Cleaning While Inheriting Eternal Life

Neighbors gathered outside the house. Everyone was waiting to see. Women chattered and clucked in chichewa as they tried to catch a glimpse. Inside, Lucy chuckled and translated as we listened to the voices float in and mix with the dust and cobwebs. “The old woman is telling her neighbors, ‘I keep telling you to come with me to Bible study. Now look how the Lord has blessed me.” Villagers continued to gather to see what the commotion was all about. “Yesterday I sold only two bags of charcoal. I asked God, ‘How am I going to feed myself? How are you going to care for me?’ See how God has answered my prays. Let us remember to get down on our knees before we go begging.” Quiet smiles lined our faces as we listened to the chatter outside while inside we knocked down spider webs and sprinkled the floor with water to keep down the dust as we swept. I carried a bucket full with dirt, broken pieces of brick and bits of charcoal outside. The chatter stopped as they starred unbelievingly at the white woman working at an old black lady’s house. Drips of sweat streaked by face. I smiled at the crowd. All the women began talking at once. I emptied the bucket, waved and walked back inside.

For several weeks Lucy and I had been trying to arrange a date where we could go together to clean Agogo’s house (grandmother). Agogo is one of the widows who regularly joins us for the Widows’ Bible Study that meets on Monday mornings in the slum area of Chinupule. She is nearly 90, she thinks. She lives with her retarded son. All her other children have died. Her grandchildren live too far away. So, she cares for herself and her son, selling little bags of charcoal to local villagers to “make some business”.

There was not a piece of furniture in the house, only a few buckets of water for cooking and bathing, a bamboo matt and a torn blanket. On a pile of broken bricks and stones next to her bed lay a few torn peices of clothing. That is the extent of her belongings.

I grabbed the tub of water we had brought with us to clean. I emptied it into a bucket to finish mopping. “Look,” one of the neighbors cried, “She lifts like we do. She is strong like us”. Lucy laughed as she translated for me. I flexed a muscle and flashed a grin at them as I grabbed the bucket and disappeared back inside. They howled with laughter.

I found myself being grateful once again for lessons learned during childhood. My mother and father were both hard workers and always left a job well done. Never did I think though, that I would have the eyes of world (at least that's how it felt) watching me as I cleaned someone’s shack, someone's home. Its the little things you do that speak so loud to people.

We sat on the ground outside her house with a few of the remaining neighbors and some of our familiar friends from Bible Study who heard we were in town. Lucy brought her Bible and so we shared scripture, sang songs and then she asked me to give a closing message. I remembered the time the lawyer asked Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” To love the Lord your God with all you heart, mind, strength and soul and to love your neighbor as yourself. I understand now why Jesus tells us that it is in doing this that we will inherit eternal life. The commandment is followed with the parable of the good Samaritan. When we love our neighbor and serve them as we would serve ourselves, we ironically become the broken man who is picked up by the side of the road and healed. It is in serving the least of these that we ourselves become served. never have I found cleaning so satisfying! For today, I inherited a bit of eternal life.

A Night in the Village

My Hostess
and
Her Family

I was anxious. I was scared. I kept telling myself that I had survived 30 hour fasts, having no food, no shelter, sleeping outside in freezing weather, surrounded by 30 teenagers; certainly I could certainly survive this. What was I afraid of? Well, for one -Cockroaches. I hate those things and I was afraid of one crawling on me during the night. That was definitely one fear! The other fears were much more subtle, sometimes silly thoughts. You know the way your mind can wander and play with you before you enter the unknown. “What if they grab me and try to circumcise me.” Female circumcision is real here.

Stephen and I had asked the “chairman” (the man spearheading the committee of villagers who are working with us on the development project in Sakata) if he could find two homes, one for each of us, to stay in for a weekend to try to understand a little more fully what life is like in the village. I took Janet with me as a translator. Stephen relied on the gift of tongues. Unfortunately God never granted him this gift. Fortunately, God did grant him with a host who speaks English very well.

The first night there, my first fear was realized and a second fear introduced. We arrived at the home of our host after dark. She greeted us with a paraffin lantern in hand. Few words were exchanged. The car's tail lights disappeared down the dusty road and darkness enveloped us. Lifting up the lantern, she took me by the hand and led Janet and me into the house. We wound our way between large bags of maize stored in the main room and then she stood at the threshold of another room. This was to be my bedroom for the next two nights. There was nothing in the room. Only a bamboo mat on the floor. No simple bed, no foam mattress, no blankets, nothing! We slid off our shoes and walked across the mat. We placed our small suitcases in a corner of the room and then asked if I could use the toilet before going to sleep. It was clear that everyone was already asleep and that she had no intention of visiting or chatting. Holding the lantern out in front of her, she quickly walked through the house. I stumbled and tripped as I tried to keep up with her. She led us outside the house, through a narrow corridor between darkened buildings, and opened a thin metal sheet door to exit out to the pit-latrine. I could barely see anything. She placed the lantern on the step into the out-house. I could make out a small dark hole in the ground and knew where I had to aim. The curtain blew in with a light breeze. There was no moon. The stars were in abundance.
After being escorted back to the bedroom, we laid down on the mat. Our hostess said goodnight and dropped the thin curtain dividing our room from the rest of the house. As she walked away, she said something in chichewa that I did not understand. Through the pitch black, Janet translated. “She said that if we hear noises during the night, do not be afraid. It’s just the rats.”
Nearby drums celebrated late into the night. I lay on my mat for hours listening. Finally I found sleep. Suddenly something was crawling up my leg. I quickly brushed it off with my foot and pounded the floor with my feet to scare away anything that might be down there. In the morning, I found a big brown cockroach dead, at the bottom of my bamboo matt.
But, I am happy to report that I am still intact and have not been circumcised!

