The first of two reflections on experiences I had last week. I do apologize for the gap between updates, and promise to get more things up to read. Thanks so much for those who continue to read this and send me notes of support. They mean a great deal to me, and I am strengthened each day by the knowledge that there are people at home who are thinking and praying over me as I spend my summer here. Please know that things are well, and that I am having a great time.
Christmas in June
Pinetown Methodist Church has what one might call a church “campus.” It really looks much like a college—the sanctuary is situated to the left, as soon as one enters the gate (the church, like all other buildings, has a wall and a gate in front because of crime), and attached to it is a two-story building with individual classrooms and offices. It was formerly the building in which John Wesley School (the school the church started and still supports) was housed, but is now home to Phakamisa (pug-a-MEES-a), the church’s ministry that serves the poorest of the poor in a variety of capacities. They hand out clothes and food, but most importantly they teach women from the townships to teach preschool age children in the community various things that will give them a head start in the classroom. Many of these women would be caring for the community’s children anyway, so they are equipped (at Phakamisa) with the knowledge and skills they need to make the time they spend with the kids enriching. There are various “educare centers” in the townships (when I say "township" I am referring to informal settlements of extremely impoverished people who live in improvised homes, made of mud or scrap metal) that are supported by Phakamisa. There are also woodworking classes offered each day for the men in the community, along with gardening, sewing, and beadwork courses for the older women (grannies, or “Gogos” they call them) who are often looking after grandchildren who are AIDS orphans or other orphans from the community. The campus continues around with a Hospitality Centre (Fellowship Hall) along with another Hall to which are attached the church offices. In the center is a courtyard with a large shade tree and a kiosk, where various information can be collected after the Sunday services.
Every morning, between 8:30 and 9:30, the campus is filled with the sounds of Zulu singing. If one is near an open door or window, the voices find their way to you. I have known ever since I got here that those were the sounds of the women of Phakamisa gathering for morning devotion, but until today I had not taken part in one of them. I had been looking forward to this day on my calendar so that I would finally know what it was that produced this singing, and I had the sense that there was something special about the ministry of the program. We gathered and Glenda (Director of Phakamisa) found a woman to translate for me. We began, of course, with a song and Glenda opened with a prayer. Glenda had explained to me that the bulk of the devotion time is spent allowing different women to come forward and make prayer requests. There was one candle lit in the center of the altar rail, and others on either side of it, about 12 in total. They were to be lit by the women for family members or friends who had died over the previous few days. The procession of ladies began, and though they spoke in Zulu and I was hearing their stories from someone translating for me, their pain was clear. Each one came forward to ask for prayer over whatever tragic or desperate situation was ongoing in their lives. Many involved someone around them who had been shot or were victims of other violent crimes. Almost all had neighbors or children who died, leaving orphans (sometimes their own grandchildren behind with no one to care for them). Most who came forward were caring for a number of children orphaned by crime or by AIDS, some as many as 8 or 9. Some were taking on new ones, because someone had just succumbed to an AIDS related illness. They wore their sadness on their faces, and the gasps and whimpers from the women in the pews told me that someone else had been taken too soon, another child had been left alone and hungry, and another family had been ripped apart. The translation of their words was almost unnecessary. Without fail the women stood there in strength and told their stories. When they’d finished they would turn and make their way to the altar, where Glenda would join them to place her arm around them, light a candle, and say a prayer. All the while the women of the congregation began a song, often one with a happy tone, though it was impossible to tell without knowing the words. These were the sounds that filled the courtyard, the praise of women bearing burdens the world knows not. I did not count one who was not reduced to tears at the altar; they would sob, the sort of weary, tired tears one has when the pain and suffering has been so great and so long that the spirit can hardly take it in nor find any other way to express it. Shoulders slumped and shaking, hands gripping faces, another candle lit, and more voices raised in praise. The devotion lasted maybe an hour and it became so heavy to me, witnessing the pain of these women who will return to their communities, where there is no relief in sight. I knew that eventually their stories would end for me and their pain would stop confronting me, and I would be able to breathe again. But the orphans will be there, hungry, and tomorrow someone else will pass and leave behind another child who needs a home and these women will again take them in, while I have long since come back to this laptop to write more about the day’s activities, with my stomach full and no worry of ever having a life like theirs. The collective pain was so great—I watched as each candle was lit, how it represented a life now gone, and children left alone. Each candle burned at me it seemed, angrily, an active burn that would not leave me alone as I watched these women who were bearing such heavy burdens as they laid them at God’s feet, and still managed to sing praise. For some reason, as I watched the flames burning steadily, I found myself thinking of the Advent candles and the Advent wreath. The candles weren’t arranged in a circle, and we’re a long way from Christmas. The candles burned with longing, with hoping, with pain and suffering, and most of all with the desperate need for Christ’s presence, for his coming to dwell among us. What I saw today was a different sort of Advent, without the nostalgia of Bethlehem or the cold air or the warmth of family and friends. It was instead desperation, pain, suffering, longing, the deep hope and desire for God to bring about what God has promised, peace, justice, hope, healing, comfort, life. Another candle was lit, another life gone, more cries of desperation. The stories finally stopped because of time. Twelve candles were lit. Maybe 7-8 women had spoken. There were about 80 in the church. We’d only heard a bit of what was there in those pews, the pain and hope all present at once in these women who have strength beyond comprehension. It came out in their praise, in the singing, which poured out the open windows as we processed out.
As I left the Church campus at the end of the day, I saw the women headed down the sidewalk toward home, the food packs and clothes they’d received at the Church balanced so beautifully and amazingly on top of their heads and under their arms, and the weight of brokenness and death and violence and pain and sadness added to it, etched into the lines on their faces and slowing their tired walk back to those with no other place to turn except to these elderly women with a small offering from the Church. The candles on the altar burned again in my mind, and as I watched the tragedy and beauty unfold before me I could only think of the simple Advent prayer—“Come, Lord Jesus.”
