In the morning, Ned is studying between bouts of playing computer games. He got up today in the early hours, just after Tom and I went to sleep. He’s staying off his feet so he can walk around London and Cambridge in the coming week.
Tom appears at 11, about an hour after I do. The night's rest has done us good. I throw in a load of laundry and do a food inventory. Tom and I are taking a bus into town to head for Wycliffe (Tom) and OCMS (me). First I stop by Heather House, where my good electrical adapter disappeared Sunday during the move. I may have dropped it on the street lugging “stuff” to the new location, but it has not been found. The landlady loans me one, but it is not small or elegant, nor does it fit the other adapters in the set. Vivian has a lot of excellent ideas about how we could best get to London to stow our gear Wednesday …and when I can pull myself away, I watch the bus driving away from the bus stop. I think Tom is on it: I was going to meet him at the stop. Gooodbyyyyyee to that.
After getting off at Cornmarket Street, I take a turn where the first bus driver says I’m supposed to catch a bus. Except that when I decide to walk instead, the added detour adds about a half mile to my walk. Finally back on St Giles (Cornmarket with a new name), I take the left fork to Woodstock Road. This place is so interesting and historic that a single house, parked in Canada or the USA, would bring us to a standstill. Here, every lovely home is one among many. After a while, the beauty is mind numbing. I keep reminding myself to breathe deeply, to look closely, and to pause to admire. If I can fill my heart with this, I will have the best travel souvenirs ever.
It’s a brisk 15 minute walk to the beautiful church that houses the Oxford Center for Missions Studies (OCMS). The stained glass windows, Scripture calligraphies on the walls verses, and a high vaulted roof braced with steel beams, remind us that the library was once the original chapel. On three sides of the center where tables await students, study carrels and shelves of books tuck under the side arches. At the front, a bank of desktop computers sit in the nave under fabulous stained glass windows and a triptych altar piece illustrating the entombing of Christ after his crucifixion. It’s a bizarre and wonderful interaction between history and current scholarship.
Initially, like with any first exploration, nothing makes sense and there are too few and too many books and topics. Gradually things sort themselves into categories and sections. By 4pm my head is full and my eyes are blurring. I put my stack of books under a “please do not disturb” note, say goodbye to the librarian, and head home.
I take a new route, through a park, over a river to a dam, backtrack a quarter mile when the path turns sharply away from town, take a winding ring road back to a main street, and turn right as planned with a map. Except I recognize my bus stop, going in the opposite direction. I stop – I’ve been walking 50 minutes – and hop the bus home.
What will we eat for supper? Tasty AND affordable means another walk to Tesco, but this time I don’t take side roads. It’s a half hour there and back – but the return journey feels longer with four grocery bags full. Two hot, cooked chickens, breakfast sausages, Quorn (veg sausage), a litre each of milk, juice, and sparkling water, 2 packages of crumpets, a bag of apples, a jar of strawberry jam, salad, brownies, and scones. I am tired, but all our meals are covered until we leave Oxford, are covered @ L20 (about $38. That’s the price of a cheap supper out for us three.)
Ned slouches on the sofa, feet up, playing computer games. He’s stayed in to relax and work on papers. Tom is still in town, “probably lost,” Ned assures me. He gets up without explanation in the middle of the meal to chat with his girlfriend via Skype. The abrupt departure while our plates are full makes the word “barbarian” pop into my mind. I can’t imagine leaving the table to talk on the computer in the same room, disrupting his meal and mine. (But his actions remind me that most of us at home--including me--answer our cell phones at meals. We are both innocently and instinctively rude, lacking good manners and culture.)
I am loading the dishwasher with my dishes when Ned returns to the table. I ask him to put the dishwasher on after he loads his own dishes from lunch and dinner. Tom’s dirty dishes from last night are beside the stove. I’m not in much of a mood to play kitchen mother.
Tom comes in at 7, having eaten in town, visited banks to see if he can open an account for his January stay, and taken a tour of the Bodleian Library. He's content. He didn't make it to Wycliffe College. His hopes of a quick overnight trip to Paris or seeing Edinburgh (6 hours north) are over for now.
My head is full of arrangements for our trip to London Wednesday, missions books, and planning for Cambridge at weeks end. If possible, I’d like to go to start the day at a 7.30 Quaker meeting tomorrow (breakfast following), and be at OCMS when they open at 9am. We’ll see if my body cooperates with good intentions.
What a satisfying day, with rest and books, walks and scenery. Acceptable food, a weary body, and a warm bed. Doesn't get better than this. Thanks be to God.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
UK4: Sunday palace
At 6.50am, my alarm chimes me awake. Based on past performance, the guys will need a wake-up call to be ready for church. I hasten into my clothes, grab my suitcase, and walk over to the house. The note in the hall reads approximately, “Rosemarie, we’re tired and decided to sleep in and not go out this morning. Trust us, we’ll be up in time.”
Ok, they don’t use those words, but I’m disappointed they aren’t going to take in a high church service in England. And I am up an hour early. I start cooking bacon under the oven grill and soak day-old bread for French toast. Then I walk to Tesco about a mile away: we are out of milk and juice. Tesco is closed and no hours are posted, so I pop into a nearby corner shop and add bread to the list. The clerk wants $1 to use my VISA card, so I pay cash. Balancing a bag with few litres of mango juice in one hand and another bag of bread and milk in the other, I start for home. Somewhere I turn too soon and end up a half-mile south of our flat. Quirky streets! Thinking about the bacon simmering on low and the finicky fire alarm in the kitchen speeds me along.
No response as I unlock the flat. The men are dead to this world. I leave a note that the French toast is stowed in the fridge and I’m going to 9am church.
On the end of the block is Greyfriars Franciscan friary with its chapel, St Edmund and St Frideswide. It’s old: the order started in 1230. The congregation is about the same size as where we attend at home – 50-60 people. The age spread is wider here, ranging from babies to the elderly. Two friars in brown robes with white rope belts sit across the aisle. They look like they might be in their late 20s or early 30s. Just before service starts, an old man with asthma or emphysema wheezes his way into his bench. Every breath sounds labored and pain-filled.
As we sing a hymn to a tune I know, a small procession of men and one woman in white and grass-green robes marches up the center and climbs four marble stairs to take their places on the altar. The subject in the readings and the homily is Christ's return and the end of the world, “appropriate as we finish the religious calendar year next week” (-the vicar). “When Christ returns, God will care about only one thing--if we have been merciful to others, cared for the poor, and in this way have done his work.”
Ok, he loses me right there. If God considered my entire lifetime of good works (not that I’ve actually spent my life so well or so deliberately), I still wouldn’t be good enough to satisfy his righteousness. He would have to overlook every sin, which would make him an unjust God. Instead, scriptures say he paid for my sins and then forgave me the debt he had purchased. Any good works I do can merely reflect my gratitude and submission to him. That's not the story I'm hearing here.
I’ve been at enough services to know to curtsey to the cross before I enter my row, and I don’t mind signing the Holy Trinity with a cross either. But this service feels exclusively Roman Catholic and I would feel dishonest if I participated in the Eucharist. I abstain. When we are done and file out, the vicar shakes my hand and one person gives me a quick smile. The others clump in groups to chat with friends as I slip out the door.
I move the rest of my luggage into the house, tucking it behind the lounge door until the cleaning crew comes through later in the morning. At 11am, Tom decides to take a shower after sitting on the sofa for a half hour. His stomach is upset so he can’t eat. The others consume their French toast, bacon, and mango juice. I cover Tom's portion and put it in the fridge.
Meantime both fellows on Team B get ready to take the coach back to London Heathrow. They have written a nice thank you note to the landlady. I explain the written instructions I left for where / when to catch the bus and why they should leave with time to spare rather than catching the last possible bus from Oxford to Heathrow. I show Cal the bus ticket lying on the table beside the instructions, and encourage him not to stop to buy presents for family on his way to the bus. “No time. Better to be at the airport with time to spare than purchasing a new flight. Buy your gifts at Heathrow.”
Before we go our separate ways, Cal leads the group in prayer for travelers and explorers alike. I don’t hear back from them today. Hopefully they made it back to Seattle safely.
Instead of 10.30am, we leave Oxford at noon. Ned’s feet are too sore to walk to bus station on the north side of town. He remarks, “I wish we had known the bus routes so we could have taken the bus into the city instead of taxis. It would have been more cost-efficient!” (So they did take taxis rather than walking. Sigh.) The fellows completely zoned out the landlady’s sign on the middle of the lounge coffee table, with phone numbers and bus routes.
I am determined that the students not only see the colleges but also take in some of the culture to enrich their worldview. They will have a fabulous memory, even if this excursion doesn’t seem fun at the time of persuasion. We'll allow one splurge on this trip since they have been careful to eat at home mornings and watched their expenses when eating out.
