Twenty-Four Days In...Again

I’ve been ‘home’ for just over three weeks, now. Twenty-four days, as the title would suggest. It’s interesting to say I’m ‘home’ at all, since, in the course of my 26 years, I’ve called many places ‘home’: here in Tennessee, my grandparents’ house in Cleveland, the shoebox of a dorm room I had for my first two years of university and then the blessed off-campus apartment I shared with a friend, the town-house in Charlotte, and lastly my ‘three up, three down’ on Skegoneill Dr. with its postage stamp back garden, crap-shoot oven and two loud, loving housemates. I guess that sappy cliché is actually true; ‘Home is where the heart is.’

But that begs the question, ‘Where is your heart?’ Hmmm…good one. I guess it goes without saying (even though I’m gonna say it anyway) that if all of these places can be ‘home’ then ‘home’ isn’t really about the physical building. Don’t get me wrong, if my house at 512 W. Maple St. caught fire, I’d be woefully upset, but I think in the end it would have less to do with the loss of the brick and mortar and more to do with the loss of 33 years’ worth of back-breaking laborious blood, sweat and tears that has gone into making this house what it is. And when my grandparents decided to sell the house they’d lived in for 40-plus years, the whole family was upset, but again, it had less to do with the white clapboard building than it had to do with the memories that went with it. My parents had their wedding reception there in 1974—complete with ochre-colored shag carpet—, Grammie and Pop’s 50^th Anniversary party was held in the back garden, and at least 40 years’ worth of Christmas celebrations have taken place in the living room. I learned a lot while living in that town-house in Charlotte, and even more from Skegoneill Dr. (not the least of which was ‘don’t let the gas run out in the winter.’)

But ‘home,’ too, is the town where the house is located. I was raised in Johnson City, learned about family in Cleveland, became an adult in Boone, lost myself in Charlotte, found myself in Johnson City again, and discovered the world in Belfast. Having many different homes opens your eyes to the next one you have, especially if that home is one you think you’ve already seen. Has there always been a homeless man living on that loading dock 100 yards from my back door? Has there always been a homeless community living under that over-pass? Have I always been this ignorant about world affairs? Has American society always been this egocentric? When did I become an un-affiliated ‘Independent’? Why do I own so much ‘pish’?

A year ago, when I was writing my first ‘Twenty-Four Day In…’ entry, I found myself enamored with my physical location. The house itself, the vegetation in the gardens, the way the power poles were strung, the layout of the neighborhood. Slowly my eyes opened to things beyond the physical there, to the personal. I’ve seen my neighborhood in Tennessee before; physically it hasn’t changed at all. Okay, a few dead trees are gone and some landscaping has changed, but that’s it. The buildings are the same with the same families living in them. It’s nice to have that consistency, but I have less of an excuse this time around; I’ve already seen and gotten used to the physical. It’s time to move on to the personal. Have I met that man who lives on the loading dock yet? Nope. Is it my intention to do so? Sure, but I also know where the Road of Good Intentions leads and I’m afraid I might be on it. The trick is to drive off the well-paved, looked-after Road of Good Intentions with its well-landscaped median and get onto the gravel-strewn, pot-holed Road of Good Action which will knock your shocks out and claim your oil pan if you’re not careful. The Road of Good Action isn’t one to be barreled down at a break-neck speed just so you can get down it quickly. It takes time to travel. You have to stop and deal with messy things like relationships and self-discovery and change and flat tires. And your engine might stall out and your radiator might die and you might end up walking instead of driving, or you could put your car in the shop for a while to get it fixed. But while you’re waiting for your mode of transportation to become usable again, the strangest things can happen. And you might just find a new home.

The Twelfth

I’ve had a lot of people ask me about my experience here on the infamous ‘Twelfth of July’ so I figured I should go ahead and write about it. Please know that this is just my experience and if I hadn’t had Chris and Jonny to show me around the city, I never would have gotten the experience I did. As it is, I’m very glad I got to see and hear all the sights and sounds of the Twelfth, and it’s certainly something I’ll not soon forget.

The Twelfth celebrations are to commemorate the victory of King William of Orange (the Protestant Dutch king and son-in-law to James II of England) over King James II (the Catholic king of the English, Scottish and Irish thrones and father-in-law to William.) William deposed James in 1688. James, who wanted the throne back, launched a campaign against William which lasted several years. Eventually, the two forces met just outside Drogheda, Ireland, on opposite banks of the River Boyne on July 1, 1690. (When the calendar changed from the ‘old style’ Julian to the ‘new style’ Gregorian, the date moved to the 12^th.) William’s victory was a decisive turning point in James’ overall unsuccessful attempt to regain the British crown, and helped to seal Protestant supremacy in Ireland. His success is still celebrated by the Orange Order and is commemorated by the Protestant side of the community with parades, bands and bonfires. (If you’d like some more information about the Battle, go here. If you want WAY more information about the Battle, click here. If this is all the information you want, keep reading.)

One of the nearby estates, Tiger’s Bay, happens to be home to several youth who I work with in the church. Every year, just like so many other Loyalist estates, they have a huge bonfire to commemorate the Twelfth. I was invited down, and thought it would certainly be educational and possibly even fun. I did have my reservations, however, since I had heard enough about ‘bonfire season’ to know that I didn’t really agree with the politics of it all, but I figured I couldn’t make an educated analysis until I experienced it. So after watching Holland lose in the World Cup final, I went down to Tiger’s Bay. Chris was there, also, which was surprising since he’ll readily tell you how much he loathes the Twelfth, but it ended up being a very good thing. As I said before, if he hadn’t been there, I doubt I would’ve ended up with the night I had.

The bonfires are lit at midnight, so partying starts late on the night of the 11^th. Amateur bands (think fife and drum corps) parade through the estate with dozens, of people following. Fireworks are set off, but since they aren’t professionally done some end up in the crowd instead of in the air. Several shot off into the throngs of people and one even exploded beside a child’s pram. I was relieved to see that even amongst the seeming chaos this action was not tolerated. The fireworks display-men were severely rebuked by the child’s father. Once all the fireworks are shot and enough alcohol has consumed to sterilize an operating room, the bonfire is lit.

You must understand that bonfires here are like nothing I’ve ever seen in the States. My ‘Uncle’ Jim, who has several acres of land out in the country, often hosts bonfires in the summer and fall for various events. Three what-I-always-thought-were-huge piles of brush and random land debris sit at strategic points around the property waiting to be lit. The fire department is always warned (it’s a small town,) and precautions—even if small—are taken. Compared to bonfires here, Jim’s are mere campfires suitable for Girl Scouts to roast marshmallows and sing Kum Ba Yah while retelling ghost stories they read in Highlights magazine. Bonfires in Northern Ireland are not measured in feet or meters but in stories. In fact, many that I saw were actually bigger than the houses they stood near. Whole trees could be consumed and you might never know. Beowulf’s funeral pyre was smaller than some of these infernos. Just imagine a house on fire and you’ve pretty much got it.

Back to midnight. The bonfire is lit. Gasoline is the preferred accelerant and dozens of gallons are dumped over the wood. In no time the whole pile is alight. I watched in horrid fascination as thousands of pounds of wood, tires and other debris went up in flames, and stood dumb-struck as the moment everyone was waiting for occurred. At the top of each bonfire flies a large Irish Tri-Color, symbol of the Republic, Catholics and all things hated by Loyalists. As the fire leaps up, the nylon flag begins to melt and is soon completely consumed. When the flag burns, the people cheer. I cried. I didn’t understand. Still don’t.

At about 12.30 Chris and I decided that it would be interesting to drive up to ‘the horseshoe,’ an overlook point north of the city, to see how many bonfires we could see. We weren’t the only ones with this idea and dozens of people crowded the small space on the side of the road to watch the city burn. Plumes of thick, black, oily smoke rose from countless estates. The environmentalist in me wept more than the reconciliation volunteer. When I told my mother about it, she described it as, ‘Northern Ireland’s version of a BP oil spill.’

After a half hour or so watching the bonfires rage, Chris and I went driving around the city scouting bonfires. We saw several where they were supposed to be and some where they weren’t supposed to be. At one area in mixed West Belfast, at an interface or ‘flashpoint,’ the burning wreckage of a car sat at an intersection surrounded by police. At nearly 3.00am we decided to head home, making one more stop in Tiger’s Bay to check on the kids we often work with.

