Adoption stories are always close to my heart, but our South African friend Raymond’s is exceptional—so much so that it deserves a separate blog on another day. For now, let it be said that his quest for the Mozambican relatives he never knew has resulted in parents he thought were dead, who understood Raymond had met the same fate as a child! There was excitement, there was thanksgiving, there was emotional exhaustion in this unexpected reunion. Yesterday was eventful on a number of fronts.
Since their son had come home, Raymond’s family decided to kill the fatted goat—but somehow, Abram and Dan were elected to do the butchering. The gory deed was captured on video, a piece of corrugated tin underneath to direct the flow of blood away from our team’s tents pitched nearby. By the time it was all said and done, there seemed to be more substance in the tub holding the entrails than on the kid’s scanty carcass. [Over the next days, Little Goat was to provide three meals for us: cleaned innards cooked up in a sauce over rice, other meat and bones the next night, and an honorary lunch just for the three older men (Dan included) consisting of the cooked head with cornmeal mush.]
Dan and I left the goat suspended from a tree, and walked with Raymond to visit Isabel, a village widow struggling to raise her two boys alone. Three old men sat under her tree enjoying a glass of something that appeared to be corn whiskey, served up by her eldest son, about 12 years of age. This is how a poor widow fills her children’s stomachs—she peddles one of the few things other poor people will buy.
Isabel is hoping we can help her. She picks through a pile of overgrown green beans from her garden, shelling the biggest ones and snapping the smaller ones into short lengths as we talk. We speak of helping her oldest son go on to secondary school. As is usual, her face is emotionless, but I see her shoulders slump—school is important to her, but I think she also hoped for more immediate relief. Our goal is not to give handouts but to think in long-range terms…but it’s very difficult to walk away from people who are struggling for daily bread. God, show us how best to use the resources we’ve been given! [Several days later we drop off 25 kilograms of ground corn, laundry soap, clothes and blankets—which seems woefully inadequate.]
Before we return home, we stop by the house of Raymond’s new-found sister, Hortencia. She lies on a mat in a windowless stick-and-mud hut with her one-year old daughter Nina and new boyfriend. We met her the night before when she came to greet Raymond. She wasn’t feeling well (headache and fever), and we prayed for her then.
Now, Hortencia is worse. She has a lot of pain near her ribs, has been to the clinic and has a handful of pills but is obviously not doing well. We make amateur guesses as to diagnoses, plead again for God’s healing, and promise to return in the morning.
Today some of our team transport Hortencia to the hospital in Maputo. Her breathing is shallow, she is in intense pain and seems almost delirious with fever. We sing softly and sponge her face and neck with a wet cloth while she moans. We suspect malaria on top of broken ribs from a fall. Baby Nina goes with—she is still breastfeeding. Nina is a chubby little darling with two reasons for flies to love her—a dripping gooey nose and constantly-damp cotton panties (no Pampers here).
It is a struggle not to be overwhelmed by the staggering needs on every side. How does one not become jaded or cynical? I will choose to believe there is a God who knows Isabel and her boys, who sits with Hortencia on the dirt floor in the darkness of her hut. “You hear, O Lord, the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them and you listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and the oppressed” (Psalm 10:17, 18). I will not look to the pitifully small lunch that I carry, but to the One who holds unending resources. I will plead with my Father not only for provision and healing, but for mighty streams of justice and mercy, for eyes and hearts to open to his transforming love.
Since their son had come home, Raymond’s family decided to kill the fatted goat—but somehow, Abram and Dan were elected to do the butchering. The gory deed was captured on video, a piece of corrugated tin underneath to direct the flow of blood away from our team’s tents pitched nearby. By the time it was all said and done, there seemed to be more substance in the tub holding the entrails than on the kid’s scanty carcass. [Over the next days, Little Goat was to provide three meals for us: cleaned innards cooked up in a sauce over rice, other meat and bones the next night, and an honorary lunch just for the three older men (Dan included) consisting of the cooked head with cornmeal mush.]
Dan and I left the goat suspended from a tree, and walked with Raymond to visit Isabel, a village widow struggling to raise her two boys alone. Three old men sat under her tree enjoying a glass of something that appeared to be corn whiskey, served up by her eldest son, about 12 years of age. This is how a poor widow fills her children’s stomachs—she peddles one of the few things other poor people will buy.
Isabel is hoping we can help her. She picks through a pile of overgrown green beans from her garden, shelling the biggest ones and snapping the smaller ones into short lengths as we talk. We speak of helping her oldest son go on to secondary school. As is usual, her face is emotionless, but I see her shoulders slump—school is important to her, but I think she also hoped for more immediate relief. Our goal is not to give handouts but to think in long-range terms…but it’s very difficult to walk away from people who are struggling for daily bread. God, show us how best to use the resources we’ve been given! [Several days later we drop off 25 kilograms of ground corn, laundry soap, clothes and blankets—which seems woefully inadequate.]
Before we return home, we stop by the house of Raymond’s new-found sister, Hortencia. She lies on a mat in a windowless stick-and-mud hut with her one-year old daughter Nina and new boyfriend. We met her the night before when she came to greet Raymond. She wasn’t feeling well (headache and fever), and we prayed for her then.
Now, Hortencia is worse. She has a lot of pain near her ribs, has been to the clinic and has a handful of pills but is obviously not doing well. We make amateur guesses as to diagnoses, plead again for God’s healing, and promise to return in the morning.
Today some of our team transport Hortencia to the hospital in Maputo. Her breathing is shallow, she is in intense pain and seems almost delirious with fever. We sing softly and sponge her face and neck with a wet cloth while she moans. We suspect malaria on top of broken ribs from a fall. Baby Nina goes with—she is still breastfeeding. Nina is a chubby little darling with two reasons for flies to love her—a dripping gooey nose and constantly-damp cotton panties (no Pampers here).
It is a struggle not to be overwhelmed by the staggering needs on every side. How does one not become jaded or cynical? I will choose to believe there is a God who knows Isabel and her boys, who sits with Hortencia on the dirt floor in the darkness of her hut. “You hear, O Lord, the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them and you listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and the oppressed” (Psalm 10:17, 18). I will not look to the pitifully small lunch that I carry, but to the One who holds unending resources. I will plead with my Father not only for provision and healing, but for mighty streams of justice and mercy, for eyes and hearts to open to his transforming love.
