Precious People and Hope

It has been days since I posted last – not because I don’t have anything to share, but rather, because words have been hard to come by AND we have been without internet.  I feel very far from home right now -- much farther than I did before. 

The days continue on, the sun rises, the sun sets, people come to the HEAL hospital looking for hope, and many find it – cleft palates repaired,  thyroid goiters removed, and infections treated. We see a baby with a terrible chest wound, a woman with a large arm tumor, a man with cancer, who will not have access to chemotherapy, a mother with HIV and TB.  Some leave with the same problems they came with, and others never leave, other than leaving to go Home.

Top view of new construction, in front of current patient ward.  

View from the third floor of one of the patient wards, towards the out patient waiting area.

Side view of construction work at the hospital. Wood pole scaffolding.

My senses are assaulted with sights I have never seen, smells that are bold in my nose, sounds that are loud with life and death, in this poverty stricken place. 

There are times when I feel my breath sigh out and I can’t catch it. My heart holds heavy thoughts and feelings. Yesterday, I took a nap to try and manage them, falling asleep after they seeped out in tears.

But ...  there is also much Hope. I do see the hand of God handing out Hope.  It is here. He is here and present and does not forsake them.

I saw it in the faces and voices of women gathered together on Saturday morning, for a women's conference.  It is March – the “Month of the Woman.” In a society where women, are desperate for themselves and their families, and often times, viewed as less than cattle.

The previous evening, I am asked to speak to these dear women – to share with them, something, anything, to encourage them. The couple who ask me to speak say it is important for them to hear from someone else -- from me.  The women need to know that they are not alone, and that there is Hope.

I ask myself 100 times throughout the night, again and again – as I did in a previous post, “What do I know of these precious people? “  I pray, and ask God to give me the right words. His words, because, truly, What do I know of these precious people?   

I arrive the next morning, but the women have not started, yet.  Time in Africa is different.  It’s okay.  My new friends, a missionary couple, they find their driver and we go into town, to buy bread, at a small French bakery.  I step out of the car onto dirty streets, with pot holes like small ponds. It is cleaning day. Small piles of burning rubbish rise out of the road, orange flames dancing.  I smell burning plastic.

Later, I will step out on these streets again, where I see a man walking with a tom turkey slung over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes,  and what I think might be a hen, tucked under his arm. I look twice.  The birds are alive, looking back and forth nervously.  I feel nervous.  

He is hoping to sell them. A woman shuffling by in a brightly colored dress with a bin of live chickens upon her head, weaves in and out of vehicles. Women with baskets of berries and bananas and watermelons balanced on their heads come near, and so do street children.  "Mama. Mama." With desperate eyes, they call out.  I close mine. I don’t know what to do.

What do I know of these precious people? 

We return to the worship service of women.  They are dressed in like fabrics with different styles, revealing their individuality and their unity.  They light up with loveliness and the love of the Lord.  It is now time for them to start.

They come together. They sing. They dance.

They put on a skit about the suffering of the women in Congo, and how the HEAL Africa program -- Wamama Simameni (Women Stand Up Together) IS INDEED helping women. 

They call me to the front, I only know so by what I hear,  “Mama Andrea,” and I ask the Lord to help me meet these women where they are. I have an interpreter.  The women speak Swahili and French. I speak only English – except a few words – which I’m almost certain I massacre – Bonjour and Jambo.  Both mean hello.  I try to connect with kindness, a smile, my heart.

The question comes again silently inside of me.  What do I know of these precious people?

I only have a few minutes, and with the pastor interpreting every 7 – 10 words, even less time.  With microphone in hand, I thank them and I try to tell them that they are not alone. I speak of women that I know and love back home – women whose situations may be different, but whose hearts hurt – women like me and my family and my friends and women I do not know.  They struggle with loneliness and fear and guilt and shame and sorrow. They worry about their children.  They have broken relationships and broken hearts.

This is where I try to walk across the bridge from my heart into theirs.

I tell them how in America, we meet together. We study God’s Word, and we encourage each other, too. We help one another – to carry a burden, to watch babies, to bring life, and to help each other have hope and not give up. 

And I encourage them with Psalm 3:3, a verse that has been poking at me for weeks, perhaps for such a time as this, “The Lord is a shield around me, my glory, the lifter of my head.”  As I say it, they clap and cheer and make a warbling sound that I am not familiar with.  This is a good thing, I presume.  They are in agreement, and they rejoice for this is true about the Lord.

And I close with a story about a pine tree that I know of – a tree with only a few branches at the tip-top, that stood tall amongst many trees. I have used this story with my women back home, I hope it helps here, too. 

One day, a storm came and knocked down most of the trees around this tree, but this tree stood strong.

After the storm, some people told me that the tree was not worth much. It would not grow branches in places that appeared to be dead,  along it’s trunk.  There was no hope for this tree. It was too late. 

But that is not what happened. I watched that tree, and in time, branches began to break through in places where it appeared that life was not possible. The tree was now exposed to the light of life, and it was not too late for life or growth. And over time, the branches grew.

I remind the women – and myself – and I tell them that my people, they need to be reminded, too -- In the light of Jesus and His love for us, it is never too late.  There is new life and growth with Him.  There is hope. 

Their eyes meet mine and they make joyful noises unto the Lord.

I sit down humbled in this space.

I do not pretend to know what these precious people know, but I do know that hearts here in this place and hearts back home and hearts around the world – they struggle and sorrow and suffer, and they need hope.  And they -- and we -- are not alone. 

Meanwhile, that morning, the doctors see patients at the hospital and operate on a few cases. Afterward, we lunch at a French cafe -- the contrasts around us are confusing -- and then we drive back to Maji.   

Mount Nyiragongo puffs smoke in the distance.

Later, our team shares with one another about the day -- it's sorrows and it's joys -- and we meet more people around the dinner table, from Australia and England and we tell stories and we laugh.  God gives us laughter, perhaps, because He knows that our hearts cannot hold heavily to the hurts of this world, twenty-four hours a day. It is good to be together and laugh.

I leave you now, dear reader, with gratitude for your interest in this journey.  We thank you for your prayers. God is present and God is good. In the midst of all, He is giving us restful, beauty-filled times, on the shores of Lake Kivu --  and rest in Him.

Sunset at Maji.