There it is.
That thing I have run so hard from. Tried to hide. Been a little bit disappointed about.
I spent the first 18 years of my life growing up in a land full of blessing and heartache.
And I’ve spent the last 5 years running away from it.
Growing up in Northern Ireland can leave you with a bit of an identity crisis if you’re not careful. Every decision aligns you one way or another, politically and religiously. It’s easy to get a little bit lost in the maze of politics, religions, ethics, scandals, and everything else.
But it’s also a place full of beauty; full of God breaking out and doing new things.
Like my friend Jude, and her dream: Tell It In Colour. Stories of redemption and hope in a land saturated with bad stories, dull stories, colourless stories.
I have so much affection for the little country, but I like to keep it at a distance.
More and more, I am coming to a realisation that I must accept the past, accept the places I have been, the experiences I have lived.
There’s an old story of a man asking for directions, for the best route to a specific location, only to be told, “Well, I wouldn’t start from here!”
That’s so often been how I feel about being Northern Irish. It’s felt like a handicap. Like something to be overcome. Like I shouldn’t start from here.
But I have started from here.
Northern Ireland is the context God placed me in, got me started in.
For
a
reason.
Now, I am starting to look for ways to see it as a blessing.
It’s my heritage.
It’s where I’m from.
It’s shaped me in more ways that I can even begin to imagine.
And not all of those are bad.
* Please don’t mishear me. I love NI. I just didn’t love growing up there. And I’m trying to find the good stuff in it now, and not run away from it. I’ve done that for too long.
** Also, this post has been deeply shaped by a blog post from Blaine, a conversation with Vicky, and my counsellor, Martin.
I’ve had that phrase stuck in my head for weeks now. Someone who inspires me wrote it well over a year ago. I just keep circling back to it, again and again, whatever else is going on.
A song on the radio. A fleeting moment with a friend. An article in a paper. A film.
It’s crap unless it moves you.
There’s this song that’s been stuck on repeat for the last few weeks, much like that phrase. It’s by a beautiful band called The Autumn Film (and if you haven’t heard them yet, you should check them out). It moves me in ways that a song has not done in a long time. The melody, the chord progression, the lyrics… they move me to my knees, they move me to tears. They break me and mend me in ways “church music” rarely does.
Inner walls are tumbling down, feel it crumble
theres nothing left to tear down, theres only gravel
i’m breaking now, i’m breaking down
don’t give up on me now
this can all be mended
we can iron this out
it can all be mended
when youre tearing at the seems
it can all be mended
Keep fighting for your story. Some days it’ll be light and you’ll laugh easily among friends. Other days it’ll be all you’ve got to get out of bed and face the world again. Heavy and light.
It’s crap unless it moves you, crap unless it connects with your story, meets you in your pain, reminds you of your dreams, reminds you what’s possible.
“there is certainly much at stake. i don’t know your story or your dreams or the things that steal your sleep, but i know they matter. i hope your story is rich with other characters, rich with friends and conversation. i hope you know some people who will carry you and i hope you get to carry them. i hope that there is beauty in your memories and i hope it doesn’t haunt you. And if it does, then i hope there is someone who will talk you through the night and remind you of the promise of the sunrise, that beauty keeps coming, that there are futures worth waiting for and fighting for and that you were made to dream.”
Two years ago, I took some faltering steps towards the dream I hold closest to my heart:
photographs that change the world.
On a warm summers day 3 years ago, my friend Suse opened a door for me, which resulted in a summer spent documenting the work of Fields of Life in East Africa.
I spent almost two months based out of Kampala, working alongside short-term visiting teams and local staff, witnessing the joys and frustrations of Ugandan life. Falling in love with both the country and the people.
Four days ago, two bombs went off in two separate locations in Kampala, leaving 74 people dead.
One of those locations was Ethiopian Village Restaurant, a mere stones-throw from the FOL office.
That was my area. That is my area.
A lump forms in my throat as I remember walking past the restaurant and across the street to buy ice cream on lazy afternoons off, or get a boda boda into Bancafe.
Mercifully, the FOL staff are all safe. But my dear friends at Invisible Children lost one of their staff. Nate “Oteka” Henn had been working for IC for 18 months, and while I did not know him personally, several friends did. Nate fought for his Ugandan friends, for their stories, for hope for them, for the possibility of peace. His life inspired me even though we never met.
My mind wanders back so frequently to memories of that summer spent living my dream, and seeing it have an impact. It seems so far away now, and yet we wake each day with the opportunity to place our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to try to stop the bleeding. For our Ugandan friends it is a very literal bleeding this week. Perhaps for us the wounds are more hidden, our bleeding more internal.
May you place your hands over a wound this week and join so many others as we seek to make our lives a gift to those around us.
A stumbling, stuttering, sometimes-failing gift, but a gift nonethless.
I’ve had the privilege to work with Christian Aid again recently, to photograph a few of their recent fundraising events, the latest one being the Tay Bridge Cross on Saturday past. To find out more about Christian Aid and how to get involved, visit their website. It’s been such a joy to work with them again!
Recent Comments