Horses of Moyross

To create a more robust curriculum in our mission training school, it was decided that we would visit a Catholic community living in Limerick, Ireland. Named “The Franciscan Friars of the Renewal,” this small band of dedicated brothers have decided to forsake all the world has to offer to live together in what is known as a wasteland of an estate. Moyross has been called the poorest and roughest estate in all of Ireland, notorious for anti-social behavior and crime. Perpetual robbery, vandalism, domestic abuse and violence define the estate. However, there is also another, very peculiar, mark on the community. You see, as the community formed over time, it became a place for Travelers to settle and with them, their horses. Yes, horses. So there, roaming in between the sparsely-situated, dilapidated houses and feeding in barren parks and soccer pitches lived another community of docile quadrupeds.


It is the darkest corner…but a light shines in the darkness.


One of the most common themes we focus on is the idea of regeneration, the idea that there is no person or place that is too far out-of-reach of the love of God. With that attitude we can go to any place knowing that we carry within us the power of Jesus to bring about change, hope. So we went. We went for two reasons, to hear from the Friars what it means to give up everything to live out the kingdom in community, to hear what it means to be wholly dedicated to prayer and worship, to hear and see the definition of love and service to the needy. The second was to do what we were learning in the very place we learned it.


We spent our afternoons working in a youth club, visiting homes, cleaning gardens and footpaths, praying, and playing with kids.


This is my own story.


On the first night we went out to start prayer walking but right away there were children in the square kicking about a ball. Within an hour we were surrounded by kids playing football, giving piggy-back rides and endless amounts of spinning in circles. There was an abundance of joy and laughter that was more than likely rare for that dark corner of the world. While we played however, a strange group of fierce looking individuals was forming in a field only 50 meters away. I stopped what I was doing and stood near Brother Thomas. The two of us gazed pensively at the looming gang and I asked, “What is that group, over there?”


“That is a hard group,” he said, ” Nearly impossible to get into. There are only three things they care about: drugs, football and horses. If you can play football you may get a foot in, more so if you know about horses.” Sure enough, in the middle of the crowd was a small, 14 hand high horse, who knows what breed, with a simple bit and bridle and no saddle.


“I think I’m going to talk to them.”


“Do…you want anyone to go with you?”


“Ummm…no, that’s okay,” and with that I began a walk of trepidation, convinced of two things, I was in danger and that God loved that gang of lads.


As I neared the gang each turned, one after another and stared and smirked at my approach. I have no idea weather they thought I was a fool or foe, but they were not exactly welcoming. When I was withing earshot of them I did what any slightly nervous foreigner who was not anyplace he should be did, I grinned a huge grin and began to chat.


“Hi! How’s it going!” (That was met with grumbling and snickering) “I saw that you were riding horses and I wanted to say that I thought it’s great these horses just get to wonder around, you would never see horses wondering around estates in the U.S. Do you ride often?”


A random lad piped up, “Yeah a few of us ride so we do, some on carts as well.” His tone changed, “Sometimes though the city will come and take the horses away, take them to the pound and maybe kill them.” He stared at me looking to see whether or not I was there to do the same.


“Well, I think these horses seem happy enough here,” stroking the present horse’s nose. There was an awkward silence as I stood there surrounded by the leery lads. Then a very strange thought came to me. “I’m gonna ride a horse” and immediately after seeing no saddle, “I’m gonna kill myself riding a horse.”


But I stuck to it. “Do you think I can ride?”


The very question stirred them up. They joked between themselves and started chatting. “Do you ride?” the young man asked.


“Well, I wouldn’t just be a great rider like, but I would certainly give it ago.”


“Right then, we’ll get you the other horse,” he smiled as he turned to face the estate and yelled in a very heavy Limerick accent shattering the thick quiet of the dusk.

“Bring ‘er in boy! Hurry it up!”


Then, out of the dimness and distance a ruddy fellow brought his short, stout, Tabiano-coloured Connemara Pony to a canter and hurried her in…no saddle, perfect balance, his frame moving fluidly with the gait and his eyes set like flint on us all. We watched him come in and halt in our midst. He jumped off effortlessly. All eyes turned to me and the lad I was with dropped to his knee near the horse and slapped it saying, “Right, on you go!” So I grabbed a lock of the horse’s mane, put my foot on his knee threw myself over the back of the mare like a sack of potatoes. I wriggled into place immediately aware of the lack of stirrups. For a moment I had no idea what I was doing, but quickly came to my senses. I sorted the reigns, straightened up and gave the mare a *chk*chk* and a nudged her around.


