor inconvenience compared to the December 2015 floods. The community spirit, as I told you, was phenomenal, and not just the local community. Busloads came from as far away as Leicester, many of them refugees. They cleaned and grafted. A Muslim group cooked for everyone. There was an appeal for desperately needed furniture for those whose chairs, tables, fridges and cookers had to be skipped.

One elderly couple lost everything. Their little bungalow was near the river, and they didn't stand a chance. A team of volunteers arrived to see what they needed.

"I was hoping you'd come," said the lady of the house. "The only place that didn't get flooded was the attic, and there was nothing up there but the highchair. We used it for when the grandchildren came to visit, but they've all grown out of it now, we don't use it any longer. Can you take it with you and give it to a family who need it?"