The prayer group continued till late spring 1980. As the children grew, we had to adapt it to suit our family needs. We had moved the meeting to a Friday night as the Sunday group was no longer viable.
We now had three children. Francis was nearly five, Thomas, our second child was nearly three years old and our third child, Michael had just turned one.
In February that year, during the Friday evening prayer session we were all in a quiet period of prayer. Then, in my mind’s eye, I saw a hand reaching out to me from the darkness and gently touch my cheek.
“Someone has just touched my cheek,” I said, still resting in the Lord in prayer. They listened without comment. “I’m not sure whether it’s my earthly or heavenly father” I said, jokingly.
Early next morning I had a phone call from one of my sisters telling me that my father had died.
The next night our eldest son, Francis and I caught a flight to Malta and attended my dear father’s funeral. Without a doubt, I believe that it was the Lord himself who had allowed him to say goodbye to me. It was the loving act of my heavenly father who knew how much that parting caress would mean to me.
When I returned from Malta, we continued the group for a little longer, but it was becoming obvious that things had to change.
We were living in the top part of a two-story family house with two bedrooms and a generous sitting room where the prayer group was held.
Our landlady, an elderly woman, occupied the ground floor. She had no family except for a stepson who lived in South Africa, and she was growing more and more dependent on our help. Most evenings, we would go downstairs and take turns to get her into bed and see that she was all right. Many times, we would hear a loud bump and she would bang with her stick to tell us that she had fallen out of bed. She received some government help but not enough and some other kind neighbours and ourselves filled in the care gap.
We were still in this situation when a dear friend of ours who I got to know at the prayer group in Soho, came to visit us. He was a gentle soul who loved his faith but unfortunately, he was schizophrenic. He held down a full-time job in a social security office and would know exactly when an ‘episode’ was coming on. They obviously knew about his affliction and had a special arrangement with him.
When he knew an attack was starting, he would then check himself into the mental hospital and stay there until it had passed completely. After that, he would return to his normal life.
When he arrived that evening, he was looking well, and we were pleased to see him.
We reminisced about the Soho group and old times and prayed as we always did in the past. We enjoyed a simple supper and bathed the boys and put them to bed.
He asked if he could stay the night and we let him sleep on the couch bed in the sitting room. And then went to bed ourselves.
During the night I had the most terrible dreams and it seemed as though an evil spirit was hovering on top of me. It was a terrible experience. Frightened, I stayed awake, praying for most of the night. I also had concern for the safety of our boys in particular.
Early in the morning, I rushed into the sitting room to see if our guest was alright. He was dressed and apologized to me saying that he must go immediately.
“Why the rush?” I asked, “thinking that perhaps he had sensed something of what I had experienced.”
He looked uncomfortable and stared at the floor. “I have signed myself out of hospital,” he said, “I am still mad. I must leave.” He apologized over and over again that he had done this to us. With that, he thanked us and left very quickly. I believe he checked himself back into hospital.
This made us wake up to the fact that, even though we were under the Lord’s protection, it was time to create a simpler and quieter family atmosphere.
Our friends understood the situation. The group came to a natural end though we continued to be like a family, corresponding, keeping in touch through prayer and occasional visits.