Sunday evenings, when I am able, I tune into Radio 3, BBC and listen to Evensong. I am comforted to hear the old traditional prayers that I grew up with, (and which are no longer available to us as we worship in an Ecumenical Church).

Husband and I found great pleasure in going to Evensong, - to me it was like a "date" with God along...... This was before Sunday Night TV squeezed in and took priority, so that an evening service in church has been long abandoned. I note that 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon is starting time in the Cathedrals where these services are broadcast. When I am not playing the organ I still enjoy standing beside Husband in church, feeling his good solid presence and hearing his fine voice.

While I listen to the BBC Evensong I sing in my mind the prayers and responses, and somehow all seems right with the world, at least for a short time. The music is exquisite, - the organ soars majestically, and when the hour is over I am filled with the beauty of the old familiar words.

In between Sunday evenings there is much to remind me of God's bounty. Yesterday, a rainy day in the Similkameen, started off with a painted sunrise in the East, reflected as a delicate pink watercolour in the West



The day wore on, the clouds gathered and the rain came intermittently. At last, in the late afternoon, the sun broke through in little patches, illuminating the scarlets and the golds of the remaining leaves.In the pile of brush to the right of centre (which provides a pyre for the Old Year and a welcome for the New Year, come December 31st) a troop of quail find shelter and security. Callie watches them from the window as they make a daily foray through the pasture, across the road and into the neighbours, where the walnuts are thick on the ground. Four or five nutcrackers join them and it is a time of plenty.

The snow creeps down the K of the mountain on the opposite side of the Valley, and up the cut which marks the Ashnola River there are signs of swirling snow clouds.


The fall flowers vibrate with radiance as an errant ray of sun reaches them.


Towards evening the snow skirts the southern mountains and the Cawston hills disappear behind a turbulent slate curtain.




This morning, at seven, the daily show began again. Heaven's got to be pretty good to beat this.