Back Home: Same and Yet Different

by Doug Roland

From about 1000 feet altitude to landing, it was the light that reminded me I was home. The big, bold and consuming South African sun is dramatic, but the sun of Florida is a more crisp, playful light. It bounces off the glass of the city's buildings, attaches to the vehicles on the road, and rests in fields, homes and farmlands. 17 months without that light gave me a better appreciation for it, a nice welcome home.

This is new - coming home from living in a foreign land. My thoughts are random and I can't sum them up yet.

Last year, I wrote about the impossibility of having a meaningful Christmas without the presence of family. We were welcomed at the airport by our son, taken promptly his home and reacquainted ourselves with our granddaughter, Clara. In the afternoon we went to our church to pick-up our borrowed car and saw a few of our dearest friends.

On our first full day, I was dragged to choir practice without a voice that can sing. Though that is frustrating, there was comfort in listening to familiar chatter of musicians, sudden stops in the middle of a piece followed by the obligatory corrections from the director.

The next day we were invaded by our siblings and friends from around the country. Reunions broke out daily. Cheri's sisters. newly minteded great Aunties, made their presence felt as usual. Ten of us revisited vacations we had shared in Provence and other places. Though the memories of many things and events fade, others are as vivid as a Chagall stained glass backlighted by the southern French sun. These are indelible experience that we will share the rest of our lives.

It has, indeed, been busy, this visit home. Visits to our respective work places. We make multiple church appearances. We've given presentations to two adult sunday school classes, and are on deck to answer some questions at three consecutive worship services this Sunday. This is followed by a gathering of South Africa travelers in the evening. Invitations abound. In the queue are 6-7 dinner invitations to manage and a couple of weeks when we are elevated to "full-time" grandparents. It's a balancing act. We need to rest and we need the engagement.

The fine folks of Hyde Park United Methodist have surrounded us with great warmth and love.Without them we would not have gone to South Africa, nor could we return.

I learned that lots of people are actually reading this blog.

Driving around town, we've seen differences. On the one hand, there were several marquee shops that are now closed. Some restaurants have closed but others have flourished and some are nearly impossible to get into. Construction vehicles are scant, but the traffic is about the same.

From time to time, I find myself slipping back into the dominant culture until I realize that this only makes it more difficult to keep the momentum we've built in South Africa. We need to maintain an attitude of excitement to leave our home with the same awe that led us there in 2010. It's a fine balance. At the moment I look forward to both going and coming back. The question is whether it is sustainable for the next three weeks.

The summation of reuniting with friends, relatives and being back in our hometown reminds us of who we are and how we have been changed by our South African experience. It has, for now, helped us to renew our commitment to return to serve at the seminary. It took a long time for us to be effective in a foreign culture. We have another year + to put that to good use so that when we come back home for good, we can rest in the knowledge that we did the best we can to help develop leaders to transform the church and the nation of South Africa. God is extravagant in his grace and it is not to be turned down. But please, Lord, can I have a little more sleep?

Cheri and I wish you all a blessed Christmas. May its meaning be at the center of everything you do for therein lies the full measure of His light. The light illuminates a straight highway that leads to a life of adventure where everything changes. What a bargain!!

Going Through to the Next Round

by Doug Roland

A couple of days ago, I was in a conversation about lemon cake, a long-time favorite of the family. Problem was that I couldn't remember the name for those little shavings from the lemon rind. As well I find it hard to recall the names of people I know back home. In addition to recipes and people, common words fall out of our vocabulary and new ones have taken their place. For example, "yuk" is replaced with "eish", and "too bad" with "ach shame". There is a shift in the way we live and relate to others. It has played with our memories and pushed us off our personal center of gravity. There's a word for this - acculturation.

Before coming to South Africa, we read several books by Peace Corps volunteers who agreed that it took a year before you could begin to make a difference. For us, it has taken 15 months, but, as you know, we are old and things happen slowly. The signs that this was happening began popping up over the last 2-3 weeks. As we finish the year, we are getting some direct and indirect messages from seminarians that, despite their initial perception that we are Americans who have no clue but have an agenda, we are ok. While we could give many examples, one is that Cheri's consultations as nurse have gone from 2-3 per week to 2-3 per day - all this in a culture that looks at modern medicine with suspicion.

This respect has been earned and it wasn't easy. It has come from from the fact that we treat everyone the same. We are demanding and consistent in evaluating the work the seminarians do in our program. We don't accept many excuses. Yet, we are quick to affirm when their work is good, or when they are working their way out of bad habits. Without knowing it, we began speaking to them in a language that could be understood and trusted. In this or any country, state or province, it is the predicate to making a positive difference in the lives of others.

Trust is a hallowed word. It is an intangible that lies at the basis of any society, whether it is China or an African village. Making a difference in someone's life comes via trust. It doesn't always happen, but through God's grace, the opportunity is now for real.

First a long Christmas break in Tampa, then back to South Africa for the second round.

At this season of giving, we invite you to participate in this effort. We promise that this will be done only one more year. Ideally, we want you to come here, visit and gain understanding. If that is not feasible, you can help through your prayers, e-mails to either of us at dcroland@gmail.com, or by making a tax-deductible contribution as follows:

Hyde Park United Methodist Church

500 W. Platt St.

Tampa, FL 33606

Designate for Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary/Roland

Be sure to include your address for a letter from the church confirming receipt of a donation.

