Mickey's smile faded as we talked, my voice became background noise as he slowly disappeared into his past.
The conversation had been good, sparked from a childhood memory, we had laughed as Mickey recalled his scrumping pedigree as an eleven year old. Belly laughs accompanied the various adventures of his exploits as he 'stole' fruit from neighbours fruit trees to order from his jam making grandmother.
"Good memories...?" I ventured.
"Oh yes...." in a voice betraying a certain melancholy.
It wasn't long before I regretted asking "So you have good memories of growing up then Mickey?"
"Not really ..." the smile now gone, "... they were mostly bad."
Later that evening Mickey showed me his plastic ankle jewelry, tagged for a crime he says was drink driving. As he left to electronically sign in to keep to his curfew, I thought of the Mickey's of this world whose fullness has been stolen by all that contributes to the brokenness of bad memories.
Right at the begining of the evening Estelle read me a quote about putting legs to our prayers, I've been reading Yancey's 'Prayer' and he says the same. I left Faith House thinking as I cycled home of the role of the Church in mission to be able to create new and wholesome memories in order to bring feet to those many prayers that ask 'your kingdom come'.