Don't call me father

My grandfather was a Methodist minister in Tralee many years ago.  One day he was walking, in his clerical collar, in the town with my dad and his two brothers.  Two women approached them and one greeted my grandfather saying, 'hello father.'  He overheard the second woman reprimand the woman who had greeted my grandfather; 'that's no father; sure doesn't he have three children of his own!'

  

Four years ago I was taking part in a wedding at Ballinahinch Methodist.  During the week we had a rehearsal where David Turtle and I decided that we would not wear robes.  On the day of the wedding Harold Good (the minister who had overseen the IRA's decommissioning) arrived into the vestry, with his little case for his robes.  Harold was disappointed with our decision and tried to persuade us of the merits of clerical garb.  David tried to lighten the atmosphere by suggesting that robes should be 'decommisioned'.  I surely annoyed Harold by offering him a deal: 'if you tell us where the guns are we will wear our robes.'

I was never a fan of the title and dress associated with being a Methodist minister.  However, it is not only those in the 'four main denominations' that are guilt of clericalism.  Friends go to a pentecostal church where the pastors insist on being called 'Pastor'.

Writing in the Baptist magazine John Samuel gives some thoughts before leaving Dublin to take a job in London.  He warns against clericalism:

We must respect one another (Rom. 13:7) and pastors deserve respect.  But Jesus was against using titles within his kingdom.  'Do not call anyone on earth "Father" ... nor are you to be called "Teacher" ... (Matthew 23:9,10).  I am a pastor, and honoured to be so.  But it seems to me that to accept 'Pastor' as a title rather than a job description is sliding down the slippery slope towards clericalism, with pastors a class apart, somehow closer to God than the rest of us.  Let us follow the command of our Lord Jesus and avoid clericalism and clerical titles.  Don't call me Pastor John Samuel.  I am John Samuel, pastor of ...   

   

Ronan knows his dad's weak points

Ronan knows how to wind me up.  One time, after I had given out to him and had probably sent him to his room, he explained, 'when you treat me like that it makes me not want to support Munster any more!' 

Sian's grace

Sian (3) said grace at tea tonight.  She said something like, 'thank you for all the bad things you don't do.'  Profound! (We think she meant, 'thank you for helping us not do bad things').  Her other grace is, 'thank you for this holy food.'

Two funny stories from Catholic Ireland

Dermot O'Mahoney is a church planter who attends our theological think-tank.  He told a funny story from a very different Ireland.

Many years ago people believed that priests had certain powers.  One of these superstitions was that priests could stick you to the ground.

Dermot's dad grew up at Saint Mary's Park in Limerick.  Apparently he was a bit of a character. 

One day a local priest approached them with his horse.  He asked the boys to hold the horse while he did something.

'Get a way out of that,' came the lads' reply.

'If you don't I'll stick you to the ground,' threatened the priest.

'Why don't you just stick the horse to the ground?' suggested Dermot's dad.

Another story.

My dad's father was a Methodist minister in Tralee.  One day he was walking along with his three sons and he was wearing his clerical collar.  Two women approached him.

'Morning, father,' greeted one of the women.

A few steps further the second woman corrected her.  'That's no father, sure doesn't he have three children of his own!'

Southern Irish Prods

'Do you believe in the Virgin Mary?' the kid asked as we played together at the back of the local school one evening.  He was conscious that my friends and I were Protestants.  He had questions to ask.  He was curious.

There was a sense of growing up as a community apart.  That was most obvious in the fact that we went to different schools.  I know perception is not always reality but I feel that what drew the Protestants together was not primarily what they were but what they weren't.  There was a common identity in not being Catholic.  After all, my Church of Ireland friends didn't seem particularly devoted to their faith.

Of course defining yourself by what you are not, rather than what you are, is a recipe for snobbery towards the 'other'.  It wasn't until I was a boarder in a school in Dublin that I really saw this attitude in action.  I don't think our year was typical.  Perhaps it was partly because a couple of the guys lived closer to the border that we were so conscious of being Protestants (or more precisely that we took pride in not being Catholics). 

