I am feeling most blessed after spending a weekend with friends in the peace and beauty of Borrowdale in the Lake District. To share good food, wine and laughter in the company of friends, to appreciate the beauty around us: the bleak fells opening up before us as we climb through a blizzard (yes, nearly May, but there truly was a blizzard) to the top of High Raise; the towering crags of Langdale Pikes; the stunning panoramas of peaks and dales.
As we walked in relaxed companionship, the world around us teamed with life: the joy of new-born lambs, jumping in the fields or bleating for their
mothers; a silent heron gliding above the Derwent river; a vibrant stoat skitting among the rocks; our own sense of fulfilment as we ease the packs off our weary shoulders at the end of the day, and enjoy a glass of wine in the warm evening sun as the swallows dart backwards and forwards, catching insects on the wing.
This is peace; Shalom.
And yet, my spirit is troubled within me.
Why am I so privileged, so blessed? What about all those who don’t have the opportunity to enjoy such beauty? Why me? It seems so unfair.
Perhaps within the angels’ nativity song there isn’t just a glorious symphony of praise, but also a cry of yearning:
Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth (we long for you to bring) peace to all on whom your favour surely does rest.
