It’s not like I’ve forgotten.

Less than a year later and that wound still surges and festers below a thin covering of flesh. I cannot forget its there. I don’t want to. Somehow the wound feels like the only real connection to the man. But how can that be true? The man did not remind me of a wound. The man was not a throbbing pain in my heart.

Christmas came and went without a single tear. I’m not sure how that was possible. My only explanation is the absurdity of the holiday: a brightly lit, finely decorated harlot selling gluttony and guilt. We bought it from this two-bit hooker and then wondered why the days after feel like hangover instead of holiday glow. We’ve been duped.

Fortunately, unfortunately, the distraction offered me respite from the tiring work of grieving. I suppose you cannot escape that fat bastard Grief. He struts in whenever the door’s left unlocked, cracks a beer from the fridge, spreads out on the living room sofa and refuses to leave until he’s had his way with you. Now that the company’s gone and the parties are over, I discover him among the discarded gift-wrap and food debris, waiting for me.

I sit down on the couch beside him and pat his leg. I’ve almost missed him. Ever since Joy showed up in her big summer hat, Giref has kept his distance. She’s using the spare room and I suppose he felt like too much of a slob in his sweats on the couch. But he’s back, and Joy is still fast asleep in the other room. We stare silently out the big bay window which is obscured by the unlit Christmas tree. Our breath mimics the fat, white flakes as they hypnotically, silently, slip through the air. There’s really nothing to say.

Today is my dad’s 56th birthday. Or I suppose would have been, were he still alive. This is still the 56th anniversary of his birth. He just isn’t here to celebrate it with us. Surprisingly, unsurprisingly, I’m not really in the party spirit. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Grief on my couch this morning. It just might have been nice if he’d brought a fruit basket or something.

awake

The sky hangs dark and somber this morning. Winter is slowly wrapping white, frosty fingers around windshields and windows. Cold pushes its way under door frames and nibbles on exposed fingers and toes. The morning yawns and slowly stretches into day.

I sit here with uneasiness and expectancy. Like the morning, I have only just woken from a long sleep and looking lazily around, I see unfamiliarity with every new surge of the sun's light. Things have changed while I've been sleeping. Things I thought were alive and vibrant have fallen victim to the heaviness of winter and death.

I don’t know how I so easily become the walking dead: moving, talking, walking, doing. I’m not sure when the flames of passion for justice and Christ got flooded in the waters of my laziness. Whatever the reason for my acquiescence to the lullaby of indifference, I woke up.

Hallelujah, I woke up.

I saw George again last weekend. I don’t know what it is about the way his heart beats audibly through his chest, but whenever I hear it, I am caught up in the beat. It isn’t George. It isn’t even Africa. It’s the sound of Jesus calling out for justice. How do I so easily forget this call? Why do I so quickly dance to another drummer’s beat? This past weekend I was awakened to the heartbeat again, drawn into the beauty of a coming Kingdom. I was flooded with excitement for Africa.

It’s the first week of Advent and somehow that means something to me this year. I am sitting in expectancy of the coming Christ. He’s going to meet me here, where I am, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes. He’s going to step into this space I occupy and breathe his hope into the fractured pieces of my dreams. He loves me. He loves me and I’m going back to Africa. He loves me and he wants to give me something new. He loves me even though I so easily fall asleep.

The Problem is the Parking Stall

This morning I am living out another fantasy that I wasn’t sure existed until the moment when it happened.

I am typing lazily into my computer. I like the clicking of the keys over the chatter of the ladies beside me, the cooing of their babies and the hum of the espresso machine. There is a rhythm here and we are all playing along, swaying to the beat, contributing. Outside the day is offering a warmth I didn’t think possible at this juncture in time. The snow has melted and the leaves are resuming their place on center stage – flying like emancipated birds through the sweet fall air. People wait at stop lights. Cars drive by. Ah.

Peeking above my computer screen, I can’t help smiling at Shane. He is muttering out loud as he struggles with the morning crossword. Occasionally the little girl beside us stomps up and down on her pretty purple Mary Janes hoping they will light up, and our eyes meet to share a giggle. This is the rhythm of the morning. This is the fantasy. Is this my life?

Sunday we went to look at a beautiful condo downtown for curiosity’s sake. For a mere $500,000 we could have owned it. Not that we’re house shopping. I felt for a moment though like we were playing house. It was somewhere between the math of the mortgage payment and the realtor advising us the parking stall was an additional $15,000 that I woke up. My car is worth less than the stall to park it in!

Suddenly the absurdity of this tiny place having the capacity to bankrupt me sunk in. People do this! People buy houses they cannot afford with $15,000 parking stalls! I was embarrassed to discover that my monthly salary would not be sufficient to meet the outrageous mortgage payments on the condo. And that’s before property taxes and condo fees. Not to mention the upgraded car in order to feel worthy of the stall in which to park, flanked by Cadillacs and Hummers.

Add to that the expense of new furniture (pay now or later!) worthy of the expensive hardwood on which it will rest, under chandeliers and the twinkling lights of the downtown streets. Before long I’m wondering what kind of wardrobe a person would need in order to leave a building like that? And what dishware to serve food to guests who visit? Could you really buy NoName hand soap for the bathroom with granite countertops?!

Exhaustion settles quickly into the place where the initial attraction to such luxury first grew. I’m too tired to pretend to be rich. I’m too tired for a mortgage. I’d have to work more. When could I play my guitar?

I look up again from my furious typing and wonder what kind of a life I envision for myself. Coffee. Crosswords. Perhaps a new pair of light-up shoes. Or just enough kids around to enjoy theirs.

Pretty much I’m already living my fantasy life. I just need to remember to notice it.

On Life and Living It

Anything one does feels more indulgent and sophisticated with a glass of champagne in hand. I know because I am trying it right now. The whole of my anxious and unsettled being is quelled by this sensation of expectancy and pleasure.

Taste and see that the Lord is good.

He knew I'd find champagne. And Havarti with jalapenos. And garden tomatoes.

The day did not begin here. It was more panicked. I woke up with a start.

Shane's parents are coming over for dinner and I am immersed in this culture that tells me it's important to: have a clean house, have flooring on your stairs, have only one colour on your wall in the kitchen, not kill people with salmonella poisoning. So I felt nervous. I live in a persistent construction zone in which no construction is happening. I also don't regularly dust. I don't ever dust. Oh priorities.

Today, however, I chose life.

First of all, I threw the flowers that had withered and died into the garbage. Leaves, stems, browned petals, vase and all. They had been sitting on the piano since my dad's funeral. They had been there so long reminding me of the horrific day I said goodbye to my dad, that I almost had a perverse and sentimental attachment to them.

I apologized to my dad. And then I also removed his plaques and awards from the piano where they have been collecting dirty Kleenexes and grief all this time. My dad seemed relieved. I wiped his photo with my sweater and we smiled at each other.

Today, he wanted me to live my life too. I could just tell.

