Her House by the Water

Last Saturday morning Louise, Katie, and I began my second hike downhill to the market. However, the market was only to be our stop to “hail” our taxi out to a very small village, to visit a patient of Louise’s. I knew the patient had been sick and the Kings helped to build a house for her by the water. We were going to see the construction and how the patient was doing. Now, there are VERY few vehicles in Shyira and this market. There aren’t paved roads here, mostly bumpy dirt and rock roads. So, when I say “taxi,” extract any definition that word has held for you and understand a Shyira taxi.

Picture it: three women walking through the market in search of bike taxis. Louise spots a boy on a bike and he recognizes her interest. The next thing I know I am swarmed by probably ten teenage boys wanting to be our bike driver. For further clarification- and this is an important detail- these bikes are not moto-bikes. They are much like a cruiser that might be found in Pawleys Island. The slight distinction is a 6x12 inch, rectangular seat on the back, apparently for a bottom, mine. I looked at Louise and Katie. To those of you who are familiar with my nervous laugh, let your minds run wild. These teenage boys were all reaching their hands out to me to take them on as my driver. Apart from my good instincts, I took the more aggressive boy, or he took me. I don’t like roller coasters or fast driving. Yet, all of a sudden I have picked the most aggressive boy to drive me up the mountain road.

Luckily, I didn’t have to ride side saddle. So, I sat down right behind this boy. There was nothing I could see to hold onto accept for him or the tightly coiled springs under his seat. I curled my fingers around the coils in front of me, and we took off. Initially I thought we were going to tip over. I had Amanda’s great, big green bag on my right arm, filled with two water bottles. I couldn’t see anything but the red shirt on my driver’s back, and I was afraid to lean over to look around. Finally, curiosity became a substitution for bravery, and I peeked around. It was wonderful and terrifying. There were holes all over the road, people walking with sugar cane and baskets on their heads, small bridges made out of logs, and ditches on either side. We were going so quickly. We hardly ever slowed for something or someone obstructing our path. We might swerve, but we yielded to no one. All of a sudden, I was glad for his audacity. I feared and respected my teenage driver. There was a bell on the front of our bike, and I knew to hold on tightly when I heard it sounding in quick reverberation. A couple of times, he heard an irrepressible gasp and turned around to me, but he also heard uncontainable laughs.

We rode through two villages, one tightly packed with people. That village heard a recital from our bell. Then, we crossed a bridge. The water was orange from the soil, except for the tips of the rapids. They were white. The bridge was made up of rusted metal and slats of wood set so far apart that I could see the river rushing under me. The noise from the river, the different bikes passing on this bridge with yellow tubs filled with water, and our own bell filled me to the heights and I was so glad. There are few times where my entire mind is in one place and I don’t have to call back wandering thoughts. On this ride, my thoughts were holding on as securely as my fingers. I like that, and I was simply happy.
We rode the bike for 20 minutes, ending in an uphill stretch, and we reached the patient’s house. It was in a depression from the road, with the river running behind her backyard. We walked down and into her house. We were greeted by her three boys, and then met her. Louise speaks Kinyarwanda and I speak no more than greetings. So, she was conversing, while I was watching. The boys were beautiful. They were ranging from probably twelve to a baby. The twelve year old had a calm smile that made me want to know what he had seen. The baby must have been two. He reached his hand out to greet me. I could tell these were children who knew what it was to be loved by their mom, and her disposition showed she enjoyed every minute of it. Louise turned back to us as the little one was holding my hand. “He and his mom have AIDS. The older one seizes.” She continued visiting with this woman in a kind and comforting manner that is distinctly and honestly Louise. I wondered what this woman knew about each minute she had with her children and the weight of health, poor or fine, of which I have little concept. How much more costly are the grins of that household. She showed us her backyard, while she and Louise continued in conversation and I took pictures of the boys with my camera and then enjoyed watching them enjoy looking at themselves. We took pictures of the thankful family in front of their new house before we left.

The ride back was not like the ride there. I loosened my grasp on the coils. My mind was filled with joy and gladness and ache. I hate that the mother and her family were sick as much as much as I can hate. Yet, I love her joy more than I hate her pain, and I do believe her joy is increased by her perseverance through this. I have to believe this is how life works. I do believe it’s how the Lord works, and I love him for this. I’ve never seen beauty more severe and set apart than the beauty he creates out of suffering. We cannot muster it. I’ve tried to generate it in my own life, and broken and exhausted my own heart worse than anyone or anything could. I more wearied than before. But, when He heals our broken spirits in the midst of suffering, there is something full of glory in us that allows us to hope for more glory than we could have believed possible prior to suffering.

This woman is terminally sick. So is her baby. Saturday, she was a blessing to me. I had the joy of seeing someone grateful for a life that is also a struggle.