INVITATION

by Doug Roland

Last Tuesday morning, I saw her negotiating the doorway into the reception area. With a metal crutch on each arm, she fought through the opening as if it were a life and death matter. It was obvious that she was badly crippled. Who was she, I wondered? But, I had work to do and couldn't be bothered. We have visitors all the time.

There is a communion service on Tuesday evenings open to anyone who would like to come. As we walked the path to the chapel, there was a young boy, about 11 or 12, sitting at the top of the long slope, wearing a big smile of welcome. He greeted us and we replied. It wasn't one of the seminary children but we assumed he was there for some reason.

Each chapel service begins with singing, then some prayers and other readings. After that, the speaker or minister for the evening is asked to come up to the pulpit, usually a non-event. This time there was a buzz.

Looking through the rows of chairs in front of me I could see that the crippled woman was being helped up the two steps to the chancel. The chapel congregation quieted. Now alone, she carefully placed herself behind the pulpit, properly aligned with the microphone, and once she achieved the balance she wanted, faced the congregation and smiled. Her face was bright, warm and radiant in a way that could be felt throughout the chapel. Applause broke out before a word was uttered, so impressive was her journey up the steps. In many ways words were unnecessary.

There is a famous photograph of Tenzing Norgay, a common sherpa from Nepal, hired by Sir Edmund Hillary. The photo captures the moment they reached the summit of Mt. Everest, the first people to do so. Norgay's smile is as bright as the snow, a single gesture that reflected the completion of a task never done before in the face of unbelievable odds. The lady's smile reminded me of that photo.

She was here as a friend of one of our staff members, an African from Zambia, and was asked to deliver the message - her unique and compelling story, a living testimony of a person who is using her disability to throw a bright light into a dark corner.

For her sermon she selected Luke Ch. 19:37-40. It tells of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem as the disciples shouted out praises to God. Some Pharisees said to Jesus, "Teacher, rebuke your disciples." "I tell you," he replied, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."

Born in and a citizen of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Micheline Kamba contracted polio at a very young age. The people in her village named her "Unlucky". Her mother would have none of it, and changed her name to "Lucky". Any notion that her daughter would be an outcast, condemned to a life of immobile solitude, was not acceptable to her.

When Micheline was old enough to understand her limitations, she asked her mother how she would ever get along in this world. The response was, "the stones will cry out". No disability would silence her daughter.

Bolstered by the prayers of her father and mother, Micheline started school, slinging her crippled legs into the classrooms. She loved learning and dreamed of finishing school. She hoped against all odds that she would be married. She was told that she would never have children. Her parents remained undeterred. "The stones will cry out."

She finished high school. The right man entered her life and they married. Four years later, she gave birth to the boy who greeted us outside as we were coming in. She entered the ministry and was ordained in the Presbyterian church. At each juncture, he parents proclaimed, "the stones will cry out."

Micheline's church did not permit her to serve communion, saying that it was awkward and people would be uncomfortable. She had no use of her right arm so would have to serve with her left hand, something that has negative connotations in many cultures. And they (the "church") did not like the idea of using a wheelchair.

Her "sermon" was her story and her mother's. One could barely listen to it without tears, so affirming and positive was her message. Surely if she can bear her own cross with such grace and enthusiasm, then we are left with empty excuses. When she finished, she faced her twisted body to the left, heaved herself up, and step by step willed herself to a chair at the side of the chancel. There she sat and rested.

The communion service was led by the Dean, but before he started, he was so moved by the sermon that he picked up the microphone and shouted several times in true African style, "The rocks will cry out!!" "The rocks will cry out!!" as if to sear it on our eardrums and our hearts. He returned to the communion table and began the liturgy. Soon he paused, looked to his left and invited Micheline to join him at the table to assist in serving communion. This simple invitation opened a door long locked for her. She rose up out of her chair with renewed strength and indomitable determination and made her path to the table. A tray full of communion elements was handed to her. She served communion for the first time in her life. Those near her said she was speechless, her eyes filled with tears. And so too were the eyes of the congregation. We had witnessed the transformation of Jesus' reply to the Pharisees when bold words became a tangible reality. It began with an easy gesture, a simple invitation.

"Rounding Third and Headin' for Home" -- Joe Nuxhall

It's that time again when the seminary makes a frantic dash to the end of the semester, preparing, giving and grading final papers, exams, reports, entering test scores and absences, tackling the procrastination pile, and making a final assessment of those who will leave us to make sure they are ready. There's also a sprinkling of special events:

a. Heritage Day when seminarians celebrate their respective cultures in song, dance and skits. They represent nine cultural groups throughout the country.

b. Sports Day - most of one Saturday with competitions in volley ball, netball and soccer.

c. Parties for departing staff members - the librarian and her husband (an adjunct at the seminary) moving north to be nature conservation manager and chaplain to a private school, respectively; the bookkeeper, who has been here since day one of the seminary, and her husband are emigrating to the United States.

d. A ceremony honoring those who have completed their studies and other obligations here as they go off to their new lives. Robes, speeches, hugs, tears, laughter.

For us, we are 41 days from departure to go home for Christmas. Before that though, we must complete our reading of reflections in the program we administer (about 150- 200 reflections). Did I mention that we are moving to another house two doors down? Of course, it's not yet ready (cleaning, repainting, various repairs, etc., but that's ok. We have 41 days.