It only got better from there. Around ten, my beautiful friend Kim showed up with huge canvases. We painted in my living room, nibbling fancy cheese and sipping champagne. The beauty was not only in the reality of our morning ritual, but in the fact that it was actually morning. There is something terribly luxurious about discovering that you can adore the life you're living with such minimal adjustments.

This afternoon, with my last glass of champagne still swirling around in my martini glass (I use this glass because I like the feel of the bubbles on my nose) I am ready to finish making dinner. I might even clean the floors. Don't hold me to that if I decide instead to write a song or do a crossword. Either way, if the point is living, today I choose it.

False Start

I'm nervous to write here.
I'm anxious that anything I say from my cozy kitchen (jazz music humming behind me, coffee steaming beside me) will sound like horse shit beside all the stories from "Africa". (I have no explanation for those quotation marks. I just really wanted to use them. They just embody my conflict.)

A number of things seems less noble or noteworthy now that I am home, the least of which, I swear like a trucker.

I feel like once I start writing again I will just start rambling about nonsense and drivel thereby making this safe place, this honest place, a lame tabloid.

Oh yeah, and I'm in love.

I feel as though this new reality of my state of being has forced me to surrender my sarcastic and critical tone. I fear it makes me less interesting. I've got stars in my eyes where once there was discernment; I have a vague, dreamy look in lieu of purpose. Not that this is bad. I'm in love for crying out loud, not leprous! I'm just not really sure what to do with it.

I'm not sure where to start with an update, or if anyone is even interested in that. Is there anyone even? What a strange idea to project ones very heart and mind into the anonymity of cyber space and hope that strangers will take care not to damage or abuse you when you're vulnerable and bear.

What is God teaching me? That he is good.

Presently I am in the throes of negotiating a return trip.
There's something disturbingly cyclical about the time frame. I should be back right around the same time I left last year. It's funny but it's comforting to know that nearly a year separates me from the moment of impact that broke my heart. I'm eager to get back to the heat and the mystery to figure out what I've learned, how I've grown, and what's changed.

Mostly, I am eager to live out a story that matters, to have a life that is in fact life and not awaiting death. I want to live in a place of expectancy and hope. I want to be part of something that matters, the Kingdom of God really. I just hope this path is leading there.

So, I've been sleeping a lot.
10 hours a night usually. Unless I can sleep in. Then more.

I've been cracking the spines of new books; smelling the delicious scent of fresh ideas; drinking in the wisdom of fine thinkers, philosophers and poets.

I've been writing music which basically amounts to a pitiful culmination of weak melodies and cliche lyrics that I sing at top volume with my impotent accomplice, my guitar.

Occasionally I wail on my djambe.

Often I sit in the morning sun by the big bay window overlooking the cul-de-sac and meditate, or nap, or dream.

Almost daily I am meeting with and talking to people who love Jesus and see him waving Hope and a Future in their faces.

Often, I cry: sometimes with, usually without, reasonable explanation. At the insurance company. In my car. While playing the piano. When I read something beautiful.

Most days I avoid mounds of paperwork and pending phone conversations. I spend hours psyching myself up or out and then give up and bake cakes.

And all of this, all of this amounts to one thing: waiting. I am waiting.
I wish I could say I was waiting patiently on the Lord. I wish I could say I was being brave and courageous. Mostly I am just waiting. Actually, always, except for moments when I forget, I am waiting.

But today, I feel like enough is enough.

Injustice hounds me like a ravenous beast, devouring bits of hope and leaving a wake of despair. I see too much that is too much and I want to DO something already.

Today I hear that heartbeat again.

I heard it in the desperate plea for partners and people of compassion to unify to build transitional housing for addicts and their children. It was less than an hour later that I ran into a social worker who informed me that one of my girls is an addict herself, at the tender age of 13. After lunch, to pick up the tone, I went to a funeral for a man whose story and situation so closely echoed my dad's I felt like I was living an out-of-body experience. And for desert, la piece de resistance, I listened to a representative of International Justice Mission telling me about the millions, yes millions!, of children living and working in the sex trade.

How long, o lord, will you stand so far off?
Or, how long will you allow me to stand so far off?

Waiting.
Waiting.
Tiring of waiting.
Still waiting.

Tha-thump.
It drums on.

Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.

The heart beat is pumping, pumping, pumping.

Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.

I hear this beat, blood surging through every vein. It is quietly, gently, rhythmically calling me back.

George was here. In Saskatoon. All weekend. Need I say more?

George, the father of the Hands at Work family, has a way of making the story of injustice tangible. It hangs in the air like a moving picture. I can smell it. I can taste it. I can feel the warm breath of air on my cheek. If I just stretch out my hand I could brush those kids again. If I just knelt down I would be right back on the hard, red earth.

There is no place like home.
There's no place like home.
There's no place like home.

My chanting doesn't work. This is not a fairytale!

I am living in a mystery and it would seem that the joke is on me. The only one in the dark about my own life is me! What is the next step? I call over the :Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump! It's a fever pitch hammering in my ears! The tha-thump reminding me of His heart which beats for justice! The pounding drum of compassion drawing me into action. In moments of frustration I am screaming: WHAT!? What do you want me to do? I am willing!

But it's unclear. I calm down. Lulled by the beat.
Just the beat. The beat. Of justice. Propelling me deeper into the father's throne room. Deeper. Toward the surging waters of his justice. Deeper. Into the the very ventricles of his heart. Where a plan awaits. Deeper.

too dry, tonight

I stopped writing here thinking the abrupt end to my trip signified the abrupt end to this journey. I realize the journey persists in a way that this mystical space in time cannot limit. I am never at the end. I am never where I am going, even in the moments when I am still, but I am always on the way. My journey to Africa is not what I thought: neither noble nor meaningless; neither selfless nor selfish. It was the beginning to an entirely different journey that I did not realize I would embark on: Grief.
My homesickness for Africa is both irrational and palpable. How can six weeks in a person's life substitute the balance of 25 years for the safety it offered? Yet, somehow, it holds a power that is neither real nor imagined. I experienced something there that was real. But I could only bring home a piece of that reality and every day it loses a little more of its life.
Tonight, like many other nights in the past two months, I sit with nostalgia and memories. I am wishing senselessly for a return to the last week in Africa when I had not yet uncovered the truth which would then overshadow the next months perhaps years, of my life. Those weeks, those precious days, so far away, when my dad was still alive. And even though I wasn't with him, he still existed.
I miss him terribly tonight.
And I miss the way I never had to miss him when he was alive.
I miss the blissful ignorance of those days before his death when I didn't have to worry that he would soon be gone.
Yes, Africa was not about Africa, for me. Africa, was about me. Perhaps Africa just wasn't as fragile as I anticipated. Perhaps it is I who am fragile. I who must be handled with care. It seems I went to Africa to learn that God loves me so that I could come home and face Grief with companionship. It seems the good people of Africa showed the grace with which a person can accept suffering, the joy that avails to those who wait patiently on the Lord.
Presently I am living elsewhere. I am not in the world, per se, I am just witnessing it. I am playing my drum and reading the Word and falling asleep in the afternoon. I am baking cakes and crying and writing a book. I am eating and dreaming and hoping and laughing. And I'm not sure where this goes.
Suffice to say, I am never anywhere but always on the way.

