Not What I Had Planned . . .
Posted by Linnea...

There are days when nothing goes as you’ve planned it. Monday the 26th was definitely one of them. I hadn’t slept well, for one thing. My thoughts were turbulent. News had come on Sunday night, via two emails, that set my feelings whirling, ambivalence sending roots deep into my heart so that I still am not at rest, days later. The Nyarafolo meeting Sunday afternoon had been wonderful until, near the end, Glenn thanked them for their fabulous gifts of presence, songs and presents to Doudou’s wife Gnimeni at her graduation from the Bible Institute, the previous day – we had been so very proud of them. To our shock the next comment from the leader was hypercritical of one individual, and from there the entire discussion went down the drain in a series of defensive and judgmental comments. After the meeting I had talked with a couple of the women and felt the deep hurt there. There was good reason for sleep to come slowly, and for my heavy heart upon waking. Nevertheless we woke early, as usual, and Glenn and I got on our walking clothes and drove out to the hospital station. Glenn warned me that our walk might not last long; the sky was overcast, and to the north and east it was black. We stretched, and as we began our circuit of the station the wind picked up and the darkness became palpable as the storm moved in. We drove home after just that first round. So I pulled out my Pilates DVD and mat, and began floor exercises in the dining room as the rain began plummeting down in earnest. Then three high school students ran into our front porch for shelter – Abou and two girls – deciding to wait out the rain there. I kept exercising for a couple more minutes, since I was out of the direct line of sight. But then the front door opened and they came into the living room; the wind was blowing the rain in through the porch screens. So that was it. I rolled up my mat, heated water in the electric kettle, and served them tea, then went to shower and dress. Glenn took them on to school after a while, since the rain didn’t stop. I got some work done that morning, Nyarafolo grammar research. But I had just gone to my desk in the afternoon when my friend Sali came in the front door to pick up some things she had left in the car Saturday, after the graduation celebration. She had worked so hard to make the Nyarafolo women’s participation into a grand event, and I knew that the previous day’s discussion would have left wounds. Besides that, she had had a heated exchange with another woman right afterwards. So I left my desk, and took the opportunity offered to console and counsel. Fortunately our relationship is close enough, and built on enough trust, that took my words in the spirit in which I intended them. We talked for two hours, ending with prayer as we so often do. She was fighting malaria again, and weak, so I truly appreciated the effort she made to actually come to me (knowing I would bring up those hard things!). I’m praying for further fruit to come from it all. While we were talking word came that a friend had died, and the funeral would be that very afternoon. So when Sali left, I pulled Glenn away from his desk too, sharing the news, and we went over to the Nyarafolo office to see what was being decided about our participation. The elderly woman who had passed away had lived in the village across the marigot (swamp) from Tiepogovogo during the early ‘90’s. She had had leprosy, and had lost her toes and fingers, so the fact that she regularly walked the kilometer or so on the little path to come to church spoke for her dedication. She had been sent there to live with a relative, and had previously been Catholic; we were Jesus-followers and the only close church, so she fellowshipped with us. None of us were ever sure how clearly she understood the gospel (and she was never baptized into our fellowship). Eventually she was sent to live with a different relative in Sokorro 2, on the road south of Ferke, and the group lost contact with her. We did visit her there in 2000 when we returned from our home assignment – Mom Boese had sent her a gift. She was doing well, and glad to see us. But, sadly, during the intervening years of the Crisis, the Christians had not visited her. Her relatives knew she had most recently been part of the Tiepogovogo Baptist Church, so they came to the mission – to the translation office – to announce her death and ask for someone to conduct the funeral. When Glenn and I walked across to the office, the two men were still sitting there in chairs placed under the mango tree, waiting for a response. That seemed odd enough. We greeted them and went in. The men – one young pastor, the Project team, some young men and our night guard from Tiepogovogo, and our courtyard manager were all at the big consultation table. The tension was palpable. They immediately rose to cede chairs to Glenn and me, but I hung back and leaned against the door while Glenn sat down. My place as a woman here is ambivalent in many situations: I am “boss,” and colleague, and sister in the Lord, and American (foreign) and educated, and not Nyarafolo. Nyarafolo women would not have been at the table, sadly enough. So I stood and listened. One of the men explained that they were at a standoff. Since the old woman’s status as a true believer was in question, at least one of the opinion leaders in the group did not think we should go do the funeral. It seemed he was worried that we compromise the gospel, that people would think a person could say they were a Christian but still do “whatever” (he suspected fetish involvement, since this is common among Catholics here). If we went, he felt we should not sing or do anything that might be considered “celebrating.” Others thought it was important that we go, that we would dishonor the name of Christ if we did not go. They asked what we thought. Glenn shared that it seemed that our going would be a chance to truly share the gospel, and that the Lord himself is the only one who could know the state of the woman’s heart. And he asked me to speak. I was unsure at first that I should speak, feeling the tension, but eventually the sense of Spirit pressure within made it imperative that I speak. So I said that it seemed to me we must go; that it was obvious the villagers saw her as a Jesus-follower or they would not have sent for us, and that if we did not go it would not at all be understood – it would seem like a gesture of disrespect for her, would let her family down, and would shame the name of Jesus. I added that I could think of nothing we had discussed at our workshop on funerals (in 2002) that would indicate we should not