Loyalist Tiger’s Bay sits right beside Nationalist New Lodge and Chris and I happened to be driving up the road that acts as a buffer between these two communities. A line of heavily armored police vehicles sat just a few dozen yards down the cross street inside New Lodge. We parked and got out, hoping not to see any of our kids up the side street in Tiger’s Bay. By and large, Protestant communities don’t start riots, but they are definitely drawn to them and will readily take part. Dozens of Nationalist protesters stood in front of the police yelling insults and threats. Several youths from Tiger’s Bay came down the street from the other direction wondering at the noise. We recognized several, and told them to just go home. Surprisingly, they did. Suddenly, at some pre-arranged time, a signal was given among the rioters and they began throwing bottles at the police line. Glass rained down on the riot-gear-clad officers and the armored cars for several minutes. It seemed as though every recycling bin in the estate had been dragged out into the street and was being emptied over the heads of Belfast’s finest. Once all the bottles had been used up, the rioters quickly retreated back into the flat towers and houses, ‘to re-group’ as Chris said.

I was in shock. Having grown up in a small fairly WASP town in the South and generally not having reasons to find myself at flashpoint zones at 3.00am, I had never seen anything like this. The closest thing I had ever seen to a riot was watching from my apartment’s front porch as the Boone police broke up first week parties at the houses across the street when I was in college. That’s child’s play compared to this.

At about 3.30am, things were fairly settled. The rioters were nowhere to be seen, our kids had all gone home, and all was quiet. Too quiet. Chris is no stranger to Twelfth night riots and he felt none too good about staying any longer, so we left. Good thing, too, since the next morning we found out that the police in the area had actually come under live fire, with 3 officers shot (none fatally,) one of whom we had been talking to. It was all very surreal. (Still is.)

The morning of the Twelfth, Jonny offered to take me into City Centre to watch the parades. Thousands of people gather for parades all over Northern Ireland, with Belfast being the main flagship parade for the country. Nearly every Orange Hall has several divisions attached to it and almost each division has its own band. These bands all parade from their home estates into City Centre where they all join together to form one massive parade that winds its way through town out to a park where there are speeches, more music, food and games. Thousands line the streets to watch these bands and the Orangemen march. Only one thing you need to know about Orange bands: if you have seen one, you have seen them all. I mean that with no disrespect to the many people I know who support various Orange bands, but musically they’re pretty much all the same with few exceptions. Flutes, snares and a bass drum all played decently enough, but several hundred good-yet-amateur bands over the course of a few hours after a night of dodging flying lager bottles starts to eventually sound less and less like music and more and more like a playground full of 4-year-olds with whistles and pot lids. Also, regardless of what you’re playing, there’s just no need to hit a bass drum that hard. Yes, it’s meant to be whacked about, and no, I’m not a drummer, but I should think that if the heads are dented then you’re probably playing it too hard. But enough of my musical pretention. The parades themselves are fun enough, if you like that sort of thing and you don’t mind being inundated and drenched with Union Jacks, Red Hands of Ulster, Orange banners, and all things Loyalist. Lots of families, friends, flags, flutes, food, and the odd vuvuzela make for an interesting time.

Overall, the Twelfth is truly something that must be experienced to even try to be understood, and even that’s a stretch. I don’t understand it at all, and neither do many people who grew up here and live here. I’ve yet to really debrief my experience—if I ever will—but it’s definitely something I won’t soon forget. And you can bet that every Twelfth of July from now until the Rapture will be spent in prayer.

(For pictures of all this, go to 'The Twelfth' under the Picture Gallery)

Twenty-Four Days Out...

At the beginning of this year, I wrote a blog post entitled ‘Twenty-Four Days In…’. So in an effort to be poetically symmetrical, I thought it only appropriate to write this one now; ‘Twenty-Four Days Out…’. As you might guess from the title, I have only 24 days left in my YAV year. Only 24 days left in Belfast. Only 24 days left to work with WAVE and the church and the Newington Day Centre. Only 24 days left to try and perfect the Belfast accent, which proves to be an incredibly difficult accent to imitate. Only 24 days left to try and convince Chris that U2 really is his favorite band. (HA! Sorry, inside joke. Wrong audience. Anyway…) Speaking of U2 (which, incidentally is a favorite of Chris’s just not his all-time favorite) they have a very catchy, very popular and oddly enough very prophetic song called ‘Where the Streets Have No Name.’ And while I’m on a U2 promo kick, check out ‘Sunday, Bloody Sunday’ which was written about the recently-acquitted murders in Derry/Londonderry, and actually pretty artfully describes the whole of the Northern Irish conflict. In the meantime, thank Andy for inspiring listening music and enjoy some U2 while you read.

I find myself in a weird spot; something akin to emotional limbo. I’m super excited about going home and seeing all my friends and family, hanging out at the Coffeehouse, getting some bar-b-que from the Firehouse, sucking down a true honest-to-goodness milkshake, jumping off something at Doe River Gorge, driving a bit too fast down windy two-lane mountain roads on my way to Boone and of course worshiping at Covenant Presbyterian Church with my brothers, sisters, moms, dads and aunts and uncles in Christ. At the same time, I’m planning a retreat for the FMPC youth, organizing programs for the Women’s Group at WAVE, actually looking forward to working Tuesdays at the Newington Day Centre, watching more football than I ever thought possible, participating in spontaneous theological poli-sci conversations and actively working to ‘tear down the walls that hold [us] inside.’ Whether it’s the emotional walls we put up to keep ourselves guarded or the physical peace walls that surround this city, I pray for a day when neither exist.

It seems almost wrong to be so excited about going home when my life and so much of my heart is still here. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet that this ‘going home’ business is for good. I’m not on holiday. I won’t be coming back to Belfast after a month at home. I won’t see the completion of the projects I have started and am so excited about. But in the end, that’s okay. My job here was never meant to be permanent, and it was never meant to be solely mine. My job here is much like my faith; meant to be learned, molded, rejoiced in, shared and passed on while forever changing who I was before it, who I will be after it and who I am because of it.

The things that were note-worthy twenty-four days in have become commonplace; it’s just everyday life. Double-decker busses whizzing by 3 inches from the pavement at 35mph don’t freak me out anymore. I’ve learned to weave through traffic if the crosswalk isn’t handy. I like the fact that the skyline isn’t obstructed with wires and poles. I still don’t know how the heating system in our house works, but it’s July so it’s too late to worry about that. My ear long ago lost the difference between a Belfast accent and an American accent. Words and phrases like ‘wee,’ ‘craic,’ ‘dead on,’ ‘wind your neck in,’ ‘catch yourself on,’ ‘knackered,’ ‘car park,’ ‘trousers,’ ‘wick,’ ‘what’re you like,’ ‘bunged,’ ‘pram,’ ‘that’s class,’ and the proverbial ‘aye’ are now all a part of my everyday lexicon. I can’t figure out which side of the road is the ‘right’ side and can’t imagine getting across town in less than an hour.

My friend Vince has been living and working this past year at a camp in Costa Rica. He left a week before me last August and returns a week after me this July. We’ve been pen-pals all year, encouraging one another in our respective missions and sharing stories from the opposite side of the globe. A portion of his most recent letter sums it up for me best:

May your last days be filled with the encouragement and praise of our Father and Best Friend of your faithfulness in the little things, of your keeping going to the end in the hard times and the easy times, of your taking up your cross and denying you for a year and serving Him. May your days be filled with memories of joys and sorrows, of lives changed and lives to be changed, of seeds planted and hearts bursting into bloom, of hardship and breakthrough. May your life also be changed because of this year, be a different person than you were before, knowing that in anything you have the one thing that matters, the friendship of Christ that is imperishable and everlasting and will always be left standing after any storm. And may you be filled with strength for the going back, strength and courage to face knowing that it just might not be ‘home’ anymore, knowing that a year has gone by and people will have changed or moved or gotten different friends and knowing that God had and has a purpose in that too (from one who's been there, and will be there alongside of you in the going back).

