The Gifts You Sent

Good times in the kitchen during afterschools club.

Well, today is the final day for my year of raising support, and I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you.  When I received my last fundraising report, it not only showed that I had met the fundraising goal for the year—my supporters had given over and above the required amount. 

There is no way that I can thank you enough for everything you have done for me this year.  Thank you for giving so generously of your finances, and thank you for remembering me in your prayers.  Thanks for keeping in touch with me over these months, and thanks for even taking the time to read my (often random) entries on this blog.  I appreciate each and every one of you so much.

I’m so grateful to God for giving me this year in Belfast, and I’m so grateful to you for helping to make it possible.  I’m looking forward to seeing you again—it will be so good to tell you more about my experiences and to hear how your year has been, too.

Thank you again.

A Triumph

Some hard-core athletes.

Well, here it comes again: Allison’s odd jumble of blog posts.  This whole blog-writing thing seems to come in spurts for me—and, let’s face it, they could definitely be more regular.  However, I sometimes like to think that I take the Dr. Who approach to blogging: always random and often unexpected.  You never know when I’m going to show up to take you on a spontaneous journey through time and space.

Today, I want to take you back to May.  May 2^nd, to be precise.  The day of the 2011 Belfast City Marathon.  Yes, my friends, I was there.  But at 8:30 that morning, it honestly didn’t feel like I should’ve been there.  I was standing near the starting line in Belfast city centre, watching the runners all around me.  They were stretching, fastening their numbers to their shirts, and staring hard at absolutely nothing.  Tension was thick in the air, and I found myself thinking again how I really didn’t belong here.  I felt out of place with all the intense athleticism—I mean, I didn’t even have the coordination to play a team sport when I was a kid.  I felt like I should be standing over with their families and friends—the ones who were there to cheer enthusiastically, take a few free samples of the new “Ulster Fry”-flavored crisps, then go to Starbucks for a much-deserved coffee.

This is my "what the heck am I doing here and where's my coffee?" face.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking, so let me clear this up right here and now.  Did I run the Belfast City Marathon?  You’re having a laugh.  Did I run a relay leg of the Belfast City Marathon?  Absolutely not.  Did I walk the Belfast City Marathon?  Umm…yes.

The all-star American team consisted of Miriam, Doug, and Allison, and it took us a grand total of 7 hours to walk all 26.2 miles.  By the time we reached each water station, the water was lukewarm in the paper cups and the half-empty Powerade bottles were scattered across the road.  By the time we reached the nutrition stations, it looked like an entire orange orchard had exploded, leaving nothing but peels on the pavement. There were, however, a surprising number of people cheering for us and the other walkers—some cheered from the sidewalk, while others cheered from their lawn chairs with a hamburger in their hands.  At one point, a boy saw us and shouted, “You’re the last ones!  Everyone is in front of you!”

How’s that for encouragement?

In closing, I would like to point out that the random boy was mistaken—we were not in last place.  We actually finished behind the last runner—the guy who had eaten an entire Ulster fry for breakfast that morning.  I would also like to point out that we ourselves ran triumphantly across the finish line, and were awarded accordingly with a medal, a bottle of water, and a bunch of bananas.

Win for Team USA.

At the finish line.

Brother Tierney and His Joy

Every other Monday is YAV Meeting Day.  The place is an empty office in Belfast city centre, and the time varies depending on how fast we can walk from our house to the city.  Actually, the issue of time usually goes beyond walking speed; you could probably trace it to how long it took Allison to finish her cereal or whether she forgot that one last thing upstairs.  I know that comes as a surprise to all of you.

Our meetings are simple.  They start with coffee, scones, and a bit of housekeeping, followed by a short devotion.  Then Doug heats a pot of soup on his portable hob, and we lean on the table to share stories about the weeks past.  The meeting closes as most of us squeeze into the tiny office kitchen to help with the dishes—a time which inevitably involves someone bursting into spontaneous song.  I’m still not sure how the rest of the office feels about that.

But a few weeks ago we changed the routine.  Doug had been thinking about taking us to visit a Benedictine monastery about an hour’s drive from Belfast, and he decided that there was no time like the present.  So by 10:30am we found ourselves in the trusty white minivan, twisting and trundling down the country roads to the village of Rostrevor.   By 11:15, we were making tighter turns and passing lorries with more urgency.  The Eucharist Service was to start at 11:30.

“We…might be cutting it a bit close,” Doug admitted quietly, and his hands tightened on the wheel.

