Grateful

It’s been a beautiful day. It’s raining, the first in over 3 weeks since my arrival. I haven’t sweat a bead. As I sit here, a cool breeze refreshes my house. The powers been on and off all day and night. Never mind though, I don’t need it today. I’ve had all I need—time to rest, reflect and enjoy a few good books. And now, I sit with the opportunity to share with all of you, far away but so close to my heart.

It’s the simple things that have me hoping and content with life today. As I sit at the table looking out over the eucalyptus forest the mist continues to hang around as dusk is falling. Next to me I enjoy a simple luxury—an ice cold bottle of Coke.

I feel at ease today as I won the battle of ants that threatened my sanity for most of the week. I now can reclaim access to my kitchen counter as it has stopped looking like a moving sidewalk (moving with ants) and I may dare to put an item of food on it tonight in my dinner prep. Zenia, one of the girls from the mission, is a current hero in my eyes. She delivered to me a “mystery” powder from the Gondola market which, within minutes of a thorough sprinkle, thousands of millions of ants were falling to their death. Hopefully this powder isn’t too powerful of a carcinogen and I won’t be needing it often. Here’s a picture of what I swept off the top of an outlet (and the ground below) what apparently served as an entry point for these nuisances. Quadrillions of tiny ants…

It’s the simply things that make me REALLY grateful here. No more ants, coke from a bottle and the technology to stay connected. Also, as I lay in bed last night, listening to the rain falling on my roof, I started thinking of the homes of most people here—mud huts. How do they manage on cool, rainy nights like this? I drifted off to sleep praying for them.

I’ll never understand why I can blog on my laptop when the power is out with a bottle of Coke in hand in my warm, clean (relatively) house. I’ll never understand this but, I am grateful. Very grateful, for simple things.

My grateful heart feels peace and joy today.

Whom do we blame?

On Tuesday Carlos and I went to Zimbabwe to work on my visa process so that I am allowed to stay in the country longer than 3 months. The day went without a hitch and we were on our way home before dusk. I was struck by a monolog Carlos had with himself as we crossed the border. As we entered Mozambique, there was the usual line up of semi trucks waiting to cross the border, or whatever they do. As we passed one situation we witness a couple young girls conversing with the truck driver. Carlos and I looked at each other, hearts sick knowing the connection between truck drivers, prostitution and the rampant spread of HIV.

Carlos then spoke:
“Whom do we blame?

Blame no one!

Blame hunger?”

I sat in silence. I SIT in silence. Thinking about this monolog.  Whom do we blame?

Women’s Day

Yesterday was Women’s Day. At times I feel like I am at a Mozambican Ladies Aid gathering. I find myself wondering, who am I and how did I get here? as I sit with this group of women. Surely they must be solving all the latest village problems and world issues as they speak Shona a million miles a minute.  Occasionally I catch a word and join in on their laughter of things such as whether it’s more attractive to be “fat” and “curvy” or skinny! Voluptuous curves win out here!

It also seems that somehow the influence of the Western girls that have spent time with these ladies have now got them thinking they should start jogging—a completely non-African mentality. This had us all laughing as did the discussion as to what defines a women. There was much debate actually! Some say you need to be wise to be considered a women. Some say you need to have been through child-bearing and others say your a women at 18 years old, others say 25 years!

At the end of the day there were no problems solved and no jogging occurred. We laughed and we ate and I enjoyed my first Mozambican celebration of Women’s Day—an experience.

love

I guess I wasn’t prepared for the insult on my senses when I returned to do visits with the volunteers today in Gondola. Carlos was shocked afterwards when I said to him in Portuguese that “my heart is heavy.” I think he thought that I didn’t mean to say that.

I meant it to the core of my being.

The first visit we made was to a young lady who couldn’t have been more than 25 yrs old. But really, who can tell when you’re looking at a skeleton barely covered with flesh? The scene was straight from an awareness film regarding the AIDS pandemic in Africa. As the 3 of us encompassed her, she turned, as best she could to look at me. I pray she didn’t feel an ounce of shame in that moment. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to hold her. I wanted to touch her and let her know that she is NOT forsaken, she is not less, she is not untouchable. I held her arm, I stroked her skin wanting her to know she’s loved. Not by me, because of what worth could that even be? She is loved and adored by the Maker of the Stars. I pleaded for her. Her story is just the same as millions of others.  Her husband died, she’s left alone with 2 kids, she gets sick, leaves her kids with her husband’s mother to come live with her mother as she now wastes away—starred at as if they’ve all seen this multiple times before, helpless and blind. She’s just one—one that won’t make it through the weekend. Two new orphans will be statistics in Mozambique soon. This story is far more than statistical.

It seems I have written this same story before. I’ll probably write another next week. It doesn’t end. I practically can’t stand actually being part of what life is like here, but even more, I can’t stand not being part of it.

What an honor it is to love. The Lord sustains me.

On a happier note, here’s another Dara I met in Mozambique today: