One morning, whilst in France, we went to the village to shop for breakfast.  After relishing the melt-in-the mouth croissants we had purchased, I sat in the pretty garden and wrote  about this ordinary, everyday experience.  Somehow it had touched me and I wanted to remember it.  Perhaps it was the exquisite beauty of the Boulangerie; maybe the zany variety of merchandise in the village shop; or, more likely even than these, it was the poignancy of the memorials in the sturdy little village church.  A church that had stood the test of time and reminded all who entered of both the Gospel stories and of those men and women from the village who had given up their lives in years gone by.  Whatever the reason, I share that memory with you today in the hope that you too will recall whatever, whoever you need to remember today – and say a word of thanks to God, who is faithful.

… and still they remember

We had to go shopping for breakfast and we drove into the sleepy little village and parked across the road from the Boulangerie.   Pushing open the door we entered the tiny shop where the air was redolent with the scent of fresh crusty bread in a variety of shapes and sizes. Carefully crafted croissants; long, traditional baguettes, round crisp loaves that just invited you to pull off a piece of crust and crunch your way through to the soft heart. Inviting gateau, filled with cream, made of choux pastry, and mouth-wateringly exquisite fruit tarts, full of crème patisserie and decorated with plums, grapes and cherries. Madame served us politely as we purchased our bread for the day and we had our arms full as we left the shop.

Across the road was the village shop, selling everything from smoked salmon and artichokes to slippers and wool! More baguettes and charcoal, frying pans and pate de foie gras. The little shop was crammed with the sublime and the ridiculous. Again Madame greeted us. The shop had been shut for three weeks as they had been on holiday in the Carmargue, watching the horses; a holiday that sounded as exotic to me as I suspect a week at a game reserve in Africa would to her.

The Romanesque village church was open. We stepped inside into coolness and sanctity. Candles burned at each of the four altars across the front of the church. The flowers were silk, bright splashes of colour but, sadly, not real. The stained glass shone, ruby, gold, amethyst and emerald as the morning light streamed through the windows, casting luminescent reflections on the old, worn stone floors. Each window told a story – the angel Gabriel telling Mary of the coming birth of the Christ-child; the raising of Lazarus; the ascension. Beautifully portrayed, here was the Gospel message for all to see in ancient coloured glass. Who were the skilled craftsmen who formed the pictures? Had these windows survived two world wars? Or were they, in fact, relatively modern?

Poignantly, in the centenary anniversary of the beginning of the First World War, there were forty eight names of men and boys from this little village alone who had given their lives in that war. The loss, all those years ago, would have affected every single family in the village in some way. And still they remember …