An African Journey: Post Four - An African Wedding

At our wedding reception in December of 1965, 
one of my husband's oldest friends and his wife stood in line,  shook our hands, wished us well, and jokingly said,

"Hey! Maybe we'll see you in Africa!"

Ray and Dick were born just a few days apart and 'met' at the church their parents attended when they were infants.

They went to high school together and were part of a group of guys who kept connected through college and beyond.
Finding out that they were thinking about 

traveling around the world the same time we were?

Astoundingly good news!

And that's exactly what happened, eight months later.

Only their location was a little more in flux than ours,

we traveled on different ships,

and we weren't at all sure where they would end up

once we all got there.

As it turned out, for the first few months,

they were housed at a mission station in the bush, about 40 miles away from us. To get there required driving on this dirt road,

the same corrugated dirt road that we traveled 

nearly two years later when I went into labor.

There were villages located all through this area,

and all of the people who lived in them walked or rode their bikes to the mission for two primary reasons:

to receive quality medical care or

to get married in the chapel.

Every few weeks, we would drive out that road

to see how our friends were doing.

Or they would come charging into Choma,

often on the motorcycle they bought their first week there.

Their presence was a huge gift to us. Huge.

This was the small rondaval they called home for those months. It was one room, with a corrugated tin roof and an outhouse.

And you may remember how we lived . . .

in a stucco and brick house, with three bedrooms and indoor plumbing. 

Plus, we had electricity about 80% of the time.

And yes, we did feel more than a little guilty about

encouraging them to come on this adventure.

They both wanted to teach school, 

so while they waited for an assignment, 

they lived at Macha Mission. 

Ray managed this workroom, and used his considerable mechanical gifts to repair all kinds of things.

Anita made herself useful wherever she could and was 

so delighted when they rigged up cooking equipment in their small home.

Prior to that, they had to eat in the main house,

with a tribe of other workers.

Once in a while, that kind of community is a grand thing - if everyone is moderately compatible and easy-going.

But three meals a day, seven days a week?

It can be tough sledding.

In about our third month there, we had a true adventure together. 

There was a wedding at Macha - and we were invited!

The wedding was scheduled for about 10:00 a.m.,

but didn't begin until a little after noon.

Why?

Because in Zambia, it was customary for the groom 

to purchase the attire for the bride.

This groom didn't have a clue about sizing and the dress

he selected for his small wife-to-be was about four sizes too big. 

The entire mission staff was busily trying to make adjustments 

so that this girl could come down the aisle. 

Many safety pins and an improvised cummerbund later 

(made from a cloth diaper) - and, voila!

It worked and somehow the wedding happened.

Some western traditions were incorporated - like the clothes and the attendants. But one custom was entirely Tongan:

the bride never looked up, never smiled. Ever.

This was the most important and serious day of her life

and she was not supposed to make light of it in any way.

And she did not.

Following the ceremony, we were invited to the feast held in celebration of the new family - at the groom's village.

The women had been cooking for hours,

gifts had been gathered,

and the couple's new hut had been officially decorated . . .

by the groom, with new clothing, fabric and other gifts for his lovely bride.

We drove over a bike path, then a cow path, then through a small stream, where we had to get out and push the Kombi-bus. The bride and groom hitched a ride with us, however, so we knew the party couldn't begin until we got there.

The houses in the village were made of mud bricks, the roofs thatch. The smaller structures were grain storage bins because the staple food for this entire region is ensima, a porridge made from ground field corn. Every village kept a ready supply of the tough kernels in these small, raised huts, out of the reach of hungry warthogs and wandering cattle.

 In the morning, ensima is served thin, gruel-style. 

For meals later in the day, it is quite stiff and usually served with a relish - most often vegetables, but on special occasions, chicken or beef.

This was a special occasion and there was chicken cooking in the pots!

Meals were cooked communally and sometimes eaten together, 

sometimes in smaller family units.

On this day, we were ushered into the groom's hut and food was brought to us.

We felt overwhelmed and embarrassed by so much special attention, 

but had been told ahead of time what to expect 

and to just receive this hospitality for the lovely gift it was.

The groom's hut was not quite as large as this one and did not have windows,

but it was cozy and welcoming.

As I recall, I was not feeling at all well that day, but I was determined not to miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience!

You can just barely see that the groom has a good supply of both sugar and hand soap - high on the list of desirable products to own.

They brought us so.much.food - stiff corn meal mush and some stewed chicken to go with it. And we loved the enamel ware bowls it came in!

