Uncle Julius, Post Script

I forgot to mention in my thoughts on Uncle Julius' passion for learning that later on in his adult life, Moody recognized the wisdom and worth of this amazing man. They graciously offered him an honorary degree, and he could become an alumnus without ever having attended.

He courteously thanked them, but assured them that the paper was not as important to him as the lesson he had learned. Does my culture value the paper which certifies the person or the person?

This Question of Education

In pondering the question of what education is and what constitutes an educated person, a gentle, humble servant of a man comes to mind. One of my many surrogate “uncles,” Julius Bergstrom was born in China to Swedish missionary parents before communism raised its head and expelled those willing to live in her slums and decode her ideographs.

Uncle Julius entered my life when I was two. I remember him and Aunt Thyra as a sweet childless couple who welcomed me into their home and fed me cookies and juice in my clueless, imperious years. Unable to return to China, the land of their childhood and dreams, they chose Korea as a springboard for sending the message of life and hope into China. Creating Chinese programs for the radio station to beam past the “bamboo curtain” was their legacy to tens of thousands of young people caught in communism’s brainwash.

Uncle Julius was modest concerning himself and lavish towards others. No one could have been prouder at my graduation from Trinity College--of course he came. And his gift to me was reflective of his confidence in me: a 20 volume copy of the OED, one he had used and cherished for years. He applauded my educational goals and believed in me, a shallow 70s child of my times. When he spoke to me, I believed I was nearly as bright as the pedestal he placed me on.

I loved him and Aunt Thyra through the years, visiting them in retirement, watching him cope as she withdrew into Alzheimer’s. I ached for him, missing the vibrant and gifted woman he married as she turned into a childlike girl. The only reminder of her delightful self was when she sat at the piano and played the hymns which seemed the mortar of a life built of sacrifice.

After Uncle Julius died, as I talked to Dad about what a dear “uncle” he was, I began to learn the depths of the man who set such store my by college education.

Uncle Julius had been homeschooled by his missionary parents and attended some Chinese schools. He was fluent in Confucian Chinese and read the classics in their originals. His accent and calligraphy were so perfect, he was highly honored by the Chinese. He was also fluent in Swedish, English was his third language (and later he would learn Korean, a fourth). When he finished high school, he applied to study at Moody Bible Institute. They rejected him because he had not attained their entrance requirements in a recognized high school. He never did make it to college, but committed himself to life-long learning.

I inherited many of the books from Uncle Julius’ self-learning library. His name is neatly penned in the front, with a small Chinese painting usually pasted near it. He read and marked the books, interacting with the authors. He didn’t fill his time with Grisham and Clancy. I have his Plato, his Aristotle, Homer, Augustine, Virgil, and countless others. He was truly an educated man. The academic community with its artificial standards could not recognize the light of learning in his soul. They were blind to his non-Western achievement. They were the losers.

First Shona Wedding

One amazing Sunday we visited a different church and discovered that we'd chosen a wedding Sunday. We had met the pastor's wife and had come to connect with her; were we in for a treat!

In 19 years in Mozambique, we could count the church weddings we'd witnessed on one hand. Honestly, it isn't that people weren't making families; simply, culture dictates that church weddings be outrageously expensive, so people opt out. Zimbabwe, despite its economic hard times does not have the same attitude.

Before the wedding was Sunday School as usual, taught beautifully by the pastor's wife. Then after the appropriate arranging of musical instruments, lighting a few candles (turning off the fans so the candles would stay lit), and much anticipation--it happened.

First we heard the wedding party arrive in their cars, horns blaring and people cheering. Shortly, five little girls in white dresses paraded down the aisle strewing flower petals in their path. The one with the veil was carrying the pillow with rings. After them, the four couples standing up with the bride and groom came, one at a time, in a sedate Shona two-step. Each couple took two steps forward and two back (feet synchronized), but the steps back were slightly shorter than the ones forward, so progress was made. The rhythmic music was easily followed and we had plenty of time to admire each couple. Once they were seated in the front row, the groom and his best man came in, just as slowly. It was easy to spot the groom. The best man was having a ball and the groom looked very apprehensive. We discovered later that he had good reason--Shona culture encourages quite a bit of good-natured razzing.


Once the two men reached the front, they turned and awaited the bride flanked by her parents. Halfway up the aisle, they stopped and the wedding was put on hold. The MC turned things over to the pastor, who gave various announcements and then introduced US, in the middle of the wedding! (I felt sorry for this girl, but she didn't seem to have the attitude that it was "her" day alone.)

Then came my most favorite part. This is where the groom thanks the parents for the wonderful job they did raising this girl.

