Just One Day

by

Cheri Roland

It’s not been a quiet week in Lake Woebegone, or at the Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary, for that matter. Everything here at the seminary is brand new. Doug and I feel like midwives helping to birth this new environment, curricula and policies. We are finding ourselves under the mind-blowing spell of the seminary’s president, Ross Oliver, one of God’s chosen visionaries. As we journey up and down this challenging path as the newest members of staff (pronounced “stahhff”), our trail continues to expand, encompassing obstacles, detours and interesting side excursions. And I was worried I would be bored!

The process of becoming an ordained minister in the Methodist Church of Southern Africa differs from our way in the States, and is quite confusing to these two foreigners. We discovered there is a category of probationary pastors who have been ministering part time, or even full time, but have not had the traditional three years at seminary; along with doing on-line academic courses, they must gather annually to attend two weeks of intensive training in order to eventually become ordained. Helping to construct this two week training period has become one of our more recent assignments. Currently Doug and I are privileged to be working with a group of 21 such probationers, here from all over the country to experience life at SMMS, the emerging center of Methodist training for the entire southern African continent.

On Tuesday I joined this prestigious group, traveling 40 minutes out to the township of Mpop in a very cosy van. This gave us all the opportunity to get acquainted. I was humbled by the talents and expertise represented. These folks, aged 33 to 60, are touting resumes that would make any employer’s mouth water, from business men with Harvard degrees to government officials to university lecturers to psychologists to social workers, teachers and retired policemen. Half of these ministers spent the day at Masibumbane HIV/AIDS Mission, which I shared with you in my previous blog; my group reported to the Ethembeni Mission, just a short way up the mountain.

“Ehtembeni” means “hope” in Zulu. And hope is what this dedicated group of Christians bring to their HIV/AIDS patients. This organization, headed by Grant Edkins, is the other half of the team responsible for the beautiful change taking place in the township of Mpop. And we are thrilled to report that Ethembeni will be another of the seminary’s partners in “forming transforming leaders for church and nation”.

Grant welcomed our group as we gathered under the tree in the yard in front of the small Hospice building, and talked about the aspects of the mission. This program has three legs: a Hospice unit, home health care visits, and the crèche/project unit attached to their tent church.

1. The four bed Hospice unit serves those who are so ill that they are unable to care for themselves and have no care givers at home. Roughly half of patients admitted here on death’s door end up able to return home in good health. Grant gives all the credit for this amazing success rate to the power of prayer, combined with good nutrition and ARVs (antiretroviral drugs) administration. Their patients are ministered to with the Gospel and prayer FOUR TIMES A DAY! And the results confound the doctors!
2. The team of trained home healthcare workers divide up the township’s patients, walking miles and miles (or kilometres upon kilometres) over steep mountain paths to bring scripture and prayer and comfort every Tuesday and Thursday. They also assess the needs in each household, as well as helping with cleaning, bathing and daily living tasks when need be. When a patient needs to be admitted to the unit, they send for the four wheel drive “ambulance”.
3. About 70 children from the township attend the crèche, where the staff cherish these little ones as if they were their own. They are feed, bathed, clothed, loved and nourished by the Gospel – all things missing at home. In the same building, those patients who are physically able are taught how to make crafts to sell, and staff and patients provide training on computers (courtesy of Coca Cola) and torturing for the school children.

After devotions conducted in several languages, with our prayers sounding like the Tower of Babel, we were split into teams to accompany the six home healthcare workers. Our groups left the sanctuary of the cooler shade and began our journeys, trudging up crude dirt and rock roads that became more rugged the higher we went. Each team was to visit eight patients; we would eat our packed lunches somewhere in route.

Hospitality is paramount among this culture. In every stick and mud walled home we visited, the mother would graciously invite us inside and insist we all sat, on benches or chairs brought from out buildings, or on mats on the dirt floors. One woman stayed on her hands and knees during our entire visit rather than letting a visitor stand.

Our visits followed a pattern. One of our Zulu speakers would always first introduce us (the children were especially fascinated, even scared, by the two white folks), and the family members were asked what their needs were, as well as the state of their physical health. Then we would pray with them, often laying hands on them, share Scripture, and sing.

Previously I had made many home visits in townships, when Doug and I first arrived in August, as well as on my first mission trip to SA in 2008. I was overwhelmed by the sheer weight of their illnesses and their poverty, their lack of water and food and sanitation. And all we could do was to pray! When I voiced this frustration to our president, Ross, he forcefully reminded me that, “Never try to stuff God into a box made of human understanding; never discount what the Lord can do. Your job is to plant seeds. He’s got the rest covered.”

So, back to Tuesday. This experience was different a little different because all of our patients were HIV+. Being first an oncology nurse, and then a “jail nurse” the last 22 years, perhaps I was seeing these patients initially through my medical lens. Add to that my American bent to try to fix everything yesterday… I must tell you my heart was torn apart – but at the same time so filled with an inexplicable joy at their unwavering faith! These beautiful children of God, so sick and helpless in their abject poverty, were hanging onto life by their belief in a Father who loved them so much that this love would sustain them, no matter what. How humbling was this revelation for a nurse who has so many answers!

Still, in a few places I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut (just to ensure our American reputation didn’t slide). We stooped to enter the abode of one family, a healthy mother with many children, asking their needs after greeting were made. The mother went outside and returned soon, supporting a tall, very thin daughter, who she settled on the arm of their couch. This girl was obviously not well, and the home healthcare worker, in Zulu of course, questioned her mother about her current condition for quite some time. Then the mother left again, only to bring another daughter in, but this one needed to be carried. About the same age as her sibling, she made her sister look healthy. I had to swallow my gasp. Her mother laid her down, propped up between two of us. Listless, her head lolled to the side. The nurse in me kicked in. I asked her and her mother question after question, our team leader translating, and took her pulse, checked her skin turgor and temperature. She was hot to the touch, dehydrated, and had an elevated heart rate. I found out that not only was she HIV+, but she had tuberculosis, all too common in those with HIV and now the cause of more deaths than AIDS. She wouldn’t be able to start her ARV’s until she completed her TB meds. I tried to emphasize the necessity of her drinking more water, washing her hands, covering her cough, using her own eating utensils, etc; I don’t know how many of my suggestions were communicated to the patient or her mother. Presumably for family use, I saw one large pop bottle on the shelf, half filled with water. When we finally emerged from the dark stifling shack into the blinding sunlight, I hoped that family didn’t hear my sobs.

The other visit that shattered my heart was with a mother of five small children, all healthy except for her and her little daughter. After we had talked and shared for some time, the mother went to the adjoining room. She returned, carrying a tiny child, her face whitened by dried perspiration, listless and frail with toothpick limbs and distended belly, into the main room. This woman had found out she was HIV+ when this daughter was positive at birth, three years ago! Once again, I had to hide my tears. This child, too, had TB.

Death is a way of life on this mountainside. But Ethembeni Mission is here, in the middle of life, fighting with all God has given these dedicated servants, pushing back death every labored step up and down these dusty paths. And I was privileged and blessed to follow in their footsteps for just one day.