O Sing Us A Song of Zion

O Sing Us A Song of Zion!

The flight had been a crowded seventeen-hour vigil that reminded me of my old youth minister days doing “lock-ins.”  We had successfully traveled from Atlanta, Ga. to Johannesburg, South Africa.  The excitement of the trip was contagious.  We moved our watches forward some seven hours to adjust to African time and then busied ourselves with reading books, watching movies and chatting about our last adventure to the continent.  The Johannesburg International airport was something to behold and I began to feel the familiar uncomfortable sense that I was in a strange land and one of few Americans navigating my way to the baggage collection area.  The soldiers with machine guns have always served as a reminder of the reality I faced.   

The next five hours of our journey was interesting, to say the least, journeying through the countryside, and thinking like Americans often do concerning travel.    “On the wrong side of the road,” someone always comments.  I was not disappointed.  The mountains reminded me of the Blue Ridge Mountains without trees!    Soon we entered the little country of Swaziland, our home for the next two weeks.  Since we had been running on sheer excitement and no sleep, I found myself nodding off to sleep in the passenger seat of the automobile.    We were traveling to Nhlangano, a small town in the southern part of Swaziland. I finally decided to wake from my slumber since the car jerked and listed, rolling down the dirt path to our temporary home.  A good night’s sleep was just what I needed.

Sunday in Nhlangano is not unlike any other town.  Early that morning I gathered with the others for a breakfast of pastries, eggs, milimeal, oatmeal, mango juice, bread and coffee.    Well satisfied, we made our way to the public library.  “This might just work for the worship service today,” I thought to myself, kicking a well chewed mango core off the sidewalk into the grass. 

We were there to lead the Nhlangano church in worship.  They were unable to meet at the usual location due to a change in their building’s lease.    This particular Sunday was the first day of meeting at the library.  We arrived at the front door to discover that it was locked.  The cool morning breeze and absence of town noises was a delightful sensation.  An unrecognizable floral fragrance was in the air we waited for someone to arrive. Just the day before, the town was full of activity at the marketplace and the bus station.  People were arriving from everywhere, changing busses, buying, and selling their vegetables, clothing, and curios.  Sunday morning brought stillness as folks “slept in.”

We waited for several minutes and the time had passed for the beginning of the worship service.  After about a half hour, someone came with a key to open the building.  We were excited about the opportunity before us and looked around to discover just the right location to have the worship service.      Where were the people?  I looked down the empty street to see a Swazi lady coming our way. Then, there was another bringing children.  An old “Gogo” (grandmother), dressed in her finest Sunday dress; complete with a beautiful hat, made her way up the street as if it were the happiest day of the year.  Soon there were about 30 people arriving at the library for worship.  The quietness of the morning yielded to the excitement and the chatter of voices greeting old friends from America. 

The singing began and we joined in singing the hymns in English as our friends praised God in siSwati.    Singing in Swaziland is always fun. There are no instruments and everyone sings; even an occasional dance.  We heard special songs from the children, the young adult women, and even the older Swazis joined in with a special rendition, slightly off key, of “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior.” 

Finally time arrived for me to bring the morning sermon.  As I spoke, I noticed the intent look on each face as they attempted to understand each word I uttered (with the help of a translator).  “If only my parishioners at home made such attempts to understand, “I thought as I concluded my message.    At the conclusion of the service three young children walked to the front of the “make shift church” to make the commitment to accept Jesus as Lord of their lives.  It was a very special time for all present; celebrating with Mlangeni, Bongani, and Gcina Dlamini.  The feeling of such joy overwhelmed the Swazis and the Americans as we welcomed the new believers into the family of God.  Truly these last few moments were worth all of the trouble, of the past 30 hours, to get to this place and moment in time.

Monday morning was filled with excitement of a new day in Nhlangano.  The quietness of Sunday was overtaken by the sounds at the bus station and market activity.  Barbara and Wayne, our missionary hosts, was busy preparing for lunch to be served at their home later.    A man came to the front gate.  The stranger was a relative to the Dlamini children.  His story stung as he related that one of the children had died earlier in the morning.  Barbara, hesitant to even ask the name, inquired and was told that it had been the older child, Mlangeni. 

School was out for the day and Mlangeni had gone with some children to the dam not far from his home.  He could not swim but for some reason found himself in high water.  People were searching for his body. 

The grief stricken family did not know the details of what actually happened.  Later, the man who told of the death brought “Make” Mamba, the child’s mother, to the missionary’s house to stay until they heard concerning Mlangeni’s body.    Soon we arrived to have lunch.    We were stunned to be hearing the news, and the fact that the boy’s body had been found and the details of what may have happened.  We Americans struggled to understand and began discussing all the “if only’s” to help with our own grief.   

Two of us accompanied “Make” Mamba back to her home to be with the body of Mlangeni.  We entered the home that had become a sanctuary for grieving family members.  Over by the window lay the little boy.  His lifeless form was on display for mourners.    The room was silent and the humid air was thick.  I felt as if I would suffocate from what seemed to be a lack of air in the home.  People would arrive and leave in silence; as if they didn’t know what to do.  I felt helpless and very much a foreigner in a place that I did not belong; an intruder at a very personal family moment.

Before the sun rose the next morning we were in the man’s truck who delivered the awful news that morning before.    We learned he was a local minister.  All three of us slid onto the bench seat of his truck.  Make Mamba and the Ladies accompanied the body in the truck bed.  We drove slowly to the burial plot in Nhlangano. The Swazi women sang sorrowful songs as we made our way to where Mlangeni was to be buried. Their singing was not joyful as in church that past Sunday.  Instead, the singing was slow, and sorrowful.  The songs of grief spilled out, note by note, as we experienced an African funeral.  We arrived at the plot and I could not keep from crying.  I felt so helpless; so sad.

Time came for burial.  The burial plot was too short and more had to be dug before the body could be buried. When the service was complete the family walked to Barbara and Wayne’s house.  It was a familiar place for the children and the rest of the family.  Many hours had been spent in the living room singing songs, listening to Bible stories and eating snacks.  Barbara placed a sheet on the floor for the children to sit upon. As she placed the sheet she remembered that Mlangeni often remarked at the beauty of the embroidery that decorated the corners of what she considered a tattered sheet.  She guessed that such sweet memories would linger with everyone as the days, months, and years continued.

Bongani and Gcina, so small, frightened, and sad, were in the living room. They were virtually ignored by the adults and teenagers that had gathered.  The children’s father, who was not living with the family, was present but he, too, ignored the children and the mother.  I later discovered that ignoring children was a Swazi way of life.  In fact, no one mentioned the young boy, Mlangeni. 

The day ended as it had begun.  Complete sadness.  The family departed the missionary’s home.  Barefoot, they walked into the darkness of night blending into the shadows of the sad little town.  Walking back to our house, once again, I encountered the familiar fragrance of the air and noticed its coolness drifting in as evening settled all around us.    I found that I was not interested in sleep, but more interested in thoughts of my own wife and child back at home.    “What time is it at home,” I thought.  Then I thanked God for my family, our safety, and our shelter.  “Tonight, Mlangeni is in Heaven; God has not passed him by,” I remembered.  I prayed a thanksgiving prayer to God for allowing me to be present, and to have had the opportunity to welcome three children into the family of God.  I thanked my Lord for allowing me, in some way, to provide ministry to an African family.  I drifted off to sleep hearing, in my mind, the Swazi’s song:

"Pass me not, O gentle Savior,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others Thou art calling,
Do not pass me by.

Savior, Savior,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others Thou art calling,
Do not pass me by."