One of these boys was annoyed with a priest who was refereeing his rugby match in Blackrock College and protested towards this official after the game.  'You are a disgrace to your religion', he said.  This guy knew which tribe he came from.

I remember a boy from Cork joining our dormitory in second year.  He was upset by this anti-Catholic banter.  I assured him it was only banter.  But, rightly, he did not like it.  Thankfully as the years progressed things changed, particularly when a strong character, who happened to be Catholic, joined us in fifth year.

So it is with embarrassment that I think back to us all standing as 'God save the Queen' was being played on the TV before a sporting event (I know that we were laughing and it was something of a joke).  It is with confusion that I look back on a talk given by one of the (Catholic) rugby coaches who told us (with a smile) to go and beat the 'Catholic' opposition.  But it is with anger that I look back on a Protestant culture that told its sons that they would not inherit the farm if they married a Catholic.  I hope such attitudes are long behind us!

Living in Ulster

Over the weekend a friend gave me a copy of some programs on Ulster.  There were three on Loyalism, by Peter Taylor (BBC); four on the Provos, again by Peter Taylor (BBC); and one entitled 'Blood and Belonging,' by Micheal Ingatiff.  These documentaries got me thinking about my own time living in the North.

From August 1996 I worked as a lay assistant on the Dungannon Methodist Circuit.  These people were warm friends for those two years and I missed them when I left.  They were almost all moderate unionists.  On occasion I spoke at services in Orange halls, which I thought would amuse my more political friends in the south.  While I was no fan of the Orange Order, most of the Orangemen I met seemed to be very decent law-abiding people.  During that time I shared a regular Friday lunch with the local Church of Ireland curate, the Presbyterian assistant and one of the Catholic curates.  I suppose I saw this public friendship as doing something to express friendship across a divided community, although I can't take credit for initiating it.

Among my friends I would have argued for a very mild form of nationalism, but in reality I was very naive and uninformed in my politics.  I was warned by some people not to preach politics from the pulpit, but in hindsight I think those people only had a problem with those who preached politics that didn't represent their views.  Durimg the tension surrounding one of the Drumcree parades I did speak on loving your enemies, simply expounding verses from the Sermon of the Mount.  I did not mention Drumcree, although some people later referred to it as my 'Druncree sermon.'  I shouldn't give the impression that I was particularly brave or idealistic, in truth I was something of a people-pleaser who did not want to upset anyone.

After three years in Belfast, at theological college, I went to the Upper Erne circuit in Fermanagh.  One of the churches was situated in a predominantly Republican town.  A number of the men had been involved with the part-time police force and had terrible stories to tell of their experiences during the years of violence.  One of the men in the congregation had been shot in his farm yard.  The terrorists would have finished him off but their gun jammed.  One fact that sickened him was that it was probably his neighbours who had tipped off the IRA as to what times they could catch him out of the house.

I arrived with my new wife to Richhill in July 2003.  Caroline felt very uncomfortable about all the flags and paraphernalia that were out for the Twelfth celebrations.  I told her to remember that feeling because people would soon tell her that there is nothing provocative about such bunting.  The church in Richhill was very moderate in its political outlook.  In a new Northern Ireland there was a growing number of communities, rather than the traditional two.  It was great that the church began to run English language classes and, although few Eastern Europeans joined the church, the involvement with new residents helped foster a sense of tolerance in people.

