Sunday, March 9, 2008

Kibbuse Word Pictures

Well, I'm again without photos to show you. I got to the cafe today with battery remaining in the camera, but by the time I had selected a few pics to import to the blog the battery again failed me. Apparently, bringing up photos on the computer directly from the camera, on the attachment cord, quickly drains the battery. Unfortunately, hard drives at the cafe where I am has no way to plug in the camera's memory disc.

So, again I must make an entry without photo support. I hope you will enjoy reading my attempts to be as imagic as possible with descriptions of what is going on.

Much has happened since our last entry. In fact, it seems an eternity ago since I was writing here. Rather than attempt a chronological recap I'm simply going to share a few highlights that hopefully help you see, hear, smell and feel what we are:

A Nyamarwa Funeral
Last Sunday after church, Rev. James came to me with news that the son of a local family had suddenly and unexpectedly died, he knew not how, and was to be buried on Tuesday. He asked that I accompany him in behalf of the leadership and staff of Kibbuse. Our predecessors, Arden and Mary Joy Van Norman, had mentioned what a constant and sad reality funerals were during their stay, so I wasn't surprised a the request. Of course, I said I would be glad to join him. Then he asked if I would join him later in the afternoon to just go to the house for a moment and express our condolences to the boy's mother, a long-time friend.

Her home is across the street from the school, just a few dozen metres away. We slowly walked by the somber gathering of village men at the Nyamarwa village "square" (really just a small trianglular boulevard at the T intersection of the roads that connect Nyamarwa with Mubenda to the east (or north, for the smoother, longer way) and Kalaguuza to the west. More about those roads later. Quiet greetings passed between Rev. James and the dozen or so men sitting on a bench and the inclined trunk of a tree there, which I tried to join by nodding and quietly saying "good afternoon". This time there were not the usual smiles and upbeat inquiries that we've become used to as we are introduced to local residents.

She lives in a storefront type house, with the living quarters behind. Sitting on the ground and porch at the house were at least two dozen women and girls, some quietly weeping, some just sitting and talking in soft tones. Rev. James and I made our way carefully through them to the store entry doors. Inside were another dozen or so women, sitting closely together around the small store room. At our feet, just behind the door was the body, wrapped in a burial cloth of bright yellow and black print cloth, with two women, apparently the mother and an aunt or very close friend.

As soon as we entered, a number of the women began openly weeping. We waited quietly (I taking the lead, of course, from Rev. James) until their sobbing had subsided a bit. There was an understandable heaviness in the air as Rev. James expressed his sorrow to the boy's mother. I was thinking of the widow of Nain, whose young son died. She was fortunate enough to be intercepted by Jesus at one of those times when he chose to bring life to one who had died untimely. But this woman's grief was not be be interrupted by such a miracle. Nor was the young widow's (we found that the boy had just recently married and had a newborn son - that he had simply collapsed and died). No reason known. No easy answers.

The body lay on a dirt floor. The women sat on dirt. From dust we are made, to dust we return. It was dark there, too - just the fading light of the afternoon dimly reflected from the somber scene before us.

Rev. James spoke briefly in the local dialect and then asked me to pray. I did so, heavy with that somewhat theoretical grief but heartfelt compassion one experiences when suddenly confronted by the real and very palpable grief of others with whom he is not emotionally close. James translated. Before I prayed I shared with her the story of Brenda's and my loss of our son Joel, quite unexpectedly, just five weeks after he was born and that we share her grief and the questions that come with it, with some understanding. We left quietly. There were no polite farewells. Just the sound of one or two of the women still quietly weeping.

Two days later, I joined Rev. James at the town square again, this time to participate in the funeral, scheduled to begin at 2 PM. The students had been alerted that they, too, were expected to attend. They needn't stay for the funeral, but they were expected to join the gathering for the funeral service itself. It was about ten minutes till one when we began waiting. There were two batches of students (known by their distinctive and colorful blue and pink shirts) from other local schools already arriving. Most were seeking shady places to sit until the funeral service would begin.

A group of men were planting posts in the ground outside the woman's storefront, to which they attached a large, orange plastic tarp to serve as a canopy for the celebrants and as many attenders who could fit on the benches (carried from local schools and churches by students). All was very quiet. Exept for the road grading equipment that showed up to smooth out some piles of dirt that had been deposited days before to repair the badly rutted road. We were grateful to see them, but the intrusion was, it seemed, untimely. How would the service be heard above the noise of the diesels? And the smell and dust being kicked up - it just seemed not good.

