Shrink your Circle

Why do we live in one community, drive two or three counties over to work, get gas here and haircuts there, and worship at a church several zip codes away?​

​Not everyone does this, but many do in this Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area.  Apparently (at least in 2010), less than 20% of Maryland residents had a commute time of less than 15 minutes.  Everyone else is sitting on the Beltway or ICC, and maybe there's a couple oddballs (affectionately, this!) biking their 10-mile route every day.

My drive to work averages around 45 minutes.  My drive to church averages 20 minutes.​  This is probably average for this area.

My roommate walks or bikes to work, is thinking about committing to the church that's maybe half a mile down the street, and chooses to purchase groceries and other needs as close to the house as possible.​

​How would the culture change if instead of a vast interconnected (shallowly-connected?) network, we shifted our physical lives into a vast number of tightly-knit smaller communities?

How much more effective would the church be in its obligation to care for the poor, widows, orphans, foreigners, needy, neighbors next door, if all Christians shrunk their circles so as to have more time (and money) and peace to spread into their ministry?​

I am where I am supposed to be for now. Nevertheless, my next season of life - and all the rest of them! - will have, in some way, an intentionally-pursued smaller circle.​

Wanderings

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The snow, fallen; the evening activity, canceled.  What now?  A camera, warm clothes, and the forest beneath a full moon yet half-concealed by swift wisps of cloud.

He walks, pausing occasionally.  A dog barks down the street, children play in the cul-de-sac around the bend.  But the forest is quiet.  He sees the tracks - a fox walked past some time ago.  A rabbit bounded through the yard.  Deer trotted off to a place of warmth.  But now, amidst the trees, only silence.

He walks past the stream and up the embankment to the railroad tracks, to the bridge he has been to countless times.  Sets up the tripod and camera, takes a photo, adjusts, another photo, adjusts again until satisfaction hits, the camera is placed elsewhere, and the process begins again.

Each image, thirty seconds of light waves hitting an electronic sensor, recorded to memory.  Thirty seconds to think - what's next?  Where is he heading?  An impossibility becomes possible with unforeseen suddenness.  Habits, expectations, processes change and mold to a new 40-hour workweek life.  Jesus Christ is making all things new and he can never let go of that, but his heart breaks for the brokenhearted who can't see hope and he fights the feeling -the lie- of uselessness as he wonders how he might be a part of restoration.

The shutter closes; another image appears.  Adjust, reposition, again.

Back to thoughts of change and the unknown.  Back to the house. 

The forest is quiet.

How to Eat

I just read The Sheer Ecstasy of Being a Lunatic Farmer over the past week, having heard about Joel Salatin and Polyface Farms through a random decision to watch Food, Inc. two years ago.   He makes an incredible array of assertions, which I am inclined to trust from the outset, though I wish he did footnote something and cite some sources.  High school research papers come back to haunt, it would seem!  That aside, I thoroughly enjoyed his book and his thoughts.  Maybe I'll start farming some day.

Regardless, I am excited to start taking deliberate steps to eat better food from local farms.  It's frustrating to know that many choices I make as a consumer can aid injustice in some form - clothes I buy may be sewn by faraway peoples receiving less pay than they ought, food I eat may be farmed in a way that destroys the land and imprisons farmers into indentured servitude for a large agribusiness company.  I'd love to be sure that the workers making the clothes I wear, tending the crops I eat, building the mechanical devices I use are justly compensated. The more I learn, the more I'll have to change habits, I suppose.  If we Christians believe we're part of God's mission in healing the earth, restoring people to right relationship with Him, rescuing the captives, breaking every chain - everything comes under scrutiny.  How then shall we live?  I will constantly be re-answering this question as I grow older. 

Right now?  I'll buy some more of my food locally, from farms that are taking deliberate steps to heal the land and do agriculture in holistic ways.  I'll take the time to cook most of my meals (this I have been doing fairly consistently over the last two years).  And hopefully a few friends will make some small decisions along the way and things will snowball.

