It is very eye-opening.
Love in Him,
LeAnne (for all 5 of us)
P.S. Christmas pictures coming soon.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Please pray for Zimbabwe
We have several friends here in Malawi who are from Zimbabwe. Here is an article of a lady who is still there and what she is experiencing. So please pray for this nation.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Best Pediatrician Ever
I just want to let everyone know that we have the best pediatrician ever. He made a house call all the way to Malawi, Africa. How many other people can say that? Here is a picture to prove it. We had to take the picture when we first arrived at the clinic because Sarah Rose was getting her MMR booster. We had to get her when she was smiling.
It was really nice to have Dr. David Braden and his family here for a visit. They actually came to visit their daughter and son-in-law, Marley and Bech. We were able to take advantage of his generosity while he was here.
I will post some pictures of the girls later. Thank you for your love and support.
With Love in Him,
LeAnne (for all 5 of us)
It was really nice to have Dr. David Braden and his family here for a visit. They actually came to visit their daughter and son-in-law, Marley and Bech. We were able to take advantage of his generosity while he was here.
I will post some pictures of the girls later. Thank you for your love and support.
With Love in Him,
LeAnne (for all 5 of us)
Friday, December 5, 2008
"He Without Sin, Cast The First Stone"
It was 3:30 p.m. From the north, clouds were forming that teased of a possible cool shower. The village road was cooperative, for the time, as I made my way into Msiliza, a growing village / township roughly 1/4 mile from the ABC campus. I was on my way to collect students who had been ministering for part of the afternoon in the village. As I drew closer into the village, where field gives way to cluttered shanties, huts, makeshift stores - selling who knows what, and who wants to know what- I saw hundreds of children making their way toward my vehicle on the "road." The hundreds of children suddenly swelled into thousands of children, all in tattered clothes, with dusty faces, shouting and smiling. I locked the door with my elbow, you know, casually, bracing for the worst. Sorry, but call it an impulse from living in West Jackson for some time. Like a boat cutting through a smooth flowing stream, my vehicle divided the children who I noticed carrying plastic footballs, dirt clods, and an mood of frivolity. They seemed deliberate in their journey, as though a pied piper had come to town. Was it Ronaldo (the great soccer player), or the president, maybe even Madonna? Was someone promising children shoes or food or gum? The rushing tide of children diminished into trickles of a few stragglers. I collected our students, knowing we'd have to drive back through this mass of exhilirated children. "What's the big news?" I asked one of our students. "Oh, I don't really know, but I hear they are chasing a prostitute from the village." "What?" I asked somewhat puzzled. "Prostitution is pretty common isn't it, because of poverty and such isn't it?" "Sindidziwa - I don't know," my student said. [I was glad he did not know]. Questions circled through my mind as I had never seen a public shaming. "And why is it only children?" I kept asking myself and my student. I'm still asking myself. Maybe because they were the only ones not guilty of knowing for certain their own allegations. As we made our way back through the crowd, things began to make sense. I could see the swarming crowed from the hillside branching out near two ladies carrying their belongings on their head. But what really grabbed my attention were the waves of stones, bricks, and clods of dirt being hurled from the crowd. From a distance, the stones being thrown almost looked orchestrated, like the opening scene of Gladiator where the men wait for their commander's word, "Loose!" I turned to my students, "Men, here is a chance to apply our Christian ethic. What do we do?" They sat silent for a moment. I was frightened that they somehow approved of this apparent custom. One of our freshman broke the silence: "We should try and drive close to her, get them in the car, and take them to police where they will be safe." In Malawi, once a crowd gets violent against someone, it stays violent until the end; yes, THE end! Onward, we moved, now honking the horn, expressing disgust with the crowd, and drawing closer to the assaulted. The vehicle I was driving was not my own, but belongs to an ABC friend on furlough. I thought maybe he'd understand the dents in scope of missions! As we drew closer, the rocks began to cease. So, no dents. Crowd leaders (if there is such a thing) began calling off the relentless bombardment. They were respecting our passage. We made it through the crowd and were relieved that our intrusion had distracted the crowd long enough for the alleged prostitute and a friend to climb onto a passing minibus. The crowd gathered its composure and began pelting the minibus with rocks, bottles, clay balls, etc. The minibus drove away. The crowd began returning home. The fun was over. My heart sank. I suppose what hurt the worst was thinking about all those dear little ones, ranging in age from 3 - 12, who will be in Sunday school Sunday in churches scattered all over the village. They will sing, recite catechism, rehearse skits about Jesus, and get ready for the Christmas programs they'll be hosting in a few weeks. I think I'm going to be sick.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Will Anyone Come to My Funeral?