But, in the end, we arrived with two minutes to spare (it’s not often I get to say that).  The bell was ringing in the narrow grey belltower.  A green lawn sloped down from the edges of the small grey monastery, and the hills rose steeply behind, brown and gold and green with firs. 

The monastery itself is fairly new—it was founded in 1998 by a community of Benedictine monks from the Abbey of Bec in France.  The chapel has curving white walls, warm wooden pillars, and a smooth floor of dark tiles.  Even in the dregs of a Monday morning when the clouds are spitting rain, the chapel is cool and bright.  We took our seats on the wooden benches and waited for the service to begin.

I have to admit, I was a little nervous.  I hadn’t been to a Catholic service before, you see.  This wasn’t because of a lack of interest or desire—it was mostly because I’ve never been quite sure how to cross myself.  Do you touch a finger to your head first, or is it your shoulder?  A couple years ago, I watched a movie that explained the action like this:  head, stomach, watch, wallet.  Up, down, left, right.  Goodness knows you can’t trust everything you learn at the movies, but I’ve kept that bit of knowledge at the back of my mind—you know, just in case I found myself sitting with 7 other Americans at a Eucharist Service in a Benedictine monastery in Northern Ireland.  As you do.

In the end, though, I didn’t need my carefully gleaned knowledge.  The service was led by the community of six monks—four from France, one from Northern Ireland, and one from Mexico.  I listened to Scripture passages read with the rhythm and lilt of French and Northern Irish accents; I received a blessing; and I heard the swelling notes of the Kyrie and the Amen.  That is the bit of the service that I remember most: the way that those men with their glasses and bald heads and thin fingers could sing so beautifully, the room filling like a lung.

Head, stomach, watch, wallet.

After the service, one of the monks came up to greet us.  He wore round glasses, he folded his hands against his slender chest, and he smiled widely.  His name was Brother Tierney.

“You are Presbyterians?” he asked in his soft French accent.  “This is wonderful.  My habit was made by a Presbyterian.”  He nods at the thick white cloth.  “Now,” he continued, “do you need a place to eat your lunch?”

Brother Tierney showed us to a little room connected to one of the monastery’s kitchens, then he slipped away to eat his own meal in silence with the other monks.  When he came back to check on us, we were still munching on our chicken caesar salad.  He sat on the edge of a table in the room, swinging his legs and smiling.  He answered our questions, telling us a bit about the Benedictine order and about the Abbey of Bec.  He said that the monastery in Rostrevor was founded in response to the conflict and divisions in Northern Ireland.  He explained that the monks use their own mixture of Spanish, French, and English to communicate with one another.

Then, somehow, Brother Tierney knew that we were wondering how a monastery—a place and a community set apart—could make a difference in the conflict in Northern Ireland.  Maybe one of us asked him—I can’t remember.  But I do remember his answer: “There is so much doing in life.  You are always doing, doing.  Sometimes you need to stop and take a good look at your relationship with God.  A long look.  And you need to take the time to be with Him.”

Finally, John asked the question that was heavy on all our minds: “Why did you decide to be a monk?”

I have to admit, Brother Tierney’s answer surprised me.  “When I first came to God, I saw so much happiness in the people who followed Him.  I wanted that happiness, but I learned that I would have to give of myself to find it.  So I gave some of my time away.  I thought it would be enough.  But no.  I read the Bible, I served other people.  I thought it would be enough.  But no.”  Brother Tierney’s face was serious now, but he was still swinging his legs.  “Then I realized this: I will never be truly happy unless I give my whole self to God.  My whole self.  So here I am.”  He gives a little shrug.  “You know this, don’t you?  You will never be fully happy unless you give everything to God.”  He smiles again, obviously amused. “Do not worry.  This giving looks different to different people.”

It was the happiness that took me by surprise, I think.  Not just the happiness that he spoke about—it was the brightness of his eyes behind his round glasses, the slight curve of his mouth.  It was the calm French voice, the careless swinging of his legs.  It had never occurred to me that someone would want to become a monk for the sheer happiness of it.

And here’s me, worrying about the right way to cross myself.

http://www.benedictinemonks.co.uk/index.asp

Psalm 37:4

[Photos courtesy of the one and only Jo Lanigan]

Tears and Trenches, Blood on Sunday

This past week, we ventured out on our second YAV retreat.  Last November, we spent a week together in the thick cloud and sudden sunlight of Donegal; this time, our destination was the North Coast (of the Giant’s Causeway and Bushmills Distillery fame).  We stayed together at Corrymeela Knocklayde, a house near the seaside town of Ballycastle.  Together we enjoyed three full days of conversation, wood fires, pancakes, and (something without which an outing in Northern Ireland would not be complete) hiking uphill in the rain.  I am constantly astounded by the fact that the higher you climb here, the more sodden the ground will be.  Ah, the wonders of the natural world.

