Julius, the One Who Is Left

I cannot let go of Julius. Neither can Terra. He is in my thoughts often. I know he visits Terra as well. There are times throughout the day when Terra will lean against me and whisper his name in my ear and smile. She knows that I love him as much as she does. Well, maybe she loves him a bit more. But we have both been taken by him.

Perhaps it’s because we were there, at Open Arms Orphanage, the day he first arrived. He sat up against the wall, his large brown eyes filled with anxiety, fear, loss. He sat so still, plastered against the wall, watching, listening to all that surrounded him. It was nearing 5:00. The “mothers” had started to gather the toddlers for dinner. One of the mothers scooped him up, gently slid him into a high chair and placed a bowl of porridge on his tray. He sat there quietly, his eyes darting around the room.
And then the dam broke. He began to cry. The flood gates opened. His cries turned to sobs. Terra tried to feed him. She gently rubbed his head. He was unconsolable. He just cried and cried. Another volunteer, an older woman from Holland, picked him up and held him tightly, rocking him back and forth, whispering in his little ear. Oh - we all felt so badly for him.

The matron told us a bit of his story. Both parents are dead. He was being raised by his 12 year old sister. There are no other relatives. The matron pulled his shirt up over his back. Down from his shoulders runs a long set of railroad tracks, a huge scar left from spinal tuberculosis. He was nearly two but not yet walking. Apparently he had spent most of his tiny years in bed. - He was a sorrowful sight.

With a little bit of attention and love, Julius is now thriving at Open Arms Orphanage. Yet I cannot seem to let go of him. Maybe it is because we were there the first day he arrived. Maybe it is because he is exceptionally bright. Everyone comments on how brilliant the little guy is. He is sharp. Maybe it is because we know he has no one who will eventually take him home. Most of the children at Open Arms have some relative who regularly comes to visit them and will eventually take them back to the village. Julius has no one. I don’t know, but Terra and I have been smitten.

The last few times we have been there, he cries when we leave. Our hearts break as we peel his fingers from our necks and push him back inside to stay behind the closed doors. Much to Terra’s disappointment, the idea of adopting him does not seem to make sense to me for many reasons. Yet I have another idea. --- What if we can find a family, a Malawian family from our church over here, a family whom we know, who will adopt and raise him. Perhaps we can be involved some way, maybe offer to help pay school expenses. I have been thinking about this idea for several weeks now and tonight I asked Stephen what he thought of the idea. He embraced it with as much passion as I have. I thank God.

Hiking the Mountain

Composed by Jordan Heinzel-Nelson

May 23:
6:00 am
We are getting ready. Today we will climb Mulanje, the biggest mountain in Malawi. It is HUGE. If you spent four days on top you wouldn’t cover the whole mountain.
7:50
Our porters are ready. Porters are the men who carry our clothes. I feel so awkward giving them these huge packs, even though we are paying them. At least we carry one pack. We start the hike. I do not know how long it will take, but other people said 6 hours. It will for one thing be my longest hike. Soon enough I have my shoes off and take the lead with one of the porters, Mission. The other one, James, who seems more experienced and also knows more English stays with Terra, Mom and Dad.
8:00
We stop to rest. We will do this throughout the trip.
11:00
We stop at the half way point. It has a stream by it so we fill up our water bottles. Then we take a break before starting up again.
12:00
We stop for lunch. While we eat, a black bee comes. I eat my sandwich, it follows me. I run away to Mom, it follows me. I run to Terra, it follows me. I run to Dad, it follows me. I try to ignore it, it hovers around me. I move away from the food. It follows me. Finally it flies away.
1:45
The place where the cabin is, is visible. Mom and I move quickly to get there fast. On our way, I stub my toe. It starts to bleed. This already happened a few days ago. This time its on the other foot. Ow! We get to the cabin. We look out. It sits in the middle of trees surrounded by open fields of wild flowers and tall grasses.
3:50
James takes us out to the view.
4:00
We look down at the massive map of land stretching before us. It is the view point. It is so beautiful. We see for miles around. There is nothing like watching the sun set from a mountaintop. It is so cool!
5:00
We are having dinner. There is no electricity so we cook over a fire. The spaghetti is so delicious especially when you are hungry. Then we go to bed.