I had the privilege last week of participating in the funeral of a student's mother. Funerals are one of the most important social events in this part of Africa and mandatory attendance is required of anyone even closely associated. In many groups, to not attend the funeral of someone you know is a signal that you are a witch, and perhaps responsible for the death. So, let's just say there is a serious social pressure to attend! I, along with several of our students, travelled to his village home where we met his father and uncles and visited the hut where his mother's body was being kept. It is a shock to western eyes and ears to encounter an African funeral rite. Here is my experience:
The day before the funeral, people gather around the home of the deceased, where the body lies in rest. Women, and women only, crowd in a small room around the body and sit on the floor for hours singing laments, specifically here, Christian laments and hymns. To those who visit, it is required they pay respects to the body. So we made our way to the porch. I did not enter the room directly because I was not prepared to wail. You see, anyone going into view the body must suddenly be so overwhelmed with grief that they begin loudly moaning and crying and shouting things like "No, no, mamma, no!" You get the idea. We are normally very quiet in our funeral customs, so this can be unnerving if unprepared. Following a brief viewing and joining in the chorus of what is being sung, the men retreat to the trees to sit on the ground and just be, remaining quiet and respectful for up to three hours. Yes, I said just sitting for three hours. So much of compassion here is not found in words, but in just being. No one offers their profound insight into the purposes of reality and trajedy. They just sit and pray. I was humbled by that kind of respect. Women bring a bowl of nsima (corn mush) and sit it down and we all eat from the same pot, whether you are full or not!
As we parted, I was asked to lead the funeral sermon on the following day. There is a church in this village, but no pastor. So I obliged. The next day we arrived a little late (around noon). People had been gathered for some time, but nothing starts until the preachers get there. After a brief counsel in the hut of one of the village elders, we made our way again to the hut where the body was being kept. We all sat on the dusty ground singing Chichewa hymns. Suddenly, women dressed in their church garb and headwraps, come and get the coffin and begin making a procession toward the shade trees where the funeral will be held. A master of ceremonies is appointed and he begins working through the funeral program. It's 1 p.m. It's 100 degrees. All chiefs who are present are asked to make remarks regarding the deceased. They do, some more long-winded than others. The people have gathered in a circle around the coffin. Waves of people, I'm guessing 1,000 to 1,500 gather in the shades of trees, the eaves of huts, and the hot sun immediately surrounding the coffin. My turn comes. I simply stand where I was seated with 1,000 African men, women, children, goats, and chickens staring at me. I begin with greetings in Chichewa, then read in Chichewa John 11:25-26. I preach for about 10 minutes (in English and added time for translation). I purposefully note that this sermon is for the living. Many present believe the spirit of the deceased is floating around us in the trees and the sermon is an opportunity to preach them into peace. I make clear Christianity's teaching about being absent from the body. I stress the necessity of counting the frailty of life and the goodness of God. It's 2:30. With the sermon finished, everyone makes their way to the trees nearby where people are buried. In the ancient days, trees were sacred ground, reserved for bodies and their spirits. No one cuts trees around the graveyard. Much of that belief remains. At the graveside, there is an entirely new service, complete with songs, remarks, and even a couple of men making political stump speeches. The one I could make out came from a member of the Malawi Congress Party. His party and put up the money for the coffin, so he used the opportunity that afforded to make appeals for his political party in the upcoming elections. Lists of names are then read calling off the amounts of contributions made to the family by visitors. People are quick to desire their name to be read. So much for giving in secret. But at least they give. The funeral is finished. I am asked on behalf of clergy to place a wreath of flowers on the grave. As the service concludes, a heavy rain begins. We flee under its shower to a hut where we sit on the floor. The roof of straw is merely an illusion of protection as the rain continues to drench my suit, hair, and muddy clothes. We are again offered food. iT'S 4:00.
