More endings and new beginnings.

Yesterday was our last full day in Ireland, and only a pinch of it was in Belfast. Wow. I’m a real bundle of emotions right now.

We woke up ridiculously early on Thursday so we could grab a cab to the train station and make our way to Dublin for our return flight. Wait, did I mention we were taking the train to Dublin. Oh yeah. We’re taking the train (big smile).

I’ve never ridden on a train before, and it was quite an experience. Looking out our window we had a great view of a beautiful Irish countryside, the sun shining through the clouds, glimpses of the ocean… The majestic beauty of God’s earth was there for the viewing as it wizzed past us on our two hour ride. I slept most of the way. Yeah, I’d like to say I was riveted by the beautiful scenery, but really I was just sleepy. Move over rain-on-a-tin-roof, the peaceful rocking of a fast moving train is now the absolute best sleeping environment I know of. Of course, Sam saw my baby-like sleeping state as a real Polaroid moment, and made sure to get several shots of me as I was dead to the world. What are friends for?

Another cab ride later we acquainted ourselves with our hotel room for the night. This place was just a bit more swanky than the hostels we were used to, but, we kept in mind that we were only here for one night and tried not to get too attached. That afternoon we were faced with one soul mission: deliver the information we had gathered during our two and a half week occupation of Belfast to our employers. Since we were without phones in the foreign land, we went to meet our contact at the Dublin airport after only sending few Facebook messages. This was not our usual contact that we had met with earlier in the trip, but another worker in the organization. We had never seen him, and he had never met us. So, with only a brief description and a general meeting place picked out, we headed to make the drop off.

We got to the airport and did the only thing we knew that would guarantee us finding our man: we started randomly walking around looking for an American looking guy wearing khaki shorts. Full-proof. And, thankfully, it actually worked. As we reached the end of a particular sidewalk, we passed a big guy who kinda pointed at us and said “you fellas looking for me?” Indeed, it was our man. We made the drop, made quick friends with a good-natured guy originally from Arizona, and ended up bumming a ride back to the hotel.

I tell ya, it was so good to talk to somebody who sounded like me. Well, remotely like me. It quickly came up in the conversation that I have the most country accent on this particular continent. Even when I try to fake a European accent it comes out country. I can’t escape it. And, I’m perfectly find with that.

We enjoyed talking with our new buddy, and the short hang out time turned into going to eat together. We started this trip by eating at a wonderful Portuguese style restaurant called Nando’s with the our main contact, and guess where we ended it? At Nando’s, getting to know yet another friend in the ministry. Coincidence? Me thinks not. Endings and beginnings my friends, endings and beginnings.

This trip has been great in a lot of ways. There were some really tough times that I had to deal with. Sam has his moments, but those are for him to muse over. I know that I learned a few things about God, a lot of things about myself, and a whole lot of things about a wonderful culture that I never knew anything about before. I don’t dare decide how I actually feel about this trip yet. I’ll have to wait till I’ve been back a few days, and then take some time to process everything that’s happened. Reading back over my own blogs will help a good bit I think.

I do know for sure that God has blessed me and Sam both tremendously. We had a great opportunity, and good will come from it. We started this trip with great expectations, and now we are both ending it with expectations even greater. The work that we’ve done will make the way for the Kingdom of God to spread. That’s intense. For the time being, that’s how I feel about this trip right there: I feel like I’ve been used by God. I’m so excited to be going back home, and to see my family. I’m very excited to get back to work Dry Creek camp for the summer, because that’s another adventure for both me and Sam get to start as soon as we get back. But, I can leave this country knowing that God used me. He just finished using me in Ireland, and now He’s going to begin using me again. I’m cool with that.

 -Ethan Bossier

Houston, TX. Almost home.

Last visits, lasting memories.

It's our last day in Ireland.

The permeating feeling of finality juxtoposed uniquely with the bright, warm, joyous day yesterday to create a sense of both being present and absent from the places we visted.  We enjoyed ourselves, making the most of the little time remaining in Belfast... but ever present was the taint of absence.

Physically, we got up early and made our way to the Culurlann, one final time, for our last Irish lesson with the elderly group that adopted us.  "The American scholars" they called us.  We spent the morning among them, laughing and learning, trying not to imagine that we would probably never see any of them again.

