Every once in a while contact with someone reminds me that not far from here fishing was a way of life. Not angling, but venturing onto the high seas in trawlers, away for days on end, and returning to waiting and relieved family. I grew up in a mining community, and have largely forgotten what it was like, and how it formed me, but hearing about the realities of being a fishing community opens the lid, slightly, on my past. There are no memories of mining disasters, though, in my lifetime – only strikes and closures.
I suppose it is buried deep, this belonging you have to either of these communities, but that mutual sharing of values draws you together when the chips are down.
The church thrives when the chips go down, though it is under attack. The stuff that is buried deep is, like coal or cod, worth the excavation.
The other thing that might make you dig deep, in the absence of persecution, is actually seeing people’s needs, and the gravity of their situation. And realising the resources to meet those needs are there to be found.
Maybe that is really what the helmet of salvation is for.