Goodbye

At the goodbye picnic

A very good friend is moving today. She just called me from the bus station. It will be all day on a dilapidated bus, packed full of people, hours at the border crossing, and finally, she will arrive in the middle of the night, in Zimbabwe. She and her husband and their two boys will soon start a new life in Zimbabwe, in a town she has never been to. They will struggle to survive on the funds that a poor church can raise; they will simply live in faith that God can provide enough.

She wants to send her boys to a good school; she worries about the fees and if she will be able to afford a decent education for them. She is smart, educated, incredibly generous, faithful, loving. I know that she will figure it out; I know that she will succeed. But it will be hard, so hard. So much harder than it is for me.

I have written about her before; she is the nurse, who cared for the epileptic man with severe burns. If you didn’t read that post, you can find it here: http://lovinglusaka.blogspot.com/2013/05/epilepsy-fire-and-faithfulness.html

My friend is a model of love and faithfulness and goodness, and she held me up so many times. She loved me through every pain. She inspired me and walked with me and made me feel like I was not alone. She has been a sister for me here, and thinking about her getting on that bus in one hour hurts my heart.

She is also pregnant. She found out on Wednesday that it will be a little girl. She is due in February, and since I will not be there when the baby is born, I gave her baby gifts over the weekend. A smile lit up her face and she said, “It is a gift of hope. Hope that the baby will come.” I thought about baby showers in America; we don’t call them gifts of hope. We just assume that the baby will come, that all will be well. But for my friend, that is not her assumption. That is her hope.

I took her out on Friday to a restaurant, for a goodbye meal. I asked how she was feeling about the pregnancy, about delivery in the town that she does not know. She began to tell me stories; as a nurse, she had some horrific ones. “One girl, she was only 16. She was pregnant, and trying to deliver at home. It was expensive to deliver in the hospital, so she was in her house. Labor stopped, and she kept pushing, but the baby was stuck. The midwife told her that it was her fault, that she had done something wrong during the pregnancy, and that the girl needed to admit it, or the baby would not come.” My friend’s face was creased with sorrow. “They would not take her to the hospital until she admitted her crime. There was nothing to admit, and by the time she had pleaded to go, it was too late for the baby. The child died, and we had to remove that young girl’s uterus. The girl survived, but can you imagine?” 

My friend went on to explain that some people believe that any labor complications are the fault of the mother. Either she had an affair while she was pregnant, or she infuriated another woman, who then cursed her. The woman must admit her crime before the baby can be born. My friend said that she had seen it many times; women die because of it. 

I kept looking down at the little swell in her belly, the little girl that was forming there. Oh, how I wanted to protect that life, to cover my friend with all of my privilege, to allow her the security and safety I felt during my pregnancy. She smiled again as she took the two wrapped gifts. “I will wait to open them until the baby is born,” she said. “I will have the discipline to do that.” I looked at the gifts of hope, at my friend, and felt my heart break again.

Together on campus

I thanked her for letting me be me, for being patient and helpful with all of my learnings and fumblings and mistakes and questions. I thanked her for being a friend when I really needed one. 

I keep thinking of a night about a month ago, when Frankie’s fever spiked high, 103 degrees, and I was home alone, and scared. I called her, and although she was in middle of making dinner, she came immediately to our house. She brought a malaria test, a thermometer, medicine...Her husband came, too, lifting Frankie up in prayer. They offered to take us straight to the clinic, leaving behind their food, their needs, to make sure that my sweet boy would be okay. That is who she is, who they are. And I hate it that she is getting on a bus in an hour. That I can’t just call her and know she will be there.

But I am so grateful that I got to know her, that I had the privilege of calling her friend. I am so grateful for the pain of missing her, because that means I had the joy of knowing her. And I am grateful for the excuse to go to Zimbabwe, to visit my friend, and to meet her little daughter, after that baby is born.

Holding a friend's baby

We will both hold onto hope, the gift of hope. That is what she gives to me, that is what God gives to us. Hope in a God who is big enough to see us through. Hope in a God who creates beautiful people. Hope in a God who works through friendships, allowing us to experience the power and the beauty and the wonder of love.