Christmas Comes

Christmas Comes

Christmas comes every time we see

God in other persons.

The human and the holy meet in Bethlehem

            or in Belfast, Baghdad or Boston,

for Christmas comes like a golden storm on its

way to Jerusalem—

determinedly, inevitably…

Even now it comes

            in the face of hatred and warring—

                        no atrocity too terrible to stop it,

                        no Herod strong enough

                        no hurt deep enough,

                        no curse shocking enough,

                        no disaster shattering enough.

For someone on earth will see the star,

            someone will hear the angel voices

            someone will know peace and goodwill:

            the Christ will be born.

                                                                        ~Ann Weems

Sometimes Christmas seems to come unexpectedly—you’re surrounded by lights and ornaments and Christmas carols for weeks, but you still don’t realize that the day is approaching.  At other times, Christmas seems to come too fast, the day careening toward you, gaining momentum with every expectation and to-do list.  Sometimes, when Christmas comes, it doesn’t feel at all how Christmas should—the right people aren’t around, you’re tired, there’s an emptiness.

But Ann Weems’ poem reminds me that the beautiful thing about Christmas is that it doesn’t depend on me—my feelings or my preparations.  It is a far greater and more glorious thing than that.  The grace of God and the love of God—the things that we remember at Christmas—are here.  God is present and working, despite the fact that people are trying to stop Him, that others aren’t thinking of Him at all, that I don’t feel prepared or equipped. 

And I think the storm is all the more glorious and golden because of it.

Happy Christmas.

Depend Upon It

There are a few things in life that you can absolutely depend upon—and I’m not thinking right now about family, good friends, or the grace of God.  I’m talking about those little plot twists in life that take you by surprise and frustrate you beyond belief—until you realize that they’re not plot twists at all.  They’re actually the predictable parts of my life’s storyline.  For example: if I decide to grab a quick dinner while I’m out running errands, there will inevitably be a meal waiting for me at home.  If I forget my umbrella, the clouds will darken and the floodgates will open.  If I have more than enough time to style my hair in the morning, the result will be subpar (at best).  All of these situations can, of course, work in the reverse: forgoing Taco del Mar means that there will be no dinner at home, an umbrella brings the sun out in full force, and 12 minutes with the curling iron looks like an hour.  Those are the predictable plot-twists in life.

There is another dependable aspect to life—one that I like to call the Kia Sedona Phenomenon (KSP).  Here’s how KSP works: whenever you consider buying a new car, the scales will immediately be lifted from your eyes, and you’ll realize that nearly everyone else in the world has just purchased the exact make and model that you want.  No matter how obscure or unique you think your car is, the roads will suddenly be filled with them.  I’m assuming that the same rule applies to baby names and new handbags.  There’s no explaining it.  It’s KSP.

I’ve recently been experiencing a little KSP here in Belfast, but it’s been more of a sobering realization rather than the annoyance you feel at the sight of Subaru Outbacks clogging up the freeway.  You see, during my first week here, I saw a church with a wall around it.

But it wasn’t just any wall.  It was a wall with frayed metal spikes protruding from the bricks—it was the sort of wall you really weren’t supposed to climb.  There was a gate at this church, too, and as you can probably guess, it was closed.  This wall was guarding the squat brick church and twenty pristine parking spaces, their lines clean and stark against the pavement.  

Now here’s the other important thing about this church: its building, its wall, and its car park sit right in the heart of a government housing estate.  It is surrounded by rows of brick houses, unruly plots of grass, and crumbling sidewalks.  Some of the murals on the houses have been repainted to portray children holding hands and playing games—but others still show masked men with guns.

Now, this next bit is just me speculating, but…the fact that this church cradles its parking spaces means that its members don’t come from the nearby houses—they have to drive a distance to get to church.  Now I’m sure that these members are wonderful people, and when the gate opens on Sunday morning, they take their regular parking spaces and their regular pew.  And I’m sure they’ve wondered why so few people from the surrounding estate attend Sunday morning worship.

