It’s Mothering Sunday, the fourth Sunday in Lent! These days it gets called mother’s day, so maybe give your mother some daffodils, their stalks wrapped in silver foil. But Mothering Sunday is originally about returning to your mother church - but I talked about that last year, so instead let’s think about Auntie Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was actually my great aunt, and may fulfill any stereotypes you hold in mind regarding great aunts and maiden aunts. She was from the olden days, and in her bungalow, she spoke slowly, and the clocks ticked slowly, and she had a bright humour concealed behind a serious front, like an armadillo. She never married, though I’ve a sense she had a certain glamour in youth, like a young Maggie Smith. She was a teacher and a lifelong liberal democrat back when that meant something, and I’ve a notion she was almost a missionary, but circumstances kept her elsewhere. She would have been very good at it I think.

She was also my godmother, at least I think so - I suspect she was officially my sister’s godmother, but spread her godly-maternal beneficence over the whole family - and she was one of the best godparents one could ever have. She gave me the Lion Handbook to the Bible, a hefty piece on the culture and chronology of Biblical lifes and times which probably did more for my interest in the Bible as a thing rooted in the real world of humanity than anything else. If anything other than Ben-Hur and God put me in the state to live as I do and make Ben-Them, it was Auntie Elizabeth’s gift.

She was kindly and prudent and set up a thousand pounds in the name of each of her grand-niblings, meaning when my siblings and I turned 18 we had theoretical access to a big wodge of money, which i think went variously on instruments, a computer and a trip abroad. Thinking about it, that must have cost her a lot. Who had spare thousands lying around in the 1980s?

I have no doubt that Elizabeth looked out for us substantially in prayer, not that she spoke about it, particularly, but because she had salvation and faith in mind, and took the role of godparent 100% as it was meant to be taken. I think of her as mainly serious, at least on the surface - and mainly traditional. I feel she had more of a hand in my coming to faith than she knew of, in a very behind the scenes way.

I like the idea of being a godparent. I am one, in a self-appointed capacity, since I learnt my godson Davie, who is a decade my junior, had no godparents who treated him with other than malignity. His one godmother I know of waltzed off with his inheritance money and had no time for his pronouns, among other unkindnesses, and seemed to show little care for his livelihood or soul. I thought, right, this is someone in need of a good godmother, and I’m the next best thing. I sought his and God’s permission and informed the vicar, though this isn’t the usual way such things are done. Nonetheless, I’m glad to have that responsibility, even if my aid is less consistent and substantial than he may like. I am by no means ruch auntie pennybags, but like in the mafia he can come to me and say ‘Donna Swithen, Gondor calls for aid’ and I will reply ‘you come to me, on the day of my nibling’s wedding…’.

That is, I would like to bring at least a nugget of what Auntie Elizabeth did. She died a decade ago, but I’m sure she’s doing fine. I went to her bungalow and was allowed to pick out a couple of keepsakes. I took a small bronze bell emblazoned with the four animals associated with the gospel-writers - I particularly like PELICANUS - and I took a copy of the Good News Bible on audio-cassette, emblazoned with the words ‘faith comes by hearing’, a quote from Romans 10:17. ‘Faith comes by hearing the message, and the message is heard through the word of Christ.’ A valuable and lasting message, and a good legacy to leave.