Out of Darkness Comes Light

While other families enjoy a lie in or a leisurely breakfast our Sunday morning rush (rugby kit x 3, water, sun cream, mosquito repellent, picnic rug, sunhats, mouth guards, shoes on) is caused in part by my own selfish wish to be dropped off at church before the others go on to Valley Fort.


St Stephen’s Chapel stands in the grounds of St Stephen’s College, a one time Anglican mission school established in Stanley during the early years of the last century. During the war the College was used as a hospital but on Christmas Day 1941 the invading troops entered it and killed many of the patients and staff. After Hong Kong's surrender the College became an internment camp for civilians. The Chapel itself was built in 1950 as a memorial to all those who suffered and died in the College during the invasion and subsequent internment.

The first time I attend I introduce myself to the vicar on the door.
“I’m from the Parish of Putney.”
“Oh Giles Fraser” he responds. “I read him in the Sunday Times.”
“Yes, the controversial Giles Fraser.” I say. “But actually I’m from All Saints, on the Common, the other end of the Parish.” I don’t add how dear it is to me and how much I am missing it. He doesn’t need to know how sad I am.

While the boys knock themselves about on the rugby pitches St Stephen’s Chapel offers me a little patch of personal peace. A simple square chapel with few adornments, arched windows, terracotta floor tiles and wooden pews. Dappled sunshine pours in through the flame trees outside and through the stained glass figure of St Stephen himself. It is light and airy. There is a pipe organ and ceiling fans hang from the high white rafters. The walls of the chapel are hung, not with tapestries or religious paintings, but with mattresses. Mattresses covered with cream brocade sheets.

Sunday is a day of rest and enjoying the peace and quiet I sit and ponder; why are there mattresses on the chapel walls? In the pew in front is a mother with a young son and a beautiful voice. If I shut my eyes and mouth the words I can pretend it is I who sings with a voice from heaven.

This morning, to my alarm, the visiting vicar faints during the service. Three anxious women rush forward to revive her. In the dash to be a Good Samaritan, I do not remember the mattresses.

I take my two year old daughter with me to church today. My little patch of personal peace thus reduced she climbs into my lap and nestles into my chest and I give thanks for her safe return.

Back on her feet the visiting vicar preaches, out of darkness comes light. She smiles at me and I think, this is relevant both for you and for me.