GRIEF

I'm lying flat on my back on the veranda. Dusk has settled. The stars are not out in force yet, but the half moon and it's bright under star are straight over head. Among the dark tangled branches a few fruit bats flap silently across the clearing, temporarily blocking out the moon. Darkness settles in as I feel a gnawing in my gut and the need to release my anguish. But the tears won't come. My mind wanders to a million memories. It's only Monday but Friday already seems a lifetime ago.

I've already started to feel the waves of grief mixed with a calm peace that ebb and flow like the tides that Tchad has never seen. A few incidents stick out.

I'm in the tiny office off the waiting room with Sarah and Miriam. Miriam is half-way through her treatment. She has just finished an hour of cooing, flopping, half-crawling and wrapping herself in her IV tubing. Now, she's sleeping, her legs hanging off the edge of the mattress face down and slightly turned to the side away from the her left arm which is encased in tape, an armboard and an elastic wrap to keep that precious IV access going.


I hear the sounds of French with an Arabic accent outside.

"I just want to see James and give him my condolences."

"He's at the house," replies an unknown informant.

Through the broken slats and ragged curtain on the window I see a couple of Muslim hats on top of well-known faces as they turn to head in the wrong direction. I take the route through the waiting room and from the door yell out, catching the two men's attention.

"AS SALAAM ALEKUM!" The two muslims turn and smiles light up their faces as they give the traditional reply: "Wa alekum as salaam." One is a contractor who remodeled the Bere Hospital ER and built some staff housing. The other is the local imam.

The Imam is dressed in a light blue robe with embroidery on the chest. He has a white, flat topped hat on his head and a checkered middle eastern scarf around his neck. One eye is blind and almost shut and a scraggly white beard graces his chin as a smile crinkles up his lined face.

"This is the way of the world," the imam continues in Arabic after we have shook hands and exchanged the appropriate long greetings. "This is the way of the world. Only Allah knows why these things happen. Only He knows."

"Al hamdullilah," I reply.

"My heart hurts with your heart," the imam continues, first touching his chest and then moving his hand out pointing at my chest. "My heart grieves with your heart. Only Allah knows why. May Allah be praised."

"Mashallah," I intone my head down as I shake and hold the Muslim leader's outstretched hand.

"Where's Sarah?" the imam asks.

"Inside. Come." We walk back together as both men offer me more words of encouragement and condolences. Inside, I check and find Sarah is sleeping.

"Don't worry," says the imam with a smile. "Allah will give you more children. This is the world. There is loss. Allah gives and Allah takes away. Let's pray."

Both Muslims stand with their hands outstretched to receive Allah's blessings as the imam leads us in a prayer of praise and consecration. When he has finished we all bring our hands to our faces to accept the blessings from God.

That evening, my uncle, a Christian pastor calls me on the phone also offering his encouragement and condolences. He also ends with prayer. During the prayer I realize that this is a rare moment. I have been blessed by both Isaac and Ishmael. For an instant, around a tragedy, the two brothers have stopped fighting and helped the hurting. I am moved to tears, which is quite easy these days.

The next morning, Miriam's 3 days of IV Quinine are finished. She has no fever and is back to her normal self. We pack up the van in truly Tchadian style with baggage to the ceiling, three American volunteers, one Tchadian patient and his two family members (plus small child), one Tchadian nursing student, one Tchadian cook, our two Tchadian adopted daughters (Yahdang et Djongyahbo), Sarah, MIriam and I. Before getting in, the three of us make a final pilgrimage to the two graves under the red flowered tree.



Then we head out in an eery fog. The whole country seems to be mourning with us as a white haze drifts in and out of the dried grasses, half burned fields and cracked clay. Passing a lake, some massive rounded backs rise out of the mist, nostrils flaring as a herd of cattle is driven by. The chill lasts until we are safely back in Moundou wondering what do we do now?

Then we head out in an eery fog. The whole country seems to be mourning with us as a white haze drifts in and out of the dried grasses, half burned fields and cracked clay. Passing a lake, some massive rounded backs rise out of the mist, nostrils flaring as a herd of cattle is driven by. The chill lasts until we are safely back in Moundou wondering what do we do now?