May 24:
5:00
Mom wakes us up for the sunrise! We quickly get changed and go outside. We look out. The sun has already risen and hides behind a hill. It is beautiful! The clouds spread out along the mountain top.
8:00
There is a hill on the mountain that Terra and I want to climb. It doesn’t look too big. We set off to the hill. First we trudge though the long grass.
8:30
We finally get to some rocks but soon we are back in the grass. You do not know how hard it is to hike through high grass.
9:00
We’re still so far away and we still must hike back down this day. We decide to turn around. That was so BORING! We pack to go back home.
11:00
We are leaving.
1:00
While we are hiking down, I stub my toe again, badly! It starts to bleed again. I stub it again. Then the other foot. Ow! Dad had my shoes and was way ahead of us. When I caught up to Dad, I finally put on my shoes because my feet couldn’t take it any more.

I am glad that I finished the hike. I am excited to take Jem and Clay. My next challenge is to climb Sapitwa, the highest point of the mountain. Sapitwa means "Go No Farther".

The Celebration of Harvest

It is the season of miseka here in Malawi. Miseka is the chichewa word for harvest. The maize crop, the staple food of Malawi has been harvested, and now is the time for celebrating. Unfortunately, mainly due to a three week drought in the middle of the rainy season, this year’s harvest was not as plentiful as last year’s bumper crop. But there is still much to celebrate as families who had run out of food are now able to feed their children.
In the churches they celebrate miseka by asking the members to bring a portion of their crop to the church as a special offering. This is a practice dating back to the time of the Old Testament. The miseka offering is taken for several weeks on Sunday morning and is then distributed to the poor and to the pastors. Here in Blantyre, most people make their miseka offering in the form of cash as they are no longer living directly off of the land. But not so in the villages.
This past Sunday we worshipped in a village for the first time. I was invited by one of my colleagues at the Theological School to preach at his church outside of Zomba. It was actually the prayer house of the main church. (A prayer house is a smaller group of Christians from a larger church who meet together regularly at a separate location, usually because the distance from the main church makes it difficult to get there. As the prayer house grows it can eventually become a separate congregation. This prayer house will become an independent congregation in August.) We drove up a dusty road to a dilapidated brick building--the church. Across the street there was a prison. Each and every window pane was broken. The roof was sagging. A few women greeted us with singing as we arrived. After meeting with the elders and planing the service we went inside. There were no pews; just simple wooden benches with no backs. The church began to fill with people of all ages. The faces of the elderly betrayed a life of hard work and toil. The children looked on in mute curiosity at the faces of the strangers. Eventually the building was packed with over 100 worshipers. It was a typical Malawian service with hymns, prayers, beautiful singing, the reading of scripture and announcements including the introduction of the visitors from America. When it was time for the sermon, I stood in the pulpit-a simple brick structure built on the side of the room. The wind coming through the broken windows blew my notes around as my friend interpreted my words. The place was filled with the presence of Christ making everything and everyone feel holy to me.
After the sermon it was time for the miseka. About half of the congregants emptied as singing began-the chichewan version of “Bringing in the Sheaves”. Then, one by one, the villagers re-entered their house of God with gifts. Bags of maize were carried in by pairs of men. Other women carried the maize in tubs on their heads. Cassava roots, sweet potatoes, bags of rice and sugar cane also appeared. The contents of the bags and tubs of maize were emptied right onto the floor. Soon there was a small mountain of maize in the front of the church. Prayers were said thanking God for the harvest and asking for His blessing upon the gifts and the givers.
Following the service we were invited up the street to the home of the prison warden who was a member of the prayer house. We had a simple traditional Malawian meal of nsima-maize flour mixed with water, relish (some kind of green vegetable), chicken and rice. Afterwards we loaded our truck with some of the miseka food, and also about 15 Malawians looking for a ride down the dusty road.
Just another day filled with amazing grace and moments of holiness.

The Widows of Chinuple

Chinupule is in one of the areas they call a “semi-urban village”. I call it a “slum”. The houses are concrete shacks. People live packed like sardines. There is no land for gardens. Unemployment is nearly 90%. There are no services, no sanitation, no sewer. You must watch where you step. Crime is high.

