Chapter 4 ~ Becoming Undone

There were very few "older" single people in my early childhood. I have a faint recollection of widows and widowers, left somewhat "hollow" without the presence of the one with whom they had shared so many seasons. Left behind, to see the winter out alone. I remember two spinsters who lived together in a small apartment. Their conversations and habits were bent towards the little things that made up the lives of old women who never had families to dote on. They were odd, amusing, "apart". We mimicked their strong dialect and quaint sayings when they weren't near. But I do not recall one divorced man or woman... It was not a concept or word that I was  familiar with. It was scandalous, and was not talked about. Well, at least not in front of little children.

There were Fathers and Mothers. Aunts and Uncles. A Grandmother and Grandfather. Older people came in two's. The "he" of the two went to work and returned home at a predictable time and the "she" kept the house and cared for the needs (and whims) of the family. "He" kept the purse and "she" got an allowance for daily expenses. Until death parted them. Families were a unit, and I don't remember my own Pappa and Mamma ever taking "time out" from us. They could have probably done with it, had it been a conceivable thing to do. But I firmly believe that it wove our family together in a tight and steady weave, regardless of the tangles and frays in places.

My brothers found sweethearts and girlfriends and there was a steady stream of admirers and suitors vying for the attentions of our pretty sister. My father watched over it all with steely grey eyes, and did not endear himself to many of these. He had no time for charm or tact. The suitors especially, were weighed, measured and most often found wanting. He was unflinching in what he believed to be right, even when he was wrong (which obviously did not happen often...). I am certain that he wanted what was best for us, even if he did have a tough way of showing it at times.

When divorce hit our family and much later my own marriage - it scared and derailed us. We were not prepared. And how would you prepare for such a tearing from the one person to whom you once bound yourself before God? Vowed to see out a lifetime. In particular, we probably all shuddered at the thought of "Pappa's" wrath as a result. But this is where he proved his heart to be malleable after all. At the time when I had to face him with the dreadful message, his words to me were simply: "Hou jy maar je hoofd omhoogd..." (Keep your chin up). Few words for a young woman who has always had endless monologues in her head.

But it was enough.

BECOMING UNDONE

We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair... - 2 Cor 4:8)

I was now comfortably single, but slightly bored. Apparently a dangerous combination. Our Vineyard pastor announced the possibility of a mission trip to Morocco. Morocco... The name melted on my tongue. My spirit quickened at the mere thought of it. It seemed so right. Images of the exotic were simply intoxicating to a dreamer, hungry for adventure.  I’ve heard people say rather knowingly: “hindsight is an exact science”. A rather apt theme for many lives, (including my own) rife with wrong turns and decisions.

Looking over my shoulder, I could see myself “bounding like a calf let out to pasture”. It was painful to realise how I excluded God from this decision. How I never stopped and prayed about it, never considered that perhaps this was my mission, not His. My enthusiasm was mistaken for a passion for the gospel. A desire to support Christians in a hostile environment. But truth be told, my need overruled theirs. This had excitement and escape from my own inertia written all over it. By a deceitful hand, it appears.

I skimped and cut on my expenses wherever I could, and in a relatively short time I had saved up the funds needed to afford the fare and expenses. My place in the outreach was secured. We met as a group, watched video footage on the country, the predominant Islamic religion, and the missionaries working there. I felt a slight guilty stirring, but put it down as nervous apprehension about the unknown.

A part of me realised that I was not joining a tour group, that the needs of these people were real. Some of them laid their lives down for Christ on a daily basis, lived in dire uncertainty about their future. I took it all in, but secretly relished the aroma and textures of this place in my dreams.

The “Kingdom of Morocco” - a constitutional monarchy - is one of only three countries in the world to have both Atlantic and Mediterranean coastlines. At the Strait of Gibraltar, the tips of Spain and Morocco very nearly kiss. Compared to northern Africa’s orange-coloured deserts, Morocco shows up verdant along its northern coastal corner, spreading to the rugged Atlas Mountains that flank the Mediterranean coastlines of northern Algeria and Morocco.

Throughout history, Morocco has hosted almost as many beliefs as it has ethnic groups and races. From the local Berbers to Phoenicians, Arabs, Romans, Vandals, Spanish Andalusians – both Muslim and Jewish. Christianity, Paganism, and Judaism are practised, but the state religion is Islam. Interestingly enough, Christianity had been present before Islam arrived, and the King of Morocco claims his legitimacy as a descendant of the Islamic prophet Muhammad...

Here you have a "plate" steaming with a mix of Mediterranean, Arabic, Andalusian and Berber flavours. I could taste it.

I dreamt of lanterned markets, where the heady scent of spices swirled between veiled woman and swarthy men. My mind's eye drowned in a myriad of of colour and textures, richly dyed fabrics and carpets, exquisite pottery and ceramics of intricate designs. The faces of those in need grew dim.