This was the view looking out the door of the groom's hut,

just a snapshot of village life.

After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began.

There was dancing,

and there was singing,

and there was gift-giving.

Each gift would be danced up to the couple -

a five-pound bag of sugar,

a box of tea,

a bar of soap or a box of soap flakes.

Everyone was delighted to be there and showered this

couple with love and generosity.

 About six weeks after this remarkable adventure,

Ray and Anita were moved 500 miles south of us

to one of the oldest mission stations of the denomination.

It was located in the beautiful, rocky landscape of the Matopos hills in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe.

Getting together got a lot more complicated.

We thanked God for the steam train and made the effort, however. 
And we got to see some gorgeous country in the process.

This is the school where Ray and Anita taught for nearly two years. They had indoor plumbing and generated electricity during daylight hours. They loved their students and made some long-time friends in this place.

Whenever we visited, they took us sight-seeing.

And there were such beautiful sights to see.

They came back to Zambia to visit us, too.

We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries together when we could, laughing and enjoying the long threads of our shared history.

Anita was one of the greatest friends of my life.

She taught me how to cook, how to laugh,

how to enjoy life.

She died one month before I began my life in Santa Barbara

and I have missed her ever since.

Ray was skilled at so many things and so generous with those skills! 

He and Dick shared many years of close friendship.

After we returned to the States, 

our families gathered every New Year's Eve and Day,

and vacationed together several times.

Those ties were begun here,

in our bright red kitchen and their hilltop adobe home.

Ties that connected us heart to heart,

soul to soul.

Sharing such life-changing experiences binds people 

in ways that are hard to describe or define.

But I am eternally grateful for all of it - 

the experiences,

the ties,

the friendship.

I am so very glad we had this cross-cultural 

adventure when we were young, 

but I find that what I miss now that I am not-so-young is 

not the adventure itself, but that sense of long history with heart-friends. 

It has never been replicated in our lives.

And as I look at these old pictures,

as I read the letters I sent home,

it is this connection that I miss the most.

There simply is no substitute for it.

Thank you, Ray and Anita, for loving us well

and sharing our lives for so many years.

I miss you.

I will join this at Jennifer's and at Emily's and at Duane's places. Also with Laura Boggess and with Michelle and Jen and the SDG:

What Love Looks Like in the Long Haul: a Tribute Post

This was a story I entered for one of Joe Bunting's invitations. The theme was 'love story,' and this was the one I chose to write about. Most of the entrants write fiction - I do not. However, I will not vouch for accuracy of details and 'facts' in this account, which happened over 20 years ago. I will vouch for the truth of emotions, observances, character and commitment which this story so beautifully illustrates.

Lucille is 95 now, twice-widowed and I took this photo about four months ago.

Mentor, friend, 3rd mom in my life, Lucille Peterson Johnston, a woman of valor.

I knocked hesitantly, not wanting to wake anyone who might be sleeping. The morning was bright and warm, typical for southern California in late May. But this was the home of a very sick man and I wondered how far inside the threshold that warmth might carry.

He’d been sick before, this dear old man. Kidney cancer that was controlled and managed for over a decade. But now? Now, there was nothing more to be done and he had come home to die. No one knew how long his journey might take, nor what the detours along the way might look like. They simply told his wife, “Take him home. Love him as you have for the past fifty years. We’ll give you meds to keep him comfortable and a standing order for nursing help if you need it.”

And so she had. She’d brought him home. Home, where their own bed waited, good mattresses held by an antique wooden frame, layered with quilts from the old country. Sweden was where their family hailed from, the cold Scandinavian northlands. Hard to imagine such a place cradling these warm and loving people, but here they were. Proud, hard-working, hospitable, dedicated to God and family, surrounded by pieces of their long story together.

I entered slowly, aware that such times fairly shine with the luminous glow of a thin place, a liminal spot, a wrinkle in time between this world and the next. She led me to the bedroom, talking to him as she walked. “Harold? See who’s come to see you today?  It’s our friend, Diana. Isn’t that nice?”

He was in a fetal position, small beneath the covers, this formerly husky man, who loved his wife’s cooking and carried the evidence with pride.  His eyes blinked briefly, a smile just creasing one corner of his rugged face. No words to offer, but I hadn’t expected any. A smile would suffice, more than suffice.