I trotted away from their sniggering and cheering and headed down the glen trying to keep from falling off. When I finally had my balance, I gave the nag another tap and off we went into a canter. Now at this point a problem was coming to me, and that problem was the police. I didn’t actually know if it was legal to run on the road, past the police, on a horse, through the neighbourhood. Furthermore, I wasn’t so confident in my riding that the idea falling off onto the pavement didn’t seem like fun. So I slowed her down and turned left into a field when suddenly a fellow passed me shouting either blessings or curses that I couldn’t understand. So I picked up speed again and headed back to the group. As I approached they waved me past saying to give it another go so I eased around and went again trying to keep pace with the other rider. I finally reached a pace where I was losing my balance and I was sliding off. (The audience also made me well-aware of my disgraceful riding posture by whistles and cackles). I grabbed a handful of mane and drove my knee into the pony’s shoulder and jerked back into place, turned about and came to a halt at the group.


I was greeted with smiles and laughter. I jumped off and we shook hands, said a few words back and forth and then I was called away home by a friend from the our own group. I would have liked to stay and chat, to find out more about them and share the good news that I carried, but this evening was sufficient because the Lord used me to bring a bit of laughter- To the hardest group, In the darkest corner. His love knows no bounds.

Champagne at McDonalds

It’s our purpose to go to the hurting, but often, they come to us.


She stopped me only a moment after I stepped away from the ATM in the middle of the busy Dun Laoghaire square. I looked at her squarely; something was awry. Her eyes were a tired hazel, her skin showed signs of premature aging with the tell-tale “Oompa Loompa orange” of artificial tanning.


“I didn’t stop you because of you’re there…” pointing at the ATM. She apologized in a raspy, educated Dublin accent, “…but all I need is some money to get me to tomorrow . Eight or ten Euros, maybe twelve or fifteen? A twenty is all I need…” pleading for higher and higher handouts.


I kept my eyes locked. I know what it means to be in need. I also know that money is not always the answer.


She continued, ”…all I really need is food…and cigarettes. Maybe even just some chicken from McDonald’s, that’s all I need. You can even come with me, it’s just up the way…”


“Alright, I’ll go with you to McDonald’s” I replied immediately.


She seemed a little glad and a little confused by my quick answer, but led me up the busy street with a broken smile and bright orange complexion. I began to consider my situation – here I was meant to enjoy a pleasant day at the harbour and now I found myself following a middle-aged lady with a hankering for chicken bites.


“You know I wasn’t always broke. My family is rich, but I fell out with my brother. I just left the treatment home and f*’n knew that was a bad decision right away. I’ll tell you what else is broke is my f*’n finger,” she held up a sort of sausage shaped digit, obviously smashed in a door or something. “Hurt’s like hell so it does.”


She was dressed well, or…well enough. Her clothes were clean, her hair, though a bit disheveled, was newly tinted and had an attempt at style. This was a lady who has been through a lot in a short period of time. I think, perhaps, she is at the end of her rope. The Lord had put me here for a purpose and so I settled in my mind that I would invest my time with her for the next hour while my mates were at a meeting.


We arrived at the McDonald’s and stood in line. She spoke aloud as she scanned the menu, “Chicken bites or Cheese bites? Cheese bites look nice. Will you eat some if I get six or eight? Do they come in six?” addressing the clerk. The clerk turned to find the manager and they chatted. She returned.


“Sorry, only orders of four.”


“Then just one order. You can share with me?” she asked me. “And a cup of water with ice…lots of ice, a little water. Mostly Ice. Half water.” I had never heard such a specific request for water at McDonald’s.


“Perhaps. But I think I’ll just have a small Coke.” I said to the clerk.


“Oh, you must share with me! I would feel bad if I was the only one eating.” I had eaten so much already that morning, but I conceded to share so as to respect her.


We received our order and she led me upstairs to first-floor seating. She was excited, “You can listen to me talk to you for a whole hour!” We settled in the corner.


She set her stuff out commenting on about a bit of OCD (like the best of us have), and thought aloud, “Too much water, I’ll go get just ice…” So she left me there with my thoughts. Returning, “Better! Now, my brother gave me this bottle of champagne and said, ‘If you’re down you can just have a bit to drink.’ ” and out she pulled a brand new bottle of champagne. She looked around and turned in the corner, removed the foil and twisted the cork *POP* and *Fizzzz*


The party began. In McDonald’s. At 12 noon. What have I gotten myself into?