Watching the programs about loyalism got me thinking about my own involvement with Orange services.  I had been influenced by some very decent Orangemen right from Dungannon to Richhill.  These were people who believed that the Orange Order had nothing to do with paramilitary violence.  Yet I was never that comfortable taking Orange services for I disagreed with their reading of history (which I felt was too black and white), am not a fan of fraternal organisations (apart from the fraternity of Christian belief), and struggled with the fact that more bitter stripes of Orangism seemed to attach themselves to their Order's marches.  To be fair I have to also say that some of the people I meet articulated a tribalism that made me uncomforatble, for I did not see myself as coming from their tribe.  I always justified doing Orange services on the basis that I would speak about the Christian faith to anyone, however I also didn't want to pick a fight on the issue.

On the occasion when Richhill village was hosting the area's Twelfth celebrations we decided at the leader's meeting not to allow the mission committee to have a fund-raising stall (for an overseas trip) to sell burgers.  The thinking was that being too closely tied to such an event would make us look like a solely unionist organisation and damage our ability to reach out to the new resident and Catholic populations.  This hurt a few of our members who felt that it said it showed a lack of interest in those from a unionist background.  The leader's meeting altered our decision, suggesting that rather than using a stall as a fund-raising effort we would encourage the mission committee to organise an outreach event for the twelfth (where they would give tea and burgers away along with Christian literature).  However, the people who had opposed the original decision had lost heart.  One friend slagged me off about this for a long time.

I want to finish with that friend.  Mucky is my evidence that paramilitary violence has nothing to do with true Christian faith.  He had been involved in the UVF.  He was 'lifted' and brought for questioning.  He asked for a paper to read and was laughed at.  They did, however, give him a Bible to read.  He opened it and saw Paul in jail.  That night he cried out to God and his life was changed.  Christianity led him away from violence. Indeed when he reported to his commanders that he had been born again they accused him of talking the easy way out.  One of my fond memories from those years in Richhill was having him share his testimony every year when I was assigned a church to visit for 'home mission Sunday.'

Santa

I am not a big fan of the whole Santa thing.  I don't want to be a kill-joy but it makes me uncomfortable when the kids ask direct questions about him.  Besides why should he take all the credit for the gifts that we buy! 

Nevertheless, on Saturday morning the whole thing took a terrible theological turn.  We were enjoying something of a lie-in when Anya came into the room complaining.  'Ronan says that Marvelle (a girl in his school) is not a Christian because she doesn't believe in Santa.'

Marvelle's parents are fine Christians who have decided to be honest about Santa.  Anyway I left the explanation to Caroline, who tries to frame explanations about Santa in a less deceitful way, and who told Anya to assure Ronan that you can be a Christian even if you don't believe in Mr. Clause.

Dad

My dad turned eighty on 23rd October.  We had a party for him the night before in Killarney.  This is what I said about him.

There were the perks being the son of an obstetrician/gynaecologist.

We used to get fizzy drinks at the Ernville on Christmas day. I must admit that I felt shy about meeting the other doctors’ kids, but it was a found-less fear because we were always first and we were off to church before any of the others arrived.

It was nice having people telling you that your father was a gentleman and people pointing out that your dad delivered them

Then there was blowing your nose in surgical hats. Dad brought them home to use as tissues.

I remember getting my rugby ball repaired with surgical thread.

We rarely went to a doctor because we had one at home. Dad always dismissed our illnesses assuring that we would be alright. At times I longed to prove him wrong by being really ill. Before Spike Milligan did it, I would have had written on my gravestone, ‘I told you I was ill.’

But perhaps the most enjoyable moment related to having dad being an obstetrician was sitting in a Café in Cardiff, on the day of Munster’s Heineken Cup final against Toulouse, in conversation with a guy who happened to be a rugby commentator for Sky Sports, and pointing out that here was the man who delivered Peter Stringer.

Dad is a great story-teller. When we had guests mum would warm them up and then hand over to dad to tell his jokes. I loved watching him in full swing. He could even tell dreadful stories well. For example, I would never tell the one about the man with the pipe who threw the dog out the window of the train. It is not that funny but he could pull it off!

