Pilgrimage

I open my eyes and suddenly realize that every feature in the terrain of my life is unrecognizable.

A new mountain stands erect where once my ocean of peace swelled. And, oh, how this path has narrowed before me, and that field of opportunity has shriveled.

There is a new beauty in the change of landscape, but it's uniquely different. Other. Foreign.

Like a second mother.

This has been my life the past several weeks. Graduated from college, moved back home, suffering the first great loss of my life, and beginning a masters program in social work (with not only a a whole new set of new ideas, but a new paradigm in which to filter them).

However, I read something today that saved me...

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,

who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.

Psalm 84:5

Pilgrimage. Journey. More than buzzwords, I hope. New meaning carves itself from those words based on my present life circumstances. To realize that life is not found in an end, but rather in the means is becoming the lesson of my life.

And sometimes the means is unfair, and produces a swarm of grief and confusion. But the means is also where Jesus meets me.

It's where the truth of his love is realized in such poignant ways, humbling my false notion of entitlement.

Some small part of me is pretty sure I'm grateful for these lessons, and this pilgrimage. But it's still a small part.

Baby, Baby

We carefully stepped into the dimly lit maternity house, cool mud plastering the walls, mats distributed on the floor. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and for my head to realize what was about to happen.

Karen and I followed the midwife to the back room, where we were invited to sit and left to wonder where the expecting mother was. As walls and objects continued to come into focus, I noticed her. She was lying on the ground in the room next to us, the outline of her body illuminated by the glow of a lantern.

The Birthing Room

The darkness and silence surprised me…I don’t know why. Maybe American TV has conditioned me to believe that birth is a loud event- lots of yelling, Lamaze breathing, husbands fainting, doctors running—and all under nauseating, florescent hospital light. I've seen Father of the Bride II way too many times.

But this night was different. The mud birthing center was cool and calm, ambient, and peaceful.

The midwife invited Karen and I into the birthing room. It was time to check the position of the baby inside the mother. I was surprised to see a cardboard box of latex gloves  on top of a worn, wooden shelf. Where the heck do they get latex gloves in the middle of the Bush? I couldn't even get coffee. But I put on my latex gloves and was guided by the midwife’s hand to where the baby’s head was. It would be another couple of hours before the mother was dilated and ready to push.

Pastor Phiri, Karen, and I used that time to drive back down the mountain and to Namanda Village to gather more supplies: sleeping bags, dinner, a lantern.

Two hours later, we arrived for the second time at the birthing center, nervous we would miss the big moment.

It did not take long.

By the time Karen and I were situated next to the aunts and agogos, we heard the mother cry out for the midwife. Grabbing a small stool to sit on, Karen and I followed the midwife into the birthing room.

Twenty minutes later, I was the first to hold her. After tying and cutting the umbilical chord, the midwife took the baby from the black plastic sheet outstretched underneath the mother and placed her in my arms. I was so elated and humbled to see this wiggly, beautiful girl handed to me. And I cradled her with fear and trembling.  

Her face was like soft clay, creamy and fresh. Her tiny body still wet and slippery, wrapped in a faded chitengi.

At this moment, I was aware that I was experiencing one of those unique times when the gift, and the realization of the gift come packaged together. I was acutely in the moment, feeling the weight and wonder of it all.

There is definitely more to be said about this night. I could write a book- one chapter for every minute. I could write about how Karen had the privilege of naming the child Catherine, and why she chose that name. I could recount the story of when we took Catherine and her mom home, and how Catherine’s grandmother came out of the house, wrapped in nothing but a chitengi, and held her new granddaughter close to her breast and cried, “God has blessed us! God has blessed us!"

I could tell about the moments after the birth when I sat with Catherine’s aunts and oohed and aahed over her wide eyes and wrinkly toes. There was a lot of “woman” in that room, and I never felt more awake to all the emerging maternal parts of  my 21-year-old self. 

I could write about all of that, but I’ll just say this instead:

Watching Catherine be born was one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me. It brought hope that all of the incubated brokeness in me would one day be delivered into something beautiful and fresh, and uniquely purposed. 

I take time to remember this now as I sit in the middle of the night with mountains of homework and requests of all the things I wish to be delivered from, in the middle of Indiana, far from Africa and that night. I sit here and remember the hope. 

Catherine- Peace and joy and provision to you, baby girl.

Among the Aunts

We Had Fun, Too

So...not everything was so heavy and serious in Africa.

