A SHRINKY DINK WORLD

By:   Cheri Roland

Ah!  Shrinky Dinks…  One must be of a certain vintage to remember those large, brightly colored plastic sheets which, when heated in the oven, shrank to small hard play objects.  Google informed me they first were sold in Brookfield, WS in October, 1973.  I used to love watching their magical transformation from a big nothing down to miniature objects.  Events of the past several days have brought to mind how interconnected we all are, a shrinky dink world, and so ripe with serendipity.  

Friday evening I was chatting with a neighbour over the fence.  Pat had just returned from three weeks in the US, visiting their daughter in Columbus, OH.   What a coincidence!   I told her  that’s where my grandma and aunt had lived, is just two hours north of where I grew up in Middletown, and one hour south of Ohio Wesleyan where my dad and I had gone to college.  Then Pat added that she finished her journey in Nashville.  

“Nashville?  Samie, our daughter-in-law, and granddaughter just moved there!  She is doing a fellowship in pediatric ophthalmology at Vanderbuilt.”

“Well, I was visiting our son-in-law’s mom, Tamie Wallace, who just moved there to work in the children’s hospital in the NICU!”

So a half a world away, our Samie will be operating on tiny patients, then transferring them to Tamie’s care.  Both women are linked to a little street, in a little town, in SA.  Shrinky dink.

Saturday afternoon was lovely, the first warm, sunny day in a week.   While the hadidas buzzed the house, we enjoyed sitting on our patio, Skyping with son Nat and baby Clara, almost three now.   Coming out the back door to join Doug, I heard Clara’s joyous squeals at seeing her Grandpa D’s face.  Merrily chatting away, she immediately showed us her new baby carriage, a gift from Samie’s parents.  Then she pointed to a big surprise.   Against a wall was MY light blue doll crib that my daddy had made 60 years ago!  I couldn’t believe my eyes!  Immediately memories flooded up of the cosy, bright workroom in the basement where my sisters and I would “help” Daddy measure, saw, and nail together our toys.  It always smelled of sawdust.   I can still hear the scroll saw.  How on earth…?  It turns out that when my parents moved from Middletown, they sold this crib to our neighbour playmate, Cheryl Fassler.  Cheryl became a doctor and settled in Nashville, where she is now head of Hand Surgery at Vanderbilt University.  When Samie found out she had matched at Vanderbilt, we put Nat and Samie in touch with Cheryl; they have become good friends.  Cheryl’s adopted Chinese daughter, Emily, is thirteen now, too grown-up to play with dolls.  So Cheryl gave Clara the famous crib.  It has re-joined the family!  Yesterday at breakfast we hooted over a picture Nat had sent of Emily and Clara, two beautiful Asian girls, one big and one little, at the fair, petting a pig.  Shrinky dink. 

It seems every way I turn here, I bump up against the cultural practices of witchcraft and ancestor worship.   The neighborhood just around the corner from us is primarily Indian, and many homes employ black gardeners and maids.  I had become curious about small piles of burned multi-colored “stuff” littering the pavement in front of some driveways.    So a few months back I approached two workers as they were leaving for the day.   I greeted them and pointed to the charred remains at my feet.  “I’m an American visitor and wonder if you could tell me what this is.”   The two exchanged a meaningful look.  One answered, “Oh, those are burned to bring the house good luck.”  The other said something in Zulu.  “What do they burn?” I asked.  The first reiterated, “Yes, it is for good luck. You can have it made special, or buy bags ready- made.”   My suspicions were confirmed.  Definitely more witch doctor stuff…

This Monday afternoon I was walking as usual with our Jamaican neighbour, Wilhelmina.  She and I make a strange sight – she is black, tall and thin, and I’m white, short and fat.  Often Zulus will pass us and start talking to her; of course she has no clue what they are saying.  We giggle, and I  tell her she must learn how to say “I don’t speak Zulu” in Zulu.  She and her husband also arrived in 2010 as missionaries serving three years in Maritzburg, but we only had found each other after six lonely months, a mere 15 houses apart.   Can you say “shrinky dink”?  She talks as much as I do, and we hit it off right away.

So, chatting non-stop, as we climbed another long hill, an Indian gentleman hailed us.  He pointed to the stunning burgundy bougainvillea; we finally figured out he was asking if it would root from a snapped off branch.  (Yes, in shrinky dink fashion SA has tons of the same plants we have at home!)  Ala Charlton Heston, at his feet laid a long spiral animal horn.   I had to ask!  “ A shofar.  I use it to chase away demons.” 

