David

Mario and David - Christmas 2011

I was driving to Chico on Friday when Mario called me.

“Pull over,” he said, in the voice he uses when there is an emergency.  But I was on that unfortunate stretch between Lincoln and Wheatland where there are no turnouts or shoulders. 

“I can’t,” I said.  “What happened?”

“I don’t want to tell you while you’re driving,” he said at first.  After I explained that I could not pull over, he told me that he had just received an email from Terry, one of our best friends, telling him that Dave Smith had died.

Dave Smith, Mario’s best friend.  Dave Smith, the best man at our wedding.  Dave Smith, our daughter’s “step-father.”  Dave Smith who helped us put all of our houses together.  Dave Smith, the relational equivalent of super-glue in our family.

I was sure that it was a mistake.

I finally pulled over on some side street that led to somewhere I didn’t know.  I was seeing rainbows and hearing a ringing in my ears.

“Are you sure?” I asked, in desperation.  We had just seen David the weekend before, at the annual Smith Christmas party where we exchanged white elephant gifts that made us all shriek with laughter.  Where we hugged and made silly faces at each other.  It was all a movie in my head, and I could still feel David and Terry’s hugs.  “Have you called Terry?”

After a weak exchange of flighty conversation, Mario said that he would call her.  He also told me he could not help the urge to get in the car and drive to Walnut Creek and be with her.  I completely agreed. 

“As soon as you know anything, let me know,” I said. 

A few hours later, Mario called me from Dave’s house.  He was with Terry and Michelle (Dave’s daughter) and the news was definitely true.  David had experienced a “major cardiac incident” and had died in the early morning hours of December 16.

Before and After - "Wait a second!! I didn't know you were taking a picture!!" 

I made my way to Chico on auto-pilot.  I knew that I would have to tell our daughter the news before she saw it on social media.   We wept on her laundry room floor, holding on to each other. 

Mario and I did the best we could to make it known privately to our kids that Dave had died. Their reaction was much like ours:  shock, denial, and finally the personal brand of acceptance that only death can bring. 

It is still hard to believe that it is true.

I can remember the day that I met Dave Smith.  I met him at a track meet where he and Mario were competing.  Dave was tall and athletic, like Mario and they related to one another like brothers.  I loved him immediately, even though I could tell that Dave and his wife, Peggy, were careful with me. 

I was Mario’s new girlfriend, another one that came after Mario’s divorce from Cathy.  David did not believe in divorce nor did he approve of Mario dating girls afterwards.  I was the last in a long line of “less-desirables” (Dave’s words, not mine). Dave and Peggy were best friends with Mario and Cathy and they were polite, but reserved with me.  Later David told me that he didn’t want to like me.  “You were taking Cathy’s place and I didn’t want that place taken.”

After a strange and wonderful courtship, I was accepted into the “circle of trust” and Mario and I were married.

David toasts us at our wedding

Our kids and Dave’s kids grew up together.  We were all friends and we were completely unready for a life event that changed everything: David’s divorce from Peggy.  The news sent us reeling.  After all, Dave and Peggy were our solid couple friends and we were not prepared for the next few months. 

After the divorce, Mark, David’s eldest son, contracted type 1 diabetes.  The disease was one that affected all of us – we grieved that this was life-changing for Mark and had no cure.  At 15, Mark was sentenced to a life taking insulin with a syringe, a feat that he had to do not once, but twice every day. 

Mario and Dave became even closer.  They now had something else to discuss: how to survive a divorce, especially with kids involved.  The process was strangely bonding and through it all, both men became closer to their maker.  They learned how to forgive themselves.  Our families healed as much as we could.

Terry and Dave by the BBQ - 2012

I met Terry, the first and only girl David dated after Peggy, the day of their wedding.  She was tall and beautiful.  She was a Christian.  I was so attracted to her – and her desire to adore Christ.  She loved Dave and she came with three incredible kids.  I loved her immediately – even though I felt like I was “cheating” on Peggy.  Did my love for Terry mean that I no longer supported Peggy?  I felt the same feelings that David felt toward me. I could now see how he felt conflicted accepting my presence in Mario’s life.