We catch the #3 bus to the Gloucester Green station and hop the #S3 to Blenheim Palace in Woodstock, a mere eight miles from Oxford. The Palace became a World Heritage site in 1987 because of its 2100 beautifully landscaped acres and stunning building. The current occupant, the 11th Duke of Marlborough, advertises his ancestral family home (completed in 1620) as “the most beautiful palace in Britain.” It runs in spectacular competition with Queen Elizabeth II’s Buckingham Palace in London.
The palace entry arches are at least a quarter mile walk from the entry gates. We queue with cars for tickets at the ticket booth plopped between lanes midway up the drive. The porters let us in at student rates, accepting my alumni giveaway as proof of student relations (a credit-card sized magnifier). Then we stand in line again to upgrade to a free annual pass, an official card with photo ID and a year of enjoyment ahead. Tom is thinking of studying at Oxford in spring, so I thought of him when I read the offer. The card makes a good souvenir whether or not we get back to Blenheim within the year. The staff upgrade us from “student” to “adult” on the pass.
We begin by confirming reservations (high tea at 3.30pm) in the India Room. The palace has been decorated for Christmas, but we are too late for the chef's Christmas pudding cooking demonstration. We only have time to walk through the buildings and some of the gardens.
“If I had known it was a World Heritage site, I would have wanted to go sooner,” Tom says. Yes, me too!
“If I had known it was a World Heritage site, I would have wanted to go sooner,” Tom says. Yes, me too!
Ned states on the way into the palace that he doesn’t like tours, museums, or buildings and doesn’t care about things in them. “Seen one castle, you’ve seen them all. I've seen one before.” He just wants cultural information as background for a book he is writing. I gently point out that culture might be reflected in buildings.
The guys rush ahead on our walk-through of the State Rooms (public areas), and I don’t find them again until teatime. Ned takes an audio-visual tour through the family wing (Blenheim Palace, the untold story) and walks to one of the gardens. His poor feet are killing him. He has only one pair of dress shoes along.
The guys rush ahead on our walk-through of the State Rooms (public areas), and I don’t find them again until teatime. Ned takes an audio-visual tour through the family wing (Blenheim Palace, the untold story) and walks to one of the gardens. His poor feet are killing him. He has only one pair of dress shoes along.
Tom, though initially overawed by the grandeur, finds peace and relaxation in the palace’s stunning setting. I wander through two tours and several gardens before arriving at the India Room for tea. We face a window view of marquee tents, sitting surrounded by Zuber panoramic wallpaper on the interior walls and arched ceiling. Some Zuber paper costs $200/running foot, so I can’t imagine what the room cost. Some unkind soul has punched through and torn the paper in several places, so a protective plastic shield lines the wall, covering the paper at table level.
The India Room serves Twining tea…bags. “We’re working on offering tea leaves,” says our server. That's right, I remember that remark from our visit three years ago. The men choose White Tea (steep 2 minutes, light and subtle) while I have Earl Grey tea (steep 4 minutes).
The silver tray holds three tiers of tasty treats. We begin with scones, clotted cream, and strawberry preserves. Next, we nibble four kinds of finger-sized sandwiches – watercress and cream cheese, thinly sliced ham, cucumber slices, and smoked salmon. Ned gags on the unaccustomed soft texture of the salmon on whole wheat bread. Minor snafu - the rest is delicious.
Upon arrival, Tom wolfed down a sandwich from the cafe, so he’s not very hungry. We do our best to finish by sampling five kinds of cakes and a fruitcake specialty made in the palace. Yum. We have goodies left over.
“I’ll probably eat them at 1am tonight,” says Tom, carrying the takeaway boxes for us.
Upon arrival, Tom wolfed down a sandwich from the cafe, so he’s not very hungry. We do our best to finish by sampling five kinds of cakes and a fruitcake specialty made in the palace. Yum. We have goodies left over.
“I’ll probably eat them at 1am tonight,” says Tom, carrying the takeaway boxes for us.
Both of the guys are taken with the tea. “Where can we find this in Seattle?” they ask. One reflects, “Tea like this would make a great date.” As hoped, they enjoyed and responded to the air of refinement and celebration in the Churchill High Tea.
Twilight glistens off the man-made lake as we walk the quarter-mile to the gates. The iron bars are locked so we turn back up the driveway to find another route of escape.
Twilight glistens off the man-made lake as we walk the quarter-mile to the gates. The iron bars are locked so we turn back up the driveway to find another route of escape.
Tom warns other pedestrians headed the same way, “If you’re planning to go out this way, the gates are locked!” Before long we have a flock of tourists in our wake, hapless like ourselves. When we spot a man with a dog headed down a path, we follow him through the deepening dusk into the village of Woodstock. (One of my favorite memories of the last trip was getting lost on the palace grounds in the dark on our "shortcut" to town. I remember smiling with delight into the inky night, listening to the students shouting and laughing as we stumbled our way along a mile or more of uneven paving winding through the black forest, until we reached Woodstock.)
We stand at the bus stop in the quaint town for almost a half hour, waiting for the S3 double-decker back to the bus terminal in Oxford. Alexa from Mexico chats with us at the stop: she's studying English in preparation for a career in engineering back home. Ned falls fast asleep on the ride, while Tom peers out the window for a glimpse of the college he hopes to attend.
After alighting in Oxford, we muddle our way to a traffic island in the main street and wait another 20 minutes to catch the bus home. The “correct” bus stops at the bus stop. The driver opens the door to say he isn’t going our way and there will be another bus along in 10 minutes. A nun in full hood and black wimple exclaims, "Oh, that's my bus!" but the driver ignores Tom's knocks on the door to catch his attention.
“Do they get to customize their routes?” Tom asks as the bus speeds off. Maybe so!
When the next bus comes, we droop into the seats. An old lady with a cane imperiously demands that Ned vacate, "a priority seat, please!" The driver drops us almost across the street from our door. It feels like midnight, but is only 8pm when we reach our door.
The fellows head straight to their room. I unpack, make peppermint tea, and claim a bathroom, though the guys express surprise that I don’t want to share in the same “whatever is open” system they used so far. Ha, not likely! I was thoroughly inoculated against that particular selfless sharing by my three brothers and three sons.
Though the teams did poorly in the final rounds of Oxford, one of the debate alumni writes a FB encouragement to say if the last trip’s pattern holds true, the team may do very well in Cambridge. Listening to their dissection of this week’s tournament is interesting: they make good observations and are ready to step up the next round in Cambridge. I’ll be there to cheer them on next weekend, regardless.
Tom's working online when I make a last trip out of my room at 11pm. I wonder if he'll be tired in the morning.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
UK3: Beauty all around
The alarm goes off but I drift off for another 15 minutes. By the time I pull on clothes and draw on my eyebrows, it’s 7.30. I dash over to the house to give the students a final push out the door. That's what I think, anyhow.
All is quiet. The guys are still in bed, so they will miss the debate breakfast at the Union. Apparently they slept through the only alarm they set. I knock on their doors, “Up and at ‘em.’ Sorry! You have 15 minutes to dress and get out the door.”
I toss toast into the toaster, press it down for two cycles (“otherwise it will burn now, won’t it, and that will set off the fire alarm” –landlady, first day), “butter and jam” it, and they grab the food as they head out the door. They have several different timetables in their heads, one from an email sent by Oxford last week – and none from the printed schedule. I have the print-out, which shows: 8.40 Team registration; 8.50 Round Four.
Between brushing their teeth, running from bedroom to bathroom (“No, you can't shower this morning, guys! No time!”), brushing their hair into submission, they're tossing on dress trousers and suit jackets. They tell me there’s no rhyme or reason in the judging, from their point of view. “The Limerick team was clearly the best in our round, and they got fourth place. It was a shock. And makes no sense to us.”
I explain that judges are looking for style, structure, and substance (content).
“Well, you don’t understand. They didn’t seem to be looking for that in our sessions.”
Ok, whatever. Push Push Push – out they go. Inside, I’m smiling at how well they can fly when they have to. I’m proud of them as they hit the sidewalk at 8.15. “Go for it! Do your best.”
“Can we take a taxi?” they ask as they start to walk, file boxes and knapsacks in hand.
“Nope. If you walk quickly or run (as they did the first day, lagging behind schedule), you can easily make it.” They can take a taxi on their dime. It costs L3.50 each ($6). My gut says they hail a taxi the moment they are out of sight, but they badly need the walk to freshen up and wake for their initial rounds.
I clear away dishes, tidy the kitchen, and take a few minutes to catch up with work emails before heading for town to take them lunch money and cheer them on. I signed out yesterday and haven’t signed up to judge at 8.50 in case they needed hands-on care this morning. Whew. I take a walk through a new neighborhood. The old stones, the painted houses, and the cobbled streets fill my vision.