The family is responsible for providing food for all visitors. So, you now see why so many come to funerals - to avoid being accused of being a witch and to get free food and offer political commentary. I wonder: Will anyone come to my funeral?
The day before the funeral, people gather around the home of the deceased, where the body lies in rest. Women, and women only, crowd in a small room around the body and sit on the floor for hours singing laments, specifically here, Christian laments and hymns. To those who visit, it is required they pay respects to the body. So we made our way to the porch. I did not enter the room directly because I was not prepared to wail. You see, anyone going into view the body must suddenly be so overwhelmed with grief that they begin loudly moaning and crying and shouting things like "No, no, mamma, no!" You get the idea. We are normally very quiet in our funeral customs, so this can be unnerving if unprepared. Following a brief viewing and joining in the chorus of what is being sung, the men retreat to the trees to sit on the ground and just be, remaining quiet and respectful for up to three hours. Yes, I said just sitting for three hours. So much of compassion here is not found in words, but in just being. No one offers their profound insight into the purposes of reality and trajedy. They just sit and pray. I was humbled by that kind of respect. Women bring a bowl of nsima (corn mush) and sit it down and we all eat from the same pot, whether you are full or not!
As we parted, I was asked to lead the funeral sermon on the following day. There is a church in this village, but no pastor. So I obliged. The next day we arrived a little late (around noon). People had been gathered for some time, but nothing starts until the preachers get there. After a brief counsel in the hut of one of the village elders, we made our way again to the hut where the body was being kept. We all sat on the dusty ground singing Chichewa hymns. Suddenly, women dressed in their church garb and headwraps, come and get the coffin and begin making a procession toward the shade trees where the funeral will be held. A master of ceremonies is appointed and he begins working through the funeral program. It's 1 p.m. It's 100 degrees. All chiefs who are present are asked to make remarks regarding the deceased. They do, some more long-winded than others. The people have gathered in a circle around the coffin. Waves of people, I'm guessing 1,000 to 1,500 gather in the shades of trees, the eaves of huts, and the hot sun immediately surrounding the coffin. My turn comes. I simply stand where I was seated with 1,000 African men, women, children, goats, and chickens staring at me. I begin with greetings in Chichewa, then read in Chichewa John 11:25-26. I preach for about 10 minutes (in English and added time for translation). I purposefully note that this sermon is for the living. Many present believe the spirit of the deceased is floating around us in the trees and the sermon is an opportunity to preach them into peace. I make clear Christianity's teaching about being absent from the body. I stress the necessity of counting the frailty of life and the goodness of God. It's 2:30. With the sermon finished, everyone makes their way to the trees nearby where people are buried. In the ancient days, trees were sacred ground, reserved for bodies and their spirits. No one cuts trees around the graveyard. Much of that belief remains. At the graveside, there is an entirely new service, complete with songs, remarks, and even a couple of men making political stump speeches. The one I could make out came from a member of the Malawi Congress Party. His party and put up the money for the coffin, so he used the opportunity that afforded to make appeals for his political party in the upcoming elections. Lists of names are then read calling off the amounts of contributions made to the family by visitors. People are quick to desire their name to be read. So much for giving in secret. But at least they give. The funeral is finished. I am asked on behalf of clergy to place a wreath of flowers on the grave. As the service concludes, a heavy rain begins. We flee under its shower to a hut where we sit on the floor. The roof of straw is merely an illusion of protection as the rain continues to drench my suit, hair, and muddy clothes. We are again offered food. iT'S 4:00.
The family is responsible for providing food for all visitors. So, you now see why so many come to funerals - to avoid being accused of being a witch and to get free food and offer political commentary. I wonder: Will anyone come to my funeral?
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