We ended up not getting an interview with the teacher, a man well described in Ethan's blog, "The little things, that's what," afterall.  What we did get was a generous packet of information on the Irish language to add to our massive collection of pamphlets and a copy of the old Irish song, "The Lakes of Pontchartrain" to take back home.  It's the one thing that is guaranteed to come up when someone in Ireland hears that I'm from Louisiana. ... I've never had the heart to tell any of them that there's really only one lake... and it's really more of an estuary.

It was only after we were walking back up Falls Road, away from the Culturlann, that we realized that we had gone without so much as a goodbye to the place.  Maybe the quiet solemnity that arose out of passed opportunity was tribute enough to the building which had contributed most to our cause in Belfast.

We had already decided that, for lunch, we were going to go back to the Subway that had begun our financial crisis all those weeks ago on our first day into the city.  Then, for dessert, we were going to walk a little ways down to an "Authentic Home-Made Itlalian Ice Cream" shop we had spotted from the bus, in the hopes that they'd have the elusive Honey Comb flavor.

The girls who had treated us so kindly when we were lost, confused, and without cash, were not working.  Two unfamiliar faces served up our subs, and we ate them in the contemplative silence that generally characterized our attempts to make final, lasting memories.

To my delight, there was a spot for Honey Comb at the ice cream shop.  To my dismay, it was empty.

Ethan quickly offered up an alternative.  Feeling more optimistic, warm in the sunlight, and with the hope of candy infused milkshakes, we strolled amiably back down to That Wee Cafe.  For the final time, we entered and were greeted by the, frankly gifted, young man behind the counter responsible for the brilliance served up inside.  Ethan finally got his Reese's milkshake, and I finally settled on a Snickers.

It was while we were waiting for our milkshakes that our thoughts turned to more important things.  If this man could make a living crafting such delicacies out of milk, icecream, and candy... then it served to reason that we could make a killing back home if we tried something similar.  Ethan's exact words are hard to recall, but they were something along the lines of, "Somebody buy me a blender, and I'll figure out the measurements!"  Not wanting to settle for the mundane, I suggested that we try a new flavor, and specialize in that.  First, though, we'd have to find someone who could whip up some amazing snickerdoodles.  Not just the ones that are gotten out of a tin can, but the soft, yet crisp, warm and gooey, yet firm, cinnamon sprinkled, vanilla wafted variety.  We'd then buy them in bulk for a cut of the prices, and chop them up for our hit snickerdoodle-milkshakes to be sold out of our apartment next semester.  It could happen. ... Patent pending.

We walked back down the road to catch a bus, sipping the creamy candy-flavored concoctions, savoring every last drop... because we didn't know when we'd have another like it.

Finally we caught the bus to City Centre and made our way to the bus/train station where we purchased our train tickets to Dublin for the next morning. 

Having done all of our shopping the previous day, and with very little remaining on our agenda aside from finishing the narrative map for the CeLT, we took the bus back to our hostel.  We then walked into the Farset International for the final time.

Ethan composed his last blog in Ireland, and then, after discovering that he had no cash, made a trip down the road to find an ATM so he could pay for our final order of Chinese delivery.  We ate it watching Doctor Who, and then settled down for bed early so we could make the train the next morning.

It's been an interesting two and a half weeks  in Belfast.  Nothing quite like I had expected.  There have been lots of ups and downs as we've both grown and glimpsed how far we still have to grow.  At the end of our time here, I'm honestly not certain how useful we've been to the CeLT and to the Kingdom.  We collected a lot of information, but, to me at least, it doesn't seem like enough.  I can't help but feel as though there is more I could have done.  And there is. 

One thing this trip has brought to my attention is how efficient I've become at working quickly and alone.  This doesn't fit Ethan's style at all, and so we've both had to cope, very uneasily at times, with working together on a single project.  Really, I probably could have gotten more done if I had been given full control to do everything myself... but that would have been against the purpose of the entire trip.  If brothers in Christ can't unite under a single effort and cause, then how could we ever expect the Irish to get along?

I just hope that, when it's all said and done, a time approaching very rapidly, our time in Belfast will have created more than just lasting memories.

- Sam R. Franklin
Last Day in Ireland 

Treat cho-self.

There was no way in the world that Me and Sam were gonna spend this much time in such a neat city as Belfast and not take some time to play tourist.

