Church, Children and my Churning Heart

Yesterday, fresh water falls from the sky in massive amounts.  We are in chapel, where we are every Tuesday and Friday and Sunday morning, while we spend time in this space.

The young woman, a surgeon in training here at HEAL Africa, begins to preach. Here in this place, this house of God, changes are happening, with hopes that they will ripple out across the country -- changes that bring a new idea that women have value. They have value to the church and value to the world.  She begins to read from Proverbs 31:10-31, in French.  I follow along, as best I can, in my English Bible.  My team members do, too.

And then the rain pours down louder, like bullets on the metal roof -- perhaps not the best  analogy to use in this war torn country.  Then a loud pop of a transformer blowing echoes across the room.  Water drips -- no, it drains -- through the ceiling across the room from me.  People move their chairs and scurry to find large bins to collect the rain.  Now, I see water washing down the floor, coming in under the door. Later, I learn that 4 + inches fell in that short amount of time.

The woman preaching, stops.

A slight smell of fear seems to float in, across the room.  I can't be sure.  Everyone looks around. Uncertain.  Thunder roars in the background, in the foreground -- all around.  And, suddenly,  I hear music.  The musicians start up -- a few trombones take over.  I hear a familiar tune -- "How Great Thou Art." It is loud and clear and thundering louder than the thunder, louder than the fear.

And then, spontaneously, all the people begin to pray.  Out loud. As the rain pours down, prayers poured from their lips and push heavenward.  The language I do not know, but their faith I see.

Walking from the chapel to the hospital after the rain.

And I can't explain how I know it, but the face of God shows up in this place, in the faces of His people.

"Be still, my soul," I find myself saying,"This is Holy Ground. Don't miss it."

In time, the rain quiets. The one who was to preach comes forward, she does not finish her sermon, but says, "He is the Master of circumstances. Now, we go into our day.  Let's pray."

The children stand and recite Micah 6:6 - 8, out loud, together, and the last words slip in and settle in the depths of my soul, "The Lord has told us what is good. What He requires of us is this: to do what is just, to show constant love, and to live in humble fellowship with our God."  I've heard it 100 times.  Here, though, surrounded by street children and suffering and sickness, my ears hear it louder.

Later that night, after a full day, we view the setting of the sun, on the shore of Lake Kivu.  We stand silent, taking photos, captivated by it's color -- by it's Creator.

Today, Jo asks some of us to join him on a journey to the outskirts of Goma, to see a school that HEAL Africa supports. The surgeons need to go and operate, but Steve, Tom, Mary Ella and I take him up on his offer. I fight within myself between wanting to go and feeling fear of what I might see, fear of what I may have to take into this heart that is churning.

We drive, first on a paved road, and then on a lava rock road.  Everything is on lava here, at the base of Mount Nyiragongo.  Everything.  Some sights I am becoming familiar with, but not used to.  The poverty of the people -- their pain -- permeates everywhere. But, unbelievable, despite all of it -- they smile.  We drive by and wave, their faces beam beauty and yell greetings to us, as we wave back.

I hear Ed Sheeran on the radio.

We arrive at Mugunga School, on the outskirts of Goma, part of a refugee camp that holds thousands of people, that are displaced because of war and violence in their village.  At one point, this refugee camp was for people fleeing the Rwandan genocide, now it is for people of the Congo, fleeing in fear from their own villages.

As we pull up,  218 children pour out of the building, running up to us to say "Bonjour!" or practice their english, "Good Morning!"  They are eager to meet us, to touch our hands.  In doing so, they touch our hearts.

The teachers blow a whistle and the children fall in to line, according to their grade in school -- one through sixth.  And then they sing us a song -- a silly song in Swahili and joy jumps from face to face.

We tour the rest of the school, after they file past us to shake our hands.   They are beautiful. But they are vulnerable. Terribly vulnerable in an unsafe place. Please pray for them right now.

We also learn of the water source -- a well -- that the children have there, that has a lock on it, so outsiders won't steal the water. It is life saving for these children, who bring some home for their families, if they bring a bottle with them.  There is a garden and a small shed where goats and rabbits live -- the children are taught how to raise them, how to grow a garden and make mulch with goat urine and wood chips, and, sometimes, when fruits or vegetables come ripe, they are given the food.  When they graduate from sixth grade, if they are there that long, we are told they are given a rabbit to bring home and raise.

Dr. Lusi and the well water for the children.

Bathrooms at the school.

After we leave the school, Jo brings us further out, along a bumpy, puddled road to one of the many Chaplaincy Programs that HEAL Africa runs.  We sit under a grass thatched canopy and Jo shares about this program, where women and men come for three months and learn how to be leaders, how to read and write, and they learn about the Bible, so that they can bring these skills and truths back into their villages. They teach them about grace and about prayer and about the Holy Spirit. And they teach them how to listen to those who are suffering, not just how to speak.

Chaplaincy Program grounds.

We see women in the courtyard, watching. Jo tells us that these women are here, helping. They are part of the Wamama Simameni program -- "Women Stand Up Together." Last week I heard about the program, but now I see it in the flesh -- women together, working, encouraging, standing together to make a difference in their families, in their villages, in Congo.  They are taught trades -- like sewing and making donuts and soap.  And they are linking arms to help one another

Jo talks to us for a long time about the way that change is being brought to Congo, how sexual violence is being decreased (statistics show that 70% of the women -- some children -- suffer rape), how families are being made strong, how the image of women and men is changing. Slowly.  Through services that are teaching men "Positive Masculinity,"  and women are learning how to stand strong together.

Jo tells us, "To me, this is HEAL Africa. These places, these programs, are changing the culture.  They are healing Africa."  It is a holistic approach.

"Be still, my soul."  I sense it again. "You are standing on Holy Ground."

But as we ride back to Maji on bumpy roads, I feel the tension tighten around my heart again.

Farms and faces and the unfamiliar shoot past me in 'fast forward,' as we drive along.




I see a young girl carrying a yellow plastic container on her back, strapped to her head.  I learn that little girls, five and six years old,  are often asked -- no, forced -- to walk two or three or four hours to the lake where water is found.  There, they fill the jug and then walk, the same long journey home, but now carrying the heavy, hard, filled container on their back.

But that's not the worst of it.  It's the dangers along the way, particularly ... the risk of rape.

So. That. Her. Family. Can. Have. Water.

Water to drink - it's something I never have to think about.   I don't have to think about whether water is clean, or carry it, or send my children to fetch it, or fear what will happen to them when they go or when they come home. Or if they will come home.

My heart can hardly handle this news. And I don't know what to do with it, how to process it, how to walk away from it. I  try to take it all in. I don't want to miss a thing.  More importantly, I don't want to forget it.



Here, in this third world country where pain and problems are more prevalent than I had every imagined, there is also healing for the hurting on Holy Ground.

Yesterday, I read this quote in a book by Ward Brehm called, Bigger Than Me.  I leave you with this thought that is churning my heart right now -- as I think of people here and hurting people back home:

"Sometimes, I'd like to ask God why He allows poverty, suffering and injustice, when He could do something about it."  

"Well, why don't you ask Him?"

"Because I'm afraid He would ask me the same question."  

~ Anonymous.