When I find them in the Chambers at the end of the round, our debaters are a bit discouraged and confused by the judging. They have not done well in the early round and can’t figure out what the judges are looking for. “Style, structure, and substance.” But they don’t know what that means, even when I give them examples. So I pat them on the shoulder, tell them to do their best, and wish them well. I plan to go to see them, but
Just for fun, I go to the judges’ pre-session and… there’s my name on a round! I am teamed with only two others, so apparently the organizers didn’t log me out yesterday. The motion is something like, “The house would like to remove the system of patents for inventions and replace patents with government incentives.” The first debate team (government) decides the setting will be in the USA, but a few of the speakers know almost nothing about the USA interactions of government and people. They assume the American government exists to take care of social services like their own more socialistic European models. What I know about the world and politics comes from reading news online a few times a day: BBC, Australian Guardian, Singapore news, CNN, and the Canadian version of Yahoo news. (Except for CNN, I’m getting USA news second hand.) Even I am not impressed with some of the arguments. After the debaters leave, the judges discuss team rankings and come to a consensus on speaker points. And I sign out again.
It's 2pm, time for lunch. Our students have headed off earlier with the other students, so I walk to the Covered Market a few blocks away, a daily indoor farmer’s market. Hogs heads and feathered pheasants hang at the butcher's. A stunning variety of fish are arranged fresh each day. Vegetable specialists, bakers, tea and coffee merchants, a milliner (hatmaker), a cobbler, a metalworker, and accessory and clothing shops are a few of the shops trading inside the big hall. The market’s Piemaker is famous, so I head in for mash (potatoes) and gravy placed under a venison, quail, and pheasant pie. And I order a vegan wildshroom and asparagus pie to go, for supper. The crust is heavy and solid, the filling hearty and tasty.
A family sits down beside me. Dad, Mom, and sis have come to visit a young man at the university. Mom encourages him to iron his clothes so he doesn’t look so rumpled. They ask if I have kids that age when I can’t hide my grin. I ask if he’s the first uni student in the family. Yes. (Ah, I remember encouraging the first one to do the things I used to do for him… with just as little success.) I promise the mother that the other children will not need as much coaxing--she won't care or notice as much as with the first child.
The students are wrapped up with the semi-finals and finals all evening. Magdalene (pronounced ‘maudlin’) College Chapel (built 1474-80) is hosting a Saturday concert at 5.30pm that sounds interesting. Phantasm is a group of 4 viols good enough to rate a Wikipedia entry. It's their first time playing at Magdalene. Their instruments look approximately like two violins, a ‘baby’ cello and a bass (regular size) cello. All are held between the knees. The bow is gripped from underneath, 6-8” from the frog, hand palm up. The group has won multiple awards and is renowned.
I decide to go, and get there just after 5pm. Soon the Brits have queued behind me in the drafty passageway outside the chapel, waiting for the choir rehearsal to end. We are seated in the first row of hard wood benches behind carved wooden grillwork, with candles lighting our faces. First in, I am beside the music group, which settles near the altar and begins to play.
Perfect music drifts up into the six stone ceiling vaults. One vault is over the foyer, where an overflow crowd enjoys the concert. We’re sitting in four rows facing the center from both sides of the chapel. Two golden candlesticks about 27” high with 8” beeswax candles flicker in front of the altar painting of Christ Carrying the Cross by the 17th-century Spanish artist Valdes Leal. The picture is surrounded with stonework, topped with 21 statues of saints, and finished off towards the eaves with more statues standing above intricate carvings of angels holding college shields. Stone grillwork arches trace around the wood doors, which have similar carvings. The green and grey stone floors, squares offset in diamond checkerboards, are worn from centuries of feet. A woven carpet runs the center of the hall. Spectacular colored glass windows contrast with sepia-toned windows of the foyer.
Oh, the music is exquisite! Slight bow pressure, small adjustments… a composer’s dream of unity and attention. When their 25 minute concert is done, they move from the altar to the middle of the chapel for 6pm Evensong. A college student robed in choir black removes their chairs and stands from the altar as they tune up again.
The organ loft faces the altar from the back. As bells toll 6pm, the organist begins to play and the choir files in. There are twelve boys and twelve adult male singers, half on each side, first facing the altar when they enter, then turning to the center. The priest stands on the altar side, the choir conductor on the foyer side in the middle of the chapel.
When the chimes stop, we stand. The organ and quartet accompany the choir. Chants and the Lord’s Prayer are sung on “B”, a peaceful pitch held steady. We tilt forward to slip onto red padded kneeling boxes during prayers, elbows in the reading rail in front of us.
Before the final anthem, the quartet retunes. The organ, the quartet, a trio of singers, and the choir perform Henry Purcell’s Rejoice in the Lord Always. (It's a celebration of Purcell today.) The purity of clean voices, the hum of the viols, and undergirding organ... talented and trained perfectionists exploring the music together. The choir swells in with the responses to the trio, exacting volume and breath control and perfect pitch shapes entries and ends of phrases. Oh my! I’m converted to chapel music, if not to the Anglo Catholic faith! Young choristers in training stand mute among their older peers through the most complicated parts of the service.
The congregation sings a hymn together that was written in the eighth century. The priest bows to the altar, the quartet begins a Purcell postlude, and the priest turns to walk out, followed by the choir. We stand until they are gone, then sit until the music dies away and silence rolls down over the echoes from the roof to envelop us.
I walk all the way home to prepare the schedules for tomorrow: the guys are getting in very late, but need to know what to expect in the morning. I set out the bus tickets and a reminder to pack bus tickets, passports, and their flight e-tickets. Just in case, I give them an extra copy of the flight plans.
We'll start with breakfast at 8am. Plans are to attend a nearby service at 9am. Two fellows head home via Heathrow at noon. The other two will tour Blenheim Palace (birthplace of Winston Churchill) in the afternoon, where I have booked tea in the India Room. So far the students have seen the insides of the colleges where they have debated, the famous dining hall at Christchurch College, and walked to and from the hotel through town. The two students will see some of the glory of England tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I have to pack up my own suitcase and shower. I'll be moving into the empty room in the house after the first set of students leaves, but have to vacate my current room before I cook breakfast. It's 1am before I turn out the lights.
All is quiet. The guys are still in bed, so they will miss the debate breakfast at the Union. Apparently they slept through the only alarm they set. I knock on their doors, “Up and at ‘em.’ Sorry! You have 15 minutes to dress and get out the door.”
I toss toast into the toaster, press it down for two cycles (“otherwise it will burn now, won’t it, and that will set off the fire alarm” –landlady, first day), “butter and jam” it, and they grab the food as they head out the door. They have several different timetables in their heads, one from an email sent by Oxford last week – and none from the printed schedule. I have the print-out, which shows: 8.40 Team registration; 8.50 Round Four.
Between brushing their teeth, running from bedroom to bathroom (“No, you can't shower this morning, guys! No time!”), brushing their hair into submission, they're tossing on dress trousers and suit jackets. They tell me there’s no rhyme or reason in the judging, from their point of view. “The Limerick team was clearly the best in our round, and they got fourth place. It was a shock. And makes no sense to us.”
I explain that judges are looking for style, structure, and substance (content).
“Well, you don’t understand. They didn’t seem to be looking for that in our sessions.”
Ok, whatever. Push Push Push – out they go. Inside, I’m smiling at how well they can fly when they have to. I’m proud of them as they hit the sidewalk at 8.15. “Go for it! Do your best.”
“Can we take a taxi?” they ask as they start to walk, file boxes and knapsacks in hand.
“Nope. If you walk quickly or run (as they did the first day, lagging behind schedule), you can easily make it.” They can take a taxi on their dime. It costs L3.50 each ($6). My gut says they hail a taxi the moment they are out of sight, but they badly need the walk to freshen up and wake for their initial rounds.
I clear away dishes, tidy the kitchen, and take a few minutes to catch up with work emails before heading for town to take them lunch money and cheer them on. I signed out yesterday and haven’t signed up to judge at 8.50 in case they needed hands-on care this morning. Whew. I take a walk through a new neighborhood. The old stones, the painted houses, and the cobbled streets fill my vision.
When I find them in the Chambers at the end of the round, our debaters are a bit discouraged and confused by the judging. They have not done well in the early round and can’t figure out what the judges are looking for. “Style, structure, and substance.” But they don’t know what that means, even when I give them examples. So I pat them on the shoulder, tell them to do their best, and wish them well. I plan to go to see them, but
Just for fun, I go to the judges’ pre-session and… there’s my name on a round! I am teamed with only two others, so apparently the organizers didn’t log me out yesterday. The motion is something like, “The house would like to remove the system of patents for inventions and replace patents with government incentives.” The first debate team (government) decides the setting will be in the USA, but a few of the speakers know almost nothing about the USA interactions of government and people. They assume the American government exists to take care of social services like their own more socialistic European models. What I know about the world and politics comes from reading news online a few times a day: BBC, Australian Guardian, Singapore news, CNN, and the Canadian version of Yahoo news. (Except for CNN, I’m getting USA news second hand.) Even I am not impressed with some of the arguments. After the debaters leave, the judges discuss team rankings and come to a consensus on speaker points. And I sign out again.