Brief cultural interlude: We have learned in our Shona lessons that clapping is one of the key methods of showing appreciation. Men clap with their hands vertical, women horizontal. The number of claps is significant of the measure of gratitude. It is usual to clap to a child once or twice, to a person you are meeting two or three times. Women clap more times for men and so on. It is very hierarchical. One doesn't clap with hands flat, but slightly cupped, for more resonance. Now, back to the wedding.

At his point, the groom and his best man and four compadres (who came down the aisle with the lovely girls on their arms) all came together before the bride and her parents, then THEY KNELT DOWN and on cue clapped in unison. Thirty-six claps. Now if you consider that there were six guys on the floor clapping, that is a total of 216 claps. This girl must be something!

I haven't mentioned all the other details about bride price, and other gifts given by the groom to the bride's family. And cows are still a part of that, I'm only telling you what we saw.

Once the bride finally got to the front, handed over to the perspiring groom, and her parents seated, the actual ceremony began. They exchanged vows and rings and signed the register--just like western folks do.

Then they sat patiently in their seats, facing us, while the pastor preached about marriage. For an entire hour. He even had a married couple stand up front and modeled how things interfere with communication and a couple grows apart (he had them step away from each other at each example until they were at opposite walls). I didn't catch everything, the sermon was mostly Shona, but the phrase he kept repeating in English was: "this is a till death do us part kind of thing." I think everyone got the message and no one was bored.

I was touched by how much the couple, although the reason for the celebration, did not expect all the attention. (Truth be told, I'm sure the groom was relieved when they stopped picking on him!) The event was for us all--and we were all blessed.

Blind and Positive

Not long after our visit to the preschool graduation, our friend/nurse/colleague, Julie, took us to visit a destitute family in the rural area nearby. She had visited the previous week and came with a distressing report of this family’s situation.

The father is 75-years-old and blind. The mother is 35 and HIV+. They have four children between the ages of 10 months and 10 years. The baby was sick.

When we drove into the “yard” around the rondavel where they lived, it appeared to be completely deserted. Rusted pots and broken detritus of living were strewn haphazardly. Nothing was planted deliberately, but weeds were profuse. I didn’t see a latrine or an area for cooking.

Inside the little round hut the floor was at least cement. The blackened thatch hung in cobwebby strings. About a third of the floor space was obliterated by junk. The ancient blind man was kneeling on a mat with the baby tied to his back. The baby had recovered. His wife lay on her side on the floor covered from head to toe in a nondescript blanket. Only one thin foot protruded. She did not respond to any talking to her, but moved so we knew she was alive. Julie had spoken with her the week before and said she was very weak and gaunt.

The husband never stopped thanking us for visiting, bowing forward with the baby bobbing forward and back. He so appreciated the honor we did him by coming. This visit Julie was prepared and had brought several sack of corn meal, oil, dried fish, sugar and food items provided by TEAM for those without means.

Julie said that the previous visit, the hut had been filthy, the floor littered with dirty clothes and excrement. A kind neighbor, whom we met, had come to help and clean, even bathing the patient. Her face was radiant and I sensed the depth of her concern for this family.

This type of situation is not uncommon in Zimbabwe. As a nurse, Julie hears about them frequently, always being asked for more help than she can give. We prayed with them, as the pastor and she had done the week before. In the midst of the misery, the Lord received the glory for the help of the neighbor and the gift of food. Will this family recover to become healthy and be a part of Kingdom building?

Common sense says no, but I am becoming more aware that common sense isn’t able to account for the God-factor.

Gatsby at Goromondzi pre-school graduation

It was a Friday morning with a surreal air: we were attending the very rural Little Stars Pre-school graduation. It was over an hour on some pretty metaphysical roads--roads in the abstract if you will. However, the bright pink building was not hard to find as we came within sight. It was my first pre-school graduation. The point still baffles me: no other graduation, not even high school, is honored here to this extent, except perhaps the doctorate.

Pastor Diamond greeted us warmly. The kids were assembled, sitting on the dusty cement. We sat on tiny chairs along one wall with tiny desks in front of us, covered with tiny table clothes. After a prescribed amount of verifying, readjusting decor, and the sound crew (on their tiny chairs with tiny desks seated under a window to our left), the programme began.

This effort was planned and rehearsed since school began sometime in January. These small ones had memorized in English (with very little idea of what they said) Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star complete with hand motions, Baa Baa Black Sheep, and an entire Nativity play. It was half way through that we realized that was also in English. There were also many Shona songs and skits--usually starring the best-in-class.

The highlight of the occasion was the capping and reception of diplomas. There were several little black capes and two little black mortar boards to go around for 65 kids. So the children stood at one door dressed in a cape, came forward when called, had the mortar board placed on their heads, received their paper, had the mortar board removed, and turned around to run into the next small one coming in with cape flying. It was a delightful, chaotic, musical event. Everyone was having a ball. Most of these kids are orphans, taught by the dedication of Christian Zimbabweans committed to making the Kingdom better by whatever means they had.

