A Monday Smattering
- Google+, I have no use for you. Though you offer a few benefits over Facebook, the downside — that nobody really uses Google+ — far outweighs the slick interface and social circles.
- Begrudgingly, I am becoming a NFL fan — or a Minnesota Vikings fan, to be precise. Growing up in Tallahassee, the home of the Florida State Seminoles, I had no need for pro football. Few of my friends even had a favorite team. So it’s only appropriate that my Viking fandom has slowly begun as Christian Ponder, a FSU alum, starts as Minnesota’s quarterback.
- Speaking of Minnesota, the fact that Carhartt is now hip cracks me up. Farmers don’t need a fancy “Work in Progress” brand name to know it’s quality product.
- On another regional note, I recently bought a snowblower. Did I say, “sometimes I miss Florida”?
- Review to come later, but I am very much enjoying Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas.
Christmas + Scotland = Weird
Living in a foreign country during a holiday season is, well, weird. Traditions aren’t the same. Festive food is different. Even the Christmas carols aren’t sung to the right tunes. To top it all off, this is my first Christmas ever over which I do not have a long break from work or school. Rather than my seminary colleagues seventeen days off, I’ll have one and a half days off–Christmas afternoon after worship and Boxing Day (that’s what Scots call the 26th…yeah, weird).
Growing up the son of a pastor, this lack of time off does not come as a great surprise. Not only do minister’s not get time off at Christmas and Easter, it’s their busiest time of the year. That said, Dad usually took off the following Christmas, and the family traditionally went to St. George Island for vacation.
Before you start feeling too sorry for me, Megan and I are very much looking forward to Christmas Day itself. We’ll enjoy food and fellowship with family–my aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandparents-in-law–and will actually see more family on Christmas day this year than last.
One weird Scottish tradition which we find both endearing and a bit excessive is the sending of gobs and gobs of Christmas cards. We’ve received over seventy–70!–and we don’t even have many friends!
Some marketing executive somewhere is making huge bucks off these cards as they are generally of very high quality and must cost more than a fish supper. I have no idea how many cards folks send on average, but it must be closer to 100 than 20. Most of the cards contain a wee Christmas greeting and folks will sign their names, or maybe even write a sentence or two themselves.
Don’t get me wrong: it’s great getting the cards. But, when one considers the aggregate time, energy, worry, and expense of sending them, it makes one pause. And to think, most of the cards are being sent from friend to friend, most of whom folks see on a regular basis and will certainly pass on the greetings of the season in person. I did feel quite sorry this week for our local postman, John. When Megan and I spoke to him a few days ago, he seemed pretty haggard and overwhelmed. His workload must have more than tripled in the past few weeks leading up to Christmas.
Now sending millions of Christmas cards is probably not any less weird than fruitcake, egg nog, Christmas lights, or live manger scenes, but come on, it is a bit weird.
A time to wallow in sorrow
Echoing the wisdom of Ecclesiastes, Scotland is participating in its “time to mourn” at the moment. We lost a heart-breaker to Italy tonight, 1-2. (Not sure about the “we” there, but I’m dual UK/US citizen and I’m sure not Italian.)
Though the outcome wasn’t what we would have hoped, the atmosphere of the pub was just perfect. We arrived 45 minutes before the match and had to fight for a seat. We heard later that some pubs had to stop letting people in more than an hour before the match began. The buildup to kickoff brought about a wonderfully optimistic and friendly atmosphere in the room, only to be dashed a minute into the game when Italy scored from 5 yards away. After that start, hey, at least it could have been worse.
(A surreptitious picture so I wouldn’t get beat up. Ann, you owe me big for cropping you out.)
I’ll opt not to debate any of the many questionable penalties, but leave you with this image. It’s one of those moments when I would have killed to have had my camera.
So I was driving to the church about 10.30 (doesn’t matter why) and in the cold, pouring rain, I saw the most sombre Scot I’ve ever seen, walking slowly down the sidewalk wearing a kilt and Scottish cap, a flag draped around his neck. He looked about as authentically Scottish and authentically heartbroken as anyone ever could. I wanted to stop the car, but I just drove on. It was his time to mourn.
Proper Football
Megan and I attended, as Kathryn says, “a proper football” match this past weekend between Hearts (of Edinburgh) and Kilmarnock (of Kilmarnock).
Unfortunately, the family team Hearts lost 3-1. I can’t exactly say it was a well-played game, but I’ll blame that on the soggy pitch and windy weather.
Viewing the match as an example of Scottish ritual, however, is fascinating. Just as college (American) football in the south is often called a religion, so too might Scottish football. One certainly feels affirmed when rooting for a win with hundreds of others. Wearing the particular colors of a team identifies one as a true follower. And the liturgy. Well, let’s just say I haven’t heard phrases that colorful in church.
We hope to attend another match or two, perhaps in Edinburgh the true mecca for Hearts fans. Until then, I might be stuck with Ayr United games.
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