It's funny, when I write or speak publicly, I rarely talk about Jesus. I don't know if it is a PC thing or if I'm afraid or if I just want to be cool, but rarely do it. I do believe in the guy, and I feast at his table every week.
This summer in Africa, Jesus was a common word in my journal, in my mouth, and in my life. That's what I noticed most about this journal entry from June 7.
06-07-06
A classroom in an old rural township on the outskirts of Tshwane, not much bigger than my living room at home, holds 85 children between the ages of 3-6. They meet daily to get fed, educated, and loves for only R5 (less than a dollar) per month. Right now many of the children are sick and passing it on to each other. The outdoor bathrooms at least have roofs on them this year, which is the newest addition. This is Letabong, a place where the richest woman in town lives in a 1 bedroom concrete house with a tin roof (she also serves the community by teaching at the school and visiting HIV patients). Jesus lives here. I met him today in a garden full of plants meant to help HIV/AIDS sufferers. There he was, behind the small classroom. He didn't have shoes, and he spoke a different language, but I knew he meant love. That's where my Jesus lives. Not in a rich white person's car or house nor at my house or school, but there with these people who practice love in unusual ways.
A word about Letabong.
It is still a village, in that they are still as formed as a tribe led by a gonvernment can be . HIV is a problem there. Many people have it, but no one will go forward with testing because the last person who was seen getting an HIV test got her house burnt down. That's why the garden of medicinal plants is behind the school--so nobody will find out. A woman and her friend take these plants and SEJO, a meal mix with all essential nutrients to the people who show 100% outward symptoms of HIV, yet will not go forward to get treatment, etc.
This summer in Africa, Jesus was a common word in my journal, in my mouth, and in my life. That's what I noticed most about this journal entry from June 7.
06-07-06
A classroom in an old rural township on the outskirts of Tshwane, not much bigger than my living room at home, holds 85 children between the ages of 3-6. They meet daily to get fed, educated, and loves for only R5 (less than a dollar) per month. Right now many of the children are sick and passing it on to each other. The outdoor bathrooms at least have roofs on them this year, which is the newest addition. This is Letabong, a place where the richest woman in town lives in a 1 bedroom concrete house with a tin roof (she also serves the community by teaching at the school and visiting HIV patients). Jesus lives here. I met him today in a garden full of plants meant to help HIV/AIDS sufferers. There he was, behind the small classroom. He didn't have shoes, and he spoke a different language, but I knew he meant love. That's where my Jesus lives. Not in a rich white person's car or house nor at my house or school, but there with these people who practice love in unusual ways.
A word about Letabong.
It is still a village, in that they are still as formed as a tribe led by a gonvernment can be . HIV is a problem there. Many people have it, but no one will go forward with testing because the last person who was seen getting an HIV test got her house burnt down. That's why the garden of medicinal plants is behind the school--so nobody will find out. A woman and her friend take these plants and SEJO, a meal mix with all essential nutrients to the people who show 100% outward symptoms of HIV, yet will not go forward to get treatment, etc.
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