An afternoon at Ballintoy Harbour

Thanks to some helpful American tourists, a group shot of the Dream Team.

Bathgate House taking in the view.

On the second day of the retreat, we drove a little over an hour to spend some time in the city of Londonderry.  Derry is the second-largest city in Northern Ireland, and it has been said that if Belfast was the heart of the conflict during The Troubles, then Derry was the pulse.  If you could get your finger on what was happening in Derry, you’d know exactly what was happening (or what would soon be happening) in Belfast.  The conflict in Derry is even present in its name.  If you call the city “Derry,” it’s assumed you’re a Catholic; Protestants apparently prefer to keep Britain in the forefront of their minds by calling the city by its full name, “Londonderry.” [Again, as I think I’ve said before, the terms Protestant and Catholic are not really religious labels—they’re shorthand for people’s political views.  Catholic implies that a person wants a united Ireland, while Protestant refers to a person who wants to remain a part of Great Britain.] During my first week in staunchly Protestant Ballybeen, I made the social mistake of saying “Derry,” and I was good-naturedly (but firmly) set right.  Either that or people will pretend not to hear you until you say the name “correctly.”  There is, thankfully, an Option C: calling the place Stroke City.  Infinitely diplomatic, but it still feels a little absurd to bring up “Stroke City” in casual conversation.  Whew.  Tough stuff for the American.

Derry is a predominantly Catholic city—and has been throughout The Troubles.  The small Protestant minority is slowly shrinking, and most live in one particular area of the city.  The “Catholic neighbourhoods” are in another area known as the Bogside, a place with murals proclaiming it to be “Free Derry.”  Even though The Troubles have officially ended, there is still tension in this city, and it comes to a head in different ways.  For instance, people living in a particular Protestant area might be wary of walking to the closest shopping center or McDonalds for fear that they’d be recognized as Protestants and beaten for it; instead, they’ll take a taxi to a more neutral area.  In the same way, someone from the Bogside could be beaten when walking through the Protestant neighborhood.

A Protestant neighborhood.  The sign reads, "Londonderry West Bank
Loyalists still under siege.  NO SURRENDER."

The city is also the site of Bloody Sunday—a civil rights march on January 30, 1972, that left 13 people dead.  It’s a controversial event, and I don’t pretend to know or understand all the facts about it.  But from what I’ve learned, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association decided to march through the streets of Derry in the nonviolent spirit of Martin Luther King, Jr.—the Association was protesting the British government’s introduction of internment without trial.  British soldiers were on the streets that day, too, and at one point, they started firing into the crowd.  The soldiers claim that they were fired upon first, but however it started, 26 unarmed civilians were shot.  Thirteen died—over half of them teenagers.  Jon, the man who led us on a walking tour around the city, was there that day. 

A view of the Bogside from the city walls.  A prominent
mural there reads, "You are now entering Free Derry." 

During most of our tour, Jon led the way with his lanky frame and long stride.  He had a sharp glance and a ready laugh, and there was almost always a cigarette between his fingers.  As soon as he met us, he made this good-natured confession: “I smoke like a train.  You’d think I’d know better by now, but sure.”   But his humorous comments became less frequent as we came closer to the place where his friends died on Bloody Sunday. 

There’s a photo of Jon taken in the middle of the chaos and scramble of Bloody Sunday.  He’s crouching, trying to cross a street with one friend in front and one behind.  Jon survived that afternoon, but neither of his friends did. 

“That photo.  Still gives me the chills to look at it, so it does,” he admitted.

Later, we stood under the shadow of a concrete walkway, a flight of dark stone steps behind us and apartment buildings to our left and right.  Jon pointed to different places on the pavement, mentioning the men that died there by name.  He paused a moment and wiped the raindrops from his glasses.  “This place used to be a mess, but they’ve cleaned it up.  I’m glad.  Those young ones who come here to drink and break their bottles and spray words on the walls…they don’t have the respect for this place.  They don’t understand what happened here.”

I know I don’t completely understand it, either.  But at the Museum of Free Derry I heard the frantic screaming, the scrape-and-stumble footsteps of men and women trying to take shelter from the gunfire.  I saw a civil rights banner brown with blood and the dirty pavement where Michael Kelly died—he was only 17.  I saw the cemetery bristling with flagpoles and cluttered with new headstones.  I watched Jon grow quiet at the thought of it.