When she was eight, our daughter, Alicia, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.  As I type this, I remember our familial panic.  Our first call was to David, who brought us down to earth and told us he would be there “after church on Sunday.” He and Terry came to the hospital with a cookbook of sugar free desserts.  I wept in Terry’s arms, David could barely talk.  I remember how Job’s friends came to him and just sat…. that’s what we did.  We just sat together and said nothing.

At eight-years-old, Alicia was not as discouraged about her diagnosis as we were.  Instead, Alicia wanted to know why everyone in her family had a stepfather but she did not.  We tried to explain that step-fathers were only given to kids whose parents divorced, something that we were sure she did not want.  David stepped up and silenced us.

“Hey, I’ll be your step-father, if you want one.”

Alicia was filled with gratitude.  “Really?  Will you?”  From that day forward, David was her step-father.  This was hard to explain to her friends, or their parents, at first.  Eventually, they saw that the relationship was hilarious, and a cause for laughter.

Laughter is what Dave championed.  He would make fun of politicians (“Their dentist is also their proctologist”), people who drove badly (“They should be issued a golf cart, not a car!”), and even his own physical form, which was changing with age (“I am proof that crack kills!”).  The family Christmas party was one that we enjoyed together, the same friends and family, year after year.  Even when we were in Africa, the Smiths were in our lives.  We would come home, jet-lagged and exhausted, from Johannesburg, and flop down in some bedroom of the Smith home for two days before we felt normal.  The Smiths were always our touchstones.

Getting ready to throw something on the grill - 2012

The truth is, we all have our Dave Smiths.  They are the guys that make us real.  They are the ones that stay in one place while we find ourselves and decide who we are.  They are the touchstones of our lives; the glue that holds us together.  They are the ones who we relate to effortlessly for years.  They are what we Americans call “best friends.”

I grieve in incomplete stutters and fits. I will be wrapping presents and remember David and Mario exchanging stories of their growing boys.  I will suddenly remember Dave’s ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat.  I will remember his laugh and his jokes. 

Dave installs soffets at our Kubel Circle house

One final thought that makes me sum up who he was: David helped us get our last house ready to sell, and he and Mario did most of the physical labor.  Suffering with Scleroderma (a chronic connective tissue disorder that is an autoimmune rheumatic disease), Dave often left our house exhausted and in pain.

“Thanks, again, David,” Mario would say, hugging him.  “What do I owe you?” Many times, Dave would only take money for gas. 

“This is what friends do for each other, right?” he would say.  

Mario would laugh and shake his head. “When have I ever done this for you?”

David would think, looking up at the sky.  “Hey!  That’s right!”  He would pretend to be mad, getting in his truck and slamming the door.  “See if I ever help you again, you free-loader!”  The guys would laugh and Dave would wave as he drove away.

That was David: always giving much more than he took.  He was, indeed, the best friend any person could ever have.

A lot of people have asked how they can help, the family has set up a gofund me page to cover some funeral expenses and all else will be donated to scleroderma research - click this link to be taken there. 

one

This is the last in a series I call

 "Top Ten Things I Would Have Never Said in America"  

I know it's long, but it's worth it.  

Me and Portia outside of the Junxion Center

1.  My best friend lives in the township.

When we first moved to South Africa it was to join a larger team that was already here – a team of people who worked into all of Africa- rugged folk that drove 4x4’s and said things like “All for Jesus” and lived it.

 

We did a “trial move” before we moved out here permanently- South Africa was a place we had only visited and we were advised to see if we could really live here.  The last nine posts have illustrated the “subtle differences” between life in the USA vs. life in South Africa.

On our trial move, we hunkered down in Joburg and started attending Junction Church, a cutting edge church that had its population split right down the middle: half were folk from Northern suburbs (the upscale neighborhoods that surround us) and half were from Diepsloot (the local township). 

I have not stated the obvious in my last posts: the disparity between rich and poor; white and black; have and have-nots here in South Africa was a bucket of ice water in my face.  It was shocking and terrible and most days I screamed within myself; demanding why the world around me wan't as shocked as I was. 

