Emmanuel

It’s 8:15pm. The night sky dazzles with stars. A planet (I believe) hangs like a spotlight high in the east sky. It's been there every night for at least the past week (my observations skills suffer from inconsistent application!).

Chelsie, Meredith (the two, young American staff members with whom I live), and I have just finished dinner. The only sounds are our respective tap-tapping on laptops and the generator gurgling next door. We sit at the table with our two oil lamps burning. We don't have electricity at our house.

So much has transpired in the past several days. Events tumble and trip over each other. On Monday an email from sister stunned me with news about Dad. Over the weekend, his condition slid precipitously. He had fallen several times (thankfully, without hurting himself). Severe confusion and sudden and deep sleep framed the days. He needed assistance in every activity—eating, walking , sitting, lying down. He even needed to be coached about moving his feet or placing his hands. The email was hard to read, and I broke into tears in front of the five people sharing the office space that morning. I had a meeting, so delayed finishing the email until the appointment was over.

When I returned, Kaswera shushed the other folks off to chapel, and said, “I will stay with you.” We talked and prayed for the next 40 minutes. In that time, I knew comfort, love, and the presence of the Holy Spirit. Kaswera’s prayers come from deep in her soul. She exhales the words and bathes you in prayer.

After chapel, David and Honoré came into the office. We sat together for 20 minutes or so. They listened to the news. Honoré shared the story of his last time with his mother and then receiving news of her death. He prayed.

 

We don’t know how much longer Dad has. We don’t know how much longer any one of us has. But sitting in the caring presence of my Congolese sister and brothers, I was reminded that Emmanuel is here with us. Emmanuel is with Dad. Now and forever.