LIFE AS A STAFF MEMBER

by Cheri Roland

“Ach, shame!” is the Afrikaners' response when we relay the events of the past two weeks to our walking club pals. “Whew!” is probably the equivalent American exclamation. Who knew how complex and time consuming registering and orienting 99 students would be? After this adventure, our hats go off to teachers and administrators at all levels of the educational spectrum. It is just short of a real life miracle.

As I was emailing friends a thumbnail sketch of our activities the first six months as staff members of the Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary (SMMS), it occurred to me that we haven’t really explained what has kept us occupied from 7:30-4:30 Monday through Friday since August 2010. Since neither of us has ever been on staff (pronounced staaahf) of an institution of higher learning before, we had no clue what we would actually be doing when we bid goodbye to the familiar last July. Additionally, our son suggested that perhaps several of our blog readers might be puzzled by how we became staff members of a seminary in South Africa.
“Why are you here?” is the frequently asked question. Our pat answer is, “Because the Lord told us to come.” That sounds rather presumptuous or sanctimonious or preposterous, and perhaps all three. But the fact is for several years we had been focused on our desire to give back, to step out in faith, to be used for something bigger, all those warm and fuzzy phrases that make you want to retch. There was a lot of discernment during this process that didn’t make sense until His timing and plan came together, and BLAM - there we were, and our prayers to be used by Him actually caught up with us! As it came to pass, Doug’s background of 4 ½ years teaching plus 35 years in transactional law and mediation translated into a skills set perfect for our current task. My job nursing for 22 years with Tampa’s jail population provided me with great stories and a wide range of experiences teaching, assessing and managing diseases, people and processes. Through an amazing journey guided by other Christians’ encouragement and faith, we finally landed in this small university town charged with helping to birth an infant ministerial training center for all of southern Africa.

Before leaving,one of our biggest concerns in coming here was that we would be bored. Ach, shame! But not to worry! God heard that prayer, too. We, in typical American fashion, hit the ground running in August and haven’t looked back. Now we run out of hours in a day. You should see my desk, or not…

Seminarians are different animals than theology trained students at a university: seminarians are being prepared to be pastors with their hearts and hands engaged to serve others, not simply their intellect. And that is where “the Americans” fit into the plan. Our first priority was to assess the current “field work” program, experiences designed to introduce the seminarians to encounters with the widest range of vulnerable people possible. What parts of the existing program were or were not working? We found a structure that had potential but lacked oversight. Because of a three way breakdown in communication, the program had imploded before we arrived. Yet, because this is a required core course, we needed to be able to evaluate seminarians at semester’s end. Oddly enough, the country-wide strike of hourly paid workers came to our rescue.

One day in September the entire seminary volunteered en mass at a huge psychiatric hospital across town to help reduce the suffering of those patients and support the few committed nurses brave enough to cross the strikers’ picket lines. Several seminarians even continued to help out for weeks, whenever their schedule allowed. So, when SMMS needed an agency to accommodate all those registered in the field work class, the hospital kindly accepted 70 volunteers every Thursday afternoon for a month, with the nursing supervisors dutifully filling out evaluation forms for us. The processes, paperwork and organization involved in mobilizing 70 people for this task was eye opening. Besides stationing students in the wards to foster one-on-one relationships, we had painters who transformed the day care center and crews who weeded the huge on-site vegetable garden, using supplies and equipment provided by the Seminary.

So we were able to avert a potential red tape crisis. But after the Academic Board meeting earlier this week, we were welcomed into the real world of realities and responsibilities of having detailed course outlines and class notes submitted before the course even begins, of intricacies of evaluating students’ work, of moderators who continually check if your course and grading are consistent and with your projected outcomes. There is so much more behind the scenes happening that funnels into that final grade on a transcript. May I again offer a heartfelt “Ach Shame.”

Concurrently with rescuing the existing field work we were building creating a directory of humanitarian organizations already doing the Lord’s work in and around Pietermaritzburg. I’ve lost track of how many agencies we surprised with cold calls, and how many referrals we followed up. We think our strange accent was an asset; doors were opened out of sheer curiosity. Brits, Canadians or Americans too naïve to know better? Soon we were getting around town with the help of Garmin and our new car (another story). We invited prospective partners to visit us in our (impressive) facility, offering them a sense of the mission driving these partnerships. As we forged relationships and and set up training for the seminarians, we quickly concluded the program needed a fresh face. Even the name needed tweaking; seminarians equated “field work” with slave labor. How could their perception of punishment be transformed into an emulation of Jesus’ servanthood? Or in nursing language, how does one become infected with compassion?