She poured her glass full and opened the cheese bites. I sipped on my Coke. She took a sip and began to talk.


She had left the treatment home just a few days ago. She was very fond of the drink. She had prided herself for not having done any of the hard drugs like her companions in the home. But they stole from her. Her money, her things. And no one would help her. She had a sharp disagreement with her brother, who was rich.


“My Son lives with him…” She began to tear up and she looked away. There was a pause. “I haven’t seen him in a while…”


She paused again, topped of her cup and changed the subject. “I should put on more makeup. Lipstick…”


She opened her bag and pulled out a handful of cosmetics, then drew red on her lips and smacked a couple of times. Then she applied some sort of pearlescent paint. Smacked her lips again. “There!”


“Thank you so much for listening to me. You have beautiful eyes. Can I kiss you?” Leaning over the table.


“Um, no.” I was confused.


“Not on the lips, just your cheek.”


“Um, okay.” So I turned my cheek and she kissed me. I felt a bit of lip paint still on my cheek.


“Thank you” said I. She took a drink.


She collected her thoughts took another sip and continued pouring over her life. This time she told about her mother being in the hospital with a stroke. She held up her arms to show how her mum was kept in the hospital. “I love my mum so much,” she wept. She went on to tell about her brother, the business he owned and the treatment of herself. As she spoke I look intently at her, I hung on every word. I know what it means to hurt and I was happy that I could listen. But then she looked at me. Straight into my eyes.


“You’re thinking about something aren’t you?”


“Yes,” I replied. “In fact, I am praying.” There was a brief pause.


“Do you know that it is not God’s will? It is not his will that you have been hurt. People make horrible choices, he can use them for his purpose but they are not his will. Everything that you have done wrong, from today reaching back to day one can be forgiven, forgotten. You have already said that you don’t know where to go from here, but I can bring you back to the beginning. God loves you, Jesus loves you and today it can begin to be right with you. There is hope.” I didn’t break my sight of her. I prayed for her son, her mum and her brother. I prayed for her to make good choices, for courage and for forgiveness. I prayed for her life, that it would be healed. I prayed for her busted finger. I prayed for her heart, especially her heart. It is the only broken thing that can be healed from the inside out. “Today can be a new beginning, if you choose it.”


She had a tears in her eyes. I had nothing left to say. I stood up and sternly said to her, “Get up!”


“What?”


“Get up!” I said with a cheeky grin.


She arose. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her. I embraced her long enough to let her feel the gravity of the words I had spoken.


I gave her a tenner for dinner, and I left. I believe I left her with the courage to begin again because there is hope.


There is always hope.

Dichotomy Heart

Earlier this year a few of us agreed to assist a Dublin, inner-city ministry to facilitate a Kids’ Camp in Co. Meath. It would last one week and have a variety of activities to try and daily sessions with skits, memory verses and music. All in all it looked to be a very great idea. I did not know what I was getting myself into.


We arrived an hour before the kids, 25 or so, and prepared their rooms. There was a nearly tangible peace at the 20 acre run-down mansion-on-a-lake that was to be our host for the next seven days. We chatted a bit with the other leaders and pictured what the week would be like. I layed on my mattress nearly drifting away when the silence was ruptured by such din as to nearly throw me out of bed. That is to say, the kids arrived. They spilled into the bedroom and started immediately jumping on their mattresses and sorting out their baggage and yelling. My perceptions of the week changed drastically. As I eyed up each child I wondered what would be in store. What problems would I have to deal with? Which would give the most trouble? Which would be the bully? I paused in my mind; I found myself asking all the wrong questions. This week was about encouragement, about something more than just discipline and making things work. God literally had a plan for each one of them and it was my job to facilitate that work.


It wasn’t until the second day I had the realisation that one of the kids would be particularly special.

Strong-willed. Yes.

Stubborn. Of course.

An untameable anger stirring on the inside ready to be unleashed at the slightest jab. Probably.


Bobby proved to be a handful from the beginning. As our team was coming in a troop of scouts was leaving, within a few hours someone had come up to tattle on Bobby for stealing crisps from one of the scouts. The leader asked if he had stolen, he said “No,” and when given the post-grievance opportunity to simply ask for the crisps, he clammed up and refused to speak obviously hurt by the reprimand.


