Thanksgiving in September

Hello again,

My time in England, it seems, is rapidly coming to an end. It has been a wonderful two years. I think this past weekend really encapsulates my experience here, and why it will be so sad to leave.

Conversation class yesterday morning (my Saturday staple for a year and a half) was lightly attended since we only recently reconvened from our summer holiday, but was still a great time to get to know people from all around the world – to listen to their stories and peek into their lives. This time, an Iranian, Eritrean, Yemenis, Chinese, and two Uzbeks come along – all except the Chinese were Muslim by heritage. We did introductions this week – who we are and where we came from. An elderly Iranian lady – an asylum seeker – recited a poem she composed in Farsi. Upon learning I was American, she managed to express that it was a sad anniversary, and that Sept. 11th was a terrible thing. Then she dictated a letter for me to a friend who was more fluent in English, wishing me a safe journey to America and that I settle down and “meet the girl of your dreams and get married.” I was touched –I had never met her before.

Directly after conversation class, the community centre hosted an Eid Murabak party, celebrating the end of Ramadan. A couple of us decided to stay to see what it was all about. Some Kurdish folk singers came and led us in a Grand March-style traditional dance – rocking forward and back with one foot in the middle, hands clasped with the person next to you, space for improv in the middle. The Kurdish men were mostly dressed in flowing blouses and trousers, tied with a wide cloth belt, crowned with a small knit cap. But most people were normally dressed, of course, with the women with their scarves. Then, they opened up the food – a buffet of home cooked dishes and fresh produce: curried rice, stuff herbed peppers, leaf-wrapped fish, salad, fruit.

It was technically an Islamic party, but about a quarter of the attendees were, like us, not Muslims. We told them we were Christians, and they still welcomed us. (There were no overtly religious ceremonies or prayers). Over the course of lunch, one of our Uzbek friends asked about the church I go to, about different denominations, and the meaning of baptism. So, in the middle of an Islamic celebration, I had the chance to explain the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and how that shapes the way we live as his followers. Similarly, I could overhear Lucy talking about Jesus to a Chinese friend of ours, who had also stayed for the party. It seems we (Refuge gospel community – our small group of the church) have had a lot of neat opportunities recently – Amy related that one of her workmates said “the more I find out about your church, the crazier it sounds.” To which she replied, “If you knew Jesus, then you would understand why we do it.” Awesome!

Well, later yesterday evening, I went to my friends, the Johnson family, for a quiet goodbye dinner with Ian and Rosemary and their boys. I depart Sheffield on Friday. I opened the door, and was hit by a barrage of “surprise!” and party poppers. The entire Gospel Community was gathered. They had for months been secretly planning this dinner – it was a Thanksgiving dinner. We had held Thanksgiving dinner last November as a way of setting aside time to reflect and celebrate on all that God had done in and through us over the previous year. They repeated it – roast turkeys, potatoes, roasted vegetables, bread, cranberry sauce, pies, sweet potatoes... the works. It was amazing. It was a feast. They even talked to my mom to get American Thanksgiving recipes! Everyone had been cooking all day, without me knowing a bit. Everyone was dressed up (but me). Ian sang a creative rendition of the Will Wangled Banner. We all held back tears... or tried to. I was given a montage picture of Refuge moments. We all went around the table and said something that we were thankful for.

In addition to me leaving Sheffield this coming Friday, the gospel communities in the church (like small groups, but so much more – they are the church day to day) are also going to be mixed up as of this week, in order to put us in a better position to plant more churches in the future. About half the people are moving to different GCs – some in the rougher east side of the city where there is almost no gospel presence; some into other GCs that could benefit from their gifts and passions. It means that Refuge, as we know it, is no longer. We have had to remind ourselves that it is not about us, or about Refuge, but about the spreading the fame of King Jesus to every tribe and nation and tongue – starting in our own city.

So, this morning (Sunday) we decided to do a morning outing with the gospel community one last time, before the gathering, before the changes. We carpooled out into the Peaks District national park at 7:00am, and walked up to Cavert Edge, a rocky cliff dotted with Bronze Age ruins, overlooking the valley.

The sun was especially bright this morning. The rain was gone and the clouds were arching over the rolling hills and moors that make up the Peaks. The landscape laid out below us was as peaceful as a Constable painting – sheep and horses grazing in fields of purple heather; an old stone bridge, reflected against the winding river. Nestled in the folds of the old hills were the villages I’ve trudged through during my hikes - Eyam, Baslow, Cavert, and Froggat – stone houses and old mills on the river, villages crowned by their steepled churches and Great War memorials. Looking down from the edge, we could see grindstones that were abandoned one hundred or two hundred years ago because of some crack or blemish, now laying discarded at the base of the cliff. Two hot air balloons drifted in the distance. It was beautiful – almost too beautiful – the type that makes you think, we don’t deserve this; beauty is made more poignant by grace.

With such an agreeable backdrop and with a large rock for a table, we shared a breakfast of croissants and bagels, tea and hot chocolate. We laughed about the good times had, and the good times yet to come. Faye had printed out some hymns, so we sang them, the 12 of us, from the cliffs. I will sincerely miss hearing hymns sung in English accents – the way they would have sounded when first composed by Wesley, and Newton, and Toplady. Refuge is a motley crew, really – you couldn’t help but notice it with our dodgy, unaccompanied singing voices in the early and cold morning air; some young, some old; some university educated, some not; some from posh backgrounds, some living on shoestring budgets; some brand new Christians, some older in the faith; singles and couples; an American and Brits; some with disabilities; some unemployed. The only thing we had in common was Christ – the gospel was our common story. But we are family. Jesus died for us. He has called us, who were not a people, to be a people. To be certain, over the past two years we have annoyed one another, offended one another, sinned against one another... mixed with all the good times were plenty of reminders that we are still people in need of grace, in need of a saviour. The joys of community!

They are family, and I will miss them. But we have hope – hope that we will see one another again; hope that every good thing about Refuge is merely a glimpse of the New Creation, when Christ will reign fully and we will be like him; hope that God will again prove himself faithful during this time of change; hope that He is unchanging, though we travel half way around the world. Our hope is assured.

I have no idea what the future holds, but I am so excited for it.

Signing off from Sheffield,
Will