It's 2pm, time for lunch. Our students have headed off earlier with the other students, so I walk to the Covered Market a few blocks away, a daily indoor farmer’s market. Hogs heads and feathered pheasants hang at the butcher's. A stunning variety of fish are arranged fresh each day. Vegetable specialists, bakers, tea and coffee merchants, a milliner (hatmaker), a cobbler, a metalworker, and accessory and clothing shops are a few of the shops trading inside the big hall. The market’s Piemaker is famous, so I head in for mash (potatoes) and gravy placed under a venison, quail, and pheasant pie. And I order a vegan wildshroom and asparagus pie to go, for supper. The crust is heavy and solid, the filling hearty and tasty.
A family sits down beside me. Dad, Mom, and sis have come to visit a young man at the university. Mom encourages him to iron his clothes so he doesn’t look so rumpled. They ask if I have kids that age when I can’t hide my grin. I ask if he’s the first uni student in the family. Yes. (Ah, I remember encouraging the first one to do the things I used to do for him… with just as little success.) I promise the mother that the other children will not need as much coaxing--she won't care or notice as much as with the first child.
The students are wrapped up with the semi-finals and finals all evening. Magdalene (pronounced ‘maudlin’) College Chapel (built 1474-80) is hosting a Saturday concert at 5.30pm that sounds interesting. Phantasm is a group of 4 viols good enough to rate a Wikipedia entry. It's their first time playing at Magdalene. Their instruments look approximately like two violins, a ‘baby’ cello and a bass (regular size) cello. All are held between the knees. The bow is gripped from underneath, 6-8” from the frog, hand palm up. The group has won multiple awards and is renowned.
I decide to go, and get there just after 5pm. Soon the Brits have queued behind me in the drafty passageway outside the chapel, waiting for the choir rehearsal to end. We are seated in the first row of hard wood benches behind carved wooden grillwork, with candles lighting our faces. First in, I am beside the music group, which settles near the altar and begins to play.
Perfect music drifts up into the six stone ceiling vaults. One vault is over the foyer, where an overflow crowd enjoys the concert. We’re sitting in four rows facing the center from both sides of the chapel. Two golden candlesticks about 27” high with 8” beeswax candles flicker in front of the altar painting of Christ Carrying the Cross by the 17th-century Spanish artist Valdes Leal. The picture is surrounded with stonework, topped with 21 statues of saints, and finished off towards the eaves with more statues standing above intricate carvings of angels holding college shields. Stone grillwork arches trace around the wood doors, which have similar carvings. The green and grey stone floors, squares offset in diamond checkerboards, are worn from centuries of feet. A woven carpet runs the center of the hall. Spectacular colored glass windows contrast with sepia-toned windows of the foyer.
Oh, the music is exquisite! Slight bow pressure, small adjustments… a composer’s dream of unity and attention. When their 25 minute concert is done, they move from the altar to the middle of the chapel for 6pm Evensong. A college student robed in choir black removes their chairs and stands from the altar as they tune up again.
The organ loft faces the altar from the back. As bells toll 6pm, the organist begins to play and the choir files in. There are twelve boys and twelve adult male singers, half on each side, first facing the altar when they enter, then turning to the center. The priest stands on the altar side, the choir conductor on the foyer side in the middle of the chapel.
When the chimes stop, we stand. The organ and quartet accompany the choir. Chants and the Lord’s Prayer are sung on “B”, a peaceful pitch held steady. We tilt forward to slip onto red padded kneeling boxes during prayers, elbows in the reading rail in front of us.
Before the final anthem, the quartet retunes. The organ, the quartet, a trio of singers, and the choir perform Henry Purcell’s Rejoice in the Lord Always. (It's a celebration of Purcell today.) The purity of clean voices, the hum of the viols, and undergirding organ... talented and trained perfectionists exploring the music together. The choir swells in with the responses to the trio, exacting volume and breath control and perfect pitch shapes entries and ends of phrases. Oh my! I’m converted to chapel music, if not to the Anglo Catholic faith! Young choristers in training stand mute among their older peers through the most complicated parts of the service.
The congregation sings a hymn together that was written in the eighth century. The priest bows to the altar, the quartet begins a Purcell postlude, and the priest turns to walk out, followed by the choir. We stand until they are gone, then sit until the music dies away and silence rolls down over the echoes from the roof to envelop us.
I walk all the way home to prepare the schedules for tomorrow: the guys are getting in very late, but need to know what to expect in the morning. I set out the bus tickets and a reminder to pack bus tickets, passports, and their flight e-tickets. Just in case, I give them an extra copy of the flight plans.
We'll start with breakfast at 8am. Plans are to attend a nearby service at 9am. Two fellows head home via Heathrow at noon. The other two will tour Blenheim Palace (birthplace of Winston Churchill) in the afternoon, where I have booked tea in the India Room. So far the students have seen the insides of the colleges where they have debated, the famous dining hall at Christchurch College, and walked to and from the hotel through town. The two students will see some of the glory of England tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I have to pack up my own suitcase and shower. I'll be moving into the empty room in the house after the first set of students leaves, but have to vacate my current room before I cook breakfast. It's 1am before I turn out the lights.
Friday, November 13, 2009
UK2: Debating at Oxford
Add “debate judge at Oxford” to my resume. What a day.
I wake to the sound of commuter cars whizzing by on rain-soaked roads. There’s a little window cut into the roof that slopes above my bed. It’s cozy being tucked under the eaves, like snugging down in a tiny attic hideaway. The bed is 30” wide, with a desk about the same width, and a 2” bookshelf beside an 18” closet. There’s a little shelf for a tea kettle by the miniscule sink. The whole room might be 8’X8’. Just perfect! I actually have two baths: one with sink and toilet is down the hall. The other with a bathtub / shower and sink is at the foot of the stairs near the door.
About 8am, I walk outside and a few doors down. First I tidy the kitchen so I can begin cooking the breakfast given us by Vivian, the B&B lady: bacon, eggs, toast, beans, tomatoes. One of the men has dropped his wet towel on the lounge carpet, so I loop it over a doorknob in the hall: that’s his towel for the week. (Surprise!) I lay out the toiletries scattered around the lounge on a windowsill, so when the students emerge and start looking for toothpaste and deodorant it’s easily found.
I wake the guys at 8.30. Ned has purchased crumpets, and he pops some in the toaster. The guys are tired, but recognize their advantage over peers who were binge-drinking last night. “For them, it’s a lose-lose situation. You can’t remember what happened, you have a horrible headache, and you spent $50 for nothing. Our heads are clear, and we didn’t spend a cent.” (Zeb) They used their drink tickets to buy pop. The big winners are pub owners and alcohol companies, who do a roaring business – many students don’t consider they’ve had a night out until they have had 3-4 pints of beer, according to Vivian. And the town kids hang out and drink in their own pubs, creating a cultural headache for all. There’s more to life, and these kids know it. The alcohol temporarily soothes the meaninglessness of today's secular and subjective values.
The students take a long time to get ready. As they push away from the table, the first one leaves his dishes for me to clear so I call him back with a friendly, “Don’t forget to put your dishes in the dishwasher!” and he sets the tone for the others. They shower, iron their shirts, and put lunches in their backpacks.
We get out the door a half hour behind schedule to start walking to the Union. It’s a good half-hour hike, and my legs are feeling the five-plus miles we walked yesterday. It feels good to stretch them out though. What a contrast to the sedentary and car culture we live in back home. I’ve walked further in two days than in the last two months in Seattle.
Once we’ve confirmed our teams’ attendance, I get money from the cash machine to pay for a second team – our two students have been permitted to compete as a second team. Oxford specifies that a school with two teams needs to provide a judge as well. That's how I get the opportunity to judge debate at Oxford!
On my way back from the bank, I take the long way around, admiring the stone spires and the shops tucked into C15-C19 buildings. The city council has wisely preserved much of the old buildings over the years. I’m reading “Oxford” by David Horan as an accompaniment to travel here, and he notes that a college building was torn down to widen the road… in 1779. I love the cobblestones on which busses, cars, cycles, and pedestrians squeeze through the streets. Blue name plates highlight historic events. For instance, we pass the field every day where Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute barrier for running the mile. I remember the story from a book I read when I was 12 years old, and it gives me a thrill to cheer him on when I pass the track 50 years later.