People, people everywhere

I have been avoiding people today.
Not overtly.
It’s not like I’m ducking into doorways or dark alleys anytime I sense someone approaching. I’ve just been going places where I suspect they will not be, then I act surprised when they aren’t, and secretly I am very relieved.
It’s not that I’m peopled out. I’m not.
I just don’t have anything visible to do today, and it’s difficult to be around people doing visible things when you appear to be doing nothing.
I had some invisible things to do. I had to read a book for no apparent reason. I didn’t even know myself why I had to read this book until I read the chapter that I had to read. Then it all became clear.
After I found a secret spot under a tree, where I was pretending to be available if someone needed me, I read the chapter in the book I felt compelled to read and discovered that God is blessing me with people. I laughed and thanked God for people. Ironically it took some solitude to realize the biggest blessing in my life these days is people. Don Miller writes some beautiful things about community in his book Blue Like Jazz. It took his words to finally realize what I was experiencing.
I suspected Africa would teach me something about community. I just thought it would be African community. I pictured lots of African women in long skirts and singing. As it turns out, it’s mostly white South Africans, some Americans, a ton of Canadians, and the odd Zimbabwean. These are the people I actually live with. But live doesn’t fully convey the enormity of the role they play. We see each other every day, we work all day together, and then we spend every evening together. We pray and eat and worship and talk and argue and sing and play together; they are my only company Monday to Monday, 24 hours a day. They are everywhere! In my house, in my field of vision, sitting at my table, washing dishes in my sink, using my tub, occupying my toilet. They are always around. And I thought I would freak out.
And I did.
And no one went away.
And then I realized the miracle of community: the whole world does not revolve around me. They sense my irritation at times, but they keep living their lives and when I come around, I discover the most amazing thing, they love me.
I’ve never experienced this before. This is really the church!

The dark

The dark is so mysterious – all the creatures and dangers lurking within its shadowy cloak – that I keep my eyes peeled.
It makes no difference. Blink, black. Blink, black. Only black.
It might explain why I nearly toppled over when I looked up.
My unseeing eyes were trained on the invisible path through the bush. My senses were heightened to anticipate the slightest shift on the trail or rustle in the grass. It never occurred to me to look up before. Way up. And when I did, my previously blind eyes suddenly saw. There they were, like millions of little gems, a tapestry of stars. It was the kind of spectacle that unwittingly drew a gasp from between my gaping lips. All I could do was stagger backward, hoping my stumbling feet would not catch a tree root or a wandering snake. But even if they did, the view would have been even better lying helplessly on my back.
To think, He knows them all by name.
And this is how beauty keeps creeping into my life. I am just wandering around, minding my own business when suddenly I am confronted by something so marvelous I not only can’t find words, I find I’m staggering backward, trying to get the whole picture.

The dark is indeed so mysterious – all the disease and dangers lurking after hours – that I keep my eyes peeled.
It makes no difference. Blink, despair. Blink, despair. Only despair.
It might explain why I nearly toppled over when he spoke up, my new friend Zachariah.
My faithless eyes were trained on the invisible path through the bush. My senses were heightened to anticipate a solution, any solution to ward of the despair. How DO you let this happen, Lord? All these orphans! It never occurred to me to look up before.
My new friend, Zachs, speaks with compassion in his eyes. He speaks for the gogos and the mages, the brave women of Africa who are humbly bringing the kingdom of God.
“She may not have money or a nice car or a big house – so no one wants to hear her at church. But to that dying man she visits, as she washes his body, as she sings to him, as she hears his story and asks, “Do you know how much Jesus loves you?” she heals his heart. She is the hands of Jesus.”
It’s not about food. It’s not about education. It’s not about AIDS.
To think, He knows them all by name. Every man who lies dying in his hut right now. Every little girl who in this moment just became an orphan.
All I could do was stagger backward, hoping my stumbling feet would not catch a tree root or a wandering snake. But even if they did, the view would have been even better lying helplessly on my back. It might have foreshadowed how humbled I need to be.
And this is how beauty keeps creeping into my life. I am just wandering around, minding my own business when suddenly I am confronted by something so marvelous I not only can’t find words, I find I’m staggering backward, trying to get the whole picture.

Did you know Africans volunteer exponentially more time than any other people in the world?
Did you know the women who do the actually caring for orphans for Hands have been known to carry food parcels to children, when they and their families have themselves not eaten for days?
Did you know that God uses the foolish things of this world to shame the wise?
I just found this out.

give yourselves a pat on the back...

Undoubtedly the highlight of my week is when orientation is done before 2pm and I get to go to the After School program in Masoyi.
I keep forgetting I’m a teacher. I keep forgetting I was made for the nuances of sentence structure and the fine tuning of essays. I momentarily lose sight of the simple joy of conveying the perfection of multiplication; the tidy little way it always works, always divides, always fits together in a logical sort of way. And so, it’s obvious that the little classroom with a whiteboard is the one safe haven where I feel, if only fleetingly, like I know what to do.
Yesterday I got to go to afterschool.
It begins, as many things in Africa, with a song.
The kids look at their shoes, smiling sheepishly while Lacey badgers them to start a song. No one takes the bait. We wait. Finally, Olga just starts. There is nothing timid about the powerful tune bursting from this shy girl. It fills the room with this melody so captivating that it makes my arm hair stand on end. The boys chime in with loud, deep, harmony that causes tears to spring voluntarily to my eyes. They sing, the floor shakes, and I cry. What else is new?
“Who wants to pray?” Lacey asks. Without hesitation, “Pastor Themba” steps up and with his ridiculously handsome face lifted toward heaven, begins. All I understand is Baba and Amen, but whatever falls between those two words sounds just like poetry. Whatever he says has got to be a sweet, sweet sound: it’s a grown up orphan boy calling out to his only father. It breaks your heart when you think about it, but in the moment it's so pure and full of joy that you get swept along with it.
I decided, after looking at Andisa’s homework, that it’s always fun to learn about percentages and fractions. I begin by drawing my little 100’s graph on the board. The classroom, despite the number of students and the stifling heat, is entirely silent, not a peep. They watch. They pay attention; they very, very timidly raise their hands when asked if anyone has ever seen a % before.
As the little lesson progresses, I find I am spending more time loudly and shameless praising the kids than I am teaching math. But it’s well worth it. The students get a little livelier; the smiles get a little broader. The hands are lifted a little higher and more confidently. Before you know it, we’re all “oooohing” and “ahhhing” at my graphs and patting ourselves on the back exclaiming, “We are so smart!” Before long they are all laughing and shouting out answers.
These are not tricks reserved for Africa. This is just how I like to teach. At home, my students roll their eyes and chuckle. Everyone likes to be praised but at home they can’t openly welcome it – that’s really not cool. It’s an entirely differing thing here. The kids are BEAMING. It’s one thing to say beaming, it’s another thing entirely to look out into a sea of beautiful black faces with strings and strings of the biggest, whitest teeth sparkling back at you. When I set them to work and sarcastically offered my help or a pat on the back, one kid raised his hand for a pat! It was only then that I remembered who they were. Orphans. They have no one to pat their backs. No one who shamelessly praises them or kisses their cheeks with a ridiculous and embarrassing regularity.
I am surprised how quickly things start to feel "normal". I keep forgetting who I am and who these kids are. In the moments I remember I'm not over the heartache; I cry all the time. The tears, however, are now mostly reserved for stories and pictures that convey the beauty of these people. Like a blushing girl who’s figured out 10% of R330. Or a teenage orphan calling out to our Father in heaven. How privileged am I to find myself in their family. How privileged am I to pat the back of my little brother in Christ and tell him, loudly and brazenly, “You are so smart!” It makes me wonder if I have ever said anything else worth saying.