So, with only 24 days left I find myself here. Wherever ‘here’ is or happens to be. I’m not removed enough to completely de-brief my year yet, if I’m ever able to, but it was weird to realize that I won’t see the end of this month in Belfast and it made me start thinking about what I’ve learned, what I’m learning and what I’ll only realize I’ve learned months from now. In the meantime, I pray the days don’t fly by too fast.

A Week in the Life

My friend and fellow YAV Deanna Drake who is serving in Kenya, recently updated her blog (which I highly suggest you read) to give us all an inside look at her average day. It was great to just get an inside glimpse of the more ‘mundane’ things that go on. So often I think we only talk about the highlights and ‘mountain tops’ that we experience and don’t focus on the day to day, which is where, I believe, most of the learning happens in our lives. It’s in the everyday, simple schedule that many of life’s lessons are taught. And it’s also the everyday, simple schedule that most people can relate to. That said, I realized that even though these are great concepts, I haven’t actually acted on them. I spent a lot of time talking about one or two things out of my schedule, but I’ve never given you an overarching sense of what my schedule actually is. So here it is, with only 4 and a half weeks left to go, I give you A Week in the Life. (I can’t really do ‘a day in the life’ because what I do depends on what day it is, so you get a whole week!) Most mornings I wake up about 8.30 or 9.00 and start the day with a short devotion. From there it goes as follows; nothing profound or new or exciting, just the everyday, simple.

Monday:

Mondays are office days. I’m usually in the church or working from home for most of the day; usually about 10.00-5.00 or 6.00. Typing up announcements, planning youth and young adult activities, making phone calls, etc.; all that office-y type work.

Tuesday:

10.30am-1.30pm: Work at Newington Day Centre, the pensioners’ centre in Holy Family Parish, to serve tea and toast, and then lunch (aka, dinner.)

1.30pm-3.00pm: Lunch with Chris, my supervisor, the Youth and Community Development Worker. This is our meeting time to touch base on the week, work on new things, iron out old things and just generally get on the same page as to what we’re doing. It also serves as my time to pick Chris's brain and learn about all things Norn Irish from football to paramilitaries to government to pop culture. Just a note, don’t ever play against Chris in Trivial Pursuit—you will lose!

3.00pm: Afternoon tea. Since I’m with Chris, it’s usually afternoon coffee.

3.30pm-whenever,pm: Visits. Not really pastoral visits, per se, but we try to ‘nip round’ to people who are sick or who we haven’t seen in a while. Some days we hang out in Tiger’s Bay and just visit with the kids there.

7.30pm-9.30pm: Beautiful Feet, the homeless ministry in City Centre.

Wednesday:

11.00am-4.00pm: At the WAVE Centre to help with the Men’s Group. Martine and I make the lunches and organize the programs. We made bog oak carvings last ‘semester’ and then built model airplanes. Next week is actually our last official meeting time, so we’re going out to dinner. After that I’ll be working on an evaluation project with the group to get ideas for next year. 3.00pm: Afternoon tea with the men.

7.30pm-9.00pm Bible study at FMPC.

Thursday:

10.00am: Head to Tesco to do the shopping for the lunch for the Women’s Group at WAVE.

11.00am-1.00pm: Cook the lunch for the Women’s Group at WAVE.

1.00pm-4.00pm: Hang out with the Women’s Group at WAVE (and serve the 3.00pm afternoon tea. I’ve gotten very good at making and serving tea; so I’ve been told by the women who are very picky about their tea! I consider it a rite of passage.)

Friday:

Fridays are open. Sometimes I do office work, sometimes I hang out with the youth, sometimes I visit other YAVs, sometimes I allow my weekend to start early. It all depends on what I’ve got going on.

Saturday:

11.00am: St. George’s Market. Most Saturday s start with a trip to St. George’s Market in City Centre. Here they have crafts, food and entertainment, all locally sourced. From there the day is open.

(From September to April we ran Youth Club on Saturday nights in Macrory Hall from 7.00-9.00pm, but that ended at Easter due to the time change and the school exam schedules.)

Sunday:

9.30am: Head to the church to finalize the announcements and make sure everything’s in order for the service.

10.00am: Prayer meeting

11.00am: Service

During the school year—up until exams, anyway—our YF (Youth Fellowship) named ‘the POINT’ meets on Sunday nights from 7.00-9.00pm.

So there you have it; my week. Like I said, nothing profound, but it works for me. Also in there I find time for running, sleeping, reading, random YF activities, taking pictures, hanging out with the other YAVs, watching more football than I ever thought possible, facebooking (I like how that's a verb, now, like 'googleing,') prepping to come home, watching the longest running tennis match in the recorded history of anything, and writing blog posts.

The Least of These

Why is it, that when I ask God to teach me something, I’m always surprised when he does?

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Matthew 25. You know, the infamous ‘sheep and goats’ passage? It was back in October that I really became…I don’t know…convicted about it. I realized that as Christians we are called to serve the least of these, and not doing so leads to some pretty harsh consequences. The Bible lays out pretty clearly who the ‘least of these’ are: the hungry, thirsty, homeless, cold, sick and imprisoned. It also classifies the needy pretty clearly: widows, orphans and strangers. You really can’t say, ‘I didn’t know who they were.’ So, I’ve been challenging myself this whole year to do stuff that falls into the category of ‘helping the least of these,’ but lately I’ve really been asking God to show me new ways to go about doing this. It’s felt like I could be doing more or doing something differently. Well, Tuesday is apparently my school day.

I start off Tuesdays at the Newington Day Centre. Not my cup of tea, by any stretch. Working with the elderly is a huge challenge for me and I think might actually fall behind ‘teach kindergarten’ in the list of possible career ideas. (This is very low on the list. It’s above ‘poll dancer’ but not by a whole lot.) I spent the first part of this year trying to get out of going to the NDC. I offered other ideas; I told Lesley, Chris and Doug that I was uncomfortable to the point of near-panic attacks; I cried when I had to go. But alas, I have remained. And it’s actually turned out to be not so bad. I’ve found some members there that I can talk to, and the other volunteers are great. I still spend most of my time in the kitchen as opposed to the members’ rooms, but I can at least breathe easy while I’m there.

Today, one of the ladies I’ve gotten to know a little bit arrived early. Mary’s stooped and tiny and shuffles around in her slippers holding her walker in a death grip, but she’s also lucid and can carry on a conversation (sadly, unlike a lot of the members.) She’s also an amazingly chipper 92 years old, which I found out today when I went to talk to her. I have never, before this morning, purposefully gone to sit and chat with one of the members, but when I saw her I just felt like saying more than my normal hello. So we chatted about her son, her late husband, her walker, her age, my own grandparents… It suddenly occurred to me that here was someone who fell into one of the ‘least of these’ categories: a lonely widow. And it wasn’t that hard to make her happy. She’s a 92-year-old woman who lives alone; of course she loves to talk!

After work at the NDC, I came home to get some other work done. I read my book a bit, prepped tomorrow’s Bible study, and just generally enjoyed the day. Chris called in about 4.00 to lift me so that we could go hang out in Tiger’s Bay, the local Unionist housing estate and home to the Youth Club kids. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to go. I had told Chris before that I did, but today I just didn’t feel like it. The kids usually ‘do my head in’ (read: drive me crazy) and I just wasn’t feeling up for it. But I went anyway. We saw a bunch of kids that are normally out, and we even ran into some we hadn’t seen in a while. We ended up spending some time with a group of boys at the estate’s bonfire pile (more on that after July 12) and talking to them about cross-community activities. One boy in particular, who we hadn’t seen in months, was there. He’s an interesting person; when he’s on his game he’s a pleasure to be around. When he’s not, he’s an absolute nightmare. Today he was great; he held us in conversation, he asked how we were. When some of the other boys—his peers—started lamenting all the cross-community activities (read: Catholic and Protestant) as being boring or simply unbearable due to the nature of the people involved, this boy spoke up; ‘I don’t think it’s that bad. I don’t mind Catholics.’ I couldn’t believe it. It was obvious this was his own opinion and not just some rhetoric he was regurgitating, otherwise he wouldn’t have contradicted his peers on the subject. Amazing. All of a sudden it struck me: category number 2. This kid’s not an orphan exactly, but he does come from one of the most dysfunctional families I’ve ever heard of. The fact that he’s in school and seems functional in society is a pretty big leap; the fact that he willingly admits that he doesn’t mind Catholics in front of his friends in the middle of a staunchly Protestant housing estate is nothing short of divine. All he needed was someone to talk to; someone to show they were interested in his life. Huh. That wasn’t so hard either.