So, it was prearranged that Tuesday was to be the day that we treated ourselves. Great food, tour the sights of Belfast, and do as much shopping as our wallets would allow. After all the intense study and research we had been doing, a day to just relax and enjoy was really starting to sound great.

We awoke to a lovely Irish day outside, and realized that one small issue stood between us: both of us were critically low on clean clothes. We proceeded to talk to the hostel manager, who gave us a bit of an under the table deal, in the form of letting us use the industrial sized washing machines in the hostel cleaning room. We agreed, and didn’t even baulk at the small fee. A few Pounds was better than selling our souls. Or, smelling like the souls of gym shoes, which was our only other option.

With each of us freshly showered and wearing clean duds, we embarked on our grand adventure. As we walked to the restaurant district of town, I asked myself a question “should I be so indulgent as to have a Red Bull?” I find a guilty pleasure in energy drinks, and I try to only have them as special treat. I repeated the question out loud to Sam and his reply came back as a hardy “treat cho-self!” Armed with my favorite beverage, and beginning to find ourselves very hungry, we continued our search for superb dining.

It was then that a truly tremendous thought occurred to me. I don’t have truly tremendous thoughts very often, but when I do, I usually share them with Sam to make sure I’m not just imagining that its actually even a good idea in the first place. I asked Sam if he would be at all opposed, since it was a very special day for us, to go to a restaurant called Fridays, even though today was only Tuesday? He informed me that he saw nothing wrong with it at all, and so we proceeded to have an incredible steak and shrimp dinner at T.G.I.Friday’s.

Now that we had certainly treated our bellies, we decided to treat our-selves to a complete tour of Belfast via tour bus. These open top buses are really popular, and they hadn’t been on the list of things we needed to do for our main objective. While we were actually working on our Irish study objective, we were mostly concerned with the traditional Irish areas of the city, not the main stream stuff they show the tourists. But, since today was intended for our leisure, we hopped on that two-story convertible and let the tour guide lead us through the hot-spots of this classic old city. The tour included a trip through the ship-yard that built the Titanic, Shankill Rd. that is home to the British loyalists community, and the Falls Rd., which me and Sam were all to overly familiar with. Although, it was a neat experience to view all of these areas from a touristy point of view.

Tour completed, it was time for some shopping. I hated the idea of coming home from Ireland not armed with a shillelagh. And we also needed a few gifts for some folks back home. We found ourselves in a small shop called The Wicker Man, and it was full of traditional Irish crafts and gifts. Sam and I obtained a few items to bring back to a few very special people, primarily our mommies, and we even treated ourselves to a couple of small souvenirs to remind us of our trip. Sam gifted himself with a patch that he intended to apply to his man-bag, and I am now proudly sporting a shamrock bracelet. We treated our selves. Unfortunately, my search for a shillelagh went unsatisfied.

Our search for something else truly epic did not return void thankfully! Sam and I had heard that there was a large statue that’s stands in tribute to C.S. Lewis here in Belfast. We had to search all over, walk for what seemed like miles, and consult multiple locales, but, we were soon rewarded with the discovery of one of our most favorite authors. There, in the courtyard of the Holywood Arches Library, stood ‘The Searcher’, a life sized statue of one of Lewis’ characters about to enter the legendary wardrobe. Me and Sam where happy to a point that approached a juvenile level, but our excitment was warranted, and we used it as a wonderful photo opportunity.

To complete our day, we intended to go back to the hostel, order take-out, and watch Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows (another item Sam obtained on our adventure today, especially a treat because it is not out on DVD in the States yet). We were, however, pleasantly surprised when I approached the desk attendant to place our order.

I asked “hey, can we please order some take-out?” She leaned in real close, glanced left and right quickly, and with a certain coyness in her accent the lady sultrily asked me “would you boys like some pie?” I could only answer with a eager nod of my head and she waved her hand that indicated that I should follow her. Now, when she said pie, I was thinking pecan pie, apple pie, something along those lines. My sweet tooth is always in the mood for a treat, so you can imagine my confusion when I was lead to the cafeteria inside the hostel and my new best friend started loading down a couple of plates with some sort of mashed potatoes and meat mixture, along with some yummy looking French fries. Apparently, some kind of retreat had just finished eating and the left-overs were gonna be thrown away anyways. I put on a good poker face, and graciously accepted the meal.

