Yesterday, whilst out walking, I twisted my knee. Not badly, just sufficiently to think that when the footpath crossed a main road a couple of miles short of my destination, I might wait there in the hope that a bus would arrive.

I reached the road, and duly waited. I ate an apple, drank some water, and waited even longer. Perhaps I was there for a full five minutes. I had no idea when or even whether a bus might pass by, nor whether it would stop for me in the middle of nowhere, and decided it was futile to wait any longer. Better to press on, through the increasingly heavy rain.

Maybe three or four minutes later, walking high above the road and parallel to it, I heard a familiar sound and glimpsed down through a gap in the trees. Sure enough, it was a bus - a bright yellow single-decker - heading the way I wanted to go. It was precisely what I'd been hoping for, but in my impatience I'd already gone by the time it arrived. 'O ye of little faith', as my father would have said.

Never mind. I enjoyed the remainder of the walk and the opportunity to reflect on the experience.

It wasn't about catching a bus, I concluded. It wasn't about a day's walking in the country. It was a lesson about prayer.

Every so often, we feel the need to turn to God. It might be a time of change or crisis, for us or for someone dear to us. It might be a perplexing situation. It might be a need for guidance. There are all sorts of reasons and circumstances which encourage us to seek God. And just as I reached and waited at a roadside in the hope of catching a bus, so we place ourselves where we think we're most likely to find God.

Perhaps we go to church - maybe even to attend a service or two. We dust off our Bible at home and start to read it. We resolve to pray each day, maybe doing so with particular fervour. We endeavour to sort out those things which trouble our conscience, perhaps through acts of generosity, service or reconciliation.

But it wears off all too quickly, and we return to our former ways - maybe not quite on the right road, not quite walking the way of Christ.  Close, but not close enough to (as it were) catch the bus.

Consequently, the answer to our prayer passes us by.

To catch the bus, we need to be in the right place. To hear the answer to prayer, we need to be in the right place: the right place spiritually, attentive and open to the presence and guidance of God. And there's no better way to prepare for that than to be in the right place spiritually each and every day - learning to spend time with God, learning God's nature, learning to discern how, when and where God is leading us. 

It is, of course, the work of a lifetime. And the time and place to start is today, wherever you are, whatever your circumstances.

What does it mean? 

The Festal Eucharist last Sunday included the Blessing of Chalk. The chalk is used for marking the church door and also the doors of our homes with Epiphany symbols, representing both our welcome of the Christ Child and, in his name, our hospitality offered to others in their journey through life, as it was offered on their journey to the Magi - the Wise Men.

The symbols are the year, 2014, and the initials of the traditional names of the Magi separated by crosses.

"When I was a very little boy I was advised to always murmur 'White rabbits' on the first of every month if I wanted to be lucky. From sheer force of unreasoning habit I do it still—when I think of it. I know it to be preposterously ludicrous, but that does not deter me." – Sir Herbert Russell (journalist), 1925.

Preposterously ludicrous indeed, but a useful handle for today's slightly surreal story - and the serious point which emerges from it.

Out walking, I came across this domestic white rabbit at the edge of a field. It was listless and clearly had diseased eyes. In all likelihood, it was suffering from myxomatosis; in all likelihood, it had been shamefully abandoned to die.

What to do? Ring the RSPCA for advice. But there was no phone reception. Walk to the nearest village, then, and ring from there.

So that's what I did. Wait at the stile leading from the nearest lane to where the rabbit was, I was told; but if possible, put a box over the rabbit to contain it. I duly acquired a not-very-substantial cardboard box from the village shop, and made my way back along the chilly lanes of no mobile signal.

It would take time for the RSPCA to arrive - time in which I could contain the rabbit in the box. Or so I thought.

I put the box over the rabbit. The rabbit, still strong, and suddenly alarmed, broke out of its listless stupor and made a bid for freedom. It burst through the box and ran across the field. I set out in pursuit, wondering whether the Cheshire Cat would also appear.

Cheshire Cat: Oh, by the way, if you'd really like to know, he went that way.
Alice: Who did?
Cheshire Cat: The White Rabbit.
Alice: He did?
Cheshire Cat: He did what?
Alice: Went that way.
Cheshire Cat: Who did?
Alice: The White Rabbit.
Cheshire Cat: What rabbit?
Alice: But didn't you just say - I mean - Oh, dear.
Cheshire Cat: Can you stand on your head?
Alice: Oh!

To cut a long story short, I had some unexpected additional exercise. The rabbit remained unboxed despite several efforts on my part. Eventually it took refuge under some brambles. I waited an hour for the RSPCA, until, very cold and running out of daylight, I set out on the hour's walk back to my car.

And on to the serious questions. What are the limits to our care for animals? Was I right to have been concerned? Was I foolish to have got involved? Should I have waited longer for assistance to arrive?

It seems to me that when we domesticate animals in order to use them for our benefit - as pets, for farming, or in a zoo - then we also take responsibility for their welfare. It's morally repugnant to use them for our own ends and then abandon them to die of exposure, disease or as prey when they become ill or otherwise inconvenient (the likely fate of this rabbit). We're right to be compassionate in our dealings with animals both domestic and wild, and there are glimpses of this in both the Old Testament and the New Testament: 'You shall not muzzle the ox when it treads out the grain' (Deuteronomy 25.4); 'Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care' (Matthew 10.29). Compassion isn't the same as sentimentality - I don't have qualms about using a mousetrap, for example,although I know others who do - but the recognition that life is a sacred gift to be respected and valued requires of us that we do everything appropriate to avoid or minimise suffering.

And of course, what applies to animals applies even more to our fellow human beings. 2013 saw a string of appalling reports about poor care, neglect and abuse in a small minority of residential homes, and opened up more widely the question of how we pay for the care of older members of our society - especially those who are ill or perceived as in some way inconvenient. But at a deeper level, our attitude towards others is what's critical. My hope and prayer for 2014 is that we can find greater compassion, respect and care for others - and especially for the unwanted and forgotten.

A very happy New Year to you.