One week ago I walked over to Gabriel’s home, or the “Magical Orange Forest” as we called it when Collin first found it in October or November. Following a small path from Malaboro through the African bush, you will eventually come upon a grove of fruit trees, displaying different fruits in different seasons: oranges, lemons, mangoes, jackfruit. That’s where Gabriel lives.
He placed a bench in the shade of a mango tree, told me to sit there, and brought me two varieties of mangoes to taste. Perched on his little stool, he began to tell me about his wife, who died eleven years ago when his daughter Aloyo was born.
She was beautiful, my wife. Aloyo means, “the one who has overcome.” It means, “I have survived.”
His sweet little eleven year old, who never knew her mother, sat next him. She listened to her father, and she smiled up at him.
He didn’t marry again. Not because he couldn’t find another lover. He didn’t marry because he feared that a new woman would treat Aloyo and her brother like servants, not like children.
It’s been a struggle. But we have each other.
She smiled again. What a sacrifice he’s made for her. He has learned to cook, he has planted and harvested so they can eat, and he has struggled day after day to have the money to send her to school. She is now in primary five class. She’s a bright girl; she knows the value of her education.
But, you know, we don’t belong to this world. No, we don’t belong here. We’re not living for here. We won’t be here long.
What a mindset to live in. To realize that it’s not about us. To realize that there’s something greater to strive for. That our bodies, our possessions, the things we value… are fleeting. To not live for the world or for anything in the world.
It’s another one of those lessons that convicts me to put aside the American dream and go to feed some starving babies and hug some widows and orphans.
Ah.
Learning.
Seeking vision.
