"God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them." ~Bono
It has been ten years, ten year's since I went to the continent of Africa for the first time. The first day I arrived in the village of Lupalilo, the place I would call 'home' for the next eight month's, gave me a stark awakening to the reality of life. Outside of my comfortable bubble, I was taken from the most euphoric high (me being in a new country for the first time in my life) to the depths of hell in a matter of minutes.
We had been told that there were two women in the village suspected of HIV. They had requested consultation, which led to testing. The first woman we met was a beautiful mother of several children all huddled around her, none of them prepared for her fate. She had flawless dark skin and a kind face. She had recently lost a baby, they said to TB. At the time if a child died of TB shortly after birth, it was an indication of a much more deadly killer.
The moments between drawing blood and waiting for the results were agonizing at best. We tried to make small talk but no one was interested. She was positive. We practically issued her a death sentence. Next was testing the father, just to be sure. He was negative, and stormed off. The woman was left in lonely horror: her secret of infidelity let out and her own finite life measured before her. The children sat in confusion. In those moments, I didn't know who I felt bad for: the mother who was dying and leaving her family behind; her husband who was left with the responsibility to care for them all on his own plus his wife's betrayal; or the children whose parents were at odds as well as facing the expected death of one of them.
We packed up our things and left a family broken. As we walked away, I looked back at the house. I remember seeing the woman in the same spot we left her with a glazed look on her eyes unable to move. The children followed us, as if they were begging us not to leave them in so much unknown.
A short distance away we found another mother, a young widow. She was gaunt. We repeated the procedure: a brief consultation followed by an invitation to be tested for HIV. She too was positive. Her husband had died a few years prior, suspected also from HIV. She had a teenage son who was busy at school so she was alone in her grief. We prayed with her and left.
Welcome to the rest of the world: death, children suffering, betrayal, loss, loneliness and pain all wrapped up into a few minutes.
Periodically we would stop by the houses to see how each family was doing. We tried to provide critical necessities or transportation to the local hospital. A short time later, the young widow passed away. Her son was left in the care of a relative, now an orphan. A few months later, we were informed that the other mother who was tested positive went to visit her sister. She never returned. We were told that she didn't want her children to watch her die. Her husband wasn't with her either when that moment came.
"...God is with us if we are with them;" it certainly didn't feel like it that day ten years ago. I was there but where was God? I was left with many heartbreaking questions. Now, several years later, I have never forgotten these two women. And as I sit behind my desk in comfort and ease, it all makes a bit more sense now than it did before. The majority of the world does not have what I have: a full-time job, savings, health insurance, three meals a day, luxuries, and a middle-class life. The majority of the world can't relate to me, and me to them from my vintage point. God feels very far away and so do they. And maybe this is the intersection where I will find God, solidarity with my neighbor.