In the village, you can have no agenda. Time slows to a crawl. People walk everywhere. A few have bicycles. There is no electricity. All cooking is done with firewood, pots balance on rocks over a fire. There is no running water. All water is collected by the women at the well. I was awakened before sunrise by women’s voices passing by outside. They were all going in the cool of the day to carry water home to their families. I quickly jumped out of bed. I did not want to miss anything! After using the pit-latrine, my host handed me a bucket. We carried the buckets in our hands to the bore-hole and balanced them on our heads as we walked back home. Any work I did was met with much approval. They think azungus do no work, at least not physical labor. And compared to these people, I am soft. Their bare hands lift boiling hot pots off the fire without a flinch. Small children carry neck-breaking loads on their heads. The children and teachers have a 30 minute walk to school where class sizes are over 80 children. They go with a hoe to the fields to harvest the cassava they will eat for breakfast that morning. They pound the maize in a huge mortar and pistil to make nsima (corn flour made into a pasty patty) for lunch and dinner.

Meal times are simple. We sit on the periphery of a mat outside in the shade. The food is placed in the center. We pass common bowls filled with fish, pumpkin leaf relish and nsima. There are no utensils. We eat with our fingers. They laugh at our clumsy ways. A common cup is passed for drinking as chickens peck the ground around us, hoping for a grain of dropped.

The afternoon is hot! We sit in the shade and trade stories. They want to know how far Americans have to walk to the nearest bore-hole (well). They want to know what we think about the possibility of a black president. They want to know what kind of problems we face. They laugh freely and easily make fun of us. We always have an audience of curious children who have heard that there are azungus in the village.

That night before retiring to my mat, I ask for a story. The son-in-law tells an old folk tale as the light of the lantern flickers from face to face. I sit and relish the moment. Life in the village is simple and unpredictable. the fields need to be hoes and planted yet you do not know how much you will be able to harvest this season. You know when you are going to run out of food but not how you will provide until the next harvest. Your children were plentiful and helpful but you never expected 5 of the 7 to die. Your children lived right next door to you but you never thought you would be raising 7 grandchildren at the age of “at least over 70”. Life in the village is hard!

Yet, there is a beauty and peace beyond words that these people possess. They have riches some of us have somewhere lost. Their families are strong and devoted to one another. The slow pace of life affords them time to laugh, sing and dance. The stresses of the "developed" world are not felt here. The worries they have are of life and death! Life is very fragile.
The challenge for all of us as we enter into this partnership with Sakata will be how to preserve the simplicity and harmony of living while trying to ease the pain of poverty.

The Business of Molding Bricks

Molding bricks is dirty business. Take off your shoes, roll up your pants and sleeves, and step into the mud pit. With bare hands sling fistfuls of mud into the simple wooden molds, packing it in with your fists. Then carry the mold to dry ground, turn it over and slowly pull it off the newly formed brick. After repeating this dozens of time you are coated in mud up to your knees and elbows, as well as having mud splattered over your face and everywhere else.
Molding bricks is vital business. Virtually every hut in Malawi is made from hand-made mud bricks molded and fired by the local villagers. No bricks-no homes.
Molding bricks is family business. There is something about working alongside others in a mud pit that transforms strangers into brothers and sisters. You simply cannot help but love one another when you are covered with mud, singing hymns, and making the bricks that will become a preschool and clinic for orphans and vulnerable children. We laughed and even danced together at times in the pit-mixing the mud, and sharing our lives.
Molding bricks is really about molding lives. As the strangers from New Jersey worked alongside the villagers of Sakata, more was being formed than simple mud bricks. Lives were being changed, friendships made, the foundation of an enduring relationship between villages was beginning. We were forming a partnership with people who in so many ways couldn’t be more different. But when you work in a mud pit, after a while, everyone looks the same.
The team from New Jersey were, for some of the villagers, the first “azungu” (white people), they ever saw. For all of the villagers we were the first azungus they ever saw molding bricks. As we worked together under the African sun, we sensed that we were really the ones being molded and shaped by the unseen hands of the One who creates family from strangers, community from chaos and hope from despair.
In a few months the bricks we molded will be part of a simple building for the youngest villagers to come and receive basic medical care and preschool instruction. It will be the focal point of our future work in these 14 villages. We only helped to mold a few of the 150,000 bricks needed to construct the building. But in the few days we worked together, so much more was made than mud bricks. The team from Allentown, and the villagers of Sakata were molded into a new kind of community-the kind that comes from the dirty, glorious business of molding bricks.

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.

The Rich Young Ruler: Luke 18:18-23

The truck swerves into the BP petrol station. Children dressed in torn, dirty rags suddenly surround the truck, two or three at each window. Their little black faces smeared with dirt and snot. They hold out small weather beaten hands, begging for anything we might have to spare. We have learned to keep the truck stocked for moments such as these. I reach into the glove compartment and pull out small bags of Malawian peanuts, one bag for each child, as well as handing them a few coins, spare change we keep on the dash board. Some say that giving to the beggars only encourages them.

