Welcome
readers to this my first blog! I am an Australian "missionary"
Franciscan Sister and have been living and working in Zambia since 1995- mostly
in rural Luapula. My home base when I'm back in Australia is Melbourne, and
conscious of so many friends and family members who readily welcome me into
their lives I recently decided to open a blog page for easier access and regular
contact instead of private and more limited means. These last six months I have
moved to Lusaka; it was from there I went on home leave, and back to Lusaka I
came in January this year.
Saturdays
are good! I decided that today when I pulled up at the corner of a busy side
road, having spied nice bananas, on the lady vendor's small table, and leaning
out the car window said, "Please Mayo, ten "pin" of bananas and
two basela (gift)!" The woman smiled, having recognised a regular
customer, and ran to cut and package. "Ah no! Mwisakamana na
plastik!" (Don't worry about the plastic bag) to which the little girls
passing by, parroted back, "Mwi sakamana" and pointing and giggling
at me and my funny accent, began dancing and laughing. It is Saturday before
Palm Sunday and I'm feeling grateful for the small encounters of life; for
sunshine and Saturday drivers who amicably pass me by for bananas, (he was
eating a banana himself I noticed!) and for my life here in Lusaka.
Palm
(Passion Sunday)
I've
barely been back in Zambia two months since burying my father in Nathalia,
where we grew up. Nathalia is a small country town in Victoria's northeast. I'd
arrived into Melbourne mid November and had been bracing myself to seeing my
father after two years away in Zambia. He had Alzheimer’s for several years
now, but as my younger brother Mark told me in a previous phone call,
"He's very vague Marie, but the good thing is that even though he hates
not being home, he knows that whatever decisions we make for him, he knows we
make them out of care and love for him."
What a
blessing, I thought, remembering how we'd both ended up in tears last time I was
home, as I had vainly tried to demonstrate how he was unsafe driving any
longer, as he could no longer work out how to get back to where he and Joyce,
the love of his latter life, had moved to the retirement village down the road.
That meant the end to independence and a bitter loss. This last year too had
been rough with Joyce in hospital then rehab following a bad fall and broken
bones. My father died two days after Christmas; and though we were surprised by
its suddenness, his dying was like watching a window slowly closing on the
familiar and humourous face we'd watched all our lives.
Grief
Grief is
a subtle, pervasive ingredient in my life. Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with
me, why so sad, when I'm getting on with life, learning to adapt to city life,
opening counselling contacts, getting stuck into development work- but it's
there like an unwelcome visitor (as Joyce Rupp refers to Loneliness) arrived on
my doorstep, suitcase in hand and ready to stay!
So, this
first blog page is launched in tribute to Francis Michael Bourke, born 1922 in
Nathalia, joined the army and RAF, played for Richmond, farmer in Yalca, hotel
proprietor, athlete and mad golfer, father and husband twice over. We
celebrated two funerals- one in Mount Waverley where he spent the last 25 years
of married life and the other in beloved Nathalia where we buried him after
celebrating the "Life and Adventures of Francis Michael Bourke."
Marie
Bourke, Lusaka, Saturday 31st March.
