Africa Calling ONE

Experience the Truth for yourself…

“There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to walk through the valley of shadow again and again before we reach the mountain tops of our desires.”
– Nelson Mandela, September 1953 –

for Aaron and his new baby Leani in Zimbabwe

Today, a telephone ringing at 7:00a woke me to a clean, rain-washed morning in Texas.

My mom's excited voice could barely contain her joy - "dad has something to tell you" - Aaron, the builder from Mutare, Zimbabwe, and his team of four had finished the new little church building in Manica, Mozambique so far that they could start on the roof this week.
This was almost too good to be true!
I had one tick-bite and my dad - two to show, from setting out the piece of wild veld together with these men in July this year. Shoooing cattle and curious goats away from our boundary markers, I chopped out weeds and dead branches with my manchetti.
Aaron came to look for work in Mozambique almost a year ago in hope of providing better for his wife and little child still living in Zimbabwe. He got to see them perhaps once in every two weeks if things were going well enough for him to travel.

But there was more to rejoice about this morning:
My dad received a phonecall from this meticulous artist with the quiet smile and gentle voice, that works magic with clay and cement when given a chance.
Fourty kilometers away from his small, rented room, probably by candle light in their humble two-room-home without running water, in a country strangled without any medical services under the tiranny of a mad murderer, his precious wife gave birth, alone, to their new baby girl and they named her Leani.

I saw God today

Axel screeched about needing some time alone
as we drove south before sunrise in our own October rain.
Michelle was early and my omelet late
but we still shared it with smiles
along with her prayed-for-raise she heard about last night.
Lisa from Main had lunch with me today
she had something to say, so she finally said:
I apologize on behalf of my country to you,
for not really caring about Africa and her people like you do.
You see, we still believe in this dream,
that if they just work and learn and try hard enough,
they will get to live in heaven, just like we get to do right now.
“Thank you,” I said,
“I’ll cancel my appointment with your president.”

Turning north on the seventy-five,
alone in my eighty-eight Civic at half past nine,
the four-lane highway toward the holy of holies shone slippery and wet
Passing through this first-world Parthenon
their sky-scraping-statue-colonnade, fed by blind fornicators,
exhausted, hungry, missing dinner with their wives and their kids.
A red sign up ahead beckons: hotel.com
two eighteen-wheelers pass me at once, from both sides,
offerings to impatient idols,
transporting more temptations to choose lesser loves.
Their square, rigid gods, barely noticed around here,
only seen from their navels downward,
their feet planted firmly in once-oil-drenched-clay-ground.
All heads and shoulders will eventually bow to this cloud.
Beyond the high-five, I try to stick to the limit, but can't
now at sixty-seven miles an hour, we pass beyond the outer court.
Chinese car dealerships display cheap birds, perfect for a ransom sacrifice.
Far away and all around I see, invisible lampposts casting their cones of yellow light,
hovering halos shine brightly beneath the heaviness of this mist,
like angelic beings leading me along in rapturous delight.
Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty
Who was and is and is to come.

Who am I to recognize His glory?
What am I?
A mere white, woman, formed form red African dust?
That the One who made the stars
should remember me tonight?
If I should receive that most treasured of gifts,
a father for and from him,
a sweet baby girl,
to feed, to bathe and to dress,
smelling of lavender and chamomile tea,
rocking her down-feathery-soft-head in my palm,
swaddled warm against my breathing chest,
I shall choose this name for her;
Lena Emmanuelle.

lunacy

20:27

Friday night

Still out of milk

Met with God, my roommate and I

worked through some familiar fears

reminding ourselves about our dignity

Putting on mascara side by side

She’s cooking Mexican,

mediating prenuptial misunderstandings

Alone at peace at 40 miles an hour west down Legacy Lane

Solitary parking space on level three kept just for me

Live Cuban tunes hug my shoulders as I cross the street

Same place, another time, I’d sit myself down, have a Pink Martini.

21:09

Lost in Bono’s teenage memories of Dublin

“Because my definition of art started with:

you put your hands under your skin, you break your breastbone,

you rip open your rib cage…”

Determined to dedicate my blood to the word

Asking strangers for the time at the Angelika

“…If you really wanna write, that’s what you ought to do.

Are you ready for that?”

Chilled beers beg me to take them along for the movie

I opt for a hotdog

and a cherry red cupcake with whipped cream on instead

Bloody Bible belt.

23:52

Credits roll over the Isle of Man

Rowan Atkinson quotes Solomon as the music begins.

Leaving last

tarry in the darkness a minute longer

Dreading reality outside on the sidewalk

I pass a Muslim father walking five steps ahead of his wife

She tightens her black silk scarf beneath her lifted chin

Her young son holds on to her bright orange cuff

Solitude screams when she looks me in the eye,

wordless exchange, I search for the moon

Almost completely full, but not quite yet.

“Desire comes out of wanting what is yours,

and still wanting it even if it’s not there, but it is not envy.”

Good night to U2

And we still have no milk.