Liz takes the girls to the market. As soon as they step out of the car, 12 teenage boys crowd around “Madame”, bombarding her, “Please Madame, hire me.” “Madame, I was here first.” “Madame, I need money, please, take me.” Each boy desperately begging to be hired. They want to carry her baskets of produce through the market as she shops. She has to choose one. She begins to sweat.
The market is a huge open-air arena under a metal roof. People come to sell their fruits and vegetables. Pineapples lay stacked on tables next to lemons and avocados. A woman sits on the dirt floor with her blanket spread open, onions and green beans neatly stacked in piles upon the blanket. Liz, Terra and Jordan are the only white people in the market. The merchants know she has more money than any of them could ever dream of. They jack up the prices for the white woman. It is constant negotiating until an agreed price can be found. She learns to be bold. Just a face will bring down the price.
She returns to the parking lot and finds the truck being washed by an aggressive entrepreneur. She smiles and sighs as she realizes another fee before going home.

Stephen sits in his small office at Zomba Theological College, trying to prepare for tomorrow's classes. He is overwhelmed with work! Three different classes, three days a week, each class demanding an hour’s worth of material. He has just finished teaching and settling into study and prep time when there is a knock on his door. A man humbly shuffles in, giving quick little bows as he introduces himself as a friend of a friend and his brother just died and he has no money for the children for whom he must now assume responsibility and does the good white brother have some money he can donate to him. No sooner does he leave and there is a knock on the office door again. A man carrying two burlap sacks confidently strides into the office. Out of the sacks emerge wooden, hand carved curios. He begins to display wooden sculptures on the floor for the good Reverend to buy. No sooner does he leave and a third knock interrupts the exhausted abusa (pastor). The seminary secretary says there is a man to see Stephen who was a friend of one of our friends. Stephen looks down the hall and sees it is another...con artist? beggar? person who wants to feed their family?

Liz heads back home after walking Jordan to her private school. A man signals to her. He moves to stand between her and the gate to the house. He makes strange guttural sounds as he hands her a piece of paper with a type written message. It explains that he is partially deaf and trying to purchase hearing aids. Below is a signature sheet listing names who have already contributed. He holds out a hand asking.

Patrick approaches the American family for whom he works. Patrick lives with his wife and two children, his wife’s brother, who is currently unemployed, and another friend who is currently out of work as well. Patrick explains that he is also supporting his sister’s four children. Her husband is dead and so Patrick must help her out. His sister has just telephoned him to say that her daughters were sent home from school today because she has not paid the school fees. Could he help her? Could we help him? The cost for the four girls is k12,000. This equals about $85.00. It must be paid every trimester.

Every day we face many decisions. It is a way of life here. Who is the con artist, where is there legitimate need? How do we best use our resources? What’s the rich ruler to do?

Did You See That?

Written by Jordan Heinzel-Nelson
February 27 2008

12:00
We are all super excited! Why? Were going on a safari! I can’t wait. It’s a 2 hour drive, and I hate the car but I’m too excited to care.
2:00
When we arrive we go on a boat ride out to the park. On the way we see a gigantic Crocodile, and a bunch of hippos who think they are sneaky because only their pink ears are showing above the water.
3:00
When we arrive on land we are taken to our house where we are staying and get settled, then quickly get into a car for our first animal watch. The car is an army truck. It is huge. Monkeys roam freely. We watch one scamper up a tree. Then we drive into a beautiful lush green open land were there are plenty of birds, Bushbaby, Waterbuck and Impala, all types of antelope. The Impala have black butts. The Waterbuck have a white ring around their butts used for when they scatter at night when danger is around and can see each other easily to get back into their herd. Then we go into a forest with trees called Butterfly trees, in English that is. It’s really another name in some African language that means Butterfly Tree. Then we saw a few hippos on land that are huge. Right after that we see two elephants. The tour guide told us they eat eighteen hours of the day. Amazing! The only thing is, they weren’t as big as I thought they would be but they were still cool. Then we saw some more Warthogs. One snorted as if about to charge the truck then turned, shot its tail in the air and ran off. Then we stopped and had a drink while the sun set. When we left it was dark and so a man sat on the front of the army truck with a flash light. I wanted to see a Hyena but I didn’t. We saw practically no nocturnal animals but some birds.
7:30
When we arrived back at the house we had a dinner buffet. All I know is, it was good. Then we went back to our Chalet to sleep.


February 28 2008
1:00A.M
A snorting, munching sound drifts into Mom and Dad’s room. Hippos! Mom and Dad snuck outside just to see two huge shadows run quickly into the water. Hippos are very shy animals. Meanwhile Terra and I are sleeping soundly.
7:30
Later that morning, when we wake up we go for a quick dip in the pool before breakfast. The pool water is still warm from the burning sun the day before.
8:30
After breakfast we get in the army truck and drive off to see more animals, but it doesn’t look like we’ll see much. Only birds and warthogs.
9:00
Then we go to switch into a boat that takes us along the Shire River. We see so many Hippos. So many they soon get boring. Then we spot an elephant flapping it’s ears to keep cool. We make sure to get a picture. It was the coolest thing I had seen yet. Then we turn around to go back. On the way back we see three HUGE giant lizards crawling around. Then we go back because we have to leave.
1:00
We go to our chalet and pack after a nice swim. We go have lunch, then put our stuff on the boat and go back to are car. On our way back I feel the boat slow down to a stop and there sitting on the bank is a crocodile. It’s mouth is wide open. They say that keeps them cool. It was an awesome sight. Then it quickly runs into the water. Then we see another crocodile behind it. We have to keep going but it was so awesome.


I had so much fun! I know we will experience more animals so I will not worry that I did not see a lion. I can’t wait to show Jem and Clay the amazing wildlife of Africa.

