Childhood

Last night, when it was already dark, two children from the area appeared at the Mission. It seemed that their uncle who had come to with their family since another uncle's funeral, had chased all the children from their home. The children -- 7 of them -- just ran with fright into all directions. One boy and a girl (both about 12) ran to the Mission, the boy still in his school uniform and the girl having only a thin dress and tattered jersey on. Sadly we don't know where the other kids went, and we found out that two of them, a 7 year old  and a toddler with him, disappeared into the indigeneous forest nearby their home--a very dangerous place at night.

This is just a small glimpse of what many of the children in this area face during the festive season and throughout the year) as family members become drunk, use drugs, and make life at home miserable for the children.

Mind Fog

I don't know whether it is because I am over 45 or whether it is all the zillion things that I have to deal with each day, but it seems like mind fog has come to stay for a while. Mind fog is my unwanted companion and it sticks to me like a big, fat, grey tick on one of my dogs. It  clutters all the space available in the drawers of my mind and makes me feel as if I am boxed in with no space for clarity of vision and creativity.

One thing helped to clear the fog for a while. We were in the middle of the church service when we were sent out into the community two by two. Each pair was sent out with a packet of salt as a gift for the home they would visit.  A bunch of young girls went with me and they giggled at my pronuciation of the one little boy's name (Ntshonthsho) who tagged along with us. I was surprized at the willingness of the people in the community to receive us, as well as the readiness of our congregation's members to go out and follow the example of the disciples of Jesus when we went out two by two.

It seems that following Jesus' commands and having fun while being obedient is a very effective antidote for getting rid of  unwanted companions.

Home Visits

The old tata took my hands carefully in his and told me in a serious voice that his wife was ill and had a high fever. I then just knew I had to visit the mama. I let the other mamas know and we arranged to meet at my house at ten on Thursday morning. We had to walk as my husband and the visiting outreach team had gone out with our car and would only be returning late that evening.

At ten a.m. my mom and I were ready to face the icy breeze (a huge cold front hit our area), but there was not one mama in sight. At eleven we decided to walk ahead, and to my amazement we met four ladies of our congregation who had travelled 9 kilometers on foot to make this visit at the edge of the indigenous forest nearby. I was so relieved to see them because I was scared to go through the forest—a place where criminals and unsavoury characters frequently hide. We entered the forest and as the trail is quite narrow we had to walk in single file.  The mamas were all dressed in their black uniforms with the round white collars. “You all look like penguins!” laughed my mom.  I just smiled grimly, because my black wool cap made my head itch and I have never felt comfortable in the stiff jacket and skirt. “There are vicious dogs at the end of the forest, so keep a stick in hand,” I called out to my mom who was making merry conversation with the ladies ahead of her. 

We left the forest behind and climbed through the barbed wire that fenced of the field of the family we were going to visit. A pack of scrawny dogs growled at us at the entrance with and bared their sharp teeth.  A thin black kitten skirted between them into the entrance of the main house. We were welcomed by other mamas of our congregation sitting outside the rondavel (a traditional Xhosa hut), trying to absorb some of the warmth of the late morning sun. My mom and I entered the rondavel and were showed to sit on two white plastic chairs behind the door. At some point in time the ill mama and her husband arrived. She had her thick green blanket wrapped around her and was peeling an orange with relish. No sign of a recent ailment.

One by one the women slowly filled the rondavel, and by one o’clock we were about twenty people there.  The youngest women had to sit on reed mats and I was amazed at the amount of mamas coming from far to visit.  One of the mamas opened with Scripture and then each one came to the front to give her interpretation of the Scripture as well as encourage the mama on her road to recovery.  Every speech was introduced by a song of worship. It later came out that many of the women thought that the mama was on the verge of death (the grapevine did its work), which explained the full rondavel. The door of the rondavel was then closed and as everyone went on their knees in the dark, the murmur of women’s prayerful voices filled the room.

When the last prayer ended in a soft “Amen,” a plate was put on the small table next to me and each mama made a money offering as form of support to the family. The door was then opened and the mama’s daughter-in-law (with the help of young women in frilly aprons) served us with plates heaped with steamy rice, gravy, braised cabbage, and pieces of broiled chicken. The little kitten dashed inside again and clawed her way to scraps of chicken that were thrown to her.  A primus stove was brought in and as I sat with a sleepy kitten on my lap, we were served with sweet, milky cups of tea and thick chunks of homemade bread baked in big black iron pots.

With the wisps of smoke from the cooking fire trailing around us, we greeted each other at the outside with handshakes on the rhythm of enthusiastic singing. My mom (usually a shy introvert) was caught up in the cheerful atmosphere and she danced with the ladies, shoving her walking stick in the air.

As we parted ways with the mamas later on, I realized that the mamas who walked with us through the forest had to head back home on foot for another two hours. They would only arrive home after dark.  My heart ached for them, yet it did not seem to bother them. They headed home with a light tread… and their faces were lit up from the warmth of conversation, laughter, food, song, and prayer. 

Trails

A tiny red flag guided us through the forest. Our host gave us directions and warned us that many visitors were misguided at one section of the trail and had to turn around at some point. They marked the trail with the red flags and a cross. 