Back to the Union, I register at the judging table on the second floor and participate in two rounds. Both of my debates have excellent judging chairs: the first is an experienced Oxford debater and the second is a woman from Berlin with a mind like a sponge and a tongue like a velvet saber. She offers the students clear suggestions for improvement, based on the judges’ discussions after the round finishes.
The debate style is international Intervarsity Parliamentary Debate. Four teams of two people each compete in a round The first and third teams will debate for the motion (idea of the debate). The second and fourth will debate against it. The speakers alternate: one member of a team argues for, the first member of Team Two argues against, Team 1 (person 2) argues for, etc. The fourth and final team sums up the arguments against. It takes a long time for eight people to speak back and forth. The motions in Rounds One and Two were: “The House is in favor of deaf couples using medical technology to ensure their child is born deaf;” and “The House is in favor of Europe becoming one super-nation.”
Students have fifteen minutes to prepare a defense with their teammate. In these first rounds, the students have only five minutes to present their case. Usually, it’s easy to judge the top and bottom teams. The middle two teams are more problematic to differentiate if they are close in style or presentation. Sometimes it comes down to the whim or preference of the judges.
Northwest’s Team One scores second in the first round, but vacates their own room before we finish judging Round Two. Team Two scores third twice. By the time the second round is over, it’s 8.30, time for a late dinner. I see Team Two in The Mission, a little Mexican restaurant close to the Union, and they are tired and a bit disappointed. Jetlag hit in the late afternoon. They promise to do their best in the next series of debates tomorrow, regardless. They’re learning so much about the process and judges' expections. This will enlarge their view of debate forever.
As I listen, Northwest's excellence in academics, spiritual formation, and care for its students shines out. Though our worldview is not global like the Europeans and Asians, there's an awareness of God at work everywhere that is absent in the secular universities. I'm proud to be part of Northwest U - even at Oxford!
I head home before the final round, which won’t be over until 10.30 or 11pm. We're on our way early for an 8am debate breakfast in the morning. The guys decide to skip the round of parties tonight and head home to sleep.
I wake to the sound of commuter cars whizzing by on rain-soaked roads. There’s a little window cut into the roof that slopes above my bed. It’s cozy being tucked under the eaves, like snugging down in a tiny attic hideaway. The bed is 30” wide, with a desk about the same width, and a 2” bookshelf beside an 18” closet. There’s a little shelf for a tea kettle by the miniscule sink. The whole room might be 8’X8’. Just perfect! I actually have two baths: one with sink and toilet is down the hall. The other with a bathtub / shower and sink is at the foot of the stairs near the door.
About 8am, I walk outside and a few doors down. First I tidy the kitchen so I can begin cooking the breakfast given us by Vivian, the B&B lady: bacon, eggs, toast, beans, tomatoes. One of the men has dropped his wet towel on the lounge carpet, so I loop it over a doorknob in the hall: that’s his towel for the week. (Surprise!) I lay out the toiletries scattered around the lounge on a windowsill, so when the students emerge and start looking for toothpaste and deodorant it’s easily found.
I wake the guys at 8.30. Ned has purchased crumpets, and he pops some in the toaster. The guys are tired, but recognize their advantage over peers who were binge-drinking last night. “For them, it’s a lose-lose situation. You can’t remember what happened, you have a horrible headache, and you spent $50 for nothing. Our heads are clear, and we didn’t spend a cent.” (Zeb) They used their drink tickets to buy pop. The big winners are pub owners and alcohol companies, who do a roaring business – many students don’t consider they’ve had a night out until they have had 3-4 pints of beer, according to Vivian. And the town kids hang out and drink in their own pubs, creating a cultural headache for all. There’s more to life, and these kids know it. The alcohol temporarily soothes the meaninglessness of today's secular and subjective values.
The students take a long time to get ready. As they push away from the table, the first one leaves his dishes for me to clear so I call him back with a friendly, “Don’t forget to put your dishes in the dishwasher!” and he sets the tone for the others. They shower, iron their shirts, and put lunches in their backpacks.
We get out the door a half hour behind schedule to start walking to the Union. It’s a good half-hour hike, and my legs are feeling the five-plus miles we walked yesterday. It feels good to stretch them out though. What a contrast to the sedentary and car culture we live in back home. I’ve walked further in two days than in the last two months in Seattle.
Once we’ve confirmed our teams’ attendance, I get money from the cash machine to pay for a second team – our two students have been permitted to compete as a second team. Oxford specifies that a school with two teams needs to provide a judge as well. That's how I get the opportunity to judge debate at Oxford!
On my way back from the bank, I take the long way around, admiring the stone spires and the shops tucked into C15-C19 buildings. The city council has wisely preserved much of the old buildings over the years. I’m reading “Oxford” by David Horan as an accompaniment to travel here, and he notes that a college building was torn down to widen the road… in 1779. I love the cobblestones on which busses, cars, cycles, and pedestrians squeeze through the streets. Blue name plates highlight historic events. For instance, we pass the field every day where Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute barrier for running the mile. I remember the story from a book I read when I was 12 years old, and it gives me a thrill to cheer him on when I pass the track 50 years later.
Back to the Union, I register at the judging table on the second floor and participate in two rounds. Both of my debates have excellent judging chairs: the first is an experienced Oxford debater and the second is a woman from Berlin with a mind like a sponge and a tongue like a velvet saber. She offers the students clear suggestions for improvement, based on the judges’ discussions after the round finishes.
The debate style is international Intervarsity Parliamentary Debate. Four teams of two people each compete in a round The first and third teams will debate for the motion (idea of the debate). The second and fourth will debate against it. The speakers alternate: one member of a team argues for, the first member of Team Two argues against, Team 1 (person 2) argues for, etc. The fourth and final team sums up the arguments against. It takes a long time for eight people to speak back and forth. The motions in Rounds One and Two were: “The House is in favor of deaf couples using medical technology to ensure their child is born deaf;” and “The House is in favor of Europe becoming one super-nation.”
Students have fifteen minutes to prepare a defense with their teammate. In these first rounds, the students have only five minutes to present their case. Usually, it’s easy to judge the top and bottom teams. The middle two teams are more problematic to differentiate if they are close in style or presentation. Sometimes it comes down to the whim or preference of the judges.
Northwest’s Team One scores second in the first round, but vacates their own room before we finish judging Round Two. Team Two scores third twice. By the time the second round is over, it’s 8.30, time for a late dinner. I see Team Two in The Mission, a little Mexican restaurant close to the Union, and they are tired and a bit disappointed. Jetlag hit in the late afternoon. They promise to do their best in the next series of debates tomorrow, regardless. They’re learning so much about the process and judges' expections. This will enlarge their view of debate forever.
As I listen, Northwest's excellence in academics, spiritual formation, and care for its students shines out. Though our worldview is not global like the Europeans and Asians, there's an awareness of God at work everywhere that is absent in the secular universities. I'm proud to be part of Northwest U - even at Oxford!
I head home before the final round, which won’t be over until 10.30 or 11pm. We're on our way early for an 8am debate breakfast in the morning. The guys decide to skip the round of parties tonight and head home to sleep.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
UK1: Touchdown
Five of us are on our way to England for two weekends of international debate tournaments. The first stop will be Oxford, and the second Cambridge.
The students, their coach and professor, and I have agreed to meet at 6am to leave for the airport. Tom, one of the students, is 25 minutes late and nowhere in sight. At 6.25, we take the shuttle van up to his apartment. He is just emerging onto the sidewalk as we drive up. He jogs back down to the meeting place where he has parked his car and loaded his suitcase. There is no explanation for lateness, and I am immediately on guard. We have both tight and flexible schedules on this trip. “You’ll have to watch him continually,” says Zeb, who is also on the trip. “He’s not that aware of things sometimes.”
We stand in the long security lines at Seattle airport. After we’re through, a few students grab a bite of breakfast. Our four-hour flight to Chicago will have drinks but no food. People balance coffee cups and breakfasts on their carry-ons as we board. Our latecomer also presents us with another snag. The zipper breaks on Tom’s backpack on the way in, so he rushes off to buy another one in the airport. He schleps along another supposed carry-on so big that the flight attendants must send it through as regular luggage.
Three of us sit in one exit row: the other two are behind us in another exit row. “Yes,” we say we are all willing and able to help passengers out the emergency exit should that be required. The flight is uneventful, the “Chicago-style” pizza the men order at O’Hare Airport is unmemorable (as are my wok-ed veges), and there are no hitches in getting to London. Some of us snooze, one sleeps deeply – sadly not me, in spite of an “8 hour sleep” pill. Two people share five center seats across the aisle, but they sit upright all the way to London, armrests down. I envy their potential space, but not their lack of travel-savvy.
