A few weeks ago, we said goodbye to our helper (again!) -- you may remember the one whose wedding we went to during the summer. After her wedding she started working for us again, until just a few weeks ago when she needed to quit work to get ready for her baby due in February.
One Saturday while she was with us, she took us to her hometown, and we were able to meet her parents and see where she grew up.
At that time, the rice (behind us) was a few weeks away from harvesting. Her dad had just purchased a machine that would help them process the rice, and he was carrying it back from the market as we were arriving, so the kids got to ride the rest of the way on the ox cart.
We followed them up the hill to her childhood home, where her parents live...
Inside the center room was the traditional alter where they offer food, alcohol, and incense to their ancestors...
We enjoyed meeting them and getting a glimpse into their lives, as well as the opportunity to get to know our helper better.
She was also with us through my parents' visit a few weeks back and acted as our guide when we went on a day trip to a nearby market town.
While she worked for us, I talked with her about life and important things, and found within her seeds of trust. But neither she nor I knew how that trust would come to be tested in such a difficult way.
Last Friday I got a phone call and found out that she--seven months along--had lost the baby. Because of the nature of the culture here, it was innappropriate to ask too many questions about what happened; I just know that she became ill and when she went to the hospital for treatment, the doctors said the baby wasn't healthy anymore.
She was out of the hospital in a few days, and culture requires a month-long period of "sitting in" (staying inside) after a pregnancy, so I went with a friend to see her.
With a heart for counseling and a great big love for my friend, it was very difficult for me to sit with her and not talk or cry together with her about her tragedy. For me, talking is sharing--sharing feelings, sharing burdens, sharing love and support and care. And crying is grieving--grieving the loss of hopes and a little one who'll never be known.
But for her, being together is sharing feelings and burdens and love and care; and in just sitting quietly together, there is grieving over the loss of things loved and hoped for.
Though we didn't talk about her baby, we did talk about the baby that was born 2000 years ago, whose birth we will celebrate soon. And as we read and sang and turned our hearts together toward him, I believe that in spite of the loss, in spite of the pain--perhaps even through it--those seeds of trust grew.
Thanks for continuing to remember my friend, for healing of body and heart and soul. Perhaps one day, somewhere else, you'll have a chance to meet her...