Finally, two weeks ago, we were handed the task designing a strategy and plan to launch the seminary as a mission hub, catering primarily to European and North American churches or groups that would like a spiritually based mission trip. These trips would be customized from several offerings, including game parks, beaches, etc. Possibilities include a guided spiritual retreat at the seminary, working with or visiting agencies helping the marginalized people for a few days, sightseeing, touring a township, visiting a sangoma, walking through a nature preserve, hiking, on and on. All this is supposed to be ready to go by the end of the year. Build the website (but spend no money). Partner with tour complains, do some market research.

41 days.

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* Joe Nuxhall was the youngest pitcher to play in the major leagues. He started with the Cincinnati Reds in 1944 at the age of 15. He would spend the rest of his life with the Reds as a player then broadcaster. The title of this piece was his radio sign-off at the end of each game. His jersey number was 41.

Tribute to Teacher

By Doug Roland

During the run-up to my 50th high school class reunion, many of us paused to remember the teachers who influenced our lives. Most of us recalled fondly the academic folks who perhaps even inspired our careers. Others were role models that we may have copied. I know that 3 of my English teachers made possible everything I did professionally. However, none of us works all the time. We do other things. Many people become spectators, watching TV, going to games of all sorts, concerts. But because of a teacher, I had an avocation that, while it has probably ended for me, enriched my life in ways I could never have imagined. What I learned from him made me a participant, literally put me on stage.

So, I share with you a letter I wrote to my high school choir director. He is 85 now but still writing music to add to the 250+ pieces he has written.

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Dear Mr. Davenport:

About 20 years ago or so, I wrote a letter to you to thank you for instilling in me a love of choral music. Having no address, I sent it to First Friends church on east Main St.. I do not know if you received it.

So, at the risk of repeating myself, I am writing again, this time with a confirmed address. A fellow classmate and chorister from RHS's class of 1961 advised me of the recent article in the Pal-Item. I can not help but respond.

During my 5 1/2 years at I.U., I did not sing a great deal nor during the next eight years when I was teaching or going to law school. Then I married a music major (Ohio Wesleyan) and devoted Methodist. We joined the choir (Middletown, Ohio). One night our director handed out some new music and I recognized the composer. I don't recall the name of the piece but I proudly announced that your were my high school choir director and I took great joy in singing it.

Some years later, we moved to Tampa, Florida, and soon auditioned for and sang in the Master Chorale of Tampa Bay for 12 years. During that time, I thought of the groundwork you provided years earlier. The Chorale is the principal chorus of the Florida Orchestra. My wife and I agree that the memories from those years are indelible. We sang most every major choral work in the repertoire. For example, the masses of Verdi, Berloiz, Rutter, Durufle and Faure. Bach's B minor mass was perhaps my favorite. But our two highlights were to sing two concert weekends under Robert Shaw and one trip to England.

Shaw was an advisory director to the Florida Orchestra. I could not believe that I would fulfill a lifelong dream and sing under his baton. When I arrived at the first rehearsal, I looked at the seating chart and saw that I was going to be standing about 10 feet from his right ear. Maybe I could just mouth the words. We sang the Durufle Requiem (3 concerts) and a few years later, Brahms Requiem, with him.

In 1996, the Chorale was invited by Sir David Wilcox to join the London Bach Choir for a concert at Westminster Cathedral (as distinct from the Abbey) featuring the Berlioz Requiem, prefaced by 4-5 wonderful a cappella pieces before about 2,000 people including the Duchess of York.

The next day, we were bussed up to Cambridge where we performed in the famed King's College Chapel. Following choristers over the last 500 years, we added our voices to this hallowed space. Our chorale sang several American pieces, including what we think was the European premier of Lauridsen's O Magnum Mysterium.

So, here I was, a kid from Richmond, Indiana, singing in an ethereal and holy place. I had been well-prepared, and it started in your classroom. These are things no one can ever take away from me.

I've gone on too much about myself, but I want you to know that it would not have been possible without you. My life would have been qualitatively poorer. That goes for me and I suspect legends of others. The learning of those couple of years in your choir multiplied exponentially.

I am delighted that you are still writing. What a wonderful way to contribute to an art form that worms its way into one's soul.

Finally, do not be confused about the postage and address. My wife and I are volunteering for three years in South Africa's only Methodist seminary. It's quite a challenge for a retired lawyer and a nurse to fit in, but we work at it.

May God continue to bless you.

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There is universal and important point here. Each of us has, everyday, an opportunity to influence others either for good or for ill. In a sense we are all teachers as none of us has, despite claims to the contrary, all the answers. Small, seemingly uneventful incidents and/or comments can re-shape the life of another person. So, think first, talk later. Someone is listening.

Eraste's Journey

by Doug Roland

SMMS’s newest staff addition is Dr. Eraste Niyirimana, Acting Head of the Biblical Studies Department. He comes to us from Rwanda, but the journey getting here was long and circuitous.

Born in 1957, five years before independence from Belgium, Eraste grew up in the foothills of southern Rwanda. His was a close family located in a community of subsistence farmers. They grew and lived on a diet of lentils, beans and sweet potatoes. His father, a lay Anglican minister, built two houses with mud walls, one with a grass roof and the other with tires and other material. Both were built on the rock of his faith, passed on to his children.