Just over a week before “take-off” I crashed. Literally. I have retold this story so often, that I thought it best just to give a summary here.

Towards the end of April 2003, on a crisp clear Sunday morning, I returned home after fellowship. The house was so quiet. My precious Oriental Havana cat and dear companion Cleo, appeared to be “stuck” near the top of an avocado tree in on the border of my back garden. My neighbour was a retired army Sergeant-Major, with a quick gun and a distinct dislike of cats.  I was still quite adept at climbing trees, so up I went, a thirty something woman in her Sunday best and lace-up boots, about to rescue a feline in her natural habitat. About six meters up, I spotted her pointy little face through the leaves, wide green eyes so close, but just out of reach. I stretched out on the tips of my toes, reaching up as far as I could, and finally felt my fingers close over the velvety fur of her front paws.

Relief gave way to unbelief as I felt the branch under my feet snap and give way. I was falling, falling... My body seemed to slam into the solid earth underneath the tree with a thud which reverberated through my jaws through into my brain. I lay just inches away from a very large boulder... Ironically, I landed catlike on my feet before the backward collapse. Shattered the second last vertebra in my middle spine, broke various bones in my feet and damaged both knees.

But this only came to light much later, after extensive x-rays and hushed examinations by both a neurologist and an orthopedic surgeon. In my mind, I was still getting ready to pack. Just as soon as I got over the shock and was able to suppress the pain and worry with a few tablets and a glass of wine.

Reality and the severity of my condition left me reeling. The only way my mind could deal with it was through denial. I managed to get hold of our young pastor, and he tip-toed up to my hospital bed close to midnight of that same day. He prayed fervently and I fell asleep peacefully, certain of the miracle which would rock the hospital the next morning. The specialist arrived bright and early with the x-rays and a smile. I felt elated. I think he said something like “You are lucky – we can operate tomorrow morning”. Not what I wanted to hear.

The day passed in a blur. The next morning I was taken into theatre, had bone sawn from my right hip and implanted into the shattered part of my lower spine. Two titanium brackets were secured into place on the adjoining vertebrae, fusing the spine together and taking the pressure of the delicate piece of fresh bone sculpture in my back.

Everything had happened so fast – seemed so surreal. The days and months that followed were a whirl of pain, locked in emotions, dull acceptance and finally surrender. This analogy by Charles Spurgeon sums up this time for me: “Hope itself is like a star- not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity, and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.”

I often reflect over at it all with a sense of longing almost. Never before had I felt so vulnerable, yet so protected. I “convalesced” for three months, and the support, care and goodness of family, friends and dear neighbours during that time, was like a warm embrace. I surrendered. My vulnerability was a scary thought at first. I felt like the “bruised reed” of Isaiah, but God held me fast, more than my stiff composite body brace ever could. Miracles and milestones of recovery marked the days. I healed, slowly, but in oh so many ways.

One deciding moment during that time, which I only recognised as such many years later, was a visit from a friend, accompanied by a quiet man, who had very recently become my colleague. It turned out to be one of those intricate pieces of a puzzle, which seemed so insignificant at the time, but in hindsight (once again) proved to be very significant.

Three months after the accident, I returned to work. My spine had kindly accepted the bone from the hip and healed. Even though the scars were still fresh, I felt like I had been given a second chance at life. I had become deeply aware of my own mortality. Just crossing a busy street filled my mind with visions of being crushed under a truck or knocked down by a speeding car. Or I imagined simply tripping over an uneven surface and ripping the brackets from my still fragile back. But God continued to surround me with His protection and His angels, who literally “lift(ed) me up in their arms, so that I would not strike my foot against a stone”. (Psalm 91:12).

I developed an interesting friendship with a work colleague. He was an agricultural economist who had recently secured his position with the company I worked for, after I had mentioned the vacancy to a friend, who mentioned it to his friend, and the friend decided to apply...

He was a married man, and the friendship was comfortable, predictable and based mostly on shared interests and a love for the same genres of music. I was genuinely upset and saddened when I learnt that his marriage was failing. I understood the pain of divorce, and most of all how God “hates” for two people joined in His name to separate.

It was during this time that I realised (with a shock) that I had started caring for this friend - more than I should. I felt cheated. All this time I had waited patiently for God to bring someone into my life, and now I discovered that I cared too much for a married man. I pushed it down and forced myself to pray for their marriage to survive, but it did not ease my confusion. It seemed only intensify it.

The only words of comfort God gave me during that time, were: “Trust Me”. Slowly I became peaceful again. I accepted that God wanted to test my willingness to surrender to His will, even if it felt like my own heart was being torn apart.

The rest of our love story is enveloped in one word - “GRACE”. In a little more than a month from this day, we shall celebrate our tenth anniversary, and Jesus’ saving grace and renewal, still marks each and every day.

Oh yes, in case you were wondering  – my husband is the same man who visited me with a mutual friend, so many moons ago, after I had taken a “tumble from grace” from the limbs of an old avocado tree...