Tom knew what he wanted out of life. He had left school at 14, as soon as he could, to be out in the fields helping the local farmer. This was what he wanted: the gratification you got from sitting down at the end of a hard day’s work, muscles aching from a job well done. To be out in the fresh air everyday with the sun beating down on his back, helping out with the lambing when spring rolled around. Enjoying the blissful brisk morning as dawn broke and there was utter peace in the air. Or out in the fields towards the end of the summer, helping out with the baling. It would be hard work, and there would be a lot of blood, sweat, and tears poured into it, but he would always head home to the farmhouse a the end of the day, safe in the knowledge that he would be able to put food on the table for his own future family.
He didn’t care for those snobby academic types who looked down their noses at the “common folk” as they were deemed – they were hard working people. One particular man sprang to mind; a cold, hard man, who’s nose always seemed to be permanently upturned when he looked own on his congregation. A preacher, who thought himself better than his flock. Tom had no time for people like him – when his family had moved from the Isle of Man to Henllan Amgoed, they had been outcasts. He and his siblings had suddenly been thrown into a Welsh first language society, and they had had to work hard to learn the language and stifle the cruel remarks from the other children. Tom had left all of that behind at 14 when he went to help out on the farm, and pretentious preachers wouldn’t make him think less of himself or his family just because they weren’t as well educated as this pompous man.
One afternoon, after he had been dismissed early from the farm he decided to call in and see Mary and Anne, two elderly sisters living by themselves in a cottage near where he worked. He liked being helpful to them, and making sure that they had everything they needed. He would often sit down at the table with them for a cup of tea, and politely answer their questions about him.
“What are you hoping to do with your life?” Mary asked.
Tom smiled and sipped his tea. “I want to be a farmer…”
Anne laughed. “My dear, why on earth would you want to do that? A smart young man like yourself should be putting his brain to good use!”
“Yes!” Mary enthusiastically agreed, “What about going into the ministry? That would be a wonderful vocation for you!”
Tom caught himself before he could scoff at the suggestion, and politely laughed in response. “Oh no, I’d never go into the ministry… Reverend George is always so condescending about people like me – I could never be like him.” Tom repressed a shiver.
Anne sighed. “A pity – you would make a fine preacher, dear.”
“Yes, and they’re not all like that old fart Reverend George.” Mary said.
Tom smiled in response, and tried to change the topic.
On his way home, he decided to cut through one of the fields, as it would make the journey shorter. He had been walking for about five minutes, when out of nowhere a voice intoned, “Cer i breguthu.” Go and preach.
Tom spun around, trying to figure out where it was coming from. Who was playing tricks on him? But he was in the middle of an open field. The voice had had an ethereal quality about it, but at the same time it was as if the person was stood inches from his ear.
It came again: “Cer i bregethu.” Go and preach. Tom fell to his knees, for he knew immediately who the voice belonged to. It was none other than God himself, and he had been chosen. Plucked from the life he thought he had wanted for himself, God had gently taken him onto another path.
His parents were horrified.
“Join the ministry?” His mother screeched at him.
His father sat at the table, staring at his eldest son in shock.
“But… but what about the farm?”
“You can’t go into the ministry, Tom – there’s no money in it, how will you support yourself?”
Tom shrugged, “I’ll manage… I’ve been called by a higher purpose – I have to join the ministry.”
His mother looked at him. “…A higher purpose? Because you heard a voice?”
Tom sighed – his parents weren’t religious in the slightest.
“You can’t just up and leave to become a minister, Tom!”
In some ways, his parents were right. Because he had dropped out of school at 14, he didn’t have the qualifications he needed to get into theological college. He needed to know Latin and Greek for one thing, and he’d studied neither at school. Though the Lord’s divine intervention didn’t stop with his revelation in the field. Tom found a retired headmaster in the village who happened to know both languages well, and he agreed to help Tom to learn. He worked hard, and eventually got accepted into the preparatory college in Trefecca.
They were also right about there being no money in the ministry. Often he and his fellow students would have to live without food, squirrelling their meagre student loan away so they could afford rent. It wasn’t a well-paid, glamorous job, but Tom felt secure in the knowledge he was doing God’s work. He had been called for personally to spread his word, so he would persevere, confident that his Lord and saviour would protect him.
Tom’s days consisted of lessons in further Latin and Greek, which he was now well prepared for thanks to the kind headmaster back home. Much to his surprise, he was always top of the class when it came to Greek – something that assured him he was on the right path. There was also Philosophy of Religion, something that Tom and his good friend Alf affectionately dubbed “Phil of Rel”. This was so different to the life he had thought he had wanted for himself, but he drew certainty from the knowledge that he had been picked for a reason.