There's enough disjointed rambling for now.  In the meantime, Howard County folks, check out some neat sites:

Howard County Conservancy

The Zahradka Farm

Clark's Farm

Love Dove Farms

Dun na nGall

I left Cork city and began yet another day-long bus journey through Limerick and Galway.  A stopover in Galway on a rather sunny afternoon was a welcome respite, as I sat in Eyre Square and munched on some random snacks, even running into Jenna once again.  We determined that I'd stay with them again for my final night in Ireland after my trip north to Donegal.

On the bus again, through Connemara and Sligo, seated next to people who were keen to not talk to anyone unless by cell phone.  After too many hours, we finally arrived in front of the Abbey Hotel in Donegal Town.

Armed with my travel book, I set off out of town and onto the road to Killybegs, looking for the hostel I'd read about therein.  Some wanderings back and forth in the darkness finally led me there.  Up the stairs I went; the doorbell I rang.  I waited a bit, hearing sounds from within, until, somewhat surprisingly, a window behind me opened and a young woman popped her head out: "Sorry, we're closed for the season!  You'd be best trying Diamond Lodgings."

Walking the mile back to town, I suddenly realised that this was probably why no one answered my rings at the hostel in Sixmilebridge.  I'd be the only traveler they'd get for two months!  Undaunted, I found Diamond Lodgings, nestled secretly behind an imposing gate on the street surrounding the town center.  I rang the bell several times.  No response.  A cab driver, noting my lack of success, suggested I head down the road to the Atlantic Guest House.

Third time's the charm, and I got my room for my two nights in Donegal.  Satisfied, I headed off to the Reel Inn, where I spent my evening listening to traditional music, talking to a couple from Asheville, NC, and generally enjoying myself.

The next day brought rain.  I had a huge breakfast at the guest house and then wandered around town amidst the raindrops.  Thankfully, the once-a-month Saturday market was on, so I spent most of the morning wandering between the little shops and talking to the shopkeepers.  It was great to hear of their lives and experiences, and even ask them about my ancestral clan - the McMonegals.  Some were still around, they said; in fact, McMonigal Stone Company was just down the road.  Distant relatives, perhaps, alive and well, despite spelling differences!

That afternoon, I took the bus to Ardara, being informed as I got off that there was no return bus to Donegal Town.  The driver rang some other drivers and we figured out a return schedule for me nevertheless.  I spent the afternoon wandering around and taking photographs.  I had hoped to visit the Maghera waterfalls, but was disappointed to see I'd have to walk 30 km or so.  No time for that!  I settled for a random road that took me past several farms and a pen of sheep that all glared at me as I passed.

Returning from my wanderings and having a half hour left before the bus arrival, I stopped in the bar on the corner of the street.  An elderly gentleman immediately struck up a conversation with me, sipping on what was probably Brandy.  We talked a while and he told me of his childhood, running around Donegal with nothing in his pockets and no shoes on his feet.  He was also quite proud to share the name of American senator and astronaut John Glenn.

On the bus again, from Ardara to Killybegs.  Upon arrival, we discovered that the other bus driver, who was supposed to wait for me, had gone on.  "You're gonna have to thumb it, then," said the driver, who was going in the opposite direction.

And so I stood on the side of the road for half an hour in the cold windy darkness, thumb extended.

Finally, a car stopped and a half-hour ride began, during which Kieran told me all about Irish Gaelic Football and how amazing it was and how great that Donegal won the all-Ireland final this year.  A fun glimpse into the culture.  My second successful hitchhiking experience.

That night, I went to another pub and had a conversation with a creepy Romanian man for a while.  It was mostly a college-aged crowd, and I had some conversations with other young Donegal folk before wandering outside to pray for the town and those students in the pub, spending their Saturday drinking heavily.  Oh, that they would know the glory for which they were created, the glory of the One who created them!

Sleep came soon afterwards.  Another day on the buses; another night with Nathan and Jenna.  One more bus, two flights, home.