The Green Door

Many people are acquainted with the ministry of the Green Door in Dondo that builds cement block houses for the poor for $2500. However, the Green Door also repairs roofs, mud houses, and on occasion constructs mud houses for $800 for those in Project Life with AIDS. The need is great and the list is growing every day. Below is a spotlight of two families that are on our list waiting to receive help.

Tina sat on the straw mat across from me. She balanced her toddler on her legs as she explained her history.  He first husband died and left her with five children.  Another man took her as his second wife and abandoned her; but not before he left her with one more child. She now has AIDS, no job and six young children in her care.  Her only means to survive is growing sweet potatoes and rice.  I observed that her very small mud home was quickly eroding away. Maria Luisa mentioned that it wouldn't be long before it collapsed in the rainy season.

Domingo also lives in Macharote; a bairro bordering the African bush. He and his wife have two small children. Last year we gave Domingo a Bible upon his request. I mentioned the Bible to him and asked if he had been reading it. He nodded his head. I also asked how they were feeling since both have been fighting AIDS for some time. He spoke up that they had not been sleeping well. I assumed that they were fighting some opportunistic disease due to the AIDS but he went on to explain that birds were keeping them up at night. Wondering what kind of night birds hang out in Marcharote I probed for a better description. I was a bit amused when I discovered it was a combination of owls and bats. In this land of mosquitos and rats, both birds can be very valuable. But what he said next made me sit up and listen.

The night before, he had heard a noise from his grass roof and saw a large cobra (3 inches in diameter) fall down on his bed from where he and his wife were sleeping with its hood fully open and ready to strike.  As he stumbled around quickly to kill it he noticed a second cobra curled up in the corner of the room. That experience would make the dead not sleep! I asked him to show me where he thought the snakes had gotten into his home. We walked into the two-room mud home directly to where he slept. I noted the great gap between the mud walls and his grass roof. Along the wall that wasn't deteriorated, Domingo had carved several scripture verses. After more investigation, his dilapidated door disclosed an ample gap that a snake could slither through. I wasn't surprised at his plight since the rainy season brings out the snakes. We prayed together that God would provide a safe home and better sleep.

Where do I begin to express the need here in Dondo?  Many struggle to pay for food and putting money into their mud homes isn't even an option. The good news is that you can help.  You can send any amount to Children's Relief International; PO Box 2470; Rockwall, TX 75087 (800) 570-2217.    Please be sure to indicate on your check that it is for the "Green Door" ministry.  

My friends thank you....and Jesus who is in you...for caring enough to make a difference. 

The Ambulance

When you come to Dondo you can change hats several times before the sun sets behind the coconut trees.  The hat I donned this morning looked distinctly familiar but with a tangible twist.

This morning began early several kilometers away from Dondo. We had planned to participate in a Bible study with a group of Project Life recipients. After three days of rain, many dirt roads were impassable for the low slung van to negotiate. Undaunted, we parked the van at the highway and walked the remaining kilometers. At our arrival we discovered the hostess of the Bible study lying on the dirt floor in the back room of her mud home.  Conceding to some contagion from the last stages of AIDS, Fina was unable to lift her head for the customary greetings. As a former EMT, I evaluated her present need to go to the hospital. Call 911. Uh...maybe not. My mind wanted to play host to a nonexistent protocol - a formula for frustration here in Africa.  So we went with Plan B.  We found a neighbor who agreed to carry Fina on the back of his bicycle.  We carefully wrapped her in a capalana and sat her febrile and emaciated body upright on the back end of it.  She started to sway like a palm tree in the wind but we caught her just in time. In order to secure Fina on our "ambulance," Simone held on to her from the back while our driver took off towards the van negotiating the muddy and potholed road.  I looked down and realized my flip flops and a-line skirt hardly fit the attire of someone about to chase after the ambulance.  

We pulled up in front of the hospital and carried Fina into the emergency room adorned with chartreuse four-inch grasshoppers on the floor, wall and ceiling.  A minor addition since the hospital eliminated all the cockroaches this year and added mosquito nets to each bed. The nurse directed us to a room with a line of beds where Fina gratefully collapsed and didn't move for five hours. Eventually a nurse found time to address her needs and gave us a list of free medicines to retrieve at the hospital's pharmacy.  One prescription included an injection that wasn't available, initiating our drive to the only other pharmacy in town.  Upon our return, Fina was given her injection and officially discharged dispelling my wishful vision of her in an ICU wing. We carried her limp body to the car and retraced our morning run as far as we could drive. I watched her slumped form on the bike disappear down the road. Even though there isn't a state-of-the-art facility, I am thankful for the people who donate medicines so that my friend Fina can find some relief in her battle with AIDS.

The Aroma

In this culture where normalcy is laced with incredulity, it is easy to look past the flower that is blooming among the thorns and briars.  I had the sense to stop and savor this flower's aroma today before our first stop in Project Life.

I observed Laurinha's familiar limp as we walked together to visit the first family on our list. Laurinha is 55 but she walks for miles each day to minister God's love to a myriad of needy people. She admitted to me that each step is painful and I noticed that her feet slipped awkwardly in her torn plastic sandals.  Many years ago, when she was just a small child, she had been asked to fetch the water for her family at a local well. She tried to ferry the water but took a fateful fall that broke her leg. Without the access of medical attention, her leg never completely healed. She is not the image of the beggars I see on the streets with a lesser handicap and a pitiful countenance. Instead, I am often the recipient of her cheerful smile and humble spirit.  The Green Door ministry built her a mud home last fall.  It is small, about 300 square feet.  But it is her first home and she asked to have it dedicated to the Lord for His service.  I was thankful for the aroma of Christ within her that braced me for our first meeting of the morning.