Mbayani - Part 2

February 20, 2008

After the children’s program concluded, our hosts took us down “Main Street Mbayani”. A filmy water flowed down the crevices of the dirt road. The air had an oder of sewer. I wished we had worn sneakers. We were all in sandals. We were accompanied by adult committee members, a small entourage of kids who were very interested in Terra and Jordan, and others who were just curious. We walked past lean-tos selling plastic knick-knacks, cell phone batteries; mostly stuff that we could not imagine anyone needing or buying. How do these people survive? One of the committee members said he was a carpenter. He made tables and chairs. “Like Jesus?” I asked. “Yes, like Jesus!” We both smiled and laughed.

We turned down a path that led to a tiny house. Sitting on the ground outside of the door was an old thin woman. Her eyes were red and puffy from infection. Her face was hollow. Dirty feet protruded from under her ragged skirt. Our hosts introduced her. She was the mother of five children. Her children were dead; all five dead. She was responsible for raising six grandchildren ranging from age 8 to 17. A couple of her grandsons were there. We were invited to ask her anything we wanted. Liz looked at me and I looked at Liz. It was extremely awkward. What do you say to someone who has experienced suffering beyond anything we could ever imagine? The silence hung in the air like pestilence. We asked her to tell us about herself, and she deferred to our hosts-she said she didn’t like to talk in front of others. We asked the grandsons what they did. “Piece-work.” (odd jobs.) “What did she need?” “Food.” More awkward silence. Our hosts encouraged us to go into her home. It was a two room mud brick hovel. No windows, no water, no electricity. It took a while for our eyes to adjust to the dark. The grandmother slept in the outer room which was a small space with a blanket on the floor and a small wood stove in the other corner. The back room was the bedroom for the grandchildren. It was about the size of a large closet with one bed. A few filthy clothes were strewn around. It was difficult to imagine anyone living there. We came back out and were asked to say something. Liz thanked her for sharing her story with us and I said a prayer. We looked once more into those empty red eyes, and left.

We walked up a steep bank where a filthy stream flowed down behind hut after hut. We stopped in a building where they grind up the maize (corn) to make flour for nsima, the national food that keeps the people of Malawi alive. Nsima is maize flour mixed with water into a white paste that people eat with their fingers. It has very little taste, and is usually mixed with whatever else is on your plate-if you have anything else. Then we came to our second stop.

A young emaciated woman sat outside of an even smaller hut. She had a baby in her lap-maybe 10 months old. The baby was her niece. She smiled when she saw us coming. Her face lit up. She was waiting for us.
She is “positive.” Her husband died from AIDS several years ago. She was being kept alive by ARV’s (anti retro viral drugs-the “cocktail” of AIDS medication, recently provided for free by the government.) She talked openly about her feelings. We asked her if she was afraid, and she said no, not since she was on the medication. We asked her how the coummunity responded after finding out she was positive. She said that people had been very caring. The people from the committee would come to her house and help her clean, and take care of things. She also allowed us to see her house-a place she rents for K700/month (about $5). It was tiny mud hut with two rooms, again no windows, pitch black inside. We lit a candle. The house was kept very neat.

Liz asked her if she was a Christian. Yes. Could Liz pray with her? Yes. Liz touched her arm and prayed. It was a beautiful moment. Two woman who could not be more different-one a mother-healthy, white, rich, married- reaching across the huge gulf to an impoverished, dark, dying widow and connecting in the name of Jesus who came to break down the walls and barriers that keep us from becoming one. We left with a feeling that we had spent a few minutes on holy ground.

Throughout this amazing afternoon, we wondered why were here, and why our presence meant so much to these people. We were told, “You bring them hope. You are showing them that someone on the outside cares.”

Mbayani- Part 1 (a must-see visit for APC’s mission team)

We struggle to describe our experience at Mbayani-a semi-urban village of Blantyre. What we saw there will haunt us, and strengthen us for the rest of our time here-maybe for the rest of our lives.
While the experience of living in Malawi has been very challenging, it has not been as extreme as we had expected. We live in a comfortable house. The girls go to private schools with other privileged kids. We live in Blantyre, a city with shops, banks, streets and sidewalks. We drive a car. While what we have experienced is a far cry from anything we have experienced in the US, much is familiar.

Then we went to Mbayani.
This village is located just a few miles outside of Blantyre-it only took 5-10 minutes to get there, but it felt like another world. Just getting there was harrowing as we drove up a “road” that can best be described as a deeply rutted path-and we mean deep. It was obvious that few vehicles ever travel this road; at times we wondered if our pick up truck would get over the gullies or if we would get stuck or bottom out as the suspension struggled to keep all four wheels on the ground at the same time.
As we entered the outskirts of the village a little boy dressed in tattered clothes pointed and yelled “Azungu, Azungu!” (White man) Others stared at us and began to follow us. One little fellow was totally naked. The street was lined with wooden framed lean-to shops and littered with refuse. People stared at us from these dilapidated structures. As we looked to the side we could see rows and rows of little mud-brick huts - homes.

Suddenly, we heard the sounds of drums and voices singing. The truck we were following with our hosts from the CCAP Development Project, pulled over and the clapping and singing grew louder. Sewa, our hostess, called over the din “They’ve been expecting you!” Children began to stream up to the car from every direction-dozens of kids of all ages. Their excited faces and hands reached out to us as we tried to get out, all the while singing and clapping some kind of welcome song. They had obviously been awaiting our arrival -we suspect an event that simply doesn’t happen here very often.

The adults who comprise the local village committee were so proud to show off their program. We sat in the few rickety chairs they had-thrones for their royal guests- in a small clearing as hundreds of children gathered round on the weeds. We were deeply honored. Different groups took turns sharing their gifts. One group of boys did gymnastics and “kung fu” excercises--back hand springs, diving through rings and building human pyramids by standing on each other’s shoulders. Girls performed traditional dances. Kids recited memorized poetry and Bible verses. They showed us their homemade swing set--tire treads hanging from a piece of wood suspended between two trees. Even though there were hundreds of kids waiting their turn, the local leaders insisted that Jordan and Terra go first and give it a try.

