Churched

I was afraid that I would not recognize Engin on our way to meeting him. It had been at least 10 months since we had sat in the Erb's house over tea and talked about this place. Now I was walking down an Istanbul street (some say the Istanbul street), Istiklal Caddesi, going to meet him. Engin is the priest at perhaps the only Turkish speaking Anglican church in the world. We have made plans to meet him outside of the Swedish consulate, where the church used to gather in a little white chapel surrounded, as all good consulates worth their salt are, by a twenty foot tall spiked wall. It would be an imposing structure if the whole city weren't full of them, and itself one for that matter. After a few minutes of waiting a man came walking up with a boy of about thirteen, this was Engin. I was quite sure of it. Encouraged by my ability of memory, and of Landon already waiving, I waived to him. It was wonderful to meet him in his place and even as an outsider himself (a Turkish born Muslim/Christian convert) he seemed at home. As we walk from the Swedish consulate Engin pointed out other christian churches. Over here was one that is in terrible disrepair. Over there was the ex-patriot church with English services (one we plan on checking out). There are not many Christian churches in Istanbul, or in all of Turkey for that matter, but many seem to be quite close together. We were walking back the way we had come. Soon it became clear that we would probably end up quite close to our apartment. Turns out that the nice church steeple I had been taking pictures of right outside my window is the Armenian church building they meet in. It is less than fifty steps from our front door (although probably more than fifty steps if you include the 5 flights of stairs we have to descend to get to our front door). The service was great, or so I'm led to believe. It was all in Turkish so there wasn't much I was able to pick up. Everyone there was very friendly, and we were even able to enlist the help of a fellow ex-pat in getting cell phones and transit passes tomorrow. I am excited to have a church. I got a sense of community there, something larger than our little group. I hope to get to know them in some small way this year. To engage them in conversation and participate for a short while in their community.

Day one

A first day to remember.

This place is immense. I wonder how I am going to make it my own? How am I going to find my place here? with so much space there must be some space for me? For us? A little spot I can make my own. Our own. But there are so many people here. Perhaps the space is used up. Gone. Crowded in to nothingness like the road ways here and the apartment buildings growing off each other like strands of DNA. A structure surely exists in them, but it would take a lifetime to understand. And even then it would always contain a surprise or two. A lifetime. And I have a year, or less, or more. I am right now dazzled by this place. The sights, the sounds the smells. The children playing soccer in streets which are more like alleyways. The ball bouncing off of cars, which are obviously in play. The locals who don't speak any english, yet are so excited to help us and love our attempts to say thank you in Turkish. The huge monuments to different God's built on the backs of the poor and the money of the rich. A place that has been the seat of empires for millennia and is now fighting for inclusion in the European Union, which it isn't even sure it wants. The art, the commerce, the cultures. I am dazzled. But when will that end? Will I have found my place by then?

Upon Leaving One's Country

I have spent the entirety of my life in Southern Manitoba. I was born here, received my early education at the hands of Winkler's public schools, and decided to continue my studies at Canadian Mennonite University in Winnipeg. I am a prairie person. There is no denying it. I am of this place as much as anything else. I hope that you know what I mean by “prairie person.” But when I try to think of a definition I realize that I do not know what I mean. Or at least I don't know a nice, simple definition. If you give me a moment of your time maybe I can talk it out a bit.

Every year at CMU one of the many annual debates would take place amongst first years, Prairies vs Mountains. Which were better? Arguments would fly from each side. One marking the clear, definable seasons, the other pointing high above their heads to majestic peaks crowned by a mountain goat shaped cloud. I of course always came to the defence of my homeland, that vast, expansive blanket of freshly tilled soil and gently swaying grasslands.

I do love this land, but it is not a love that has come easily. With deathly cold winters and deathly hot summers it takes a toll living here. Yet mountains always seemed prosaic to me in their beauty. Sure they are beautiful, but anyone can see that from Calgary on a clear day. As you drive through the prairies they can whip by you, slyly blending into one seemingly continues (and often seemingly boring) string of wheat fields, old barns and mile roads. To truly appreciate the prairies you have to get out of the car and begin to walk around in them. To find the particular in the all the seeming sameness until you realize that it is all particular. That there is no other lonely elm tree sticking up out of a wheat field, left by the grace of a farmer generations ago. Or a dugout springing out of nowhere in a young bit of scrub brush. Or to realize you have found the most perfect mound of cow shit in the world. I have been blessed with summer jobs that have taken me off the main roads. To the gentle rolling of a freshly plowed field and the noisy swatting of a hundred horse tails. I have been able to explore this place and I have found that it expects much of you, but in time you will be rewarded by it.

I do not mean to offend any mountain lovers out there. In fact I am one of them. I always get excited as I roll down the Trans-Canada and those peaks become clearer. I would love to spend time roaming those hills. But they are not my place, this is, and I will miss it. Maybe that is what a Prairie Person is. Someone who misses it when it is gone.

The First

And here we go.

I have been thinking about starting a blog for some time and it seems that time has now come. I am about to embark on what I hope will be one of the major events of my life. One of those experiences that I will look back on in years to come and think a combination of fondness and “what the crap was I thinking?” I have trouble knowing what the crap I'm thinking generally, and I often just choose to just keep going along with it.

You see, I am about to move from my nice, cozy, homogenous Southern Manitoba town to Istanbul, Turkey. A place that can fit the entire population of Manitoba thirteen times over. A place that has a heterogeneity all its own. A place where the temperature does not go above 30 or below 0. Yes, what the crap am I thinking indeed. Maybe over the course of the next year I will figure that out here, in this most public of forums.

My hope for this blog is to be a chronicle of my next year. I'm not sure what the posts will be like, as I have never done anything like this before. But I hope that I can share a bit about what I'm doing, and, God willing, anything that I might learn along the way.

I leave in 8 days.