G is for GEORGE

Outside of my close family, he's my best friend, even though he supports Manchester United and lives on the other side of the world. So let me tell you about him. This is my story, not his.
George was born not far from Moy just before the beginning of the sixties decade. His home townland went under the delightfully quaint name of Derryscollop and he lived up a short lane with his dad, mum and two sisters, in the shadow of a large clump of trees known as The Grove. It was a small, close community and the children in the area spent much of their time kicking a ball about under the trees and playing their games in the surrounding fields. Growing up next door was Cecil, several years older than George and an avid Spurs supporter, but they both got along famously, often reenacting important football games and impersonating famous players that they idolised in their respective teams. George and his sisters went along to the local Methodist church just over a mile from their home and they all came along to the CE in our church, several miles away, every Friday night. He and Cecil also joined the Campaigners, a local youth organisation in the church and it was in these two latter places that our paths first crossed, though not to any significant degree. By this stage, I was already part of a singing group with his sisters though after he moved to the Royal school, I began to look out more for the girls' kid brother.
The Troubles were escalating in the province and George had only finished one year at grammar school when his dad made the brave decision to emigrate to Australia. The family left in 1971 and I was sad to see them go for they were all good friends. For the next few years our only contact was through a few letters from his sister, Heather, whom I wrote about some weeks ago and her mother, but George and I had basically lost touch, though the written word always kept me informed of his whereabouts. In 1979, he came back to spend time with his relatives and neighbours and our paths crossed once again, not for any great length of time but enough for us both to realise that we had a lot in common. It was uncanny the way we viewed life and how our interests overlapped and I guess, over several late night / early morning chats, we knew a special bond was developing. There was much catching up to do, many things to reminisce about and so much of the world to put right and through it all, our friendship grew. When he left, we picked up the comradeship through letters and phone calls and were able to follow each other's path with interest.
When wife and I got married several years later, we asked him to be our Best Man, but the distance and the constraints of his job prevented it happening, though I still remember well the phone calls that he made to both of us on that morning. A few years later, George got himself hitched to a lovely Aussie lass called Julie and now they have three adorable kidlets (his word - not mine) who are growing up into delightful young ladies. He has returned on a regular basis to his place of birth and last year brought the whole family to stay with us during the summer. Needless to say, there were many late nights and much of the world was again put right over coffee. Then just this summer came an added bonus when he returned, unexpectedly, to accompany his mum, who had decided to see her kinfolk once again. More late nights, more problems solved and we even managed to find an Aussie restaurant in our local town!
And as time moves on I promise myself that some day, I'll visit him in his own backyard but for now, we'll keep the friendship going through emails and phone calls, like the one that woke me at seven o'clock on Monday morning, just to say hello.



So what about George the person. He's a keen sportsman, a gifted footballer and an athlete of considerable ability, especially in middle distance and marathon running. He plays golf off a very commendable handicap and has a great sporting intelligence in conversation, though for some reason he thought Ireland might win the rugby World Cup. I think I put that down to nationalistic delusion. Years of wear and tear on his legs have just about put paid to his running career but every day he walks a brisk few miles at a pace that most of us would call running. He has a steely determination to succeed, is well organised, extremely sociable and his teaching career has brought him to run the primary school right on his doorstep, a bit like ourselves.


It hasn't all been plain sailing. Just a year ago he lost his dad and previously his sister had passed away though illness. But George is a survivor and his outlook on life is always positive and optimistic, even in the darkest moments. He's an Australian now, in every way, but somewhere, in the corner of his mind, there is a little piece of Northern Ireland stored away for old time's sake and for his two friends on the hill.

But the loveliest thing about George is that the faith that he found in a small corner of this province is not only alive and well, but flourishing in a small town called Yinnar, not far from Melbourne. Time changes many things but for George it has never changed his love for and belief in his Saviour who says ' Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.' At the other end of the world, George is living proof of a God who not only transcends time but also distance. G'day!