We had fun, too. :)

In fact, we played "goat tag" at camp once or twice in the evenings... because that was about the only thing to do...you know, after a heavy day. 

Enjoy.

A Little More Matrida

I couldn’t get her off my mind. Out of my head. Pieces of her story would flood my thoughts as I tried to interview others.

So I went back to her, and kept going back to visit.

Upon arriving at her home, she would look up from the groundnuts she was busy shelling and quickly escape into the mud hut. A minute later, proceeded by a tall, grass mat, she would emerge, ready to greet us.

The first time back, we (Papa, myself, and Logan) sat on her mat for about an hour as I listened about her week, her ailments, her distractions. A squeamish two year old crawled between all of us as she recounted a dream she had endured the night before…

Two men were entering her house through the roof, one of them handing her a medicine she felt a strong urge to resist. Their presence in the house was disturbing, frightening. They were forcing her hand open to receive the medicine when…

She woke up. Rolling over to draw her young son to her side, Matrida discovered that her baby, two-year-old boy was not next to her sleeping on the mat. Heart racing, she began feeling for his body in the cold black of the hut. Finally, she found him sitting near the doorway, his tiny body shaking with a mysterious force.

Matrida then told me about the surprise visit her ex-husband had paid her earlier in the week. She was still physically recovering from the blows he left, her heart sore from the indignity of the abuse.

When she was done talking, her eyes turned downward and we sat in silence for what seemed like forever. I had absolutely no idea what to do or say.

What do you say to that?

What do you do for that?

Here I am, a measly, 21 year-old American girl, terribly unacquainted with such blatant spiritual and physical warfare. But she was looking toward me, waiting for my words.

I don’t know how, but I found myself reaching deep within to heave out memories of my own personal pain. I had to try to meet her somewhere in that pit.

Unable to find words of my own, and with a throat dry from the emotion, I read to her from Lamentations 3. Papa translated.

“I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten was prosperity is. So I say, “My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.” I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness…”

In that moment of sharing

laments,

hope,

and loads,

something small, but profound happened...

Matrida’s eyes met mine for the first time. 

She actually looked up from the ground and saw me. Saw me with her.

There is a certain beauty in choosing to sit with someone in their pain. And after sitting for a while, achy and scattered, you rise and discover that another part of you is put back together, restored, whole.

 

An Introduction

Walking around the trails of the bush, I always carried with me the fancy title of “Women’s Advocacy Intern”. Really, it was all in my head, considering the Malawian women had no idea what I was doing until I visited with them and explained.

I would turn to my translator, Amayi Kachingwe, signaling that I needed her to translate, and would slowly begin…

“Hello.”

Pause.

“My name is Maeven and I have come from the United States…”

Pause.

“I have come because I have a special interest in Malawian women. I see how hard you work…”

Pause.

“…and how much you love your family. I am encouraged by your strength and faithfulness to provide every day for your husband and children…”

Pause.

“…I’ve seen you in your gardens. I’ve seen you at the watering hole with your buckets.”

Pause.

“ You work so hard and are so valuable to your village.”

Pause.

“Do you know that?”

At this point, almost every woman would look toward the ground, staring at the mat below her like it was the first time she saw it. A few would try their best to suppress shy smiles.

It was during these times of meeting and interviewing women that I woke up in a way.

In the midst of the most isolating bouts of culture shock, when every part of my being had turned inward and self-focused, the words and stories of these women turned me inside out.

I will write more about her in the future, but one of the women that did this was a 24-year-old single mother of two.

The first time I met Amayi Matrida I was with Pastor Phiri. (Circle of Hope's Malawian director).  I listened intently as she explained the crisis that engulfed her life for the past several months.

After a short, 4-year marriage, Matrida’s husband wanted to bring another wife into the home (polygamy is still a rampant reality in the villages).

She refused.

She protested.

She knew the effects and what would happen.

So he beat her and left. But this wasn’t the first time he beat her. I later found out that Matrida had suffered two prior miscarriages because of the abuse. I listened as her broken voice would trail off into whispers...

To feed her young children, Matrida often went deep into the bush to “cut grasses”. She would then take those grasses and sell them on the side of the road. When she had sold enough to feed her family for a while, she began to build a fence around her mud hut with the remaining reeds.

I couldn’t help but think of the fence as a poignant picture of the isolation Matrida felt inside.

Or maybe it was for protection…

from ex husbands and the disapproving stares of neighbors.

Pastor Phiri and the others went on to pray for this woman, who at the time was a stranger to me. I didn’t know that she would soon become one of the biggest influences of the change in me that continues to evolve.

