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.