They Give Me Joy

On Sunday I went to worship at a Township. I wasn' t even sure what a Township was. Still not real clear on it. Everyone was talking about it like it was something obvious and of course everyone knew what they were. I let my chance to ask in the beginning slip by. The more they talked the less easy it was to ask what exactly was a township? I followed along in the conversations, prior to getting there, acting as if I was educated. We arrived at a gate lined with barbed wire and two men stood as gaurds against these stone doors. We showed them our Mercy Ship I.D.'s and they allowed us passage. The doors slowely opened and our land rover followed the decayed road to it's end. Small children ran around. Little ones, no older than 2, climbed walls and slipped through "no tresspassing" gates. Young girls jump roped and the boys stood on the sides observing. I stared. Cully says I stare alot. He says I always look so lost. My expression is serious and surprised. I'm unacustomed to this culture and my eyes can't help but stare at it all. I tell Cully i'm not lost.....or maybe I am, but that i'm a smalltown girl, straight from the home of my parents, blopped on this hospital ship and thrown into the african streets. He must understand why I stare.

I finally insisted on the definition of a township. I was to fake it no longer. From the scrambled explanations and sudden depated arguments that arose from my question, I got that a Township was where colored people lived during civil wars or something. I really wasn't given a clear answer. I need to read up on it.

The people welcomed us with open arms...litterly. They surrounded us as we walked in and layed their hands on us and lifted our lives and the cause of our ship up to God. They prayed for us for about ten minutes and it wasn't just one person. They all prayed outloud. I was standing beside Corinna in this cold, square shaped room with old chairs and no door to block the night's wind. I wore my belgium scarf from Lowen around my neck and later untied it, wrapping it tight around my body. African hands pressed hard on my back and words of thanks and petition came from their mouths. I was glad I signed up to go.

Before we arrived, the man that invited us to go and showed us the way, asked if he could take us to some new monuments in the town. We stopped by two. The one that specifically intrigued me was the grave of Amy Biehl. It was right outside a 'shell' gas station. A cross leaning against a black, iron rod. This man knew so much history of South Africa. He's was a born tour guide. He wasn't from South Africa but from New Zealend. He had a heart for the needy and has ended up living in a run down community of Cape Town. He explained that Amy Biehl had been murdered here in 1993. It was explained to us as being a case of a non african girl being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Amy was from California and was assisting in the development of voter registration for the country's first democratic election planned for April of 1994. August 23rd, 1993 she was driving three co-workers home, through this township, and was stopped and pulled out of the car by locals and stabbed to death. What made this event miraculous was that this girl's parents extended the hand of forgivness to their daughter's killers with these words, "Amy was drawn to South Africa as a student and she admired the vision of Nelson Mandela of a 'Rainbow Nation.' It is this vision of forgiveness and reconciliation that we have honoured." Ironically two out of the three killers have become a part of the Amy Biehl foundation. I urge you to read more on this story yourself as I have not given it the justice it rightly deserves.

My title of this blog entry, "They give me joy", referrs to an event this morning. I am overwelmed right now in my work and it's not for the reason that I was overwelmed a couple weeks ago. I have more of a handle on my job now and because of that it' s become that much more overwelming. I had accidently deleated two months worth of records and planned on this week making up my damage. Monday morning had different things in mind. My desk has many other tasks awaiting me when I walked in this morning, so I walked out for a small breather. I strolled into the kitchen to fill up my water bottle and passed a mother and her two small girls. One child hung from her hip as the other walked beside her dragging her arm accross the wall the dinning room. The mother smiled at me and said so sweetly, "good morning", as she maintained the child on her hip and the wereabouts of the walking one. There are so many mothers aboard this ship and they give me so much joy. I've decided it today. I've decided that there is not a more honourable calling then that of a mother. How inspirational these women are to me. I am so amazed by them and put to shame by them. What lack of devotion towards themselves and what care and patience these mothers possess. I love it. I stand in awe of the mother. This creature, this woman, living daily for the benefit of her offspring, her children. Instead of looking to be fed or entertain, she feeds. She entertains. for their good, not her own.

I was overwelmed this morning but the beautiful chemistry between a mother and her children, that I'm surrounded by on this ship, brought me joy.

I look forward to being one.