Violet

The red dust began to plaster my feet as we walked toward the village where Violet lived. I trailed loosely behind Abusa Mwachipa (my resident translator/ pastor/ Malawian grandpa).

And by “trailed loosely”, I mean… I slugged all the way down the trail and back in Katingeza Village for the third day in a row. By this time, Africa and I had ended our honeymoon stage, and I was willing to admit that life in the bush was becoming quite uncomfortable. I was so tired, so spent. And I was positive that I could not bear one more story of heartbreaking proportions.

But we were going to visit a woman named Violet, who desperately needed someone to listen to her story.

I had met her only a few days before, during one of my routine interview mornings, and knew that this woman had more to say.

A subsistence level farmer, a wife, and a young mother to two children, Violet was steeped in a lifestyle of survival. My interest in her had peeked in our previous interview when her reply to one of my questions caught me completely off-guard. I was asking about her education and why she spent ten years in school, barely completing the 3^rd grade. Even across the cultural communication divide, I caught the matter-of-factness in her voice when she turned to me and simply said…

 “I have no intelligence.”

 My heart stopped in a way. This woman truly believed she had no intelligence. Beginning school at the age of ten, she could not pass the tests to go on to fourth grade by the time she was 20. Talk about persistence! And exhaustion.

 Ten years in three grades. 

There was an obvious undiagnosed learning disorder in the picture here. I thought the rest of the day about the implications of Violet’s belief. And then I came to this realization- 

My country values intelligence so much. It is the ethos of our culture that drives us toward success, toward full lives. But this woman’s value was not completely stripped by a false belief, which explained the peaceful smile on her face throughout both of our interviews. While this belief is degrading, it didn’t affect her everyday thoughts and behaviors. Malawians have this amazing way of identifying their value by relationships, by family.

This evokes two things…

One. My own feelings and my self-worth were called into question. Ouch.

Two.  How could I help Violet to realize she did possess intelligence? She cooked and parented, raised crops, enjoyed church services. She went on to tell me that she eventually wanted to pastor a church, and had a desire to try the whole learning to read deal again.

 I walked away from Violet’s house confused, but heartened. I didn’t mind the dusty feet as much (okay…feet absolutely caked with dirt), and I couldn’t deny the movement in my heart...an attitude refocused by the plight of someone else.

 Sometimes God’s grace comes through paradigm-shifting experiences, and sometimes it comes through small conversations with Malawian women. Either way, I’m thankful. 

My Busy Heart

This weekend I went to Old Navy and bought one of those cool scarves that everyone is wearing- that in fact became cool two years ago (I just haven’t caught on until now). Then I saw a shirt for $5.99 and thought, “Hey. I don’t have this color. Besides, it’s so cheap.” And then I saw the black version of a pretty pink, lacy shirt I had purchased on another occasion only two weeks before…

I love that pink shirt.

I might as well get the black one, too. Besides, it’s on sale.

But as soon as I began driving away from my little splurge episode, my heart sank. I reasoned with myself all the way down 146^th street…

“Maeven. Seriously. You gave yourself to the poor in Malawi all summer. It’s perfectly fine to get three little measly things for yourself.”

“No big deal, Maeve. Keep driving.”

“Maeven! Stop worrying. No one is going to judge you.”

 So this went on for a while, until I put on that new black shirt and scarf and headed back to school feeling quite trendy and secure.

Since Malawi, I’ve become so sensitive to all of the

inventions

ideas

noise

desires

materials

messages

plans

and feelings

that move in and make a home in my heart. Nothing is simple; there’s everything to think about. I recognize how motivated I am to find myself in an assortment of other gods- people’s opinions, the fulfillment of plans, security, my abilities. And I recognize that my heart sank, not because of my purchases, but because it was so heavy with the crowding.

Like my closet.

Like my schedule.

And now my heart was having to make room for more to keep track of. More to deal with. More to reconcile.

There is a reason why the Psalmist reminds himself two times that his soul finds rest in God alone (Psalm 62). I found this unique rest in the heart of the bush, surrounded by swollen-bellied children, roaming goats, oppressed women and their cries, the eternal golden, sand color of the dried crops.

I remember the peace of the four Malawian pastors that lived with our team in Namanda Village. I remember the slow,  steady pace of my translator as we hiked our way through the trails, visiting distant villages. And I remember, like a faint dream, what it felt like to be at peace with the little I possessed.

My heart was wide open to good and nurturing things.

I'm seeking to find that invitation of openness here.