Then a bizarre twist reminded me of the frantic scramble for success and material prosperity in this land devastated by AiDS and corruption. When the first ten or so graduates had filed up and back, a family, well-dressed, complete with father, mother, and baby accompanied one of the graduates up to the front again to the Christmas tree. The ceremony was continuing and this family, laden with gifts, stood for a photographer who officiously posed them and took portraits. Then the boy who had graduated began to open his gifts. Two of them were battery-powered toys. One was a helicopter with lights, which ran and made a racket, the other was a reindeer which played a Christmas carol. Father proceeded to put batteries in and the toys were set on the floor. The graduation dimmed as every eye focused on this special child. Not only did he have two parents and nice clothes, he had gifts and a photographer documenting his good fortune.

I looked into the faces of the other small ones, those being ignored as they received their little certificates, those who stood with forgotten papers in their hands, mouths open, watching the helicopter flash green, red, yellow lights, whirr, hum, and careen across the cracked cement. I could not read those little faces. Was it admiration? Envy? Disappointment? Pain?

The Tom and Daisy Buchanans have arrived in Zimbabwe. They are scrambling up a scree-covered slope. It has been a long haul, and no doubt there have been some reservations overridden to reach the top. I tried to read the faces of the father and mother as they paraded back to their places after their little interlude in the limelight. I could not read them, either. They had made their point. They are on the top of the hill and for a time it is theirs.

Adapting to Change

Transitions are formidable because the rules change from place to place. How one operates, interacts; what is acceptable, what not. For the most part, the rules are not written, so one sails uncharted seas for a while.

Quelimane didn’t boast a single traffic light.

Harare has a plethora of traffic lights, about half of which don’t have electricity at any given moment. When the energy is off the challenge begins. The four-way-stop is unknown here, so each motorist develops a style. Some are inchers, some are blusterers, and some just figure they have the right of way and everyone had better stop for them. Some have accidents. I catch myself trying to route my trip where the electricity might be on.

Intersections provide another risk: blind begging must be profitable at the busiest corners because blind people led by small children walk up and down the white dashes between cars when the light is red. When it is green, they just stop between lanes (not on the median strip) and wait. Crossroads are also popular vending places and one can buy cell phone credit, newspapers and blow up beach toys at most busy lights. If a transaction hasn’t been completed, the entire line of cars waits while the vendor fiddles for change.

Quelimane is not blessed with parking lots, as the Portuguese pretty much built everything very close together. So parking is done on the street and people weave among parked cars. Harare has parking lots wherever there are stores. And vendors populate most parking lots. One hot afternoon while I waited for Phil to find a saw in a hardware store I was approached by vendors to buy: strawberries, brooms, a reflective triangle, steering wheel covers, window awnings, fly swatters, electric fans, knife sets, and spray bottles. All in only 15 minutes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the market for any of these items but the strawberries.

Let me not forget the policemen. They are ubiquitous on Zimbabwean roads, but especially in the city. On a 10-minute trip to drop Phil off, I passed three police roadblocks. They are particularly interested in the stickers on the windshield, reflective triangles (hence the vendors), reflective vests, and fire extinguishers: all required by Zimbabwean law.

Such are the vagaries of crossing a simple African border.

Culture Shock

Tremors deep under the surface send shock waves through solid rock and the earth quakes. Buildings sway, shelves teeter, books and living paraphernalia scatter everywhere. Things disconnect, solid things seem liquid, nothing is where it was.

No matter how many years you live overseas, culture shock can creep up and blindside you. The more “acclimated” you are, the less likely you are to beware. We knew that life was different in Zim, but we thought we were used to “Africa.” That big, dark continent that confounds aid and relief organizations and has absorbed countless missionaries.

Moving to Zimbabwe has been a “step up.” Although we read tragic stories of deterioration since 1980 (independence), Zimbabwe still has vestiges of being a developed country: supermarkets, used car lots, hospitals and clinics, schools with pools and immense sports grounds, hardware stores with hardware, roads in pretty good condition, traffic signals (which work when electricity is on), internet cafes (ditto), landscaped parks, lovely homes with pools and gardens.

There are elements which reflect years of neglect and deliberate exploitation: erratic power because the bills are not paid to countries of production, use of the US dollar and SA rand because the Zim dollar could not survive the inflation it generated, prices 5 to 10 times the value of the items, police randomly pulling drivers over for imagined offenses.

We have the added mix of moving to a city probably five times larger than Quelimane. A new language (Shona), a new culture (not all African cultures are alike), a new map, new transport (our bikes are out of the question for “getting” there), new people to get to know, a new ministry. It gets a bit overwhelming at times. But it’s part of the price you pay to be where you believe you should be, doing what you trust you should be doing.