6 minute read
Old Woman
When they returned to Chicago, Kirsten wrote a short story about their experience, which she shared with others in their study group. Many years later, Lisa returned to South Africa with her husband and two children, where she worked as a visiting pastor and completed her Masters’ degree. She thought about Kirsten’s story and took out her laptop to read through it again. Many memories flooded in as she was drawn back to the simple hut they had entered so many years ago. I experienced the awareness of our Ubuntu—our mutual being—as the ground of solidarity, of being with, and of the presence of God in the midst of it all.
Many things from that year in South Africa stick with me. Still, an experience with Shirilele’s grandmother was one of the most profound lessons in what it means to be present and alert to the profound gifts that we have to offer each other, even when we are from vastly different life experiences. I experienced the awareness of our Ubuntu— our mutual being—as the ground of solidarity, of being with, and of the presence of God in the midst of it all. My friend and I have come with Shirilele to visit his village over our seminary break. White, women, American, “mfundisi” …ministers, we are people of immense importance and curiosity in this rural South African village. We are just trying our best to be good guests, to be fully present in this opportunity to be part of a life that is so different from our own, learning how to be in solidarity and change ourselves and our way of being in the world. It’s more complicated than it sounds.
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Some extracts from my diary:
Last night I stayed at the home of one of Shirilele’s cousins with no bathroom or running water. Not knowing how to brush my teeth, I went outside into the courtyard with my little basin of water and cleaned them there. Later Shirilele told me that spitting in the courtyard was like spitting in someone’s living room. So much to learn. Today we are moving around the village to visit the elders. It’s the priority on our first morning there. Shirilele is the first son of the first wife. It is part of his being to make these visits, connect, and show honor.
Standing outside the round mud and thatch hut, a pack of children and chickens surrounding us, Shirilele cups his hands around his
“Ahe, Awuxeni… Ducking our heads to enter, we step inside. It is dark, but the dimmed
Yes, we see you.” kerosene lamp and small fire smoking in the center of the floor were enough to see by. The room is empty except for the old woman who lies on a mat covered by a few blankets. A small pile of clothes and possessions are stored on the floor by her head. Awakened by our visit, the old woman struggles to sit up. We stand quietly while Shirilele makes our introductions to his grandmother in Tsonga. “These are my American friends who study with me at seminary, Old Woman. They have come to visit us.” She nods as he speaks, drawing herself into a seated position. We wait for her to address us. “Awuxeni…. We see you,” she greets us. “Ahe, Awuxeni…Yes, we see you.” We delight her with the little bits of Tsonga that we have learned, exchanging greetings in a ritual that connects and weaves the social fabric. “Minjani…How are all of you?” The Old Woman asks not just about us but also about our family network. “Siyaphila…We are living. Minjani wena? And how are all of you?” “Ekhona…We are here.” We stand in the hut, shy and uncertain. One of the children produces a low, wobbly bench. We perch on it precariously, leaning on our knees for support. As we sit, the children enter silently, arranging their dusty bodies in whatever spaces are available around the hearth. Shirilele puts another stick on the fire. It catches and flares brightly for a moment before settling into a steadier flame. The Old Woman turns up her kerosene lamp. The room is bathed in soft light and dances with the shadow of the flames. Shirilele had told us that his grandmother was ill, that she was ancient and probably near death. Indeed, she does not look well. Her skin hangs on her thin frame, and her breath is shallow and quick. Her face bears the wrinkles of grueling work; hours spent cleaning the house of a White family, caring for their children, endless days of insult and subservience. Yet her posture is dignified and impressive, legs straight out in front of her, her back like a ramrod. Out of the quiet, the Old Woman begins to talk. Her voice rises and falls with the soft sounds of Tsonga. Her hands accentuate a point now and then but primarily rest quietly in her lap. She looks straight ahead as she recites her litany.
“Ahe…Ahe…Ahe…Yes…Yes…Yes…” Low, steady, Shirilele answers her. Now and then, he translates for us. “She is telling us about her life and her many illnesses. She is saying that she has had a good life and seen many things. But, she says, she is old and is ready to die….” As she speaks, we join in. “Ahe…Ahe…Ahe…” The Old Woman finishes speaking. She looks at us. “She wants you to pray,” Shirilele explains. It feels easy to pray here—like simply reaching into the holiness surrounding us. I begin with a few words that I know. They are Zulu but close enough to Tsonga. “Nkulunkulu. Babawethu…. Our God. Our Father…,” I continue in English. “Ahe…” the Old Woman breathes. “Ahe…Ahe…”
Lisa remembered how she had felt when she stepped into the hut that day, so many years ago. The cow dung floor was polished and warm under her bare feet, the room dark, waiting for the lamp to be brightened. She had felt a slight tremor inside her, the sense of the unknown shaking her a bit, but also the sense of wonder at the smallness of the room and how it felt like a cathedral.
She had followed Kirsten’s lead and greeted the Old Woman in the foreign words that rolled off her tongue, “Siyaphila …Siyaphila…We are living.” When she heard the Ahe, Ahe, Ahe of the Old Woman, it felt like the wisdom of ancient sages was speaking through her. Lisa realized that even though she was frail, the Old Woman was filled with the wisdom of a life lived, of years writing a ‘human living document’. As the Old Woman spoke into the light of the kerosene lamp, Lisa felt the sanctity of stories fully present in the room, wrapped in blankets of strength, bravery, courage, and life. Indeed, it was not an empty room. She remembered now that she had heard a voice deep inside her asking softly, “I wonder what it would be like if ‘we’ were to honor with reverence, with awe, not just mere curiosity, this Sage as if we were in the presence of the Divine Mother? This Old Sage who welcomes the stranger with sacred hospitality and the wisdom of life permeating the sacred hut – the Sage’s temple?” ... the Old Woman was filled with the wisdom of a life lived, of years writing a ‘human living document’.
