The Homeland

Friday evening I got to the rents’ and was joined by Big Sis, because we were due to sing in church the next day and needed to have a practice (it’s been a while, we’re a little rusty). Mum and Big Sis were laughing at Dad and our amusing observation about him being territorial in the kitchen, which Mum tells us is his domain throughout the week. Cooking for Sabbath lunch when we are there, is the only time she gets (mostly) free reign of it. Apparently, before I had arrived, Big Sis had gone into the kitchen to offer her assistance. While standing at the doorway, before she could even offer any help, Dad had asked gruffly, “What do you want?” She had relayed this to Mum, who was glad that it wasn’t just her who is denied access. However, I went in a little bit later and asked Dad if there was anything I could do. He passed me items to take out to the dining table and asked me to get the plates and cutlery. “How come you’re allowed in there?!” Big Sis asked incredulously, with Mum listening on. “Er…because I go in there to just do what I’m told, whereas you two go in to interfere!” We all laughed and eventually tucked into a yummy dinner that Dad had made, with lots of comforting winter dishes.

After a short practice (partly because my throat started to hurt and constrict through the lack of regular vocal exercise), we all got a relatively early night, during which I had my usual bizarre dreams and woke feeling cold, despite me wearing long pyjamas, being covered with a duvet and bedspread and not having the window open. I found it hard to wake and had to take a sprint shower (well, by my standards at least), rushing downstairs to get some breakfast and realising that for all my rushing, Mum was still doing her hair and wasn’t even dressed.

We managed to get to church in good time for the service, which was internationally themed as it was International Day there. There were 39 nations represented (which is actually tame compared to the church’s usual standards - I think it was about 50 last time), some evidenced by the national costumes and traditional dresses that people had come dressed in. There was music of different styles and prayers in different languages and dialects. They had listed us in the programme as representing Mum’s country, but Mum explained that in our household there are technically three nations represented, the third being the African nation in which I was born. A group from the same country had given a musical rendition of a familiar hymn in their national language earlier on and when Mum mentioned this, they waved at me in excitement, at this unexpected fellow country-person (of sorts). When we sang, I wasn’t as nervous as I usually am for a change, but my voice was still a little shaky. The song was based on verses in John 10 and was called I Am The Shepherd.

The message was given by the head elder, who has a very sincere, calming, emotive and thought-inspiring way of speaking. Her message was one of inclusivity, the message being that God’s people are scattered far and wide, throughout every nation on earth and that there are no walls of division that should separate us, of race, gender, educational/social/financial background, status or class. After the service, I caught up with a friend who recently celebrated his 50th birthday by travelling to Ireland alone for a week, to spend some time having a break from work and a spiritual retreat. One of my little adopted children, Big C, came up to show me her national costume, before running off to find her parents. When we left the church, my fellow country-people were outside the front entrance, talking in a group! "It's the African girl!" they shouted over at me and beckoned me to come to them. One of the older ladies (I'm guessing she was in her 60s, but she could have even been older; it was hard to tell from her almost complete lack of wrinkles!) seemed terribly proud and excited that I had a connection to them and they gave me hugs, asked where I was born and then asked for a group photo along with Mum and Big Sis. They were so friendly, very sweet and kept telling me to go back for a visit, because with my place of birth on my passport, they would let me straight in, lol. One of the ladies that we know actually did her nursing training in the very hospital I was born in. Mum surprised them by greeting them in their own language and so on and they were very impressed. Their singing had made Mum feel a little homesick to the point that she told us she welled up with emotion.

When we got home, we had lunch, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to stay upright, feeling really worn out and in need of a lie-down. My planned hour-long nap ended up lasting four hours (I know, the shame), but I woke up feeling much better, although slightly dehydrated. Luckily Big Sis had also had a nap, so we were regenerated enough to then have another singing practice for an hour or more, pleasantly surprised by how much of the Christmas songs we learnt last year we can still remember. I am still finding it slightly disconcerting that we are planning for Christmas already, but at least it’s almost November now, so it seems slightly less premature than in early September, lol.

Dad made us tea and toast while we sang and we ate gratefully once we had finished, had a prayer to close the Sabbath and then watched some of The X Factor and then Harry Hill’s TV Burp that Dad had recorded for us. The Gaither Homecoming Tour was playing a date at the Royal Festival Hall on Sunday night that we had known about for ages, but hadn’t had the spare cash to book tickets for. We had heard it had sold out, but then Mum had seen that they had made the choir seats (those above and behind the stage) available, which were luckily the cheapest seats and didn’t seem to be too bad view-wise. I offered to book for us, knowing that we had all really wanted to go (sans Dad, who likes them but in small doses only) and managed to get three seats located fairly centrally in the third row. I knew Mum would be particularly happy about it because she has been having a stressful time lately and had been really disappointed when we thought we couldn’t go.

I had planned to have a chat with The Mrs that night but got home later than expected, not sure if she would still be awake. Luckily she was and we had a catch-up, during which I was pleased to hear that things are still good with her Boy and that she is (don’t tell anyone) totally in lurve.

“I’m sorry I’m happy,” she said apologetically, “I really didn’t plan for this to happen. I wanted to be your eternally cynical sounding board.”

“I know, I know,” I said, laughing and knowing that I’m probably cynical enough for the both of us at the moment anyway. It’s about time The Mrs had a relationship that made her happy. I am chuffed to bits for her.

“He’s just so gorgeous, Em. Don’t you think he’s gorgeous?”

“Er….yeah,” I answered, not sure exactly how effusive my agreement of this statement should be, thinking there is a fine line between supportive and inappropriate. “He is gorgeous. He’s very your type. He’s an indie boy!”

She still thinks he’s too gorgeous for her. I, on the other hand, think they are very well matched and she’s pretty darn gorgeous herself, but the fact she doesn’t see this has always been the problem.

Before we said goodnight, The Mrs reminded me to turn my clocks back.
“That’s next weekend,” I said confidently.
“No, it’s tonight,” she said, equally as confidently.
“It’s not, is it? Are you winding me up?”
“No, seriously,” she reassured, “trust me babe, it’s tonight.”
“Oh pants, I’ve been telling everyone it’s the 31st. I better ring my Mum.”

We said goodnight and I called Mum, hoping she was still awake as it neared midnight. “I’m turning the clocks back,” she said, before I even had a chance to tell her myself. “Oh, thanks for telling me it was tonight!” I thought, but thinking it probably wouldn’t have been a bad thing if I hadn’t known, because at least I would have been ready early for my Sunday lunch with the girls. After my four-hour afternoon nap, I wasn’t quite ready for sleep at midnight, so I watched some telly for a bit before going to sleep some time after 1am. I had weird dreams yet again, but can’t remember much of them now. That is probably a good thing. Another lovely, restful and refreshing Sabbath had passed, which meant a new week had begun.