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!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, February 20, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 9, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
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.
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.
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