He fell like a sack-a-potatos

It has been a little while since last writing. I have enjoyed the past week, and hope to share a few specific experiences. But before this, I hope to articulate a few reoccurring thoughts that I have been chewing on. The first is the very act of writing a journal online. To me, a journal is a method record events, but also to sift through my thoughts, desires in my heart, and reflect on how this journey of life has been, is, and seems to be going. It is something I can be brutally honest in, because I know that I am the only one using it. On the other hand, ‘online’ to me is an impersonal place, where anyone can see everything. It is a sterile place where all of the walls are made of glass. So the idea of journaling online is something that I am getting used to. I am ok with sharing events that have transpired, but am reluctant to, well… journal. Regardless, this is a wonderful means to communicate across the Atlantic and to begin to stay in touch with!

The second reoccurring thought is more of a question: How long am I going to serve with Mercy Ships? I enjoy it here, the crew is good, and I continue to dream of seeing Africa. I desire to learn from what Mercy Ships does while serving in Liberia- digging wells for water, micro lending for economic development, HIV/AIDS awareness, not to mention hundreds of free medical operations where tumors are lifted off, blinding cataracts are removed, and the like. Yet, I cannot stay here forever. And, I miss the relationships back home. But what this really boils down to right now is whether or not to sail on May 4.

Initially, I planned on sailing down to Liberia, to be there for about ten days, and to then fly home to be back for the summer (important weddings, maybe camp, and who knows what else.) However the schedule for the sail has been continually pushed back, so it is not possible to see Africa and partake in these other events. The question becomes: to step off of the ship and return home on the 4th of May, or to sail with Mercy Ships to Africa (stopping in ports in the Netherlands and Spain) and to come back to the U.S., sometime. I would appreciate your prayers for direction in this and for those others involved and impacted by this decision. Thank you.

On to some recent experiences-

I watched my first football match (i.e. soccer game) in a pub. I felt like I was in the stadium! There was standing room only, and it was loud! We freely insulted the vile team from Chelsea (boo!) and cheered for local, heroic Newcastle. I learned some new lingo as well. When reading, make sure to try it in your best British accent:
‘He fell like a sack-a-potatos’ –describes when a player from the other team intentionally falls looking for a penalty
‘He needs to check his shoe’ –when a player kicks the ball wildly
In addition to this, I was amused to hear the locals using the word ‘bloody’ at random. (It just sounds funny.) At the end, having bonded as a group, we said our goodbyes and hiked out. Unfortunately I carried the smell of John’s cigar smoke with me on my church clothes all the way home to the ship. But, it was worth witnessing a true football match in a pub- a cultural experience.

I travelled to Newcastle and back for 3£ (6$) by bus. I enjoyed looking out my window for an hour and 15 minutes at the North Sea, the fields, roundabouts, horses, and everything else dotting the English countryside. Upon my arrival, I wandered through the city centre by foot for three hours. I was intrigued by how the new mixes with the old. I felt that the picture below describes this well. On the left are remnants of the Newcastle city wall, dating from the 13th century. On the ground are old, slippery cobble stones. To the right are some older buildings. And in the distance are two massive cranes constructing a sky scraper.

Here is my reflection in a piece of art. Behind me is the city wall weaving through the city. In front of me is a theatre.

Later on I was informed by some knights who emerged from the nearby pub that it was Saint George’s Day, the patron saint of England. The lads ran around with their plastic swords and shields valiantly defending the wall. The English film Monty Python and the Holy Grail came to mind as they posed for me. As I left I told them to be careful not to lop anyone’s arm off.

I hopped off the bus back in Blyth and was walking down the street on my way back to the ship when I recognized two smiling faces strolling towards me, Brianna and Sean. They were out to feast upon a classic British cultural meal of fish and chips and invited me to join them. So, I did. Here we are hoping that the grease doesn’t clog our arteries too much. But hey, as the box says, this is ‘traditional fish and chips from your favourite fish shop’.

We survived. And so did the pigeons that we fed the leftovers to.