Is it A Heffalump We're Searching For or Something Else?

I’m writing this on the run. It has been a busy start to the day. Before the Tutti Frutti Twins and I, (that’s what I’ve been calling them for the past couple of days), head up to London, I had something important to do.
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Considering what it was, I wrestled with myself overnight trying to decide whether or not I would take them with me.

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After much reflection, interspersed with an equivalent amount of prayer, I made up my mind – not that they were going to be too happy at the thought of waking up with the household alarm. And our household snooze button can be quite jolting on the second round. Some have described it like having a small heart-attack. Actually it’s just a Jack Russell jumping on your chest – same difference I suppose.
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My dear friend Susan died a year ago today. For weeks before she passed she moved back and forth between this life and the shadows. Diagnosed with ovarian cancer, Susan put on her typical brave face, as surgeons did what they could to combat the spread. Finally, after weeks of hope and prayer, we went to hospital to hear what the prognosis would be.
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Susan was her usual chatty self; it was I who was pensive and she picked up on it immediately as I sat there fidgeting like a child. ‘Stop That!’ she demanded. ‘I’m not anxious so why should you be?’ Susan gave me a friendly prod in my ribs with her elbow as I tried to read the words – ANY words on the magazine I had picked up.
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Finally, the doctor opened her door, inviting us in. She got straight to the point; ‘I’m afraid our endeavours have not been very successful.’ Susan asked the obvious; ‘how long?’ Considering all that had occurred, what the latest scans had shown – secondary cancer now in her liver, perhaps three, maybe four months, the doctor told her. 
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We drove out of the hospital car park and into the traffic flow. A few minutes passed in quietness when Susan suddenly shouted out ‘Heffalumps!’ She actually frightened me. I was in the middle of a roundabout and her shouting made me instantly fear someone was about to hit us. We weren’t too far from Heathrow, so I visualised visitors having come off their flights from across the Atlantic, hopping into a hire car and driving straight into a roundabout – the wrong direction! (Believe me, it happens!)
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Still full of adrenaline and trying to regain my composure I replied ‘what?’ with a startled look still on my face. ‘Heffalumps,’ Susan said again, only with slightly lower volume than the first time. ‘We need to go find some Heffalumps.’ I looked at her, fleetingly wondering whether her medications had gone to her mind as well. I drew out my reply ‘Susan, what – are – you – talking – about?’
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She reminded me of one of my (many) stories about Willem & Mary, my children, when they were young. I used to do the school assemblies, which is the equivalent of a mid-week church service. Here in England our faith-based schools are most often attached to the church, as it was in our case. I used to come up with creative, although probably puzzling to some of the older teachers, parables for life that the children would hopefully remember and carry home with them.
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I’ll digress for a second; my daughter is 19. Recently, during a dinner, Mary told me she remembers many of my sermons from when she was five or six. You can’t imagine how absolutely chuffed I was to hear this. Apparently, Mary’s favourite homily was about Sven the wood cutter, but the one that followed close behind was about Heffalumps. Her adamant rule was that I could talk about anything during assemblies, as long as I didn’t call out her name. That was sacrosanct!
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‘Last year your daughter told me about your Heffalump sermon at school and we’re going to go on a hunt To-DAY!’ Crikey, Sue could be demanding at times. But how could I resist. I had finally navigated the car back onto the M-25 heading south. For those of you who don’t know what the M-25 is, think of it as a giant clock where the big hand moves in one direction and the small hand in another, but neither seems to ever move at the right pace and often they get stuck together! That’s our M-25. It’s the Flying Dutchman of circular motorways. We entered at 10 O’clock and hopefully, we’d eventually reach 6 O’clock, where we’d merge onto the M3 down to the coast. 
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‘So where do you want to go on this search for Heffalumps?’ I cautiously asked. ‘Herstmonceux Forest,’ Susan replied without missing a breath. ‘It’s always nice to be with a woman who knows what she wants to do.’ I replied. Considering her state of mind I don’t think I would have been surprised if she said Scotland! We made a brief stop at one of our nation’s Little Chef restaurants for a cup of tea and to empty Susan’s ileostomy bag.
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The drive from the M3 changes as we descend the gradient to the coast. We ascend steep hills or small mountains, then descend into nestled valleys. From the crest of one, as you descend into the valley, you can see thin curls of grey smoke rising from people’s chimneys, making doodle marks across the chalkened skies. It’s a scene that as a child always brought me comfort, as I visualised families in their homes enjoying a roaring fire whilst children played on the floor. 
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As we passed Pevensey Castle, I turned off the roundabout and headed along the lane to Herstmonceux. We pulled up just past the castle and observatories at the place where over the years I’ve worn a well marked path. And off we marched.
