Some things are really too awful to even be discussed, but here are some highlights (or lowlights) of this lenten season we find ourselves in.
In what should be the rainy season, we have had almost no rain at all. This means crops will almost certainly fail, which means people will go hungry, and that more and more people will show up at our door, asking for food, work, help...anything.
It also means more illnesses.
It also means more funerals.
One of our good friends was recently fined by the village for not having a toilet on his property. He does not have a toilet because he cannot afford it, (they use their neighbour's), so he was basically fined for being poor. We paid his fine- which was minimal- but he needs a toilet. This is a basic human right.
One of our other friends is ailing and may be dying. He lives outdoors, and I would assume he has chronic malaria. He seems to be fighting an infection, but resisting treatment. I am not sure how much longer his body can hold out. And I'm not sure about the state of his soul.
Another man in our village has been very sick for some time. He was able to get treatment and medicine, but is still too sick to work, and is relying on the charity of others to keep food on the table.
On top of these things, we have good friends and family members who are fighting constant battles with malaria and typhoid, a friend who was robbed, a friend whose house is falling down around him and his four children, and many, many people- too many to count- who want their children to go to school, but cannot afford to send them.
Last week, Abram threw me (Ashby) a surprise party for my birthday. I felt so loved and celebrated, with a tinge of guilt- I'm sure most of our friends here have never had a birthday party of any kind. But our friends enjoyed themselves, enjoyed the cake and popcorn, and Abram pointed out that our village needed some kind of celebration, something to bring joy and laughter into these dark days. We can choose guilt, or joy. We can experience both sorrow and joy- they are not, apparently, mutually exclusive.
At the end of each day we relax in our home, which is much too big, and we eat food- we always have enough- and we play with the worlds' cutest baby, and we go to sleep under a secure mosquito net, under a secure roof. We don't feel guilty for these things- they are blessings from God- but we wrestle with the normal questions: why us? why them? why?
And we go about our routine, Abram teaching and researching, Ashby nursing, cooking, changing diapers, answering the door- and the not-so-routine, like when our car acts as an ambulance and our living room acts as a sanctuary. And we hope in our baby's future.
David continues to be a blessing to people. Our neighbours have begun calling him 'a child of the people'. Half a dozen women call him Grandson, and he may or may or may not think he has six parents. A common sight in the mornings is for a neighbour, or Abram's Tanzanian sister, or whoever happens to be at our house, to be walking around with David in their arm- as they water our tomato plants, or carry ladders from our garage, or talk on the phone, or answer the door. We are thrilled that David will hopefully grow up to be comfortable in our community, and to know our family here. We are also pleased that people can take comfort in him- what is more therapeutic than a baby who trusts you so completely that he relaxes into your shoulder and falls asleep?
Maybe this is why God gives us children.