Once Chris dropped me off and we critiqued the acts on ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ over a cup of coffee, Nate pointed out two bags in the hallway full of food for Beautiful Feet, the homeless ministry I sometimes work with. Groan. I hadn’t planned on going, I knew Phen wasn’t going to be able to go, and I couldn’t get in touch with any of the other regulars. And Jonny didn’t even ask, he just dropped the food off and assumed we would take it. To top it all off, I had no cash and no money on my bus pass. Phen offered me his, so I begrudgingly took it figuring I would drop off the food, say hello and then go home. I realized half way to our meeting spot that God was probably trying to teach me something. (I’m getting quick!) I arrived at the café we use as ‘base camp’ a little after 7.00 to discover that it was, in fact, closed. No one was about and I had no idea where a different meeting location might be. I pulled out my phone to call Jonny, discovered I had missed a call from him, and rang him back only to have it go straight to voice mail. At this point, I decided I had two choices: 1) return home with the food and try to pawn off 10 egg-n-onion sandwiches on the boys (not good) or 2) find some agency to take the food. Option 2 seemed like the best and most productive, so I decided to take it to the Salvation Army shelter. On my way, I figured I could go by the convenience store where we usually see people begging for change and see if my friend Robert was about. Well, Robert wasn’t out, but there were two other people there, one of whom was a woman. It’s highly unusual to see women out begging on the streets. Even when the groups from Beautiful Feet go out we try to have at least one guy in each group just for security; some of the people we meet are drunk and belligerent. I was very aware of the fact that I was a lone woman carrying a Christian Aid bag full of sandwiches and crisps around City Centre Belfast, but fortunately it was still light out, and there were women to talk to.

As I approached the two sitting by the convenience shop door, they seemed a little wary. I just smiled, crouched down and offered them a big ‘Hi! How are you?’ (I always feel stupid asking the homeless ‘How are you?’ but I haven’t come up with any other salutation that sounds less stupid, plus ‘How are you?’ doesn’t really mean ‘How are you?’ so I guess I’m okay.) They said they were fine. I said, ‘I’ve got a load of sandwiches and crisps here. You want anything?’ Their eyes immediately lit up. ‘Yes, please! We’re starving!’ (And I think they might have actually meant ‘starving.’) I gave them 2 sandwiches apiece and asked if they knew if any more people were out. They said yes and pointed me in the right direction.

I started off towards the street they indicated and met 3 more people, again one of whom was a woman. I offered each of them a sandwich and a bag of crisps, along with a smile and a handshake, and then went on my way. I didn’t actually find anyone on the street that my first friends had told me about, but I checked an alley where people sometimes hang out, and again met 3 more people, one a woman. They were more than happy to take the rest of the sandwiches and crisps off my hands. One of them, Michael, asked me, ‘Are you a Christian?’ ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Well, I try to be, anyway.’ ‘That’s cool,’ he said. And it dawned on me; category number three: strangers. Maybe not strangers to Belfast, but some of them were strangers to being homeless (one of the women told me she had just been ‘evicted’ from her house by the reigning paramilitary) and all were strangers to me.

Now out of sandwiches and crisps, I meandered on to my bus stop. While there, an older man struck up a conversation with me. He repeatedly pulled a ‘tall boy’ beer from his inner jacket pocket and would take healthy swigs between sentences, but all in all was quite nice and jovial and seemed to just want someone to talk to. He was by no means the drunkest person I’ve ever talked to in City Centre, and he was perfectly civil (and I was not alone at the bus stop, lest my mother and grandmother worry.) It was actually quite nice.

I realized on the bus trip home that this whole day had been one big lesson from an Almighty teacher, and I was feeling pretty good about the lesson. First of all, it’s not about me or my comfort zone. Besides, God’s not going to ask me to do anything he wouldn’t be willing to do himself (or hasn’t already done) and anything he wouldn’t qualify me to do. Second, the ‘least of these’ are all around, I just have to open my eyes to them. Third, caring for the ‘least of these’ is not that hard. Smiling to someone, talking to someone, offering someone a sandwich; none of it’s rocket science. It was almost as though God was saying, ‘Just do what you do. I’ll work through that.’ Right. Lesson learned.

Memorial Day

It’s Memorial Day today in the States; it’s a lovely Bank Holiday here in Northern Ireland (and the rest of the UK) so it’s the perfect opportunity to write a bit. Normally, I would be doing administrative stuff in the church office on Monday, but Chris said he had no intention of coming in on a bank holiday so neither do I. The paper pushing can wait. Now I’ve got my window open and my bare feet propped up on the window sill with my laptop in my lap. Beautiful. Some would say that all I need now is a beer, but I think I’ll hold off.

So what’s been up? Well, since my last update about my funds, I am indeed over goal: $7,828.00 in total as of Thursday the 29^th. Woo-hoo! Thank you all so much. Also, since my last update I’ve had a lot of new projects and experiences. I went with the other YAVs on our last retreat to Iona, a small island off the west coast of Scotland, part of the Inner Hebrides, and home to the ‘iona community’, Wild Goose publications, and the closest thing Presbyterians have to Mecca. It was amazing. I’ve heard a lot about Iona, mostly through college since my campus minister, Tommy, (and his best friend, Bryan,) was/were (is/are) really into Celtic spirituality and all things Iona. Also, the worship books that Wild Goose produces are pretty idiot-proof and when you’re leading several groups of college kids—and when several groups of college kids are leading each other—it helps to have something that is theologically sound as well as easy to participate in. Many services were taken from one of the Wild Goose worship books. We—the YAVs with Doug and his wife, Elaine—participated in several of these worship services at the Iona Abbey. Meeting in a rugged, old stone sanctuary that dates back to the early 13^th century certainly gives one spiritual pause. And it’s a fabulous place to sing. Andy, Nathaniel, Phen and I managed to pull a rather amazing rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ together, improv style. It was one of the most honest historical worship experiences I’ve ever had. We sang where Benedictine monks have chanted.

Also while on Iona, we had the opportunity to go on a pilgrimage. We partook in a 7-mile hike around the island, stopping for reflection and prayer at various points. It was beautiful scenery and was just overall a very ‘thin’ experience. (One of the ideas I picked up from Tommy and Bryan, that I’m pretty sure stems from Celtic spirituality, is one that states that there are ‘thin places’ on earth, places where heaven and God seem much closer than in the muck, mire, hustle and bustle of the everyday. These places can crop up anywhere and are different for everyone, but I can assure you that Iona was full of them.) Looking out over St. Columba’s Bay, or looking towards the Scottish coast, or staring west out over the vast expanse of Atlantic Ocean toward home, I couldn’t help but worship God. This isn’t supposed to be an evolution vs. creation thing, but I can’t look at scenery like that—views so wide it’s literally 360^O of awesome, skies so blue it makes your eyes hurt, a horizon that stretches to the very limits of human sight, mountains that rise high enough to still be capped with snow before crashing into the green-blue sea—and not believe in a wonderful Creator. We, humans, are made in the image of God, and I know how much we love to create and paint and make things, so I must believe that God loves to do the same. (He just gets a much bigger canvas.)