We sat as honored guests in stiff high-backed chairs, a sea of women and children on the dusty ground at our feet. We applauded acrobatic performances and politely laughed at dramas when we had no idea of what they were saying. Sewa, the project manager, leaned over to me and whispered, “Lizzie (they tend to add an “e” sound to the end of English words), look at how many widows. They care for the orphans.” The women were many. And they are old! They are missing teeth. Their clothes are torn and sag over their slender frames. Their faces are weathered and do not return my smile.

Monday morning I met with Sewa to ask her if she could help me implement an idea, to set up a bible study where I could meet with these widows and women once a week. I approached Joyce Makungunya, a woman from our church who speaks very good English, to ask her if she would translate for me and help me lead the time with the women. My intention is to share leadership with a Malawian in anything I start so that continuity will be ensured after I am gone. Every Monday now for the past 4 weeks we have met with the champions of Chinupule, the women and widows who care for the orphans.

Mai Gonthi is one of the widows with whom we meet. She had 10 children. 7 have died. From the 7 who died, there were 15 grandchildren who have come to live with her. There are many small ones, most are in primary school. She does “piece work” to earn a little money but it does not bring in enough to feed them all. “We adults can eat anything, but the children need more.” She is concerned about their nutrition. Now the nights are getting cold. The children share one blanket. Each week 4 different women share a glimpse of their story with the other leaders and myself.

Since we have started, 3 women from St. Columba join me now in the leadership. Lucy Mauluka brings her drum, Joyce Makungunya translates, and the executive leader of the Women’s Guild, Joyce Chatata, reads the scripture in Chichewa. We meet under a tree outside a dilapidated concrete building where volunteer village women work with preschool children. We include the children in the opening time of singing and dancing. They cannot keep away from the sounds of the beating drum. Once we settle into our bible study, the teachers take the little ones back into the building so we focus and share. Often it is still difficult to hear over the voices of the children but that is okay.

I have never read scripture like I do today. It has come alive for me. I understand what Jesus is talking about in new ways. I step back in time and see the world through different eyes. I know what he means when he speaks about widows. I understand the radical steps women took to be with Jesus amidst a circle of men who traditionally and culturally excluded women. I understand faith and prayer in new ways. I have been blessed!

Last week we read two related healing stories involving a woman and a beloved daughter from Mark 21. At the end of our time together, I was curious to hear how the women understand these stories of miraculous healing. “I know all of you have lost children, husbands and many loved ones. I know you have been on your knees, just as desperate and sincere as the father in today’s scripture whose daughter is dying. I know you have pleaded with God, cried out to God to spare and heal. How do you make sense of these miraculous healing stories?”
Heads slowly nodded as the question was translated. Silence. And then one by one, they responded. “I have loved, but I know Jesus loves them more.” “Life in heaven is so much better than this life.” “It is difficult, but just as the woman waited 12 years, so we will wait on Jesus.” I sat in silence, humbled and in awe.

The first week we started with 8 women and I thought, "Good, this will be intimate". The second week there were 20. The third week it rained. They were so happy when we arrived. They did not think we would come. 15 - 20 women walked through the cold rain to come to a study they were not sure would take place. This week we had 30. They have been asking for Bibles since we started. They love the stories. I love their faces. They laugh as I make a connection between their culture and the time of Jesus. When we read the story about Martha and Mary, I pointed out that Mary’s decision to sit at Jesus’ feet, while Martha was cooking, was as radical as one of them joining the men in the evening as they gather around the fire. They laughed and shook their heads, grasping the radical disobedience Mary demonstrated toward society, yet the total obedience given towards God. They light up when I suggest a new twist or insight into scripture. (Of course none of what I present is my own; I borrow left and right from commentaries.) I noticed some of them bring little pads where they jot notes and scripture references. So Terra made notebooks for all of them, folding and stapling printer paper and covering them with construction paper. We also bought each a pen. I don’t think all of them can read and write but the other leaders told me they will take care of each other. Sure enough, I saw one writing scripture references in four of the notebooks for the others. When they are at home, their children will read for them.

This week we read the parable Jesus tells in Luke 18 of the widow and the unjust judge. They loved that story. I suggested that Jesus shows us that widows during the time of Christ and in their culture may seem powerless/worthless to many in this world but that Jesus holds up the widow again and again throughout scripture as having a special relationship with God, a unique place in bringing the Kingdom of God here on Earth. They went wild.