Now here’s where KSP comes into play: after that first week, I’ve seen churches with walls all over this city.  But then the KSP caused me to have an even more sobering realization: Belfast isn’t the first place I’ve seen churches with walls.  I’ve seen them before in the States…and I’ve seen them in me.  Now, these walls aren’t necessarily made of brick—they’re often made of attitudes, routine, and a focus on the things within.  And that sort of wall is even harder to scale than the sort with the frayed metal spikes.

I’ve strengthened this wall when I forgot that there are important ministries outside of those that take place on a Sunday morning.  I’ve fortified it when I said that my church needs to sort out its own problems before it can effectively reach out to the surrounding community.  And I shut the iron gate when I wondered why people weren’t taking the initiative to come through the church doors themselves.

Through some of my work at Dundonald this year, I believe that God is trying to teach me to be quicker to recognize the needs of the families that live in those surrounding brick houses.  He’s showing me that the church will never be perfect, but He is big enough to use us right now, in spite of our imperfections.  And He is helping me to realize that some people might never take the initiative to come in through the church doors…so we have to go out to them and meet them in the place where they are.

All this from a little KSP.

Of Hula-Hoops and Buttered Toast

Lest you think I’m spending all my time playing tourist here in Belfast, I thought I’d write a post about the activity that takes up most of my week: afterschools club.  On Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons, we open the church to the kids who live nearby, offering them a safe and fun place to spend a couple hours.  The activities we plan are many and varied—I’ve found myself playing relay games, baking cookies, making masks, and even writing poetry.  It all depends on the day.  Here’s a little sampling of what a typical afterschools club is like:

When the kids first arrive, they have some free time
to play in the Main Hall.  Here, some of the girls show
off their hula-hoop skills.

Paul is studying to be a Methodist minister, and he's
working with us on placement this year.  Here, he discusses
the finer points of hula-hooping.

Bill oversees an intense game of 10-pin bowling.

As the kids play, Heather and Gail start preparing the
afternoon snack: buttered toast and juice.

Paul and Kelly make sure that everyone has toast
and juice.

After snack, the kids go to different stations for the
rest of the afternoon: some to arts and crafts, some
to games, some to cookery, and some to drama.  I've
tried my hand at leading these different stations
...with varying success.  :)

Stormont

A couple miles from my house sits Stormont, the home of the Northern Ireland Assembly.  Although Great Britain retains certain governmental powers (such as taxation and foreign policy), Northern Ireland manages issues such as health, education, and agriculture.  Stormont, built in 1932, is the place where the Northern Irish government gathers to make its decisions.

Every morning, the bus takes me past the Stormont estate.  It can take you by surprise if you’re not expecting it.  The streets of brick houses and shops suddenly give way to a press of green trees bound by a wrought-iron fence.  And almost as quickly as the fence appears, it broadens and grows into a massive gate with clean-cut stones, ponderous lanterns, and heavy iron doors.  The road leading from the gate to Stormont is a mile long, bordered by two straight strips of sidewalk and lines of thick-trunked trees.  Even from the gate, you can see the grand building of Stormont presiding over its estate, over both politicians and dog-walkers.  It is dramatic and regal—a parliamentary Pemberley, almost. 

I love walking here, especially now that the leaves are beginning to turn.

Looking down from Stormont

Another view of Belfast from Stormont

Some Differences

Sometimes, living day-to-day in Northern Ireland lulls me into a false sense of security—since I can read and speak the language, I find myself assuming that communication will be effortless.  But then someone will look at me strangely after I say something, or one of the kids in the afterschool program will ask me a question full of words that I’ve never heard before (and trust me, I’ve learned the hard way that guessing doesn’t work well—it’s much better to ask them to repeat themselves).  Maybe if I were more prepared for these little differences, they wouldn’t surprise me so much.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad surprise—but it’s a surprise all the same. 

Here are some of the differences that I’ve had fun observing and, at times, putting into practice (with varying degrees of success):

Providing transportation is giving someone “a lift”—never “a ride.”

When eating, your fork is held in one hand and your knife in the other.  You turn your fork over and use your knife to pile food on top of it (your bite might consist of mashed potatoes and peas, for instance, or French fries—chips—and coleslaw).  If you’re thinking that this takes a fair amount of balance and skill, you’re right.  If you’re thinking that I probably haven’t gotten the hang of it yet, then you’re right again. 

