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.