The Life of a Welsh Coal Miner
We began our descent three hundred feet below the ground in a rickety caged elevator pressed tightly against one another. Our headlamps were our only source of light; without them you cannot see the hand in front of your face (not even my albino white shinning hands). No cell phones, camera or watches were allowed for fear of igniting a flame that would kill us. Yet, under the morbid circumstance our Welsh coalminer guide’s humor kept us smiling.
There were some awkward moments when his jokes about his drink problem hit a little to close to home. The fact that we were Mormon stimulated the conversation. He asked if we drank, did drug etc. He confessed he did drink but he did not do drugs. However, there was this one time in Amsterdam…and he went on to tell his experience (problem was he could not remember much).
Our tour guide wanted us to sing for him. So we sang like canaries the hymn How Great Thou Art. He loved it so much he made us sing it on our way up in the elevator shaft. All of our lights were off and the palpable darkness left us in liminal space. Our voices echoed in the chasm with the elevator's rolling thunder above our heads as we sang “I hear the rolling thunder.” After we finished we saw the streams of light; we resurfaced.
There were some awkward moments when his jokes about his drink problem hit a little to close to home. The fact that we were Mormon stimulated the conversation. He asked if we drank, did drug etc. He confessed he did drink but he did not do drugs. However, there was this one time in Amsterdam…and he went on to tell his experience (problem was he could not remember much).
Our tour guide wanted us to sing for him. So we sang like canaries the hymn How Great Thou Art. He loved it so much he made us sing it on our way up in the elevator shaft. All of our lights were off and the palpable darkness left us in liminal space. Our voices echoed in the chasm with the elevator's rolling thunder above our heads as we sang “I hear the rolling thunder.” After we finished we saw the streams of light; we resurfaced.
Tintern Abbey
I’ll never forget stepping of the bus and at being transported into the world of Tintern Abbey. The early morning fog still loosely shrouded the ruins, while white birds fluttered from gothic arch to gothic arch. The warm colors of fall framed the building; though the leaves were warm tones, they symbolized the coming of winter and ultimate death to flowers and trees. I could not have dreamed of a better day to visit Tintern Abbey.
Of course we read Wordsworth’s poem. Afterwards our group gathered together in the middle of the Abbey and sang hymns. I do not know how long it has been those stones have heard a song…but it’s romantic to think we were the first after a few hundred years.
Church History Tour
Our church history tour was led by Peter Fag. Do not judge him for his unfortunate name. He’s a top rate tour guide bursting full of information. This tour focused on Wilford Woodruff’s missionary work in Herefordshire. The pond belongs to the Bembo Farm where the first baptisms in the area took place.
Katie pointed out that I look like Explorer Barbie and I think Becky looks like Willow.
Malvern Hill
Peter Fag told us that he had ninety year olds make this climb so we should not worry. It had me panting. I have not shame in saying this. Wilford Woodruff came here for solitude during discouraging times. In honor of him we sang (imagine that) We Thank Thee Oh God for a Prophet and the “dark clouds that hung or us” literally dissipated and streams of sunlight covered our group.
Who needs tribal dances to the rain and sun gods when all you need to do is sing a hymn?
Please become a writer. Of books. Poetry. Anything. Please.
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