The Tables are Turned

Yesterday on Facebook all our Brazilian friends (well, at least three of them) posted a link to a column in yesterday’s Financial Times which was picked up and reported in the Portuguese press. The FT columnist (probably with tongue firmly in cheek) proposed a radical solution for Portugal’s current economic woes, suggested that Portugal should become an offshore province annexed to Brazil!

More or less in the same breath, Time magazine popped through our letterbox with the headline in the economy section : “Rise of the Rest : With all the focus in recent weeks on Japan and the Middle East, an important economic milestone has gone relatively unnoticed: Brazil has surpassed France and the UK to become the world’s 5th largest economy.”

If that is not enough to flatten the ego of any former world power, and discoverer of half of the globe, along comes Madame President, Dilma Rousseff, recently sworn in as Brazil’s first woman president, over here on her first European visit, and being greeted by recently “ex’ed” Prime Minister Jose Socrates.

Among her words of support for the former colonial master, she expressed her assurance that “...our economic teams have been having a permanent and fluent dialogue on the matter... One of the possibilities is buying part of Portugal's sovereign debt...”

My, how the tables of turned since the days of King Joao VI, Back in 1808, he skilfully avoided confrontation with the all conquering Napoleon by physically moving the seat of the Portuguese kingdom and all his royal court from Lisbon to Rio de Janeiro, thereby elevating Brazil from mere colony to a sovereign Kingdom united with Portugal!

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall, but the word of our God stands forever” Isaiah 40:8

I Arise Today...

I went down to the river this morning as the sun was rising and cried out “I arise today through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, belief in the threeness and confession of the oneness...” St Patrick’s been in my head more or less since the start of this month

This past week has been a rare celebration of my Irishness, what with the weekend filled and the jigs and reels of “Slemish”, and last evening to be invited to a reception at the home of the Irish ambassador. (At which, by the way, we had the rare privilege of being introduced to one of the last living descendants of the Niall of the Nine Hostages and the High Kings of Tara, Hugo O’Neill, who's family has been living in Lisbon under the blessing of the Kings of Portugal since the 18th century). It’s good to see also, on the internet news, the colourful way in which St Patricks Day was celebrated yesterday in Belfast and other parts of Ireland - nicely removed from the sectarian voices of a few years ago.

But it irritated me to see the way the American press laid into the organisers of the New York parade for not acceding to the request of Gay Pride to be included in their march. After all, said one commentator (or words to that effect) wasn’t St Patrick a nice old man who would have sought to include everyone? Back to your history books, I say. You might as well open up the parade to the Ancient Order of the Druids then. St Patrick was a fearless warrior who used every moral fibre in his body to create in the people of Ireland a true biblical morality and a consciousness of a supreme and loving God as revealed in the person of Christ. That’s why his prayer, “St Patrick’s Breastplate”, so focusses on the all encompassing nature of the that glorious person.

“Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ on my right, Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,

Christ when I arise,

Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,

Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,

Christ in every eye that sees me,

Christ in every ear that hears me.”

Saint Kevin

Here’s a little more Irishness sparked by “Slemish” wonderful visit last weekend - my head still ringing with the beauty of the music, and, yes, the sheer beauty of the lives of those guys lived out for God. They may joke about their reputation as the ugliest band on Ireland, but on the inside there’s a peace and an inner joy that comes through in their music, their laughter and just the way they are with each other.

None better to exemplify this than Kevin Burns, or Saint Kevin-of-the-Burns, as I think I shall rename him, from West Belfast. As he shared his story in two of the venues where they played as a band, it was wonderful to hear how his journey took him from Ireland through Denmark and Germany in his search for reality and truth to eventually find his peace with God through finding it in the reality of the person of Jesus.

It reminds me of an earlier Saint Kevin who lived in the sixth century, probably born around the year in which Patrick died, and lived a life of solitude and contemplation in the wild beauty of Glendalough in the Wicklow mountains. His name meant “Gentle One” and you only have to walk around the upper lake and the lower lake there to get a sense of that peace and harmony with God and with nature.