Fortunately Tom’s bag arrives safely. We are so far behind the queue that nearly everyone has gone through—there is hardly a line. Immigration and customs let us into England without a fuss, so we head for the bus station. We catch the direct Oxford bus, which tours through drizzly hills and foggy vales before dropping us about a mile from the hotel. “Roundabout, second left, lovely, should have no troubles finding it,” and the bus driver leaves us and our luggage on the curb.
The men are not used to physical exercise, and walking is an effort for them. They sigh and mutter tiredly as we pull the suitcases past Magdalene Church (pronounced Mod-a-lynn) and the Oxford Rugby grounds. A sign announces the start of rugby classes for gifted youngsters, aged 8-14. What a prestigious club that would be!
It’s about 10.30am when Heather House comes into view. The landlady is chatty and takes us next door to the men’s flat. It is a tidy, unremarkable-looking house, with a beer bottle lying beside recycling bins off the sidewalk. “Won’t be any of that with our students,” we assure her. Insdie is a lounge and full kitchen with dishwasher and laundry washer/dryer, 2 bedrooms, and 2 baths. The fellow who takes the most effort in his appearance snags the bedroom with a blow-dryer in the drawer.
The initial plan is to shower, rest, have lunch, do some shopping, and register for debates, coming home for a nap if needed before the evening events. Despite a big lunch in Chicago and two meals on the airplane, the guys are too hungry to wait. Zeb has an organizing nature and asks if we can eat, then come back to shower. “It would work better if we didn’t walk to town and back to the hotel. We’d have to walk in later anyway, which takes a half hour.”
I don’t care much about what we do when. The goal is to get them food, shelter, on time to their assigned task – debate – with minimal stress. We walk a half-mile to shop at Tesco for basic food and shampoo (oh, the drama over choosing an acceptable hair gel). They are sleepy and lethargic and they’re not eager to carry the purchases. I probably would have heard no objection if I had carried them all myself, but it’s their food and toiletries, so I leave it in the buggy for them.
We pop up the street for donars (a Middle-East dish of lamb sliced into thin strips and laid into homemade naan bread), fish and chips (“It isn’t England without fish and chips!”- Ben), and my vegetarian kabab (deep-fried veges in the homemade bread). After the meal is cooked, the chef calls us to the cases at the front of the store, customizing our choices with sauces and sliced salads and vegetables. Absolutely delicious. I eat half mine and bring it home. The guys polish off their food. We pop into Boots drugstore – yay a hot water bottle for me, a few more beauty aids for the guys. They are reluctant to walk back to the hotel. Their feet hurt. I have to wait a few minutes on the corner for them to catch up. They want to clean up and rest before heading for town. To give them time to explore a bit on their own, we agree to meet at the Oxford Union at 4.30 to register before the 5pm deadline.
After a sound nap, I walk into town. It takes a half hour at a good clip – but the students are nowhere in sight. I wait a half hour at the Union before heading into the rain and wind to stand on a corner for another half hour. I’m hoping they’re not lost. The students have my phone and were going to top up my SIM card, but they haven’t been in the Virgin Mobile shop on the nearest corner. The staff is efficient, helpful, and friendly. They even call the hotel. Yes, the guys have called to see if I was there. No, the landlady didn’t think to ask for their number.
I stand in the cold, watching the people stream by at the end of a school and work day. Laughter, friends, young families, busy professors. When I am sure I won’t miss them because they aren’t coming, I head back to the Union, hoping they have arrived.
And they have, by a different way, minutes after I left. They haven’t topped up the phone, so I ask them to please stay in the Union while I do it. (Why were they late? They got distracted comparing prices for umbrellas.) The Virgin Mobile employees make short work of connecting me. The fellows’ feet are sore: two sit in the library, two relax in the entry. And I go to a nearby bookstore to browse the incredible selections and withdraw money to pay for dinner.
We have a 6.30 appointment in the Union to head out for dinner in the “Harry Potter” hall at Christ Church. Except that there is a change of plan and we will eat in their regular dining hall with students instead. In typical British fashion, the group is actually ready to head out the door by 7.15, following two students through Cornmarket Road’s pedestrian mall to Christ Church like a herd of cats on a long string. The porter stops us at the gate to call the dining hall, then waves us into the large courtyard. The profiles of the walls with student rooms above, classrooms below, are etched in stone shadows against the sky.
The dining hall matron was expecting twelve, not thirty-five people. “We booked thirty-five last week, in plenty of time,” the young debate student says politely. When someone asks what is going on, she turns to them with a smile and replies diplomatically, “They said we shall be in shortly. Not to worry.” A mere 20 minutes later we are seated in a fabulous space. One of the students can hardly eat: he is so overwhelmed by the grandeur of the life-size portraits on the walls, the dark wood beams that tower 40 feet above young people dressed in suits and formal wear, their faces glowing in light from the brass lamps on the thick oak plank tables.
The meal is a tortellini appetizer followed by salmon, tiny roasted potatoes, root vegetables in sauce, and a wonderful chocolate dessert. I eat mostly vegan – a zippy cold vinegar potato salad to start, roasted pepper with some mushrooms and eggplant as the entrée, and then I cheat with the best chocolate mousse I can remember. (By dessert, I’m tired of reminding the servers to bring a vegan option.)
The Union hosts a debate every Thursday. Today the topic is “The house says Britain should return to Christian values.” The Christians - a bishop, a member of parliament, a journalist, and an award-winning Oxford debate student, are polite and don’t push very hard. The opposition, well-known atheists and humanists, stereotype Christians as bigots who hate homosexuals, are war-mongers, and out of touch with the freedoms of real life. They shrug aside the House’s comments that the very freedoms we enjoy this night – including the privilege of debating – are possible because of Christianity’s value of every person. The Christians point out there is no freedom in atheistic states like Stalinist Russia, North Korea, or Cuba. The opposition waves it off to slam them with the ills of abortion (women will get slaughtered if we return to narrow-minded Christian values, they say). It is an eye-opening look at the closed thinking produced by rewriting history with a secular worldview. We are done by 11pm, but the students still want to go to the international debater’s reception and aftermath.
I drift through crowds of young people on the sidewalks. Many are dressed in pyjama style costumes, some skipping along in pink and leopard print tights – only undergraduates can think they are cool by looking this strange. I catch the bus home – it could be dangerous to be out in this neighborhood alone late at night, said the landlady earlier. “Oxford has changed, and for the worse,” confirming the arguments made by the House during the debate. The bus stops across the street from the hotel, and I am ready to hop in the shower by 11.30, bed by 12, writing until 1.30. I catch up on work until 2.15. My alarm is set for 8am.
The students, their coach and professor, and I have agreed to meet at 6am to leave for the airport. Tom, one of the students, is 25 minutes late and nowhere in sight. At 6.25, we take the shuttle van up to his apartment. He is just emerging onto the sidewalk as we drive up. He jogs back down to the meeting place where he has parked his car and loaded his suitcase. There is no explanation for lateness, and I am immediately on guard. We have both tight and flexible schedules on this trip. “You’ll have to watch him continually,” says Zeb, who is also on the trip. “He’s not that aware of things sometimes.”
We stand in the long security lines at Seattle airport. After we’re through, a few students grab a bite of breakfast. Our four-hour flight to Chicago will have drinks but no food. People balance coffee cups and breakfasts on their carry-ons as we board. Our latecomer also presents us with another snag. The zipper breaks on Tom’s backpack on the way in, so he rushes off to buy another one in the airport. He schleps along another supposed carry-on so big that the flight attendants must send it through as regular luggage.
Three of us sit in one exit row: the other two are behind us in another exit row. “Yes,” we say we are all willing and able to help passengers out the emergency exit should that be required. The flight is uneventful, the “Chicago-style” pizza the men order at O’Hare Airport is unmemorable (as are my wok-ed veges), and there are no hitches in getting to London. Some of us snooze, one sleeps deeply – sadly not me, in spite of an “8 hour sleep” pill. Two people share five center seats across the aisle, but they sit upright all the way to London, armrests down. I envy their potential space, but not their lack of travel-savvy.
Fortunately Tom’s bag arrives safely. We are so far behind the queue that nearly everyone has gone through—there is hardly a line. Immigration and customs let us into England without a fuss, so we head for the bus station. We catch the direct Oxford bus, which tours through drizzly hills and foggy vales before dropping us about a mile from the hotel. “Roundabout, second left, lovely, should have no troubles finding it,” and the bus driver leaves us and our luggage on the curb.
The men are not used to physical exercise, and walking is an effort for them. They sigh and mutter tiredly as we pull the suitcases past Magdalene Church (pronounced Mod-a-lynn) and the Oxford Rugby grounds. A sign announces the start of rugby classes for gifted youngsters, aged 8-14. What a prestigious club that would be!