Our last evening on Iona, we spoke to a wonderful woman named Jan, a member of the iona community. She spoke a lot about what the iona community is and does, and the thing that stuck with me was the one rule that community members are expected to live by. It consists of four parts: 1) daily prayer and Bible study, 2) regular meeting together, 3) working for justice, peace and the integrity of creation, and 4) mutual accountability for the use of members’ time and money. She spoke a little about each one, but the point I found the most interesting was number 4, the accountability. Maybe it’s a Western thing, maybe it’s a Northern Hemisphere thing, maybe it’s an American thing or a Presbyterian thing; whatever the ‘thing’ is, we hate talking about money. We don’t mind putting it on display with fancy cars, big houses, flat screen plasma TVs, and diplomas from top universities. Even the church is not exempt from this display; bigger buildings, flashy media, and no-expense-spared pizza parties to try and attract youth. Now, we need buildings to meet in, and I like having the words to songs projected on a screen (seems more communal that way instead of everyone reading out of an individual hymnbook. Plus it’s just better for your diaphragm to look up at a screen instead of squishing your head down into a hymnbook, but I digress.) And pizza parties definitely have their time and place, but on the whole we hate talking about money. Time is even worse, and I know that’s a Western/Northern thing. The busier we are, the more productive we must be, right? Jan said that one of the beautiful things about the mutual accountability is that it involves everyone. There is no judgment, just a declaration of what you’ve been doing with your time and money. Members bounce ideas off each other. Questions such as, ‘Is that the best use of your time?’ ‘Is that the best use of your money?’ ‘Can you give more?’ are just as common as ‘Do you have enough time for yourself? For your family?’ ‘Are you getting personal devotion time?’ (Remember point number 1?) It seemed like such a ‘Duh!’ moment for me. We are called as Christians to hold each other accountable for everything else, why not our time and money as well? My Dad and I have been telling my mother ‘It’s okay to say “No,”’ for years so that she remembers to not sign up for every committee. In turn, my mom has always been the voice of reason when it comes to my bank account. We are one big family in Christ, so why should this courtesy of accountability not be extended to our brothers and sisters?

I mentioned earlier that I’ve had a lot of other new experiences and projects since my last update. I’ve been reading a lot this whole year. I had a goal of reading through the Old Testament by the time I left, but considering I’m only now to 1 Samuel, I don’t think I’m gonna get from 2 Samuel to Micah in eight weeks. Even so, I’ve really enjoyed it. I figured that I couldn’t really understand Jesus unless I understood the world he came from (there’s that cultural anthropology minor coming out) and the best place to learn about Jesus’ world would be the Hebrew Scriptures. After all, Jesus the man was an Arabic Jew and would have been taught like any other male Arabic Jew of his day. He lived in the Promised Land and knew about occupation first hand; his people had a history of it. It’s been very educational to read through the Old Testament. Honestly, I’ve been surprised at the sub-stories I didn’t know; there’s a lot they don’t tell you in 2^nd grade Sunday School. Samson indeed destroyed the temple and all the Philistines with it, but that was after he had his eyes gouged out and was forced into slavery for a few years. Noah was a drunk, Moses was a murderer and rule-breaker, Joshua ‘fit the battle of Jericho’ but slaughtered every living thing in the city, and the Israelites on the whole are a lying, mischievous bunch of spiritual whores. Every other chapter in the book of Judges is about bringing them back from whatever pagan god they’d decided to serve next. And through it all, God loves them. God raises up some really awful people to do some really fantastic things and eventually brings us Jesus through a long line of lying, mischievous spiritual whores. It makes me feel better about my own barely-existent familial dysfunction.

Along with reading the Old Testament I’ve been reading a whole string of books on faith and spiritual development and living like a Christian. It’s been really challenging and eye-opening. I’m not gonna say that any of them have completely changed my outlook on life, but all these things together—studying the Bible, living in a foreign country, reading about others who have struggled with the same things I struggle with and have some new ideas about how to deal with them—have all served to strengthen and deepen my faith while giving me new ideas about how to live it out. After all, I am a Christian and am called to live differently. Some of these books (any one of which I would recommend) are Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith and SexGod: Exploring the Endless Connections Between Sexuality and Spirituality by Rob Bell; The Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne; unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity…And Why it Matters by David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons; Crazy Love by Francis Chan and Trolls & Truth by Jimmy Dorrell. I’m currently reading Acts of Faith by Eboo Patel and it’s really blowing my mind (in a good way.) It’s equal parts terrifying and beautiful and wakes up a passion in me that says, ‘YES! This is why I want to teach!’ Good stuff.

On that note, we move on to ‘Plans for Home.’ As I just mentioned, I want to teach. This is not really a new idea, I’ve long thought that I could enjoy the teaching profession, I just never knew what I would teach if I ever did, plus I didn’t really know if I truly wanted to. Last school year (2008-2009) was spent being a substitute teacher at Science Hill High School where I ended up doing some long-term assignments along with volunteering a large chunk of my time to the theatre department. I loved every minute. Nothing else I’ve ever done has made me readily willing to get up every day at 5.45am so that I could build stage flats before going to teach Macbeth. While here in Belfast, I’ve loved the opportunities I’ve had to work with youth and young adults, and I live for what people here call the ‘penny dropping moment.’ Akin to our ‘light bulb moment’ it’s the moment where the person you’re teaching suddenly ‘gets it’ and it all makes sense. It’s a great feeling. With that in mind I’ve applied to grad school to get my Master’s in Education. Originally my thought was to teach abroad, but now—after reading much of Acts of Faith—I’ve been thinking that I more want to teach in the States and take them abroad. I’ll be (hopefully) getting a double certification in sociology and English; I figure you have to understand the culture and people behind the books. You can’t read To Kill A Mockingbird without knowing about racism in the Deep South and you can’t read Cry, the Beloved Country without studying apartheid in South Africa. Being the dreamer, I would love to take literary tours of the world with students to teach them about the wider world through literature and people. ‘Hello! My name is “Idealist”’ So what? Just give me a school district with a vision.

Speaking of home, I come back to Tennessee July 26. Not gonna lie, I can’t wait. I love working here and I love my projects and the people and everything I’ve been able to do, but a year is a long time to be gone without a glimpse of home. I miss my mountains and Cavehill just doesn’t cut it. In the meantime, though, I’ll continue to lay the groundwork for some new projects for next year’s YAV. Want to make sure they’ll have as much of a blast as I have!

Monetary Update REVISED

God is so good! I sent the monetary update to all my friends and family, as well as sending a copy to my church secretary asking her to pass it on through the church email list. In response, she asked if the $6,440 included the money that was raised at an event my church held for me back in February. For whatever reason it hadn’t been sent to the YAV Office yet so I didn’t know about it, but there’s a check from my church for $1,287! This is more than enough to cover the deficit and actually puts me over goal for May 15. When I said there was no reason we shouldn’t try to raise $1,000 in 3 days, I never dreamed God would raise up that amount in 30 minutes! He is so good! Thank you to all who made that $1,287 possible, and thank you to all you who have made the other $6,440 possible! My next goal is all $9,000 by July 15 and we are well on the way. I have no doubt (especially now) that God will see to it that it’s covered!

Monetary Update!

Hey everyone! What’s the craic? (Translation: What’s new with you?) I hope this finds you all well and enjoying spring. I know this season can be crazy; finishing up school work, final exams, planning for the summer, starting staff training for camps—it’s nuts! Belfast is no different. My ‘kids’ at the church are all studying hard for their end-of-year tests, the members at the WAVE Centre are all planning holidays and family trips, and everyone is anxious for the weather to get warm! (Does it get warm here? The jury’s still out; I’ll let you know!)

With all that’s been going on, I realized that I haven’t sent out a monetary update in a while. First of all, as always, thank you so much for your donations! You have all helped me raise just over $6,440! This is incredible! I’m well over two thirds of the way to my overall goal of $9,000. However, as incredible as this is, I am over a thousand dollars short of my next fundraising goal; the YAV Office has set a goal for $7,500 to be in by May 15. That’s this Saturday. Now, as mind-blowing as it would be to raise $1,060 in three days, if this doesn’t happen I won’t get deported. But it doesn’t mean that we can’t try! I still need monetary support. You all have been so generous, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Please continue to donate. No amount is too small (or too large!) and the easiest way to make a tax-deductible donation is to simply go the YAV homepage at www.pcusa.org/yav. Click ‘Support A YAV’ on the right-hand side of the screen, scroll down to the bottom of the page, click ‘Lynnea Hunter’ and follow the instructions.

I hope you continue to enjoy the stories and photos that I post here, and thanks for checking them out. I sure enjoy living them! Thank you all so much, again, for all your support! I definitely feel your thoughts and prayers everyday! God bless!

Síocháin (Peace...)

¡España es Bonita!