Junction Church seemed to be breaking through economic, social, and racial barriers more than any other church we  saw here.  We learned so much in that first year about the whole country.  Our teachers came mainly from the eldership. 

Portia and Thembe's White Wedding

The Junction eldership (the people who steered the church) were as diverse as its membership – I had never met a team so different in personality and giftings.  One of the elders, Thembe, we had previously met when we did a trip to Malawi.  Thembi and his family lived in the “church house” – a place that was on the site of our future church building.  

Thembe was from Zimbabwe, married to a young bride named Portia.  They had two children: Darely  (pronounced “Darrell”) and Ebenezer (Ebi) – young kids that clung close to their mother.  Portia was incredibly beautiful and it was easy to see that she and Thembe were very happy – despite having gone through an already challenging life together. 

“You are older than Portia,” Mario joked with him one day.  “How did you get her to marry you?” 

“I am secretly very wealthy,” Thembe joked back.  “Portia spends all my money.”

We relied on Thembe for something very important: he translated the Diepsloot culture for us.  Should we give money for someone who is asking us at church?  Should we not?  Why are funerals held on Saturdays?  What is the importance of tribal practices to the people vs. Christian beliefs?

Thembe never tired of our questions.  He had a slow, deliberate explanation for everything.  All the while he smiled. 

After our trial move we decided to come back and live in South Africa. 

When we came back to South Africa, six months later, Thembe was very sick.  He was remarkably thin and had contracted TB.  The whole church was concerned. 

“Thembe, you must get well,” Mario told him one day when he took him to the clinic.  “When you do, we’ll take you and your family to the ocean.”  Thembe and Portia had never seen the ocean – ever.

“When I get well,” Thembe said, weakly.  “We will go.”   

Six months later he weighed so little that Mario would carry him into the clinic when they went.  One day, during a visit, Thembe asked Mario a favor.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to see the ocean,” he whispered, weakly.  “But will you take Portia?” 

Mario came home weeping.  Two days later Thembe died.

All of Junction mourned.

A giant hole was left where he once was.  Then there was the issue of Portia – his young bride.  Darely and Ebi – his kids.  They buried him in Zimbabwe during the time of starvation under Mugabe’s rule, taking in supplies for the family.

We checked in with Portia every other day for weeks.  I would visit and just sit there, not knowing what to say.  I couldn’t very well ask her how she was.  She was messed up.

“What can I do for you?” I once asked her. 

“Pray,” she smiled.  “All we can really do for each other is pray.”

She meant it. 

Portia soon moved into Diepsloot.  The church house was being leveled in order to make room for the new building.  I wondered how she would do it. 

“See, there is the tap,” she beamed as she showed me around her new place.  She had a new home close to a tap.

Portia’s new home was a converted boxcar, surrounded by shacks in extension 9, one of the outer extensions.  It was big enough to hold her bed, her dressing cupboard, a couch and chair and a cupboard for dishes.  It was decorated tastefully, even having curtains just like ours.

“Did you get those from Georgine?” I asked.

“Yes,” she laughed.  “I saw you have the same ones at your place.”

“All of our curtains are from Georgine,” I said.  “We have a lot windows and when we first got here she covered all of them.”

Mutual friends; mutual interests; a shared love for God.  Portia and I slowly started to get to know one another better. When Diepsloot was out of water we would “fetch Portia” to get some.  We watched her come out of her shell  and take a job with ITCC, becoming proficient on the computer. 

She was coming into her own, we would say in the States.

“Do you want to come over one night and watch a movie?” I asked her.  We had a movie projector and I knew the boys would like it. 

“It’s too late for me,” she laughed.  “I fall asleep early.”

“I’ll pick you up at three and then you can spend the night,” I told her.  “Then when you wake up we can go to church together.”

She considered it. 

“Alright,” she said, once she thought about it.  “It will be nice to have one night out of the township.” 

The movie nights on Saturday turned into monthly times together.  Darely and Ebi became like adopted grandchildren to us.  We would have pizza making nights; hamburger making nights; KFC nights; parties for the boys’ birthdays… Parties for Portia’s birthdays. 

We especially celebrated when Portia turned 30.