His wife kept up a gentle patter, describing what I was wearing, asking me how my family was, how I was enjoying my new job on the pastoral staff of the church we all attended. Always careful to include him in the conversation, she was cheerful and genuine, without a hint of self-pity or condescension. They were best friends, these two. Had been for a very long time. They’d raised three fine children together; ran a popular shoe store in the community long past the age of retirement; volunteered in community and church leadership, working long hours for no reason other than the joy of serving.

She had more energy than anyone I had ever known, planning events for women and families, on her feet cooking for hours at a stretch, an expert on anything related to food, needlepoint, child-rearing, entertaining, small dogs, church governance, the encouragement of others. She had seen something in me and called it out, giving me responsibilities long before I thought I was ready for them. We worked side-by-side, she gently teaching, I absorbing, stretching to meet her confidence.  I learned by watching and I learned by doing. And my admiration ran deep and true.

Truth was, I missed her. Both of them were fixtures in our congregation. In their retirement, they had assumed many of the everyday duties of tending a large, aging facility. They cleaned and sorted, set up tables and chairs, kept tabs on the use of our large, beautifully planned community kitchen, a creation of her design. Sometimes, he came across as a little bit cranky, particular, over-anxious. But I knew better. I saw the softness underneath the sometimes gruff exterior, the deep commitment to things of the Spirit manifested through his commitment to the gathered body in our corner of Pasadena. “You know,” he’d say to me. “You look a little like our daughter. And our daughter looks a little like my wife. You could be our daughter, you know." And sometimes I felt like a daughter.

They were everywhere at church, all the time, moving quietly in the background, checking to be sure things were as they should be, that people were welcomed and comfortable. Newcomers might not always know their names, but they surely knew their faces. And those of us who’d been around awhile? We knew them like we knew our own family members. Because that’s who they were.

I will never forget what she said to me that particular day I went to visit. My friend had been sick for about six months at that point, and his wife was with him every day, all day. I found it hard to imagine how she was managing, how she was embracing this life, the one with such small parameters. She who had been the center of a very busy hive was now in the backwater, tending to the needs of a single dying man.

So I asked her. We knew each other well enough, we loved each other deeply enough. “How are you doing this, my friend? How do you stay sane? Don’t you miss your life, your projects, your contributions? How are you? How are YOU?”

She was relaxed, ready for my question. She looked at me deeply, and with no hesitation said, “Diana, this is a privilege. This is a joy. I cannot imagine doing anything other than this, just exactly this.”

And I knew it was true, true right down to the tips of her well-manicured toes. She was radiating peace and contentment.

“Isn’t it hard to watch him shrivel and disappear like this?”

“Yes, of course, it’s hard. But this is what happens to all of us, you know. We all die someday. And we’ve had 52 years together. Fifty-two years of love and story-telling and story-making. Who else could do what I can do now? This is the last, best gift I can give him. And I am happy to do it.” 

He died six months later, on the eve of my first-ever sermon, an event which they had foreseen many years before. An event which they had prayed toward, and encouraged me to shoot for, walking by my side down the road through seminary and internship. So, early on that Sunday morning, those who had gathered round me to pray God’s blessing on our worship, told me very gently that Harold had gone home, with his family gathered round.  Oddly encouraging to think that both of us were encircled by love as we each stepped out onto a new leg of the journey of life, the journey of death.

And I wept. I wept with the sorrow of good-bye. I wept with the power and beauty of true love. I wept with deep gratitude that my story was interwoven with theirs. I wept because these two friends had shown me what love looks like when it’s old and well-worn and bounded by vows kept, vows honored, vows lived. I wept because of how they had modeled for me, indeed our entire community of faith, what faithfulness looks like. I wept because of the goodness of God paradoxically and beautifully revealed in and through the harsh, sometimes starkly intimate details of a protracted and difficult dying. I wept because my friends were together to the end, and now they were both free.

Adding this to Ann's Wednesday invitation, Em's Thursday one (if it's open) and Duane's, too.

A Sacramental Life

It's a long drive from here to there, about 110 miles.

And I take a similar one every 2-3 weeks to see my mom.

But this past weekend,

I traveled those miles to make a different kind of connection,

one that spans nearly 30 years,

a lot of living, and miles of change in each of our lives.

We enjoyed the sunshine,

we sneaked in an extra chair at a very high-brow establishment 

(just because we could),

we laughed and we talked and we ate. 

Yes, we look a little bit older than the last time we did this.

And yes, there have been some stresses added to each of 

our lives in the months between our last visit and this one.

But what I carry with me into this late evening hour 

is one overarching truth, this bracing reality:

friendship across time is a holy thing,

a sacramental thing,

a gift of God to be savored, 

enjoyed, 

and relished.