For those of you who may not know, I recently—very recently as I’m still here and return to Belfast tomorrow—got the chance to visit my friend Megan in Salamanca, Spain. She’s currently studying and working at a campus ministry for the Universidad de Salamanca when she’s not entertaining guests. (Which she does well!) I’ve had an amazing time, but one of the coolest experiences was church yesterday morning. I went with Megan and her flatmate Nicole to the church they attend here (one of the few non-Catholic churches in the city. Spain is still a predominately Catholic nation, and when I say ‘Catholic’ I mean the religion, not the socio-political standpoint of Northern Ireland.) Church starts at noon and generally runs until 1.15 or 1.30. It was quite an experience. Besides the fact that I understood about 1% of what was said it was really different. The guy who seemed to be acting at the pastor said some stuff which I assume to be the welcome, then read a Scripture passage, then prayed. We then sang a song (which sounded cool—‘Bendito Es,’ which means ‘Blessed Is’) and then the floor was opened to whoever wanted to say anything. Somebody would pray and read Scripture, and then someone else would shout out a song they wanted to sing and we’d all join in. And mega props to the praise band! As musical numbers were a part of the ‘free for all’ worship style no one in the band knew what we were singing before anyone else, but they played really well. We all had the same worship book full of songs, but they sounded like they’d rehearsed together for hours. My favorite was ‘Maravillosa Cruz.’ I sang the verses in English and did my best at the chorus in Spanish. We sang ‘Lord I Lift Your Name on High,’ too, which was pretty cool. (But in Spanish, of course.) After several people had read and prayed and we sang about 5 or 6 songs, we had Communion. There were 2 celebrants (one of whom was also the bass player,) and 4 people passed the elements around. It was low-key but very worshipful; reverent while being approachable and down-to-earth. The whole experience made me think that this was probably what the early church was like: a bunch of friends gathered together to read and pray and sing and learn from each other, and to share the bread and wine as they might share pinchos and sangria. Not irreverently and without thought, but naturally, like it’s second nature. It should be second nature. Of course now I want to try Communion with tortillas and sangria. I think it would be yummy. And I don’t think God would mind.

pinchos--Spanish 'pub grub'--and sangria

For more pictures from Spain, click the 'Bonita Salamanca' link under Picture Gallery to the left.

sunday

the day has dawned,

the women have returned,

the tomb is empty,

and still I am in disbelief.

"Are you really here?

Are you really risen?

Have you really conquered death?"

I can scarcely

take it in.

I fall face down in the dirt

because that's the only place

I'm worthy enough to be.

I left you.

I spent the last hours

far from the cross,

drowning my sorrows

in all but you.

I left behind

all that I

thought true.

I betrayed

all that I

thought sacred.

still, you are here for me.

still, you rose for me.

still, you conquered death for me.

all I can do

is spit the dust

from my mouth,

lift my heart

to heaven

and cry,

"Alleluia!

Alleluia!

Alleluia!"

saturday

were I a disciple
would I not have spent
the last hours
far from the cross?
attempting to
drown my sorrows
in wine?
in the company
of friends?
leaving behind
all that I
had thought true?
would I have
betrayed all
that I
thought sacred?
my head screams,
"NO!"
my heart admits,
"yes."
who are you?
where are you?
how can you be
who you claim you are?
yea, though I know
the end of the
Story--
I walk through
the Valley
of the
Shadow of Death
Thy rod and
Thy staff
are far from me
only because I
fail to reach
out and take them.
I am a
disciple
yet I doubt.
I am a
disciple
yet I fear changes.
I am a
disciple
yet I wonder,
"will you really rise?"
the morning
holds the answers.
I
will have
to wait
and see.
and
believe.

Q&A

After nearly seven months on the Emerald Isle, working and living in what was once one of the most volatile and violent places on Earth, there is a recurring question that keeps popping up from back home: ‘Why is so much animosity still present in Northern Ireland? With as far as they’ve come, why is there still so much hatred?’ Good question. I’ve posed this to some people who I’ve gotten to know here; some of the women and the men who I work with on a daily basis, who grew up here, who lived through the Troubles and who are now trying to live on the other side of it. Unfortunately, they don’t know either. It all goes back to 1640 when the whole Plantation began. (If you haven’t read ‘History Lesson,’ or if it’s been a while, pause now to go back and get the nutshell history of Northern Ireland from the 1640’s to the present.)

As far as I can see, and as far as a lot of people are concerned, it’s more a habit than anything else. Catholics hate Protestants. It’s just how it is. But the odd thing is I haven’t seen this attitude played out except in a select few instances. (So select, in fact, I can count them on one hand with fingers left over.) I work with two men in the Men’s Group at WAVE, Gary and Ciran. Gary grew up in the Shankill (read: Protestant) and Ciran grew up in the Falls (read: Catholic.) Even today people from these bordering neighborhoods in West Belfast don’t mix, or mix rarely but only in neutral territory, but Gary and Ciran are nearly inseparable. By their own admission they probably grew up throwing rocks and bottles at each other and setting fire to each other’s houses. But they’ve managed to gain a sense that there has to be something bigger than all this fighting; there has to be something else than carrying around hatred for your whole life. They’ve managed to find the human in each other and it’s a pretty cool thing.

St. Patrick’s Day has just passed, and yes, it was quite an experience. Apart from the fact that we (the other YAVs and I) were able to celebrate St. Paddy’s in Ireland (the island of Ireland, not the country) was pretty cool. But it was also quite an experience to see how much of a cross-community event it was. Typically, St. Pat’s is seen as a ‘Catholic holiday’ while the 12^th of July is seen as a ‘Protestant holiday.’ (That gets us into marching season and bonfires, which we’ll cover when we get there. But back to March 17.) There was a parade from City Hall with floats and bands and performers and all the usual parade paraphernalia. There was green everywhere—of course—and lots of flags. The Irish Tri-Color was flown, worn, paraded, painted and displayed by nearly everyone. But even St. George’s Cross, the flag most associated with Ulster and Protestantism, was displayed and used in the parade. There was nothing but a jovial atmosphere, a celebratory time, people enjoying being off work and out of school. It was also a gorgeous day with clear sunny skies. Even at the pubs later that day and into the evening it was upbeat, pleasant and like any other holiday. (For pictures, click the link at left for the web album 'Pipes, Pints and Patrick'.) Prior to the holiday I kept getting warnings from people to stay out of certain places—mostly around the university area—since riots and fights were expected. My thought was, ‘Does this have more to do with St. Patrick’s Day in a religiously and politically unstable environment or the fact that large numbers of college students living in one of the most densely populated areas in the UK have an excuse to drink mass quantities of alcohol?’ Having been a recent college student, I’m gonna say the latter. (Not to say that politics and religion didn’t play any role at all, but as far as I know, there were no major riots or fights this year.)

Many of the youth that I work with go to integrated schools and have Catholic friends (and Muslim friends and agnostic friends and gypsy friends…) and they don’t see the big deal either. Now, they’re not necessarily going to go running through the opposing neighborhood at night waving a Union Jack, but at least they know and admit that there are real people, kids just like themselves, on the other side of that peace wall. That’s a big step forward.

So why all the animosity still? It doesn’t appear that anyone knows. Why have more miles of peace wall gone up in the last 12 years since the ‘Good Friday’ Agreement than in the 30 years before it? I can’t tell you. But is there hope? Yes. And is there love? Yes. Eventually, I’m sure we won’t need the answers to these questions anymore, because no one will have a reason to ask them.

Ash Wednesday

Yeah, I realize Ash Wednesday was a while ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still write about it. So here goes…

I asked my friend and co-worker, Hedley, at the WAVE Centre if our church—he happens to attend Fortwilliam and Macrory, too, with his wife and two lovely and rambunctious boys—offered the imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday. After blinking several times while staring at me as though I had asked him if there were piranhas in the Lagan River, he finally just said simply, ‘Uh…no. That would be a…uh…Catholic thing. And the Church of Ireland.’ Right. It occurred to me that Ash Wednesday was actually the only day back home that you could tell who the Catholic kids were. They always showed up late for class with dirt on their foreheads. I wondered how much more noticed the ‘dirt’ would be in mixed North Belfast, especially since I had to go to work at the WAVE House that same afternoon and religion is generally left at the door. Nonetheless, I decided to find an Ash Wednesday service to attend.

FMPC has a covenant relationship with the parish ‘next door,’ Holy Family. Holy Family Catholic Church is only a short walk from my house, so after some sleuthing at the Newington Day Centre (the pensioner’s day centre I work at on Tuesdays which happens to be a Catholic organization in Holy Family’s parish) I was headed to the service at 9.15am on Ash Wednesday morning.

