Written August 2, 2011
How does a human heart keep on beating after it has been stretched out, bursting at the seams with intense joy and overwhelming love one minute, and then pierced and wrung out another? My poor heart was tested in a 24 hour period with such highs and lows that I am convinced it must be made of some super high tech rubber compound.
Last night I arrived in Mansa, Zambia after being away from the orphan center there for 4 months. I was anxious to share the program with a team of ten I picked up at the airport, friends from my home church in Santa Cruz, California. We decided to walk from the lodge the team was staying at to the center to stretch our legs after the 10 hour drive from Lusaka. As we walked down the dirt road to the orphan center, a perfect African sunset reddening the sky, we could hear the children singing. I hadn’t realized how tightly I was wound until all the stress and fatigue of a 4 day pothole-plagued road trip to get here melted away at the sound of their beautiful voices.
When the children saw me, their singing abruptly stopped, a loud cheer rang out and they ran to me. I was surrounded, 45 little bodies all trying to hug me at the same time.
They jumped up and down and squirmed to get in close enough to touch me. I was blown away by their excitement to see me! I could not believe that these outgoing affectionate positively-bubbly children were the same dead-eyed child/zombies who greeted me a year ago when I first met them. The sweet sweet reunion brought a flood of happy tears.
Then today, my first day in Mansa, I went to the funeral of one of our orphans. Alick was 18 years old. He was only in 9th grade because he had to keep dropping out of school each time he was in the hospital. He got further and further behind in school and got skinnier and skinnier as AIDS ravaged his body and stole his childhood. But he kept going back to school, eager to learn, eager to live. He was on ARV’s for years, but his tired body finally gave out yesterday.
Those same children that were singing songs of joy last night were now inside Alick’s house singing songs of comfort for his family. It wasn’t actually a funeral, just a gathering at his house. Friends and family come to the house and sit with Alick’s grandma and his brothers and sisters. They do this for days - a silent comforting presence. I saw this way too often when I lived in Mansa last year. I would be walking down a street in town or a nearby village and see a house surrounded by people. Sometimes there was wailing, but often times it was a quiet house with dozens of people sitting outside, leaning against trees and the sides of the house. Nobody talking. I knew what that meant. I never imagined that one day I would be one of those silent sitters.
So this team from America, on their first day in Mansa, had to scrap their plans and instead of playing fun getting-to-know-you games, found themselves following the older children in the program down the dirt roads of the village towards Alick’s house. The children went inside to sing, to hold a hand, to say good bye to their friend. The team and I stayed outside and just sat, to show this family that we cared about Alick, that his life meant something. I prayed with his granny – prayed for her strength as she still had other orphaned grandchildren to take care of and provide for. I prayed for the children left behind, that they would know a future that had conquered this disease, that this would be the last generation of silent sitters.
I feel anger and disgust and frustration. It is absolutely senseless that this disease has been killing people for decades and will go on killing people when it is 100% preventable. There doesn’t have to be a single death beyond those who already have it right now. It can end with those who are currently infected. It can end in our life time. If everyone was tested and knew their status, it can be stopped. There are steps that can be taken to prevent every method of transmission. These are not insurmountable challenges. This is not a hopeless situation that Africa cannot overcome. This turns my anger to hope and hope to motivation!
What are the other emotions bouncing around inside the walls of my high tech rubber heart? Sadness – such sadness for the children who suffer because of choices someone else made. Then my sadness fuels a renewed dedication to make the next nine days here in Mansa the best they can be for these children who have experienced so much loss. Give them new memories – of laughter and carefree times, of love received, of pride in new skills gained.
How does a human heart keep on beating after it has been stretched out, bursting at the seams with intense joy and overwhelming love one minute, and then pierced and wrung out another? My poor heart was tested in a 24 hour period with such highs and lows that I am convinced it must be made of some super high tech rubber compound.
Last night I arrived in Mansa, Zambia after being away from the orphan center there for 4 months. I was anxious to share the program with a team of ten I picked up at the airport, friends from my home church in Santa Cruz, California. We decided to walk from the lodge the team was staying at to the center to stretch our legs after the 10 hour drive from Lusaka. As we walked down the dirt road to the orphan center, a perfect African sunset reddening the sky, we could hear the children singing. I hadn’t realized how tightly I was wound until all the stress and fatigue of a 4 day pothole-plagued road trip to get here melted away at the sound of their beautiful voices.
When the children saw me, their singing abruptly stopped, a loud cheer rang out and they ran to me. I was surrounded, 45 little bodies all trying to hug me at the same time.
They jumped up and down and squirmed to get in close enough to touch me. I was blown away by their excitement to see me! I could not believe that these outgoing affectionate positively-bubbly children were the same dead-eyed child/zombies who greeted me a year ago when I first met them. The sweet sweet reunion brought a flood of happy tears.Then today, my first day in Mansa, I went to the funeral of one of our orphans. Alick was 18 years old. He was only in 9th grade because he had to keep dropping out of school each time he was in the hospital. He got further and further behind in school and got skinnier and skinnier as AIDS ravaged his body and stole his childhood. But he kept going back to school, eager to learn, eager to live. He was on ARV’s for years, but his tired body finally gave out yesterday.
Those same children that were singing songs of joy last night were now inside Alick’s house singing songs of comfort for his family. It wasn’t actually a funeral, just a gathering at his house. Friends and family come to the house and sit with Alick’s grandma and his brothers and sisters. They do this for days - a silent comforting presence. I saw this way too often when I lived in Mansa last year. I would be walking down a street in town or a nearby village and see a house surrounded by people. Sometimes there was wailing, but often times it was a quiet house with dozens of people sitting outside, leaning against trees and the sides of the house. Nobody talking. I knew what that meant. I never imagined that one day I would be one of those silent sitters.
So this team from America, on their first day in Mansa, had to scrap their plans and instead of playing fun getting-to-know-you games, found themselves following the older children in the program down the dirt roads of the village towards Alick’s house. The children went inside to sing, to hold a hand, to say good bye to their friend. The team and I stayed outside and just sat, to show this family that we cared about Alick, that his life meant something. I prayed with his granny – prayed for her strength as she still had other orphaned grandchildren to take care of and provide for. I prayed for the children left behind, that they would know a future that had conquered this disease, that this would be the last generation of silent sitters.
I feel anger and disgust and frustration. It is absolutely senseless that this disease has been killing people for decades and will go on killing people when it is 100% preventable. There doesn’t have to be a single death beyond those who already have it right now. It can end with those who are currently infected. It can end in our life time. If everyone was tested and knew their status, it can be stopped. There are steps that can be taken to prevent every method of transmission. These are not insurmountable challenges. This is not a hopeless situation that Africa cannot overcome. This turns my anger to hope and hope to motivation!
What are the other emotions bouncing around inside the walls of my high tech rubber heart? Sadness – such sadness for the children who suffer because of choices someone else made. Then my sadness fuels a renewed dedication to make the next nine days here in Mansa the best they can be for these children who have experienced so much loss. Give them new memories – of laughter and carefree times, of love received, of pride in new skills gained.
Bittersweet blog but a good reminder of what still needs to be done in Africa. You are all making a difference in these children's lives, even briefly. It shows that God and his people care and that there is still hope. Rachelle L.
ReplyDeleteThat is a roller coaster of emotions to be on... Glad that God is using you in the lives of those wonderful children.
ReplyDeleteShawn