Eraste enjoyed the freedom of the year round outdoor life that rural living provides. In addition to soccer and traditional children’s games, he would strip the layers off the trunk of banana trees and use them to slide down the grassy hillsides. He was happy being in a big family and had no aspirations or dreams of what he might do one day. Just having food to eat was enough. This would change went he was sent to an Anglican Missionary school. A lifelong love affair with education had begun.

After completing primary school, followed by teacher training school, he taught grades 4 – 8 for four years. During this time he attended a camp sponsored by Scriptural Union, a global organization with the mission of bringing the Bible to remote areas. It was at the camp that he met, and later married Rose, his wife of 31 years.

He didn’t see himself as a career teacher. He was nagged by a feeling that there was more for him to do. He knew instinctively that taking the next step meant more training. With the encouragement and aid of his bishop, he entered university at Butare, then later to the main campus in Kigali where he studied law and received his license. The bishop’s plan was for him to be a legal advisor to the church. The war of 1990 changed everything.

The church granted him permission to begin work for the government of Rwanda and move to Kigali. He worked in a department that provided legal advice to the three branches of government in this relatively new democracy. It was heady stuff for a young man fresh out of school. After a year, he was moved to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, again for the purpose of handling legal issues, but as the war droned on without resolution, the government became highly politicized. Unbiased, neutral suggestions were no longer welcomed. The culture of cooperation vanished. Reluctantly, he left his position to join the staff of Compassion International, an NGO based in the U.S. focused on the needs of children worldwide.

Meanwhile, the bishop was having second thoughts about Eraste’s legal career. He advised that he wanted Eraste to go into full-time ministry, but before the bishop’s plan materialized, the genocide started.

Compassion International heeded its staff’s request to flee Rwanda and operate from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). Dangerous under any circumstance, the situation was made more difficult by the fact that Eraste and Rose were from competing factions – Hutu’s and Tutsi’s. Any move would be perilous.Their security was at risk whether in Rwanda or in a refugee camp in the DRC. Nevertheless, “the Lord kept us safe in the DRC”.

As the genocide ebbed somewhat, the NGO was eager for Eraste and Rose to return to Rwanda. It was a risk he refused to take. This decision left him and his family stranded, no job, no home to return to, no prospects. In this very dark time in his life, he did not despair. Rather he did what his father would have done – he cried out to God. He persevered in his faith. God returned the call with an invitation to enter full-time ministry.

The “call” rarely materializes quickly. For Eraste and his family, there were no prospects, no aid, no help, just a still, small voice. Again he did not despair for he placed his faith where he had before – in the power of education to lift him up. This time though, his goal was the ministry, an acceptance of the invitation.

He applied to a seminary in Nairobi, Kenya, and was accepted. He had no apparent way to get there or ability to pay the deposit. Eraste and Rose “ . . . took our request to God, asking for his provision from January, 1995 to August, 1995.” Shortly after, they received a gift of money from a friend. It was enough to pay for tickets for Rose and the two younger children to fly to Nairobi. Two months later, another friend, who was hosting Rose and the children, helped Eraste and the remaining children to make the trip and reunite the family.

Once in Nairobi, Eraste made contact with a friend who was planning a trip back home to Rwanda. Through that visit, his “home” bishop, probably with a wry grin on his face, sent a little money to Eraste. It was enough to pay the deposit and gain admission. The seminary provided accommodations and once he was placed, he also was granted a scholarship. Three years later, he obtained his M.Div. degree.

Rose had enrolled in the same seminary after Eraste. While he was waiting in Nairobi tending to the children, a friend from South Africa came to Kenya for a meeting and sought out Eraste who brought him up to date. This led to a meeting with a man looking to fill a position at a seminary in Nigeria. Eraste followed up and in 2000, the family moved again.

The position involved supervision of graduate students. After being a refugee and student for several years, it was a badly-needed job. He performed as required but he knew he was capable of more, and he knew to what had to do - more training. He began applying to schools to study for his Ph.D. He was admitted at Sheffield in the UK but had no money. Yet, this determined man would not be denied taking the next step. With the perseverance, character and hope Paul describes in Romans, he applied to the University of KwaZulu Natal where he was admitted and obtained a scholarship. His Ph.D. in Biblical Studies was awarded in 2010.

No description of Eraste would be complete without a further note. His wife Rose, fondly known as Mama Rose, is now a staff member at ESSA, another seminary in Pietermaritzburg. She hopes to complete her Ph.D. in New Testament by the end of this year. Of their seven children, three have finished their undergraduate training (one is a teacher), one is in post-graduate studies, and four are in varsity.

Eraste was asked if there anything that he would want to change, if he could. He answered that we wished there had been no war as he wanted to serve in his homeland.

Africa: Home to the Rich and Famous

I have copied a message from a recently forwarded e-mail. This one got my attention for reasons that will be obvious to you. The quoted text was followed by a series of beautiful photos of some of Africa's glorious scenery and several of its magnificent resorts, but I've chosen not to use precious megabytes to show them. They are beautiful indeed. From these, the "author" drew an interesting conclusion. (I promise that the spelling is not my own.)

"I love this and it's the truth....Did any of you watch the Bachelorette this last time??/ will guess where most of it took place ....Yep your right Africa and the most beautifully places I have ever seen and have never seen resorts like theirs in USA. So why are we feeding the people over their ?????? They can feed their own better than what we can. Or have you though where is the money really going. Think people all the church's and all the things you see on TV asking to feed them . We have our own here in USA that need help and food. So let us start here at home first." The tragedy is that we reach such conclusions by watching the "Bachelorette". What price truth?

