When a Life Shapes a Church Home

Yesterday we lost a good friend. Our vicar. Our steady presence.

It happened on James’ fifteenth birthday. That detail sits heavily today. It marks the year I started attending our church and being under her wing. It marks the years she has shaped our family and my journey.

I met her before Will was born, back when I attended our sister church. She was newly ordained then, and finding her feet. Her sermons needed polishing. Her confidence needed time. She had the heart, such a massive heart for God, that never needed work.

She was given the chance to open our church as a small church plant. Building something from nothing is a massive achievement. She would insist it was God, not her. Six weeks after James was born my marriage fell apart. Everything shifted. I was told to move to the new church to ease the social strain I was under. I went. Fifteen years later, I am still there. All because of her.

In those early days a friend and I led worship. He played guitar. I played keyboard. Then my mum died. My mental health spiralled. I stepped away. She didn’t let go. She stayed in contact. She told me to lean into my church family. I couldn’t see that family then. I was hurting, avoiding people, and trying to survive.

I wanted to return to church when I stabilised. By then it was open weekly. We went back. We never left again. It became home.

She welcomed me and the boys. She welcomed the noise, meltdowns, and moments that come with undiagnosed little worlds. Every service began with the same line. “Don’t worry if your children make noise. We welcome all children here.” She meant it. We felt it.

Every birthday the kids had a card and chocolates. “From Sue and [her husband] and your church family.” A small gesture that mattered more than she knew. She even came to celebrate James’ birthday one year. She knew my friendships had cracked under the weight of my health and that things with dad were difficult. She showed up anyway. She always did.

She came when dad died. My brother had his family filling the crematorium. I had Hannah and the kids. I thought I would stand alone. I didn’t. She came with two other leaders. She embodied the truth she lived: church family is more than words.

Bereavement was her ministry. She understood loss. She held people through it. The pain today is knowing she’s not here to guide us through losing her. She would have known exactly what to say and do.

It was our pleasure for her to marry us. She made our wedding perfect. She even joined the superhero theme and created an image of me carrying Hannah through the sky. It sits on our windowsill now. A beautiful reminder.

[Image 2. A personalised wedding artwork combining a superhero theme with a romantic occasion. The groom is illustrated as Superman carrying the bride through the sky, surrounded by pink hearts. The image celebrates Martyn and Hannah’s wedding day with playful, affectionate symbolism and bright colours.]

She fought for me too. Being an alcoholic meant I couldn’t take communion. She petitioned our priest every year. He always refused. She kept going. When the new priest said yes the joy on her face said everything. Years of battle won. All for me.

She backed my theology studies, our social media work, and my ordination process. She wasn’t my mentor. She was my cheerleader. She was everyone’s cheerleader.

I keep thinking about the way she held us through every season. She planned to retire. Then Simon arrived. He abandoned us. She didn’t. She sought her PTO (permission to officiate) and carried on. She held our church together when it could have fallen apart. She didn’t fix things. She didn’t need to. She simply stood with us. She stood when my marriage broke, when my mum died, when dad died, when the boys struggled, when I struggled, and when the church struggled. She always stood with you. That was her ministry. Quiet presence. Steady love. Faith lived in the small things that shaped a life.

She saw me. She accepted my disability without hesitation. She understood that things needed to change. She listened. She let those changes ripple out until inclusion became our culture. Not because I made waves, but because she allowed them to spread. She wanted to learn and understand what to avoid. Even last week she was writing in our WhatsApp chat about the dangers of hands‑on healing. Inclusion wasn’t a stance. It was her. She built a space that welcomed us all.

Our church is her legacy. The people there worshipping every week. The way we welcome, hold each other, show up, and love unconditionally. The way we make space for noise, grief, joy, and difference. She taught us that. We are her work. We are her ministry carried forward.

She never preached the loudest sermons. She lived them in the way she welcomed people, protected the vulnerable, fought for the overlooked, and carried the weight of others without ever making it about herself. Her faith was not a performance. It was a life poured out quietly, faithfully, and without hesitation.

We are heartbroken. We are all changed because of who she was. She built a church, home, and a family. She built us. Our prayers and thoughts are with her family now. She was one incredible woman.