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Good morning.

I keep a tiny black and white photograph from my childhood which makes me smile.  It was taken in 1964 or 5 when we were on holiday in Argyllshire, in the west of Scotland.  Four of us are sitting along a stone wall in front of a big white-painted house.  Me on the left, then my little brother, my eldest sister and my older sister grinning naughtily at the end.  There’s a flowering plant growing around the front door and the windows on the upper floor are open.  It’s a summer’s day.  My sisters and I are dressed in sandals and white ankle socks, wearing cotton dresses with soft collars; my brother is in shorts and a little jumper and he’s eating something I can’t make out.

We’re so young that our legs dangle above the ground.  I think I’m 4 or 5.  We’re not looking at the camera, and someone or something has made us laugh as the picture’s being taken.  We look delighted with life.  Happy, carefree.

I found that house again, after more than 50 years.  Just last month, when I was on holiday nearby.  The wall’s still there, though the house is changed: a bit battered by weather and time, but instantly recognisable. I ran my hands along the wall, and sat on it, wondering who had lifted us on to it when we were small.  Freezing rain was gusting across my face, and there I sat, a middle-aged woman in the company of the ghosts of childhood.  They never disappear. They only hide until we find them again.

God who is beyond time, if it’s the sweet moments of the past we seek, and we’re comforted by the company of the years – then bless them to us.  Amen.