So that night, Sam and I reflected on the things we had done that day. We ate a gorgeous lunch, got some great pictures, found Lewis, bought some neat stuff, and overall just spent the day enjoying the blessings God had made available to us. We have had a wonderful time on this trip, and its been a great experience for us both, and we had all but wrapped the whole thing up with this little “us” day of ours. So, to end it all, we feasted on the wonderful, unprecedented offering we received from our friend at the hostel. For if we’ve learned anything in the last 3 years of college, we have learned this: whenever somebody offers you free food, don’t ask questions, just treat cho-self!

-Ethan Bossier
Last Day in Belfast

The adventure of ethan bossier.

The year was the year of our Lord, twenty-twelve. The day, twenty-first of May. In this account I shall, to the best of my ability, recount the circumstances leading up to and surrounding the somewhat unique tale of the particular quest undertaken upon that day by my friend and colleague, Sherlock Hol… Ethan Bossier.

Thus far in our journeys amongst the natives of that great Emerald Isle, colloquially referred to as Ireland, we had undergone great lengths to document photographically all that we encountered of importance for the records of those under whom we are currently obliged. Quite naturally, circumstances arose which prevented us from acquiring proper pictorial documentation in every situation, and so, it was with this at the forefront of our minds that we had planned to spend the day retracing our steps through Belfast, that capitol of the North, revisiting previous locales for the purpose of acquiring their image for our records.

It came about one lazy Sunday, the account of which you may have already read by the hand of Ethan Bossier, that, try as we might, we were unable to successfully circumnavigate the massive amount of typographical work we had allotted ourselves to its completion. This all but confounded our intentions to reexamine areas previously visited, as there quite honestly are not enough hours in the day. Indeed if it had not been for the ingeniousness exhibited by someone very close to myself, all hope of successfully accomplishing both tasks would have proven nearly insurmountable. Upon the proposition brought forth from my lips, that, indeed, the pair of jobs could be gotten done in a singular day, my good friend Ethan Bossier readily and bravely volunteered for the more dangerous of the two responsibilities.

It was unanimously decided that I would remain at our lodgings in 217 Farset, Springfield Road to bring about the end of our computational endeavors whilst Ethan Bossier would venture forth, quite solo, into the city to acquire the pictorial accompaniment we so sorely lacked. We first sat down to a luncheon accessible by way of the kindly staff found within our current residence and consisting of what was called steak-burgers complimented by a hearty serving of largish chips. It was after this that Ethan Bossier sat down to compose the account previously mentioned and display it for interested parties to peruse at their discretion. The time was nearing ten after two, in the local custom this would have been fourteen-ten.

On abouts fourteen-fourteen, Ethan Bossier stood, announced the deed had been done, and proceeded promptly to the lavatory. Upon his emergence from therein, he made his departure for the city at fourteen-twenty-one. At fourteen-twenty-two he returned to ensure that I was in a ready position to take visual note of this momentous occasion. I was, and so, at fourteen-twenty-three, with great solemnity, Ethan Bossier made his final departure from 217 Farset, Springfield Road and advanced up the cold stone path to the city beyond. My documentation of the moment lies herein:

I was not to hear of my friend again until sixteen-forty-nine. It was during this time that the bulk of my work was done. I retired to the lobby, my computational equipment upon my lap and the lavish music traditional to the region in my ears, to transpose data collected from a number of our adventures into easily accessed documents, always with the expectation that Ethan Bossier could attempt contact at any moment.

I received a message from the very man, cryptic in its formation, upon the minute of sixteen-forty-nine to the effect that he had successfully acquired the first two of his objectives and was proceeding rapidly to the acquisition of the third. I composed a response post-haste affirming my reception of the news, and awaited a reply. It was during this time that I made a discovery via map resources at hand that the fourth area to which Bossier had tentatively set his sights, the Shaw’s Road, while perfectly befitting the descriptor of our interests, had no locations of a photographically noteworthy nature. Hastily, I sent word of my discovery back to my colleague. He had not yet ventured far from his point of connection, and so, receiving my message, he inquired as to ascertain my intentions concerning his assignment. I confirmed my source, and he readily agreed to leave off that particular leg of his journey. His final message to me at that time, expressing his intention to acquire the third objective before once again establishing contact, was received at seventeen-o-four.

