Ducks

One of the guys who works for us, lost his 1 year old daughter on Wednesday. There is no real way to describe the horror of death especially in one so young. I sat on the dirt floor of a small (8 feet by 8 feet) room on Thursday morning, my back against the mud and stick wall, nestled in with about 15 other women. On a foam mattress, in the corner of the room, looking completely exhausted and numb was the mother. Her mother was lying beside her and in between the two of them, was the little girl. Wrapped in a local cloth, as if she was still sleeping, her mother and grandmother gently caressed her little body, brushing away a stray fly or two. Every five minutes or so, the mother would see, really see her child lying there dead and the emotion would wash through her face and loud wailing would erupt. The rest of us sat shoulder to shoulder, crying, glancing at the child every two or three minutes to see if hope against hope their was some movement.
Outside sat several other groups. The sisters-in-law sat in an outdoor kitchen around a small fire with three rocks, discussing at length whose fault this was and the fee that our worker (the little girl’s father) must now pay to his wife’s family. The men sat together under several trees on long benches. The smell of local brew was in the air and they looked defeated. Between the two groups were, strangely enough, two mother ducks. They each had about 8 ducklings each following them from group to group. It was a bizarre picture, since there are no nearby ponds, and I was reminded of the children’s story Make Way for Ducklings. They are beautiful ducklings and it was easy to imagine sitting in a place far away and watching them frolic in a State park somewhere. Instead, in the absence of a pond or a lake, the mother ducks were taking them to two large mud puddles. Each puddle is shallow, only about 3 feet wide and filled with muddy, rancid water. Yet there are the ducks trying to practice swimming, floating, splashing. At some predetermined time the mother signaled to her young and out they came in a straight line to trade puddles with the other duck family. As I glanced up and stared around me, I took in the mud houses, the cooking fires, the exposed latrines, the children running around in torn and tattered clothing, some just with a bead necklace strapped around their tummies. I notice the women, tired to the very bone. I can’t help but draw analogies in my mind as everyone here struggles to do what they can with the little they have.
Several hours later the hole had been dug within the family compound, benches re-arranged and the coffin arrived. The mother was half carried by her co-wife to the graveside. It was brutal to watch this tiny casket, hastily made and covered in bright purple cloth being lowered into the cold hard earth, as the mother lay on the ground at the very edge sobbing. The noise of the dirt hitting the top of the wooden box a sharp contrast to the silence that surrounded us.
We often say that life here is hard. When someone asks whether we love this place, love living here, the answer is tricky. We count it a privilege to be exactly where God wants us doing the work he has called us to do. But there are things about this place that tear at one’s soul. The ever presence of death, the squalor, the hunger, the day in and day out grind of living on the edge of survival. None of these things are beautiful. And we long for the day when sickness and death are no more, and the weeping and sorrow turn to laughter. When all of creation is redeemed and even the ducks from Bundibugyo splash in beautiful cool lakes.