Love from Africa

Happy Valentine's Day!
I hate Valentine's day. As many of you know, there is something about the sight of red foil wrapped chocolates and roses that makes me want to hurl. For some strange reason, people all throughout North America (and Europe and Asia and Africa) are buying pink and red colored crap to give to people they love or like or simply want to sleep with. But, despite my hatred, a funny thing is happening to me in Africa: I'm learning, painfully, to go with the flow.

Tonight a bunch of girls are coming over to a meal I've prepared that is made entirely of red foods: red lentil curry, kidney bean salad, beetroot salad, pasta with tomato sauce, peri peri sausages, and chili chicken. Of course la piece de resistance is the heart shaped cookies and cheesy Nigerian movie for dessert.

But, on the theme of love, I'd like to offer you a humble story of an early Valentine's gift. It's not romantic, but it certainly leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy and perhaps even a little red.

The sun was fiery, much like it is today.
We were packed like sardines into the back of the bukki (pick-up truck)on our way to the creche in Weldverdien.
It was a day for giggling as Simon flew over the perilous dirt roads that sent us flying into each others' laps. (It's bonding to be flung into a neighbor's arms.)
Lacey, Danny, Mike, Jessi and I jostled around in the back discussing what we would do if suddenly abandoned on the side of the road.
Mike's insistence that his debit card would save him sent us into convulsions.
And then, suddenly, as though foreshadowed, we were on the side of the road. Or should I say, in?
The bukki, in one dramatic thunk, sunk right into the road, which apparently, was no road but rather a cleverly disguised mud bath.
We got out, spirits light, and assessed the situation.
The angle of the truck alone indicated the severity of the situation.
We tried to push.
The tires spun and the exhaust smoked and we watched in horror as the truck sunk further and further into the thick, red sludge.
Simon joined us outside the bukki.
We shook our heads, hands on our hips, as we helplessly looked around us.
No CAA.
Hours from the nearest city.
What to do?
And then, Africa happened.
Dressed in pressed trousers and gleaming white sneakers, two men wandered down the road toward us.
Abushene. (Hello)
Mjani? (How are you)
We shrugged, motioning to the truck.
A minute later, 4 women in skirts and scarves appeared from the creche and wandered down to check out the activity.
Abushene.
Mjani?
Before long another villager appeared, shovel in hand.
Moments later school children poured out of their yards, barefoot, struggling under the weight of old wooden planks.
Abushene.
Mjani?
In no time, nearly twenty people were standing around the bukki: two in white sneakers shoveled mud from under the truck, ladies in skirts shoved planks under the wheels.
Again we pushed.
Again, we sunk.
Simon got out of the truck, again, and joined the sizable group standing around, hands on hips, shaking their heads.
More planks.
More digging.
More pushing.
More sinking.
More shaking heads.
More people, curiously wandering toward the growing spectacle.
More digging.
More instructions.
Forward! No, backward! No, rock it!
More digging.
More pushing.
More pulling.
More sinking.
More shaking of the heads.
It was around this point that we noticed Danny, our fair faced Englishman, turning a slightly pinker version of himself. He welcomed a shirt to tie around his neck. We giggled at him looking like a tennis player amid the muddy, truck rescuing mission.
The ancient gogos shook their heads, this time at Danny, and tucked in their shoulders to heave again on the belligerent vehicle.
By the time 30 people had assembled, and every wheel had sunk into the unstable road, it became obvious that our only option was to lift the truck out of the mud.
And so that's what we did.
36 people - some kids, some ladies in skirts, some grannies, some men in white sneakers and some white people began the arduous process of lift-push-pull-shoving a pick-up out of a mud bath.
Sweating and panting some 20 minutes later, there stood the bukki, on solid ground.
The white people waved affectionately, sweating and covered in mud, to the gogos and ladies and children and the men who, somehow, had worked the hardest and remained completely immaculate.
Simon backed up, relieved, right into the next mud bath.
Slapping our heads, we got out, and did it again.
This time experience made us wiser.
The group quickly got to work again, snickering to themselves.
Thank-you! Thank-you! We said.
No problem. They said, shaking our hands heartily.
No problem.
Back in the bukki, a short lifetime later, we giggled again.
It was a wearier giggle.
It's bonding to sweat alongside 30 strangers who have assembled for the purpose of rescuing you.
The valentine message:
African's are rad.
Oh, and white people should wear sunscreen or they turn into Valentine's Day decorations.

A few simple stories from someone else's life

I. Washing dishes in rural Africa

The process started before I met her. Half an hour before I first laid eyes on Lorraine she was already planning it. She got her 25L water jug and began the walk to the community pump. Upon arrival at the pump she would have waited in the queue behind the handful of women and young boys also waiting, some with wheelbarrows, for the day’s water supply. When it was finally her turn, she would have filled her jug and then stooped as the kokwanas (grandmothers) waiting behind her hoisted it onto her head. And then she walked.

She passed us on the road, but I hardly saw her. She moved with such swift elegance she was like a part of the scenery, a subtle smirk on her lips as she watched the umlungus (white people) struggle with their packages over the washed out road. Her long, lean legs strode confidently over the uneven and marshy terrain. The jug balanced on her head so expertly it appeared weightless. As quickly as she appeared, she was gone.

When we finally arrived, water logged and muddy to her 8x9 brick house, we found her smiling in her doorway surrounded by other children. She stood taller, somehow. The youth of her face dulled by the experience present in her dark eyes. The children smiled too and hid their faces, most too shy to say “Good mohning miss,” to the strange umlungu before them. White people don’t visit these parts much.

The crowd swelled to fill the entirety of her yard, at least 50 people coming and going: shaking hands, giggling, whispering English words to each other and daring each other to say them to me. “How ah you, I am fine!” “I am twel years old.” Every old woman and old man made his or her way over to greet the visitor. I stood in their midst feeling every bit the exhibit that I was; white, mute and out of place. It was finally a clapping game that broke the ice. I was welcomed into the community of dirty, snotty-nosed children through a song – originally in English and Zulu, which had mutated at some point into Shangon and/or gibberish. We sang and clapped until the clouds and a setting sun threatened to steal the last moments of precious daylight. It was only then that I entered the process of dishwashing in rural Africa.