While we lined up the agencies which mutually fit our requirements, we were still struggling with the details of the overhaul. How could we effect a critical attitude change, credibility, supervision, on-going evaluations, weekly attendance, topped off with ensuring communication between seminary staff and agency, agency and seminarian, and staff and seminarian? In November, shortly before the close of our first semester, one of the seminarians brought us her workbooks from a previous Bible college course. Voila! This was another answer to prayer, providing us with the idea for a framework upon which to hang our proposed program. As the seminarians left for the end of the 2010 year, Doug and I were frantically cranking out document upon document, culminating in a folder for each agency and a workbook for each seminarian, hopefully solving our multifaceted dilemmas. Ross, our president, worked for hours with me and my ignorance of the computer’s capabilities to turn out the finished products. What a wonderful Christmas present those prototypes were! We were able to leave for our time off without the nagging anxiety of unfinished business hanging over our heads.

In the meantime, I was the “school nurse”; another story. Sufficient to say, we continue to learn what it means to be a Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary staff member. Never a dull moment :)

A Box of Delights

by Doug Roland

After 6 months living in Pietermaritzburg, the bloom is off the rose. Things have become familiar -we don't need the Garmin to go to the grocery store, find a nearby church, or go to a park. Cricket (the sport) drones on for weeks at a time sucking up a lot of TV air time. While at first we were met regularly with wonderful surprises, charming customs and practices, such are now routine. It's common after living in one place for awhile. Locals tell us that we've been to more places in the country than they have. Back home, we can say the same thing about Florida. People live habitually - it's comfortable, predictable and safe. It would be easy for us to slip into that so we have to find new, more subtle things that amuse and delight. We refuse to go there. We are dedicated to staying out of the box. Here are a few samples of recent finds:

a free local "newspaper" is stuffed into our mailbox each week. It includes TV listings for the next week, except Thursday - always Thursday.

Similarly, there is a website for the local mall, including movies times at its multiplex. But the dates are always at least a week old.

Tomato stakes (you know, keeping the vines off the ground) are named "stoppers".

Ham from the leg of the pig is called "gammon". Tastes the same, though.

Chocolate chips, the kind you make cookies with, are rare and found only in thimble size containers. This in a continent with some of the world's best cocoa.

There is a little restaurant north of here called the "Sticky Fig". (It's just down the road from the "Pickle Pot.") One of its specialties is a fig sandwich. It's great.

We would pronounce 8:30 as eight-thirty. Here, it's hah-pahst eight.

There is a common road sign on the limited access highways that reads "Average Speed Prosecution". What the h___ does that mean?

In the US, we approach a very large truck with a small truck behind it with a broad sign that says: WIDE LOAD. Here, it's ABNORMAL.

Many locals don't know where they are. They can give you great directions but usually without street or road names. Instead, you are directed by landmarks (FNB Bank; soccer stadium; Pic N' Pay; the old jail; etc.) Never mind asking for an address for the GPS. But they do know how to get there. And now, for the most part, so do we.

Yesterday was trash pick-up day. It must be a big job. There was the truck driver and maybe a passenger, accompanied by four assistants hanging on to the back. When the truck slows, all four jump off running through the street, hollering loudly at each other, presumably in a sort of coordinated pickup of 3 black garbage bags. The neighborhood dogs, seeing four guys in blue work uniforms running through the street, went into a frenzy, waking those who have chosen Friday to sleep in. From a municipal service standpoint, the efficiency is doubtful, but it's good theater.

Finally, a preview of coming attractions. It's time for our car to go in for "routine" service. Typically, that means, oil, filter, checking fluids. Since we had not been to this dealer before, we were required to come in, show i.d., and fill out forms (Oh to have the concession on forms in this country.) I asked about how long the service would take. "Most of the day", they replied. We have a broken tail light and also need a second key. This means parts. If they know you need a part, you must first pay for it; the dealer orders it and will call you when it's in. You pick it up at one counter on the day of service and take it to the another counter. It is not without reason that I doubt the Tuesday date will hold. How many other parts doesn't the dealer stock? Will they run an MRI on the car and find a need for more parts? "Sorry, you'll have to reschedule until the part(s) comes in." Here's what I'm thinking: the car's warranty will run out in about 500 kilometers. If we are delayed another couple of weeks . . . . well, you get the idea. This could take a while. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, we will continue to seek meaning in the odd corners and serendipitous turns of our journey.

