I am consolidating my blogs into two:
Fr. Jim's Ramblings
The Baseball Gospels
I will no longer be posting on this one (Father Jim's Blog), but am trying to be more active on the other two. Please join me in conversation and contemplation at one or both of those.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
Liberia - Day Four
Bone-jarring is the only way to describe it. Rural roads in Liberia, and over half of the urban ones, are not paved, but a reddish clay-like soil; think Georgia or Albemarle County, Virginia. Coupled with a prolonged rainy season, the roads are criss-crossed with deep, semi-permanent ruts. Think mini Grand Canyons. It's not unusual to have to back up and find an alternate route, especially if there is a disabled vehicle in the way, one that broke an axle or punctured a tire trying to negotiate the crevasses in the road.
Thursday morning's trip to Pleebo was no exception. It is nineteen miles from downtown Harper and takes about an hour to negotiate. But the trip was so worth it. For one thing we stopped at an ongoing rubber farm, one where Annie Cooper spent many of her holidays as a child. There was such a radiant look of recognition on her face as she took it all in; it was wonderful to see. At the edge of the clearing, just where the rubber trees started, there were two huge trees, which Annie identified as 'Cottonwoods,” although they are nothing like the small trees we call Cottonwoods in the plains states. These trees are huge and stately. While we were admiring them, Annie told me that they were planted especially at the boarders of villages so that those who were walking down the road would see the trees and take heart that home was not that far away.
We stopped for a time about half way to Pleebo at the rectory of St. Anthony's Roman Catholic Church to see an old friend of Paul Jones, Father Thomas Hayden, an Irishman from Boston. All this way to meet a fellow Red Sox fan; we are everywhere. Father Hayden came to Liberia as a twenty-five year old priest in 1958 and has been in Africa for over 50 years, only absent from the country during the worst of the troubles. He retired once and returned to the United States, but it wasn't home; so now he's back outside of Pleebo in a little Liberian village, pastoring a small Church. I bet he saw the Cottonwoods upon his return. Meeting Fr. Hayden was such a moving experience for me because he is a living representative of all those faithful missionaries from the west who spent their lives in places and with people they grew to love so fiercely.
In Pleebo we visited St. Stephen's Episcopal Church and School which was very uplifting. St. Stephens itself is a modest structure; it has a sound roof and new windows and doors, and it seats about 125 people. But the real exciting thing was the school. Until just a few years ago it was K-6, but has now expanded through grade 12. Although the high school is not big, it has been very successful. Last spring 14 seniors took the national exams and 12 passed; nationally, the average is about 22%. We walked around the classes; the school is laid out all on one level with each classroom exiting out into a common courtyard. Deeply concentrating on final exams, the fifth graders were bent over their papers. We were encouraged to stick our heads in and say hi. When my traveling companion Dr. Annie Cooper asked them about the first question, they were quick to recite it. When she asked for the answer we all laughed. “Don't give it away!” the teacher exclaimed.
We are leaving Harper on Friday afternoon, back to Monrovia where I will be preaching at two churches Sunday morning. There is so much to absorb about my visit in this beautiful, complicated, isolated place. I am in awe of Dr. Ajavon-Cox, who runs Smiles for Liberia. She saw 45 patients in two very long days, and she was broken-hearted to have left people untreated, some who had walked hours from their villages. There just wasn't enough time to see them all.
That there are bumpy roads ahead is a reality. Yet the resilience, the faith, the love of the Lord in this place is so strong. Those who labor in this vineyard have been challenged by the most difficult of circumstances–poverty, years of war, and chaos. They will prevail, of that I am sure. May we all keep our eyes on the Cottonwood at the end of the road.
Bumpy road ahead.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Liberia - Day Three - I am a Liberian
I am a Liberian
“Oh, you're not a Liberian,” the young woman who was checking our passports said, and it made us all chuckle. “No, but I want to be one,” I replied which brought a smile on her face, too. Dr. Ayele, Paul Jones, Anne Cooper and myself–we who make up the St. Anne's delegation–were a lot happier this morning then we were yesterday morning. Monday we arrived at the United Nations airfield in Monrovia at 6:45 with permission to hop a UN helicopter to travel to the city of Harper, Maryland County, in the southeastern corner of the country. There are no roads to speak of from Monrovia to Harper. Two priests I talked to today came back Sunday from a conference, and the last 11 hours of the trip were spent on the back of a pan-pan. So our only prospect was the UN. Dr. Ayele has come to practice two days of desperately needed dental surgery at the hospital here, and we constituted her medical team, which allowed us access to the flight. But there were so many UN military who were going down to the southern boundary of the country to help with the increasingly serious refugee situation with people fleeing The Ivory Coast, that we got bumped and drove to Cuttington University instead (see yesterday's blog).