I remember one journey to Dublin when Joy asked mum and dad to tell us their life stories. Dad told us of the three boys digging their trench in a manse garden; of his times as a boarder in Wesley; of rugby in Wesley and Trinity; and of course the most exciting part was Biafra—where he met Jean Kingston and stayed on in the war.

Stories that stand out for me from dad’s life: marking Tony O’Reilly in a Leinster schools’ trial, getting a tooth knocked out by some guy who resented the fact that he played for Trinity rather than Old Wesley, and the following three medical stories.

As a young doctor dad was called out with a colleague to deliver a baby in a rough part of Glasgow. The woman was so grateful that she decided that she wanted to call the child after him. Dad thought of what might lie ahead for this boy if he got the name Edgar. So he kindly suggested that the child be named after his colleague.

As a senior doctor dad took some of the trainee doctors on his rounds. They came to the bed of an elderly woman and dad asked one of the students to comment upon her condition. The young medic didn’t hold back. Assuming that this woman couldn’t hear what he said the student must have described her in a way that had her close to death. When he was finished a voice come from the bed. ‘You’re no spring chicken yourself.’

I am thankful to dad for many things but I am thankful to him for two things more than anything. Firstly, for the marriage he has with mum. The mutual respect and affection the two of them share is an example to each of the next generations. Secondly, and most of all, there is his faith. Dad has showed that the Christian faith is something that both shapes your life and delights the mind.

Wee wee walls

Was just helping Sian (2) on the toilet.  There was a sound for the cistern or a pipe in the walls.  I asked her, 'is that you?'  She explained, 'no, it's a wall doing a wee wee.'

The 'r' has arrived and Christian films

Today I realised that Sian no longer call her brother 'Noney' (Ronan).  She has grasped her 'r's and now calls him Roney.  Caroline is devastated, and trying to teach Sian to say Noney again.

On Monday afternoons I go to the cinema.  This afternoon I first went to the swimming-pool for a sauna and swim.  I then went up to the church to collect some cards that David and Ruth had brought down from Richhill (David and Ruth were there for the induction service).  I felt sad as I remembered friends in Richhill.

I went to see 'Soul Surfer.'  This is one of the few films I have ever seen with an overtly Christian worldview.  I would say that it is really a film for teenage girls.  It is about a Christian girl who has her arm bitten off by a shark, while surfing.  She then overcomes this obstacle to continue her competitive surfing.  I actually cried during it (probably because I was exhausted and emotional having read the Richhill cards, I don't cry very oftn).

I thought that I should buy this film for Anya when it comes out on DVD.  This got me thinking.  Is it brainwashing kids to push Christian worldview movies on them?  I wonder if the brainwashing actually occurs the other way around.  Think about it.  Most films make little or no positive representation of Christianity or Christians.  America is a country with a significant evangelical population.  Yet if your assessment of America was based on movie representation you would assume that there are little if any Christian population in that country.

An interesting film for a Christian to watch is The Apostle (starring Robert Duval).  A film that portrays Christians in a positive light is The Blindside.  Interestingly Sandra Bullock initially was hesitant to play the lead in The Blindside because she was uncomfortable playing the role of a Christian.

Ronan's prayer life

I was speaking at an all-age service in church this morning.  The topic was 'prayer'.  I asked the kids what things we can pray to God about.  Ronan put up his hand and said, 'you can ask God for a wife'.  He is starting early.

As it happens there is a bunch of us going to Lisdoonvarna to do outreach next Saturday.  For those in the know, Lisdoonvarna is the town where there is a festival for bachelors to meet their brides.  Perhaps Ronan should join us!

Ronan doesn't get the Sermon on the Mount

We were having lunch with our friends Jason and Denise when Ronan and Anya barge in crying.  I enquire what has happened.  'They [Anya and her friends] were bullying me.'
'Didn't Jesus say that we were not to hit back?' I pointed out.
'I started it,' protested Ronan.  So how could it be called hitting back?