WHATEVER

by Cheri Roland

New Year's Eve is an excellent excuse to have a party, even in South Africa. Doug and I received an invitation from our neighbors two doors down, Alison and Ian whom we had met thru our walking club. It's hard to meet people here outside of the seminary, so we were eager to get the opportunity to connect with our new surroundings.

This neighborhood is mostly white working class with medium sized concrete block and stucco forgettable rectangular homes surrounded by inventive high walls and gates all topped with various uncomfortable deterrents and hung with brightly colored signage cheerfully proclaiming "Armed Response" from a myriad of security companies. Vegetation is surprisingly Florida-like, but these plants are prickly and on steroids. I can feel them growing. Many flowering trees are currently softening the otherwise thorny succulents that line the path, threatening to impale unwary pedestrians. Zoning here allows extra buildings behind houses, so most sport a variety of opportunities for income-producing lodgers, and many yards park an assortment of vehicles. Virtually every home here has at least two attack dogs that enthusiastically charge the gates with every passerby. And this street is a traffic thoroughfare - for runners and walkers (a surprisingly large numbers of fitness-conscious PMB-ites regularly traverse these big hills), folks walking their dogs, really causing pandemonium, and the regular constant to and fro of domestic and day labor workers in their layers of brightly colored dress, caps or turbans on their heads, ladies often waddling under huge sacks balanced on top, all loaded down with any number of bags and sacks and umbrellas. Five houses away at the top of the hill is a taxi stop (no regular public busses here; a taxi is a crammed 13 or so passenger van), so folks are always waiting, resting awhile on the meter high cement road signs if they are lucky. Down the hill and bordering our valley across the street is the N-3 highway going west to Johannesburg and east to Durbin. In between is our "One Hundred Acre Wood" which certainly would have added to Pooh's and Eyore's adventures. It is a long stand of Australian eucalyptus harboring the extremely noisy African ibis, cousin to our silent, well behaved white ground-peckers. But these are huge dark glossy monsters that insist on emitting ear splitting squawks whenever they move, preferably in concert, and begin this unfortunate group activity at four AM, rain or shine (and it is shining at four AM, believe me). Adding to this auditory insult is the busy train track running about 1/2 kilometer away, curving around across the top of the ridge, so that its effect can echo across hill and vale. (We have taken to sleeping in ear plugs.) Directly behind us is the seminary. The asymmetrical tower cross fills the sky to the left. All we need is a gate cut through our back wall, and we could trot right into the Christ the Servant Chapel. And along its edge, now a strip of grass, will be our production garden. And that is my project for this new year.

The New Year's Eve party did not disappoint. Allison had their back garden (yard) decked out in a beach theme, and rain, drenching at times, just added to the wet and wild flavor. They had invited about forty revelers to help cheer in 2011, albeit about seven hours before we Rolands could honestly celebrate. Most guests brought major food - "Bring a plate of snacks" - trays and trays of heavy hors d'oeuvres but they scarped up my paltry ham and cream cheese pinwheels nonetheless. Somehow Doug and I managed to stay awake for the big 2011 countdown, drink some champagne and dance around with sparklers.

Interesting people with all sorts of odd experiences and thought provoking theories were circulating. Of course, being American in this small town is still a drawing card, so we were quite popular among the over thirty crowd. We finally caught up with our next door neighbors whom Doug had briefly spoken with shortly after we moved in. Vivian teaches math to 8-12th graders and is on the committee that writes the national competency exams; Garth teaches several musical instruments and has a piano gig two nights a week at a nearby hotel restaurant singing and playing requests. (I must follow up to see if I could get keyboard time somewhere.)

At one point I was chatting with Quintis, an Afrikaaner thirty-something dad. True to form, as soon as he found out we'd been here for five months, the first question invariably was, "How do you like it?" And we answered, as always, "Oh it's great!", although I must admit I'm not as adamant with that reply as I was at first. (I mentioned to Doug the other day that the excitement of newness and wonder has faded.) Quintis was more interested in our real assessments of life here than many others have been, and continued to question me. I found myself verbalizing impressions and experiences that had been swimming around in the deep recesses for some time. Man, this guy was asking for it! But New Year's Eve is often accompanied by a lack of good judgement.