It was later revealed to me that prior to his first contact, Ethan Bossier had suffered an uneventful visit to the Cluain Ard bar, his first objective, and then proceeded to the densely populated Cathedral District of West Belfast. He there took documentation of St. Mary’s Chapel, that unique Catholic structure housing weekly services in the language of Irish. Having never so much as darkened the door of an institution of the Vatican, and with a mind as curious as Ethan Bossier’s, it is no small wonder that he took the opportunity to endeavor to enter. What followed next has only recently come to my knowledge. Aware of his lack of insight into Catholic custom, Ethan Bossier stood in the back and deduced from a distance, removing that signature hat of his out of respect. He would later assure me that his presence had made little to no impact on the praying populace therein, with the exception of a singular “old lady to the left,” who had gazed upon him in such a way as to make him question his own reasons for being. Ever observant, Bossier had carefully scrutinized the behavior of one younger woman who had entered after him as she dipped her fingers, just so, in holy water, as is befitting the Catholic tradition, and made a sign before kneeling to pray. Quickly adopting the skill of disguise he has become renowned for, Mr. Bossier likewise dipped his fingers, crossed himself, and, having failed to observe what properly followed, made his leave of St. Mary’s.

What happened between the time of his first contact and his next, I have no knowledge, and will make no attempt at conjecture.

It was at seventeen-sixteen, some mere twelve minutes following his last message, that I next heard from Ethan Bossier. His message, again cryptic, stated that he had successfully acquired pictorial documentation of all three locales and sought to send them to me for confirmation. I remarked my assent to the transfer, but hastily revoked my acquiescence upon his avowal that he had procured some thirty-one images in his travels. I suggested that he return to the comforts of 217 Farset, Springfield Road so that I could assist in the processing of his achievements. He asserted that he wished to ensure that he had indeed acquired all that was required of him before retiring, but I was compelled to insist that if, in thirty-one attempts, he had failed to accomplish the task at hand, I feared he never would. Seeing the logic in this, he consented and penned one final message at seventeen-twenty affirming the beginning of his return journey.

During the time that elapsed therein I was pleased to bring an end to my computational undertaking.

Finally, at eighteen-eighteen on the dot, four hours and eight minutes after departing, I witnessed the reappearance of my friend, Ethan Bossier. Likely still recovering from the remnants of some needed disguise, his returning words were uttered in the foreign enunciation native to the Arabian regions, “I have returned from my adventure.”

In celebration of two jobs well completed in the service of our Lord and King, Christ Jesus, I supped upon Chinese delicacies that evening in the familiar accommodations of 217 Farset, Springfield Road with my friend and colleague, Ethan Bossier.

-Dr. Sam R. Franklin
3 Days Left in Ireland

A lazy day of discovery.

Once upon a time, there were two Americans, who laid around and did nothing all day. Like that’s ever gonna happen…

Unfortunately, it does happen, all the time in America in fact, and yesterday it even happened in Ireland. Oh sure, we got a decent amount of work done, but to my hyper-active little soul it seemed like we didn’t do a blasted thing.

We had intended from the start when planning our weekend that Sunday was to be a computer work day. So, we slept in to recuperate from a late night of music and partying (ok, it was mostly music),  and rose to open our laptops and begin arranging  the tons of information we’d been blessed with. I sorted through pictures with a decent amount of success, and Sam transcribed several of the interviews we had made so far.

In keeping with the true spirit of our journey that Sam reminded us both of, I’m going to tell you a bit about these interviews, so you can understand these dear Irish people. After all, that’s the point of this trip, to gain and spread knowledge of them, not of us. First we talked to the principal of an Irish-only speaking school here in Belfast by the name of An Droichead. This school is under the same roof and name as the cultural center where we went to the concert on Saturday night. This lady was very passionate about Irish, and as Sam pointed out in his last blog, both she and An Droichead are very concerned with pushing Irish culture forward and seeing that future generations continue the tradition. She spoke to us with an insider’s knowledge of the school system and told us all about the Irish medium schools. Many of the kids that start out in these schools at the age of 5 come from English speaking homes. Their parents understand the importance of knowing Irish, so they send their kids to be immersed in Irish at these state funded public schools. The kids are exposed only to Irish in the classrooms, until about the age of 11 when they are taught English, but only as a second language. These children, if they continue through the Irish medium schools through graduation, will grow up truly bilingual, as they are immersed in Irish in the majority of their daily conversation, but are taught English as a formal subject and from hearing it at home.