But, whether you’re a saint of the sixth century or of the twenty first century, the reality remains the same. You get to be a saint, only because of what God has done within you, and what God has declared about you, and not because of anything you have done, or from any decision of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. At the beginning of his letter to the Corinthians, Paul describes them as "...the church of God which is at Corinth, to them that are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints...." - all of them notice. Not just the elders or those in high office, and not just the odd one that happened to have perfomed a miracle, or been extraordinarily nice to the tea lady. Everyone single of them that was in that church was called a saint by Paul. Well, I am very happy to be in that number, even before they go marching in.

http://www.reverbnation.com/slemish

Suvla and Sud-al-Bar

“The Foggy Dew” that wonderfully haunting Irish ballad, famously sung by Sinead O’Connor with the Chieftains (and not so famously but still very evocatively sung by “Slemish” during our Irish St Patrick’s weekend here in Park of theNations) contains within it the lines

“'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky

Than at Suvla or Sud-el-Bar.”

I’ve listened to the song many times on my iPod and always was mystified by that sentence and those strange sounding place names. So, in preparing for this past weekend, and doing my research on the story of St Patrick, and also some of the songs the guys were going to be singing, I delved into the background of the “The Foggy Dew” It was written by a Charles O’Niell of Newcastle

County Down, as a lament to the memory of the men who lost their lives in the failed Easter Rising of 1916. That part I knew. But it also serves as a complaint against the futile irony of war, where Irishmen in their thousands were off fighting for the Allies in the horrors of the First World War, while their own land continued to be subject to the British crown.

“Suvla” and “Sud-el-Bar” were places on the Gallipoli peninsula in the Aegean sea, which, along with the Somme, has become a by-word for the futile waste of young lives through poorly devised war plans. I had always thought of that as an Australia/New Zealand tragedy. But apparently two Irish platoons formed a part of that Allied disaster. Men assisting the Allies in bringing about the liberation of the smaller nations of south eastern Europe, while their own nation remains under British rule.

And so, "The Foggy Dew”

“...'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that "small nations might be free";

Their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves or the fringe of the great North Sea.”

Makes me think that there’s still a lot of senseless lives being lost in Afghanistan and elsewhere, in the service of political and military decisions that are maybe less than wise, and not always in the best interests of the people they’re supposed to be helping.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13MQFCfCYdQ&feature=related

The Plant's Story

Today the cherry blossoms are just beginning to peek out creating a pink cloud over the bare branches of the tree. That and the charming tinkling of a goldfinches song from a nearby tree gave this morning a wonderfully magical feel to it on our way down to the river. Spring is definitely in the air, even if it is still cold, and there could well be a chance of rain later today.

My dear old mother would have loved it. Frances E Crawford, mostly known to her friends as Frankie, loved plants and nature. I think she even talked to her african violets. She always brightened up, lying in her room in the nursing home, if you were to bring in a bunch of flowers or a potted plant. Now there's a story attached to this plant in the photo (I’m sorry I don’t know what sort it is). It's her’s. It sits in our lounge area here on the ninth floor of a Lisbon apartment building. Before that, it flourished in our living room in Somerset Park Coleraine. And before then in my parents home in Portstewart. It is most probably, according to Anna, over 20 years old.

But when we came to move to Portugal, it was impractical obviously to carry plants with us. So all the ones we had were taken to a friend’s house. Except for the tiniest scrap of a leaf and a shoot from this single plant for the sake of the memory of my mother. It nestled protected by a piece of kitchen roll in a plastic cup in between underwear and books on two easyjet flights and for a long time, months, lay sadly dormant in a little pot in the kitchen of our new apartment. But three years on, look at her flourish. It’s as if my mother is here singing and smiling, and expressing her joy that God never stops working - continues to bless, enrich and watch over us!