Hebron

Hebron, Welsh Calvinistic Methodist Chapel,
Abergele Road, Old Colwyn, built 1861

'Prynhawn da, Mr Williams, 
I see you have your granddaughter with you.'
I clutch Taid's hand
in the approach to Hebron's brown twin doors.
Neat blue hymnbooks
filled with sol-fa notation
placed into our gloved free hands,
we enter to the accompaniment
of Rhosymedre and sidelong glances.
Ducked head for a quick prayer,
'Dear God, please help me not get bored,
please make the sermon short,'
then look around as others are,
scanning for unexpected detail
to be shared and picked over later:
'Did you see Mrs Prosser's hat?'
'Gethin the butcher was late again.'
I'm the only child
and Taid slips me a peppermint.
The Sedd Fawr is filling up
with black-suited men
in stern faces whose job
it is to look into your soul
and nod wisely as the preacher begins.
We stand to strains of O Iesu Mawr,
our voices gathering and swelling,
rich in harmony, transporting us
to mountain splendour
and sunset glory,
to slate-mine dank
and pier head fury
and all the wild, wild world
that Jesus sees and knows and calms.
'Gweddiwn.'
A torrent sweeps over us,
words of protracted, interminable prayer
taking deep root in Taid's waistcoated breast,
finding resonance and echo there,
teasing my mind, half understood, half not,
wanting more, wanting less
this wintry Sunday evening
that lasts for ever,
held now in Hebron's spell
where judgement and outward severity
belie kindness,
and humble prayer overlies gentle pride
in kith and kin.
'I see Mr Williams brought his granddaughter,
but did you see them eating sweets?
She'll have to learn, you know.'

©Janet Henderson 24th September 2016