The village church I was christened in back when trouser legs were a lot wider has started to look a little neglected of late. Ivy out of hand, moss on the path, some of the vegetation out of control. So they organised a work party this morning and in the company of a load of village residents I spent part of this morning shifting stuff and doing some painting.
As an adult, I've never really "got" religion. I attended a Church of England primary school in a village where there probably is honey still served for tea and the church clock might well be stuck at ten to three so I received the full Anglican indoctrination as a kid, but beyond a moral compass and sense of right and wrong it didn't really stick. I'd thus characterise myself as a "Harvest festival Anglican", because all I get from my infrequent visits to the church is a sense of the familiarity of the community I grew up in rather than any spiritual benefit. I chat to the vicar from time to time when I see her, but if I'm still tenuously one of her flock then I must be one that wriggled through a hole in the hedge years ago.
It felt good to be involved and do something with the rest of the community though. It seems to be a rare occurrence in that particular village these days. I realised as I came away that among all the people there, I was the only one born into that village, and I don't even live there any more. Some community.