Broken Hearts

Everything I say here really happened.  I left out names to protect privacy of others.

This past week was by far, the hardest week I've ever gone through.  There were countless broken hearts in the figurative sense.  There was 1 broken heart in the literal sense.

The story begins over 10 years ago.  My friends met at the University of Zimbabwe in Africa.  They had classes together, and the husband, in his own words met his "soul-mate."  When I got to know them, the love they shared was obvious.  He must have been right.

What followed was your usual "love story" of dating, engagement, and marriage.  Then, to be adventurous, they decided to come to the USA to live for a few years.  They wanted to see the world.  They didn't intend to make America their home, but through a long course of events in their personal lives, and in the political situation of Zimbabwe, they became residents here.  They had jobs, a house, and became Americans by culture.  To see them, the only hint you'd have that they were not from America was their accent.

This couple had children.  Twin boys.  But really, they didn't know they were going to have triplets - the third one didn't come out of her womb - he came from my wife's.  The third is my son - He calls those boys his best friends.  My son is white, the twins are black, they don't see a difference.  I wish we could all be like that.  Through our sons, who first played together at church in the nursery, my wife and I became close friends of this couple.  We had moved to NC after losing our teaching jobs because of budget shortfalls, and this couple was the first to befriend us in our new situation. Even after we moved from that town to where I am now pastor, we have kept this friendship.  But I'm digressing.

5 years ago, my friend, the mother of the twins, developed heart troubles.  No one could diagnose why this happened...it "just did."  No genetic defects, no accident, no known health causes.  At first it was controlled with medicine and diet.  A few years later, there would be a pacemaker.  And just last month, the heart condition became so bad that she was put on the transplant list.  Being the person she was, I was I was told by a mutual friend that when they prayed for a heart to be found, she did not want someone to have to die so she could live.  The pastor had to change his prayer to "Thy will be done..."

Within a day of being put on the transplant list, a match was found.  She went through 8 hours of surgery.  When we got the text message that she came through and was doing as well as could be expected, my wife and I broke down in tears in front of our church choir.  A miracle had happened.

I visited her in the hospital.  I am totally serious when I say that if you didn't see the machines and wires and tubes hooked up to her, you'd never know she was sick.  Her husband called her "the prettiest heart transplant recipient ever."  He was right.  She also kept her sense of humor despite the obvious physical and emotional pain.  When I told her she looked good, she looked at me, rolled her eyes, and with her lovely humor and happiness, in a small whisper, she called me a liar.  I laughed.  She gave a faint smile.  Had she not been on so much medication and treatments, I can hear the laugh she would have given.

She went home by Christmas.  She spent Christmas with her children, her husband, and her 2 mothers who were here from Zimbabwe.  Technically one was mother-in-law, but they were so close that mother is the best term.  She celebrated New Year's with her family.  She began walking around the block to get her needed exercise to speed up recovery.

Progress was slow, but she was getting better.  Then one day she woke up with a severe headache.  She didn't suffer long.  That headache was her brain bleeding.  They had been told by the heart surgeon that anything could happen in the first month or so despite how well she was doing - though medicine has advanced so much, there are still a lot of "unknowns."  She didn't suffer long.

At the hospital, the doctor said most likely she would not make it through this, but he could try a surgery that only had a slight success rate if the family wanted him to try.  They wanted him to try.  Despite the skilled hands of the doctor, the surgery was not a success. After a day, it was determined there was no brain activity.  She was only alive by machine.  After saying their good-byes, she passed away peacefully.  She was only 39.

Through this couple, I made a good friend in another pastor.  We attended licensing school together and became fast friends.  He too, was from Zimbabwe, but now lives in America.  He has a church of many Zimbabweans.

So that they could plan the dual-culture funeral (half done "American style" by their home church pastor; half done "African style" by the pastor from Zimbabwe), I came with the Zimbabwean pastor to visit the husband and the American pastor.  I was worried I would be intruding.  He told me that in Zimbabwe, when someone dies, people will come and stay with the family for weeks at a time.  I could not over-extend my welcome.