The Road to Zomba

Three times a week I take my life in my hands--I drive the road to Zomba. The M3 is a harrowing and nerve-wracking, two-lane, poorly paved excuse for a major road. Road crews continually patch massive potholes-often patching places that have already been patched before. Vehicles break down regularly and since there is no shoulder you never know when you will have to stop and take a deep breath to go around an abandoned truck parked along a blind curve.

Danger lurks around every curve and death crouches behind each blind hill. Huge trucks, belching exhaust, prowl slowly along the pot hole pocked tarmac, daring me to pass. They are just waiting for me to pull up alongside so they can slowly squeeze me off into the bush. I’ve had my side view mirror taken off by one of these monsters loaded to the hilt with timber. The butt end of one of the poorly stacked trees sticking off the back smashed the mirror as I came up to pass-it was a miracle the tree didn’t come right through my windshield. It was either lose the mirror or go flying off the road as there is no shoulder-just a two foot drop-off where the dirt had washed away.

If truck passing wasn’t danger enough, I am constantly threatened by one of the infamous minibuses. These 15 passenger Toyota vans are the public transportation of Malawi. The drivers are paid a ridiculously low wage, so they supplement their income by picking up more passengers than expected. The way to accomplish this is by driving like bats out of hell. These maniacs come barreling along at dangerously high speeds with horns blaring and suddenly stop for either a pickup or drop off. They dart out into traffic with no hesitation or warning. If you beep in indignation they just glare at you and pull away.

While dodging trucks and minibuses is bad enough, the biggest hazards are often the bike riders. Very few Malawians can afford cars, so they have learned to carry a stunning array of objects on bikes: huge bags of charcoal, building materials, live chickens, and parcels of tobacco just to name a few. With these ungainly loads, they weave along the road like a drunk, waiting until the last possible second to get out of the way as my horn blares warning them that I have nowhere to go as a minibus is barreling down on me from the other direction.

Of course there are the hundreds of pedestrians who generally stay out of the way, but you have to be careful especially when passing through the villages that are built right along the road. The people are often mixed in with various less predictable animals-goats, cows, chickens and the like. Throw in the occasional monsoon-like downpour, blinding sun, or dense fog bank, and you have the recipe for disaster. Every year there are hundreds of accidents and dozens of deaths on the Zomba road. It is like a crazy video game as I weave and dart in and out of traffic, potholes and pedestrians. The only difference is if I make a mistake there is no reset button.

This road has become for me the metaphor for life in Malawi. Each person in this poverty ridden country lives a life that is tenuous and fraught with danger. Death lurks around each corner as disease and illness ravage children and adults. There are hundreds of potholes and problems waiting to sideline the people here. Poor schools, lack of jobs, no money, and dangerous neighborhoods are just a few of the potential accidents waiting to claim victims. It is amazing that anyone arrives at a destination other than the many coffin shops that line the M3. People are blindsided everyday by malaria, HIV/AIDS and countless other problems. Corruption and stupidity by officials, leaders and pastors just add to the problems headed their way.

In a few months I get to go home and drive safely down the well paved, tree-lined road of my neighborhood. For the people here, there is no other route and no reset button.

Extreme Living

When we decided to come to Malawi, we knew we were coming to an impoverished country. Malawi is rated as one of the four poorest countries in the world. The minimum wage is less than a dollar a day. Unemployment stands at 60-80%. Many families cannot afford the small school fees to send their children to secondary school. HIV/AIDS is rampant. While the reality behind these disturbing facts is at times difficult to witness, we were somewhat prepared for these things. What we were not nearly as prepared for was the wealth in Malawi.

There is wealth of natural resources. Malawi is one of the most beautiful places we have ever been and is increasingly becoming a tourist destination. It has mountains, rivers, game parks and, most prominently, the lake. Lake Malawi, one of the largest lakes in the world, is magnificent. When there you might think you are at the NJ shore; waves slap the beach, sand clings to your feet, wind whips through your hair. You have to keep reminding yourself that this is fresh water. Mt. Mulange, the highest mountain in the country, has dramatic streams spilling out of the solid rock top, gushing down and forming waterfalls; cascading into deep, clear pools. Right now, as the rainy season has recently ended, everything is green and lush. There are flowers and trees in bloom everywhere. The animal life is incredible and wild. Hippos, elephants, zebras, antelope, warthogs, lions, hyenas and many more are abundant in the 6 different game parks spread around the country.