A cemetery on a hill overlooking the Bogside.

Regardless of how the violence began that afternoon, Bloody Sunday proved to be a great victory for the IRA.  The deaths caused by British bullets increased the organization’s status—and its number of recruits.  Jon put it this way: “No one joined this conflict because they thought it would be fun—a bit of a laugh.  If they did, they were mad.  No, most of us joined because of someone who died, something that happened.  The circumstances drove us to it.”

I don’t think that circumstances can shoulder all the blame.  I don’t think they can bear the strain of all the guilt and responsibility.  But I know that circumstances can be strong, and before you know it, you can find yourself swept up in the middle of them. 

But instead of sitting here, trying to untangle motives and guilt, maybe it’s better to turn the question on myself: am I caught up in my own circumstances?  Although I’m certainly not facing the same choices that Derry faced 39 years ago, what sort of things might my circumstances be pushing me to do?

"They don't understand what happened here."

Union Dues

The Canteen at Dundonald High
(photo courtesy of www.dundonaldhigh.co.uk)

During my first week in Dundonald, when I was reading over my weekly schedule for the first time, I came across an item that read, “Tuesday: possible support for Scripture Union at high school.”  Maybe you’re familiar with Scripture Union, but I had never heard of it before.  It almost sounded like a small independent country, or something that I could join that would guarantee me a 15-minute break every four hours and a few extra holidays.  Deciding that it would be better to keep these unintelligent reactions to myself, I decided to ask a couple people about SU, and I got a couple of vague answers.  So I went to the Scripture Union planning meeting and asked my question again, and I got a slightly less vague answer about an after-lunch club where kids can ask questions about Christianity.  I pictured myself as the awkward member of a panel or the person sitting behind a table with pamphlets and a bowl of sweets.  Yet again, I kept this to myself.  Another good life choice. 

After my first SU meeting, I began to figure out exactly what it was that I had signed up for.  Here’s the usual routine: I meet Johnny and Keith, two youth ministers from different churches in town, at the school around lunch time. 

[Side note: although I still don’t understand the ins and outs of the education system here, I know enough to tell you that a “high school” is not quite what it is in the States.  There is no such thing as junior high here; kids take an intense exam here when they’re 11, and that determines where they will spend the rest of their academic career until university.  Grammar schools are for those students who score well; high schools are mostly for those who don’t score as well.  It’s often assumed that most high school students won’t go to university.]

Anyway, the first thing that we do is make our way to the cafeteria (or canteen, as it’s called here).  We spend a few minutes walking around to the different tables, talking with the students and reminding them that they can come to the SU club whenever they’re finished eating.  Then we go up to one of the classrooms to set up.  The students slowly start to trickle in after about 5 minutes, and we just spend some time hanging out and talking.  Then we play a game, and we finish off with a short lesson about the Bible or Christian beliefs.  There are always sweets for the kids, too, as they leave.

It’s definitely a stretching part of my week, even though it lasts only about an hour.  It’s always a bit daunting when you feel like you’re fighting your way up the narrow walkways in the canteen and when you step in and interrupt people’s lunchtime conversations.  Sometimes there’s laughter, and sometimes there are just blank stares.  Some people mumble an excuse about having to go play netball right after lunch, while others just look closely at me and demand, “Say my name again.  Say my name with your American accent.”

But then they show up at the classroom door, one by one or in clusters.  There are the short but vibrant conversations.  There are also the times that I unexpectedly run into students in the shops; there are the girls that smile at me when we pass each other in Ballybeen.  There are the students that haven’t said a word to you but will suddenly stop you in the middle of the canteen, smile and say, “I saw you.  I saw you running past the bus stop.”  And slowly, week by week, friendships are formed in 20-minute intervals.

Don’t get me wrong: sometimes I feel like an afternoon will be a complete failure, that the students are just counting the minutes until they get their sweets at the end.  But other times there will be unexpected successes, like the time we all had a connect-the-dots competition or the time we just sat in small groups and the kids asked us any question that they wanted.  “What is God?” someone asked, and “Are you afraid to die?”

And I suddenly realize that, even though I often don’t feel prepared or competent enough for this, Scripture Union has become one of my favorite parts of the week.

Friendship Circles

Every Tuesday afternoon, I dash back from the high school to make it in time for the beginning of the seniors’ group at church.  If pressed, I would say that the official name of the group is “The Friendship Circle,” but there are definitely variations on the name.  Johnny, one of the youth ministers that I work with at the high school, will often give me a lift back to the church when I’m running late (which—plot twist—is most of the time).  He’s taken to calling it “The Circle of Trust.”  John, the man who leads the group, is our pastoral assistant who moved to Belfast from Zambia several years ago.  He has a ready white smile and his prayers are like poetry; he prefers to call his group “Friendship Circles”—which I have to admit, I kind of like.  It almost suggests a ripple effect. 