At this point in the story you need to know that apart from knowing a few Catholics in high school I knew very little about services in a Catholic church. The closest thing to a Catholic service I had been to was high-church Episcopal services in college. So here I was in a foreign city in a foreign country going to a very foreign church service in a place where the answers to such questions as ‘Where do you go to church?’ used to (and sometimes still do) get you shot. Brilliant.

I took a seat in the back—because that’s what you do when you’re a) a foreigner and b) a Presbyterian—and knew I was immediately singled out as being non-Catholic for not genuflecting. Oh well. I was the only one who seemed to really notice or care. A chime was sounded at the start of the service (hmmm…interesting…that’s how we start services at home in my PC(USA) congregation) the priest processed in with an elder, took his place at the pulpit and said, ‘The LORD be with you!’ The Pavlovian response was instantaneous: ‘And also with you!’ Wow! Something I actually knew. How exciting. There were some prayers offered—I stood when everyone else stood, I knelt when everyone else knelt—and then the Scripture was read. A woman came forward, read the Scripture and finished with, ‘The Word of the LORD.’ Again I found myself drooling words like one of Pavlov’s dogs; ‘Thanks be to God.’ This was incredible! So many familiar things were going on. The imposition of ashes was offered, and I went forward with everyone else to get a little ‘head hug’ from the priest. He made the sign of the cross on my forehead and commissioned me with the words, ‘Turn from sin and go with the Gospel.’

Once we all returned to our seats, the Eucharist began. Now, let me just say for myself that I did know enough to not take Holy Communion in the Catholic Church, although I must admit that if I had been in a place where I was assured that no one knew me I probably would have. The priest began with some readings and blessings that I had never heard before, but then sure enough said, ‘The LORD be with you!’

Congregation: ‘And also with you.’

Priest: ‘Lift up your hearts!’

Congregation: ‘We lift them up to the LORD!’

Priest: ‘Give thanks to the LORD!’

Congregation: ‘It is right to give our thanks and praise!’

A few phrases later he began into, ‘…let us join in with the angels saying,’ and we all joined in, ‘Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD! Hosanna in the highest!’

At this point I was nearly on the floor in shock. This liturgy could have been straight out of my bulletin back home. I’d been saying it for years, I had it memorized and here I was reciting it with complete strangers. How amazing.

Once the elements had been served (by intinction, by the way, also something very familiar) there was one last part of the service to be celebrated. The priest stood with his arms out as though embracing the whole congregation. ‘The peace of Christ be with you all. Greet one another with a sign of peace.’ I passed peace with complete strangers. People I had never met before. A Protestant among Catholics. A stranger in a strange land.

The irony was not lost on me. I was raised in a Protestant church, I work in a Protestant church, and I have volunteered a year of my life to helping the Protestant church reconcile with itself and others. I was in a foreign city in a foreign country going to a very foreign church service. In a land of peace walls topped with barbed wire and broken glass built for keeping Protestants and Catholics apart long enough to stop killing each other, I found solace, familiarity and tradition deep within the other side. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.

Roots

But blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD,
whose confidence is in him.

He will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.

--Jeremiah 17:7-8 (NIV)

My neighborhood in Johnson City, Tennessee is built on a semi-flood plain. There are all sorts of underground creeks that wind their way through the neighborhood which flows downhill towards the historic downtown district. There’s a creek—Jacob’s Creek, I believe—that runs along the railroad tracks and through downtown. It’s not a major waterway, but it’s home to a few fish, more trash than I’d like to admit and about a zillion ducks. All the water systems that flow under the Tree Streets Historic District neighborhood eventually end up in Jacob’s Creek. My house sits at the edge of the neighborhood, about a quarter of a mile from the Creek. If you didn’t know about these underground water systems it would make the sycamore tree in my backyard seem really out of place. Sycamores require incredible amounts of water and are typically found growing along the banks of rivers, not in backyards in historic districts. However, without this seemingly out-of-place tree, we wouldn’t be able to use our basement. Almost every time it rains, especially during hard rains, water flows downhill—towards the Creek—and through my backyard which floods. The sycamore tree, however, loves it. I’ve never seen water disappear faster than with that sycamore tree (except maybe from my Nalgene after a two mile run.) But it’s almost a symbiotic relationship; without the tree the whole place would flood, but without the floods the tree would die. And even during the last several years, during some of the worst drought in East Tennessee history (rainfall was 20+ inches below normal, cook fires in the national parks in the area were prohibited, and water was rationed in places) the sycamore tree continued to thrive. It did not fear when the heat came and its leaves were always green, for its roots ran deep into the streams.

The sycamore tree helps me make sense of verses like this in Jeremiah. I’m a foreigner here. I don’t sound like them, I don’t think like them, I haven’t been raised like them, I don’t eat like them. By all accounts I’m a bit out of place. But it’s my roots that are important. I can continue to grow here and work here because my roots have been able to reach the stream. My family and friends and my home congregation of Covenant Presbyterian Church have made sure I’m well watered. Without them I would never be able to do what I do. God has blessed me richly with them all. And even here, in this strange land where I’m a bit out of place, I’ve found some fresh streams. The people I work with continue to teach me and prove to me that there is hope here. Belfast and Northern Ireland will not live in drought forever. There are immense untapped streams here which lie just below the surface. So please, continue to cultivate the roots of the saplings in your communities and congregations and families that they might send out their roots to the streams.

Life through Lyrics

Music is a huge part of my life. Actually, that’s an understatement. Music helps define my life. My mother says I danced in utero. I learned to read music by following my father’s finger under the staffs in the hymnbook (while standing on the pew next to him.) I play piano and guitar, I’ve sung in an organized choir or band of some sort since I was 5, and I recently discovered that I identify places by the types of music they produce. For example, during my first Sunday service my pastor, Lesley, stood me up in front of the entire congregation to welcome me and ask me a few questions. Of course people wanted to know where I was from. Tennessee. They wanted to know a bit about Tennessee. Well, Tennessee is a very long state and I live in the far east corner. West Tennessee is Memphis, very blues-y, Elvis, R&B and river music. Middle Tennessee is Nashville, the country music capitol of the world. East Tennessee is Appalachia, bluegrass, fiddles, mandolins, with a very heavy Scotch-Irish influence. So apparently, the great state of Tennessee can be defined by its music. And so can so many other things.

Among the 1,325 songs on my iTunes (that’s 3 and a half days worth of music, and no it’s not excessive) are many songs that help me define God. God is outside of any human definition, but music helps me get close. So here are some excerpts from some of my favorite songs. I’m aware that taking some of these out of context is a bit dangerous, and some lines might even be confusing, but these are a collection of lines and phrases that help me see my faith. Some are obvious and some are not, but they all speak to me somehow. Since I define my life, my world and my faith by my music, I just wanted to give you a glimpse. (And keep in mind: these are only the songs that have words. So far, Belfast hasn’t been able to be ‘lyricized.’)

There’s a neon cross on that mountain sayin’, ‘Sinners best beware.’

That means that somebody went to the trouble to run power way up there.

But these mountains speak to my spirit, and I guess it kinda blows my mind

To think that someone could look at that vista and think God needs a neon sign.

--David LaMotte, Butler Street

God bless the children of Abraham.

God bless the Romans who reign.

God bless the peacemakers and warriors,

Who each think the other insane.

--David LaMotte, Peter

Late one night there in my bed,

Asking God for daily bread,

I asked God what God would want instead.

This is what God said,…

I want love to win the day

I want hope to be felt by everyone in every way

I want cooperation plus between the peoples of this earth,

‘Cause no one’s got it all right, no not one.

And I want dreams to goad you on, to take you down the road you’re on

And I want all to know I love them come what may.

And I want all to know I love them come what may.

That’s what I want.

--Bryan Field McFarland, What I Want

You are our confidant, our breath, our truest treasure;

You are our home, our jaunt, our life, our Lord, our leisure;

More than some bearded old dude enthroned upon a cloud

You’re in the shared, the solitude, you’re in both lone and loud, ‘cause

You are all in all, you are God above,

You are life itself, you are perfect love.

--Bryan Field McFarland, You Are

(Some quick shameless advertising for my friend, musician and activist, Bryan. Please check out his latest project '...until all are fed' in conjunction with the Presbyterian Hunger Program. Great music, great cause, glory be! Thanks! Okay, back to reading.)