Washed and Waiting

Having had a great time in New Wine we are now in Connemara, five miles from Clifton.  We are staying in Caz's granny's cottage.  She bought it for £100 in the 1960's.  It is very primitive, and because her folks won't let us put toilet paper down the loo (there is a problem with the water supply) I have ventured into town to a local hotel (her parents are burning the used loo paper in the fire).  I am also availing of the hotel's wi-fi. 

At New Wine there was a great seminar taken by a guy called Jonathan Berry, from New Freedom Trust.  Jonathan is a man who has struggled with homosexual desires since he was eight.  He was living with his partner when he ventured into a church and was converted.  He believes the traditional (and I believe biblical) view that sex is to be restricted to heterosexual marriage.  Jonathan could speak with an authority and insight that I, as a happily married heterosexual, could not.

I also purchased a book entitled Washed and Waiting by Wesley Hill.  Hill is also a homosexual Christian who seeks to honour God by living a celibate lifestyle.  The book is thoughtful and is helping me see the pain that such faithful people go through in their desire to please God.  It is also a challenge to develop supportive communities who can help people with all sorts of struggles.

Limerick

Well it's the end of the first week in Limerick.  It has been some week.  While we still miss Richhill it is exciting to make new friends in our new home city and church.  I would tell you about all the people I have met but that would be an inappropriate thing for a pastor to do (confidentiality and all that), and it might give away the fact that I have not done as much visiting as I had hoped.  Much of this week has been spent setting up bank accounts, trying to get the cars registered etc.  It is only in the last hour that we have finally got broadband set up,

Perhaps the highlight of the week was heading up with Louise Lyons to the Moy Ross housing estate.  We had an evening of craic, spiritual talk and Bible study with some McCarthys.  Pa (junior) came to know the Lord through watching the God Channel.  He does a great gospel rap, that I intend to post on this blog soon.

I sorted out my books in the church study.  It made me realise how many I own that I have not read.  The next year I intend read books rather than simply buy books.

By the way I have been assigned a personal assistant (hi Barbara).  Poor Barbara is going to have to put up with how disorganised I am.

The Wisdom of Ronan

It was a tearful farewell. Some of the neighbours waved us off and we went to David and Ruth’s for lunch. Then time came to leave. Ronan came with me. As I turned on to the New Line I took a glance up Main Street. Sentiment got the better of me and I drove up by the church. Ronan cottoned on to what I was doing. His voice came from the back street, ‘a last look at the beautiful world of Richhill.’ It totally summed up what I was thinking.

Of course he was less profound as we drove in to Hamiltonsbawn. ‘I am glad we are going to Limerick, it won’t be smelly like Richhill—the farmers won’t be spraying things.’

As we entered the suburbs of Limerick he was back to being profound. ‘Which is more beautiful,’ he asked, ‘Richhill or Limerick?’ My loyalties were divided. I love Richhill but Limerick is now our new home. He answered his own question. ‘I reckon Richhill is more beautiful, but soon we will forget Richhill and think that Limerick is.’

A friendly kid called Callum took the initiative to play with our guys. Caroline overheard Ronan ask if he knew where Brentwood Park is. Pity the world isn’t that small.

There has been some change in our son

On Saturday night we had two friends over.  However our evening was disturbed when Ronan announced from upstairs that he had swallowed a coin.  A couple of hours in A and E followed, and now we wait for the penny to drop.  Of the humorous comments made the next day in church the best was made by William H, who asked Caroline, 'have you seen any change in Ronan?'

In the morning I preached on Acts 1:1-11.  Then I hoped to begin a series on Ecclesiastes at Cafe church.  But as I looked over that sermon in the afternoon I felt dissatisfied with it.  If anyone has advice on good resources to help grasp the message of this book I would be keen to hear from you.  So I preached the next sermon on Acts (which I had already prepared).  The second half of Acts 1 is not that easy to preach.  The believers are waiting for the Holy Spirit to be sent, and they choose a successor for Judas.  I majored on the fact that they were constantly in prayer as they waited for God to act.  I also pointed out that as we are after the Day of Pentecost so we do not need to be waiting before stepping out in mission, we have the Holy Spirit for the task.  I repeatedly quoted Matthew Henry's words, 'When God wants to do something special in the world, he first gets people to start praying.’

