The Story of the Widow's Son

Summer is a good time for caravanning, relaxing and clearing out. Especially when there’s a Cash for Clothes shop in town. On this particular occasion however I was sorting through piles of old books, cataloguing them for a hopeful sale, which might or might not happen…In the process I found a special book which I had studied at the tender age of 15.

Sporting an off-white cover with orange arrows criss-crossing over it, its title ‘Exploring English’ gave no hint of the wonders within. At first glance its interior provoked dismay - dull pages with lines of small black type, regular instances of those dreaded ‘Dig Deeper’ questions and not a picture in sight. ‘Let’s start here!’ said my wonderful teacher and, gathering around the comforting gas heater, we began our journey into the world of Irish short stories which soon proved to be fascinating.

I think it was truly then that words alone came alive for me. I learned how a writer could create a whole world with a few adept phrases, a brief description of a passing expression, some sparse details about a rural landscape, an adjective, a name. I experienced how a half-page of print could transport me into a world completely alien to my own, where the people were so different yet so alike in their fears, loves, thoughts, feelings and actions. I realised that the best stories were the simplest - the annual journey to the beach, the father returning to his childhood home with a nagging wife and bickering children, the decision to abandon a mercenary life so that one could have time to gaze at the stars, the widow whose precious son dies trying to save a chicken…

Yes, the story of the Widow’s Son was my favourite. Despite all the literature I have since read for school exams and at university, the story of Packy has always kept its place in my mind - its endless potential and yet its inevitable ending. The widow’s son is coming home from school on his bike, clutching a newly-won scholarship, down the steep, rough hill that leads to the little cottage. His mother watches him, this son that represents all she lives for, and their main source of income, the hens, cluster around her on the dusty road, pecking and clucking. Suddenly as Packy nears the humble abode a jittery hen zigzags out in front of the speeding bike and the cyclist brakes violently. The dust blows away to reveal an unharmed hen squawking as she waddles back to the others and an inert body lying on the road. The widow runs to her son, desperately wipes the grime from his face and realises the awful truth - the impact of the fall as the boy was thrown over the handlebars killed him. ‘Why did he try to save that useless chicken?’ she wails, as the neighbours gather around.

But there was another ending to the story too. Again Packy is coming home from school, and the widow watches as he zooms down the steep hill. Again the flighty hen crosses the road at the wrong time and again there is a squeal of brakes. When the dust blows away this time, there is a dead chicken on the road and a stunned boy covered with feathers and specks of blood. The widow runs to the hen, sees its lifeless state and turns on Packy. ‘You’ve killed the best egg-layer, you ungrateful wretch! You couldn’t care less, could you? Here am I, slaving away for you to get an education from day to day and you just go and kill my prime hen…! What am I, your servant, is it? Who gets your meals, your books, your clothes, provides a home for you to live in…?’ A crowd of neighbours have gathered to silently watch this dramatic scene. They take in every word, and waves of shame cover Packy. The next morning he has disappeared and a letter eventually arrives, saying he has got a job on a trawler and will send back money every week - ‘to pay for everything you’ve done for me.’

It made me think then, and it still does. Despite different happenings, the poor widow lost her son in both stories. How often we wonder about our lives and ask that ‘What if it was different? question! We dream up alternatives and paint beautiful pictures of perfect lives and happy endings. The only One who knows the real story of our lives from beginning to end is God; there seems to us to be sometimes a way that looks just perfect but ‘the end thereof are the ways of death.’(Prov 16:25) Only ‘His way is perfect.’ (Ps 18:30)

Happenings

Right now, I am preparing for my first teaching interview! I'm slightly nervous, wondering if I will be able to perform well, but at the same time I should think that a girl who has done so many German orals should find an interview in her own language easy enough!

At the same time, I'm considering doing an MA in History with NUI Galway. I have been offered a place by the School of History and, although I was initially firmly against returning to the much-trodden grounds of Áras na Mac Léinn and the Concourse, the idea is slowly growing on me. Any situation really is what you make of it yourself, and I think that if I resolve to act differently myself, set aside silly fears and assumptions and present a friendly, open face to everyone I meet, next year could be the opposite to what last year was. So much goes on inside active, imaginative minds and if I directed some of this 'creative energy' into projects outside of myself, I may find the year more fulfilling. The course itself appeals greatly to me.

Hmm...concerning Norris and Cox, the latest news is good news. Cox did not get the Fine Gael nomination and Norris campaign has suffered a fatal blow with the discovery that he used his position as a Senator to appeal for clemency for his ex-partner who had been charged with child abuse in Israel. The race looks set to lose the Grandpa-figure who is in reality a dangerous individual. These development have been an answer to prayer; it will be exciting to see what God does next.