This children’s program is their way of combating the horrible sense of hopelessness that pervades these villages as an entire generation of Malawians has been devastated by extreme poverty and the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Many of these kids are coming from homes with no parents. They live with grandparents, aunts and uncles or are being raised by other children. Where there used to be a few orphans who were easily absorbed into the large family systems of Malawi, now there are hundreds. The communities are stepping up to care in new and creative ways and these people wanted to show us their work. It was deeply moving.
After and hour or so of the program, followed by the mandatory speeches by everyone, they took us on a tour to see a couple of homes. What we saw was so disturbing… (to be continued.)

Our Loss

We shed many tears Friday February 1. For unknown reasons, two baby rabbits we had given to Jordan and Terra to celebrate Jordan’s birthday, died. The girls had been begging us to get them each a rabbit. They don’t have pet stores here. No one, except ex-patriots have “pets.” But along the roadsides you will pass young boys, holding their arms up to passing cars, and in each hand they display a baby animal of some kind: kittens, puppies, bunnies. So, the day before Jordan’s birthday, while she was over at a friend’s house, we stopped by the side of the road and Terra picked out two flea bitten little bunnies. We took them to a vet, she dusted them with flea powder and they were good to go.

The girls grabbed the Chichewa-English dictionary. Jordan named her bunny Kalulu (rabbit) and Terra named her bunny Patapata (slippers) because her rabbit had extra fur around his toes. We all fell in love with these rabbits. Amidst all the stress of life here, these two little creatures brought us so much joy. The girls fed them before leaving for school and immediately coming home from school. The rabbits quickly learned that when they heard the girls coming, it meant feeding time. They would stand on hind legs, reaching up on their cage with their front paws, begging to be picked up and fed. Then the girls would release them in the yard and they would dart around on the grass, stop for an occasional nibble and then run again, sometimes leaping through the air. We laughed, catching them when they strayed too far.

The rabbits were thriving under the care of the girls. Their tummies were filling out, their fur was shiny and fluffy. We had them for less than a week. On Friday morning, Jordan and I went out to feed them before leaving for school. They huddled in a corner of their cage. Strange. We tickled their noses with a cabbage leaf. No interest. Uh-oh. Bad sign. I walked Jordan to school and immediately came home to doctor them. They had no energy, no life in them. Something was seriously wrong. We took them back to the vet but there was nothing she could do. By noon they were dead.

The girls took it very hard, as most children do with the loss of a pet. This was the first time the girls had to deal with a significant death that they could remember. They both handled it completely different. Jordan wanted to go out and see their bodies. She kept returning to the box in which their corpses lay. I would see her outside, standing in their empty cage, audibly crying. She helped Stephen make a cross for their grave site and she was very indignant when Stephen dug the burial hole next to the compost pile. “Can’t we show some respect! Next to the dump!” Terra on the other hand, refused to look at them, wanted to be by herself, slammed her bedroom door and quietly cried into her pillow. Yet, in an hour she had worked through much of the emotion and when she and Stephen ran errands, she wanted to talk and hear about the saddest death Stephen had ever experienced.

This inexplicable, untimely death gave us the opportunity to talk with the girls about death and loss. We reflected with them on how the people of Malawi and most of Africa are suffering from death of parents, the death of a child and the loss of uncles and aunts and cousins. It did not make their pain any less, but it did create a moment to connect, sympathize and feel compassionate toward our brothers and sisters.

Our First Visitors

Posted February 5, 2008
Written by Stephen

Sunday, January 27th, was Jordan’s 10th birthday, and also the day we hosted our first visitors. We were told a few days earlier to expect a visit from “a few” members of one of the house cottages of St. Columba Church where Stephen serves as the associate pastor. St. Columba is one of the largest congregations in Malawi with over 10,000 members. Each member is assigned to a cottage-a geographic group of church members who meet each week at a home to pray and support each other-like our home churches. There are 13 different cottages-some of them are huge in number. On the last Sunday of each month, one of the cottages is assigned to visit the manse (pronounced man-say) of the “abusa” (pastor).
The cottage assigned to visit us was the Mt. Pleasant/Sunnyside/ cottage. It is one of the smaller cottages with only 150 families. At church that morning Stephen was approached by one of the elders who said he had been assigned to accompany the cottage on the visit. When asked how many would be coming, he said about 12-15 and that they would stay for about 45 minutes.
At 1:30 the cell phone rang and we were told the cottage had arrived. The gates of the fence leading into our yard swung open, and cars began pulling in. There was a line of traffic coming up our little lane. They parked all over our lawn (it made us feel right at home), and they began filing into our house singing as they came. It was an exciting and joyful gathering. There were about 30 all together. Since we only have about 12 chairs in the whole house, the women spread their colorful wraps and sat on the floor. We were handed a typed program that included singing, prayers, scripture reading and preaching. There was also time for gifts and “speeches.”
The visit began with formal introductions all around. We proceeded to sing a hymn. their voices filled the room with natural harmonies as we sang, "What a Friend We Have In Jesus”. We then moved into the rest of the worship service. Members of the cottage led all the parts, and a woman preached a sermonette -a short message of only about 15 minutes (short relative to Malawian standards). Then it was time for the gifts. The entire group got up and walked out to their cars and came back in singing, clapping and swaying hips. They had with them baskets of food overflowing with fresh vegetables and other groceries. There were chickens (prepared for cooking-not live), milk, soap and rice. Pasta, sauce, salt and flour. A woman got up and read off each and every item and how much everything cost, and then they gave us an envelope with another 5000 Kwacha (about $35). We were overwhelmed. This was a huge gift! Evidently this is the church’s way of supporting the pastors, since pastoral salaries here, like most salaries, is paltry.
We gave our speeches-first Liz (mi-abusa), and then Stephen (abusa). We were nearly in tears as we felt so honored by this heart-felt outpouring of love and support.
Since it was Jordan’s birthday, we had a birthday cake and brought it out to share. As we did this, the cottage disappeared outside again and came back in with crates of soft-drinks, all kinds of foods, muffins, chicken etc. They told us they are a “traveling kitchen.” Everyone stayed for fellowship for another hour or so, before all was packed up and the entourage drove out of the yard with waves, smiles and beeps.
Perhaps we should adopt this tradition at APC. Jenna, get ready.