FOUR DAY REFUELING

by Doug Roland

We planned for months and months to receive 8 members of our church (Hyde Park United Methodist, Tampa) and one exceptional friend of the church for a four day experience with us at the seminary. The verdict is out on who benefitted most.

It was on just this kind of trip that tilled the soil of South Africa that we might later plant ourselves here. But like any plants, we need to be nourished to bear fruit. That has been well supplied by the seminary, its staff and its seminarians. We have grown immensely.

Still there is nothing like mom and her apple pie. Though we have been lifetime members of churches in Indiana, Ohio, it is our training in discipleship at Hyde Park that has given us the the courage to take a three year plunge. Not that our childhood Sunday school teachers, youth leaders, and role models were insignificant. Rather, they supplied the bedrock of faith, a faith to be shaped and put to action.

And so we have enjoyed a feast of friendship with our friends of many years who have come here for many reasons. By their mere presence, we have been refueled, reminded with clarity of the congregation that sends us here and supports us.

Our prayer is that through this experience, God will direct them in ways they might not otherwise consider. May they too be refueled to take on the though commands of the Gospel and enter into the next level of their servanthood.

Whitney Houston and the Collaring Ceremony

by Doug Roland

In the Methodist Church of Southern Africa, ministers wear clerical collars, with or without ordination. In the United Methodist Church, collars are awarded or permitted when you are ordained. Having never seen a United Methodist minister wear one, I think it's not a big deal in the US. But it's different here.

If you don't wear a collar, you're not recognized as a minister. Forget about saying prayers, preaching, baptisms, weddings, funerals. No collar, don't bother. It's part of the theological DNA.

Plain white collars are predictable, uniform, a little dull. Many ministers here have resisted convention and treated collars as a fashion accessory. Some wear clerical shirts with the collar built in. Then there are cool stylized ones that only suggest the presence of a collar for ministers pushing envelope.

Wearing a collar presented a dilemma to three United Methodists - Duke University Divinity school students who just completed three months with the seminary community where are are volunteering.

The "Dukies" consisted of a cardiologist and his wife from Tampa, both of whom are members of our home church, Hyde Park United Methodist. The other two were from Texas and North Carolina . As part of their program here, they were stationed AS MINISTERS in a remote area of the province, about 80 or so kilometers from Pietermaritzburg. In those parts, no one was going to pay much attention to them unless they wore collars. What to do? Unofficially, they went out and bought some, It is a tradition here that someone pays for your collar as a gift. For the Dukies, it was all under the radar.

A few days ago, one of the seminary worship teams decided that the seminary should make Friday morning's chapel service a celebration of the Duke students' time with us, and include in that service a proper collaring service complete with ritual. Word spread but few could have predicted the outcome.

Friday morning chapel starts at 7 am sharp. It is usually relaxed with mostly music, prayers and some short reflections. The service was, as usual, joyful. In the three months here, one of the Dukies, the Texan, learned how to dance like the Africans. But when he started "swaying" his 6'9' frame, people nearby cleared out.

When the regular service ended, the worship leader announced that the seminarians wanted to pay special tribute to their new friends in faith, and recognize their contributions to seminary life.

In the back of the chapel, a dim buzz started then swelled as two seminarians carried two large flags, the colors of South Africa and the Stars and Stripes. The flag bearers walked up the aisle waving with typical African enthusiasm. The chapel erupted in cheers and shouts of joy.

As the flags passed up the aisle, in perfect coordination, the video screen filled up with the image of a football stadium filled with thousands of cheering spectators. The camera panned to show a large orchestra playing an introduction to the Star Spangled Banner. It was the iconic performance by Whitney Houston at the 1991 Super Bowl played in Tampa Stadium, hometown of two of the Dukies, and two seminary staff members. I tried to sing with her but couldn't get through it.

As the F-16 engines roared overhead on the screen, the noise was deafening. The eyes of six Americans welled with tears. The Africans, understanding very little about our version of football or what an F-16 is, nevertheless celebrated with us, in an extraordinary expression of respect for our nation and its people. But this exceptional chapel service was not over yet.

When seats were finally taken, the Dean announced that the collaring ceremony would begin. At that instant, the loudest thunderclap I've heard in quite a while rattled the chapel building. On this morning in that place, it was taken as God's contribution to thecelebration.

Eventually the collaring began. Here, the procedure is that the Dean, or whoever officiates, secures the collar on the seminarian. The seminarian then lies prostrate on the floor, kisses the ground and then gets up. First up was the tall guy. Apparently he didn't know about kissing the ground then getting up. He just laid there with his nose fully planted in the carpet until the Dean nudged him to get up. The next two, thinking this was part of the ritual, followed suit.

Then the celebration really got traction. In a year of being here and having attended about 100 chapel services, I have never seen or heard anything like it. It wasn't some sort of emotional ecstasy. It was pure love and respect. I couldn't drink it all in.

The wife of one of the Duke students took the floor and with a voice that choked on every other word gave thanks to her friends. She was adored by the seminarians who even gave her nickname, Mrs. Khumalo. (You had to be there.)

The tribute and ceremony ended, but seminarians with cameras and cell phones stayed and waited until they got just the shot they wanted. They even brought Cheri and I into the picture of the Americans in their midst on this very special day.