Tuesday morning things were different. With fewer military travelers, we got on the helicopter with no problem. Sitting in a Russian military chopper in two lines just like in the war movies, with UN supplies and the personal belongings of NGO workers jammed in between, we donned our orange ear protectors and off we went. Twice we stopped at outposts to drop off personnel and supplies; finally we arrived in Harper. Flanked on two sides by the Atlantic Ocean and with one of the two largest lakes in Liberia, Harper is a beautiful city with tall palm trees and warm sandy beaches. With no one on them.
Harper, indeed Maryland County, might as well be on the moon. With the road situation so poor and no commercial airline, Harper is virtually cut off from the rest of the country. Ninety per cent of the goods coming into the city are now cut off because they come from neighboring Ivory Coast, hence the presence of the UN troops; and the border is very, very tight. A suitable road from Monrovia would solve many of the problems of this area, but the will and the funds of the government are not there. All of the Episcopal Churches in the area suffer from this problem as well. Priests don't want to come or stay, and those who are here are worked very hard. There are 39 churches, each one with satellite small chapels and seven, yes seven, priests. Each parish gets communion once every six or seven weeks; the other Sundays lay readers lead Morning Prayer. Yet so many of the people here are full of hope and expectation, and though there are rebel bullet holes in the stained glass and broken pews that were pillaged for cooking fire fuel, there is a love of Jesus in this place that is strong and firm.
Wednesday morning we traveled to the extreme southern end of the country to a place called Cavalla, where the Episcopal Church in Liberia was started in the 1830's. We visited graves of many of the America missionaries and their families who died here in the 1800's. Bishop John W. Payne, a Virginian and graduate of Virginia Theological Seminary (who the Seminary library is named after), was the first missionary bishop and served here for forty years. There are strong ties here between the Virginian Church and the one here in Maryland County, from long ago, and ones that are being formed at this very minute.
Liberia - Day Two - Tee Shirts
Dear Reader of the Rector's Blog,
After the loss of our friend and fellow St. Anne's member so suddenly last Sunday I decided to hold off on sending any blogs until today, Wednesday.
Tee Shirts
“You can run, but you can't hide.” It's a sentiment that police officers, dentists and parents have used with recalcitrants for years, and it's apparently true. I've been trying to forget a really dismal season as a faithful Redskin football team fan, when the most forgettable player of the season went zipping past me this morning, the third man riding on a motor scooter, called a pan-pan here in Liberia. Ok, so it really wasn't Portis Clinton in his #26 Redskin jersey, but it was a young Liberian wearing a replica. It made me reflect on this phenomena, which is the most ubiquitous U.S. presence throughout the developing world, the American theme tee-shirt. Wherever I have been to do this kind of work, all over the world, the most obvious things are these colorful American jerseys. This week I saw a toddler wearing a Buffalo Sabers hockey team tee much too large and a 40ish year old woman with a Little Princess tee much too small. I wonder if this is what we as a nation really want to be known around the world for, especially since all of these shirts were worn by others, indeed worn out, before they arrived in aid packages or shops selling only second-hand.
Running into Portis' shirt this morning, thankfully not actually, was while we were on our way to Cuttington University, an Episcopal school of great repute throughout Liberia, one of the shining lights of higher education. Founded in 1889 in Harper in Maryland County, the school moved from the rather isolated southeastern corner of the state to where it is now, in Bong County which is much more in the central part of the country.
With a large beautifully situated campus, Cuttington was, tragically, one of the pieces of prime real estate for the various rebel groups during (what I am calling) the reign of terror. The first of the hoodlums who took over the space as a training ground was Prince Johnson, then came Charles Taylor, and finally the property was used for over thirty thousand refugees. In complete disrepair, like so many structures and institutions, it was hard to imagine that the University could ever move out of exile (which was in Lawrence Virginia), back to the campus in Bong County. I can only imagine how disheartening it must have been for the faculty to come back and see the damage.
Today the campus is thriving once again. And it is a testimony to the perseverance of the Liberian people and the vision and perseverance of the leadership of the University. Enrollment has grown steadily in the past three years; there is now a fledgling campus television and radio station, and they are broadcasting health and other social service programs that reach widely into the community. One of the most important components to this revival is the grant awarded to Cuttington from the United States AID that allowed the University to buy three large generators. Their presence has provided power for all the needs of the school, twenty-four hours a day. In a country where electricity is scarce, this is a huge benefit. So, I thought to myself, maybe the generators balance out the tee shirts, or maybe complement them, I'm not sure. Anyway, I saw the American flags on those big heaving machines and felt proud.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Liberia - Day One
A remarkable day! Ayele, Paul and I (with a muslim driver who has four wives and twenty-five children) drove for two plus hours, the last one over some very rough dirt roads, to Robertsport to visit Marilyn Robertson, the widow of E. Bolling Robertson who was principal of St. John's school for boys and House of Bethany School for girls. He came to be a missionary in Liberia in 1945; Marilyn (everyone here calls her Mother) came in 1958. On the way back to Monrovia this afternoon Dr. Ayele told me about how the girls at the school would speculate endlessly on which female this handsome, vibrant Episcopal priest would fall in love with and marry.