But God's timing always proves itself a blessing to those who love Him. Because we had a long wait for the funeral to begin.
James and I walked to the storefront at about 2:10. By this time, most of the benches were occupied - probably fifty or so people had gathered close to the house - though there were now some scores - maybe hundreds of students and teachers, most of whom were sitting in the shade of trees across the street from the bereaved home and under porches of the three or four adjoining houses. James and I were immediately offered seats on one of the remaining benches. We were joined by George (whose last name I have not learned), the chairman of the Kibbuse Board and a friend of the young man who died.

Time continued to pass. It is a Catholic family, but no priest had appeared. We waited. I found myself simply joining the rhythm of the occasion. No one was expressing impatience or restlessness. Pretty soon it was 3 PM, then 3:30. People continued to stream down the three dusty roads that join just below the house of the bereaved family, filling more and more space in the open embankments between the roads and the row of storefronts. Across the street, our students in their purple shirts had gathered under the store porches, waiting for the start of the service before venturing into the hot sun. Finally, at abou 3:45, they made their way through the crowd to the canopied area, for some reason being granted special favor by the family. The benches were reorganized to be able to accommodate more people. People began to crowd together now, getting close as they could to the open door of the storefront, within which the body still lay.

4 PM came and passed. A woman in elaborate traditional dress made her way through the crowd. As she approached the porch she began wailing openly. It didn't seem "real" grief and yet it was. She was answered by many still hidden within the storefront from our view. Still no priest visible. Everyone still quietly waiting. No restlessness. I was probably the first to complain, quietly whispering into James' ear that this really didn't seem good - keeping all these people waiting in the hot sun. But no one else seemed to think so. Rev. James just nodded. We continued to wait.

Finally, at 4:15 the priest came out of the storefront room, putting on his stole and adjusting his vestments in preparation for the service. I looked around. There were people everywhere. Hundreds of them. It was beyond counting and didn't matter.
A group of men went into the storefront and carried out the wooden casket. It was stained wood, obviously hastily done and yet with care. It was set on the ground in front of the family. The wailing continued for a time, then ceased.

The service was short. The priest led the funeral liturgy and prayers. A lay reader read the Bible readings. Then there was a long eulogy and readings of written condolences by a family friend. It included messages from people as far away as Mityana and Kampala and many from the three or four local villages and towns within a few miles of Nyamarwa. Finally, Rev. James and George were asked to speak in behalf of the community. Rev. James actually gave a gospel message. I didn't understand it because I had no interpreter, but it was clear he was declaring the shortness of life, the immediacy of death and the reality of God's message to us all in Christ Jesus. He then asked me to share briefly about Joel again and to offer some encouragement to the people. I spoke of Joel's death and our experience of his funeral, especially the words of scripture that speak of the unspeakably wonderful hope we have in Jesus, the resurrection and the life, who makes us the one people who can take joy in the midst of the deepest sorrows. When we had finished speaking the priest led the whole gathering in prayer.

Then the procession began. When I stood up, I was amazed. There were far more people than I had thought. Here we are , in the smallest village we've ever lived in and attending the largest funeral I'd ever seen. Rev. James and I walked side-by-side among the packed crowd. We were walking down a slope and could see where the people were turning off the road, some two hundred yards down the road. I looked behind me at James' bidding and saw that the crowd stretched all the way back to the village, probably two to three hundred yards behind us.

When we got to the grave site, I was standing with some young children who were weeping - even wailing as the first dirt was thrown on the casket after it had been lowered. Their tears were very real, their upturned faces asking the inevitable questions of a God I hope and pray they are yet to come to know and trust - even through such losses and questions. I recalled those brief words from John's gospel - "Jesus wept".

Stay with me, my next entry will be about LIFE in Nyamarwa. I can't wait to have another time to share with you.

1 comment:

Marti said...

Bob/Brenda,

I know you remember me (Marti Birdsall). I just recently returned to Madison and am in the process of rejoining. I am so happy to be back home. I was looking forward to seeing you and found out that you are missionaries!

I am poor financially, but I will definitely pray for you and on Mission Sundays, I will donate as much as possible for your ministry. If you ever need baby/toddler blankets or anything like that please let me know and I will do my best to be of service. Many of my homemade baby blankets went to an orphanage in China a few years ago with friends from First Assembly.

I will follow your ministry as much as possible. Please contact me when you can: martibirdsall@sbcglobal.net

Love in Jesus,
Marti