Demons!  Of course my ears perked up.  Our Indian friend went on to say he is a prophet, a son of God, and uses the shofar for protection against evil.  Then he launched into quoting Old Testament scripture passages about fearing the Lord because He can kill you twice, once physically, and then kill your soul and send you to eternal damnation in Hell.  We listened, nodding in a PC kind of way.  When he came up for air, I asked if he would demonstrate the shofar for us.  He hesitated, then dramatically hoisting the ram’s horn, struck a pose just like Moses in the movies.  Taking a mighty breath, he pursed his lips and belted out a deafening blast, sending the neighbourhood guard dogs into apoplexy.   My ears were ringing.  Wilhel quickly thanked him and grabbing my arm, propelled us up the hill before I lost it.

To get the pic for this blog, yesterday Wilhel and I, armed with camera, took the same route.  Just at the top of the long hill, past the Italian prisoner of war chapel Doug wrote about some time ago, I noticed a white haired white guy clad in Lycra biking shorts, in great shape I might add, entering his gate with his bike.  He looked safe.  Here was our photographer!  I ran up and quickly enlisted his assistance.  When I explained about the little charred piles “for good luck” he chortled, “Good luck? HA HA!  You told you that?”  We all had a good laugh.  “First of all, there is no such thing as good luck.  It’s the grace of Jesus Christ the Almighty.  Secondly, this stuff is witch craft.”  He teaches Extreme Sports at Epworth, the prestigious Methodist school next to the seminary.   Shrinky dink.

What a rich tapestry of interwoven relationships envelope us!  There are fascinating characters everywhere, not just in Tampa before a presidential election.   And to think we have all been put on this amazing, God-given shrinky dink world together!

THE GOLDEN RULE RULES?

by Cheri Roland

The longer we are here, the more this feels like the norm.   Why, we’re almost natives.  But then something will happen that points out just how naïve we are.  

Each semester, Doug and I put together the field education workbooks used by the seminarians to record their reactions and insights as they volunteer in the community.  We choose a theme, and pick scripture passages which are cornerstones of the Christian faith.   My favourite part of this gig is reading the seminarians’ reflections.  It is such a privilege peek into their world as they face new people and situations.

Writing the reflections is not intuitive for our students.  They were never encouraged to journal in school and many who are called to the ministry have never read the Bible.  (Not too unlike the US…) But they have had pastors scream scripture passages at them.  Part of our mission is to empower seminarians to live with scripture, to seek understanding with new eyes and minds.  What does this passage mean for my life?   

This semester the theme is “transforming challenges into opportunities”.    Our current assignment featured Luke 6:31, the Golden Rule, where Jesus says we are to treat others the way we would want them to treat us.   One of the assigned questions was, “What part of this passage is most difficult for me to put into action?”  The majority of responses went something like, “Making the other person do what I want him to”.  My initial reaction was, “EISH, how could they get it backwards?”    Then it hit me - my cultural blinders are back on again!    Obviously something has made them interpret this from the other side.

As I was wondering what could do a 180 on the Golden Rule, Jenny, one of our English teachers, shared with me what she had just learned from her Zulu languagestudents during a class discussion.  In many of the traditional black cultures, like Asian cultures, a new wife becomes property of the husband’s family.   Usually this set us a competition between in-laws, a struggle that has played out for generations.

Here’s the example the students gave to Jenny:  After dinner the husband decides to help his wife by washing the dishes.  Mother-in-law immediately pounces on daughter-in-law.  “You laid a spell on him! What did you put in his food? “  (Since mother did not rear him to wash dishes, it must be witchcraft.)   Jenny asked if this animosity was present in Christian homes; her students assured her, “Oh, yes, even high up Christians, like bishops.”   Of course a toxic home atmosphere poisons all within the family, and colors the understanding of scripture.

Survival of the fittest was the order of the day before Jesus came with His revolutionary message.  It still is seen in the traditional belief that there is a finite cloud of resources available to any given group, and each member is entitled to an equal share.  When the group sees someone that has become more successful than others, it means he has used more than his rightful share of resources, thereby stealing from everyone else.  He must be punished and the evidence of his success, removed.  Because of this belief, people are actually driven out of their communities, contributing to unemployment, homelessness and poverty.   The destruction rent by this tradition effectively reduces the tribe, village, or community to the lowest common denominator.