Why are we waiting on someone else to tell us how it should be?

I've already found it and God didn’t tell me to waste these dreams.

--Everyday Sunday, Let’s Go Back

It takes no time to fall in love, but it takes you years to know what love is.

--Jason Mraz, Life is Wonderful

Oh no, gracious even God, bloodied on the cross your sins are washed enough.

A mother’s cry, ‘Is hate so deep? Must my baby’s bones this hungry fire feed?’

--Dave Matthew’s Band, The Last Stop

O gaze of love so melt my pride that I may in your house but kneel,

And in my brokenness, to cry, spring worship unto Thee.

--Jars of Clay, Hymn

I’m sorry for the person I became.

I’m sorry that it took so long for me to change.

I’m ready to be sure I never become that way again,

‘Cause who I am hates who I’ve been,

Who I am hates who I've been.

--Reliant K, Who I Am Hates Who I've Been

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments, oh dear

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights? In sunsets? In midnights? In cups of coffee?

In inches? In miles? In laughter? In strife?

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?

--Jonathan Larson, Seasons of Love from the musical RENT

Hey, I’ll be gone today, but I’ll be back on around the way;

Seems like everywhere I go, the more I see the less I know

But I know this one thing, that I love you.

--Michael Franti, Say Hey (I Love You)

I read my Bible every now and then,

And I believe the Lord hears me when I pray to him.

But the man on the radio says that ain’t enough,

Says I need to give up everything I love...

Now I believe in every word that Jesus said,

But he never said a man should have an empty bed,

And he never said drinkin’ was a hell-worthy sin.

So I think I’ll turn off the radio and just trust him.

--The Fox Hunt, Change My Ways

‘Our Father, who art in heaven

Holy is your name,

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,

Give us this day our bread,’

Then came the hardest part, the one that troubled every heart

Those haunting words of mystery that long have followed after me:

‘Forgive us. As we forgive

Forgive us. As we forgive

Forgive us. As we forgive each other.’

--John McCutcheon, Forgive Us

The 'Jump!' Tour

Check out pictures from the YAV's second retreat to Donegal, Ireland including trips to Derry/Londonderry, Northern Ireland, and the Giant's Causeway. Make sure to read captions for lots of explanations and stories.

Five Year Plan

‘Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ –Jesus in Matthew 11:28-30

Years ago, when I was a student at App State (that’s Appalachian State University, for those of you who don’t know and incidentally is pronounced ‘app-uh-LAH-chun’ not ‘app-uh-LAY-chun,’ but that’s really neither here nor there) I was involved with a campus ministry called Westminster-Canterbury Fellowship, or just WCF for short. We were sponsored by both the Presbyterian Church (USA) (thus the Westminster) and the Episcopalian Church (thus Canterbury) and housed people of all backgrounds and beliefs. One of the best events of the semester were our annual retreats; Fall Retreat in the fall, and Spring Retreat in—you guessed it—the spring. During one Spring Retreat we used the above verse as our theme, and one of the activities we did was to make Future Plans. So, I’ll admit I can’t really remember how the verses from Matthew fit into the 5-, 10-, and 15-year plans I made, but I marked the verses in my Bible and have been carrying around the sheet of yellow legal pad paper with said plans for years now. I think it had something to do with the principle that, yes, with Christ we don’t need to worry and his burden is light, but also, God can’t steer a parked car so it helps to have some sort of direction. As I turned 26 the other day, I realized that it was time to review my Five Year Plan. As I reviewed all I could think of was the saying, ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.’ Well, I know I laughed and I’m sure God laughed and now I’m posting this in the hopes that maybe you’ll laugh. Let’s review, shall we?

Lynnea's Five Year Plan:

1) Married with a honeymoon in New Zealand. (No, although I’m still open to this idea.)

2) Looking towards owning a house. (Definitely not. Sorry, Mom, my stuff will just have to stay in the basement.)

3) Good job with the recreation department in Raleigh. (Okay, this one had some merit. I was going to do my internship with the Raleigh, NC, Park and Rec. Dept. and then was going to get a job with them. Too bad I never even got as far as the internship.)

4) $40,000+ income. (How I was gonna do this based on #3, I have no idea, but one can dream.)

5) One or two dogs. (Sadly, no.)

6) NICE CAR!!! (Okay, this is the only one I can kinda cross off the list! I had a nice car: a brand new 2009 Volkswagen Jetta Sport with leatherette interior, moonroof, and amazing sound system. It had 19 miles on the odometer when I drove it off the lot. Then I moved to Belfast and signed the title over to my Dad. Goodness knows how many miles he’s put on it since August. Chances of me getting Jayne the B.A. Jetta back when I return to the States: slim.)

7) Play the fiddle. (Survey says: no. Might help if I had ever had access to a fiddle.)

So there’s my Five Year Plan, exactly as I had drawn it up in April of 2005. I have a Ten Year Plan, too, so I’ll probably post that in another 5 years. As I look back on it, it’s easy to get discouraged in one sense. I’ve done nearly nothing that I had planned to do. I have no job, no significant other, no car, no house, not even a pet. But I get to live and work in Belfast, Northern Ireland, doing reconciliation ministry with youth and adults. I get the opportunity to study things first hand that I’ve only ever read about. I get to travel. I get write great blog posts.

If you had told me 5 years ago that I would in fact get to live out my Five Year Plan I probably would’ve been very excited. Now, if you told me I had to go back to that Five Year Plan I’d probably throw up. I definitely never thought I’d be here, but it’s good. God is good. I think I’ll let him make the plans now.

Gospel Lesson

How beautiful on the mountains
are the feet of those who bring good news,
who proclaim peace,
who bring good tidings,
who proclaim salvation,
who say to Zion,
"Your God reigns!" –Isaiah 52:7 (NIV)

“You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.” –Jesus in Matthew 5:38-42 (NIV)

Note: I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but one of the projects I’ve chosen to work with here is an organization called Beautiful Feet. It’s a homeless ministry that works the streets of Belfast serving sandwiches, tea and coffee to the homeless. Most importantly, we also serve a smile and a listening ear; five minutes on a Tuesday night is more positive attention than most of them get all week. We don’t hide the fact that we’re Christians, but neither do we proclaim it. Our purpose is not to preach with words but rather to live with action. We talk about whatever the men and women we meet want to talk about. Oddly enough, it’s often Jesus.

I was out at Beautiful Feet tonight and two things struck me: 1) I am way too emotionally attached to my stuff, and 2) the homeless drunks on the streets profess their faith more readily, more openly and more candidly than any Christian I’ve ever met.

Let’s start with point number one. Last week I was amazed to see Phen give away one of his favorite hoodies. I think he’s had it for years; I know he asked his mom to send it to him from home. And yet he readily, without much hesitation, gave it to a homeless man on the streets of Belfast who had no coat. I was amazed. And convicted. I am way too emotionally attached to my stuff and am way too unwilling to give it away. It’s easy to be self-righteous about things I’m willing to do, but the challenge from God is in the things I’m not willing to do. When Christ says, ‘If someone wants to take your shirt, give him your coat as well,’ he means it. And he doesn’t mean ‘give the coat you don’t want anyway’ or ‘give the coat you’re most willing to give’ but give your coat. The one from your back regardless of its ‘value.’ It’s only out of God’s grace and abundance that I have anything anyway. And Christ never said this was easy. I’m pretty sure he said it was downright difficult. Actually, I’m pretty sure he promised it would be downright difficult.

And let’s move on to point two. Even if their theology is a bit off and even if they bring up the Catholic/Protestant divide and even if they’re roaring drunk, the homeless alcoholics will readily tell you about Jesus. And actually, a lot of the time they’re pretty truthful. You can’t be in a conversation with any of them for more than about 30 seconds before Jesus makes an appearance. It strikes me as a little ironic; shouldn’t I be preaching to them? Isn’t that why I’m here? Not really. I’m here to listen, and—I’ve figured out—to learn. I show them love with a hot cup of tea or coffee, and they teach me what it means to really live the Gospel. What does it mean to give someone the shirt off your back? (Or the hat off your head? Or the gloves off your hands?) Jesus always did choose the least of these to be the greatest of teachers.