Our next interview was with the awesome people that work at the Culterlann. This community center is more concerned with preserving the history of the Irish culture and language, reminding people of their past and heritage. It stands as a wonderful compliment to the efforts of An Droichead. Our interviewees spoke of the differences between Catholics and Protestants, which unfortunately is the main object of Irish history. They went into detail about the struggle that some bold souls went through to preserve the Irish language in a time when the ruling government went to an awful lot of trouble to blot it out. But, history tells the story and now many Irish schools, civic centers, and other celebrations of Irish heritage are both allowed and eligible for funding from the British government. Huzzah.

The interview that was the most fun to conduct was with our Ceili

dancing instructor. If ever I had to pick out someone from a foreign country to take me in, I would want Mrs. Mara to be my grandmaw. She is a very sweet old lady, full of energy and always laughing away any trouble or inconvenience that might arise. She told us how she learned Irish through her husband, who grew up a fluent Irish speaker and now teaches advanced Irish courses. She talked about the community of Irish, how it brings people together. How she was talking with some friends of hers in Irish on the street one day, and as she turned to leave she absent mindedly thanked a perfect stranger who held the door open for her, in Irish. “Go raibh maith agat” she said, and was pleasantly surprised when his reply came back “ta failte rote.” The stranger explained that “you’re welcome” was about all he knew how to say in Irish, but the fact that he had tried brought a great joy to Mrs. Mara, and definitely brightened her day. That’s the kind of thing that Irish does. It brings people together. It provides a common ground that human beings desperately long for, whether they know it or not.

As we reflected back on the content of our interviews and the pictures that went with them, Sam and I were filled with a sense of awe. And with a sense of hunger. We needed nourishment, of a significant nature. It was on our venture for food that we witnessed even more the spirit of Ireland.

We went to the front desk and asked if there were any food places relatively close we could eat at, and you cannot fathom our joy when we found out that the Chinese food joint down the road delivered! The lady working the desk at our hostel was more than happy to call in our order, and we were again delighted at the hospitality of the Irish people. We ordered our respective dishes, continued working until our food arrived, and never even got out of our jammies.

After a delicious meal of sweet-n-sour prawn and chicken fried rice, we were laying down in our beds simply digesting, enjoying the fact that we never actually left the hostel all day long, when Sam had a gloriously dumb idea. It was one of those ideas that he wasn’t entirely serious about, but it didn’t take much to talk him into actually doing it. Sam sat upright in his bed, looked over at me and said “man, lets go get some root beer floats!” A few minutes later, we were dressed and walking the short way to the local convenience store to buy root beer, ice cream, and cups.

On the way, we got to see a small part of Irish life that we hadn’t noticed before. Being it was Sunday afternoon, very few shops were open, but many people were still out and about, seeing friends, visiting one another, etc. The most noticeable thing though was the kids. The kids really come outside to play on Sunday afternoons. It was the neatest thing ever to see older guys out in the yard practicing hurling (think of Lacrosse, only you play with flat paddles), little girls skating down the sidewalk, and these awesome little dudes who were having a full blown Jedi war with their light sabers. Its so good to know that, even in a country so foreign as this one, light sabers are still cool. 

-Ethan Bossier

4 Days Left in Ireland

Turning coins.

We've reached a turning point in our journey.

Yesterday we moved from our hostel in the city back to the hostel we started out in for our last short week in Belfast.  In a lot of ways it felt like coming home.  We took the Farset International Youth Hostel for granted last time we were here.  It wasn't until we moved into what amounted to closet space with a bunk bed and a sink in the city, accompanied by the roar of traffic, jackhammers, and glass-shattering garbage trucks early in the morning that we realized how good we had had it at the Farset.

Needless to say, we were practically singing with joy on the cab ride back to the quiet, homey little hostel on the hill overlooking the city where the beds are soft, the blankets warm, the bathrooms private, and the tv... there at all.

As befits our custom on hostel-moving day, as soon as we were in our room, we both dropped our bags, kicked off our shoes, and settled down for nap-time.  Ethan has a habit of turning the tv on and then not watching it, so as he slumbered I lay awake watching a special on Hitler on Yesterday, the UK version of the History Channel.

