On Saturday night Dean picked me up after an extra-long shift and we walked home in the subzero weather, planning the evening - our first night alone in over month!
It was slated to be perfect. Hubby dearest had cleaned (no scrubbed!) the entire flat. We had two bags of chips, a bottle of wine, a DVD and a brand new set of pillar candles.
But just as I pulled on my PJs, I noticed a message: Claire offering to pick me up at 8:40pm for bus ministry. hrmf. I made a feeble attempt to get out of it. In the end I had a bit of an over-tired cry, sucked it up, and bundled up for a cold night in the harbour.
Claire and I discussed it on the drive in: It never fails, those days when you're committed to the bus are always the most exhausting, and when 9pm rolls around, nothing sounds worse than boarding an icy cold bus for three hours.
Without fail, however, those three freezing hours end up being some of the most lifegiving of my month. This week, however, was hard.
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Nearing the end of the evening, four of us sat, bundled in our red Teen CHallenge coats, thinking we may have seen the last lassie of the night, when two more girls stepped onto the bus. The first: mid thirties, bearing all the evidence of 17 years of addiction and work: sallow, sunken skin, missing teeth, chipped nails and torn stockings - a walking cliche.
She told us stories of children lost to the City Council, of her attempts to get into a methadone clinic as a last ditch effort to get off of heroine after so long.
Each of the girls in the harbour have their own unique personality and we try to know them by name, but the truth is they all share the same story.
A short while later one last girl clambered on. She's a year younger than me, rosy cheeked, clear skin with a healthy figure. She was a picture of suburban youth, her work clothes well-concealed under a puffy jacket.
Claire and I had the same thought: What on earth was this girl doing in the harbour?! She didn't show the signs, but she had the same tale: drugs since highschool. She had made a genuine effort to get clean and lasted four months before loneliness drove her back.
Every single person she knows, every friend she has, is a user. Getting clean means living a life of seclusion. One that's hard to maintain for long.
In my optimism, I explained to her how Dean and I came to Aberdeen, knowing no one, but showed up to church on our first Sunday and met some of the best friends we have. Perhaps she should give it a try.
We chatted some more and she left to work through the night.
And it occured to me what would happen if this girl showed up at Gerrard St Baptist the next morning. I would sit with her of course, or Claire would. We'd invite her to coffee, maybe a few times, maybe even once a month for the remainder of the year. But would we really be friends? Would we call her up on the nights we go to the movies, or invite her to the pub in the middle of the week? Would we go shopping together?
Nope. And I'm not sure if it's a problem with me, with the Church, or with Society in general.
When we first moved to the UK I remember thinking that the class system isn't so ingrained in my thinking as it is in a Brit's. But I think I just learned that's a lie.
