A life changing encounter!

In my context, we often share a minister to lessen the financial burden on the different churches in a specific geographical area (and of course to encourage the priesthood of all believers). This means that I have to spend a few days at a time in a specific town. More than often, the implication is that I have to stay with the local church leader (steward) for a few nights.

This particular little church meets in a local town hall with only a small number of members. Although there are several Afrikaans speaking people in the congregation, the church is regarded as English. They preach, sing (and even have fellowship after church) in the English language. And so I do the natural thing and “do as the Romans do”.

It is only my second visit to this small community of worshippers. It is Friday night and I arrive at the house of the steward. She welcomes me with so much love and talks non-stop about how much they enjoyed my last visit. She even cleared her own bedroom (because it has its own bathroom). I am happy, she is happy and I am looking forward to a great weekend.

I spend the Saturday morning visiting the members. When I return, the phone rings. It is my dad. He says to me (In Afrikaans): “Your mom is not well. Doctors do not have much hope that she will make it. Don’t rush. But I would recommend that you come home as soon as the weekend is over”. Of course I respond back in Afrikaans and greet my dad.

Her immediate response is: “Oh, I didn’t know that you could speak Afrikaans. Where did you learn to speak that? Where are you from?” I don’t know what to make of this (still confused also about the news surrounding my mom) and I say to her: “I am from Rehoboth. Afrikaans is my mother tongue.” “Oh,” she says, “and when did you settle there? I thought that there were only Baster and Nama people living there.”

By now I am so angry and I say to her: “I am a Baster! And what does that have anything to do with it?” I can see that she is very angry as she turns to walk towards the kitchen. A moment later she returns and says to me: “You have deceived me! I don’t think you can sleep here tonight.” “Excuse me,” I say. “How have I deceived you? What did you make of my accent? And in fact, should I be introducing myself to everyone saying ‘Hi, I’m Romeo. I’m a Baster from Rehoboth.’” “I thought you were Portuguese or Italian,” she says.

I am fuming (not showing it). Then she says: “And what do I do with my bed linen after today?”

I am angry (very angry) as I hurriedly pack my stuff and book into the local hotel. In fact I want to phone my bishop to inform him that I’m quitting. But then, I’m not a quitter. That is not how I was raised. And so I decide to do the service on the Sunday morning.

I arrive early. There are only a very few people there. I suspect that she phoned around. As I start the service, I see her coming in, taking her seat right at the back. I just want this to be finished, so I could go home to support my mother.

At the end of the service I greet people at the door. She is last in the queue. Then she says: “Will you please come and fetch your shoes that you forgot there last night.” I am so angry. I say to her: “Please give it to someone in need.” She responds: “It is not about the shoes. Please. All I ask is for five minutes of your time.”

I arrive at her home. I must admit that I am scared. What is this about? She invites me to sit. I decline. Deep inside, I’m shouting: “I don’t want to contaminate your chair!” Then she says: “I couldn’t sleep last night. I did not want to go to church this morning, but I found myself there.”

What she says then, touches me at the deepest possible place: “I sat there this morning and I thought by myself that I loved you before I knew who you were. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

She admitted to being biased towards others. But then, who isn’t biased? I certainly cannot plead innocence in that regard.

We both took a decision to journey with each other – for her to learn about my culture and for me to do the same about hers. My journey for identity takes a new turn - away from myself – directed toward others. Maybe we are not so different from each other after all.