At the cross section we looked for the cross but couldn’t see any. The one trail dwindled down and the other headed in the direction we wanted to go. It also looked more interesting with wispy grey old man’s beard hanging from century old yellowwood trees. We naturally decided to take the more adventurous way. Our host spoke the truth! Although proving to be an adventurous trail, I got stuck in a bramble bush and the trail went past the dull backyards   of cottages on the edge of the forest. We saw a messy spot where people of this quaint village secretly (at the back of their prized “Eco Shrine”) dumped their rubbish. In the end we had to sneeze our way back home on the dusty road leading to the village.

We decided to re-walk the trail and at the cross section we found the cross painted in yellow on one of the trees.  

We entered the cool of an unspoiled forest devoid of brambles and rubbish. Instead we came upon scarce birds flitting shyly through the treetops and crossed shallow brooks where we could sit a bit and quench our thirst.

 It reminded me of our way in life.  Our host did not provide us with enough detail of the cross on the tree and we just assumed that it would be easily visible at the cross section.  Due to our natural inclination towards surprises and adventure we took the trail that seemed to be more adventurous but turned out to be thorny, dull, and dusty and lead us nowhere. 

When we miss our prayer and quiet time in the presence of the Lord we miss the flags and crosses of the Holy Spirit. We then get stuck are mislead and miss our destination. When we closely follow Him with an intimate walk, we are more alert and able to see the not so visible crosses. We are then guided on trails which lead us on unspoiled and unique journeys. Ultimately, we’ll reach our destination while being offered spiritual refreshment on the way.

Generosity

“Come quickly! We have to be there before four!” called my husband from the kitchen door. Excitement sparkled in his eyes. “What? Where?” the girls and I asked in bewilderment but we were immediately ready for action. “I bought six!” my husband called out, very pleased with himself after running on an errand to buy Azaleas for me. I was just as pleased. “You remember the beautiful garden we passed this morning on our hike?  I met Dave. He lives there and he said he would show us around before it gets too late."

We hurried off and Shade the silky black Great Dane and her three other companions of unknown breeds met us with friendly sniffs at the entrance.

 Dave immediately introduced us to their garden, as if introducing to us an old beloved friend. The garden rolled out gracefully before us in half winter sleep. We walked down the stone bedded path and at the rose arbor we were encircled by a forest of Azaleas--some shining with starry white and pink blooms, others fringed with splashes of bright pink on the edges of white petals. Between the silver Birches, Azaleas with their leaves swooping on the floor started to bud with cones of wine red promise. Dave also introduced us lovingly and with passion to the soldier-like Beeches, the huge sturdy old Pine, the gnarled Japanese Maples, and the Dogwoods with their miniature buds. 

We met his wife Jane (the landscaper) on her way to the beds with the uncountable rosebushes while the dogs bounced ahead of us.

We passed the stony pond with the serene sculpture holding a basket of fruits, and Dave told us how he and six men struggled to help her stand secure on her pedestal in the middle of the pond.

 As the sun set, we found our way back to the rose arbor, and Jane invited us for coffee. We thanked them for their generosity and Dave made the comment that gardeners are either generous or thieves. Jane laughed and told me that at springtime when they receive visitors to their garden, some ladies have their garden clippers in their pockets. “It is a huge temptation not to pinch a slip of these beautiful specimens!" she winked at me. I agreed and as our eyes met, her eyes--the colour of brown sherry--shone with merriment. 

"We have to share," she said as we walked and touched the leaves around us with loving hands. “In our love for nature and the sharing of what we have in our gardens, we plant our love in the gardens of others." She turned around and greeted me with a warm kiss on the cheek and a hug.  

As we drove home the generosity of the couple and their willingness to share their garden with us swirled around us and forever the bloom of an Azalea will remind me of Dave and Jane’s generosity. 

The Walk

We walked through our forest today, the little boy and I. He chattered in his clear, feisty voice while we made our way to the vegetable garden. He gasped with delight when he saw a bright yellow pineapple. "Oh pineapple! My best friend!"
"Smell it." I held it out for him and his little nose wrinkled with pleasure. "Just imagine yourself munching this on the beach," I said. He giggled and hugged the fruit when I handed it to him.
"Take it home," I said. He suddenly turned to me and hugged me and his spiky friend tightly: "I love you SOOO much!"

Relief

A few weeks ago I went on my knees and asked my Father in Heaven for help with the Pre-School and Aftercare. I was feeling so overwhelmed. Two hours later there was a knock on the kitchen door. It was a young trained doctor on holiday from the Netherlands.  She came to ask whether she could be of help on the “Mission”. Her knock on the door reminded me of the verse in John 14: 13 and I write it in Dutch as my prayer was answered in Dutch:  “En wat gij ook zult vragen in Mijn Naam, Ik zal het doen, opdat de Vader moge verheerlijkt worden in de Zoon”.