I am off to the cinema this afternoon.  I was challenged by a Randy Alcorn book ('The Purity Principle') to be discerning in what I view.  As a result I check what I might go and see by   http://christiananswers.net/spotlight/home.html .  I am off to 'Diary of a Wimpy Kid.'  I realise that this is a film aimed at teens but it was one of the only ones that appeared to be suitable viewing.

Clerical power

I am at my parents home in Killarney.  I am reminded of two stories that tell a lot about the power that clery had in previous times.

The details of the first story are sketchy.  A number of years ago.Dad had been looking at the history of the area and read of someone who was charged with taking a stick to the priest.  Apprently what happend was that the local priest used to go where courting couples were meeting.  If the young people were too close to one another he would take his stick to them.  Someone had lost their temper with the priest and took his stick to him.  Dad thinks that this goes back to the late 1880s.

The second story comes from our family history.  On the day that my granny (my mother's mother) was being chirstened her parents had chosen a name for her.  However the rector's wife didn't like the names they had chosen.  So she decided  that the child be called 'Beatrice May'.  In those days no-one would have questioned her right to do such a thing.  So granny had a name bares no relation to anyone else on the family tree.

Sian Ritchie

On Saturday evening (8:15ish) Caroline's waters broke. She then had contractions through the night. On Sunday evening (6:02) Sian was born. This is Sian Hilary Rebecca Ritchie. Sian is Welsh for Jane/Jean (my mum is Jean). Hilary is Caroline's mum. Rebecca is a grand-aunt of mine.

Biafra - Seperation and uncertainty

Over the summer I did a couple of interviews with my parents about their time in Biafra (see under 'Biafra' label). In this final blog on this subject I asked them about the period of time when mum had returned to Ireland and Dad was still in Biafra.

Paul: Jean, you arrived back from Biafra. What was life like in the months that followed?

Jean: I returned with Joy to Belfast because I was suffering from recurrent fever and needed investigation and so I went to Royal Victoria Hospital; since I had trained as a nurse there. So on-going investigations were done but no definite diagnosis was made. I had had repeated courses of antibiotics in Biafra without the benefit of laboratory back up, and this masked the symptoms and diagnosis.

I first of all stayed with Dick [her brother] and Marion, then moved to Aunt Beckie's [her aunt]. It was very stressful time as communication with Dad back in Biafra was very irregular and all the time I had the huge sense of responsibility as I was looking after Joy. One Sunday afternoon I was admitted by ambulance as an emergency to RVH with a high fever. Marion's mother Mrs Hamilton very kindly looked after Joy.
Just before Christmas 1967 I returned to Kana, Drimoleague [west Cork] to stay with my parents (your grandparents Rev Paul and May Kingston). I had a recurrence of the illness and was admitted to the Victoria Hospital in Cork. Your grandad Hugh J [dad's father] and Aunt Minnie looked after Joy. It was a time of great uncertainty about your Dad's safety and the future.

Paul: Ed, the war was still ongoing and you were still in Biafra what were conditions like and how was the hospital affected?

