In the Backlash of Jokwe

It is a cold, wet, dreary Monday. When our pastor thanked the Lord Sunday evening for filling the reservoirs that are so important in this semi-arid land, I felt convicted. Having just come from months of cold Minnesota winter, I had not been looking at the weather in quite that light.

To be fair, neither have the Mozambicans who lost seven lives and 10,000 homes in Angoche last week and I-don’t-know-how-many more in Inhambane a few days later. Steve was in Beira and saw the storm passing out to sea that night with its huge, dark thunder clouds and magnificent display of lightning. But the coast curves sharply to the west north of Beira, and Jokwe’s hurricane-force winds only splattered the shore.

What we are getting in Johannesburg is the back-lash of that storm. The house where we are staying has huge windows with single pains of glass. Not all of them shut. There is no insulation or central heating, but the leak in the roof was fixed on Friday, and our boxes hold all the extra blankets from our old house in Kempton Park. I should say ‘held,’ for they are now spread over our beds in layers.

But I wake up wondering about my kids in Tembisa. Cold as it is to crawl from my bed, I doubt that they slept as warm and snug as I did. Chances are their houses are at least as drafty as this one. They can’t pay to fix a leaky roof. How many blankets did they have last night?

I can’t solve all their problems. I would burn out quickly if I tried to take the whole load on myself. I go and read, give them a bit of practice, and show a little love. Prayer seems inadequate, but in the end, it is the best I can do—to take the needs of the children of Tembisa to the God of the universe. May he act, and may he show me where he wants me to be his hands and feet.