Our young helper has been of great help since then and I am so thankful for her presence and support to our teachers.   Since Monday the Aftercare has exploded in numbers (don’t know the reason for it) and without her help we would not have coped.  Besides working hard to keep all the children meaningfully engaged on a playful Friday afternoon, I also had to keep a zillion energetic and ravenous boys from wrecking the guava trees into stumps.  Their hunger for a fresh, unripe guava spurs them on to keep going for more. “Mummy, some even eat the guavas with those little white worms in it.” Hape (our young 6 year old neighbor) says he saw them eating it like that!  Laura’s brows furrowed in a knot as she tried to imagine herself eating a guava with worms hiding as pips.

Oliver’s illness disappeared as the chicken bone stuck in his throat got dislodged. He has since disappeared with the Mama he adopted.

Things

Sometimes things are brought to my attention in subtle yet disturbing ways.  I recently met a young boy who experiences serious learning difficulties at school.  His mother is trying with her limited income to have him assessed by specialists. She is sent from hospital to hospital where she has to sit and wait on hard benches in long dreary queues.  She also has to take lifts in extra full taxis (backs of pick-up trucks) where she and her son sit squeezed and bent.  In the mean time the school year flies past the Little Boy Lost.

On our way to one branch of our congregation, Benjamin waved with a smile for us to pick him up. Although he does sometimes complain about him experiencing intellectual and emotional challenges, he has adjusted to a unique life.  He is a son of one of the elders, and he is in his late twenties.  I smiled when he mumbled during the service about one of the children (another eight year old boy with severe intellectual and physical challenges) that was crying when his mother wanted to keep him still. “That child,” he complained out loud while the elder next to him motioned with a finger to his mouth to keep silent.   

At lunch he saw the pastor and the elder writing in books and he showed me his book where he had written some English words. It was his address with spelling mistakes. “Where did you learn to do this?” I asked with amazement. A few months ago he could only master written words like “see” and “it”. He told me that he went for adult literacy classes, and then suddenly jumped up from his bench.  His friend appeared like a phantom and was reclining on a bench like a barefoot Caesar waiting for his lunch, his chin cupped in his right hand. He nodded solemnly at Benjamin and there they sat till The Friend decided he had had enough. He made his exit by twirling like a ballerina towards the door.

Outside the little disabled boy stared at me. We stood in a circle saying goodbye. The boy came to me, took my hand and hastily let it go. He was like a frightened animal. He took it again, let go, and ran away. On my way to the car he grabbed my hand again and softly brought it to his lips, but he didn’t run away. 

The Power of Song

Our internet failed and Laura and I grudgingly had to walk—since my husband took the keys to the gate linking us to the router room—to make contact with the technicians. On our way back we met a dusty little boy still in his school clothes. As I greeted him with a “Molo”, he lifted up his arm. I thought he was going to pick out the grass tufts from his hair (he was playing with an older friend on the soccer field), but instead he put his warm hand in mine and started singing in a husky off-tune tone. At first I did not recognize the melody or words, but he sang louder as we walked on. It was a song that was sung with the children over Easter in the Children Service tent.

The little boy then switched to another song that the children had learned. He did not say a word but in his song he told me that he remembered the three days spent with Bible lessons and songs from the Word. He then dropped my hand and as we parted ways, his humming  ”There is Victory for Me” trailed like wispy streams of smoke around us. 

Only in Deep Rural Transkei

Sunday the kids went with us to one of our furthest little congregations. It took us an hour and a half and Laura (13) did some research on “nausea on the road” as she felt queasy from all the bumps and turns on our way. She came to the conclusion that anything with ginger in or on it would help. Milla (12) reminded me how she loved ginger biscuits and that we would need a tin full next time.

On our way we picked up our members—none of them called or arranged for us to pick them up, but as we recognized their faces along the way they got “loaded in” with their big bulky black bags and umbrellas with long steely points that nearly pierced the inner roof of our Nissan Hardbody. The pastor complains that the body is not so hard with the wear and tear of transporting sturdy ladies with little toddlers and lots of baggage.   

Our ladies (including me) looked like busy  ants in our black uniforms  as we trailed behind  the pastor  around the black cooking pots on the hills, singing “Singabahamba Yothina - We walk on this earth but we are going to heaven”.  

After the service the younger girls brought us a plastic container and tin teapot with hot water to wash our hands- a very graceful gesture before they served us with plates full of samp and beans (ngqushu), with a thin gravy and chicken. Two girls came with cups, saucers, a plastic container filled with sugar and a mug with tablespoons and on a tray. (You take your cup and saucer and the girl with the big teapot pours steaming milky tea in your cup. The dessert spoon is used to scoop and stir heaps of sugar in big swirls. The spilled tea is then sipped from the saucer while you wait for your tea to cool down. A third girl brings you a plate with a thick slice of homemade bread). I declined the bread as every nook of my insides was filled.

As we prepared to leave I got a bit worried as nearly half of the congregation needed a lift. I thought my spleen would burst when Laura plonked on my lap as there was not enough space for her except for the gaps between me, my full stomach and the dashboard. 

The Start Line

To be the wife of a missionary/pastor, is a road filled to the brim with adventures or mishaps (and sometimes simultaneously BOTH!). Maybe you can relate to some of my adventures and mishaps because I'm ordinary, yet unconventional in my approach to life. Your life might just be like that.