Lorraine grabbed her jug and wandered to the side of the house where I discovered the pieces that seemed to comprise her kitchen: some soggy branches, 3 pots, 2 spoons, 2 plates and a bowl. She began scraping the moldy pap (cooked maize meal, like porridge) out of the pot from yesterday’s dinner. She’d left it there for her two younger brothers Remember, 9, and Clarence, 8, to eat for lunch and it had rotted quickly in the humid African sun. She poured a cup of water into the pot and then, to my astonishment, grabbed a handful of dirt and began to scrub out the remnants that had cooked to the side and bottom of the dish. “I’ll help,” I offered. She handed me the next dish and I too, in the absence of any rags, used the dirt under my feet to scrub the next moldy dish. At the mention of soap she went into the house and poured about a tablespoon of laundry detergent into her hands and then dumped it into her wash basin with the pots and the water and the dirt and the bits of moldy pap. She scrubbed them thoroughly and meticulously, every bit of black gone from the outside, every spec of pap scraped from the inside. The children around her sang and played, stopping periodically to watch the white girl scrubbing dishes, “So that’s how they do it!”

She rinsed the dishes and set them on the dirt ground beside her little house to dry. It is the same spot, I would later discover, where her brothers bathe (when they do bathe), a mere two steps from her compost pile where the boys are known to pee in the middle of the night. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t quietly ask the Lord to bless our food to our bodies’ use; perhaps the first time I ever actually meant those words.


II. Preparing a meal in rural Africa

“You teach me cook?” she asks with a reassuring nod, pushing the spoon and the pot in my direction. I look, bewildered, around her house: no fridge, no stove, no running water. The only food I see is a little cooking oil and some maize meal, save the few vegetables I brought with me. The dozens of eager black faces look up at me, waiting to see how umlungus cook.

“No,” I say. “I’ll help. You teach me.”

She shrugs, disappointed, and sets about starting a fire with her soggy logs outside. Already I am relieved. I can barely start a fire with dry wood and gasoline. I watch as she stacks her branches and smaller sticks in a perfect little pile and then uses a plastic bag to shield her match from the wind and drizzle. It looks for a few minutes like the fire will start, but, even in Africa, wet logs don’t burn.

She runs away before I know where she’s gone, and within a few minutes she returns to collect her pot and spoon. I follow her, as do the dozens of children, to the neighbor’s house where a fire is roaring in the little cooking hut. I hope quietly to God that her neighbor is always this generous with her cooking hut when it rains. I enter the dark room and am instantly blinded by the smoke hanging thick in the air. Choking, with eyes watering, Lorraine sets her pot on the coals and begins stirring the pap. After it’s boiling and the rest of the maize meal has been added, I watch her expertly beat the pap in a mixing motion to remove the clumps and prevent it from burning. A few minutes later I offer to help, eager to learn the proper way to cook this mysterious porridge. She laughs and hands me the spoon. Instinctively, as if they knew, the crowd which is now hanging out in the neighbor’s yard, gathers inside the hut and outside its door to watch an umlungu stir pap. The substance is thick and the fire hot. I am surprised how quickly my arm burns from the strain and my eyes from the smoke. The Africans smile uncomfortably to themselves, switching their weight from foot to foot. This is not right. They are eager to relieve the umlungu of her strain. They mutter to each other in their mysterious tongue, Lorraine takes over. They smile and nod approvingly, this is better.

As the sun sets with some finality, the crowd begins to dissipate. A dozen children remain, huddled in the smoky hut as we watch the coals burn down, waiting for the sauce to finishing cooking. A few brave boys call out, “Hello my frrrrriend!” to the roaring approval of their audience. We stare at each other, grinning, having nothing left to say. Our language barrier stands as a considerable wall between our worlds. Clarence curls up on the ground in front of me. He rests his scabby arms on my lap. He rests his chin on his hands and gazes with red eyes into my face, smiling. He just stares on and on until I feel compelled to say something. My heart does not know how to respond. So I sing. I sing the only song that will bring any sense to this scene, quietly, to my new friend Clarence.

“He’s got the whole world in his hands, he’s got the whole world in his hands.”

Before I know it, all the children are singing along. They know neither the words nor the language they are sung in, they don’t even know the melody but they sing along. All the while Clarence looks at me with his big, watery eyes.

It’s not long before I have nothing else to sing. Nothing left to brighten their beautiful faces. So I sit until finally Lorraine picks up the pot, “Let’s go home.” Immediately I am filled with relief. We leave the last of the crowd, “Goodbye my frrrrriend. See you tomorrrrow.” We enter the tiny room that is called their house. It’s dark. Lorraine lights a candle and the four of us sit down on their sole piece of furniture, a reed mat, to our meal. The boys share a bowl because there are only three. We eat the hot pap dipped in cabbage and sauce. It’s quiet, finally. No words are necessary. Thank you, Jesus for this food. Bless this food.

III Sleeping in a one room house in rural Africa

The dark is darker here. The night descends like a suffocating blanket that will not be lifted until day break. Nothing cuts it. No lights shine. It hangs with a heaviness and finality, concealing whatever dangers whatever unspeakable acts are reserved for these hours when secrets are kept and anonymity is assured.

The floor is cold and hard. I shift uncomfortably under my thin blanket, chilled by the night air drifting through the broken window and the cold concrete beneath me. I hear the distant sound of drumming and the barking of stray dogs. I hear movement in the yard outside the lockless door. I hear voices. I fear.

Three orphans sleep deeply on a reed mat under a single blanket, stacked together like potatoes in a sac. They snore. They sniffle. They dream.

Outside a world of dangers is lurking. Still they sleep. They have no lock to protect them. They have no father to guard them. They have no mother to waken when the footsteps get nearer the door.

In the deepest part of the night, the young one coughs so violently he chokes and wakes crying. He falls back to sleep, without having even stirred his sleeping siblings.

At four the cockadoodledoos can be heard above the rhythmic breathing of sleeping children. The darkness has not yet lifted, but the cocks have prophesied the coming day. There is light coming, finally, into this darkness.

IV An ordinary day as an orphan in rural Africa

As the sun rises it brings with it the friendly chatter of chickens and of ladies. The dawn is greeted with their early morning rituals. Children are woken, houses are swept, sleep is rubbed out of eyes. Uniforms are donned, breakfast is eaten, and the women begin the pilgrimage to the pump.

In a one room house three orphans wake themselves. They carefully fold their blanket and roll up their mat with sleep still on their faces and in their tiny hands. With no clothes to change into but the ones already on their backs, the two little boys go outside. They sit in the sun amid the chatting ladies and chickens. They wait.

Their sister changes into her only other skirt, her school uniform, and carefully cleans herself for school. The boys use their fingers to write the alphabet in the dirt. No one has cleaned their uniforms. No one has mended their uniforms. They will not be allowed into school with dirty, ripped uniforms. So they practice the alphabet in the dirt outside their house while their sister gets ready for school.

