I tried to write a sermon the other day. It was an emotional experience. I’ve not been well for a considerable while, and I’m feeling everything very deeply. Some might call it heightened spiritual insight. That sounds rather grand, which I can promise you, it isn’t. We preachers have been banging on for months now about how the pandemic is going to change everything. Life in general and church in particular, are never going to be the same again. Little did I know that 18 months of shielding would have such a profound impact on me personally.

In the autumn of 2019, I began a series of sermons in Matthew’s Gospel, working systematically from the beginning. I’ve never preached a consecutive expository series through a gospel before, so it seemed a good thing to do. Then came COVID-19, and on Sunday 22 March 2020 (which was Mothering Sunday as it happened) Val and I began broadcasting our services on Facebook and YouTube. At the time I can remember thinking “I wasn’t trained for this!” We human beings adapt, though, and now, 18 months later, it all seems very familiar – normal even.

Quite why sermon number 53 was such an emotional roller coaster, I can’t think. Well, maybe I can. I’d reached chapter 17 v1-13, Matthew’s account of the Transfiguration. The gospel writer tells us that Jesus’s “face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light”. That would have been enough, but there was more…“Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus.” Peter (one of Jesus’s disciples), impetuous as ever but delightfully honest, is so overwhelmed by the wonder of the present moment he tries to capture it by suggesting to Jesus that shelters should be built for the three of them. Interestingly, Jesus doesn’t respond to the suggestion. In fact it is God the Father who speaks, and it’s not long before the disciples all find themselves facedown as the weight of God’s glory descends.

We can’t really imagine what the Transfiguration must have been like for Peter, or indeed any of the disciples, but we do know what it feels like to want to freeze-frame the present moment. There are times so precious that we ache to press the pause button on life, just to savour the wonder of it all before the inevitable happens and the clock starts to click again. The singer, Van Morrison, captured it well in his song Coney Island: “I look at the side of your face as the sunlight comes, streaming through the window in the autumn sunshine, and all the time going to Coney Island, I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time?”

A few weeks ago we visited Val’s sister, Monica. Monica lost her husband, David, just before Christmas last year. We knew she would never get over the loss, though in time she might have adjusted. I’ve grown accustomed in counselling the grieving to say: “life will never be the same again, but it can be as good, just in a different way”. We hadn’t quite got around to saying that to Monica. Everything was still too raw.

David had been a dairy farmer all his life. He was a giant of a Christian, not that you would have known. Just as in his work he had forged a deep connection with the land and his animals, so David’s spirituality was deeply rooted in his relationship with Jesus.

Out in the fields in all weathers, I’m convinced David spent much of his time thinking and praying. The fruit of this life spent in quiet reflection came when he spoke. There were never many words, but they were always worth listening to. Ask anyone. David Lloyd was hugely respected in the village and beyond.

Monica gave the entirety of her 62 years of marriage to ensuring David’s needs were met. She loved him deeply and when he went, like so many other devoted spouses, she really didn’t know what the remainder of her life was for. To make matters worse, in those early months of loss, Val and I couldn’t visit Monica because of the pandemic. There were daily phone calls, of course, but it’s not the same as sitting down together, looking one another in the eye, and truly communicating. Having a hug even.

Eventually, when the government said we could, we made our way to Wadhurst in East Sussex, where David and Monica had made their home. It’s a beautiful village set amid the rolling countryside with views of the South Downs. Their church, St Peter and St Paul, is every bit the quintessential English country parish.

Over the years, Val and I have loved our visits to Wadhurst. We went to spend time with Monica and David of course, but the beauty of the area was a huge draw too. In the early days, we went to the cottage at Bardown Farm (now tripled in size and converted to a magnificent holiday complex with prices to match).

More latterly, though, we went to the bungalow in Townlands Road. Just around the corner from the High Street and a few steps from the parish church, it was God’s gift to Monica and David in their retirement. They had a wonderful conservatory built across the full-width of the property, affording unparalleled views of David’s workmanship in the garden. It was, and still is, a place ideally suited to quiet restoration.

So it was that on Wednesday 9 June we were finally able to visit Monica. The last time we had seen her previously was at David’s thanksgiving service six months earlier. As always, we relaxed immediately we arrived and began to drink deeply of the garden, the Downs beyond, and, on this occasion, a rather good Provençal rosé too.

The following days were filled with laughter, tears, memories of David, and afternoon teas at Sussex garden centres. Life was good… and there it was again: “Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time?” But all too soon, it was time to go. Our few days had flown by, but we promised to return and not to leave as long next time.

Driving home from Wadhurst to Poole, we said just how well Monica seemed to be doing. She had a new best friend, Joan, who had lost her husband too. They were seeing a lot of each other, and, dare I say it, occasionally having fun! But then, just a week or so later, Val had an early morning phone call from her niece, Cherry, to say that Monica had suffered a serious stroke. She had lost all movement and speech. In fact, she was barely conscious at all. The news left us stunned with shock. Apart from arthritis and all the other age-related health problems, she had seemed so well. There was no inkling that such a dramatic turn of events was around the corner.

So, that’s why we’re back in Wadhurst, so much sooner than either of us had anticipated. Yesterday we drove to the Eastbourne District General Hospital, where Monica is receiving the best of care. It was without question the hardest day of my darling’s life. Seeing her older sister, usually so full of life and opinions, prone in a hospital bed and reliant on others for absolutely everything. Mercifully Monica recognised Val, though conversation was out of the question. The previous evening I had mown the lawn at Broadacres, and we’d taken some photographs. Val took the iPad onto the ward to reassure Monica that the garden was being looked after. The pictures provided a much-needed focal point, but it wasn’t long before Monica was too weary for the visit to continue. She has another serious chest infection and a urinary tract infection, and she isn’t responding to the antibiotics. The hospital staff, so experienced in these desperately sad situations, gently explained to Val that the sister who had been in her life for all of her 76 years, was unlikely to live for much longer.

Much as we would like to sometimes, we can’t press the pause button on life. We can’t freeze-frame the most precious moments in order to savour them for longer. With Van Morrison, our hearts cry out: “Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time?” but the only thing we can do is to live with our eyes wide open to the wonder of the present moment and treasure it while it’s here.

On my desk I have one of Val’s watercolour paintings. It’s of Howe Sound in British Columbia, Canada. It’s where the movie “Free Willy” was filmed. It is stunningly beautiful, and I remember clearly the day we drove the mountain road from Vancouver to Whistler, passing alongside Howe Sound as we went. It was over 30 years ago now, and I have to confess I didn’t value that moment anything like as much as I should have done. In truth, vast tracts of my life have slipped away while I’ve been fixated on the future, or the past, or my responsibilities. It doesn’t really matter what the distraction has been, though. It’s the impact that counts. Perhaps that’s why Val wrote the lyrics of a poignant song on her painting. They are written by one of my favourite Christian singers, Keith Green. They still speak to me today. That’s why the painting is on my desk. “I will love you, and love you I do. It’s not complete yet, but you know we’re not through. The days go their ways in blessings…. moments of truth.

If there is a secret to this life, surely it’s to recognise those moments of truth, and to treasure them.