When Fr. Robertson retired in 1984, he and his wife came back to Virginia. He was a Virginian born, bred, and educated; and they lived in Mechanicsville for twenty years. They visited us at St. Anne's a few times to attend funerals and other services and were always present at Diocesan events. But as Mother Robertson said they missed Liberia tremendously, and they came back in 2004. Fr Bolling was weakening, and rather then go into a nursing home, they came back to Liberia to be cared for by their friends (more like family) here in Robertsport. He died in 2006 and is buried high up on the bluff overlooking his school and the Atlantic Ocean. There could be no more peaceful spot, or fitting last few years, for this remarkable man. Now Marilyn lives alone in this beautiful place, surrounded by young people who adore her, many of whom are children and even grandchildren of students of St. John's. She seems very content in this small, beautiful corner of the world. I admire and respect this couple and their work greatly, and it is heartbreaking to see that the schools were destroyed during the war years and that there are no students there now.
On our trip back we stopped at a fishing village of Ghanians to buy dried fish. It was a wonderful place, full of children playing and women tending wood fires that were under pieces of huge oil drums covered with odd pieces of tarp to keep the smoke in. In the pungent aroma and colorful sights of adults and children alike wearing second-hand American tee-shirts, it was a thrill to watch Dr. Ayele first haggle over the price of fish, then make lasting friends by enquiring about them and their children. When he asked what they were doing to care for the health of their families, I thought Dr. Ayele was going to jump out of the car and demand that a Coca Cola truck take it's cargo back where they came from. "These children are malnourished" she exclaimed through gritted teeth, "and they give them coke!" She and Father Hipolito in the DR have a lot in common, and I again thought in wonder and gratitude about these amazing people who care so deeply.
On our way back to the city we were stopped at checkpoints twice, and it was apparent that unscrupulous individuals in uniform wanted money before we could pass. But Dr. Ayele was great, refused to be cowed, did a little dressing down of the men, and we were quickly on our way. As you can see my admiration for this woman grows by the minute.
Monrovia is a lively city teeming with people, all doing business in the streets, selling everything from knock-off designer basketball shoes to car fenders. Shanty communities all around the city are evidence of the thousands of people who moved in from the distant villages to escape the ravages of the war lords during the years of terror. As much as things have changed in the last five years (I am told) it seems like this country is holding her breath, especially now with thousands of refugees flooding across the boarder from The Ivory Coast. But more about that later, for now I need to prepare for a busy day of Church tomorrow.
Fr. Jim
When Fr. Robertson retired in 1984, he and his wife came back to Virginia. He was a Virginian born, bred, and educated; and they lived in Mechanicsville for twenty years. They visited us at St. Anne's a few times to attend funerals and other services and were always present at Diocesan events. But as Mother Robertson said they missed Liberia tremendously, and they came back in 2004. Fr Bolling was weakening, and rather then go into a nursing home, they came back to Liberia to be cared for by their friends (more like family) here in Robertsport. He died in 2006 and is buried high up on the bluff overlooking his school and the Atlantic Ocean. There could be no more peaceful spot, or fitting last few years, for this remarkable man. Now Marilyn lives alone in this beautiful place, surrounded by young people who adore her, many of whom are children and even grandchildren of students of St. John's. She seems very content in this small, beautiful corner of the world. I admire and respect this couple and their work greatly, and it is heartbreaking to see that the schools were destroyed during the war years and that there are no students there now.
On our trip back we stopped at a fishing village of Ghanians to buy dried fish. It was a wonderful place, full of children playing and women tending wood fires that were under pieces of huge oil drums covered with odd pieces of tarp to keep the smoke in. In the pungent aroma and colorful sights of adults and children alike wearing second-hand American tee-shirts, it was a thrill to watch Dr. Ayele first haggle over the price of fish, then make lasting friends by enquiring about them and their children. When he asked what they were doing to care for the health of their families, I thought Dr. Ayele was going to jump out of the car and demand that a Coca Cola truck take it's cargo back where they came from. "These children are malnourished" she exclaimed through gritted teeth, "and they give them coke!" She and Father Hipolito in the DR have a lot in common, and I again thought in wonder and gratitude about these amazing people who care so deeply.On our way back to the city we were stopped at checkpoints twice, and it was apparent that unscrupulous individuals in uniform wanted money before we could pass. But Dr. Ayele was great, refused to be cowed, did a little dressing down of the men, and we were quickly on our way. As you can see my admiration for this woman grows by the minute.
Monrovia is a lively city teeming with people, all doing business in the streets, selling everything from knock-off designer basketball shoes to car fenders. Shanty communities all around the city are evidence of the thousands of people who moved in from the distant villages to escape the ravages of the war lords during the years of terror. As much as things have changed in the last five years (I am told) it seems like this country is holding her breath, especially now with thousands of refugees flooding across the boarder from The Ivory Coast. But more about that later, for now I need to prepare for a busy day of Church tomorrow.
Fr. Jim
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