The boys will sit in the sun all day. At lunch time they will eat the few left over pieces of pap from last night’s meal before it rots. They will wait for their sister to come home. Hopefully she will come home. Hopefully she will cook them supper.

The boys invent a game with sticks and rocks. Clarence giggles, snot dripping down his face, as he scrambles to retrieve a stick. Remember folds a piece of wire into a pair of spectacles that he places on his nose. He sits like an old man, the spectacles accentuating the wisdom already present in his young face. The pair eventually settle down again to wait. They hold patience in their faces as they watch their friends walk down the road to school, as the ladies walk majestically with their water jugs balanced on their heads, babies tied to their backs. It will be several hours before there is someone back to play with them.

V Comforting an orphan in rural Africa

He is a brave man, this boy of 8.
He is a man of experience and responsibility.
He has seen pain.
He has felt the wrath of God.
He holds the whole of suffering in his wet, red eyes.
He can endure.
But this bath his sister makes him take, it breaks him.
He is humiliated before the dozens of villagers who have come to look at the umlungu.
He stands in the house naked after his bath.
There is nothing for him to change into.
There is nowhere for him to hide his nakedness.
The girls giggle, and return to their playing.
There is hardly any notice of this old man in a young boy’s body who stands ashamed and alone amid a sea of people.
He finally settles into a corner.
The brave man, this boy of 8, cries quietly into his elbow.
No one notices him.
No one hears him.
No one comforts him.
Save the umlungu who is overcome by his suffering.
But who is she?
She pats his back with a deep sadness in her heart.
She is but a breath in his lifetime of breathing in suffering.
She pats his back tonight but tomorrow she will be gone.
Like is mother.
Like his father.
And this brave man, this boy of 8, will be left to cry alone on the cold floor of his tiny home.
More than clean dishes, more than food, more than a safe sleep, this brave man needs a warm hand to pat his back when he cries.
A brave man, a boy of 8, cannot afford to cry, despite the suffering he carries on his narrow shoulders, despite the sickness in his chest and the hunger in his belly.
He cannot afford the tears for there is no one left to dry them.

Tomorrow I am going into the community of Claire to stay with a little girl, Lorraine, who is a 14 year old orphan. She cares for her two younger siblings in the squalor of a one room house. Please pray for her. Pray for us.

a somber realization

I was nudged awake this morning by the delicious smell of yellow and pink wafting through my curtains. The sun was waiting like a poorly kept surprise behind the mountain. Colours burst excitedly from behind the summit of the mountain as the sun bubbled out his joyous announcement: The Day is come! I jumped out of bed and grabbed my notebook and my Bible, ran back for a sweater because it was a little chilly, turned off the alarm, stopped for a quick pee, and by the time I got outside and sat down to watch the show, the sun had risen. The day was here, the announcement made, the glory missed, reminding me again: Life is too short to be prepared.

Today is day two of orientation. I am presently back at my favorite spot overlooking Legogote which is illuminated fully by a magnificent and passionate sun. For the first time since my arrival, there is hardly a cloud in the sky; assurance that this heat will persist in a most violent way. But I like it. I like the way the air sticks to me and the sweat rolls down my back. I like the way everything hangs limp in the presence of this awesome fiery oven. It is so bright today, so hopeful. As I sit here on my lunch break, I marvel at the men in the building team working behind my house – each one is wearing not only long pants, but also a long sleeve shirt. One looks ready for a wedding in pressed trousers and a white button up shirt.

I am enjoying watching them and thinking about the sun because it is distracting me from the real matter on my heart.

Today I spent the day listening to the history and heart of Hands at Work from the founder himself, George. As he is known to do, George told stories. But these are not ordinary stories; he speaks words which would break even the hardest heart. He spoke of people abandoned, people hungry, children starving, women dying. He told of miracles and challenges and vision. One story in particular sticks with me right now about a little girl born to a mother with AIDS.

The little girl was one of the unfortunate ones who contracted HIV from her mother who died immediately after giving birth. The little girl then spent every moment of her life until George and Carolyn walked into it, lying on a bed in the hospital where she was born. She was 6 years old, unable even to sit and lying in her own waste when George first saw her. She was separated by 10 empty beds from all the other children in the hospital on account of the stigma of the virus surging through her veins. Never touched, never held, never outside for the entirety of her six years. This picture is too gruesome to fathom, too hateful to even consider. She died, of course. George and Carolyn were able to spend some time with her and even take her out of the hospital on occasion to visit their home and interact with their children. But she died, young and alone on the very bed that had been her prison, the bed that comprised her entire existence.

I’m not sure what this means. As I have been lamenting in other posts, I have felt a deep sense that I do not know what to do, I do not know who I am. Today a terrible idea occurred to me. Perhaps it is not that I do not know who I am at all. Perhaps it is that I know all too well who I am.

If there is a little girl dying in a hospital bed who has never been held or touched or loved, it is not a matter of knowing who you are or knowing what to do. If someone is starving it doesn’t take wisdom or even prayer to know what Jesus would do. It is a matter of whether or not you have the courage. Today a terrible idea occurred to me. Perhaps I know all too well who I am. Perhaps I know all too well what I will and will not do. Whom will he see when God asks, Will I find even one righteous in this town? Will he find me ready and living as a holy sacrifice? Perhaps I know all too well if it comes down to laying down my life, I find I am sitting on a high horse, atop a high mountain, unable to even see the ground on which to lay myself down. Would I go there, into that room that reeks of human waste and suffering? Would I sit there amid the hopelessness of imminent death, drowning in the depths of human cruelty and neglect? Would I love her, the very least of the least of these who cannot even sit let alone reciprocate my sentiments?

Today a terrible idea has occurred to me. I know all too well that I cannot answer yes to any of these questions. I cling like one hanging from a very thin rope over treacherous waters to the promise from 2 Peter: He has given me everything for living a godly life. Call this godliness out of me Father, because I know all too well who I am.