You might describe a timid person by saying, “She wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”

You might describe a crazy person by saying, “He’s mad as a bag of spiders.”

Scundered: embarrassed, awkward, uncomfortable

A vacuum is a “hoover.”  This can also be a verb, as in, “I’ve just hoovered the stairs.”

When someone offers you juice, they’re likely talking about squash—not the vegetable, but a sort of liquid concentrate fruit drink.  You make it by pouring a small amount into a jug and adding water.  You end up with a vaguely fruity, vaguely sugary, vaguely carbonated drink.

Chasies: the game of tag

Pumpkin Spice does not exist as a Starbucks syrup here.  This is the only difference that I have not had fun observing.

Wick: rubbish; can be used as an adjective or exclamation 

In years past, trick-or-treaters have been given money more often than sweets.  However, it now seems that sweets are more in demand.  Also, Halloween fireworks are a big pretty big deal. 

How's the form?  It's another way of saying how are you?

More table etiquette: when I went out for lunch the other day, everyone at the table set aside the top half of their hamburger bun and proceeded to eat the rest of their burger with a knife and fork.  The leftover piece of bun was later eaten with knife and fork, as were the chips (French fries).  Now, perhaps this is also done in polite American society, but I have to admit that it was a first for me. :)

On the Train to Bangor

I’ve always enjoyed a bit of spontaneity.

Alright, maybe “always” is a stretch.  I usually like spontaneity, especially when I’m expecting it.  And last weekend, Jo and Miriam and I enjoyed a bit of well-planned spontaneity. 

We had decided that Saturday would be an excellent time for a day-trip, so we showed up at the Belfast Central Train Station with open minds, an Ireland for Dummies guide book, and no particular destination in mind.  After some awkward squinting at train timetables and covert glances at guide books, we decided to ask the man behind the ticket counter for suggestions.  In ten minutes, we found ourselves on the train headed for the nearby town of Bangor (pronounced bang-ger).  As you can see, it turned out to be quite a success:

Walking along the pier in Bangor.  We told ourselves that
the rain and wind just gave the place some extra flavor.

I may or may not have gotten splashed.  More than once.

Apparently, there is a park nearby with boats shaped like swans.
I thought that it might not be the right day to set sail in a swan.

Bangor Castle, finished in 1852.  The word "castle"
might be a bit of a stretch...but I mean that in the best
possible way.

View of Bangor from the castle.

Part of the castle grounds.

Inside the castle, Jo and Miriam were vastly entertained by
a movie on the history of Bangor as a holiday hotspot.

Bangor Abbey.  Although most of this present structure
was built in the mid-19th century, there has been an abbey
on this site since A.D. 558

The abbey may have been founded by St. Comgall, but
it still has the creepiest cemetery I've ever seen.  With all
the overturned and cracked gravestones, it was like there
had been a small resurrection of the dead.

Successfully spontaneous.

A Day in the Life

Dundonald Methodist

Someone has asked that I sketch out a typical day here in Belfast.  However, that is easier said than done, mostly because I really don’t have a typical day yet.  This coming week will be the first week that all church/community programs are in full swing, so I have yet to figure out exactly what my schedule is like.  But there are a couple days that I do have a good sense of—Sunday being one of them.  So, per request, I’m going to break open the ship’s log and tell you about my Sundays.

And if you find yourself bored, just blame the “someone” who asked me to do this in the first place.  She may or may not be related to me.  And you might possibly find her in the EBC library on a Sunday morning.  Also, please remember that E! True Hollywood Story has not been beating down my door for the filming rights. 

Yet.

08.00  Go for a run with my housemate Joan.  Joan runs marathons.  I do not.  Thus, we’ve compromised by deciding to run at a “conversational pace.”  But let’s not kid ourselves—she makes more conversation than I do.

09.00  Start getting ready for church. Remember, when turning on the water, to make sure that the shower head is not aimed at the shower wall.  Otherwise, water will pour through the floor and course down the kitchen walls and counters—not unlike a small waterfall.