Liz Visits With the Villagers

Feb. 1, 2008
I have been invited to go to the villages to glimpse the work of the Presbyterian church. The Blantyre Synod works with 11 surrounding villages within the 5 townships that comprise the southern part of Malawi. The work done by the church is intended to serve the most vulnerable; orphans and child-headed households, and chronically ill (parents or guardians dying from AIDS). The Synod has built a grassroots structure, working with a committee of leaders from each village: the village chief and other natural community leaders. The village leaders identify the most vulnerable in their communities, assess their needs and determine with the Synod, the best strategies to meet those needs.

The early morning has been drenched with heavy rains. We close our umbrellas and scramble into the two seater cab of a pick up truck. Sewa Phokosa, the Synod’s Program Manager for OFIC, Orphan Families in Crisis, has organized a tour for me to see the work of her program. Sewa speaks English well. She is responsible for overseeing the program, writing reports and updates to donors and managing two other staff members. Rodgers is also with us. He works with OFIC on the ground floor. He is in the fields, contacting community leaders, trouble shooting and ensuring that programs are running well.

The first stop is a preschool. Usually they have 40 or more children in attendance but because of the heavy rains, many of the children have not come today. The children and 4 teachers from the village gather in a small concrete building. The building is cold and stark. There are no toys, no furniture, no crayons, not a scrap of paper in sight. There are a few worn and torn books, in English, in one corner of the room given by a “well-wisher.” Thirteen children sit quietly on the cold cement slab as the 4 volunteer teachers greet me.

After introductions, one of the leaders says a prayer. Then the adults share their work with me. They speak Chichewa as Sewa translates. Story after story is told of the trauma these children have suffered from losing one or both parents. The teachers, all volunteers, tell me how the children will sometimes act out, withdrawing, not wanting to relate to anyone, sometimes refusing to eat. They describe the strategies they use to treat the “whole” child. It is not enough to feed and cloth the child. They are suffering spiritually and emotionally as well as physically. They talk about how they try to take the child’s mind off their problems when they come to school but that task is nearly impossible due to the suffering these small children have had to endure. Their little spirits are crushed. We are rushed to finish the conversation because we have other community leaders waiting to meet us at other sites.

As we drive into the next village, children turn and shout “azungu,” white person, as the pick-up drives past and we lock eyes. The truck stops at the entrance of a small home where three young men meet us. Each teenage man has received a scholarship from the Synod to apprentice with a tailor and now they await the arrival of their new sewing machines donated through OFIC. They rush into their homes and come back out with dresses, school uniforms, and other garments hung over their arms, items they have sewn. They are very proud and excited to show them off. I admire their work. There is much laughter and joking. After a bit, I ask them to tell me about their families. Suddenly, the conversation becomes solemn and serious. They lower their voices. Each of them is the head of a child-headed household. Their parents died maybe three, five, seven years ago. They are the eldest amongst the children and have had to assume parental responsibility. Each of the boys had to drop out of school because they did not have the money to continue secondary school (middle school and high school), for which the government does not pay. They speak of the new hope they have found through the Synod. They cling to their hopes and share a few of their dreams. Perhaps the three of them will open up a tailor business in town. Maybe they will teach other teens how to sew. Again there is laughter.

Sewa has arranged for me to tour the home of one of the young tailors. This man lives with 3 other siblings, the oldest sister nurses her baby as we enter. The home is nothing more than one small cement room, divided by a curtain. No electricity, no running water. They show me their bathing area outside, tarps of plastic sewn together to make a curtain so the one sponging may have some privacy. The toilet is a hole in the ground. Everything is a neat as a pin. Any spot of open land grows maize.

We hop in the pickup and are off to observe a training given by one of the Synod staff and a government social worker. These men stand before a group of over 30 men and women of all ages. These are villager leaders who are on the sub-committees directed to oversee the villages care of the orphans and vulnerable children. They are in the middle of an exercise, making a “memory blanket.” Each participant is invited to draw or write a memory on a piece of paper, a memory of a gift they received from a loved one who died when they were a child. They are invited to share their memory. Tears flow as they tell their stories. The gift of perseverance, the gift of sewing and cooking, the gift of hospitality...Some silence is offered. Then the leader encourages them to do this same exercise at home with the orphans, to give the children opportunities to remember and talk about whom they miss.