There is a majestic view, “lovely beyond any singing of it” that presents itself like an offering any time my eyes notice it there. This view of lush trees and rolling mountains stands proudly, unaffected by those around who may choose, or not choose, to appreciate it. Today, like many other days since my arrival, I am accosted again by its absurd luxuriousness. For me? I can’t help but ask. And the mountain and the God of the mountain answer with a friendly, Not for you. For anyone.
I am indulging today in its luxury – lamenting, if I may pander a lament – that I do not have a glass of spicy South African cabernet to make this afternoon the pinnacle of my sensual experience. Regardless, I am here, on my veranda, alone for the first time since I’ve arrived. My roommates have all found adventure beaconing them elsewhere this morning. I am lady of the manor for a day – enjoying my freedom and this view. The clouds have even managed to part momentarily from their long embrace in order to let the sun reacquaint herself with the trees standing happily below, gently waving in the delightful breeze on this humid day.
I have found myself at complete peace today. Last night I discovered my prayers have been answered by the God who knows her girls better than we know ourselves. Upon coming home yesterday, I walked into the comfortable company of my new roommates; we ate popcorn and chocolate and watched a television series on Lisa’s computer for hours, all huddled up on the couch in order to see the tiny screen. I forgot that it goes like this. Girls are tentative to let their guards down. We are nervous and territorial until something slips, some story that unites. Suddenly we are comrades in the beautiful journey of femininity, shaking our heads at the funny things men do, or laughing at our own propensity to cry.
Beyond that, I have found lovely companionship in the little friends that live just down the hill from me. I say little strictly because they’re so young! Between 18 and 20 and yet amicable and brave. Lacey, youngest of them all, is slowly showing me more and more of the beautiful heart Jesus gave her, with which she boldly loves the children of Africa. She is a beautiful girl of incredible wisdom. We plan to knit together.
And so, I discover that I am in a full life.
Now, let me tell you about my Thursday Adventure.
People have been asking me, what is a day if your life there? But so far there has not been enough consistency for a typical day. That won’t come for some time. Thursday though, I got a taste for the work of Hands.
I went to K2 which is in Masoyi. Here, programs for the OVC’s (orphans and vulnerable children) take place. I stepped out of the vehicle (the one I was driving!) and was immediately drawn to some kids that were playing outside. Spotting us, they ran full speed towards us. Not knowing what to do, I opened my arms into which they delightedly jumped. One girl, grabbing my hand, began to kiss my arms. I was so overwhelmed by their outpour of love I could not stop laughing. I just laughed and kissed their perfect cheeks and tried to fill my arms with as many as I could hold all at once. Upon entering the building, I found even more such children, all there as though waiting for someone to lavish their passionate embraces on. I could hardly pry myself away.
When I finally managed to, Kristal showed us The Classroom. The Classroom was like a spiritual experience. It’s like a sanctuary. I felt myself immediately full of joy to see the tiny shimmer of something I could offer these kids. Advice, answers, solutions, hope: of these I am bankrupt. I bring only my knowledge of the multiplication table and simple sentence structure; gifts I am anxiously waiting to share. I quickly began searching through the few boxes of books: a collection of random and ancient texts that comprise our delightful, if not bizarre, library. I organized them into little groups by subject, careful to record what is what, before filing them on the floor beside the cockroaches (for want of a better shelving system!). It is a humble room that’s for sure. But I found a kind of joy in that too. Ashamed I discovered, at the many things I claimed to “need” back home in my previous classrooms. I am excited to learn how this all goes – from Kristal and Lacey and the kids who will come on Monday. I can’t wait to meet them.
As we gathered up our things to go, I poked my head into the crèche again to see all of my perfect little friends laid out on mats on the floor. The afternoon breeze came gently through the open windows and blew over their little cheeks. I listened for a moment to their little breaths, little snores, until one opened her eyes and noticed me watching her. She grinned, stuck out her tongue, and then immediately went back to sleep. Even typing this I am overcome by it all. How is it that ones as perfect and delightful as them could be alone in a world as cold and heartless as this? How is it possible that they are little orphans living with older siblings or perhaps an aging Gogo? Who will take responsibility for them?
And here is where I find myself on the cusp of the scary reality I am about to enter into. There is none. There is none but he who made the mountain and this view and this day. There is none but him who takes the time to care for me. And he, lest I forget, will make a way for them. I can’t wait to see his hands working. I can’t wait to see his kingdom come for these little friends who sleep soundly on floors and kiss passionately the arms of strangers.


PS Thank you to all of you who take the time to read and comment on my posts. I feel like a very blessed and loved girl to have so many thinking and praying for me “back home”. It is all of us who are here learning. Thank you for letting me be your hands.

Happy Birthday to me

Upon turning 21 in the community, tradition dictates that the birthday-ee should receive a key to signify the transition from child to adult. The key is either an actual key to the family home, or just a symbol of the big transition.
Today I am feeling the significance of the day as I received not one, but two different keys.
The first opens the office, thereby making me an official Hands Volunteer.
And the second one, dear friends, to the VW Golf. That's right, today was my first drive-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road-over-crazy-potholed-dirt-roads day. Woooo. Exhilarating.

On the can

Of all the places life takes me to in a day, it is routinely the room which houses a toilet that God chooses to speak. I guess this could be called evidence of his humour?
Anyway, that’s how it happened again today.
To put this lesson into context let’s begin at the beginning.

Melancholy descended before I even awoke. The night’s dreams lingered well into the morning, muddying the line between fiction and reality. The whole day was intended for melancholy. Fittingly, I feel as heavy as the clouds pregnant with rain, eager to rid myself of this burden.

Oh melodramatic! I know. So melodramatic. Why can’t you just speak like a normal person, Louise? But I am earnestly encountering a crisis of identity. And thus, I can’t muster the strength to convey it in any other words but the ones that flow so emotionally from my typing fingers.

The burden in question? “Who am I?” A question that is both elementary and self-centered in theme, and yet rests at the forefront of my contemplation.

Initially my tendency is always to explain either a) what I do or b) who I am connected to in relationships. I am a teacher. I am Brigitte Carroll’s daughter. But outside of these things, who am I, Louise, when I do nothing and know no one? I find that I am not only unable to muster a response but I am also terrified of what the truth might be.

For the first time in my life, that I recall, I am without title, position, competence, experience or use. In addition, I am neither intimately connected to nor known by the people I am in daily relationship with. This might sound too analytical, but it’s creating profound uneasiness because I am forced to question the very foundation of my faith. Can I possibly be unknown and useless and still be in God’s will, still be loved by him? Of course the theological side of my mind says, bien sur, don’t be ridiculous, that’s the point! But the part of me that has held my false identity so close for so long is rather reluctant to let these things go. I am seeking the peace to just BE, rather than the need to DO. It is quite contrary to both my culture and my upbringing. We are people of competence and action. How ironic God would bring me all the way to Africa –where there is so much to DO – to learn to do nothing. To wait. I know the adage, we do nothing but what he does through us, but I must confess, I’m not sure I’ve ever done nothing and genuinely been patient enough to wait.

This morning I read:
He will cut down the proud. That lofty tree will be made low. Isaiah 10:33

It caused me to panic; pain is inevitable in this journey away from the will of Louise and into the will of God!

Less than an hour later while sitting on the can (why always the bathroom, Lord?) I read a tiny line in a story about a tree who was excited to be turned, by the carpenter, into a treasure chest.
And herein is the riddle: the tree must be cut down, made low, chiseled and sanded and formed into new and unnatural positions. Only then can it hope to serve any noble purpose.

Ugh. As much as I wish I could tell you how excited I am to serve this purpose he’s intended me for, I must admit I am very reluctant to be chopped down.

And so I am having a melancholy day. The clouds and I are somber as we experiment with the profound consequences of our existence. But, after this full day of rain, there’s a rainbow of promise for sun tomorrow. Perhaps with the morning, the clouds and I will already be able to see how this rain has made way for a tiny green sprout that wasn’t there before, proving even a trace of growth.

On a lighter note...