On the second day the kids were allowed to purchase various sweets after lunch with their own money. When dishes were done I went up to the room only to find Bobby, the very same kid caught stealing, giving away his sweets to all the kids in the room, one by one without considering what was left for himself. What was going on in this little 9-year old? His very heart a dichotomy of right and wrong…something good was alive and stirring, it longed to be searched for.


On Wednesday, like the previous days, Bobby put up a bit of a fight to come to evening session. Not that he was rude or aggressive, he just didn’t come when called and ran when he was pursued. I was at my wit’s end trying to catch up with him. He laughingly tolerated being carted down the day before in his sleeping bag but was rather skittish today by locking himself in the room. So, as any frustrated kid’s leader would do…I sat down. I sat at the bottom of the stairs across from the room, prayed and thought awhile about who this kid was and why he seemed so special, despite his natural tendencies toward disobedience. It was not soon after the latched clicked and the door opened. He stood at the top of the stairs, looked down at me and smiled. His smiles could light a coal mine. He made a sort of, “Well, that was fun” look, waltzed down the stairs and into the room, not a word said. It was then that I realised what was different. I found what I had run across was nothing less than me. Myself. Always knowing what is right and able to act on it, but despising to be told what to do and so becoming prideful and obstinate.


One day, he had been harassed about doing something else wrong and was sitting in the back of the mansion alone looking at all the out buildings. I approached him. He asked about what was in them. I smiled, “Well… let’s have a look.”


So he and I meandered around the grounds, buildings older than my own country. We peaked in windows, explored sheds, strolled through quiet gardens. I began to realise something important. Throughout the week, kids seemed to be constantly telling on Bobby and he seemed to be the cause of so much trouble. I had a feeling that an image of disobedience was being forced upon him. However, if you just walked with him and chatted, you would find a heart bursting with simple Joy and Curiosity, not a malformed character of perpetual disobedience but a loving character longing to be cultivated into something great. He wasn’t into mischief, he was simply taking every opportunity as it came but his ignorance of right and wrong was his weakness. What seemed okay, like finding a can of spray paint with no name on it and trying it out, was not actually a “good choice”, he just didn’t know any better and so unwittingly got himself into trouble.


My understanding of Bobby would come to a head in the next day. It was time for the evening session and he didn’t really want to come so he went to the room. I was no longer frustrated with him now that I knew there was more in there than obstinance, so I went to him. He smiled at me when I walked in and I sat on the edge of the bed.


“Bobby…can I ask you a question?”


“Yeah,” in his kid-pitched Dublin accent.


“What kind of kid do you think you are?” I asked with a smile.


“I’m a bad kid,” looking at me and then away from me.


“Why do you think that?”


“Because everyone says I am…”


Ah, now we have come to it. So I looked into his slate-blue eyes and began… “Can I tell you something? You’re NOT a bad kid. You’re a great kid. I saw you sharing and I see you laughing and smiling. There’s a lot of good in you Bobby. Remember your memory verse? ‘God made me great and He has planned good things for me to do.’ So you see, both God and I think you’re good. And not only that, but I see a lot of me in you too. We’re a lot alike you and I. So now, what do you think about yourself?


With a gleeful smile, “I’m a great kid.”


“That’s right, you are. A very good kid.”


We sat quietly only a moment longer and then he rolled over. “Shall we go to session?


“Yeah.”


—


Bobby changed that day. He listened better and seemed to smile more. I had a hard time though wondering about his future. Even a day later during a campfire Bobby was getting served some hot chocolate and another kid came up and said, “Hey! That’s his second cup of hot chocolate!”


“No it isn’t!” he rebutted, “I didn’t get any.”


Was Bobby lying again? In fact, no. He was with me getting a stick to sharpen for the fire while the other kids were getting served. This other kid had instinctively assumed that Bobby was doing wrong and even invented badness for him.


What will become of him when he goes home? Will he hold strong to the truth of his God-given goodness? or will those around him continue to force him into a mould far too small and misshapen because that’s how it’s always been? Lord, let it not be so.


But this remains. On the last morning of the last day, who was first at the door? Bobby.And when the whole of the group was asked to tell a memory verse, who stood on his chair and word for word told what good was in him?  Bobby did.

Dark Water, Dim Road

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