I started a litany that could have really hurt his feelings, but he surprised me by voicing agreement. In fact, he eloquently summed up the state of affairs with, "If you are OK with mediocrity, this is a great place to live". In my short time here, this WHATEVER attitude seems to pervade all levels of life, pressing down with a weight that is palpable. He concurred that here eventually one just must shrug and give in, or end up being visited at Town Hill Mental Hospital.

After a couple of drinks of New Year's Eve cheer, my examples of startling circumstances struck me as more and more funny. Maybe tops on my list were problems with "the Municipality". Power and water outages happen out of the blue, and last for at least eight hours after being reported to the Municipality; the last time this happened, the worker explained that we had been notified the day before that the power would go off- right! We live in the middle of the block; the two houses next to us and immediately across the street are on a different grid than the rest of the long street. No one knows why. Where there are sidewalks, the sewer access six foot deep holes are often uncovered for months, with no safety provisions in place. Now that it's summer, the grass along the roads has grown by leaps and bounds, now up to my armpits, and has yet to be mowed. In other areas we've seen abandoned mowers surrounded by a small islands of futile attempts. Trash pick-up is another mystery, and even the locals just shake their heads. Schedules? What schedules? Today I learned that the municipality workers expect "Christmas boxes", meanwhile slacking off during working hours in order to demand overtime. Postal service is another nebulous concept, and we are clueless in this department. Our mail has ended up at four different locations, and we always have to pay varying amounts to retrieve it. Only junk mail get delivered to our gate. Major highways seem to be in fairly good repair, but the rest of the roads are happy to inform the travelers that there will be potholes for the next 30 km; for fun I've clocked it, and the next pothole sign always occurs with a 10 km overlap, just as so not to disappoint. I guess there are no plans to actually repair the road…, just make more signs. Recently, we decided to go to the driver's license place to see if we really needed to have SA drivers' licenses. When we mentioned this to others, we usually got a "Good luck with that" response.

TV viewing is entertaining. We are trying to stay on the cheap, so our options are limited. There are three SABC stations, one for Afrikaans, one for Zulu, and one for English. All three use the same news stories, the same video clips, the same weather graphics. If we were clever, we could probably pick up some foreign words. We have been reduced to watching re-runs of reality shows from years ago; Survivor - Gabon is currently our big thrill during the week. I'm sure the news is slanted. A surprising story caught my attention the other day, and I made Doug listen the next time it came on. A man had been arrested for driving 235km/hr, in the 120km/hr zone. He told the judge he was on his way to his sick mother and was sorry. So the judge "let him off because he pleaded guilty". So I guess this means that if you admit guilt accompanied by the most overworked excuse known, you incur no penalty. SWEET.

We've noticed the glut of employed official workers, especially in "security" capacities. Their are usually two or three uniformed people standing at the entrance to a building, two or three standing just inside, two or three at the next turn, and to what end? It makes me nervous, as if they are expecting an armed insurrection. Over-employment seems to be the norm here. It's a shame that efficiency has proportionately decreased as the numbers of employed has increased.

Looking back on my conversation with Quintis, I'm smiling. We are in a foreign country, after all, and we are no longer visitors. How disappointing it would be if life here turned out to be the same as at home! Half the fun is finding these differences - and celebrating them! So I lift my glass to South Africa and 2011. May we continue to respect this country's culture and all her peculiarities as we concentrate on making God's love a reality WHATEVER, WHEREVER.

SIlent Night. Holy Night

by Doug Roland

Here in South Africa, the last two weeks of the year are frequently called the "Festive Season". For us, it has seemed empty. The carol services we attended barely mentioned Advent. At no time did I feel a sense of wonder. Decorations are the exception rather than the rule. "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Christmas" greetings were rare. We organized a covered dish staff Christmas party at the house. There is an unfamiliar reluctance to cook among a number of people we know. And like the younger generation back home, RSVP has fallen into disuse.

It's really not anyone's fault. It's what can happen if you risk hoping that local custom will mirror the seasonal celebrations you've grown up with. Our lack of interest in the season this year arises out of our displacement in a faraway land. The theology has not changed - only the landscape. We know the story but there is no emotion attached. Being away and separated from family and friends is a new experience, one hard to plan for. We discovered quickly that we cannot replicate what we know and remember Christmas to be. Admitting that to ourselves has helped. We just ain't in Kansas anymore. All this has caused us to look more deeply into the our traditional response to the Christmas story now placed in the context of this country.

More than any other time of the year, Christmas is a family affair. Our feelings about and responses to Christmas were planted when we were young children. Families - relation, extended and church, all had traditions. We looked forward to them and the joyous opportunities to share ourselves and our new toys with others. I remember the first BB gun, a very special book I still have, indoor trees with lights, the dog sniffing and looking for his present, and the smell of turkey baking. Later, relatives or close friends we had not seen for a long time knocked on the door. There was the year that Nat spent studying in England and came home for Christmas break. The day he we went to a birthday party for his Great-Aunt Clara, who became the namesake for his first child 12 years later. Family is at the core of out relationship to this holiday.

Then there are the traditions - the Christmas Eve services with candles and carols; the reading of the Night Before Christmas; waking up at 5am; who plays Santa?; who goes first?; playing outside with our new stuff after Christmas dinner.

All that was missing this year. It would have been easy to miss the whole point and slide apathetically through the season. Instead, the story was re-told in an unexpected way.

Several of you have asked what did we do this season? Well, we didn't mope around.

We went to three carol services - all different. One at the seminary, one at a local church in the tent overflow, and one in a tiny Anglican church in a village named Himeville. (We were there to house/dog-sit for a retired couple who were spending Christmas with family 2 hours away.) While each service was nice, there's still no place like home.

Himeville rests in the foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains, perhaps the most dramatic mountains in the country. Christmas Eve arrived on a rare cloudless day. We had a driver (who was also a bird expert) take us up 30 miles of rocky, steep road known as Sani Pass to the mountain kingdom of Lesotho. The four-wheeler bounced and churned its way up switchback roads clutter with rocks, the occasional broken-down vehicle, and luggage unloaded to reduce the weight of an overloaded van. At the top, our passports were stamped at Lesotho passport control, operated by one man in a tiny building. It sat just across the road from the highest pub in Africa, in a geographic sense.

Lesotho is a sparse, but beautiful land and one of the poorest countries in the world. We drove inland about 10 kilometers. A cold summer wind swept across the broad, green and rocky landscape dotted with stone huts, sheep and a few horses. The huts are for the shepherds who on that day were wrapped in heavy wool blankets tending to their flocks. The shepherds are mostly teenagers unable to find any other employment. For six months of the year, they live alone in the huts, sheltered from the cold nights of summer. The sheep were herded to grazing areas and small ponds. One herd met us on the road down the hill headed for the market. Each shepherd is responsible for every sheep in the flock. He must protect them from predators and count them regularly. It is lonely work.

Christmas Day opened cloudy and wet and stayed that way. Nonetheless, we hiked for several hours near a river. Along the way we met Germans and French which only proves that hikers everywhere are a little nuts. We were completely soaked and sacrificed at least one pair of boots. Later, we were invited by neighbors (still in Himeville) to come over for afternoon tea. There were about 9 of us altogether. The tea resembled red wine somehow. These folks were British, if not in citizenship, then in heritage. We joined them in a team game of Trivial Pursuit, United Kingdom edition. I did manage to answer a couple of questions. I knew that James Arness and Peter Graves were brothers. My team almost didn't believe me. (We won.) This was quite a privilege their Christmas afternoon and it had that feel of a family tradition.

So while this Christmas has been very different for us, Luke's story did not change. He begins with shepherds tending their flocks at night. This year, for us, the shepherds and their sheep were in the high plains of a tiny and poor mountain kingdom. It was our own special Christmas pageant and a stark reminder that, without all the lights, parties, games and food, a child was born, and none of us have been the same. Somehow, I think that spending our Christmas Eve in the mountains of Lesotho was not a coincidence.

Christmas 2010

Dear Family and Friends:

Many of you know that we send a Christmas letter out each year to those who do not live near us. This year, that means nearly all of you. You won’t be receiving a card as that would cost about as much as a plane ticket to Tampa. So we ask that this year and the next two, you settle for a post on the blog. We will miss your letters and cards this year. Feel free to contact us at dcroland@gmail.com and let us know what’s going on in your lives.
We arrived in Africa as volunteers in late July knowing only a little about what we would be doing. If we thought for a moment that it would be low impact work or easy, we were greatly mistaken. We knew what gifts God has given us, but we failed to appreciate that, over the decades, we had developed certain other skills, interests and passions. These, together with our gifts, are our tools - everyone has them. The humbling surprise is that when these tools are reconfigured and re-calibrated, then dropped into a country like South Africa, they can make a difference in ways we could not have predicted.