Due to the fact that money was scarce for them as students, they would often travel to churches and chapels to preach for a little extra money. One day, Tom made his way by bus to Moriah chapel in Bedlinog. Standing at the pulpit, Tom had this overwhelming sense of rightness. He focused on the love of the God who now meant so much to him, and tried to convey the importance behind His word. There were quite a lot of young people of a similar age to him in Moriah, and afterwards they invited him to the Howells’ residence to have a good sing song around the piano. There he met the lovely Valmai, who he got on with famously. He asked if she would come and meet him the next morning to walk him to his bus, and that was where their story began.
Tom had to stay in the preparatory college for two years before he could start the memorial theological college in Brecon. Valmai would be brought on her father’s motorbike to visit him; occasions he cherished. The two were engaged, and married shortly after he finished college in Brecon. They went back to Valmai’s chapel in Bedlinog, where the wedding took place on the 28th June, 1952. A few months later, Tom was ordained, and the newlyweds moved to Tetbury to Tom’s first church.
The pair thrived in clerical life, and thoroughly enjoyed their new home. The manse was in need of re-decorating, which hadn’t yet been done. Tom and Valmai had to do this all themselves in their free time, but when they were finished it truly did feel like home. It wasn’t a wealthy profession – Tom’s salary consisted of £25, which had to last them for the whole month. They dreaded when the calendar month had 5 weeks in it, as what little money they had needed to stretch even further.
One day there was a knock on the door. Valmai answered to find an old gentleman stood on the front steps, his car parked not too far from him on the street.
“Is your husband the minister here?” He asked. When Valmai told him that yes, Tom was, the man nodded. He gestured to the car behind him. “My wife would like to speak with you…”
Valmai followed him, nonplussed. On the back seat of the car, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel was sprawled across a woollen rug. The elderly lady in the front seat smiled at Valmai.
“Your husband is the new minister here?”
Valmai nodded. “He is indeed – he’s just been ordained!”
“How wonderful! My father used to be the minister here, you know…” Mrs Prout, as she introduced herself, was a lovely old woman who turned out to be a little bit nosey about the new occupants of her old family home. Valmai chatted to the friendly woman and her husband for a few minutes, before Mrs Prout seemed to remember something.
“Would it be okay if I gave you a little something?” Mrs Prout made her way out of the car and around to the boot. “I was visiting the Harris factory, and I thought this might be a nice little house warming gift…” Mrs Prout handed Valmai a package.
“Oh, thank you! Won’t you take some money for it?”
Mrs Prout waved a hand. “Heavens, no! It’s a gift, dear – I know how hard it can be to make ends meet…”
Valmai bid the elderly couple goodbye. When she opened the package, she smiled to herself. There were all kinds of cuts of meat inside; Valmai knew that the Harris factory wasn’t cheap, so was even more astounded by the Prout’s generosity. Tom was just as surprised as Valmai was, but both were grateful for the gift. Little did the Prouts know that Tom’s salary for that month had all but run out, so the gift was certainly well received. Even though his parents had been set against him becoming a preacher, Tom knew he was on the right path. The Lord was looking after him and his wife!
Mr and Mrs Prout would often come to visit after that, and would bring food packages for the newlyweds to use. The elderly couple even came to visit them in their new chapel in Melksham, though it was more awkward because they were unable to park on the street outside the chapel. Tom and Valmai settled into life in Melksham; their first daughter Sharon was born in 1959, and their second daughter Eryl followed a few years after. After Eryl was born, Tom and Valmai decided it would be nice to be closer to their families, so that their daughters would have them in their lives.
The family moved to Wolfsdale in Pembrokeshire, the county where Tom had first heard God’s calling. Wolfsdale became the little family’s home. Tom and Valmai had now been away in England for 12 years – it was time to return back to Wales, where they could be nearer to their own parents as well. Tom had been invited to Bethel chapel to take some services, and they eventually asked him to be their minister in 1964. Sharon hadn’t started school yet, and Eryl wasn’t walking. It was the perfect time to settle down some place new.
On that first Sunday morning looking out at this congregation, which included his wife and two daughters, Tom smiled to himself. The Lord had shown him the way, and everything was as it should be.
***
The Reverend Thomas H Owen was minister at Bethel chapel for 27 years. When he retired, he moved into a house with his wife, Valmai, in Clover Park, Haverfordwest. I say retired, but I never understood how he could be retired when he still continued to do services for various churches and chapels. The only explanation, of course, is the overwhelming love he had for his Lord and saviour. Clover Park was, and still is, the centre of our little family’s universe. Tom, or Beysey as he was affectionately known by us Grandchildren, was a very well loved and admired man. He was always kind, and always exuded this sense of wisdom to those around him. At least he did to my mind, anyway. Beysey certainly was a character! He was well respected by all who knew him, and for good reason. He had such a positive impact on so many people’s lives.
Beysey’s story ended in Clover Park, but this story isn’t about that – the man was not his illness. Instead he should be remembered for the wonderful, caring, loving person he was. Throughout the dementia, the one person he never forgot was my Grandma, Valmai. Their stories are intertwined.
He was always so supportive of my creativity, and I am so proud to call him my Grandfather.
Writings and Musings 
8 thoughts on “Divine Intervention”