Those of us who work in this seminary are often taken by surprise at what is happening here. We go through our meetings, planning infinite details, talking about grades, attitudes, new policies, and coming events. But it's the stuff we don't plan that in so many ways reflects just what is happening. Today we saw, heard and felt what it's like when people from vastly different cultures and traditions, can become brothers and sisters, children of God. I'll treasure it always. Those who were there will not soon forget it. Six of us never will.

CLASS REUNION

by Doug Roland

Over the last 30 years, I have enjoyed my high school reunions. People attend these for all sorts of reasons, curiosity, restoring relationships that went south when you were 17; remembering special events that weren't really memorable at the time; talking about your own children, careers, spouses, travels and hobbies. The chats about spouses can be interesting, depending on whether you married your high school sweetheart. Those people are seen as a couple more than as individuals. As for the rest of us, most stopped bringing spouses to these things years ago. There's usually some talk about who died since the previous reunion, but not for long. We were there to remember the good times, the best of times.

For me, as the years have past, I realized how incredibly fortunate I was to attend public school at a time when teachers poured out their hearts and energy for us. We were well prepared. And it was a safe place. The most dangerous thing was sneaking out to have a smoke between classes. There were no metal detectors or cards to swipe for entry. Our town, a classic Indiana town, was a great place to be nurtured, solidly rooted in midwestern values.

My 50 year class reunion was held last weekend. For well over a year, I have known I would be in Africa and not there. A year ago, it was just another part of the sacrifice I committed to make to serve in another land. Intellectually, it was not upsetting that I would not be there. Sure, it's fun seeing everybody, but my mission came first. In fact, the run-up to the event, in the form of floods of e-mails and Facebook comments and messages, was great fun and exciting. Technology has brought us together again in ways we could never have anticipated in 1961.

So, why do I feel like someone just died? I was troubled all weekend. I was missing a special one-time-only moment when, 50 years later, you join your childhood friends (and enemies). We played together, worked together, sang together, studied together and dreamed together. In so doing, we learned a lot of "firsts" that would shape our lives. It is a connection that, for many of us, runs deep. But makes this reunion different than the others?

I think what makes me ache is that I missed a rite of passage. 50 years reunions are embedded in our culture. I recall that in the late 70's my mother drove down to Mississippi to attend her first and only high school reunion, the 50th. She couldn't stop talking about when she returned. In retrospect, I realize that I've been in many conversations with friends, business colleagues, and casual acquaintances, when someone would mention their 50th high school reunion. It's hard not to talk about it. For me, it is a unique celebration of your life in the company of those who were there with you at such a formative time. It's about those "first" times. It is the reunion where, just like our graduation, we look at the future, maybe not so much eagerly as hesitantly.

Our lives are defined in memories. They guide us. We are adrift without them. What I missed was a refueling station, a high octane shot of memories. I should just give in to the notion that God wants me here and now. But it's hard. It's what I get for choosing to look forward and not to live in the past.

Intensives

by Doug Roland

The seminary is in the middle of "Intensives", an annual event conducted between semesters. It consists of a series of lectures on various church subjects that are not normally presented in depth in regular classes. The sessions have a practical focus based upon widely accepted Christian principles. As well, the first year seminarians participate in several on-campus retreats, leadership training and the like. This latter is presented by two staff members. The remainder are guest lecturers from a variety of places and subjects:

Crime and Ministry Douw Grobler, Exec. Director of Prison Fellowship of Southern Africa.

Forming Transforming Congregations Rev. Dr. Peter Storey, retired Methodist Bishop and Duke University faculty member

Contextual Bible Study Prof. Cheryl Anderson, Garrett Evangelical, Chicago, IL

Authentic Ministries Across Boundaries Rev. Phidian Matsebe

Sunday and Beyond; church liturgy. Rev. John van der Laar

Authentic Evangelism for a Transformational Church Rev. Andile Mbete

Evangelism & Mission Prof. Jack Jackson, Duke University

Ethics and Leadership Staff of Pietermaritzburg Agency for Christian Social Awareness

Hospice Training Staff of Msunduzi Hospice

Rural Ministry Victor Tshangela

For those of us only marginally involved, it is a smorgasbord of delights. We can drop in on lectures, participate in discussions like we know what we're doing, and get together informally with the guests.

The two American lecturers join the four Duke Divinity students, putting us close to more Americans than we've seen since we arrived here nearly a year ago. It is comforting and fun. But it's also enlightening to see the seminarians loosen up when there are no grades at stake, especially those who are waiting for stationing later in the semester. They are beginning to think hard about what's coming.

Personally what I have learned by sitting in on some of these classes is that studying material you know a little about takes on different meanings when learned in another county and culture. The inevitable response is to compare ideas and practices with what I already know. In identifying and affirming the differences, what I knew is now clearer.

We all see through the filters of our experience. Filters need to be cleaned from time to time. When they do, you may see your neighbors on your street or on the next continent, in a very different light.

REFLECTIONS ON LIGHT

by Cheri Roland

After my last blog, my youngest sister freaked out, equating my comments on the light of Jesus with the light at the end of the tunnel. Thankfully, this light for me was not that of approaching the pearly gates to see if St. Peter would let me in. (Do you suppose Pete has one of those sets of keys like the deputies at Falkenburg Road do? Yikes, I've come full circle.)