Our primary job is to develop and implement one of the core required courses at the seminary. The former “Field Work” course was not working for a host of reasons. We have taken on the task of re-inventing it into what we now call The Field Education and Ministry Course. The aim is to bring seminarians into close contact with people in need: those with or affected by HID/AIDS, crime, aging, hunger, abject poverty, dying, disabilities, malnutrition, injustices, gender bias - the whole panoply of issues that pervade the culture. Here the seminarians put their academic learning into practical hands-on ministry. One of our greatest joys has been meeting leaders in many agencies and projects that serve vulnerable populations, and asking them to provide opportunities for seminarians to serve. Through these contacts, we are developing a network of agency partners who understand that ministers are in a unique position to transform the nation. Some agencies have volunteered to provide training in listening and caring skills for people in crisis, transition, grief and dying. It has amazed and heartened us how receptive people are to participate in this project. Right now, it is still on paper, but ready to launch when the students return in late January. There will be bumps in the road, but the potential for seminarians to have experiences that threaten to change their attitudes from indifference to caring, and from passive observation to leadership are there.

From time to time, some people have responded in ways that reveal a subtle cynicism, as if to say, “It’s all been tried.” But cynicism, while convenient, is not an agent of change or transformation. We refuse let it direct what we are trying to do. This little job we thought we thought we were taking on is at once daunting and important. The training of servant leaders is very serious business.

We are living in a society that needs major re-tooling. The govenment drifts toward corruption nearly to the point of acceptability. The bureuacracy is choking initiative and creativity. For example, one of the local public hospitals serves 150 patients with a staff of 500. We read recently that there are 5 million registered taxpayers in South Africa and 13 million people who are receiving grants (welfare). We read statistics that 10% of juveniles believe that theft is justified if it is something you want, and that rape is justified if the girl wears suggestive clothing or he pays for the date. These conditions are not sustainable. And they are the tip of the iceberg. Only a change in the human heart can begin to restore communities. It will happen, if at all, one person at a time. In some small way, we believe we are helping in that effort by joining in the mission of the seminary: the forming transformative leaders for church and nation.

Taking on a challenge like this isn’t done for the recognition. Neither is it pollyannish or quixotic, unless hope has evaporated. We may never know what contributions our efforts produce. We do know that we were sent here to be faithful seed planters. God promises to do the rest. It really is what Christmas is about.

Cheri and Doug

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At this season of giving, we invite you to participate in this effort. We promise that this will be done only once each year. Ideally, we want you to come here, visit and gain understanding. If that is not feasible, you can help 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.

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.

MPOP

By Cheri Roland

Something’s happening here – but this is the good kind of something. Such was the impression Doug I received the first time we drove up the tree lined main road into the township of Mpophomeni, just 40 minutes north of the seminary.

Today the term “township” comes with a negative, at best, connotation. A township is an area, usually remote, established by the Apartheid government to assure separation of the races. It is a rabbit warren of squalor, HIV, and hopelessness. Violence, child-headed households, unemployment, starvation, open sewage, lack of water, alcoholism, cultural superstitions, witchcraft, and garbage heaps punctuated by ramshackle shacks of tin and mud are the norm. We have experienced many such areas in the developing world, unfit for human habitation.

But the township of Mpop, as we call it, paints a different picture. This large tract of land, lying between high contoured hills of sugar cane and trees, once belonged to a white farmer; in a reverse move from politics as usual, the farm was confiscated by the government to be used for the 35,000 displaced Zulus that now make up the Mpop community. This farmer was so distraught, after learning that his precious land was going to further the Apartheid cause, that he committed suicide. The majestic line of trees, reminiscent of rural roads in France, is courtesy of that original farm owner. As we travelled up and down the rutted dirt roads, we noticed actual yards around some houses, several with fences, flowers, and gardens. There are more goats and cows than in other townships. There are more children in their neat school uniforms. We looked at each other in amazement. We already had been told that this area has 82% unemployment and the highest rates of HIV infection in Kwa-Zulu Natal, the state with the overall highest HIV+ rate in all of South Africa. Add to that, as in most developing countries, the fact that work here is done by the women. In rural South Africa, the majority of these women are the grandmothers, or go-gos, taking care of their many grandchildren since the middle generation has died or abdicated their maternal responsibilities. The majority of men are nowhere to be found.