go, and that since we had decided then that singing was our “sacrifice” in such a situation (replacing animist sacrifice), that I thought we should sing. The man who truly felt we should not go was looking down to the side, unable to meet my gaze, and I felt sorrow for his position. His conscience, more rigid and legalistic than mine, was definitely hurting. To ease the pressure on him, I said I was leaving to go pray that they would know what to do. Soon they sent a couple of men out to tell the callers that we would be in the village by 5:00, about 30 minutes from then. Someone went to the market to buy a grave cloth for us to take as a gift (along with some money) and to tell one of the Tiepogovogo women who was in town that day about the funeral; some went home to get things; the pastor prepared a short message; Glenn put on closed shoes and I changed into appropriate African dress. Nine of us piled into our van, the Peace Train, and went south to Sokorro 2. I was the only woman entering the funeral courtyard with our group of men. I followed them around the circle of old men, bowing and shaking hands and greeting them all, but when the men accepted seats in a circle of plastic chairs set next to the old men I left them and went over to where women were sitting on benches, bags and one low twig chair under another tree. I greeted the old women first, who lit up and showed their astonishment as I responded to their greetings (she speaks Nyarafolo!!) then moved to shake hands with the younger mothers in the back. Two babies cried when I touched them, so I moved away, but sat on the bench next to one of the moms. She said her baby was probably afraid of my hair (long, white, probably shining in the sunlight – so different from that of other women there) and I smiled, saying I was sorry, what could I do? She said I could give it to her! We waited. The Tiepogovogo woman, Geneba, came from the market and took a seat next to me. Another woman arrived, a close relative, who put her hands on her head and began wailing as she entered the doorway of the house where the body lay. Several men got up then and joined her. They were evidently washing the body, and wrapping it in white homespun grave cloths. When they laid the swaddled body on two grass mats and carried it into the courtyard, our group of Christian men stood up and ranged themselves near her and began a short service. The one who had dissented had come with us but stood silent, although normally he would have led it all. This situation opened the way for a couple of the laymen who have not usually taken the lead, to lead . . . and who knows how the Lord will use this??? One explained the history of the woman’s relationship to us, and asked the other to pray to begin the service. Then he led us in the one song they all know about heaven, and old one saying that there is no pain, or sickness, or bad stuff there, only joy. When they began singing, Geneba and I walked over from behind the women to stand with them and sing. Then Pastor Fuhoton gave a message, with a clear presentation of the truth about Jesus and about the choices we make that determine whether we are in heaven. Straight Nyarafolo, the whole service – Wow!! He had been a child and young teen when the woman had attended church in his village. And he is not yet ordained, but – as has happened before – that doesn’t matter when it’s time to step into the gap. One of the young men from Tiepogovogo closed in prayer, and we headed for the cemetery. Four men picked up the grass mats and carried the body, wrapped in cloths and tied with string, between them. We Christians followed first, navigating the rough paths through tall grass to a field between the southern end of the village and the main road. The sun was setting in the west, across the road, as we came to the hole prepared in the earth. Red dirt from the excavation was mounded up next to it, although the surface dirt is taupe clay. Only Geneba and I joined the men who gathered at the gravesite. Women are not allowed to approach the grave for Muslim/animist rites, so the small crowd of women stopped down the path, where they could not quite see anything. Some of the village men had joined us, however. The four carriers set the mats down, and lowered the body into the grave, feet pointing north, head south. Fuhoton grabbed some red dirt and told about how we are made from dirt, and to dirt we return, and threw it down on the body. The mats were laid over her, and then the young villagers grabbed dabas (short-handled hoe-shovels) and began scooping the dirt into the grave while we watched. In a short while the dirt was mounded over the grave, balanced to their satisfaction. So we all walked back to the village. It wasn’t long before we “asked for the road;” having received it, our spokesman addressed the group and explained that, as Christians, we do not believe we need to play balafons in order to help the soul reach heaven, that we and left. I kept wondering what the villagers had thought of the impromptu, terribly short ceremony. When we got back to the house, one of the laymen who had been involved came inside with us. He was excited. He knows some of the women’s relatives from there, and he felt that our gesture had been deeply appreciated. Glenn asked if he would be interested in following up on this, and he actually latched onto that idea eagerly. He thought the other layman would be equally interested. Then he saw me come in and turned to say that he had noticed that the “old women” had been really impressed that I had come over to sit with them. I’m glad. I hope that my small gesture did something to let them know that they are loved by the Most High God. I hope they saw, as well, something of the freedom we women enjoy in Christ. We stood with the men and sang with them. The two of us walked right up to the gravesite with the men, participating there. (It’s true that Geneba stood right behind me so that she could not see; it must be unnerving for her to do what she has always “known” she must not do. But she stood with me.) Maybe they will be interested in hearing more. This is our prayer. We came home to the evening, never having accomplished what we thought we would during that day. But such interruptions – all of them, all day long – are part of God’s plan, superimposed on whatever we thought the day might be about. That is what it is to walk in the Spirit. I was too tired to write this blog that night, but I reflected on all that happened and realized that I no longer was carrying a heavy, tear-soaked heart. The opportunities to serve, to minister to others, had lifted the weight and left instead a sense of peace and of purpose.