I am thrilled to report that I am now officially a miracle girl! (Well, maybe not a girl…) Two months ago I was verging on liver and kidney failure. Last Monday I had more labs drawn. Dr. Naidoo showed us the results during my appointment last Wednesday; they are all within normal range, with no signs of kidney or liver damage. How's that for the healing power of Jesus? I'm still holding tightly to my image of Jesus' light inside, healing and restoring all of me. He is the Man!

The Reverend Dr. Peter Storey (not a saint YET) sent me a wonderful quote by Samuel Rayan: " A candle is a protest at midnight. It says to the darkness, 'I beg to differ' ". Light and dark cannot coexist. Without light, life on earth, both physically and spiritually, will vanish.

I have been blessed by two precious seminary students who ministered to me each afternoon during my darkest days. They shared stories and wisdom that only the Spirit can give. At one point, Storia was commenting on headlights. Headlights illuminate the road ahead of us, but only a short distance at a time. Even though we can't see the whole route in the dark, we eventually get to our destination. God protects us in the same way, lighting our way forward, sometimes inches at a time, sometimes miles at a time. Only He has the knowledge of our future and, with the wisdom of a loving parent, reveals only what He knows we can handle. I experienced this while I was sick. There were literally minutes that stretched on with interminable excruciating itching; the only way I could get through them was to pray. I know His light was my refuge. Thinking of the unbearable future was out of the question.

This headlight idea reminded me of a present one of Doug's colleagues brought back for us from her Israel trip; it was a three inch pottery oil lamp that travelers in Jesus' day would balance on the top of their sandals to light their way on the dark path. That is exactly what we were singing about in Sunday school in that little song, "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path". These images flashed together ,linking up as I had plenty of time to reflect on light. With Jesus always as my light, I have faith I will be able to challenge whatever darkness is out there. I invite you, the next time you find yourself in that dark place, to hang on to the light of Jesus. And join me in proclaiming, "I beg to differ.

Persevere (St. Paul); Never Give Up (Churchill)

Cheri's blog last week ended with her hope to endure her Dr.'s appointment for the next morning. Much has happened since.

Before that, in recent months, I had become "conscious" of something about her that before was just background noise. When puttering around the house doing chores with typical multi-tasking aplomb, she is always humming a tune. I learned pretty much to ignore it. The song is usually one from something we had sung in the past, an anthem from Sunday or some new hymn we learned at the seminary. At times, she gets stuck on one and it annoys even her. But then, we all get tunes stuck in our heads from time to time. A week ago today, I noticed that the songs were gone.

By the end of last Sunday, we decided, along with our family and closest friends, to send her home. I did not give thought then to the reality that she was in no condition to ride an hour in the car, much less about 20 hours on airplanes. But we were in a very difficult place, seeing few options. The hope for a turn-around was waning.

Monday morning, she summoned what remaining energy left to ride 45 minutes to her Dr. In Durban. He took one look and said he is sending her to the hospital. This is not really the best place for someone with latex allergies and few defenses left. He wanted to have her admitted by a dermatologist. An appointment was obtained promptly. Within a few minutes we were in the waiting room of a large dermatology practice reconciling ourselves to the idea of hospitalization. Her skin was inflamed - the color of a pomegranite. Wrapped in sweaters, she looked like a street person. The office staff kept looking at her, puzzled. Soon we were shown to an examining room.

There we were met by an associate in the practice, Dr. Hoosen, a lovely young Indian woman. Gentle and calming, she put us more at ease. Her working diagnosis was severe eczema. She prescribed several medicines - prescription, OTC and those made at the office. To rule out cancer, she took a piece of skin for a biopsy. She did not think it was what we thought it was, the Stephens-Johnson syndrome. We were a little encouraged.

Next morning, Cheri said, "I feel better already." The itching had diminished. She slept better. Things looked promising.

At 8am Tuesday morning, I answered the phone. It was the Dr.'s office. "When can you be here? Dr. Naidoo is coming in from his sabbatical to see you." First thought - is this terrible or promising? I woke Cheri up and we were in Durban about 90 minutes later.

Enter Dr. Rajan Naidoo, sophisticated, elegant dresser and charming. The biopsy showed that she has psoriasis, a common skin ailment that, for most people, appears in their thirties and forties. It is mostly genetic and can be managed. Dr. Naidoo was unlike any other physician either of us had encountered. He was encouraging, worked with us as a team, made us feel part of the plan, affirmed us at every step. Cheri and I thought about the same thing - all the prayers coming from so many different directions. Dr. Naidoo said that prayer is what brought him in that day.

Within the next day or two, the songs returned. They will never be annoying again.

Praise God.

LIGHT

by Cheri Roland

"… and the Word was the light of men." The magnificent first paragraph of John has been circulating in my head over the past three months. I have indeed been in a very dark place, but the concept of light has been a constant under current. "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it; "light a candle and curse the darkness"; "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine!" At one point I even wondered why I was being bombarded with all these references to light.

Monday has to be my worst day yet. But during one of the pastoral visits with two of our amazing women students, Dumisile mentioned the concept of light. She suggested that I visualize Jesus as a light inside my soul. That image really spoke to me; I latched onto the light of Jesus casting out the darkness in my body. I have even given Him more mobility ,like Eva from WALL-E, one of the more current movies we have seen. It just seems appropriate that Jesus, my Healer, be able to zoom around inside my body. So this image has become my focus, and He is not only sustaining me, He is healing me.