We were here to visit the Masibumbane HIV/AIDS Mission, which we eventually located in the only two storied house in the area. This organization seemed like the perfect place to establish a partnership with the seminary for our Field Experience and Ministry Course. Rob Kluge, a member of the local Hilton Methodist church, had single-handedly founded this mission in 1999 with the support of the Atonement Lutheran Church in Missoula, Montana. With their support, he purchased a small two room house, adding on a large back room and a second floor. It is now the headquarters of a comprehensive program of self-sustainability, dignity, empowerment, and hope for the entire area.

Supported by contributions from the US and members of his local congregation, Rob has developed and implemented a comprehensive package of 11 programs that are transforming this community from darkness into light. It all begins with a 6 step empowerment agenda to move the clients towards self-sufficiency within four months. The goals include improving the long-term physical, emotional and spiritual well-being of the families; the clients then will make a contribution towards rebuilding this community ravaged by sickness. The results “will practically demonstrate God’s love by His Spirit through Jesus Christ”. But there are NO hand outs here; the program is based upon the Biblical principle of “no work, no food”.

The clients move through the application process of understanding and accepting the ground rules (each week they are given tasks to do for which they will be rewarded), and their physical and material needs are assessed while they are provided help with expenses, which they must pay back in full with their first stipend. If they agree to abide by the requirements they are put on the waiting list.

The emergency phase encompasses the first two weeks during which all aspects of the program kick in: 1) the client receives the workbook in which given tasks are assigned and evaluated weekly, 2) full weekly food rations start, 3) money for electricity, cooking utensils and hot plate are given and recorded, 4) their children’s school and health status are addressed, 5) a system of disciplinary actions are initiated if obligations are not fulfilled, 6) accountability for earned money is demonstrated (clients must save a certain percentage), 7) emotional counselling is started, 8) first tasks of tidying the yard and house are assigned, 9) their CD4 count is drawn at the local clinic and if below 200 they are started on ARV’s, and 10) they are assisted in filing their grant applications (if HIV+ or have dependents, government assistance is available).

Step four is the stabilization phase, slated for six weeks. Now the Mission can start to assess if a client is willing to take initiative to better herself and family. She receives food in proportion to her performance of the given tasks; her Mission budget account, as well as an actual bank account, are opened; healthy life style, organic vegetable gardening and home-based care teaching starts; spiritual counselling is offered; her grant application process continues; her funeral policy is applied for (a monumental problem here - sans this policy, her death can sink her entire family); and she learns how to make and use a hot box, a kind of township crock pot, an insulated top and bottom cushion which serves to continue cooking the food, greatly decreasing fuel consumption.

During the rebuilding phase, she get trained to crochet very attractive handbags (marketed locally by the Hilton congregation), learns the basic principles of working with money, starts her garden, and is assisted with making a will and obtaining a title deed for her house.

Finally, after about 12 weeks, she enters the maintenance phase. Now, ideally, her family is strong enough physically, emotionally and spiritually to begin to care for itself. Her food rations stop so she must start buying food and utilize her garden produce. Spiritual and emotional counselling, as well as gardening advice, are still available. To give back to the community, she is encouraged to do up to two hours of voluntary service a week.

So that’s it in a nutshell. Isn’t this just a FABULOUS program? You can imagine how these efforts have served to change the face of Mpop, one person, one family at a time. The mission is staffed by professional administrators and counsellors. The volunteers are this misson’s success stories, their former clients. Now add to this program their two day care centers, or crèches, which provide love, health care, food and teaching to the community children, many of which are HIV+ themselves. The love of God is palpable in this place through the efforts of His servants striving to make life a bit more humane.

Rob Kluge, the sole developer of this program and pictured above in the blue sweater, has given me his permission to share his inspiration with anyone who is interested. For more details, see www.masibumbane.org.za. And I must add that parts of the above description of the program’s six phases I plagiarized from the mission information booklet; I must give credit where credit is due!

You can appreciate the blessings Doug and I have received personally as we have travelled the greater Pietermaritzburg area, establishing relationships with some of Jesus’ dedicated disciples. Masibumbane Mission at Mpop is just one of the agencies in which our seminarians will be privileged to serve during the upcoming years.