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The path was originally a guarded road during the war. There was a military sentinel’s hut and numerous rather curious croppings of rock. Rumour has it there’s still a dry pirate’s and smugglers tunnel which runs all the way from the castle forest to a pub on Boreham Street, 1.1 miles away. And the Venerable Mr Piddles, being the sort of dog that he is, has occasionally disappeared for a bit, deep into the recesses of rock, in search of his own Heffalumps. I’m certain that someday he’s going to come out wearing a bandanna and a patch over his eye and go Baaaarrrrghk!
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‘See any yet?’ I asked as we marched on. ‘No, not yet, keep walking,’ was all Susan said. We came upon one of my favourite spots. On the south side of the path the trees are at their tallest. The forestry is so dense that if it were overcast you might find it challenging to see too far ahead of you. But along the base of the forest floor the sunlight has provided its warm sustenance, nurturing the miracle of life by feeding the seedlings left by the winds and birds.
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On that morning, as far as we could see, there was a never-ending blanket of bluebells. The colours were so brilliant we stood in silence. Such beauty in such an isolated place where very few others would ever see them.
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‘Here.’ Susan said, with a note of finality. ‘Here?’ I asked, waiting for her to explain, still thinking we were searching for Heffalumps. ‘Yes, here.’ She said, ‘This is where I want my cremains spread.’ I looked deep into her eyes. There was no sadness or pensiveness on her face - Just what I would describe as a sense of resolve. ‘One year, to the day. Okay?’ she asked more in a way that she was issuing an instruction. ‘Okay.’ I half spoke – half whispered, feeling my nostrils about to flair before the tears welled in my eyes.
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‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’ Susan grabbed my hand and half-pulled, half guided me further down the hill, deeper into the forest. And off we went in search.
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During one of my Wednesday assemblies, borrowing liberally from A.A. Milne many years ago, (I hoped he didn’t mind), I took the school children on a mini-march around the church, in search of Heffalumps. Up the nave we marched, crossing the south transept, up the steps into the chancel, and past the altar, moving around to the sacristy, then back down, crossing the north transept and through the nave into the narthex. All the while I’d shout out to the children, encouraging them to look high and low and if they saw a Heffalump, to let the others know. ‘Shout it out!’ I’d yell to them. ‘Does anyone see them?’ I’d call out. And so the parade went.
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When all the children gathered back in the narthex, around the Baptismal font, I asked for a show of hands as to how many children actually thought they saw a Heffalump. Numerous hands went up among the smaller children. The older ones just smiled, enjoying the humour.
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‘How many of you believe they’re here?’ I asked. More hands went up. ‘What if we replaced the word Heffalumps with God?’ I asked. ‘More than half of you indicated that you believe the Heffalumps were in here. How many of you, although you can’t directly see, have the same conviction that God is here.’ Those moments when a small child ‘clicks’ with a very small and childish analogy is what I call the ‘Ah Ha’ moment.
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Of course it was a childish analogy and any great theologian would love to pick it and me apart. But its simplicity works for child-like minds. I so vividly remember my children when they were small, as we’d head into the forest for a walk. I’d encourage them to go hunting for Heffalumps. And in our gentle banter I’d tease them asking, how many have you seen? Always the response was that they weren’t exactly sure because it’s hard to tell when it’s actually God, or just a Heffalump. When he was about ten, my son made a small twine bracelet with small beads containing letters on them. He presented one he had made as a gift to me. The letters on the beads were WWHD? It’s a gift I cherish to this day and keep in my memory box.
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And it was that thought that crossed my mind when I made the decision about Luigi and Alfredo at 5 this morning. Susan loved life so very much. She was in a senior role with Social Services and had seen the worst of the worst with trafficked children who arrived at our nation's borders. It was a common bond we shared and often cried about together. 
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But it was also her laughter, her cheekiness, and her never-failing sense of humour that instinctively told me that she would have loved having the Tutti-Frutti twins there today. Over 300 people attended Susan's funeral. But she instructed me, with earnest, that I was not to have anyone attend her strewing. She was a widow, had no surviving relatives, and it was important to her that no one needed to re-visit her after they already had done so at her funeral celebration.
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So this morning, as rays of light began to reach through the moist, dense forest, once again providing warmth to the earth. An ageing priest, a little dog, and two slightly neurotic looking figurines returned the last vestiges of a loved one’s remains to the earth from whence they came.

And I cried. And I laughed at her memory.

Until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes

Our busy world is hushed,

The fever of life is over

and our work is done

Then Lord, in your mercy,

grant us a safe lodging

A Holy rest,

and peace at last

Amen.