Editor’s Note: For now over 75 years, The Baylor Line has been publishing vivid storytelling from across the Baylor Family. I don’t think our archives full of deep, inspirational features should live solely on shelves, so we are bringing them back to life in BL Classics. This April 1985 Classic, June Osborne travels across Ireland and England on Baylor’s British Isles program.
A Shriveled Apple and a Small Candle Traveling with the “Baylor in the British Isles” program, a faculty wife experiences an unexpected sharing. Baylor’s study-abroad programs are many things to many people and offer myriad opportunities for gaining knowledge on foreign soil. In my opinion some of the most valued by-products of such a program are the memories stored by the participants. In the summer of 1984 my husband taught in the program called “Baylor in the British Isles,” and I was privileged to go along.
Among my memories are the usual things: spectacular scenery, new friendships, mobs of people packed into small areas, the pain associated with walking on cobblestone streets, riding the “tube’ and double-decker busses at rush hour, roaming through cathedrals and castles that have withstood the ravages of centuries and millions of footsteps of tourists like us, provocative stage plays, stirring symphonies, running to catch the Brit-Rail for a quiet weekend in the country, museum visits — in short, all the usual “touristy” activities. However, two things that stand out most vividly in my mind are a shriveled apple and a small candle. Let me explain.
Until two years ago when my family joined Lake Shore Baptist Church in Waco, I had never belonged to a group that practiced the custom of “passing the peace.” Early in my association with the church this by June Osborne became one of the most cherished of traditions. During our visit in the British Isles two occasions made me realize just how meaningful the ceremony is to me personally. One incident occurred in Ireland; the other, in East Anglia.
Going to Ireland gave us the feeling of being transported backward half a century. Since the Emerald Isle is primarily an agricultural country, many of its people are rugged looking individuals with craggy complexions and hands tough as cowhide. By American standards the Republic of Ireland is a poor country; and, again by American standards, most of the people we saw were dressed in clothing we considered out of style years ago.
As we rode through the rolling farmland on a tour bus, we were captivated by the beauty of cultivated fields neatly set apart by ancient hedgerows in squares and rectangles. Occasionally we stopped in a tiny village for a “pub lunch” and talked with one of the local people. This gave us not only a taste of Irish food, but a bit of the flavor of the country as well.
One day our tour guide announced the morning coffee stop would be in Claremorris in County Mayo. Very few townspeople were out and about when we arrived. As my husband and I walked down the street looking for a place for a “cuppa,” an older man came toward us pushing a bicycle. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a National Geographic documentary on life in Ireland. The legs of his rough wool pants were tucked into his long socks. He wore a dark wool jacket, a tie, a jaunty Irish cap, and a vest that didn’t quite match his trousers.
As he approached I saw a twinkle in his eyes which led me to believe he wanted to speak to us, although he seemed a bit shy. Boldly we said, “Good morning!” That was all he needed. He parked his bike beside the curb, and the three of us began to chat.
First he asked where we were from. By that time we had discovered that many people in Ireland watch “Dallas” on television, so we told him we live in Texas only one hundred miles from Dallas. He commented that that was a long way from his home, and he wondered aloud why we came to Ireland. We explained we were with a study group from a large Baptist university and were on our way to England. All the time we were talking he furtively examined our clothing from head to toe. Then openly he admired our colorful outfits. Though we felt our appearance was ordinary, apparently he thought we looked quite grand, indeed.
We asked permission to take his picture. He said he would like that very much and thereupon he pushed his bicycle to one side and took off his cap. I wanted to say, “No, please! We want to capture the image just as you were when we first saw you!” But I suppressed my feelings; and when he indicated he wanted me in the picture with him, I stepped up beside him. After we promised to send him a copy of the picture, he asked us to wait while he went to get something at a small market nearby.
When he returned a few minutes later, he had in his hand a shriveled apple, one that would have been a reject in America’s supermarkets. With as much aplomb as our pastor Dr. Roger Paynter ’72 displays in passing the peace at communion services, the man handed me the apple. And in his melodic Irish brogue, he said simply, “I want to share with ye the peace of Gawd.”
I was so touched I tried to think of something to give him in return. The only thing I had with me that seemed even half-way appropriate was one of my business cards with the silhouette of a barn swallow printed on it. When I handed it to him, his face lit up as if I had given him one of the crown jewels. When he saw my address on the card, he insisted on writing his in my notebook.
He wrote: “Patraic McHugh, Hollymount, Claremorris, County Mayo, who met ye in Claremorris town, County Mayo, on the 12th of July, 1984.” He needn’t have written such a reminder. We shall long remember an Irish gentleman on the streets of Claremorris town who shared the peace of God with two foreigners. His humble gesture left us with a far warmer feeling inside than would the cup of coffee we were seeking when we chanced to meet Patraic McHugh.
The second memorable incident took place the last week we were in England. Several months prior to our trip I had made arrangements to attend a week-long course on birding in East Anglia. The brochure described the week as a “birding holiday, based at Cley-next- the-sea, the ornithologist’s Mecca.” Bryan Bland, one of England’s foremost ornithologists, conducts the courses at his seventeen-century home on the coast of the North Sea. He accepts only six persons for each week’s course and is usually booked a year in advance. Luckily, I was able to participate because of someone else’s cancellation that week.
In a letter Bland had written that four of my classmates would be from England and one from Canada. Although I was excited about the prospects of the new British birds to be added to my Life List of birds sighted, I was a little apprehensive about being the only American in the group.
On the first day of the course, I was the last of the six guests to arrive in Cley. When I walked into the room where the others were having afternoon tea, I felt every bit the part of “stranger in a foreign land” as I encountered the cool reserve exhibited by many Britishers upon first meetings. I asked myself, “Why did I think coming here was such a good idea? What do I have in common with these people other than a love of birds?” At that point I couldn’t think of a good answer; and, consequently, I was ready to get back on the bus and return to London, where I could be with my family and friends from Baylor.
However, after tea, Bryan suggested a quick visit to one of the hides (blinds) on the Cley Reserve to see the birds that were about that day. During an hour together, filled with sightings of a variety of new shorebirds for me, the barriers began to crumble as we discussed the likenesses and differences of the species that were present; and I began to feel a little more comfortable about being there.
Later that evening Bryan invited us to supper in the kitchen. It was then I knew beyond a doubt I was in company with kindred spirits, and, indeed, that everything was going to be all right. Everyone gathered at the candle-lit table, and the warm glow created a feeling of elegance in the humble setting. Unceremoniously Bryan picked up the brass bell at his plate, shook it gently, bowed his head, and said a simple prayer of praise and thanksgiving. Bryan’s wife, Betty, then announced, “We will now pass the peace.”
It was not until then I noticed a small unlit candle at each person’s plate. Since I was next to Bryan at the head of the table, he asked me to begin the ceremony. Instantly flashbacks of our first Thanksgiving communion service at Lake Shore flooded my memory with warmth. I picked up my tiny candle, lit it from the large central taper, turned to the person next to me, and said, “May the peace of God be with you.” I lit her candle with mine. And so it went all around the table each night of that week. From the first flicker of shared flame, I felt the meaning of being “one in the Spirit,” for not only did the six of us have a hobby in common, but far more importantly, we shared the peace of God.
A shriveled apple. A small candle. Two simple ceremonies six thousand miles away from home, but what a bond of fellowship they symbolized. I realized as never before that no matter how far apart individuals may live socially, intellectually, culturally, or geographically, when we share the peace of the one true God, we are truly “one in the Spirit.”
