It was Saturday evening in Beni, DRCongo.
“Mama Mary,” Maou, our guard, called from down the hall.
“Mama Furaha apeleka huyu” (“Mama Furaha sent this.”). He held out a small black plastic bag. I opened it to find four handfuls of freshly cut, tender basil leaves. They glistened in the darkness and smelled glorious.
“Mama Furaha hapa?” (“Mama Furaha’s here?”).
“Hapana. Watoto alipeleka” (“No, the children brought this.”).
Mama Furaha had been the house manager and cook for the CI-UCBC international staff for five years–a gentle, reliable, daily presence. She had to leave the job to take care of her ailing father. One of her nieces now managed our household.
Mama Furaha is a strong woman with a deep faith and a rich singing voice. She hums her way through tedious tasks and sings in the face of personal trials. Her smile that lights the room. Mama Furaha makes the most succulent samosas and the crispiest frites. She remembers people’s favorite foods, then accommodates (and surprises) with her culinary skills over a charcoal stove.
She is a consummate teacher, patient and encouraging. She taught me how to make those samosas. She was a gentle and forgiving Swahili coach to me. Her trustworthiness is without blemish and her care for others an example to follow.
Furaha means joy or happiness, and Mama Furaha lives out her name despite circumstances. She has diabetes and heart problems. Her husband struggles to maintain a job and sobriety. She is responsible to raise several grandchildren. And everyday life in eastern DRCongo presents its challenges unknown to my US address. Yet Mama Furaha lives life in hope and embodies joy.
Do you have the picture?
So I shouldn’t have been surprised that Mama Furaha sent two of her grandchildren to deliver fresh basil. She knew how much I liked the herb. She also knew that it didn’t grow at the guesthouse where I was living at the time. Her gift was an expression of love, and act of grace. And with every bite of the salad I made the next day with that basil and tomatoes, avocado, onion, and fresh lemon juice, I was reminded of her grace.
Why do I share this story? Because it is a story about the abundance of simple gifts.
In these times of turmoil, anger, division, and pandemic; when we tangle ourselves in technology and tasks, offering and receiving small gifts are courageous acts of grace. And we need courage and grace these days–courage to live out our convictions with compassion and the grace to keep our hearts open and hopeful.
It’s not hard to grace someone with small bunch of flowers, a $10 gift card to a local coffee shop, an “I’m thinking of you” note, or a simple affirmation. And as to the receiving? Grace comes in a child’s laughter, orange leaves against a blue sky, or a moment of quiet away from the day’s business.