Next week, I head for Deutschland. Back to Bayern and all it symbolizes. It will be a time of relaxation, thoughtfulness, sight-seeing and visiting. Periods of aloneness will give me time to start thinking about a thesis, which hopefully will have some form of European educational history at its center. It will be without a doubt interesting, and I look greatly forward to it.

Press On-Selah

I have been listening to this song over the last few days and it has been a real blessing to me. It is wonderful to know that behind everything we do there is a reason, behind every choice there is a right decision, and that behind every situation there is an omnipotent God.

Cox and Norris: the Mysteries of Irish Politics

The Irish Presidential election is on its way. It’ll be 3 months of pure hype, jammed radio lines, pointless TV debates where no conclusive result is ever reached and articles in the paper about which candidate has the best dress sense. Already its been crazy and in the midst of all the craziness, there’s unfortunately no rock of sense, no person to whom you can look and say, ‘He or She is the One for the House.’

In Ireland the abnormal can very quickly be seen as normal. A country which is fast developing dangerous Orwellian tendencies can now actually consider a man with pronounced views on incest and child abuse, David Norris, as a valid candidate for the Presidency. This is a country, remember, which has been ripped apart in recent years by discoveries that that hallowed institution, so dear to the hearts of Irish people, was home to the most cruel, sadistic child abusers that Ireland has perhaps ever seen. Lives, homes, communities, and indeed whole societies were wounded, sometimes fatally, by these revelations; yet we blindly embrace and endorse a man to be our President who holds these views. How completely contradictory and stupid can we be? Ireland should be rising from the battle, determined to become an international ambassador for vulnerable children and young people by showing an example in national policy and belief. Instead a man who endorses under-age sexual activity and says a case can be made for incest has the nerve to run for Presidency - indeed can top online polls and be nominated by members of government.

Lets look at another unbelievable situation. Imagine this: a man becomes a member of a party one day, and the next day is nominated by that party as their presidential candidate. Would that happen to me? No way. After years of ground work and building support I might garner enough guts to stand for a Local Council election - and then in all likelihood wouldn’t even get elected, because as we all know its usually second time successful. Then after a few more years I might get a seat in Leinster House; then after a few decades of fighting for the rights of the underprivileged or special needs children or in bridging the gap between warring factions in Limerick (using a new method which would soon prove to be successful with the drug gangs in Mexico City and the minority groups of South-East Ukraine) I might just feel confident enough to think about the Presidency. I would have to talk with other party members and logically assess my situation; standing for Party Nomination would require long speeches and promises and pledges, and then in the end I probably mightn’t even get it because there would be someone with much better qualifications (from Dublin, aristocratic background, key player in resolving Northern problem, Nobel Peace Prize winner etc) who would almost automatically receive it, and I would have to humbly bow out of the race and loyally support the nominee in every way I can.

Not so with Pat Cox. He can do in two days what the rest of us might hope to attain in a lifetime. He’s got a bit of an identity crisis I think, as he used to be an Independent, then he was part of Progressive Democrats and now of course he has taken a bit of a liking to Fine Gael. What Cox has though that makes him special are his friends in Europe, particularly those in the Spinelli group. And Europe have been pulling the strings in the Blueshirt party machine a bit. You see Ireland’s strong nationalistic spirit is hard one to crack and the powers that be are of the opinion that a strong European hand on the Irish helm could put a few things 'right'. But are they going to bludgeon their way through reality and force the impossible to happen? Apparently. They got Lisbon 2 passed, for example. I keep saying to myself, ‘This cannot happen! It’s wrong!’ but the personal opinion of the people and common sense just don’t seem to matter anymore.

So that’s the way it is at the moment. It’s just the beginning now and who knows what will happen during the next couple of months? In Ireland you expect the unexpected. I just hope that we won’t find ourselves descending further into the morass we’re in right now.

A Day at School

A Day at School

It's another morning. I stumble out the door of the house, armed with big black handbag and laptop bag, and start the car. With heat turned on full blast, I head down the road, wipers going like crazy, hoping to miss the morning rush. Right at the roundabout, straight through Mulroy's junction, remember the speed limit, this would be a typical morning for the curley tails to be out. As I accelerate down the N4, I turn up the Cathedrals' singing Daystar, joining in at the top of my voice because no-one can hear me here. I like this song – 'Let Your love shine through me in the night', and I like to make it my prayer, because beyond teaching well, and giving grades and correcting copies, I want to make an impact on each child's soul for eternity.

