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.