Precious

It is Christmas Eve. That time of waiting and hoping. As I look back over the months since last Christmas, my mind alights on a little girl named Precious. In July the small mission group I traveled with to Malawi arrived very late to a preaching point in her village. The van and pastor picked us up hours after the appointed time and the roads were crowded, dusty and narrow. She sat unseen by me amidst thirty or so people on low split-log benches underneath a canopy of branches. Our group of North Americans was motioned toward chairs up front. They wished to honor us and while I smiled and accepted their special treatment with gratitude, I found their sitting on rough benches while I sat front and center on one of the few kitchen chairs uncomfortable. The vestiges of colonialism remain, separating people on the basis of race and nationality and economic privilege. To see this scene through the overlay of the nativity story, it was as if we were the wise ones having traveled from afar looking for someone special only to find ourselves misplaced in the center of the great star’s light.

This shift of attention away from an emerging local leader to foreign seeker coming with gifts happens all too often in mission endeavors. Given time, God rightly and faithfully reorients the view.

The village elders described their need for a village well—the women have to travel a couple of miles and walk down a steep ravine to a river to find water and then it is muddy and increasingly polluted by the growing population n the area, and a school—their children must walk eight miles to school, some staying away all week, and that means the girls who help with the toting of water can’t attend much. Oh, yes, and they need access to a medical clinic. Health care is only available in Mzuzu. . And, while we were at it, they’d love to have a satellite tailoring school for their girls so they can begin to make and sell clothing to enhance their incomes. Then they showed off their scholars —young, shy, students told us of their aspirations. Then one woman stepped forward. She wanted us to come see her house. We crossed the road and headed up the hill passing by homes where people yelled, “hello” as they tended the chickens or spread out ground maize to dry on brightly colored cloth. Precious, the woman’s youngest child shyly offered her hand to show me the way.

When we arrived at the one room house, the woman described how she had made the bricks by hand—scooping up the rich red mud, mixing it with water she hauled from the river—shaping them into uniform shapes and leaving them in the sun until they were baked rock-hard. The local pastor added that the church had raised $35 dollars to send a mason with mortar to help mother and children raise the walls on the one-room house.

Precious was still holding my hand as we looked inside the well-swept and kept home. Assorted relatives squatted in the courtyard tending the fire and animals. Then, over the hill, came Precious’ father. His eyes were red and bleary.. He swayed as he sauntered over saying over and over, “My house, My family, my wife, my children.” His wife glowered as he tried to claim credit for building the house. Precious cowered behind me until he reached for her arm and hauled her toward him.

He looked at me, “You want her? Take her with you. I have plenty more.” I stood there horrified. Take the child? “She’s yours. She’s so beautiful. She belongs here.” He insisted and Precious broke free and came over to me. I didn’t know if the expression I saw was fear, pleading, confusion or compliance on her face.

The pastor stepped forward to turn the situation and us around. I hugged Precious, handed her to her mother and we all turned back to the path that had brought us to this corner of beautiful Malawi that overlooked green hills and red roads. “Bye, Precious.” We walked a while and I turned back to find her following us at a distance. I waved and walked on but have carried her in my memory.

It’s been six months since I saw that little girl but she stands in the center of my Christmas prayer. May

unexpected hope again find its way into a rudimentary structure with animals all around to bring peace and hope (and clean water, and education and health care) to a small Malawian village and smaller girl-child, named Precious, in the days to come. And may it become clear what gift I have to offer her. She’s given a precious one to me: the gift of a hand to show the way.

What Does it Take to Drill a Well?

One dictionary definition of “hangdog” is “downcast, furtive, shamefaced,” and that is the only word I could think of to describe the faces of the water engineer and project manager assigned to drill the well in Njuyu when I first met them. Michael, my husband, had invited them to our guest house in Mzuzu after our arrival to follow up on the progress of the well. The emails we received during the 30 hours we had been en route had not been encouraging. The rented drill rig had made it to northern Malawi—that was the good news. The bad news was that during the preceding national holiday weekend to celebrate Malawi’s independence, the rig’s supervisor had taken a vacation and in his absence mechanical parts and the $1600 USD worth of diesel purchased to get it to the village had vanished. Things did not look good; neither did Michael’s face. He kicked in to his, “I won’t take no for an answer” mode and extracted promises that all that could be done would be done asap. We’d been promised since January that the bore hole would be dug prior to my arrival so pushing hard was certainly reasonable.

Michael got daily updates on his blackberry and most of the news was disappointing. The day we had scheduled to visit the well came and went.Then on Saturday as we sat having a lunch at Mzuzu University with a group of community leaders, Michael received an email saying drilling had just begun. With our schedule, we had to make a quick decision. We could leave right away to drive the two hours up and two hours back on the red dirt road in time to see the drilling and still be back before dark. But Michael couldn’t go, he had a meeting with people who had travelled long distances to attend, and and the minivan we were using would have difficulty on the roads. Gabriel thought quick and offered to take us in Citihope's off-road vehicle. The only problem was that is only had five seats and there were six of us who wanted to see the well. The solution? Squeeze in and get on the road. So that is what Megan, Ilse, Sandra, Mary and I did.

Gabriel volunteered to drive and expertly avoided deep potholes, chickens, goats, cows, road construction, and the incredible numbers of bicyclists and pedestrians carrying water, wood, maize, building materials and babies that line the roads in Malawi.

An hour and an half from Mzuzu, Gabriel thought we were at least half way and soon it was time to make a left turn and travel 13 more kilometers to Njuyu. (Turns out the mission station was started in 1882 by William Koyi—an African who paved the way for formalizing the station in 1902 by Scottish missionaries.)

