I'VE just had a good cry. You see, 18 months ago I came in from church to find my wife giving tea and sympathy to a young couple whose three-month-old child had died.

They wanted a funeral for her. Ellie, she was called. These things are barely manageable. I consulted with our talented young director of music and booked a lovely soprano to sing Schubert's Ave Maria. But nothing can prepare you for such an occasion: the ridiculously small coffin, carried into church by the child's father; the absolute and inconsolable sorrow of the mother; the understandable awkwardness of the relatives and friends. Still, the parson has to find something to say. But what? And how to say it without cracking up completely under the deadly weight of the event?

I ended up telling them the story from The Brothers Karamazov. Listen mother, said the elder. Once in olden times a holy saint saw in the temple a mother like you, weeping for her little one, whom God had taken. Knowest thou not, said the saint, how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none bolder than they in the kingdom of heaven. Thou didst give us life, they say, and scarcely had we looked upon it when thou didst take it back again. And so they ask and ask again that God give them at once the rank of angels. Therefore, said the saint, O mother rejoice and weep not for thy little one is among the company of angels.

But then the saint said, It is Rachel weeping for her children and will not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot on earth for you mothers. Therefore, be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep, and be not consoled. But weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little one is one of the angels of God, and that he looks down from there at you and sees you and rejoices at your tears and points them to the Lord God. Your grief, O mother, will turn at the last to quiet joy and your bitter tears will be tears of sorrow that purify the heart.

But all this was 18 months ago, so why have I been crying again? Because, my dear friends, one day last week I was sitting out in the garden and Ellie's parents turned up at church and asked to see me.

But Ellie's parents were not alone. They had brought their new daughter with them. Jessica, aged eight months, smiling a smile broad as a field, cutting teeth, gurgling delightful baby talk. They came to ask for a christening. I took them to the ancient carved font and told them what would happen at the service. I don't know whether that afternoon was more or less moving than the day of the funeral.

I rehearsed the words of the christening service: They brought young children to Christ that he should touch them. But his disciples rebuked them that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased and said unto them, "Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven." And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them and blessed them.

l Peter Mullen is Rector of St Michael's, Cornhill, in the City of London, and Chaplain to the Stock Exchange