I carried the sweetness of our time together all the way home,

through 45 extra minutes of snarled traffic,

fatigue and stiff knees. 

"How wonderful, how beautiful, 

when brothers and sisters get along!
   It's like costly anointing oil
      flowing down..."

the psalmist wrote.

And the fragrance of our time was indeed,

'wonderful and beautiful.' 

This morning brought us back to our community,

gathering in worship to

to hear a beautiful and finely tuned exposition 

of the Word from the pulpit, 

to share in bread and cup. 

There were three relatively small things that

happened today that have stayed with me, 

late into this evening.

Three things that somehow feel woven

of the same cloth as yesterday's gathering of friends

at a classic old hotel in South Pasadena,

three things that seem

woven of sacramental cloth. 

 

Today, as Pastor Jon stepped into the pulpit,

he did something we've never done before.

He asked us to stand, 

to reach out and hold the hand of the person

next to us, even if that person was across the aisle.

Then he said this:

"Doing this probably feels more than a little bit

awkward to you. I'm here to tell you that  

that is exactly the right posture 

for hearing the Word of God."

And he proceeded to read the text of the 

morning, taken from the book of James. 

And we held each others' hands 

and we listened to the Word.

We placed ourselves under that Word,

physically, literally and spiritually.

And as the words from that ancient epistle

rolled in gentle waves over our heads,

I could sense the awkwardness dissipating,

the unity and connection between us

taking shape and form and beauty in our midst.

It was a sacramental moment.

 

 At the conclusion of the preached word,

Jon stepped down from the pulpit to the table,

preparing to serve the people of God with

the Bread of Life and the Cup of Salvation.

As he did so, our Pastor to Students joined him.

Jon gently unfolded his 

blue stole, the one made for him by his mom and grandmom, 

and placed it around his neck.

And as Lisa came forward, I could see 

that she wore the one she received

at her ordination two years ago.

Together, they prayed over and distributed the

torn bread and cups of purple juice to

an assortment of council members

who brought them to us. 

We are not a 'formal' church.

I have never worn my black robe there,

nor has any other member of the pastoral staff.

But somehow, just that small, simple,

act of draping the 'yolk of Christ'

around their necks, and over their clothes,

added an extra layer of meaning and depth

to this holy moment in the life of our congregation.

It was a sacramental gesture, 

 rich with reminder

that the Table of the Lord is a holy place,

that the food we eat 

and the drink we share

are set apart, 

consecrated, for our nourishment and

encouragement on the way. 

Our children worship with us every week

for part of the service.

But on Communion Sunday,

they are in worship the entire hour.

Sometimes this makes for a noisier congregation,

and that is just fine.

In fact, it is welcome.

Today, after the benediction,

after the postlude,

after most of the congregants streamed out

the back door into the warm California sunshine,

a third small surprise brought brief tears to my eyes.

A small blond boy named Kai

came quietly into our pew as we leaned across it,

talking with some friends we hadn't seen in a while.

He picked up our used communion cups, 

nodded his head and 

went searching for a few more.

Just a few moments later,

the four of us who were chatting caught a glimpse

of something up front.

Kai and his big sister Ruby were taking a stack of

used communion cups and very carefully

setting them around the rim of

our beautiful, artist-designed glass baptismal font.

"I think," said our friend,

"that maybe Ruby is doing something

wonderful with the sacraments this morning. 

Maybe even something we've not seen before."

I looked across the sanctuary and gasped a little.

The effect was beautiful -

the glass bowl shimmered,

the empty cups shone,

the sweet girl was so intent and careful with her work.

It was a sacramental act of found art,

a beautiful picture of the Body of Christ

at its very best.

Word and water,

bread and cup,

contemplation and action -

all of it woven together into a beautiful

garment of praise. 

As followers of Jesus,

we are invited into this whole-cloth,

beautifully woven sacramental life.

We are called to live that life as if

every moment is holy,

every person is a saint,

every gesture is an offering,

every common thing is an altar.

Because this is the truth,

the deep, beautiful, holy truth.

THIS life, this one life -

with its joys and its sorrows,

its gifts and its burdens -

it is a sacrament.

Glory be.  

Joining with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Duane today for their 

lovely invitations to share what we're learning, what we're thankful for,

what surprise us, what Sunday teaches us and how we see the promises of God at work.

Somehow, they all seem pertinent to these scattered recollections today. 

I'll also tuck it in with Laura and her Playdates with God.