Ed: Conditions were demanding - famine, occasional air-raids. A busy hospital of 200 beds had increased to 500 in-patients, and teams of doctors from the main hospital in Enugu (the state capital which had been captured early in the war by Nigerian troops -about 400 of these in-[patients were army casualties looked after by teams of African surgeons, physicians. At the same time the hospital continued to look after civilians, and many out-patients especially children as well as sending out medical teams to hold clinics outside the hospital. I was medical superintendent and along with other missionary staff we were responsible for running the hospital.
For some time the hospital became the main World Council of Churches (WCC) supply centre and distribution centre for that area. Relief was flown in each night by relief planes to Uli Airstrip by Joint Church Aid [WCC and Caritas (RC)]. WCC relief workers met regularly planning the relief work.
The Red Cross representative in Biafra was given a house on the hospital compound - this was the Swiss Red Cross organisation responsible for the care of prisoners of war.
An exciting thing done was to organise a very large vaccination campaign which looked after perhaps up to 2 million children in Biafra, teams of African workers taken protection against smallpox etc. The vaccines were and supplied by the Pasteur Institute, Paris and stored in the hospital in specially flown-in kerosene fridges (since electricity supply was uncertain).

Paul: Jean, is it true that your feared for a time that Ed was dead?

Jean: Yes. Then I saw him briefly on a TV news report of an air-raid on Umuahia, in which some civilians were killed and others were rushed to the hospital as casualties. Ed came forward to treat one of these casualties. So I knew he was alive.

Paul: Ed and Jean, when did you see each other at that time?

Ed and Jean: About every 6 months Ed returned from Biafra on a relief plane (via Lisbon) and then returned to Biafra by relief plane, flying from Sao Tome (which is a small island on the Equator), flying into Uli Airstrip by night-time. I was home each time for about 4 weeks.

Paul: Ed, how did you time in Biafra come to an end?

Ed: We left the Unuahia Hospital (Queen Elizabeth Hospital) before the town was captured by the Nigeria Federal troops, about May 67, and set up a small emergency hospital in Mbatoli Health Centre near a large town called Owerri, which had been recaptured by the Biafrans. I had a recurrence of jaundice and so was advised on medical grounds to return home. I flew from Uli airstrip on one of the relief planes November 1969.

Thanks Ed and Jean!

Jean's account (part 3) The escape from Biafra

This is the third blog giving Jean's account of being evacuated from Biafra.

'We travelled the fifty miles from Umuahia to Cron by car, in torrential rain which almost obliterated our view. Shortly after leaving Umuahia we were stopped at a road-block and questioned. Here the baby helped as she cried loudly in her carry-cot on the back seat of the car. Her efforts helped us to get through numerous road-blocks more quickly than we had anticipated. It was almost dark when we reached Cron so we spent the night there at the house of a friend. There we met another missionary who had come from Britain to see how our work was faring under war conditions, and who hoped to travel with us on the following day. Next morning we made our way to the ferry landing station in the hope that the ferry would travel that day. We had heard that there had been attempts to bomb the ferry as it travelled on the river. As we approached we saw the crowds; boys waiting to help with luggage, women sitting on the ground trying to sell their wares, and a group of passengers waiting to embark. We joined this group of passengers and slowly made our way on board. There were two other Europeans travelling, Irish priests. One was suffering from shell-shock. His home in Enugu had been shelled by the invading Federal troops. We were very glad of their company on this journey. We only had a hard bench on which to sit and had to place the carry-cot on the deck at our feet.'

[I asked Jean about this boat when I was in Killarney. I had always imagined a boat with a cabin. What she described was an small open boat. She thinks that trip to Cron may have been in the hospital car. She described how they had to pull in to shelter from time to time during the boat journey as Federal planes might bomb boats on the river, suspecting that they might be shipping arms etc.. She talked of the particular kindness of the priest who was suffering shell-shock and how he would take the baby to give her time to rest. She also confirmed seeing crocidiles resting on the shore as they travelled - but she hadn't seemed to worried about them!]

