Wild Goose & Turkey Cold

It’s January 2014 —

cold enough to chew

through bone.

We meet in the place

named for the one

who slew the dragon,

but the beasts still roam

around St George’s.

They breathe fire,

chaos,

on the hurt,

the wounded,

so scars don’t heal —

they fester.

We meet in a homeless shelter

that once housed the dead.

Now it holds the living.

A place where poison of leviathan

is drawn out with compassion,

where the half-dead

breathe again.

Daz shows up.

Small lad,

big grin,

tattoos like maps of old chaos.

Bit of a charmer,

but likes a scrap.

Daz having a dig

at a world that pushed him down.

He asks for prayer —

not the polite kind.

Not for calm or clarity,

but to get off heroin.

Crap.

I’m the priest,

a rookie,

a beggar telling others where to get bread —

a wounded healer,

half out of my depth,

half full of wild hope

and mad ideas

for the storm-tossed and shipwrecked.

I prefer the prayers

that come before paracetamol

and a decent night’s sleep —

prayers for mild headaches,

manageable stuff.

But this?

A prayer to get off heroin.

Lord I believe but help my unbelief.

Still, we pray.

Wild Goose turns the turkey cold.

Bareback,

rattling,

bones that shake like castanets.

No plan.

No bed.

Just resolve.

And rain, and lots of it.

He beds down

round the side of the church —

with the Wild Goose as company,

warding off the dragons,

shivering under the roar of January.

A couple of nights in,

he’s soaked.

And I’m at home,

sweet and sour chicken,

beef chow mein,

prawn crackers,

a bit of telly.

Then that nudge.

That whisper.

That holy guilt

that tastes like grace.

Go.

Find him.

So I do.

He’s tucked in,

half-frozen,

a ghost of a lad

wrapped in rain and hope.

I bring him inside.

We share the Chinese,

watch a bit of TV —

two unlikely disciples

in a half-lit room

where the Kingdom

cracks the surface.

4 a.m.

We drive to Hexham.

A Christian rehab.

I’ve no idea what I’m doing —

just following the scent

of the shepherd

who leaves the ninety-nine.

Daz is twitchy.

We laugh on the way,

nerves kicking in as he takes his final roll-up

before stepping into bootcamp with Jesus.

Still he chose life,

that’s courage.

Eleven years later,

we still keep in touch.

Sometimes he rings to cadge a few quid,

but he always asks for prayer,

and then he ends the prayers with the saying,

‘in his beautiful name.’

Daz became Darren,

washed clean,

working,

living a new life.

A few scars,

some deep regrets,

ups and downs —

but clean.

Working.

Living.

A walking miracle.

A work in progress.

So am I.

Jesus came to seek

and save the lost —

I am the lost one,

being found.

As I serve,

I am saved.

As I walk with Darren,

Christ walks with me.

The dragon still roars,

but we walk on —

broken, whole,

in his beautiful name.

Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025