A is for ARTHUR

Arthur's voice was rasping and bore the hallmarks of overuse. His language was colourful and often new to the ears of a ten year old and I never saw him dressed in anything other than his working clothes. Most of our encounters took place either before the sun got dressed or after it had gone to bed, but even in the shadows, the stocky figure with the coarse greeting could not be mistaken. For years, his lorry had carried dad's cattle to the market for sale and on many early mornings, the growl of the engine coming up the lane was my alarm call into action. He was a busy man, with other farmers to placate on market day, something he was keen to remind us about ,so more often than not we rose earlier than the agreed time and after dad had picked out the leavers in darkness, where they all looked the same colour, we would herd the small posse on the road and wait his arrival. On those days when he would return with newly bought animals, the street lights would already be burning and often the evening news would be over, but he was still the same cheery Arthur who regularly defeated the morning sun. In later years, as his business and his own son grew, and a second vehicle took to the road, we saw less of him, except in glimpses through his offspring, until dad called it a day and the lorries came no more.

Arthur lived close by. He had a soft, measured voice and spoke words that reflected his experience of life. His garden was colourful and he tended to it with care and commitment, but years of arthritis had ravaged his hands making any creative activity painful and long.His father had worked on our farm before I was born and though we were neighbours, I lived more in the era of his sons and daughters. But our paths rarely crossed, for we shared the same God but not our religions or cultures. And amidst the Troubles which dominated everyone's life, our friendship was maintained from afar, with the occasional wave or greeting, but little else. He was a keen sportsman and historian and worked hard for his family until pain dictated that he must call it a day. In his latter years, I got to know Arthur in a new light as we both seemed to have more time to talk and had less suspicion of other cultures, but almost before any lasting friendship could blossom, he was fighting a battle against a more sinister disease from which there would be no return.

Arthur first appeared on my horizon in the post flower power days when it was in vogue to have at least one round 'Smile, Jesus loves you' sticker on the front of your Bible. His clothes were colourful and American and he spoke English in a style that I had only ever heard on television. And he carried a cross. I saw and heard him speak twice. First in my local town, when everyone under the age of twenty seemed to have congregated in the Presbyterian church to check out this strange celebrity. Then, several years later I watched him drag the cross into the old Olympic stadium in Berlin, pronouncing freedom in the shadow of a commemorative plaque containing the name of a J Owens. His cross was twelve feet high, weighed just under three stones and his burden was eased somewhat by a small inflatable tyre attached to the bottom end of the structure. I had forgotten all about him in the intervening years until the wonders of the web informed me that he still carries the cross, has visited all the continents and, among other facts, has walked over 37,0000 miles. Now sixty seven, he has still no plans to call it a day.

Three men, linked only by name, but so different and they teach me something I'll never forget. I share the name Christian with many born-again believers and often I am at odds with how their lives reflect that title. Yet others, I am sure, find similar difficulties when I fail to measure up to their standards of what a Christian should be and do. And that's when I remember my three friends. All different, but all still Arthur. For God has given us individuality to express our love for him. Jesus offers me the best advice in how to deal with others when he says, 'Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?' and also, 'Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.' That's why I'm going to live as I think God wants me to live and let him be the judge. After all, Arthur means to be courageous!