It’s about 10.30am when Heather House comes into view. The landlady is chatty and takes us next door to the men’s flat. It is a tidy, unremarkable-looking house, with a beer bottle lying beside recycling bins off the sidewalk. “Won’t be any of that with our students,” we assure her. Insdie is a lounge and full kitchen with dishwasher and laundry washer/dryer, 2 bedrooms, and 2 baths. The fellow who takes the most effort in his appearance snags the bedroom with a blow-dryer in the drawer.
The initial plan is to shower, rest, have lunch, do some shopping, and register for debates, coming home for a nap if needed before the evening events. Despite a big lunch in Chicago and two meals on the airplane, the guys are too hungry to wait. Zeb has an organizing nature and asks if we can eat, then come back to shower. “It would work better if we didn’t walk to town and back to the hotel. We’d have to walk in later anyway, which takes a half hour.”
I don’t care much about what we do when. The goal is to get them food, shelter, on time to their assigned task – debate – with minimal stress. We walk a half-mile to shop at Tesco for basic food and shampoo (oh, the drama over choosing an acceptable hair gel). They are sleepy and lethargic and they’re not eager to carry the purchases. I probably would have heard no objection if I had carried them all myself, but it’s their food and toiletries, so I leave it in the buggy for them.
We pop up the street for donars (a Middle-East dish of lamb sliced into thin strips and laid into homemade naan bread), fish and chips (“It isn’t England without fish and chips!”- Ben), and my vegetarian kabab (deep-fried veges in the homemade bread). After the meal is cooked, the chef calls us to the cases at the front of the store, customizing our choices with sauces and sliced salads and vegetables. Absolutely delicious. I eat half mine and bring it home. The guys polish off their food. We pop into Boots drugstore – yay a hot water bottle for me, a few more beauty aids for the guys. They are reluctant to walk back to the hotel. Their feet hurt. I have to wait a few minutes on the corner for them to catch up. They want to clean up and rest before heading for town. To give them time to explore a bit on their own, we agree to meet at the Oxford Union at 4.30 to register before the 5pm deadline.
After a sound nap, I walk into town. It takes a half hour at a good clip – but the students are nowhere in sight. I wait a half hour at the Union before heading into the rain and wind to stand on a corner for another half hour. I’m hoping they’re not lost. The students have my phone and were going to top up my SIM card, but they haven’t been in the Virgin Mobile shop on the nearest corner. The staff is efficient, helpful, and friendly. They even call the hotel. Yes, the guys have called to see if I was there. No, the landlady didn’t think to ask for their number.
I stand in the cold, watching the people stream by at the end of a school and work day. Laughter, friends, young families, busy professors. When I am sure I won’t miss them because they aren’t coming, I head back to the Union, hoping they have arrived.
And they have, by a different way, minutes after I left. They haven’t topped up the phone, so I ask them to please stay in the Union while I do it. (Why were they late? They got distracted comparing prices for umbrellas.) The Virgin Mobile employees make short work of connecting me. The fellows’ feet are sore: two sit in the library, two relax in the entry. And I go to a nearby bookstore to browse the incredible selections and withdraw money to pay for dinner.
We have a 6.30 appointment in the Union to head out for dinner in the “Harry Potter” hall at Christ Church. Except that there is a change of plan and we will eat in their regular dining hall with students instead. In typical British fashion, the group is actually ready to head out the door by 7.15, following two students through Cornmarket Road’s pedestrian mall to Christ Church like a herd of cats on a long string. The porter stops us at the gate to call the dining hall, then waves us into the large courtyard. The profiles of the walls with student rooms above, classrooms below, are etched in stone shadows against the sky.
The dining hall matron was expecting twelve, not thirty-five people. “We booked thirty-five last week, in plenty of time,” the young debate student says politely. When someone asks what is going on, she turns to them with a smile and replies diplomatically, “They said we shall be in shortly. Not to worry.” A mere 20 minutes later we are seated in a fabulous space. One of the students can hardly eat: he is so overwhelmed by the grandeur of the life-size portraits on the walls, the dark wood beams that tower 40 feet above young people dressed in suits and formal wear, their faces glowing in light from the brass lamps on the thick oak plank tables.
The meal is a tortellini appetizer followed by salmon, tiny roasted potatoes, root vegetables in sauce, and a wonderful chocolate dessert. I eat mostly vegan – a zippy cold vinegar potato salad to start, roasted pepper with some mushrooms and eggplant as the entrée, and then I cheat with the best chocolate mousse I can remember. (By dessert, I’m tired of reminding the servers to bring a vegan option.)
The Union hosts a debate every Thursday. Today the topic is “The house says Britain should return to Christian values.” The Christians - a bishop, a member of parliament, a journalist, and an award-winning Oxford debate student, are polite and don’t push very hard. The opposition, well-known atheists and humanists, stereotype Christians as bigots who hate homosexuals, are war-mongers, and out of touch with the freedoms of real life. They shrug aside the House’s comments that the very freedoms we enjoy this night – including the privilege of debating – are possible because of Christianity’s value of every person. The Christians point out there is no freedom in atheistic states like Stalinist Russia, North Korea, or Cuba. The opposition waves it off to slam them with the ills of abortion (women will get slaughtered if we return to narrow-minded Christian values, they say). It is an eye-opening look at the closed thinking produced by rewriting history with a secular worldview. We are done by 11pm, but the students still want to go to the international debater’s reception and aftermath.
I drift through crowds of young people on the sidewalks. Many are dressed in pyjama style costumes, some skipping along in pink and leopard print tights – only undergraduates can think they are cool by looking this strange. I catch the bus home – it could be dangerous to be out in this neighborhood alone late at night, said the landlady earlier. “Oxford has changed, and for the worse,” confirming the arguments made by the House during the debate. The bus stops across the street from the hotel, and I am ready to hop in the shower by 11.30, bed by 12, writing until 1.30. I catch up on work until 2.15. My alarm is set for 8am.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
3 Books to read in a rocking chair
Ok, it's time to pass along some book reviews (books provided by the publisher). If you need some light reading and good stories, I'd recommend the following:
I enjoyed "Leaving Carolina". Time for some romance and schmaltz once in a while.
"Limelight" holds out hope that even when we're old and crusty, God can change things around and give us new perspective.
Book: Leaving Carolina
Author: Tamara Leigh
Piper Wick left her hometown of Pickwick, North Carolina, twelve years ago, shook the dust off her feet, ditched her drawl and her family name, and made a new life for herself as a high-powered public relations consultant in LA. She’s even “engaged to be engaged” to the picture-perfect U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler.
Now all of Piper’s hard-won happiness is threatened by a reclusive uncle’s bout of conscience. In the wake of a health scare, Uncle Obadiah Pickwick has decided to change his will, leaving money to make amends for four generations’ worth of family misdeeds. But that will reveal all the Pickwicks’ secrets, including Piper’s.
Though Piper arrives in Pickwick primed for battle, she is unprepared for Uncle Obe’s rugged, blue-eyed gardener. So just who is Axel Smith? Why does he think making amends is more than just making restitution? And why, oh why, can’t she stay on task? With the Lord’s help, Piper is about to discover that although good PR might smooth things over, only the truth will set her free.
Book: What Matters Most
Author: Melody Carlson
Sixteen-year-old Maya Stark has a lot to sort through. She could graduate from high school early if she wants to. She’s considering it, especially when popular cheerleader Vanessa Hartman decides to make her life miserable–and Maya’s ex-boyfriend Dominic gets the wrong idea about everything.
To complicate matters even more, Maya’s mother will be released from prison soon, and she’ll want Maya to live with her again. That’s a disaster waiting to happen. And when Maya plays her dad’s old acoustic guitar in front of an audience, she discovers talents and opportunities she never expected. Faced with new options, Maya must choose between a “normal” life and a glamorous one. Ultimately, she has to figure out what matters most.
Book: Limelight
Author: Melody Carlson
Claudette Fioré used to turn heads and break hearts. She relished the glamorous Hollywood lifestyle because she had what it takes: money, youth, fame, and above all, beauty. But age has withered that beauty, and a crooked accountant has taken her wealth, leaving the proud widow penniless and alone.
Armed with stubbornness and sarcasm, Claudette returns to her shabby little hometown and her estranged sister. Slowly, she makes friends. She begins to see her old life in a new light. For the first time, Claudette Fioré questions her own values and finds herself wondering if it’s too late to change.
Grab a copy, curl up with a warm blanket, and enjoy! RK
I enjoyed "Leaving Carolina". Time for some romance and schmaltz once in a while.
"Limelight" holds out hope that even when we're old and crusty, God can change things around and give us new perspective.
Book: Leaving Carolina
Author: Tamara Leigh
Piper Wick left her hometown of Pickwick, North Carolina, twelve years ago, shook the dust off her feet, ditched her drawl and her family name, and made a new life for herself as a high-powered public relations consultant in LA. She’s even “engaged to be engaged” to the picture-perfect U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler.