For centuries it has been said that the measure of civilization/society is how they treat their weakest members.   We’ve told you about the seminary’s partner agencies who serve as refuges for the children who have been thrown away here.   Their disabilities are viewed as evidence of displeased ancestors.  Parents go to great expense to “fix” them, often resorting to witch doctors that use unspeakable “muti” to appease these ancestors.  Every semester our reflection questions ask the students assigned to these orphanages to discuss the causes and prevention of such abuse.  But they will rarely address these issues that cry out for justice.

Two weeks ago I went to White Cross Disabled Hope Centre with the group.  We were happily greeted by several of the more mobile kids who led us outside to play.  There is always a mattress on the ground with scattered lumps of little people under blankets who have been rendered quadriplegic; they lie all day at the caregivers’ feet as the others sit or hop around them.  Siphiwe, just a little guy, was lying on his side, his eyelids fluttering over a vacant stare.  His upper body was developed but his waist and lower body were pitifully atrophied.   Although he is the size of a toddler, I was shocked to learn he is ten years old.  He had just returned from a home visit over the weekend.   Stewart, founder of this agency, lifted Siphiwe’s shirt to show me a traditional ancestors’ green cord that had been tied around his waist.  I asked why it wasn’t removed.  Our own seminarians quickly assured me, “You can’t take it off!  That is to ensure the ancestors give good prayers.”  I shuddered.  This is deeply imbedded stuff.  In ancestor worship, Jesus is still just one of the boys.

No wonder seminarians have a hard time with the Golden Rule.  No wonder the mission of SMMS is “Forming transforming leaders for church and nation.”  As our late president Ross used to say, the very future of this continent is at stake. 

NEWS: HOME AND ABROAD

by Doug Roland

29 August, 2012

Pietermaritzburg, South Africa

The last three days have reminded me why we are here.  Things have happened that are unfortunately common and rarely get any media attention.  Here, they are daily, routine events. Back home the news is about a hurricane and the RNC convention in our hometown resulting in:  massive media coverage, blocked streets, cops everywhere, discreet visits to the shadier bars and clubs, parties, millions being spent by delegates, the obligatory volumes of hot air, balloons and confetti.    To me the contrast between those events and what follows is blinding.

Regular readers know that the centerpiece of our job is managing the field education program at the seminary.  It involves sending seminarians to a number of non-profits where they volunteer and, in the process, develop both practical ministerial skills and an appreciation of the communities that pervade this country.  Monday and Tuesday, we visited three of our field education partners where these tasks take place. 

Monday   Up a long, winding road at the edge of town we come to a project named "Walk in the Light."  It is a small beacon of hope to the mostly wretched township of Haniville.  Homes are made from whatever materials someone can afford.  Some are solid concrete, stuccoed and painted brightly.  Others are made from corrugated metal sheets. Still others are mud.  The water pipes in Haniville are broken. Tank trucks drive through the broken streets to fill the pales, buckets and jars that people bring. The ill, elder and lames have to rely on others to bring water to them.  In many houses electricity is non-existent or stolen.  

We joined the non-profit partner and three seminarians to visit a shut-in. The house sits up the steep rocky slope from dirt road.  It is made of mud,  stones, and a metal roof with major leaks. As we waited outside in the bright sunshine for the invitation to enter, we could see nothing in the small dark interior of the house. It looked more like a cave than a 21st century home. 

Soon after, the six of us filed in where we met Frank who was sitting on a sunken couch. Frank and his sister occupy the house though she was not there. The one room home was divided by a ragged sheet hung on a thin wire.  Frank spoke only in whispers and gestures.  He had suffered a recent stroke that affected his left side.  The visit had been pre-arranged and he looked at all of us.  After some discussion about his condition,  a seminarian and Cheri teamed up to bridge the language/cultural barrier in an effort to help him. They demonstrated some basics tips on how to restore movement in his left side by lifting his left leg, massaging his hands, manipulating his arm and the like.  Frank concentrated on these angels of mercy. His face, though frozen by paralysis, changed from fully neutral to a faint gleam of excitement in his glistening dark eyes.  He understood that he was being helped to restore his health, and that there was, after all, something he could do to help himself. It was a powerful example of bringing hope to a person in need.  Sure, he wasn't cured.  He might never be.  But he'll remember the day that perfect strangers came to him with good news.

