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Cynthia at Annah's wedding. |
When I first met Cynthia I was blown away
by her voice. She belted out songs that
required operatic training and I knew she had never been to Italy to study with
the masters. Being a resident of
Diepsloot, it was unlikely she had studied voice anywhere. She had been given the gift that most Zulu
women received from generations before them – the desire to worship and sing
from the depths of their being.
She appreciated the chance to sing and was
asked to do so wherever she went. At
weddings, gatherings, the church worship team.
The desire and the ability to sing made Cynthia’s life worth living -especially
when she could sing to God.
Cynthia was raised in Kwa Zulu Natal and
moved to Johannesburg for the same reason most people do – work. Her family searched out opportunities to find
steady and gainful employment; the tradeoff was that they had to live in
Diepsloot. Cynthia was married to Michael, a man that Mario and I referred to
as “the Pedi prince”, having an air of royalty.
Wherever he went, Michael could be put in charge – he was a big man and
could inspire people to do something just by showing up. Cynthia and he had a son together, Michael
Junior, who was killed when he was only three years old. A friend of theirs backed his car up and ran
the child over, crushing him (and the hearts of his parents).
Life after Junior’s death wasn’t easy for
the couple. Losing a child makes even a
spiritual person go down paths one would never walk. Somehow they bounced back; somehow God
brought them closer to Him. I met them
when they returned to Junction Church after a brief absence. I didn’t have any knowledge of the accident
and casually asked Cynthia if she had any children. She replied:
“I do.
But he’s in heaven.”
I apologized and I told her I was
sorry. She smiled and said “How could
you know? I know no one has told you.”
Michael was a great help to Mario as we
built up the church in Diepsloot. Mario
used to say that Dumisani was his right hand and Michael was his left. They translated everything for us. We were (unfortunately) clueless about a lot
of things. What we weren’t clueless
about was the worship – Cynthia and Portia taught us the songs and we sang them the way they did – belting them
out. The louder the praise the more
sincere it was – that was the way we were taught.
Two years into the church plant, Michael
fell ill with tuberculosis and was taken to Helen Joseph hospital to
recover. He never came out.
Michael's death rocked us all. Especially Cynthia – Portia and Dumisani
drove with Mario and I as we took Cynthia to the hospital to make the
identification and sign papers. It was a
terrible, grief stricken drive. Wailing
and tear-filled shouts were made by those in the vehicle. The louder the tears, the more sincere the
grief.
Somehow Cynthia bounced back. Somehow she was surrounded by a good support
system. We did the best we could to
comfort her…but there was so much we didn’t understand.
Right before we moved back to California,
Cynthia asked me out to tea. We went to
our favorite place – a small garden in Fourways.
“I have to tell you something,” she said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I have kidney disease. Bonnie knows, but not a lot of other people
do.” Bonnie was a mutual friend – the leader
of the widows and orphans program, she worked closely with Cynthia.
“What does that mean?” My heart was beating
madly.
“I am alright until I go into failure. When I go into failure I will need a kidney
transplant. If I don’t get one, I will
go to heaven.”
She told me at the beginning of our time
together and we were quiet through the rest of our tea. When I dropped her off, she turned to
me. “I had to tell you. Don’t be angry.”
“Why would I be angry?”
She laughed. “I don’t mean angry at me. Don’t be angry with the doctors. Don’t be angry with South Africa. Don’t be angry at God.”
I smiled.
“I could never be angry at God, Cynthia,” I said. At the time, I believed that statement to be
true. It was before the great testing of
our faith. Before we left South Africa
and our calling; before the great upheaval….
“I won’t be angry,” I promised her.
It turned out the reason Cynthia told me
was that she was going in for surgery.
Our mutual friend, Bonnie told her to let me know out of courtesy, so I
wouldn’t be in the dark. Thank God.
At our going away party, Cynthia, dressed
in royal purple, sang with her whole
heart – a song I loved: “’Mandla Nkosi” – or “God holds all the power” – loud like
she meant it. It is in my heart like a tattoo.
Yesterday my beloved Portia texted me (thank God for whatsapp) that Cynthia had passed away,
stepping from the earth to the clouds to heaven. My heart sank.
I know Cynthia longed to be with Junior and
Michael – and most of all, Jesus. Still,
there was an unfinished grief I felt since I had not been there when she
died. She is the first of my friends to
pass away after we moved back home. It
is enough to believe that she is out of pain; out of the poverty she endured in
this life.
I wish I could be there to wail- to cry
aloud and expunge the grief in my heart.
Cynthia taught me how… I can do it now.
Below is one of the videos from our going-away party. You'll get to hear Cynthia (in purple) sing - even though she was sick by this time