Now all of Piper’s hard-won happiness is threatened by a reclusive uncle’s bout of conscience. In the wake of a health scare, Uncle Obadiah Pickwick has decided to change his will, leaving money to make amends for four generations’ worth of family misdeeds. But that will reveal all the Pickwicks’ secrets, including Piper’s.
Though Piper arrives in Pickwick primed for battle, she is unprepared for Uncle Obe’s rugged, blue-eyed gardener. So just who is Axel Smith? Why does he think making amends is more than just making restitution? And why, oh why, can’t she stay on task? With the Lord’s help, Piper is about to discover that although good PR might smooth things over, only the truth will set her free.
Book: What Matters Most
Author: Melody Carlson
Sixteen-year-old Maya Stark has a lot to sort through. She could graduate from high school early if she wants to. She’s considering it, especially when popular cheerleader Vanessa Hartman decides to make her life miserable–and Maya’s ex-boyfriend Dominic gets the wrong idea about everything.
To complicate matters even more, Maya’s mother will be released from prison soon, and she’ll want Maya to live with her again. That’s a disaster waiting to happen. And when Maya plays her dad’s old acoustic guitar in front of an audience, she discovers talents and opportunities she never expected. Faced with new options, Maya must choose between a “normal” life and a glamorous one. Ultimately, she has to figure out what matters most.
Book: Limelight
Author: Melody Carlson
Claudette Fioré used to turn heads and break hearts. She relished the glamorous Hollywood lifestyle because she had what it takes: money, youth, fame, and above all, beauty. But age has withered that beauty, and a crooked accountant has taken her wealth, leaving the proud widow penniless and alone.
Armed with stubbornness and sarcasm, Claudette returns to her shabby little hometown and her estranged sister. Slowly, she makes friends. She begins to see her old life in a new light. For the first time, Claudette Fioré questions her own values and finds herself wondering if it’s too late to change.
Grab a copy, curl up with a warm blanket, and enjoy! RK
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sitting on abundance
Our house is in a bit of upheaval over the past few months. Okay, actually... it is undergoing a complete transformation from traditional European-style decor to classic modern design.
One transformation in process is the family eating area. I started looking for new furnishings before we gave the kids our Queen Anne table and chairs. Someone sold us a heavy glass table with two glass V-shaped pedestals for $75 (the base retails for $500). The table sits on the like-new 10'X12' Crate and Barrel rug (a freecycle item we'd picked up last spring). We placed the 2 clear Ghost chairs used for extra seating in the DR at the table ends. I picked up four red molded stacking chairs. Funky, loved it, could have lived with it, but I kept browsing.
Spotting an ad for 6 wood stacking chairs, I called up the seller. He said they were in great condition, comfy, and $50 cash for all would be fine. We picked them up, with manufacturer's labels intact. My instinct was true: each chair sells for about $300 on the Design Within Reach website. We're sitting on God's abundance at each meal.
"Feast your eyes on the best design, the highest quality," my mentor said. "Then you will easily distinguish between what is merely good and what is truly wonderful." Developing an eye for quality doesn't come from looking at Woman's Day or Family Circle magazines. And we won't recognize good design if we surround ourselves with junk.
Our spiritual life is similar. It matters whether we read deeply in scripture or fill up with hyped sermons-on-tape and "lite worship." The depth of our character will reflect whether we wrestle with authors who plunge deeply into the life of faith or seek out pop gospel that slides off without challenging our worldview.
God is good. He is patient. And he lets us choose how we will develop our spiritual eyes and ears. Let's go for gourmet rather than fast-food and develop an informed palate that recognizes quality from mediocrity.
Read more:
*And he said, "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Job 1:21 NEV
*Lift up your heads, O you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is this King of glory? The LORD strong and mighty, the LORD mighty in battle.
One transformation in process is the family eating area. I started looking for new furnishings before we gave the kids our Queen Anne table and chairs. Someone sold us a heavy glass table with two glass V-shaped pedestals for $75 (the base retails for $500). The table sits on the like-new 10'X12' Crate and Barrel rug (a freecycle item we'd picked up last spring). We placed the 2 clear Ghost chairs used for extra seating in the DR at the table ends. I picked up four red molded stacking chairs. Funky, loved it, could have lived with it, but I kept browsing.
Spotting an ad for 6 wood stacking chairs, I called up the seller. He said they were in great condition, comfy, and $50 cash for all would be fine. We picked them up, with manufacturer's labels intact. My instinct was true: each chair sells for about $300 on the Design Within Reach website. We're sitting on God's abundance at each meal.
"Feast your eyes on the best design, the highest quality," my mentor said. "Then you will easily distinguish between what is merely good and what is truly wonderful." Developing an eye for quality doesn't come from looking at Woman's Day or Family Circle magazines. And we won't recognize good design if we surround ourselves with junk.
Our spiritual life is similar. It matters whether we read deeply in scripture or fill up with hyped sermons-on-tape and "lite worship." The depth of our character will reflect whether we wrestle with authors who plunge deeply into the life of faith or seek out pop gospel that slides off without challenging our worldview.
God is good. He is patient. And he lets us choose how we will develop our spiritual eyes and ears. Let's go for gourmet rather than fast-food and develop an informed palate that recognizes quality from mediocrity.
Read more:
*And he said, "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Job 1:21 NEV
*Lift up your heads, O you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is this King of glory? The LORD strong and mighty, the LORD mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O you gates; lift them up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is he, this King of glory? The LORD Almighty—he is the King of glory. Psalm 24:7-10 NIV
* For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the the thoughts and intents of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.
Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess.For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin.
Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need. Hebrews 4:12-16 NIVSunday, November 1, 2009
I know just what to do
Some people have a lot of irons in the fire. The assumption is that they'll eventually get burned, taking on something hot without paying attention. I'm not so sure about that.
There's a specialization that comes from experience. My mom is better at running a household than anyone I know. She cleans a clean house and makes jam before her shelves are empty. Her warm hospitality and preparations means anyone can drop by at any time... and eat well, too.
My brother knows just what to say at the right time. He has a gift for attuned attention, telling people what is true in the way that they want to hear. The secret to his success in real estate? "Find out what they really want, not what they say they want... and give it to them."
Our friend Ed is better at diagnosing cars and getting them back on the road than anyone we know. He's blessed students and employees at the university with great service and fair prices. He's a practical, built it and fix it kind of guy with a wide-ranging skill set.
What do they have in common? They have practiced their craft. They know how to do what they are doing. Over long years, they get better and quicker... the work gets easier based on possibilities honed by experience.
Whatever our latest interest, my husband and I have books beside the bed explaining others' experiences and advice. By the time we try a new venture, we have researched and watched people's shortcuts and ideas. W knows about bicycles, construction, houseboats, electronics, theology. I understand design and decor, crafts, food, writing, music, and connecting people.
With each new acquisition, the other projects are easier to start -- or harder. We know what's involved, and that it takes more rather than less time to accomplish a worthwhile goal. What a relief when we're at wit's end, looking for help, and someone else walks by and says, "I know just what to do."
Read more:
*He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? Micah 6:8 NIV
*Seek the LORD while he may be found; call on him while he is near. Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on him, and to our God, for he will freely pardon.
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD. "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:6-11 NIV
*(Jesus said,) Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you. Luke 6:37-38
There's a specialization that comes from experience. My mom is better at running a household than anyone I know. She cleans a clean house and makes jam before her shelves are empty. Her warm hospitality and preparations means anyone can drop by at any time... and eat well, too.
My brother knows just what to say at the right time. He has a gift for attuned attention, telling people what is true in the way that they want to hear. The secret to his success in real estate? "Find out what they really want, not what they say they want... and give it to them."
Our friend Ed is better at diagnosing cars and getting them back on the road than anyone we know. He's blessed students and employees at the university with great service and fair prices. He's a practical, built it and fix it kind of guy with a wide-ranging skill set.
What do they have in common? They have practiced their craft. They know how to do what they are doing. Over long years, they get better and quicker... the work gets easier based on possibilities honed by experience.
Whatever our latest interest, my husband and I have books beside the bed explaining others' experiences and advice. By the time we try a new venture, we have researched and watched people's shortcuts and ideas. W knows about bicycles, construction, houseboats, electronics, theology. I understand design and decor, crafts, food, writing, music, and connecting people.
With each new acquisition, the other projects are easier to start -- or harder. We know what's involved, and that it takes more rather than less time to accomplish a worthwhile goal. What a relief when we're at wit's end, looking for help, and someone else walks by and says, "I know just what to do."
Read more:
*He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? Micah 6:8 NIV
*Seek the LORD while he may be found; call on him while he is near. Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on him, and to our God, for he will freely pardon.
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD. "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:6-11 NIV
*(Jesus said,) Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you. Luke 6:37-38
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