The rains begin again. Heavy! The truck fights its way over the rutted dirt roads to make it to one final destination. The bridge into the village is flooded. We cannot pass through. Nevertheless, Sewa and Rodgers want to show me a project the villagers are managing. We turn and head up a steep hill. Before us is a huge field of maize, lush and green. The village chief has given this land to grow maize for the orphans and most vulnerable in his village so that they will not go hungry this year. Rodgers holds an umbrella as we stand on the hill and survey the crops. Suddenly, way beyond, in the fields below, we see a man waving to us, weaving his way through the maize. He is one of the community leaders who is waiting to meet us. Behind him come the rest of the committee, a large group of men and women, laughing, singing. The rain has subsided. When they catch up to is, we admire the crops, as the committee tells me of the hard work they do in the fields so the children do not go hungry. Surely they must have a plow or some type of machinery to work all this land. As my question is translated, they break into laughter and tell me their hands are their machines. Their white toothy smiles are brilliant against their black shiny skin. We all jump into the back of the pick-up for a photo and then we head for home.

This experience happened nearly two weeks ago. We find it takes us a while to process and articulate our experiences. Although the enormity of the problems are overwhelming, the sincerity, hope and love of these people is also overwhelming. “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome.” John 1:5

Zomba Theological College

January 30, 2008
Written by Stephen

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I travel to Zomba to teach New Testament at Zomba Theological College (ZTC). Zomba is a pretty, small town at the base of the Zomba Plateau, a mountain about one hour north of Blantyre. I travel there with others who live in Blantyre and work in Zomba. The road is poked with potholes and it is always nerve wracking dodging potholes, minibuses, pedestrians, bicycles, mudslides and other obstacles along the way. I leave at 6:30 and usually get home around 6, so it is a long day.
ZTC is the main theological school of the CCAP. It has a faculty of 10 and a student body of about 100 divided between 4 classes. The school year of three terms runs from January-October. I teach NT II (Paul’s letters and Hebrews) to the second year class of 18, and NT III (Johannine literature-the gospel of John, the letters of John and Revelation, and the letters of James, Peter and Jude) to the combined third and fourth year classes of about 60. I teach both classes each day making for a total of 6 one-hour classes each week. It is a huge amount of material to cover in depth in a year. It is very demanding and I am working extremely hard to prepare for the classes and stay ahead.
The classrooms of ZTC are simple concrete rooms with old fashioned desks like you would find in an elementary school-the top lifts up and students keep their Bibles, notebooks and pencils in the desks. Each student has an assigned desk at which they sit each class. In the front of the room is a table with a podium and a blackboard. That’s it. The students have no textbooks. There is a decent library and a computer room for their use.
I am just beginning to get a feel for teaching in this context and it is difficult to judge how effective I am. The students tend to be pretty quiet and I feel like I have to work hard to draw them into discussions. I often find it difficult to understand their questions and sometimes have to ask them to repeat a question several times. If I’m having a difficult time with their accents, I’m sure they are also struggling with mine. As time goes on they're beginning to warm up to me, and even laugh at some of my jokes and comments. Occasionally I even get an “Amen!”
I am beginning to make friends with some of the other faculty members, all of whom are African pastors. I have lunch on Mondays and Wednesdays with Silas Ncozana, a fascinating pastor who courageously played a huge role in helping to peacefully end the dictatorship of Malawi in 1994. He is a terrific person who graduated from Princeton Seminary in 1981-the year before I began. I like to joke around with the school secretary-Violet. She’s not as talented nor laughs as much as Joan (does anyone?), but she is funny. I sense this will be a rich part of my time here.

Typical Day

At 5:00 a.m. the roosters begin to crow. They freely roam our yard and have no consideration for the sleeping. At 6:00, we are all up and getting ready for the day. This is a morning culture.

The public school system in Malawi is free for Malawian citizens up through 5th grade. It is poorly funded and does not offer a very good education. Therefore, many private schools dot the city with varying degrees of educational opportunity. St. Andrew’s International Secondary School, where Terra attends, is the best opportunity in the area. Terra’s school begins at 7:00am. We walk. It is a busy road to St. Andrew’s. Many people are walking and driving, with a few bike riders. We turn right onto the road that leads down to Terra’s school. It is narrow, with two way traffic. Many shiny SUV’s hog the road in and out of the private school. They have no courtesy for pedestrians. I have jumped off the side of the road several times to avoid being hit by a side view mirror.

Jordan’s school is right across the street from our back yard and so we walk her through the gate and into the courtyard of Phoenix Primary school. The children must wear the standard striped uniform. The children look adorable in their pin stripped dresses. Both girls are doing well academically.

The girls are adjusting socially as well. Both have made solid friendships with other girls from the UK and Malawi. They begin to feel more comfortable with our new life here in Malawi. Terra was invited to a Friday night “youth group” gathering. She noted that of course nobody is Mrs. Collins, nevertheless, she had a great time, playing games and hearing a Christian message.

The girls finish the school day at noon. Sometimes they come home for lunch and we go to Open Arms Orphanage to hold babies. Sometimes they stay after school for “activities” such as sports or “house” meetings (like in Harry Potter). While they are at school, Stephen is either teaching at Zomba Theological College or working on a sermon and I am trying to discover ways in which to be connected.

Patrick does the laundry by hand in a tub outside under the tree where there is a water spigot and clothesline. Laundry is usually a 3-4 day process. It typically does not hang on the lines too long before it begins to rain. I help Patrick quickly gather the clothes off the outside line and bring them in to hang on lines strung down our hallway. The clothes do not dry very well in the dark, damp hallway, so when the sun comes out, the clothes are moved back outside.

All laundry hung outside must be ironed. Putzi flies lay their eggs on damp patches of earth or clothes. And as Alexander Fuller describes in her book about growing up in Africa, “Unless the clothes are ironed, the larva will work their way into your skin, becoming maggots, bursting into living squirming boils, emerging as full-blown, winged flies.” Therefore, all clothes, sheets, and towels must be ironed to kill the eggs. That thought really grosses me out! We iron everything!

