By the time we got close to his house, we had to get out off the car, leaving it on the side of a rocky dirt path, and walk the rest of the way. No car could make it to his home. We climbed up rocks, and I held onto Joel, so as not to fall. We crossed a rickety bridge, just two logs going across the river, held together with a few planks. Under us, people washed dishes, clothing, and children in the water. Frankie and Johnny walked ahead of us, fearless. I held Joel again.
After the bridge, and a few more hills, we ended up at his house. Elias’s house. Our gardener. Who walks to our campus almost every day.
As we got closer and closer, debris filled the land, and chickens peeked out from underneath the trash. Fires burned on piles of charcoal in the dirt, and women walked with baskets on their heads, eyeing us with curiosity, as the bravest of the children called out greetings.
We entered a small room that served as dinning room, bedroom, and living room. There were a few chairs and a bamboo mat on the floor. Off to the side, a small pantry completed the house. Elias’ ten month old son saw his dad and practically flew into his lap, small arms wrapped tightly around the smiling father. The three year old clung to his mother and started to whimper when I greeted him in Chichewa. Their mother, Amayi Phiri, shook our hands, offered us seats, and then sat on the mat with her oldest son.
Our conversation quickly turned to money. It turns out that we were invited into his home so that we could see all the need, so that we would give more money to the family. “Mwana wanga sagona bwino.” Elias said. My child does not sleep well. “Timagona pamodzi pa mpasa.” We all sleep together on the mat. I looked at the bamboo mat on the floor, which served as the family bed.
Elias spends a lot of time at our house; he has eaten at our dining room table, tossed Johnny into the air, taught our kids how to prune roses, and fixed Frankie’s bike when the chain broke. He is an incredibly hard worker; our garden is beautiful, overflowing with vegetables, and our yard is full of colorful flowers. Without him, we would just have dirt and dying plants.
But Elias has seen our bedrooms, our mattresses set atop wooden frames, our comfortable blankets, our fluffy pillows, our extra beds for guests. And he wanted me to see how his family sleeps. He wanted to me to know that no matter how often he holds Johhny’s hand or ruffles Frankie’s hair, or laughs with me when I say something ridiculous in Chichewa, his life is exponentially different than mine. He struggles to feed his children, he does not have money for medicine, and his boys sleep with him on the hard floor.
It is true that we paid for the clinic visit for his son and the medicine for his wife; it is true that we sent him to the doctor with funds and days off. It is true that we send him home with extra food, feed him two meals a day, and pay him 30% more than the average daily rate. But Elias’s family needs more. And he is not afraid to ask. This visit to his home was his way of asking, again, that we support him, so he can support his family.
Joel and I have discussed our plans and our responsibility to pay Elias a fair, living wage, to make sure that he gets the health care that he needs, to not accept what is status quo as that which is just. But there are so many gray areas, and it is hard to live with the incredible disparity that cannot be ignored. When we lived in the US, it was easier to pretend that our lives were “normal.” But here, we know better. Our lives were, and are, lives of extreme privilege.
I am glad we went to Elias’ house, and I am so glad that we have the honor of knowing him. But I know that it will be a constant struggle for me, and for many of my colleagues, to figure out how best to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.
Perhaps the humility part really is what resonates right now; I so desperately want to change the world, to fix all the problems, to create equality, to end these awful disparities, and I cannot. All I can do is trust God, do my best, and be humble enough to believe that I, alone, simply cannot do all that I want to do. But when we work together, with God, I can trust that there is justice, there is life, there is hope. And it is a gift to be a small, confused, imperfect part of it...So, I guess, we just try to walk together.
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