I learned a beautiful cultural tradition.  As we were sitting, people would look at one another and clap their hands in a certain fashion.  I didn't understand, so I smiled.  Finally, not knowing if I was supposed to clap, I asked the Zimbabwean pastor.  He laughed at me (that's the kind of friends we are - we are so close that even when we laugh at - not with - the other, we know it's in good nature and in love).  He explained the clapping is similar to how we wave or nod to someone so that we don't have to yell across the room.  If it's done close to the person, it's similar to a bow or nod of the head.  It's a greeting and sign of respect.

Over the next few days, I tried to stay out of the limelight, but that was not easy.  Countless Zimbabweans who now live in America came to the house.  My family stuck out for obvious skin tone reasons.  They found out I was a pastor, and in their culture, the pastor is a highly respected office.  I went from being "friend" to "Pastor" in their eyes.

Quickly, this community to which I have no ties (other than my friends) welcomed me as one of their own.  They taught me Shona words.  They told me I am now an official "Zimbabwean" no matter what.

The most beautiful pre-funeral service I ever experienced happened as my family visited one night.  Guitars and a keyboard were brought out.  The secret leaked that I'm a musician.  I was invited to play the keyboard.  I didn't know any of the songs - they were all in Shona (with some English mixed in), but I could play by ear - the chord changes weren't too difficult.  I began to truly feel part of the community. I forgot about my skin color.  We were all one community - one family.  We played music, they sang traditional Shona church songs, folk songs, and customary funeral songs.  This was not a sad time.  We celebrated life - the life of my friend.  We prayed. We shared memories. When someone spoke in Shona, one of the people would translate quietly to me so I could understand.

My family made friends.  The women embraced my wife.  The countless children played with my children.  The men invited me into their discussions.  They even switched to English just for me.

The funeral service was heartbreaking.  A husband lost his wife.  2 young boys lost their mom.  Hundreds of people lost a friend.

When someone dies, we tend to elevate their character and make them seem better than they were.  That was not the case here.  My friend was the type of person we all strive to be.  She had faults, she wasn't perfect, but she was darn close to being perfect.

The funeral service was also healing.  The family left behind will be taken care of.  God will take care of them.  Their church family will take care of them.  Their Zimbabwean community will take care of them.

My friend died too young.  Was it God's will?  I don't know.  I doubt it.  I think God allows bad things to happen - I think God remains present in those situations and comforts us, guides us, and loves us.  Why?  Because what we see, feel, and experience is not the entirety of God's plan.  While we see life and death as 2 distinct categories, God sees life and death as a continuous path without separation.  We will all die.  When we get to the "other side," there will be no divide.  Our lives can go on.  Until the final resurrection, the only difference is that our souls are separate from our bodies.  One day, God will rejoin them and redeem all of creation.  How?  I have no idea.  I don't want to know.  I just believe.

To my friend:  We loved you while you were with us.  You were a wonderful friend to us.  You treated us like family.  You were family to us.  Your husband and boys will always be part of us!  Thank you for being our friend!  We love you.


To her family:  We love you.  We don't look the same, we don't speak the same, I'll probably never be able to talk to you on a phone...your accent is too thick (yes, that is meant to be humorous...but it's true).  You are our family.  The distance between us is sizable, but we will still see each other.  We love you.


To my new Zimbabwean friends:  Thank you for accepting us.  Thank you for welcoming us into your culture and your lives.  Thank you for the jokes, the hugs, the Shona lessons, and most of all for your love.  We love you.  


To God:  We don't understand.  We're sad.  We're confused.  We've blamed you.  We've yelled at you.  This doesn't seem fair.  It's not fair.  But, I know you see the whole picture.  I know you will redeem even this.  You have a lot of explaining to do someday, but I trust in your goodness and power!  We love you!