Mountains, Mist and Memories.

I’m writing and scheduling this in May in preparation for my old school’s closing ceremonies. It’s a place that, regardless of how difficult it could sometimes be, will always be very special to me. It’s being published today, as the Completion Celebration is taking place (though this may be COVID-dependent).

Those of you familiar with this blog will see the theme of Home once again raising its head.

Without further ado, here it is:

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When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur,

and hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze

And just for a heartbeat, I’m back in the mountains.  Normally at apple turnover corner, that open-mouthed corner that gapes across the valley to the mountains opposite.  And that line from ‘O Lord My God’ isn’t the only thing that transports me back to my childhood home.  A good hailstorm, and I can be riding my bike in Islamabad again.  Fresh rain landing on dry earth, and I could be almost anywhere in the land of my youth.   

I remember riding in the school coaster back up the hill after a campout, usually sunburnt.  Sometimes there was a distinct drop in the temperature part way up, and we became conscious of the cool of the mountains rising above the heat of the plains – a sudden chill on my reddened skin.  With it, the need to put on my jean jacket, attempting not to rub my burnt back too hard as I did so.  I remember, too, peeling off layers of sunburnt skin in Science lessons.  The challenge was to get the biggest unbroken piece, much like when peeling an orange.  Sorry, Miss Matthews! 

I remember being in my room at Sandes, with the windows open, and watching the mist creep in, uninvited but not unwelcome.  I also remember at a younger age sitting on the swing behind the hostel with my brother, and him telling me about The People of the Mist; most unnerving, and definitely provoking unwelcome anxieties!  The mist enveloping and quietening everything is so memorable. 

Some lessons are more memorable than others, and not always for educational reasons.  The ability of one of my classmates, who shall here remain nameless, to mimic a cat-and-dog fight from his seat at the back of the class was worthy of serious respect.  Strangely, this respect seemed only to come from his fellow students.   

Lessons learnt weren’t always the subjects themselves, but the values, and the character, and the skill, and the passion.  I learnt in CDT to use a saw, and a drill, and numerous other tools.  But much more than that, I learnt that I could apply these skills to far more than my teapot stand, trowel, or toothbrush holder.  (I’ll admit now that the egg cups never really worked, and the metal spatula was rather over-sized, as Mr Wood rightly pointed out at the time.) 

And maybe it says something, too, that I went on to become a teacher.   

The boarding staff were another stand-out feature for me.  I remember taken a wounded friend (an accident during games on the court one evening!) to Aunty Eunice, and the care and love she lavished upon him.  I remember settling into Middle Boys, with no shortage of tears, and being nurtured by people who had travelled thousands of miles to serve in this way.  Then Junior High, and playing Risk outside the dining room on a Saturday morning (I even remember one occasion when Dwight didn’t win!).  Those Saturday mornings perhaps help to explain my longing for a house with a wraparound veranda.  Being drawn from the cup of names to eat a meal with the Fulmores was a massive treat.  And choosing perogies was almost an unwritten rule.  They were delicious – why would you go for anything else?  As for Linda’s soup when you were off sick – it was worth being off sick for.  But being invited to be a part of our boarding parents’ lives, and homes, and families.  That was the greatest privilege and treasure of all.   

I also went on to be a boarding parent. 

The friendships made at Murree were and are things to treasure.  Seeing, after decades apart, friends from ‘95 at the recent online reunion was such an enriching experience.  I remember returning to watch my class graduate in ‘95, after being back in England for three years.  Bumping into the rest of the class near the basketball court felt almost like I’d never been away, in a strange sense.  Those friendships can be picked up again with little effort and with great joy.  Our shared experiences, and our shared heritage, add to those friendships such glorious value.  Just this morning, I was reading Psalm 16:6 – “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; I have a goodly heritage.”   

Murree was home, and a place of safety and security.  Of course that sense was violated in the 5^th of August attacks.  But even in that tremendously difficult time, God’s provision and protection could be seen.  And now, as closure approaches, there is a new sadness.  But our past and God’s promises can give us great hope for the future.   

My memories of MCS have got a little smudged in places, and things aren’t quite as crystal clear as they once were.  It’s the mist of time that’s shrouding things now.  But I’m profoundly grateful for those years at MCS.   The place and the people will always say something to me about being at home.  There was a time when the memories were always accompanied by a cloak of pain – a longing for a home that was no longer mine.  Now, the sadness is generally outweighed by peace, and a satisfaction of knowing that more than one place can feel like home.  And knowing, too, that the longing for home doesn’t just take me back – I know I’m longing for a home I’ve not yet seen. 

When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation,

and take me home, what joy shall fill my heart!