We travelled on the Cross River for some distance before entering the creeks. What a maze of waterways! Some of the creeks were so narrow that we could touch branches of the trees growing on either side as we passed. The tide was in and the mangrove trees seemed to be growing out of the water. Overhead we could at times see monkeys at play. As the afternoon wore on it became hotter and the baby grew restless. I fed her, changed her as best I could on my knees since there was nowhere else to take her, or even to wash one's hands. I tried to settle her in her carry-cot again but she was not satisfied. She was dirty, the oil fumes from the engine had been blowing in and I was unable to protect her from these, and she needed more feed. I was breast feeding her yet had some baby cereal and powered milk with me as well, but there was nowhere to prepare these, so I kept her on my knees and amused her as best I could. About 2 o'clock we ate some sandwiches which we had with us, but before we finished these the ferry suddenly stopped. The cause was obvious. There in front of us lay a fallen tree which completely blocked the waterway. There was a brief discussion, then one of the crew, equipped with a [machete], got out, and standing on the trunk started to hack through it. It was a slow tiring job. Other members of the crew relieved him from time to time. As we sat and waited the tide was receding and large expanses of mud became visible on either side, with the gnarled, entangled roots of the mangrove trees growing out of it.

It was late afternoon when with one final blow the tree broke and dropped to the bottom of the water-way. The engine started but the boat did not move - we were stuck in the mud. There was no alternative but to wait the return of the tide. Though we did not have to wait too long for this, it was dusk before we reached the small town of Ikang, which was our last port of call in Biafra. Here the customs and immigration officials came on board to see what that all was in order. There seemed to be a long delay, and we wondered why we were not moving off now that the customs and immigration formalities seemed to be completed. The passengers were growing impatient; then the owner of the ferry appeared and announced that we were not going any further until the morning, as it was not safe to travel at night for fear of being bombed. My heart sank. What about the baby? Though I was breastfeeding her she needed more than that as she was accustomed to having cereal also, and already showed signs of being hungry. For ourselves, we had only brought enough food for one day.

Where we to spend the night? Surely not sitting on these hard benches? The ferry owner's announcement had caused consternation; people argued with him and raised their voices angrily, but suddenly there was dead silence. Were those gun-shots? We all glanced anxiously towards the shore. Now we could plainly hear gun-shots. The ferry owner warned us not to make another sound, lest we draw attention to the presence of the ferry, since there was danger of being bombed. Everyone understood and there was dead silence. The night seemed endless. We were stiff and sore from sitting on the hard bench, and the baby was restless. I had nursed her for the greater part of the night so as to keep her from crying. Slowly dawn came and we were on our way again. It was another tedious day's journey, but that evening we reached our destination - the small port of Lobe in the Cameroons. We got ashore looked around but all we could see was a narrow muddy path ahead. We enquired and were told we would have to walk a quarter of a mile along this path to the Custom's [and] Immigration offices. We picked our way through the mud, and after having our passports and baggage checked tried to get a taxi to take us to Douala, where we could get a plane and where we knew there was accommodation to be had.

After making an agreement with the taxi driver to take the six of us Europeans, we set off. The journey by taxi was certainly a contrast to the slow boat journey. The road wound upwards, was comparatively marrow, and had many hair-pin bends, which the driver took at a speed that would do credit to a racing-driver, despite our requests to go more slowly. As darkness was approaching we came to a police check-point where we were stopped, and asked where we were going. We said Douala. The policeman turned to the driver, and his own language seemed to speak very crossly. He then turned to us and explained that the driver would be endangering our lives if he took us through to Douala at night. This check-point had been set to prevent people from so travelling as there had been frequent attacks recently on travellers who had been robbed of their possessions. He advised us to stay at the town of Kumba for the night. When we got there the priests went off to their Mission while we made our way to the Basel Mission, where a young Dutch couple, who had arrived in the Camaroons a few weeks previously kindly put us up.

We all travelled to Douala the next morning, and two days later my baby and I, with the missionary who set out with us from Umuahia, got a plan to Paris, and from Paris to London, then I made my way to Belfast where I had to go into hospital for treatment.'

Picture: This is the baby who featured in the above story with a baby of her own (Joy and Emily).

In August I hope to continue these blogs telling of mum's experiences with dad being away and dad's continuing experience of Biafra.