Eventually, after two hours of Nazi conspiracies and the daring British who unraveled them, I nudged Ethan awake and suggested we head into town for lunch.  We still had our interview with our Ceili instructor on the books for that afternoon, so we needed to be closer to town to catch a bus to meet her at the Culturlann later, anyway.

Feeling adventurous, we continued our tour of foreign cuisine, and wandered into a Chinese noodle bar called Chopstix for some amazing food.  On this trip so far we've eaten Indian, Portugese, traditional Irish, British, and now Chinese... we even tried UK McDonald's "Great Tastes of America" burger line...  I've been to Texas several times, and I promise I've never tasted anything like what was in that Texas BBQ burger.  After Chopstix, we meandered into McDonalds so Ethan could use the wifi to work on his blog, and I ordered a Starburst Mixed Berry milkshake so we wouldn't look like solicitors. 

As our scheduled interview time approached, I coerced Ethan into giving up his blog efforts so we could make it in time to catch a bus... which we missed.  We ended up getting on a bus leaving at the same time we were supposed to meet our Ceili instructor for her interview.  Luckily, she was waiting on us when we got there and was more than happy to answer our questions.

Her love of the language, the culture, and life in general reminded me of something important.  The reason we're here.  People like her.


We're here to care about people like her.  To care about the things that she cares about.  We've been far too self-absorbed.

Looking back over the blog entries we've made it's easy to see a certain self-interest.  They're all about us.  To a certain extent, that's to be expected in a blog.  We're telling about what we're doing here.  But, on the other side of the coin, what we're doing here isn't about us at all.  It's about the Irish people.  It's about learning as much about them as we possibly can in order to share what we've learned with those who care enough about them to come after us.

We've done a lot of learning and very little sharing.

I hope to change some of that with this blog.

Who are the Irish?  They're artists.  They're fun-loving, craic-finding, happy-go-lucky, take-life-as-it-comes people.  They're passionate, flaring up to fight because someone looked at them the wrong way, but amiable, quickly befriending someone after shouting insults at them.  They're lovers of art, of  the written word, of poetry and novels, of painting, of murals and sketches, and of music, both traditional and popular.  They're proud about their heritage; happy to share it, and willing to die to protect it.  They're burdened, weighed down under the strain of years of oppression and occupation by religion, government, and poverty.  They're spirited, rising up to sing and dance in the face of their sorrows.  They're people, just like anyone else.

Last night we got to join them as people.  Ethan wrote about the Andy Irvine concert at the Culturlann, and how he felt the sense of community and unity growing up out of the music.  I sensed it then, too.  But last night we attended another concert.  This time at An Droichead; it was a band called Goitse (pronounced Got-sha) made up of young Irish people and one young man from Philedelphia.  And I think Goitse best embodied what I love about the Irish people: a diverse community enjoying life, past and present, and one another, erupting into a spirited ferver of art and soul.  An unveiled yearning for life and joy hidden behind the shroud of circumstantial affliction.

If you want to know what that sounds like, watch the video at the bottom of this entry.

I also realized last night that the cultural centers we had been visiting here both represent this passion for heritage and life in different ways.  They're two sides of the same coin.  Culturlann is about holding onto knowledge of the past; An Droichead is about focusing that into the future.  This is the spirit of the Irish people.

Last night in the crowd of people celebrating music and hope for the future of a traditional style, I could sense that, though we never uttered a word, we were all speaking the same Irish language.

And this is how it was meant to be.  Missions isn't about bringing people in to look like you.  That's selfish.  Missions is about going to people, celebrating with them, weeping with them if necessary, and growing so that both of you look more like Christ.

We've reached a turning point in our journey.  In more ways than one.  It's our last week in Belfast.  We're going home soon.  I'm just sorry it took us this long to see the other side of the coin.

Who are the Irish?

- Sam R. Franklin
5 Days Left in Ireland

Music and unity and music.

“Music is the universal language of mankind” - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I woke up yesterday morning with a weird feeling. It was almost… energetic! Yeah, that’s what is was. We had a plan for the day, and I was very much excited to get it done, anxious even. I’ll even go as far as to say that I was pumped! I looked out the window to see that we had beautiful weather, which meant that we could easily complete the picture taking portion of our mission. Thus encouraged, I jumped up out of the bed, threw my clothes on and proclaimed to Sam that I was “ready to do this deed!” Since I’m usually a very slow riser, as I’ve described in some of my earlier blogs, Sam was a little bit surprised. I’ll be honest, I even scared myself a little.

