Day Eleven - A Tale of Wandering

Yesterday evening I wandered down to the Friends' Meeting House for a (well, the clue is in the name of the place). As I was meandering home through sleepy Beccles I had another memory. I think I have mentioned on here already that theory that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. I probably also said that's not my style. As I am atrophying and eroding from the inside it is taking me a long time to die, so in typical fashion my life is meandering in front of my eyes. And I was taken back to Belfast in the early '90s while the Troubles were still raging. At the time we were living in Sandy Row. I came across Tony who was a Christian. He had such a low opinion of himself that he called himself a Believer, but wouldn't accept the label Christian. He wanted me to do a Thanksgiving Service for his children. I didn't do baptisms! He attended a Brethren church - his wife didn't. He had to sit at the back because he wasn't one of them!!! So he asked me. I arranged to go and visit him in his home one evening. We couldn't afford a car back then (we could barely afford to eat), so I walked out of Sandy Row, along Donegall Road, through "The Village" and up Tate's Avenue where Tony lived. If you know the Loyalist ghetto in which we lived you will understand why I mention all the borders I crossed to get from one territory to the other. If you don't know Belfast, I will just mention that each of those areas was controlled by a different paramilitary organisation. Anyway, let's not glamorise the Troubles!

We talked a long time and when the clock struck midnight (I ran home, losing a glass slipper on the way .... Oh no, that wasn't me was it?). Sorry, I have brain fog and I forget.

As the clock struck midnight I said I should go home. Tony insisted on walking me home so I would get home safely. I've never had anyone walk me home before, or since.

At this time we had a senior Nazarene minister staying with us. I had just been ordained and stories of my success had spread. This minister used to be minister in Lisburn, but he had moved back to England. He considered himself an expert in door-to-door evangelism - that's another story - and he wanted to come and help me (or get some of the glory - I never was sure which). Anyway, as midnight approached, he asked my wife if she was worried about me being out so late. She said no, she knew I would be safe (no mobile phones back then). There were 15 churches and mission halls in this ghetto and I was the only minister who lived there. The others wouldn't even come in after dark. So I was given a level of respect, and many of them, including a couple of the commanders, considered me their minister. When the riots came, my church was the only one that didn't get the windows broken, and I've told the story before of when we moved to Roden Street (another territory in the same ghetto) and we had a car that survived another riot. So, I didn't think Tony needed to walk me home. But he did anyway.

And so we had the Thanksgiving Service. I arranged it to be at one of our monthly Family Services because I knew we would have a crowd. It was a small church, usually, we didn't get double figures on a Sunday morning. These Loyalists were not good Protestants! But at the Family Service we had between 80-100. So, a few days later I met with Tony and he said he would never come to my church again. You are probably thinking it was that bad! It wasn't!

He told me he was scared to be in a building with so many terrorists. What he actually said was that my church was full of terrorists. I did wonder if I should have told him in advance, but I thought he may not know them. He did!

Tony had a brother who used to live in Roden Street. He was (and possibly isn't any longer) in prison serving a life sentence for murder. Tony's brother was at a party in his neighbour's house. He had an argument with his neighbour, went home for his gun; walked back into the house, put his gun to his friend's head, and blew it off.

So Tony was familiar with my terrorist flock.

And so I am wandering home in the dark through badly lit, sleepy Beccles, thinking of this, knowing I am not likely to get shot in a drive-by shooting, or mugged on the street, when I remember this story, and then I remember a couple of weeks ago when I was sitting at my desk looking out of the front window when 2 police vans came screeching into our cul-de-sac. 7 or 8 police officers jump out and burst into the house diagonally opposite. I had to go upstairs and look through a bedroom window for a better view! It was a Friday morning, so I went to my usual coffee morning. When I got home, there was a police note sticking in my door informing me (and all the neighbours) that it was a drug raid. Then, just over a week later at 4am one morning the local Nationwide Building Society in the town square had its ATM machine stolen (not easy, but apparently they used a digger).

And so I'm walking home, past the square with its police tape, through badly lit sleepy Beccles, reminiscing about these night-time walks. I used to do a lot of night-time walks around my home town in my teenage years. And I thought - it's been an interesting life.

And by the way, just in case you think I am feeling better and not still in agonising pain:

OUCH!!!!!!