The group lasts for an hour and fifteen minutes, and no meeting is the same.  Sometimes guests come to speak about local outreach ministries, sometimes we get a lesson in the history of Dundonald, and sometimes things get a little competitive with a game of bocce ball.  But the one thing that never varies, the one thing that you can always expect even if the mountains were to crumble into the seas, is…(can you guess?)…tea and biscuits.  Always a wee cup of tea. 

And although the activities are fun, my favorite times are the spontaneous conversations over tea.   A few weeks ago, for example, someone brought up the war—not The Troubles, but The War.

It started with David, our minister.  He had gotten a call from the BBC, which is in the midst of making a program to preserve some of the memories and stories of those who were alive during World War II.  The BBC wanted to interview the members of the Friendship Circle.

“So,” David asked, rubbing his hands together, “how many of you were alive during the war?”

At first, there was nothing.  No response.  Then a voice, “Oh, give over, Shirley, we all know you were.” 

A pause.

“Well, maybe I was,” retorts Shirley, “but the last thing I’m going to do is speak to some stranger from the BBC about it.”

There’s an appreciative murmur.  “Aye, nor I,” agrees Dorothy, while Vera and Jean nod.

“But do you not want to tell your story?” asks David.

At first, Shirley’s not certain that she does.  But then she shifts in her seat and begins: “Belfast wasn’t the only place where the bombs fell, you see.  They dropped them as far out as Comber and Newtownards.  The night that the Germans flew over my house, I had a dream.  I dreamed that the planes were roaring over our rooftop and all the streets were burning.  I was fourteen, but still I woke up sobbing.  I ran to my parents’ room and pleaded with them to come to the shelter.  They argued with me, saying that they hadn’t heard any sirens, but I knew that the Germans were coming.  I knew it.  Almost as soon as we reached the shelter, the sirens started, and we could hear the planes.  They bombed our house.  I think we would have died if I hadn’t had that dream.”

Shirley has started something.  The stories come faster now, from different corners of the room.  Joan sits next to me, and she leans over to tell me about the time that she was running home from her friend’s house after curfew.  “Proper running, I was, along those winding country roads.  It was so dark that I had to turn on my torch.”  A blackout warden saw her light bouncing and flickering in the middle of the field, and she was hard pressed to convince him that she wasn’t signaling the Germans.  “Fined me a shilling, so he did.  Just for a bit of torchlight”

Others tell about sitting on stools in their shelters, their knees trembling as they waited for the sounds of the planes; another tells about trying to make it to a shelter after the bombing had started.  She clung to her mother’s hand as they jumped over the burning rubble in the streets.

I’ve spoken to people who remember the war—but this was different.  The people that I’ve spoken with certainly had a hard time, but they were living on the west coast of America.  The closest bombs fell in Hawaii.  That’s not to minimize these people’s fear and sacrifices and loss—but speaking to someone who has watched their neighborhood streets burn and seen Stormont painted black…well.  It offers a different perspective—a perspective that I wouldn’t have had if it weren’t for tea, biscuits, and friendship circles. 

Prosit Neujahr

Right after Christmas, we the members of Team USA had a week off, so we decided to do some traveling.  Jo, John, and Edward took on Brussels, Bruges, and Amsterdam; Adrienne stayed local; and Miriam and I went to Germany.  It’s an interesting choice, I suppose, since neither of us speak German, but fortunately, we had a good friend who was willing to help us out. 

Amy spent almost the entire week with us, introducing us to some fine German food, villages, and friends.  She shared her home with us and showed us where she works.  Amy, the best part of the trip was without a doubt spending time with you, whether we were watching Betty und ihre Schwestern or eating meat off the bone at a medieval restaurant.  Thank you for an incredible trip.

My first view of Germany, courtesy of an Aer Lingus window seat.

We've been awake for almost 24 hours, but we're still
inordinately excited to see Gutenberg.

Castle Braunfels (and yes, Dad, this is the namesake of
that city in the Lone Star State that you are doubtlessly
thinking of right now)

We went to Köln for New Year's, and this is the sight that
greeted us as soon as we stepped outside the train station.

Inside the cathedral

And we thought there was a lot of snow in Belfast...

The Germans sure know their Christmas

and their ice cream.