This systemic allergic reaction has played havoc with my liver and skin. I must soak in the tub laced with olive oil at least twice a day. I have dedicated my baths to very specific visualization. I ask Jesus to travel with me throughout my body, kicking out the bad guys and strengthening the good. I figure since He made me, He knows best how to heal me.

My immediate goal is to be able to face up to my doctor's appointment in Durban on Monday. I've only been as far as the back yard in the past week, using this time to be still and know that He is in control. Liver ailments all require rest, and we have been so blessed by our staff's admonitions to "stay home", as well as the fortuitous break in the schedule.

So, the next time you find yourself in a dark place, try the image of Jesus, the Light of the World, as your personal Healer. He's quite clever at zooming and zapping.

TRUST Pt. 2

By Cheri Roland

Dear Family and Friends,

Thank you all for your outpouring of support and love. I wish I had the energy to respond individually. That is definitely a goal. As for now, my most important request is for your constant prayers. The more folks that are rattling the gates of Heaven, the better. I will be working on a more detailed "report", so stay tuned.

Remember, trust and obey.

TRUST

by Doug Roland

We have received several inquiries from you about the absence of blogs or e-mails and wondering if something is wrong. Something is, and we have been foolishly keeping it from you. We started this blog over a year ago so you could journey with us. Please forgive us for leaving you out. When something goes wrong, it takes all your attention.

Things go wrong from time to time. And, if more than one thing goes wrong at the same time, then they feed on each other and threaten to drag you down. The idea of going to Africa to do God's work sounds exciting, exotic, challenging and risky. It is all those things. Very little that matters over the long term is done without risk. One must expect it. You can do little more than realize that something is coming sooner or later. When it does, there is no place to hide. In our case, it was a combination of an old health nemesis and emotional/trust issues arising out of our work.

For those who don't know, Cheri was among some of the first health care workers to suffer a severe allergy to latex and have it called that. And she is one of a smaller group that had it affect her skin so badly. Before, it was largely ignored. This was in 1994. Since then, most major hospitals have created non-latex facilities and rooms. Most dentists now stock non-latex gloves. She was referred to the best allergist in Tampa. She suggested to him that certain foods will trigger her symptoms also. He scoffed at her. Three days later, she was in full blown Stephens-Johnson Syndrome. After 10 days in the hospital, and being seen by a cadre of doctors, there was no diagnosis. She was stabilized, but her chronic itching persisted and could only be soothed by steroids, anything but a cure. For two years she went to a group of world class immunologists who did diagnose it but could not figure out a cure. As far as we know, they still haven't. I recently read on the Mayo Clinic website that "Currently, there are no standard recommendations for treating Stephens-Johnson Syndrome." Today, the link between food allergies and latex allergy is widely recognized. In a sense, she is a pioneer though she would probably trade that in for a good night's sleep.

On the day before this Easter, she was having a knife-like pain her eye from a condition first discovered six or seven years ago. It is treated with an ointment and she was out. She called her eye doctor here but he was gone for the entire week. She knew it needed treatment quickly so we went to the ER ("casualty" here ) to get the prescription. It took thirty minutes. In that time, her old invisible and airborne friend, latex, had a field day and it has seriously debilitated her. Her skin looks like someone set fire to it and it won't go out.

We have not panicked. It could have happened most anytime, anywhere. There is nothing really new about it. Beginning in 1994, she spent two years being treated by modern medicine. Eventually, she found a homeopathic doctor in Tampa. Though it took months, she ultimately obtained relief. The methods did not involve prescription medicine. She eventually weaned herself off the steroids.

Through contacts here, we were able to find two homeopathic therapists, one of which is an MD in Durban, the nearest large city. Interestingly, both had the same opinion of what was happening and took generally the same slow track, there being no fast track. The doctor is usually available by phone which is rare. The results are coming in and they are promising. With the help of a variety of homeopathic medicines she is slowly bringing her system back to normal. There are well-stocked, sophisticated health food shops in the area.

As recovery was just beginning, we entered the final hectic three weeks of the semester. The long Easter break broke the momentum at the seminary. The energy and vision was put on hold. Nothing felt right. We went through the motions. We became dissolutioned over some programs that were not launched or were launched then terminated, and there was a disappointment over the planning of another program. In hindsight, we were overly sensitive due to the health problem, thereby exacerbating our few minor complaints. Thank goodness the term has now ended.

It would be a mistake to think that we are discouraged. We are all flawed human beings. If it all seemed perfect, then we would really be concerned. We are dedicated to our work on the field education program. We are blessed by wonderful fellow staff members. Our lives are enriched daily by our seminarians who are at once frustrating, sometimes irresponsible, but always joyous and loving. They support us with their prayers. Two of them, both middle-aged women, stopped by today to pray with her, clean up the kitchen, make her soup . . . etc.

Our semester is over and our workload has diminished for the next 7-8 weeks. The conditions for recovery have improved. It's a perfect time for her to recharge and heal. Already, she'll tell you that she feels much better now than she did in 1994.

Our faith is not so shallow that we would tuck in our tales and go home. We are convinced that Cheri is getting the best help available. These methods were successful before and they will be again. So don't think for a minute that we are packing it in. One only need to read Romans 5: 3-5 to be hopeful. We have great therapists, a huge and involved community that loves and supports us just as many of you do. We have work to do and the more we do it, the more we realize that we can make a significant contribution to this country on its long road to healing.

Keep us in your prayers.

Trust and never doubt.

He never failed us yet.