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.