scrubbing scottish basement bricks

manky. mingen. boggen.

the bricks in the 100+ yr old basement of the KOG building on Parnie St. in Merchant City (an artsy district of Glasgow) were covered in layers of old plaster, paint, dirt, grime, mold & mildew. it took tons of muscle power scrubbing with metal brushes, chipping away with hammers and chisels to clear it all away.

my first trip to Glasgow i had the opportunity to be a part of a team from Boise, Idaho that would travel over to join up with an international crew of dedicated and devoted students & believers in Christ with a common purpose to help out in the demolition and restoration process. it would eventually take 3 years for the coffee house to be renovated enough to be opened for the public...but during those first few months of clean up, those of us who could be there to lend a hand worked with enthusiasm and anticipation for what the old building would someday become.

one particular day many of us were assigned the task of cleaning up the brick walls in the basement. it was dark and damp and musty down there. we were required to wear face masks, goggles, and gloves for protection. the scrubbing was hard work and at times became quite frustrating. years of stuff caked on the bricks just didn't want to come off. many of us struggled with a heaviness in our thoughts & hearts and we became discouraged and quickly tired from the strenuous work.

at our tea break, as we gathered upstairs in the light, we began to share about how we were all feeling as we scrubbed in vain in the damp darkness of the basement. we talked about how the building was being prepared to be utilized for God's Kingdom...a coffee house/art gallery/bookstore/meeting place for worship, where Christian and non-Christian alike could come together to build relationship...a place where rich and poor could share a cup of coffee and reach out to each other....and how the crap we were trying to clean away from the bricks seemed like a metaphor for something deeper, something spiritual. we realized that the enemy of our souls probably didn't like what we were doing. we knew that at one time in history there had been a Christian revival in this same building...but the darkness had crept in and eventually the street that the building was on had become a place of poverty, immorality, drugs, and even witchcraft. we decided to pray together against the powers of darkness, for God's help to lift the heavy oppression we were experiencing downstairs. we gave over our fatigue to God, and asked Him to come and cleanse the place as we worked....that with each scrubbing stroke the darkness would flee. that we could take back the territory the enemy had stolen.

we returned to the confinement of the basement to continue working...but this time we began to sing together. with joy, we sang songs of worship and praise to God and you know what...the heaviness we had felt earlier was no longer there. some of us danced, others laughed. it became a party down there. and the scrubbing became easier. and fun.

i will never forget that experience. scrubbing scottish basement bricks.

Culloden

when i was a senior in high school i took a class called "War & Peace" from a teacher with the last name of Campbell. years later i would find this point ironic.

at the time i really had no understanding of the termultuous history of the wee isle across the ocean but it was in that class with that teacher that i fell in love with Scotland.

as part of the class he showed an old BBC film* made in the 1960s directed by Peter Watkins that depicted the brutal battle of Culloden (fought on April 16, 1746 on the highland moors of Culloden east of Inverness). Scottish highland clans led by Bonnie Prince Charlie (the said rightful heir to the Scottish throne) for their freedom against the English army standing for their then reigning King George II (and a few Scottish clans that they had in their pockets, like the Campbells).

i had always been intrigued with the country of Scotland. i liked the 80s pop music that came out of it, and found the Scottish brogue of "Scotty" on Star Trek rather fun to imitate. but for some reason, watching that old black and white film took me beyond the parodies and glam of Hollywood and the music industry and gave me a deeper understanding of the Scottish people. it would be 13 years till i actually stepped foot on Scottish soil, but that film of the battle of Culloden broke my heart and pulled me across the sea to Scotland's shores.

later i was able to find out that i have Scottish blood in my family...and that i have heritage with the Scottish Clan MacLeod (a highland clan mostly settled west in the isles of the Hebrides). i read books about the battle and what events led up to it. and in 2005 i was able to actually visit the battle site of Culloden in the highlands of Scotland. it was an extremely profound and moving experience for me. to actually stand where that film depicted, to actually stand where my ancestors fought on the side of the Jacobites and Bonnie Prince Charlie. where freedom was fought for...and lost. it brought tears to my eyes.

recently i found that someone has put the Peter Watkins 1960s film on YouTube. i have provided the links to part 1, part 2, and part 3 for you on the sidebar of this blog.

thank you Mr. Campbell (my history teacher from high school) for helping to awaken my love for the Scottish people and opening my eyes to realize that much of what happens in this world, though it may all be much bigger than me, though i am small...i can help to make a difference.

slideshow of my time in Scotland

a knock on the door

I was startled by a loud knock on the door.

Being that I was the only one in the flat, it was up to me to answer. My heart pounded as I slowly crept to the door. This was only my second night in the urban industrial metropolis of Glasgow. I was temporarily staying with some friends in a ground floor flat that faced a busy street. I had no familiarity with the neighborhood or the culture and I was thousands of miles away from my comfy home in Boise, Idaho. To add even more emotional upheaval for me, this was only one week after all Americans were forced to face the fear of immanent danger due to the devastating terrorist attacks of 9-11.