A seminarian then prayed in Frank's language.  Another wanted to sing and we joined in.  Frank sat quietly but undoubtedly was singing in his heart.  

Tuesday.

We drove downtown to a another project named Tabitha House.  It's a large orphanage.  We were told that two of its staff members had died over the weekend from an outbreak of meningitis in a nearby, densely populated township.  42 residents also died. There may be more.  Some simple hygiene could have saved lives.  Nothing appeared in the press.

From there we made a short trip to Key Ministries.  It is a program for an estimated 3,000 refugees residing in Pietermaritzburg.  Key was founded by Pastor Sampson, a refugee from Burundi.  It is his passion to minister to this population.  He feeds himself and his family by making African shirts.  We are the proud owners of two of them.  There is a dribble of outside support. 

Two of our seminarians are stationed there daily to assist him. Others come later in the week. Key's office is but a few blocks from where many of the refugees live. 

South Africa is seen from many other countries on the continent as a wealthy country, a place where a person can build a new life and raise a family. They are hampered mostly by three issues  First, many of the bureaucracies in this country are heavy laden with rules, and staff who can't read them.  As a consequence, it can take several years to get a work permit, and that's if you are diligent.  Then there's the catch 22 - employers are reluctant to hire.  Xenophobia has not gone away and is embedded in the poor South African communities.  Hate groups intimidate anyone who wants to help the refugees.  Potential employers are reluctant to hire even a qualified and documented refugee.  We were shown a "hate" document threatening reprisal to any agency or employer who helps refugees.  It was e-mailed to Pastor Sampson and is a real concern.

The refugees have found "housing"  in dilapidated, formerly genteel, buildings.  We visited two families from the DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo.)  At the first house we met a man, his wife and one of his 7 children.  The father had been a manager of a hospital back home. The family tries to survive by selling candy on the sidewalk. They stay in one room about 9'x9' , the size of a nice walk-in closet. They were very gracious and we enjoyed using the few French words we know.  It was a very nice time for us.  Soon we left and the family returned to the small dark room not knowing what the next day might bring. 

The other family consisted of an HIV+ mother of four whose husband died of AIDS while refusing ARV treatment.  The baby is about 3 weeks old.  There is fifth child of the father in the household, but via a different woman.  

Their apartment is reached from an alley, then an ascent of three floors on paint-spatters steps.  There were no lights and we heard no people.   At the top, we entered a crowded  passageway about 5 feet in width that acts as a kitchen:  one or two pots, a pan, a pan for water, a hot plate.  A few food items on the floor. The "apartment" was the remnant of a much larger room subdivided by a badly cut drywall.  There was a small bed and one double.  All this for about $350/month.  

The mother and baby were bundled on the double.  She did not speak.  So, Pastor Sampson told us her story, how the family fled from the DRC to South Africa for safety and their hope for better days.  As he spoke tears trickled down his face.  She was his first client, and he remains the only spiritual support she has.  For Pastor Sampson, she is a vital reminder that it always starts with one person. It sustains him in his struggling mission, the only one of its kind in the city.  

We, as a seminary, have loaned seminaries to assist him in whatever way they can by helping with administrative matters, document review and expanding the all-important visits to this immigrant population.   

Wednesday.

Last week, Thursday through Sunday, about 50 seminarians went north to minister to families and individuals in remote, rural places.  It's part of an annual program.  Seminarians stay in homes as available.    The time is spent in visiting homes of the needy, the aged, the sick.  Worship and healing services are conducted in the evenings.  Cheri and I did this the first year we were here.  While it was very strange to us, we are very glad we did it.

This morning, seminarians who had attended the event this year announced in chapel that, sometime during the last few days, his hostess from the weekend was found dead, having been raped and decapitated.  Her name was Andile.  

As I alluded above, there are few if any outcries when "small" things like these happen.  Judging from what we see on TV, mass outrage is reserved for the government, labor strikes and powerful political factions.  The rest is considered the norm.    

It is through these experiences that we challenge the seminarians to place them in biblical contexts, to exercise transformative techniques, to literally be Christ's hands and feet, and to speak the truth to injustice. 

As we enter our last few months here, we are compelled personally to ask what it all means and how do we reconcile this with to living back in our little paradise called Davis Islands.  Where would you start?