School. Buses are pulled in outside, along with cars and there are kids pouring from in from every side, a blue army descending on a grey building. They all look the same, yet each one is a totally different bundle of fears and desires; some wave at me at as I pull into my car-park space, and I smile back. I get my stuff, lock up the car, climb the white steps, and enter the school. Inside, the familiar smell of baking bread from the canteen fills the air and the principle walks up and down the corridor, making sure everyone is behaving as they congregate around lockers and collect books. In the staffroom, there are teachers drinking tea, making toast, yawning, chatting and most of all photocopying. I leave my bags in my spot under the window and prepare for my first class, saying 'Good Morning' to a couple of people.

The bell goes, and the staffroom is empty in about 30 seconds. In my classroom, Room 2, a smell of fresh paint fills the air as it has been just recently renovated. The room is buzzing with noise and laughter and I say nothing for a moment, waiting for last-minute stragglers to come in and finding the right page in my book. Then I close the door, write the page-number on the board and shout – 'Okay everyone, books open, copies out, turn around in your chairs, enough talking please!' Slowly 24 fourteen-year-olds quieten down, scrambling for pencils and asking 'Miss, what page is it?' Patiently I say, 'It's on the board.' This happens about 3 times. After calling the roll, class begins, and the 40 minutes pass quickly, with questions, and complaints about homework, and threats of points and imaginative answers. Then the bell goes and there is a rush for the door; as one teacher says 'They'd run you over, so they would.'

Every day is different and you can never predict what is going to happen next; fainting girls, shoes disappearing, tears, fits of hysterical laughter, questions like:

'Miss, are you 23?'

'If all the noblemen were inside the castle having a feast and the IRA threw a handgrenade at the castle, what would happen?'

'Miss, are we your favourite class?'

'Miss, amn't I talented at English when I try?'

'Miss, when is your last day?'

'Miss, I got the Iphone 4, here look at it, do you like it?'

'Miss, was teaching your first choice?'

'Miss, have you learned a lot from teaching me?'

There are comments like:

'We never understood it before but we do now...thanks Miss',

'Miss, right now I'm bored out of my mind,'

'Miss, poetry is useless – like, nobody uses it in real life...'

There are the kids who seem unable to sit quietly in their seats, the ones who boast of the amount of points they have and say to their friends -

'Aw man I've got lunchtime detention again.' High Five. 'G'man Johnny.'

And there are the ones who never utter a peek, speak in a low tone of voice all the time, and seem to have their minds on something else. They're the ones whose hearts can sometimes be hurting a lot; they're unable to join in the lightheartedness around them, and they are overcome at any sign of care or affection.

The day goes on and when 3:30 comes around, the school wakes up from its after lunch slumber. After I've wiped the tables and filled the dishwasher for the hundreth time in 6 weeks, it's going home time. 'G'bye Miss Burke', shouts red-haired Sarah as I lug all my stuff out, unlock the car, drive out the narrow gates, and out of the small little town of Foxford. Tomorrow will be another day.

Lest We Forget.

A wonderful message imprinted on a grey, cracked wall in the city of Paris

Boy

BOY

By a student teacher

There's a gap between your front teeth,

And yesterday a big black bruise

Adorned your forehead.

You pointed cheerfully at Billy, best friend

For a hundred years,

‘He did it - we were horsin' 'round,

Great craic like.'

I watch you write, each letter a trial of

Patience, pain and

Perseverance.

The marks you leave look more like a

Trail of rabbits' footprints

Than that list of German

Verbs

I spent all week trying to teach you.

Boxing matches and frogs and rugby

And Billy

And ‘Are you on Facebook, Miss?'

A boy, walking across the road of life.

Over hills, through valleys,

Step carefully on those creaking bridges,

Watch the traffic on those

Highways.

Sometimes I feel your eyes on me

During a lull in the restlessness of a boy.

Brown eyes, mirrors of the soul,

Filled with painful, frightened,

Lonely questions

That you could never ask aloud,

And I see the hidden spirit that is

Locked away behind the talk of girls and detention.

Its hard being a boy from a broken home in a

Predatory,

Bloodthirsty world.

Boy, our paths crossed for a few, short weeks,

And though I would show you the best road map

For the rough, wild way that lies ahead,

And hold your hand like a guide through the

Maze of growing-up years,

I must soon leave.

All I can do is give you my prayers

And the memory

Of someone who truly cared

For a boy.