By sundown, all businesses close and people are home. We have been warned not to go out at night, to close our windows and curtains as soon as it is dark. There are gangs. And so by 6:30 we are all home, no night meetings, no sports activities, no youth groups. We have dinner together, sit around the table and listen to everyone’s stories of the day gone by. We wash and dry dishes, finish homework, practice violin, read and check e-mails. The pace of life is much slower than our life at home, harder in some ways, but simpler. The girls like our evenings. We enjoy being together. We all check the blog site continually and relish comments, encouraging words and prayers. Thank you to all of you!

Getting Around

January 22
Transportation is a big problem here. Cars are very expensive and gas costs about $7/gallon. The vast majority of people in Malawi walk. (There are only 7 cars for every 1000 people.) In the mornings there are hundreds and hundreds of people from every walk of life walking along the streets-kids dressed in school uniforms, woman in traditional costumes with babies on their backs, men in suits and ties, girls with large packages balanced on their heads. Since there are few sidewalks the people crowd the side of the streets making driving hazardous.
Some who can afford it have bicycles. They are often packed with huge bundles of charcoal, or other goods from the markets and being pushed up the hills. We’ve seen the handlebars of bikes lined with live chickens hanging upside down. Once we saw a goat riding in the back of a bike.
Public transportation is provided by the dreaded “minibus”. These 15 passenger Toyota vans are normally crammed with 25 or more. Most have cracked windshields and huge dents. The men who drive them have little regard for regulations or human life. They careen crazily through the streets or are speeding at break-neck speed along the roads beeping their horns and daring walkers not to jump out of the way. In fact, one of the babies who lives at Open Arms was orphaned when a minibus crashed, killing the mother and throwing the baby from the vehicle.
Many of the vehicles in Malawi are bombs. Trucks labor up even slight inclines belching smoke. Broken down vehicles are everywhere. Many cars look like the winner of the demolition derby-beat up and barely running. They have worn tires, huge dents and we wonder what keeps them going. There are of course many decent cars as well. We are shocked at some of the brand new SUV’s we see dropping kids off at the girls’ schools. Cars are so expensive to buy and maintain here, nice cars are for the few, not the many.
We bought an Izuzu pick up with two seats, sight unseen, before we came because we heard that it is very difficult to find reliable used cars in Malawi. We were told that this truck had been “well maintained”. Our first glance at our new vehicle made us wonder. The rear view mirror was held in place by a piece of string. The headliner (upholstery on the ceiling of the cab) was hanging limply. The emergency brake didn’t release. The tires were nearly worn out. It runs, and compared to many vehicles here, it is a dream. Sunday morning I went to go to church and discovered that we had a flat. I was able to get a ride. (no small feat since I was preaching at the 6:30 am service and discovered the flat at 5:45.) After church it took us more than an hour to change the tire since the jack only went up 8 inches forcing us to raise the car, and prop it up with bricks and then raise it another 8 inches until it was high enough to change. Monday it wouldn’t start and now the car is in the shop with a broken starter and leaking brake fluid. At least we got home safely from a long trip we took Saturday in the pouring rain. Just another typical experience of the challenge and the grace of our new life in Malawi.

Home Sweet Home

To get to our home you drive up a short driveway that is badly rutted and washed out. You come to the security fence and someone has to get out and reach through a small hole in the gate to open the latch. The house itself is a sturdy 4 bedroom 2 bath brick structure. It is beautiful on the outside with large trees and colorful plants all around. It has a covered carport connected to the front steps which is nice since it rains so much right now. Inside it is very simple. It has concrete walls and floors with chipped paint and cracked tiles everywhere. It is sparsely furnished. We have a few living room chairs, a bookshelf, a dining room table with 4 chairs and some bedroom furniture which the synod provided-that’s about it. The kitchen is small. We have a stove, sink, refrigerator and a microwave. There are no cabinets nor countertops. We wash all the dishes by hand. The power has gone out for part of three days in a row which makes us feel somewhat like pioneers- improvising meals, eating by candlelight, washing dishes by hand, and basically living very simply.

We sleep under mosquito nets suspended from the ceiling to avoid being bitten at night and contracting malaria. Sleeping under the nets can be a real hassle. Jumping out of bed at night, tangling with the net to try to reach the pot in time can be a mess! All of us have had to deal with vomiting or diareah since here.
The hot water for showers comes from a large suspended tank called a geyser. It only has a few gallons of hot water in it, so we get wet, turn off the water, shampoo and wash, turn back on the water to rinse, and then turn it off so the next person has enough hot water. No long leisurely hot showers.

Security is a huge issue and a major pain. Every time we either enter or leave the house we have to unlock many locks-the lock in the door, the two locks on the bars guarding the door, the lock on the front gate, etc. All the windows are barred and at night we were told to close all windows and draw the curtains. We have a key chain with no less than 12 keys for all the different locks to the house. Not only is everything locked, we have a “caretaker” who lives on the property who is the day guard, and two men who are in the backyard at night as night guards. This is common practice for virtually everyone who lives in a house here. All of this unlocking and locking makes even simple things like running an errand a major project.

Patrick lives in a house that is in our side yard with his wife, two children and two others who live with them. He works for us during the week-cleaning, doing little projects, washing laundry etc. This is common practice, and his income from working for us provides for him, the others who live with him and several other family members scattered around Malawi. He is a gentle soul. We feel we can trust him, and are grateful to have him. He worked for the family who lived here for the past eight years, and so he knows the house inside and out. It was three or four months between their departure and our arrival so when we arrived he was desperately waiting for us. I don’t know how they survived, but he did not want to leave since living in the house is a major perk of his job.