Mourne Mountain Tea Time   | page 1 of 2 | next >

by Lynne Hybels

One autumn a friend and I spent five days in Northern Ireland.  Each evening I spoke in a rural church, and during the day my friend and I toured the Irish countryside.  One day four women from one of the churches took us to the Mourne Mountains—smallish as mountains go, but lovely and brooding and mysterious as are so many things Irish.  It was rainy and windy, typical of our entire visit, but our new Irish friends were not to be stopped by a foe so inconsequential as the weather.  They had planned a Mourne Mountain Tea Time, and a Mourne Mountain Tea Time we would have.

I can’t remember the name of the lake where we stopped, but I will never forget the drenched mountains rising behind the steely chop on the water, the wet wind whipping our hair into soggy mops, and the cold making light of our winter jackets, mittens and ear muffs.  I will never forget the icy streams cascading down the rocky bank, the ubiquitous sheep on the hills, and the ancient artwork of stone fences marching across the countryside.  I will never forget the hot tea poured from huge thermoses and the fresh cranberry scones. 

Above all, I will never forget the laughter.  We knew our tea party was ridiculous.  We were chilled to the bone, our fingers so numb we could barely butter our scones.   For survival we had to turn our backs to the wind and to the very view we had come to enjoy.

But no matter.  It was exhilarating.  And the very ridiculousness of it, the impractical craziness of it, the difficulty and intensity of it, the damp, cold, biting wind of it—all these fed the exhilaration.  We were unstoppable.  Electric.  Alive to a moment in time that would never happen again.  We were children yielding to the delight of a simple pleasure, adventurers scorning the threat of harsh elements.  I love that about women—their ability to be childlike and tough all at once. 

But there was more that day:  Quiet appreciation of beauty as we walked beneath feathery evergreens in the Silent Valley and marveled at the yellow buttercups flourishing in the bitter cold.  A tender conversation about how to better serve a young widow whose husband had been killed in a recent bombing.  An animated discussion about women using their talents and leadership gifts in the church.  Lunch in an elegant hotel by the Irish Sea. Shopping for antiques in the little town of Moire.

That evening I spoke to a group of women.  No matter how hard I work to prepare a talk, as I approach the podium I always fear that the life experiences on which my talk is based are not as universal as they seemed in the privacy of my study.  If I have to cross lines of age, race or culture, my insecurity increases.  That evening as I watched the rows of folding chairs fill up, I wondered why I had agreed to give this talk.  Many of the women were younger than my own daughter, while others were decades older than I.  All had experienced political turmoil, community violence, and personal heartache I could only imagine.  What could I possibly say that would be of value to them? 

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