Oh communal living. I keep asserting myself as this hippie-esque creature able and willing to live the life of a socialist. Well my friends, time will tell. Already I am finding myself in the uncomfortable position of being surrounded by people at all times: even when I want to be alone. And, as my lovely roommate Kristie will tell you, I am very ummm what's the word, difficult? when I don't have that sacred time.
Okay, stay tuned, we'll see.
Anyway the point of this post is that there are also serious advantages. Some of these include:
1. People give me food when I run out and can't get to town to buy groceries.
2. I know what's going on.
3. There are at least 4 people who have to pretend to be my friend even if they don't like me.
4. Probably there are many more but I am just waiting to tell you the most exciting one: We started a band. Yep. It's true. I am in a band. Michelle rocks the drums, Kristal on guitar, Lize is vocals and I am also vocals pending the locating of a jambe.
If I come home a rock star, please don't be alarmed.

Saturday

The air was thick with moisture as Kristal navigated the combi, our 8 passenger van, through the washed out, red dirt roads of Masoyi. The community of 250,000 live with their chickens and goats huddled under tin roofs. Every hut, large or small, humbly asserts its own claim to the breathtaking view of the valley around Legogote where the voluptuous hills are punctuated with mango trees straining under the weight of their ripening fruit. The clouds hung low over the mountain tops making the sky simultaneously intimate and ominous. The beauty somehow absorbs the real state of things; somehow it blooms around the sadness of the passing funerals.
After successfully manipulating the combi around impassable corners and over roads so puckered “pothole” seems laughable, we arrive at Mxolisi’s. Following the expert example of Lacey and Kristal I make a beeline for Mxolisi’s gogo. I give her my bravest impression of SiSwati pleasantries: a South African handshake and a lame sauobona!, all the while awestruck by the easy way my other two traveling companions can move the words around their mouth without spitting or choking. We then sit down and engage this lovely babushka-clad gogo in a language free conversation: we nod and smile and point and look around, Mxolisi too shy to say much.
Before long we’re drinking tea and eating mangos (skin on!), slurping and grinning with Mxolisi’s aunt, as orange juice splashes on our skirts and sticks to our cheeks. Gradually family members drop by and the house is buzzing with aunts and babies and cousins and uncles. “Grrrrreeet them, each and every one!” the aunt says firmly to a shy cousin as she pats and rocks this brand new bundle of baby in her lap. “My first grandson!” she tells us proudly.
The smiles are easy and quick; the laughter robust and genuine. It’s hard to believe that out of the same smiling lips and jovial mannerisms we will also hear about the pain.
“AIDS is alive!” she tells us somberly.
And it’s true. In this family Mxolisi was orphaned at age 12 and now lives with his gogo (grandmother) and aunt – who has watched 4 siblings die. “We are dying!” she tells us. “I must teach these kids to cook and clean now, because who knows what happens to me.”
Never have I seen death and life woven together into the picture of what they actually are: one whole, a cycle. The first inevitable upon initiation of the latter. No one is seeking a handout or a cure. Or perhaps they are. Regardless they see clearly the correlation: Death is life.
I’m not sure what to do in a place where to die in your twenties is not considered young, in a place where cholera kills, in a place where the future is assuredly a painful place. I’m not sure what to do in a place where people find such courage and bravery in the face of such scarcity. I guess I’ll just slurp my tea, thankful for patient teachers. Teachers who will reveal the mystery of colliding worlds: mine ripe with potential, mango juice on my face; the other wise and joyful, loss etched into hers.

sanibonani!

It's amazing all the ideas that have been floating around in my head about this continent. Africa is like this magical place in my imagination; a world of beauty and poverty; hope and helplessness; faith and despair. I've been dreaming about this place for quite some time.

I suppose it's those dreams that made my arrival seem both foreign and anti-climactic. Can it really be that South Africa is so much like my own home?

My first "African" experience was the last thing I could have anticipated. My arrival in Nelspruit, a mere 30 min drive from my soon to be new home, was exactly like any city I might have seen in my lifetime. Cars and shops and houses and people and normal life. Brooke and Jed, who came to fetch Kristal and I from the bus drop point, took us to a local mall for coffee before we headed home. I must say my surprise was total upon discovering I was having coffee in a place that looked exactly like the home I'd just left.

When we arrived at Hands Village, where I will be living for the next 6 months, I was again surprised to discover the comfort of my accommodation. Yes, running water (hot and cold), my own room, electricity in every room, a big kitchen, etc., etc. I'd be lying if I said I didn't go to bed with a lingering, What the hell am I doing here!?! bouncing off the inside of my brain.

But that was all before yesterday. Yesterday began with a small group meeting and like any belaboured "churchy" thing we exchanged names and pleasantries. Being the new person everyone was very nice, very Christian with me. My sentiments from the previous evening were still guiding my thoughts and so I was not expecting what came when one of the leaders asked what people had done over the holidays. But it was precisely then I discovered, I am not in Kansas anymore.

One couple had just returned (with Malaria) from a trip to Mozambique where they visited a Hands at Work center that served an enormous number of people, all starving as a result of too much rain way too late. During their stay they also visited a jail, perhaps 12x12 feet, which housed 120 men, none of whom had been fed in days. The inmates begged them to stay knowing their presence was the only chance for accountability to the guards, who were only depriving food to the inmates as they were starving themselves.

Another woman spoke of visiting her sister, a recent and illegal refugee from Zimbabwe. Her sister is living in some slum outside of Johannesburg where the whole family stands in a corner when it rains because the roof has so many holes. They must then use buckets to clear the house of the incredible amounts of water that pour in. This woman said she was learning from her sister how to be more thankful because somehow in the struggle, the sister is full of joy. (This was also the first person to pray for me in Africa.)

And that was before I got to visit Daantjie and Spelanyane. These are two communities in the mountains surrounding Hands Village (where I live). Thousands of people live in tiny shacks, some big shacks, littering the hills. We saw streets full of children in uniform walking home after school, every second one waving and calling umgulu! (white person) as we passed. Some, of course, were not wearing uniforms because they couldn't afford to go to school. We dropped off food to one of the community centers where a massive group of volunteers from the community where waiting to greet the kids after school and feed them a meal.

At the third place we visited, a huge group of the cutest kids I've ever seen gathered with the promise of new shoes. Unfortunately only 22 got shoes, the other 20 or so watched curiously and inched closer and closer to the action, all smiles and shyness.

This morning was already awesome as I got to teach one of the volunteers from the community how to use Excel (a program I first discovered an hour before teaching her!). While I was busy explaining how to make formulae, she was patiently teaching me to say Ngiyabonga - (thank-you - which turns out to be a surprisingly difficult word to pronounce). And today is hardly over! I get to visit another community, Kanyamazane, with more food parcels this afternoon.

I felt all day yesterday like at any moment I could burst into tears. Not sadness. Not joy. Just this overwhelming feeling like, Oh, so this is the face of Jesus! I got to hold Jesus on my lap yesterday. I got to see her giggle when I taught her to give me five. Buhle, beautiful. This little Jesus was at the community center called Thuthukani which means we are growing up. How fitting for little buhle, and for me. Thuthukani - we're both growing up.