of water                                        roger smith
	It was only then, as the minibus crawled its way the final mile to the beach, that it struck her. Before then the whole thing had seemed something of a joke, a game, something not to be taken too seriously, but as the ancient Ford Transit shuddered round another corner on the one track road, as the final verse of the last hymn died out and was replaced by the sound of old Mr. Mackay falling off his seat and into the cramped aisle below, the laughter of the other passengers, as the sun burst from hiding and into the side windows, streaming through the dirty glass and drowning the scene with an energising light, it was only then it struck her what she was about to do.   ‘Almost there now!’ Johnathan called from the front, grinning as always. Somehow his grin seemed even larger than normal today, his overloaded lips and teeth straining towards bursting point. But it couldn’t be though. It couldn’t be any larger. ‘Whoops! You Okay there Mr. Mackay?’ Mr. Mackay was sprawling on the floor of the vehicle, legs and arms everywhere, snatching desperately for the side of his seat, an upturned beetle with a flat cap and glasses.   ‘Ach, don’t worry about me, that old army training paid off, I just rolled with it.’ The bus took another swerve and Mr. Mackay’s army training was put to more good use as he was sent crashing to the deck once more, just as he had seemed to be getting back up, overbalancing and toppling sideways into the gap between the seats. Rolling with it. Mr. Mackay. It was funny, but everyone called him Mr. Mackay, even his closest friends, it was never Alexander or Sandy. Some people you just seemed to call by their first name and some by their last. Sandy was always Mr. Mackay and Reverend Brown was most definitely just Johnathan if you don’t mind.   ‘Hallelujah!’ said Johnathan, ‘the sun has come out! I knew the Lord would give us a good day for it. And you said it was going to rain Eileen. Oh ye of little faith!’ Eileen smiled, glad to be proved wrong. Her blue rinse was positively glowing in the sunlight now pouring down onto the minibus.   ‘Well, you’re right again Reverend, what can I say?’ Johnathan turned around, not advisable as he was driving, but surely the Lord wouldn’t choose to crash the minibus today of all days. ‘Well, I said the Lord would give us a good day, didn’t I Martha?’ Martha wondered.   ‘Didn’t I Martha?’   ‘Oh,’ said Martha, taking a second to realise he was talking to her, ‘yes,’ she said, ‘yes you did.’ Martha wondered about Johnathan. He truly believed that Jesus had made the clouds part to reveal the sun a moment ago just for them, just to shine on their little minibus, their little party. He truly believed that this little moment was all part of God’s plan. Whenever something bad happened, a railway disaster, a famine in some far off land, Mrs. Johnstone’s malignant tumour, it was a test, a trial, or rather a result of God having given man free will. There was some greater purpose in Mrs. Johnstone’s tumour that only Jesus himself could know. God moved in mysterious ways, and Johnathan took no responsibility for it, even when they had prayed for the opposite. But whenever something, anything, the slightest good happened - another hundred pounds in the steeple fund, a better than usual attendance at the Sunday service, a ray of sunshine on a clapped out minibus, it was evidence of Jesus’ undying love for us, evidence that he is here among us today answering prayers, working miracles. Johnathan took every possible opportunity to remind them this, but more than his words was the fact he truly believed it, believed it as much as anyone can believe anything, as much as you or I believe that 2 + 2 = 4 or that F is the capital of France.  Martha wondered what it must be like to have such faith, to believe that every minor setback and petty triumph in your insignificant little life was part of some higher plan. No matter how much she tried she could never truly make herself believe that.   ‘Praise the Lord,’ said Johnathan, turning back round, ‘it’s turned into a beautiful day!’ He turned back just in time to swerve past a sheep that had strayed into the road, veering violently into a passing place as the sheep munched obliviously on the verge. Mr. Mackay, standing straight despite his bad knee, was not to be put off balance again, and this time sat triumphantly down as the bus swerved back to the middle of the road.   ‘Aye, that’s better.’ He said proudly, looking around at the others for congratulation. It had taken him a good minute and a half to get back in his seat and he busily made to get comfy again, but just then the minibus lurched once more, this time to a complete stop.   ‘Right, here we are, everybody out!’ Johnathan leapt from the driver’s seat and in a second had slid the side door open. ‘C’mon troops, let’s move it!’ They all groaned. Before becoming a minister Johnathan had spent many years teaching Sunday School to the under tens. He’d also been a leader in the Boy’s Brigade, spending as much time playing Stick in the Mud and British Bulldogs Charge as installing the boys with good old-fashioned Christian values. And all this time spent running around after anklebiters showed in the way he treated people. He treated people like children, even this motley collection of pensioners, encouraging and chastising them as you would a six year old. Of course his parishioners, in their seventies and eighties mainly, loved it. Anything was better than being treated as if you were old.   ‘C’mon now Mr. Mackay, no dawdling!’   ‘Ach, what did your last slave die of?’ Mr. Mackay, now blocking the doorway, was trying to lift himself off the seat it had taken him so long to get into. Eventually he managed it, gripping the doorframe with both hands and launching himself outwards into space. The others unloaded themselves behind him, Martha at the back.