Day Seven: Life and Death in the Mhlosheni ADP

I wasn't looking forward to Friday as much everyone else was. I was looking forward to meeting the bright-smiling Lhomkosi, our sponsored child. But I also knew I'd be paying my respects to the mother of Justice, our first sponsored child who died last year.

You can read about Justice in an earlier post in this blog. The six-year-old dour-faced boy who was our first sponsored child had died suddenly, affecting all of us in the family more strongly than we expected. Now, a year later, instead of going to his house to meet him and bring him gifts I was going there to tell his mother that we still remembered her only child.

While everyone was excitedly working trough the logistics of trucks and dirt roads that would take us throughout the 225 square miles of the ADP I fidgeted in silence. It was odd to watch Bonginkosi write each team member's name on an easel along with their child's name and the transport they were in, but to have no name next to mine. It was odd to hear him say Michael will then "visit the deceased's house."

A few hours later Musa took me by truck to a tiny grouping of houses on the side of a hill. Three stone and stucco houses shared a common dirt yard and looked out over one of Mhlosheni's many valleys. Loud music poured from one of the houses. A child played in the yard, and his mother stood in the doorway of another house talking on her cell phone.

Musa went to the girl, talked to her briefly, and then she ran over to the house with the music blaring. It stopped, and we heard voices yelling inside.

A young woman came out dressed all in dark gray. She was slender and pretty, but with concerned eyes and nervous glances towards Musa and me. She picked at her hands softly. She probably wasn't more than 25 years old.

Musa introduced me and we shook hands and went inside. Her name is Nokuphila Zwane. I shook hands with her, and we sat down in a triangle so that Musa could translate for us. Musa explained that she had been ill.

I began by saying we were very sad when we heard that Justice had died. I said that we considered him a part of our family, and that all of our kids knew his name and knew who he was, and that we often included him in our dinner prayers.

While Musa translated I looked at Nokuphila and the house. She swayed as if she was nervous, and the corners or her broad pretty mouth twitched slightly as she listened to Musa. She still plucked at her hands or turned her wrists over and back, over and back.

The house was very plain, but better than most I would see in Mhlosheni. There were four overstuffed chairs, a linoleum floor, and a bookshelf with the JVC stereo that had been blaring when we came in. There were two small pictures on the wall and a portrait of Jesus' face.

When Musa finished I went on. I said that we still had Justice's picture displayed in our house, and that I carried it with me in my binder at work. I said that it was important for us to remember Justice, and that he made a difference in our lives for the short time we knew of him.

After Musa translated I said that it was important to me personally to know a little of how he lived, what he liked to do, and to see the place where he played and lived.

As she talked I watched her face. She occasionally took deep breaths through pursed lips, stopped and continued. I wondered if the other girl in the yard was her sister, and if the other child I'd seen was Justice's cousin.

Musa translated for her. He explained how it had been very hard for her to lose Justice. He explained that he had died of TB, and how on his last visit to the hospital they'd discovered he was HIV positive. Our six-year-old sponsored child was HIV positive. I was surprised, because I'd never imagined that.

Nokuphila kept talking, and Musa translated: she was also HIV positive. She had been very ill and unable to work, but World Vision had loaned her the money she needed to pay for Justice's burial. She hoped to get a job soon and go back to work. She was very grateful for the help she'd received.

I didn't really know what to say. I told her I was sorry about how Justice had died, and I promised that my family would remember him in our prayers. I told her we would keep her in our prayers, too.

I asked Musa to pray over us and we all bowed our heads. When I looked up Nokuphila was wiping tears from her eyes, and Musa was rubbing his face. I shook her hand and thanked her for letting me visit her, and she whispered the only English I heard her speak that day: Thank you.

When we went outside I tried to imagine a six-year-old boy running through the yard chasing roosters, but I didn't do a very good job of it.

I did a lot of standing around and waiting the rest of the afternoon. While Bonginkosi and Musa and the sponsorship people ran all over the district I waited in the courtyard of the ADP. I thought about the young woman, the life she had had, and what might become of the life she had left. Now I interpreted her slenderness as gauntness, and her seeming nervousness as physical pain.

While I waited I learned that Lhomkosi, our other sponsored child, was in South Africa and that she was now a double orphan and had lost both her parents. I wouldn't see her that day, though Musa would try to get her to Mhlosheni later.

When we got back to the hotel most of the team was very excited. They shared many touching stories about their sponsored kids - I was sure Amanda and Michelle were ready to take theirs home with them. Amanda had shared a seemingly magical hour with a small girl who already looked up to her and wanted to emulate her, a girl whose life she could impact for the better, forever. I was almost bitter about the difference between their moods and mine.

But I think that's the Mhlosheni ADP. Yes, there is death and loss and the specter of AIDs and drought and famine. But under the surface there is an upwelling of hope, of people making new connections to people who were strangers to them only a few days ago.

There is abundant grace.

I'm not prepared to say why some are healthy and some are sick, why some thrive and some seem as if they're being whittled down piece by piece until they'll disappear altogether, as I expect will happen to Nokuphila.

But underneath it all there is abundant grace.