Before we got down to business, we made a run into town. Sam needed some kinda cord for his tablet, so we went to HMV (the equivalent of Sam-Goody). Browsing through the computer parts easily evolved into browsing through the movies and music, which evolved into looking through the massive poster collection. Every few flips of the display posters had us saying, “hey I know who’d love this one”. A great idea struck us and we started grabbing posters left and right. After all was said and done, we bought 15 posters to take home as gifts to different people. The idea of our friends and roommates each enjoying their own posters and us taking the time to think of everybody’s personality and which one they would like best, really made me miss a lot of good people. I’m enjoying this trip, and the blessing are everywhere, but its gonna be incredible when I get back to the people I love.

That afternoon, we got our act together and finished our picture taking out on Falls Road. We reviewed our objective, initiated picture–taking protocol, and moved like a couple of well trained commandos. Yes, we turn as many situations as possible into a Call of Duty metaphor. It makes things more fun that way.

That night, we went to a traditional Irish music concert at the Culterlann. The room was small, holding maybe 50 or 60 people after they added extra chairs to fit the sell-out crowd. The lights were low except where the short stage was lit. We could see several instruments already set up next to the unseen musicians chair. After a few minutes, a lady from the Culterlann introduced the opening act. The curtain in the back parted and out walked a young lady, who introduced herself in Irish, and then proceeded to belt out a beautiful Irish ballad, in Irish!

I couldn’t pick out any of the words, but music is an art form that transcends language barriers. The song was about longing for something. It expressed a deep longing for something that was once lost, maybe a lover, or a place that felt like home? It was a bit sad, but not mournful and hopeless. It was about a love that was just out of reach, but not forever gone. I envisioned the writer of the song, on a long journey, that would eventually find them back in their hometown, that they love so much, and they only sing this song to hurry the time along. That’s the emotion that the song struck me with. And I find it really hard to think that I was the only person in the whole room who felt something similar to that.

After the young lady sung a few other songs, another in Irish and one in English, she Introduced the main performer for the evening, the one and only Andy Irvine. Out walked this old songwriter (who to me looked an awful lot like Kris Kristofferson), who picked up his odd looking guitar, spoke into the mic, and instantly had the whole room under his spell. We listened as he sang songs about little old ladies, places he had visited, old friends he once knew, drinking and good times, long lost love, and about County Antrim in the spring time. There was even an interesting little ditty about cross-dressing sailors. He talked to the audience between songs, told a few stories, and was gracious enough to take requests at the end. It was a doozy of a concert.

But somewhere in the midst of the evening, among the audience of mostly Irish speakers, a few other Europeans, and two clueless Americans, a connection was made. There for a little bit, almost as soon as the first song started, we were all on the same page. Feet tapped, hands clapped, eyes closed so that heart and mind could focus even more on what the ears were picking up. That crowded little room full of people became one unit, and we were all enjoying ourselves. That’s the power of music. It unites people.

Later as I was thinking bout it, I thought “man, if only we could stay like that all the time.“ And then I realized that of course, I’m not the first person to think that. A ton of philosophers, hippies, and musicians have all had that thought and even went so far as to try to put it into practice. Its even a very common mindset across the whole country of Ireland, everybody just wants what’s called “music and Craic”, or music and good times. But, sadly, even that’s not enough. Human beings still wont let their differences lie, they wont take time to welcome in their fellow man, to accept diversity and just get along for anything. If you read the book of Romans, you’ll find out that unfortunately, its sorta our nature to be that way.

So, as soon as the concert was over, even after the encore, we left and everybody went back to being different again. That took my mind back to the one thing that truly does unite estranged humans. In the body of Christ, we are all one. You can have believers from different countries, different backgrounds, and formerly from different religions come together and have the greatest common denominator that ever existed. But even without that commonality, its worth reaching out to our fellow man in order to reach them with the message of Jesus, isn’t it? We shouldn’t be unwilling to find, or even create, some form of commonality between people groups in order to reach them. That’s exactly what me and Sam and the CeLT are doing here now, with the Irish language.

So the next time you run into somebody that’s not like you, try to speak their language, whatever that may be. Open up and be on the lookout for something that will untie you with them, instead of concentrating on differences. That’s kinda what Jesus did after all.

-Ethan Bossier

Day 14 in Belfast