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.