30!! 

“I finally have made it,” she laughed.  “Now when Craig calls up all the young kids under thirty I don’t have to go up there.”

I laughed at the stuff she would say.

“I’m getting fat,” I’d tell her.

“I’m worse,” she’d say.  We’d laugh together.

“I spilled my Coke Light,” I told her once.  “As soon as I bought it from Dischem I went outside and I spilled it.”

“That’s worse,” she’d say, laughing.

Portia had little sayings that made me guffaw.  One of them was “That’s worse,” meaning that life can’t get any harder than that moment.  It was always about something trivial, like spilling a coke or bread getting moldy. 

In our second year here, one of our scheduled movie nights found us without Mario.  He had gone home to be with our family; an emergency that worried me greatly.  Portia could tell.

“Let’s go pray while the boys watch the movie,” she said.  We walked out to the kitchen and Portia brought her Bible. 

“I have a verse for you today,” she said.  “It is from first Samuel, listen.  ‘And David said, "Is there still anyone left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan's sake?"’(2 Samuel 9:1)

I listened. 

“I think when God considers us,” she said.  “He takes into account that he wants to be good to our family – He wants to show them kindness for our sake.”

I was touched in my heart.  Portia had already been praying for me. 

Friendship is something that is very sneaky sometimes.  It comes up behind you and supports you in a way that you grow dependent on.  You even start leaning on it, learning to trust it.  This is how friendship happens. 

I crossed over from “I feel responsible for Portia” to “Portia is a rather special friend” that night of prayer.  I started to ask her for prayer all of the time.  I would confide in her and she knew my hopes, my fears, and my dreams.  And I knew hers.

One of our sleepovers  

She hosted a group of ladies at her house every Thursday night:  prayer for the neighborhood.  She would participate in all-night prayer meetings; go to other ladies’ prayer retreats where they fasted for  a whole weekend.

“You put my prayer life to shame,” I once joked with her. 

“Don’t say that, Janet!” she laughed.  “I am not performing.”

She wasn’t…she was just inspiring me. 

The last sleepover we had with Portia was last Saturday, a night when Dumi and his kids came as well.  It was Ebenezer’s ninth birthday.

“You know Ebi has been having birthday parties at your house since he was three,” Portia said on the drive over. 

I couldn’t believe it; then I flashed back. 

I met Ebi when he peeked over Portia’s shoulder, too shy to lift his head.  Darely was still holding on the the edge of her skirt; now he looked just like Thembe.  I met Portia when she was twenty five.  She was a shy bride with two babies.  Now she was a confident young woman; a leader in her community.  A woman known for her integrity.

An inspiration to me. 

Portia loves me for some strange reason.  She has seen me weepy, angry, desperate, selfish and in traffic.  She trusts me, even though I have failed her more than once.  She prays for me as if she were my sister, my mom or my daughter.

In a way, she is all three.

When I told her I was leaving this year, she was very quiet.  We ate dinner afterwards, where she told me that I should have delivered the news after dinner .  We were both a mess. 

“How am I going to say goodbye?” I asked Mario, tearfully after we went to bed.

 

On our beach vacation in Scottburgh

“We’ll be back,” he said.  “You don’t have to say goodbye.”

I agreed, that we would be back, I just knew that our everyday lives would be different; on a different continent.  Saying goodbye to Portia represents saying goodbye to all that is right with South Africa and what drew us here. 

She represents a warm-heartedness and “surviving while smiling”.  She shines with special-ness,  under the toughest of circumstances.  She inspires me and has made me a better person; a better friend.

“It’s a shame you can’t take Portia when you go,” one of my friends said to me.  It is a shame, a shame for me. 

But removing Portia from South Africa would be like shoplifting a blessing from where she lives.  As I feel about her, so her neighbors feel in bucket loads.  They rely on her maybe even more than I do.  She ministers and teaches in her community; in our church; in her family.

She is the egoli of the egoli city. 

So I have to strategize how I will tear myself away, knowing that this kind of ripping means I will be bleeding profusely as I leave her.

That’s worse.

This smilebox is one I made of the years I have known Portia.                           Click on the arrow to play.

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