Just in Time

                           

  

“Is it safe to walk along that little road up the hill?” I pointed towards the road. Jim ‘hmmed’.

“Yes, fine,” David replied. “Bit steep though.”

“I don’t mind that, “I told him. “I’ll take a thermos of tea and have a break at the top.”

“It looks a bit like rain,” Jennifer said.

But by then I was determined to go.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her. I peered out through the fig tree at the clear sky. “I’ll be back before it rains, I’m pretty sure. But I’ll put my umbrella in.”

As I set out, with my journal, a small umbrella and a thermos of tea in a basket, I was glad I’d made the effort to get up a bit earlier. The skies were blue and sunlight lay in slanting golden sheets across the grass.

I wondered what the walk into an unfamiliar area would bring.
When I had prayed that morning, as I usually did, for God’s protection on my comings and goings, something felt different. I’d felt a nudge, a whisper, to pray for more than safety; to pray that I would have nothing even to fear.

I headed down the road and onto a narrow dirt side-road leading up a steep, forested hill. At the top I sat under a tree, puffing, and had a cup of tea. I opened my dog-eared journal and wrote about my surroundings, overlooking a dairy farm.

No outing was complete unless I wrote comments about it – comments I would later read and savour, sometimes even incorporating them into poems or blogs.

Peace engulfed me. I felt I could sit there forever.

The farm below me lay quietly in the brilliant sun. Birds twittered faintly.

                              Photo by Elvira Meridy White

As I settled in to write, I felt a niggle. I looked up.

Deep shadow had moved over the farm.

A storm bird began to cry its two plaintive notes.

Dark clouds had appeared, building up quickly. Surely it wouldn’t rain? I packed up and set off over the other side of the hill, realising it was quite a long walk back to the Homestead. Down the hill, my knees feeling its steepness, and back onto a narrow bitumen road leading to the main road through the Obi Obi Valley.

             Photo by Dennis Woodford

Then along an avenue of liquid amber trees, vibrant green now. In autumn they would become a blaze of colour - every shade of red, orange and gold - until they fluttered to the ground and made big crunchy heaps of crisp leaves. A child's delight.

Photo by Melody White

The sun was completely blocked by dark clouds now. A strange dimness pervaded the air and the hidden sun cast an eerie glow on the rich green paddocks. I forced myself to walk faster on legs that ached after that hill.

Plop!

A large rain drop fell on my shoulder.

Plop! Another one.

Oh dear. Was I going to be drenched? I opened my small umbrella, a feeble shelter in heavy rain.

The sound of an approaching car behind me sent me hurrying to the very edge of the road.

Several more plops on my saggy umbrella.

The car stopped.

“Want a lift?” It was Sue, the wife of a local farmer.

I clambered in, thankful to escape the deluge. By now it was raining properly.

Sue looked at me quizzically. “You were lucky!” she exclaimed. “A few more metres and you’d have been ripped to pieces by the next farmer’s dogs. They’re vicious! Nobody walks there.”

Jim and the others had not realised I planned to return by a different route or they’d have warned me.

I remembered my odd prayer that morning and silently thanked God. I’d have been terrified even if I wasn’t ‘ripped to pieces’.

Soon Sue and I were sitting in the Homestead kitchen, sipping tea and eating freshly made scones while heavy rain clattered on the iron roof.