On my way to the door, I could see through a window in the front room, that it was quite dark outside for being only around 6pm. I was waiting for my friends who leased the flat to come home from work. Rain crashed loudly against the pavement outside and I could hear the sound of cars sloshing through it as they drove by on the street in front of the building. The door to the flat was actually located in a hallway (called a close) that led to several other flats. Whoever was knocking was not visible to me from the front room window. I craned my neck to look through the peep hole in the door.

My heart jumped a second time and I gasped for air as the little bit of glass warped an image of a bearded man in a black suit staring back at me. He was dark skinned and wore a turban on his head. I could only guess he was from a Middle Eastern country. I had heard that there were large populations of Muslims living in the UK, and here I was staring at the distorted image of one on my 2nd night in this unfamiliar country. Fear rose up in me like a wall as my thoughts conjured up all sorts of horrific terrorist images I had seen on American television, supposedly done by those who claimed to be Muslim.

I carefully unlatched the deadbolt, slowly opened the door, and meekly said Hello. To my relief the man standing there introduced himself as a member of the British Muslim Police. “At least he was a good guy, right?” I thought to myself. He explained to me that he was looking for a man who had been a former tenant of the flat and wanted to know if I knew where he was. Showing my ignorance right away, I explained to him that I was an American and had only just arrived from the States and was staying with friends who were leasing the flat. He wrote some things down on a clipboard he was carrying and asked me if I knew how long my friends had been leasing the flat. I answered as best I could and he wrote something else down on his clip board.

After meticulously putting his pen away, he looked up at me and with the sincerest of smiles he said, “I am truly sorry for what has happened in your country with the bombings. It is a terrible thing. Please accept my apology on behalf of my people, and I hope your stay here in Scotland is a positive one.”

I thanked him. And with that he turned and walked out of the building and back into the wet night. I was left standing for a moment in shock as I pondered what had just taken place at this foreign doorway. In that moment, I had no concept that I would come to learn how prophetic that distorted image through the peep hole really was. For over the next 9 months, I would face my own fears and prejudice while living in Scotland.

THE HAGGIS HUNT

The Haggis Hunt of 2001
by Lisa Marten

This is a true story it must be told. It was a brisk autumn morning in Scotland when the students and leaders of the Harvest Ministry College set out with wild abandon towards the north.They headed through the concrete streets and bustling traffic of downtown Glasgow and out into the country up to the Trossach hills in search of the ferocious legendary Highland Haggis.

The vivid autumn colors of the trees and the rolling green and fiery red hills of the Trossachs were a bonny landscape to the days adventure. The group of dreamy students rode in the infamous big blue bus with hopes of capturing a glimpse of the delicious beast.

Along the journey they were entertained by stories of the legendary Scottish Haggis Hunter, Jimmy McGregor who wrestled with the deadly beastie (a 3 legged, one eyed monster) who had barely escaped with his life. Some of the students made fun of the stories, they were strenuously warned against this behaviour.

Upon arriving at their hunting destination at Loch Katrine, they were let loose to wander the Scottish woods and hillsides on their much anticipated Haggis Hunt. The student who came out alive with the best hunting story would win a tasty prize. Needless to say, it was a mad dash into the trees and the students scattered like billiard balls after a break.

What sounds the leaders heard deep within the woods soon after were so gruesome they sent shivers up their spines. It was enough to remind them that it was foolish for any man to mock the beast. The students would soon find out the horrid truth.

So you too, consider yerself warned mate. Hark and heed the warnings of this true tale. The writer was one of the ignorant students who barely escaped out of the deep Scottish woods with her life! The Highland Haggis is a beastie not to be reckoned with.

Aye!

Cessnock: my move to the Scottish ghettos

this is a wee story based on my Scottish journals from living in Glasgow Sept 2001 to May 2002. i tried to think back to how it looked, felt, smelled & my initial impressions of this mid-winter move Dec. 2001 from one flat to another due to circumstances out of my control.

"Rose opened the cupboard and to her surprise, discovered a filthy syringe and a dirty spoon; remnants of some former tenants’ drug paraphernalia. The cupboard was located in what would be one of our bedrooms. This was the day we were inspecting a flat in Cessnock (one of the worst neighborhoods in the inner city of Glasgow) in order to move into it.

There were 8 of us from different countries who had come to live together in hopes of learning how to minister to those in the inner city of Glasgow. We barely knew each other, and we barely knew what we had signed on for.

