Loss

On February 11, 2008, I woke up groggy from the interruptions of mosquitoes. It has rained a lot the past few days; uncharacteristic of the dry season. I arrived at school and was quietly informed a student’s mother had passed this morning. He didn’t know. Moments later I found myself in a room with Dr. Kasali and Honoré preparing to disclose the news to the student, Bush. As we informed him, his eyes gradually swelled with tears, and eventually broke.

The students were in chapel. After they heard the news they consoled their fellow classmate, in prayer and song. After some discussion they decided to accompany us to Oicha, a village 40 minutes north of Beni, where Bush’s mother passed away. After a few phone calls and a couple hours later, transportation was arranged. Festo and I did our best to keep our friend’s mind from drifting far into grief by making jokes about the black beans we eat everyday for lunch and how they make us, lack of better term, shit.

We arrived via caravan at Oicha. Almost every student attended the mourning service. We entered the church, her body wrapped in blankets on a bed in front. Women dear to her laid on the floor weeping and wailing. Bush collapsed at his mother’s side. The students gathered around in support for a few moments and then respectively stepped back. I swallowed hard, my gut tight, as I watched a friend overcome by sorrow.

After having my head bowed for a few minutes, I looked up to witness one of the students coming behind Bush as he laid weeping on the tarps spread across the church floor. He sat behind him and embraced his body that had reverted to the child-like state after the loss of a mother; allowing a weary head and back to rest on his own lap. He consoled him by whispering calming words into his ear. He held him as young brothers do before they reach an age that tells you otherwise. A sight my mind will never let escape.

I recently explained to a friend how I questioned my heart, “Has it become hardened?” I’ve learned to say “no” to many…desperate. In some instances, you detach yourself from your surroundings. You’ll lose it if you don’t. This isn’t my first encounter with death here. I recognize I’ve adapted well, but lately, I wonder if I’m too comfortable. Almost desensitized. But, as I witnessed the grief of my friend and student, for the first time since I’ve arrived, I slowly allowed the release of a tear down my own face. By God’s grace, I handle anything Congo brings, and by this same grace, I still feel the brokenness of hearts as they experience lost.

(note: Bush’s parents have been strong partners and supporters in the development of UCBC)