We came to the home of a Catholic woman with AIDS in PL that I had not met before. When I heard her story though, it came back to me like jumping in ice water on a frigid day. Last year she had witnessed her oldest son Victor murder her youngest son Domingo because Domingo had worn Victor's clothes to church without asking. Domingo had become a Christian about 15 days prior to his death. Victor was sentenced to jail in Beira shortly afterward. His mother refused to communicate with him after that tragic day. It is tempting to allow the thorns and briars in a garden of poverty to camouflage the hope that a flower can bloom. But I took a deep breath and labored to snip the thorns and briars away with God's Word.  We talked about forgiveness and hope for Victor because of Christ. I was encouraged when she took us to the home of her daughter and grandchildren so they could hear this Truth too.  I pray that this fragrance of forgiveness will continue to fill their hearts and broaden its aroma to Beira.

The "Doctor" at Lusalite

I knew she was there.  I just didn't know where.

Many a night I have heard the beating of drums in our guarded housing compound called Lusalite.  Though I have recognized the beat in the air I have shrugged off the thought that a witchdoctor could possibly live here.  Today I met her. Her home is located behind the small hospital clinic of Lusalite.  What I learned today was invaluable in understanding the perplexity of deep poverty shadowed by women in witchcraft.

We exchanged pleasantries at first as one does with a new relationship. She seemed amiable enough and was willing to talk openly about her life. I easily exchanged my courtesy for curiosity and started probing deeper.  Have you heard of Jesus? Are you afraid to die? Why did you become a witchdoctor? She laughed the minute I mentioned Jesus. I really couldn't discern if it was a laugh of defiance or a cover for shame. She said she had no interest in Him. She had tried to leave her witchcraft once and had immediately become very ill. She emphasized she didn't want that kind of suffering again. I studied her in disbelief.  I asked if she had heard of hell. Immediately she shook her head dogmatically and described it well as though she were the professor and I the student.  I was astonished by her knowledge. Quietly I interjected that the God of all creation who has power over everything really did love her and wanted to have a relationship with her. She quietly bowed her head and said it didn't matter. She was married to an evil spirit.

In the ensuing conversation what I learned has troubled me greatly. Though a mother of four, this woman divorced her husband in order to be married to this evil spirit. She is used by this spirit to talk to the dead on behalf of her "patients."  For a price, the ancestors then advise the patient through this witchdoctor on how to live their lives. She also sells medicines and charms to keep them healthy, wealthy and wise.  In this land of deprivation it is a lucrative business.  I couldn't help but wonder if the evil spirit's name was Money. As she repeated once again that I would never be able to change her mind I noticed three "patients" had come to see her.  I politely excused myself and thanked her for her time.  

As I walked away I mused over the irony of it all. This woman is carrying the dreaded AIDS virus and it will only be a matter of time before she succumbs to the very thing she fears the most. 

(Almost all of the witchdoctors in Mozambique are women.  It has been said that there are as many as 7000 here in Dondo.  In this land of gender inequality a women struggles to find anything that will put food on her table.  It is not uncommon for a married woman to exchange sexual favors for food. It stands to reason that becoming a "traditional healer" would be a very inviting occupation.)      

What Time Was It?

What time was it when Jesus rose from the dead?

I considered that question this morning when we rose (so early!) to be at the 4 a.m. Easter sunrise service.  Framed in by empty streets, about 80 of us gathered outside the Dondo Baptist church in the serene African morning with the moon as our only light. 

With the sandy loam under our feet we danced and sang in Sena and Portuguese praise songs to a risen King. I listened as Pastor Jeronimo reminded us that it was the women that went to the empty tomb first and a woman to whom Jesus first appeared. Was it because it was a woman who first took the forbidden fruit?  

How did you feel Eve when you heard of this glorious resurrection?

I know what time it was when Jesus rose from the dead.  It was the perfect time.  The time to heal our broken worlds.  Our African world infused with disease, poverty, hopelessness and death.   Our American world cluttered with apathy, affluence, autonomy and also death. 

The sun poured its light through the palm branches with the closing prayer. Just in time because the streets of Dondo began stirring with their usual pace.  I thought it was good this morning to be at this very early Easter sunrise service.  For it is never too early to take the hope of a risen life to a dying world.

Three Visits

These were three of many patients we saw at the hospital today when we served soup:

Isabel...It is ironic that you not only bear the name of a famous queen that championed Christianity but also a witchdoctor's charm secured around your fragile neck.  It pains me to see your large fearful eyes on an emaciated body that divulges the disease taking you away.  When you don't even know your left from your right, how can you navigate the complexity of AIDS? Dear little Isabel.....help me understand...why did life fail you?

No Name...Doesn't everyone have the right to a name and at least one set of clothes to cover their nakedness?  That is how you were abandoned at the Dondo hospital a month ago.   A bed sheet is your new finery but you don't complain.  You have never spoken a word in 13 years because mental disability sequesters the stories somewhere in your mind.  You are as vulnerable as a fragment of glass on a train track.  Why did life fail you?

The Widow...Following the piercing scream from the corridors, I found you on the floor next to your husband's body.  This morning he carried your sick child to the hospital until he suddenly passed out on the road.   Tonight you are frantic to find what kind of contagion took him away and left you with five small children.  Why did life fail you?

We explained the Truth to Isabel's mother and she cut off the charms from her daughter's neck. We found the perfect dress for No Name at the market and she laughed a long time when we hugged her.  We provided the funds for a funeral and food for the widow and comforted her in her sorrow.   Lastly, we committed them to the One who accepts the sick, abandoned and dying. For there is one thing we have come to understand...that love never fails.