It was easy to distinguish the flat from the rest in the look-a-like row houses…we were the entrance with the smashed television on the sidewalk. It never moved from its’ resting place, probably dropped there by some thief in a hasty exit or thrown there by some rageful spouse in a domestic dispute. Regardless, it was the first thing one saw before entering the stairwell to the 6 flats in our building.

The stench in the old entryway (called a close) was a combination of urine, vomit, spilled beer, garbage, and the moldy-mustiness of years of water seepage. The close was dark except for the glow of a small fluorescent light at the entrance that seemed to cast eery green and yellow shadows upon the walls.

The flat we were to move into shared the ground floor with another flat. There was a concrete staircase with metal railings in a circular fashion that led up to the other floors. The sound of your shoes scuffing on the tiled flooring and any tinkling sound your keys made as you unlocked the door or any voices spoken out echoed up the stairwell and bounced off the concrete walls for all to hear.

The staircase also led down from the ground floor through an old wooden door to a very small dark graffitied passage way with a dirt floor. The narrow passageway got smaller as it led to an outside courtyard behind the building where we were to take out our garbage. The smell and littered trash that you experienced up in the close was even worse below in the damp darkness of the passageway with the added odor of reeking sewage. There was no light except what was visible through a crack underneath another wooden door at the end of the narrow tunnel.

Upon entering what would be our flat, we were halted by a rather large mound of junk and trash that was piled in the middle of the room. Evidence of past drug addicted tenants was everywhere. There were remnants of old carpets, pieces of wood, old stained mattresses and trash scattered throughout the flat. The walls were dingy and defaced with slanderous words and symbols. The paint was peeling off the walls and that familiar smell seemed to waft everywhere.The landlord assured us that by the time we were to move in (in a fortnight) he would have all of the mess cleaned up and would repaint the flat for us.

I was told that Glasgow was named Europe’s heroine capitol (they even made a movie called “Trainspotting” graphically depicting Glasgow’s drug culture). I knew all of this going in, but to find myself actually standing in a run-down, trashed & graffitied flat on the southwest side of Glasgow, knowing that this was to be my home in bonnie Scotland, was quite a wake up call. Somehow I didn't feel very much like the braveheart I thought I was."

my heart calls from across the sea...

oh to step foot once again on Celtic lands.
och bheith ceim coise aris eile ar Ceilteach thailte.

"The roll of the wind. As we sail across the water. The roll of the sea. As we're taken through the night. The dimming lamp of day. Leaves the crimson foam and spray. Across the face of the mighty Atlantic. In this cradle we found love. In our lifetimes we were broken. By the spirit we were turned. Here we touched the hope divine. And in the rapture and the charm. Came the tranquil and the calm. On the rage of the mighty Atlantic." -The Mighty Atlantic by Runrig

"On Lough Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining; Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time For the long faded glories they cover."-Thomas Moore

"We Irish pride ourselves as patriots and tell the beadroll of the valiant ones since Clontarf's sunset saw the Norsemen broken...Aye, and before that too we had our heroes but they were might fighters and victorious. The later men got nothing save defeat, hard transatlantic sidewalks or the scaffold...We Irish, vainer than tense Lucifer, are yet content with half-a-dozen turf, and cry our adoration for a bog, rejoicing in the rain that never ceases, and happy to stride over the sterile acres, or stony hills that scarcely feed a sheep. But we are fools, I say, are ignorant fools to waste the spirit's warmth in this cold air, to spend our wit and love and poetry on half-a-dozen peat and a black bog. We are not native here or anywhere. We were the keltic wave that broke over Europe, and ran up this bleak beach among these stones: but when the tide ebbed, were left stranded here in crevices, and ledge-protected pools that have grown salter with the drying up of the great common flow that kept us sweet with fresh cold draughts from deep down in the ocean. So we are bitter, and are dying out in terrible harshness in this lonely place, and what we think is love for usual rock, or old affection for our customary ledge, is but forgotten longing for the sea that cries far out and calls us to partake in his great tidal movements round the earth." -John Hewitt

"Air sgiath a' seoladh nan neoil. 'S an domhain liath. Mar dhealbh a' tighinn beo tro na sgothan. 'S mi a' tilleadh gu tir. Alba nam beanntan ard. Nan acraichean lom. Thairis air na lochan mointich. Nan coilltean 's nan gleann. Alba.

This flight is sailing through the clouds. And the blue heavens. The homeland appears like a developing photograph. Through the mists as I return to land. I see Scotland of the high mountains. And the empty acres. Flying low across the moorland lochs. The forests and the glens. Scotland."-Alba by Runrig

"Icham of Irlaunde. Ant of the holy londe of irlande. Gode sir pray ich ye. For of saynte charite. Come ant daunce wyt me in irlaunde.

I am of Ireland. Out of the holy land of Ireland. I pray you good sir. For the sake of holy charity. Come and dance with me in Ireland." -14th Century anonymous