Flying bird with teal wings and orange breast

You will not believe what came into St Aidan's on Saturday. We were halfway through Ruth and Tom's vows, Ruth's hands shaking so hard the order of service rattled, when a songbird came through the open south door. Blue wings, a rusty orange front like a coal left out in the rain. It went round the nave twice, low over the pews, and Mrs Pritchard ducked under her hat as if it were a bomb.

Then it settled on the sill above the chancel, right beside the brass candlestick, and stayed there. Tom looked up at it, and I swear he grinned. Ruth said, quite clearly, "Well, that's Dad, then," and the whole front row laughed, and the vicar had to wait before he could go on. Nobody asked how a bird knew to come in on the one day of the year the church doors were open to everyone.

The reception was at the Crown, and when we walked out into the lane the bird was still on that sill. It let us pass beneath it. Then, just as Ruth stepped onto the cobbles and the bells started up, it lifted, went over the lych gate and out across the fields toward the reservoir, its wings flashing against the grey clouds like someone had struck a match.

I picked up a feather from the path where it must have shed one. It is pinned in my missal now. Write back and tell me whether you think it was a sign or just a bird that wanted out of the rain.

Your loving sister, Nell