09.02 Remind self to call plumber about aforementioned waterfall.

10.15 Leave house to walk to bus stop.

10.16 Stop at front door, run back upstairs, and close skylight window so that the pigeons will not be tempted to fly inside my bedroom.  Also, it looks like rain.

10.18 Leave house to walk to bus stop.

10.20 Wish that I had left the house that second time with umbrella in hand. It is raining.

10.26 Arrive at bus stop, greeted by sudden sunlight, blue sky, and a woman with twins in her pram.

10.40 Find seat on the bus.  Not difficult, considering that the only passengers are me, the mother with twins, and an angsty teenager.  Or maybe it is difficult.  So many open seats—an agony of indecision.

10.58 Arrive at Dundonald Methodist two minutes early for 11:00 service.  Ecstatic.  Feel like I’ve just won a Pulitzer. 

11.15 Sunday school begins. I have the older kids in my class—P5-P7 (ages 8-10); there are about 5 of them, and so far our conversations have revolved around Tigons (an animal that is half-lion and half-tiger) and rugby.  Believe it or not, my knowledge of both subjects is limited.  But I’m learning…

11.40 Realize yet again the limits of American English/pronounciation when in Northern Ireland.  True story: one Sunday, I asked the kids what the longest Psalm is—forgetting that Psalm here is pronounced Sam.  One of the boys raised his hand and said, quite confidently, “Stairway to Heaven.”

12.00 Church service ends.  Everyone here has seriously been so generous—not a Sunday has gone by that I haven’t been invited to someone’s house for lunch.

12.15 Arrive at family’s house for lunch.  First things first: coffee and tea are served, along with the ever-present biscuits (cookies).

13.00 Lunch is served.  Sunday lunch, you must understand, is a big deal in Northern Ireland (both literally and figuratively).  There’s always a good piece of meat to anchor the meal—I’ve been treated to hamburgers, chicken, steak, salmon, and pork.  Then there are the vegetables—usually two or three types on the plate: carrots, corn, peas, etc.  I have, of course, put the potatoes in a category all their own (I’ve been told that a single meal can feature up to four varieties of potatoes).  Seriously, I had no idea that potatoes can be prepared in so many different ways: baked, boiled, fried, mashed, or a combination of methods   For instance, one week I was served potato croquettes, which look like oversized tater-tots but—wait for it—are filled with mashed potatoes.  Plot twist.  I had seconds that day.

13.30 Dessert is served (and I’m not talking about simply breaking out the biscuit-tin again).  I’ve had plum cake, apple crumble, rhubarb cobbler, and “proper cheesecake” (the sort you don’t bake…my friends tell me the Cheesecake Factory has it all wrong, and after tasting a chocolate malt cheesecake, I’m prepared to believe them).  All desserts are topped with ice cream and heavy cream (or warm custard).  Oh, and I’ve also had Pooh Bear ice cream, a local favorite—it has crunchy honey clusters. 

14.00 Tea and coffee are served.  Complete with biscuits.  And chocolate.  Seriously, the people in this country have mastered the art of hot drinks, desserts, and carbs in general.  A girl could lose her figure having her priorities this straight.

14.20-17.30 Relax.  What we do is varied—sometimes a walk, sometimes a little TV, always good conversation.

17.45 Tea is served—and by tea, I mean dinner.  Usually sandwiches (ham and cheese, cheese and tomato, butter and cheese, butter and banana), tea and/or coffee, and (you guessed it) biscuits. 

18.45 Youth Fellowship starts at church.  We’ve got a great group of students—I’m having fun getting to know them.  Our time is, of course, concluded with tea, coffee, juice, and the inevitable biscuits.

20.00-22.30ish Relaxing and spending time with some new friends from church.  American football, Mickey Mouse coasters, and chocolate may or may not be involved.

I know, I know—this was a riveting post, and now I’ve left you on the edge of your seat.  Don’t worry, I’m working on a sequel, cleverly entitled Mondays. 

In all seriousness, though—every day of the week, I’m absolutely humbled by the amount of care and love people show for me here.  And on Sundays, I’m reminded of it even more.  Without a thought, I’m freely offered lifts wherever I need to go, a warm home, food, and friendship.  I really can’t express how thankful I am.

