Divine Intervention

What with the world being where it is, I thought I'd share this story I wrote some time ago. I'll also share that yesterday a voice popped into my head.... 'There are no facts... just beliefs'.

Divine Intervention

‘Just do it!’ said God.

‘You kidding me?’ I replied in astonishment. It bordered on blasphemy and I wasn’t sure I could handle the consequences.

We were entering the shop on the Monastery grounds. Don’t get the wrong impression. I haven’t gone mad. Well not that I’m aware of, but there’s an excellent restaurant in the Monastery itself called Soulful Meadow and in addition it was the only place in the shetle of Shuprasl open over the Easter Holiday period.

Suprasl along with Tykosin are quaint remnants of Jewish days of old. Now, like so many old Jewish centres they have been drained of Jews and their dark humour in entrapment.

In Tykoshin, there’s even a ‘Jewish’ restaurant, with food like Mama made, in an old Jewish tenement building next to a Synagogue, remarkably unscathed by the War. But when I saw the Cross prominently displayed by the cash till, and when the ‘Synagogue’ charged entry even on the Sabbath, I felt uncomfortable.

We’d arrived in Poland a few days earlier. On Easter Sunday. A bad mistake. A bit like the U.K. used to be in the Dark Ages before Consumerism took over as the State Religion. But when we had arrived at Warsaw Station, still with a train journey to Luiza’s home of Bialystok ahead of us, we needed supper and nothing was open.

In desperation, we wandered over to the Station Help Desk and Luiza asked in Polish where we could get some food.

Several helpers were huddled around the Desk, but one answered in an American accent, ‘Do you speak English?’ Luiza nodded and the helper replied ‘This desk is for refugees.’ And we noticed the big tent outside the station for fleeing Ukranian refugees.

It was very tempting to pretend we were fleeing from the Russians but rather sheepishly we apologised and walked away and in the distance I saw the Golden Land in the shape of the Marriot Hotel, directly opposite the station. There were no less than two excellent restaurants there and fully stoked on pasta and apple cake we happily took the Bialystok train.

But now we were at the Monastery.

Just before we left the restaurant Luiza’s Mum, henceforth Mum, asked pleadingly, ‘Lody, Stephen, Lody?’

Lody is Polish for ice cream and for some reason the Poles are obsessed by ice cream and it’s not unusual for your typical Pole to eat two or three a day – even in winter. In fact, Lody is the only Polish word I know because Mum (who speaks no English) is constantly asking if I’d like one.

I determined 20 years ago never to learn any Polish on the basis that, what with my Big Mouth, I would have less chance of offending the in-laws. But Lody comes up so many times daily that I couldn’t help learning it. But I can’t bring myself to eat it – even though I quite like ice cream.

Once eaten, the daily bombardment of ‘Lody’ would be replaced by every meal at Mum’s ending with a big slab of the stuff and it would be an even greater offence would result. So paradoxically I have to observe Polish ice cream abstinence.

Next to the restaurant was a self-service refectory where 30 or so happy, well-dressed souls were helping themselves to food. We thought they must be on a Bible Studies course. We asked about them at the Monastery Help Desk.... They were Ukranian refugees being housed, clothed and fed in the Monastery before being placed in homes and offered jobs.

The shop on the grounds was for local artists but it was threatened closure by the Council and turned into an Environmental Centre. The artists had offered to share the gargantuan space with the Centre but the Council was turfing them out and there was a petition to sign in favour of keeping the artists in situ.

‘Lody?’ asked Mum as we passed the shop refreshment counter. I smiled and nodded no.

Meanwhile, ‘Do it!’ commanded God.

‘You’ve got to be joking!’ I replied.

God’s been speaking to me a couple of times recently. Well of course (before you call for help), it’s not really God, but it sounds good.... or should I say sounds God.

The other week, in order to take our friend Abigail a birthday present, we joined her and her partner Guy on a ‘pilgrimage’ walk around City of London churches. It wouldn’t be the normal sort of thing we’d do, but it was reassuring to hear that most of these churches were built over Druidic sites.

Anyway, Guy asked us to team up with someone else in the Group of about 30 peeps and make sure they didn’t skive off to the toilet or sneak a coffee. That sort of thing.

This older hippy guy was standing next to us and asked if Luiza and I would look out for him and vice versa. At which point God whispered ‘Ask him if he’s a musician or poet?’

I tapped the guy’s arm. ‘I know this might sound weird, but are you a musician or a poet?’

He looked at me wide-eyed in astonishment. ‘How on earth did you know I was a poet?’

I had to be honest. ‘God told me.’

‘The funny thing is,’ he replied, ‘I asked the Universe to confirm I was indeed a poet.’

His name is Angus and he is a Sufi poet. Actually, he’s half-Jewish, but don’t let that bother you.

Then there was the curious incident with our friend Jiwon. Jiwon splits her time between London and New York. Before the pandemic we would see her regularly for lunch when she came over to join her screenwriting group. But we hadn’t seen her for two years and had no idea what her plans were.
Moreover, she had no idea we’d recently moved to Richmond, in South West London.

Anyway, I was minding my own business when The Voice came. ‘Email Jiwon!’
‘Do I have to? Can’t it wait until I’ve finished my guitar practice?’
‘Just do it… NOW!’
‘Bloody Hell,’ I thought and typed the following:
‘You came into my mind today. How are you and where are you?
We have just moved to Richmond so next time you come to London you are welcome to visit.’

To which I received this reply, almost immediately:
‘Uncanny. Not only have I just landed in London, but I would like to see a flat in Richmond this weekend. Any chance you’re free?’ ……..

Meanwhile, back in the Monastery store, Luiza and her folks were deep in conversation with the store manager. She showed us round the paintings, sculptures, toys and other paraphernalia. She couldn’t understand why the Council wouldn’t let them stay in the vast expanse of the shop and she pointed at the petition by the entrance.

Whilst they were jabbering, I wandered over to the petition.

God spoke yet again. ‘Look it’s easy. Just write Jesus C on the petition. People will think He visited, make it a Holy site and they’ll NEVER being able to turf them out.’

‘But it doesn’t feel right. I mean isn’t that sacrilegious.’

‘You trying to be funny?’ He replied.

‘I guess not,’ and I bent down and scribbled something on the petition and skulked off to wait for the in-laws outside.

We walked down to the River, with me looking back guiltily.

As we passed an ice-cream stand Mum asked, ‘Lody, Stephen, Lody?’

And months later I heard that the Monastery store had been closed down…..