Hey! You out there, you lovely West Cumbrians who month by month sometimes read Godspot, sometimes not. Oh no! not him again, he's been at it too long: responses ranging from "When is he going to be a real Christian and be firm and clear about God's Law and Jesus as the Risen Lord?" - and all that to - "Why doesn't he say something that will HELP me, who so often feel so out of it, way beyond the fringe, yet trying to get on with my life, sometimes with courage, sometimes in fear and trembling?" It’s a desperately uncomfortable world, that's putting it mildly is it not? After the bombing in Eygpt at Sharm-al-Sheikh the young woman said, "No one, nowhere, is safe anymore".

I long to say something here for your comfort but what do I say? How dare I even put pen to paper? It's like going to visit the family of Anthony Walker, that young black lad murdered in Liverpool a few weeks ago with an axe buried in his head, or to anyone in shocked grief. What do you say? Nothing. There is no consolation except perhaps your being there. The simple silence of your presence. After the wife of C.S. Lewis (The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe etc.) died quickly very soon after their marriage he said, "I don't want anybody to say anything, I just want them to be there". And dear Johnny - I was in a mess years ago and one day there was a knock on the door and there stood Johnny. "I don't know what to say but I just had to come". (I remember after all this time).

The being there, just being there, is so often supremely the best thing that can be given though we are afraid of it and it can never seem enough. Alert. Courteous. Gentle. Take the rage, the terrible anger, the deathly wounds into ourselves. Absorb them, let them soak into you - for their sakes, but also for your own sake as a real human being. Silent witness. The flowers, oh yes the flowers. The black aunt of Anthony Walker arrives to witness the murder spot and place her own flowers there. She finds white people already there, silently. She turns to them "Thank you" she says "I didn't know you cared". And they, gently, quietly, applaud her. Meanwhile hundreds gather in the city, silently. A vigil of protest, of communal shame. A vigil of grief. And the flower of your simple presence, being there, wherever 'there' happens to be, from time to time, whether near or far away; being 'there' as best you can in your heart and soul and imagination, if not in physical presence. The London bombs - we were 'there'. The day after, a hundred Iraqis died. In a single day. 'There' also, no! they don't bloody well deserve it, no one does.

Silent witness. Do not be afraid to be cut to the quick, to choke and feel the tears coming for those all across the world. Do not, I implore you, give up, do not turn aside from the next horror (which will come) though we ache to do just that, switch off. Reach out. Reach out to whoever, to wherever, in your sense of helplessness. You, though you may be invisible to them, are their best token of hope. We must trust that, trust the Invisible; it can help to recover some faith in themselves, in living. Your flowers are your prayer. Your own explosions of grief are your prayer. Your signing a book of condolence, is your prayer. Your donation is your prayer: your stunned shock. Stay with it, it is the best hope, for us all. Remember the African greeting, one word "Obuntu" - "I am because we are". Hold on to it, say it over and over, let it be a glimmer of light in dark places.

That's enough words.

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