View from church, overlooking the Ballybeen Estate

Fifteen Words for Rain

A couple weeks after I arrived in Belfast, someone told me that here in Northern Ireland, there are fifteen different words for rain.  She couldn’t recite them all for me, but she was confident that they existed.  I, however, was skeptical.  You’d think that coming from a place like Mount Vernon, I’d have already collected quite a few terms for precipitation myself.  I could think of five…and that was stretching things a bit.

But after last Saturday, I can believe that there are fifteen words for rain in Northern Ireland.  Easily.

Saturday, you see, was a much-anticipated hike up Slieve Donard, the tallest mountain in Northern Ireland.  Over 20 people from my church were going, so five of my fellow YAVs and I decided to join.  Before going, I had gotten a few different opinions on the intensity of the hike: some said that it was so difficult that I would need walking sticks, hiking boots, and rain gear, while others said that it was a mild uphill walk.  I figured that it would be somewhere in the middle.

So, on Saturday, my friends and I arrived at the Mourne Mountains (of which Slieve Donard is a part) with light rain jackets and exercise shoes (or trainers, as they’re called here).  When a man from our hiking group came up to offer us waterproof raingear, I said that I would be fine without it.  I had only ever put on that type of gear when I was going out to spend a day in the snow.  This was just a little rain, right?  Besides, I had Eddie Bauer on my side—I was prepared. 

False.

Thank goodness that kind man was so insistent.  I was as blue as a smurf when I put on the gear—and I looked like I had fallen into a bog before I even started hiking—but I was never more thankful for a coat and trousers in my life.  The hike itself was great fun, but the rain never stopped coming down.  It fell on the stones, the green-and-brown hills, and the grey walls.  It filled the streams until they were gushing down the mountainside.  As we climbed, the wind whipped the rain into the air until it seemed like there wasn’t any rain at all—just wet wind. 

When we got to the top of the mountain, we were in the thick of a raincloud, but we still felt triumphant.  And even though I was wet and cold, it was fun to be wet and cold with all of my new friends—and to share pictures, conversation, and biscuit or two along the way.

And just so you know, I’m on a quest to find those fifteen words.  I know they’re out there.

Preparing for ascent.

This is the face of someone who is suddenly confronted with a camera whilst she is trying NOT to slip on the rocks, choke on her mint, and die an untimely death.

A brief respite at the wall.  Jaffa cakes kindly provided by Andy.

The final climb.

At the top.  You've got to love small victories...

St. George Goes to Market

Queen's University

On our first Saturday in Belfast, Doug and his wife Elaine drove us all down to the City Centre to introduce us to St. George’s Market, an indoor variation of a farmer’s market.  It’s filled to the brim with stalls selling fish, hummus, cupcakes, scones, coffee, tea, paella, curry, scarves, and handmade jewelry.  Doug and Elaine left us there to wander, and I quickly found a stall that sold fruit scones for 60p and another stall that offered Americanos with unlimited refills.  The woman who owned the coffee stall was very excited when she heard our accents—but was promptly disappointed when she learned that none of us are Canadian.  Apparently, it was her recent holiday in Canada that inspired her idea for “bottomless” Americanos.

Canada 1, America 0.

After we had finished looking around the market, the Dream Team headed out to see what else Belfast has to offer.  I’m happy to say that we found a lovely secondhand bookshop and the even lovelier buildings belonging to Queen’s University.  We also spent some quality time in the nearby Botanic Gardens and the Ulster Museum.  We finished off the afternoon with a meal at Boojum’s, a Mexican restaurant close to the university.

Now, I have to admit that there were two things that I desperately missed when I last travelled in Britain: pancakes and all Mexican food in general.  I am happy to say that I have found pre-made, plastic-wrapped pancakes at my local grocery store (although I haven’t yet had the courage to try them) and that Boojum’s makes burritos as big as my face.

It’s going to be a good year.

The Many Faces of Mount Vernon

I’m not sure if you know this, but there’s a Mount Vernon in Ohio.  There’s one in London and in Australia.  There’s even one in Belfast.

When I say “Mount Vernon” here, this is the area that people think of: