A moon rising

What I remember most sharply is the darkness and the silence.  It was against this backdrop that shadowy events played out in the most muted of ways, as if anything that made itself known out of that dark silence was some kind of unwelcomed intruder.  There we sat in the vacuum and in the despair...

It started in the early evening light, as I was wakened from a nap by my phone. The number was unknown, but I knew immediately.  My mind numb, it was my heart that responded first, sinking deep into my stomach.  I fumbled the phone to my ear and heard words I somehow knew were coming.  I was “needed at the house.”  That’s Malian for “something really awful has happened.” 

This was not the first time I had pulled into the house wondering if Brahima was dead.  This time, though, I knew it had to be the case.  I slipped into the dark room, making out the shadowy figures of Brahima’s uncle, brother, and little sister.  I was not greeted, but left standing there.  After some exchanges in Mianka, I was told by the little sister to look at Brahima.  I knelt beside the bed, placed my hand on his chest noting the absence of any movement and the cool temperature. 

I pressed my fingers to my eyes, not so much to stop tears as just an overwhelmed expression.  They were immediately tugged away by his uncle. “Ayi” (No) he said sharply.  He went on, “We’ll remove all the medical things and dress him.  Then we will tell everyone else.”

I’ve prepared what feels like hundreds of bodies to go to the morgue.  I’ve just never prepared the body of a friend.  Dutifully, I removed his IV line, packed away all the other medicines, and then helped his older brother dress him. It didn’t feel right.  This wasn’t his time.  How could this be his time?  What of all this sense that this illness was going to play out for God’s glory?  What profit is there in his destruction?  “Lazarus come forth.”  Lord, is that what you want?  Brahima come forth?  What does faith, what does belief, look like here, now?

In the next hour or so, no one cried.  Details needed to be arranged.  I called Israel home early from work, not sure what he really knew about what had just happened.  I went home to change, since I wasn’t appropriately dressed, and mid-way found him walking home—someone was borrowing his moto and had forgotten to go pick him up.  Stoic is an understatement for Israel, so I have no idea how he was feeling.  He knew Brahima had died but gave no indication of his thoughts.  We rode together to my house where I changed quickly, and we took off again under spitting rain and a darkening sky.


I borrowed a vehicle and by the time I pulled up to the house again, dark clouds hung over us waiting to open. The rain burst out just as we fit Brahima’s body in the back of the Land Cruiser, with his older brother by his side to prop him up.  The rest of the delegation crowded in, and we took off slowly into the premature dark. 


As we slipped out of town in the driving rain, we were enveloped in darkness.  I mumbled two prayers on repeat.  “Lord, keep us alive on this road,” and “Come Lord Jesus. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like, COME.”  I didn’t know what else to pray.  I felt loss, and pain, and sadness.  But honestly, I also felt like I’d been set up.


In the days before Brahima’s death, I’d been praying passionately for his healing.  I really, truly believed it would come.  Even in the worst moments, I had this sense of hope that God was going to heal him.  In my devotional readings, I read passages such as “I will see His goodness in the land of the living” (Psalm 27) and “What will you gain if I die, if I sink into the grave?  Will my dust praise you?  Will it tell of your faithfulness?” (Psalm 30)  I read these with hope, as if God had given me these passages in that day’s reading specifically as promises for Brahima’s situation.  For death to now come, in light of all that, was rocking my world.  Had I failed?  Had God failed? Was He toying with me?


An hour later, we arrived at the dirt road. As the rain slowed and then stopped, we slipped along in the mud for several kilometers before arriving at the home of Brahima’s family.  We unloaded the body and quietly entered the courtyard where many had gathered already.  Greetings were minimal and muted.  The darkness enveloped us.  The body disappeared inside a hut, and soon a few chairs were brought and set in a corner.  Israel and I sat there for the rest of our time.  (Not being of the family’s faith, we weren’t allowed to participate in anything that followed.)


This is about the time that the first gasps of crying broke out.  Criers, if they didn’t immediately stifle their cry, were surrounded by groups of people who would tell them not to cry. Old women tended to be the first to hush people; I imagined the number of children and grandchildren these old ladies had lost and how seared their sense of grief must be. And soon, the outburst would calm, and the eerie silence would return.  There we were, all in this void—of life, of light, of sound—each with their own pain and despair, forbidden to express.  The dark stillness burned into my mind. If ever there was a way to describe hell, this had to be it.


I continued to pray, “Lord Come” and then “Lord PLEASE Come.”  And finally, “Why are you hiding?  Why have you forgotten our misery and oppression?” (Psalm 44)  What does “Jesus coming” look like in a place and moment like this?


In the dark, and in my own personal darkness, thoughts began to rise up.  “I’ve been setup; God is not good.  This faith thing did not work out; I should give up.  Brahima was not healed; is God even there?  Am I really going to continue believing all this, even having seen it fail before my own eyes?”  And then it dawned on me: Abandoning faith meant that I was left in this dark silence with no purpose, no hope, no escape.  If there was no leaving, then I’d have to surrender to it completely, and that would truly be the end of me.  So I went back to praying, “Lord Come.”   


Lassine, Brahima’s older brother who had been with him since he fell ill slipped into our corner, sat and began to weep.  I put my hand on his shoulder and let him cry, feeling as if finally something was piercing this darkness.  I half-wished I could cry, but in my puzzlement, tears were not forthcoming.  But as I let him sob, I was reminded of 2 Corinthians 1—God being the God of all comfort.  Was I here in this void to hold this poor man’s shoulder while he cried?  And for the first time, I let myself start to accept Brahima’s death and was reminded of Paul telling the Thessalonians that we do not grieve as those without hope.


I do indeed have hope.  I believe that Brahima knew Jesus and believed in Him, and that he will be raised to new life at the return of Jesus.  But I also grieve.  I grieve the loss of a friend, of a son, a brother, a “mogo sebe.” (Term of honor in Bambara for a person of character—used several times to describe Brahima by people who knew him.)  I mourn the loss of what I expected God would do, but didn’t.  I mourn the fact that we live in a world where death is a reality.  I grieve, but not without hope.


As the body, now washed and wrapped in a grass mat, was brought out and laid before the assembled crowd, sharp cries of pain and sadness rang out from the group of women.  A young man standing in front of me cursed and spat out angry words berating women for their contemptible propensity for crying when we should really be accepting this as God’s will.  I realized he was young and probably afraid to cry himself, but I actually had to step back two paces as I’ve never been so close to grabbing someone by the neck. 

In the fatalism that dominates here in Mali, this is exactly what is believed.  A death is God’s will and is therefore to be accepted without crying.  Crying means a rejection of God’s good will.  I’m thankful that Jesus wept over the death of a friend.  I’m thankful that I can cry but have hope; that I can reject death as a bad thing but accept that God in His providence works all for the good.  I’m thankful for a glimmer of light in the darkest of nights.


The body was taken away and buried while we waited.  When the men returned, our vehicle was given permission to leave.  As I left my corner and walked to the car, I looked up and for the first time saw the clouds clearing with the first glimmers of a full moon piercing through. 

As we drove home, the moon emerged fully and filled the darkness with an eerie light.         
I frankly still have no idea why Brahima died.  Why did God not choose to heal him?  Where do I go from here?  What do I make of all this faith I had that a major breakthrough was coming?  I don’t know.  I haven’t seen the end.  It could be that like a full moon, the darkness will be filled with light because of this.  For now, all I have is the first glimmers.