There is a wealth of generosity that is humbling. Even those with so little are willing to share from their meager resources. Friends and distant relatives will adopt orphans into their homes and lives. Everyone chips in to help the widow or widower and his/her family. We have groups from our church visit us each month who bring bags of rice, chickens (sometimes live), eggs and other provisions that we know has cost them much, yet they bring these gifts as a sign of respect and as a testimony to the generous nature of the people here.

There is a wealth of music. Everywhere we go we hear singing. Much of it is spiritual in nature, as Malawians are deeply religious. It is absolutely beautiful to be walking along and hearing voices harmonizing singing praise to God. Recently we were at a retreat center where there was a music camp for 40 orphaned children. The singing was luminous.

We are discovering both the treasures and the tragedy of this beautiful country; unexpected beauty and riches in the midst of poverty and death.

Poorest of the Poor Written by Terra H-N

It is my first time. My mom had been before. We get out of the car and children surround us right away wanting to carry our bags. I follow my mom down the dirt path. One little black girl slides her hand into my mom’s hand and walks along side her. On a mat outside the brick building a woman sits, yelling something in Chichewa. Next to her are a pair of crutches. Her one foot is turned inward. It looks like a knob on top of a staff. Her one leg has no muscle. She is obviously upset about something. I shake her hand and greet her in chichewa. “Muli Bwanji”, I say politely. No answer. Not even eye contact. I quickly move away from her and onto the next hand shake.

The building we go into {of course} is very run down. It is dark inside. The only table is missing half a leg, dust everywhere, and broken chairs. A couple of kids place some rocks under the leg to balance the table. It still wobbles. Lined against the wall, people sit on benches. Many women are scattered on the floor, nursing babies and holding children.

I had been curious to see an albino. I had heard my parents speak about them. I asked my mom to point one out to me when she saw one. I didn’t need her to do this. While I scanned the room, amidst all the black faces, I spotted several whiter than mine. Their faces pale, chalky white, their skin cracked and wrinkled from sun exposure. Even their hair is a yellowish color.

The plan for that afternoon was to give each family a bag of maize. The people that were supposed to deliver the maize didn’t show up so the club members didn’t get their maize. They were so disappointed. The people are hungry. The harvest has not come in yet. We’ll have to give it out next week.

First we sing a couple of songs and then the adults do knitting while I go with the children to do a craft. This week we’re making paper eggs and decorating them for an Easter party that we’re having next week. It is fun but the language barrier is always a problem. My mom and I sat with some older kids that speak very good English. Blessings, is 25 and Cecilia, is 16. They both come with siblings who have handicaps. Blessings carries his brother,Yosef, on his back to and from the club. My mom thinks that Yosef has muscular dystrophy. Cecilia’s brother can walk but with a crutch. There is something wrong with one of his legs. At one point Blessings asks my mom if he could become her son in law! Ahhhhhhh....bad news for me! Luckily my mom just laughs and says, “NO!”. One little girl that I was introduced to is about 4 or 5. She was 3 years old when a truck hit her and she had to get both of her legs amputated! It is so sad and now she has two fake legs. Since in this culture men think they’re more important than woman, when the truck driver hit the little girl he didn’t even stop, he just kept going. He didn’t help pay any of the hospital bills or anything.

These are the poorest of the poor in Africa. They are the handicapped and disabled. If they have a disability, their families are too poor to help them. They can’t afford eyeglasses, braces or wheelchairs. The government offers them no money or assistance. Many people with handicaps are treated like outcasts. They have terrible unwanted social stigmas attached to them simply because of the way they were born. Some people in the USA consider the disabled unlucky or unfortunate, but when my mom and I went to this program for the disabled and handicapped I came home saying that the disabled and handicapped in America are so lucky and fortunate compared to these people. If something was wrong with a child in America they would be helped and treated right away and would get attention and care from many people. The people with handicaps in Malawi are alienated, ostracized, and looked down upon. Yet despite the way they look I found these people humble, brave, and gentle.