It was not hard to find the well site in Njuyu. The rig was pounding into the ground and more than 50 meters of pipe were laid out in nearby a pile. The well was situated between the church and the school. The bore hole being drilled that day was to replace a shallower well that had gone dry. It was drilled in a similar location as the previous well as the villagers liked the “sweet” water taste from that spot. Andrew, the water engineer was there. He was much happier than when I first met him. He explained how the process worked and showed me the soil samples from between the surface and the groundwater. We watched until all of the pipe was inserted. Boom, boom, boom, boom. The next step was the gravel but it was still on its way from Mzuzu. (Later on the way down, we saw Jim, the project manager stirring up a cloud of dust as he sped uphill with the truck load of gravel. I talked to him later, too. We all were happy to see the well go in. These good men have very hard jobs. To move heavy equipment across the length of Malawi and up nearly impassable roads to villages that do not have access to spare parts or electricity, is heroic work.

My original desire was to sponsor a bore hole with a play pump—the merry go round style that pumps water as kids play on it—and the location of the new bore hole was not the best for it. But there was a plan. I was shown another working pump near the playground a bit down the hill. Women were washing clothes and when the azungu (white people) showed up, the kids gathered, too. This pump will be refitted with the play pump and pipes laid for a storage tank just outside the primary school. So essentially, I get two pumps in Njuyu. Cool.

I tried my hand at the existing pump and it required more effort that I thought. My admiration for the women and kids went up even higher. The basics of life take energy, skill and practical ingenuity that boggle my mind.

We stayed until the sun started to go down. There are no lights on the roads in Malawi. You have to get off the dirt roads before dark. I squeezed in the back seat and just as we left the main part of the village we passed some men sitting outside of a small brick and tin shop. They shouted, “Thank you for the bore hole.”

On the way down as I watched a beautiful African sunset, I thought to myself, “Yep, jostling down a road in Central Africa after watching a deep hole being dug in the hard dry ground, I am simply as content as I can be.”

The next morning I got an email that said:

On behalf of the CCAP Njuyu Church, Njuyu Primary School and Njuyu Community I want to express my deepest thanks and appreciation to you because of the precious gift of a borehole which has just been drilled at Njuyu Mission Station.

This borehole will assist a population of five hundred people plus school children who live in villages around Njuyu.

May the good Lord bless you and your family.

Yours sincerely,

Rev Allan W. Mwale

Parish Minister

So, my dream is a reality and I got to see it with my very own eyes. God has richly blessed me.

Backgrounder

Who are the people of Njuyu? The people are Ngoni, a tribal group that migrated north from the Natal region of South Africa (some say from what is Swaziland) somewhere between ca, 1811-1830. Legend says they are Zulu but the little I read paints a more mixed lineage.

Where is Njuyu? Northern, Malawi, Africa : 11° 31' 0" South, 33° 42' 0" East

What is the history of this village? I hope to learn some of the cultural stories. What I know now is that the village was started by a group of Ngoni in northern Malawi who invited Donald Fraser, a Scottish Presbyterian missionary, to migrate with them from Hora during a time of famine in 1902. One of the notables from the village is the prolific African hymnwriter Mawelera Tembo. (If you are interested in more see: http://embangwemi.com/FraserNgoni.htm )

Why build a well in this village? In 2006 Rev. Munthali my husband's host during his first trip to Malawi said, “Go with this guy, feast your eyes and come right back.” Rather than taking a half hour tour; Michael was “kidnapped” and taken to a remote village where 20 village chiefs had assembled. They told Michael they needed wells. He told them he’d try to find the funds for one but they had to decide who needed it most. They prioritized the village most distant from fresh water. That first well was dug a year later and over the past four years different sponsors have funded 12 of the village wells. A couple of years ago I told Michael to pick the village with the most kids for me to work on. I figured the most kids mean the most moms. I know clean water is important to any woman who wants her kids to thrive and who might also have some dreams worthy of some time saved from having to walk miles each day to find fresh water

Dreaming of Africa

Twenty-five years ago I had a big dream. The struggle against apartheid was on my mind and one morning I awoke in my home in Berkeley, California and told my brand-new husband that a spirit-guide-women-in-flowing-robes had led me across the northern border of South Africa. She took me on a long journey and I found myself somewhere on the continent surrounded by children. I didn’t know what the dream meant but I knew then that I wanted to go to Africa.

Decades have passed and great opportunities have allowed me to travel to Eastern and Western Europe, South America, and parts of Asia, but I’ve never made it to Africa. On July 5 my long awaited dream will come true. I’m flying to Llongwe, Malawi and after a 5 hour overland trip to Mzuzu, we will settle in for two and a half weeks. The apex of the trip for me will be to see the well at Njuyu village school north of Kamphenda.

Two-and-a-half years ago an 80 year old woman, perhaps an embodied version of that dream-spirit-woman, I met at a retreat inspired me to do something significant to help someone else in honor of my upcoming 50^th birthday. I don’t even know that woman’s name but her challenge stuck. I determined to save all stipends, honorarium, monetary gifts and scale back unnecessary spending until I had enough to sponsor drilling a village well. I had seen a playpump well powered by children’s pushing a merry-go-round and set my sights on one like that. As Michael, my visionary husband has told me for years, “When you commit to something with full intention, the universe joins with you.” And so it was. I was asked to preach, write, lead retreats, teach and consult more than usual and the money arrived. I drank my morning coffee at home and stopped impulsively shelling out a few bucks for a midday break. My daughters gave me well money for Christmas. Then when the fund was almost topped off, my friend Don, asked how much was left and he sent in a final check. With all this abundance, I am almost eager to turn 50 on August 6^th! I’ll just be back from Africa and, no doubt, still full to overflowing from the grace that has led to groundwater being a source of renewed health for some kids, a daily help to their water-toting moms, and a celebration of my very blessed life.