33 Months: A Leap of Faith

By Doug Roland

Doug and Cheri have just retired to move halfway around the world. They have been called to help birth an institution that will train ministers from six countries in Southern Africa.

But what is a lawyer and a nurse doing at a seminary? They certainly don’t know. Cultural differences make for a dicey life in Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa. They befriend tribal Africans, Afrikaners, Brits, Indians, Muslims, giraffes, zebras, and elephants.

But what ensues is an adventure of their lifetimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664123007

Book preview

33 MONTHS

A LEAP OF FAITH

DOUG ROLAND

Copyright © 2020 by Doug Roland.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 11/20/2020

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PLANTING THE SEED

ANTICIPATION

INTO THE WOODS

WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE

NZONDELELO

THE INVISIBLE FENCE

TOWN HILL

FIELDWORK

WE WENT TO THE ANIMAL FAIR

BUILDING THE VISION

THE FEM BACKBONE

FESTIVE SEASON IN A STRANGE LAND

FEM LAUNCH

LIFE IN MARITZBURG

OPENING DAY 2011

JUST ONE DAY

SECOND SEMESTER 2011

CHRISTMAS WITH A LIMP

2012—A NEW DAY DAWNING

HIGH NOON HEIST

ONE OF THE GIANTS OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH

THE GIFT OF VISITORS

NURSE GOGO

PHOENIX

KEEPING A BALANCE

MFUNDISI

WHITNEY HOUSTON AND THE COLLARING SERVICE

THE TAKEAWAY

INTRODUCTION

How Our Paths Took Us To South Africa

The greatest danger for most of us

Is not that our aim is too high and we miss it,

But that it is too low and we reach it.

—Michelangelo

I picked her up at a local hamburger joint where she worked as a carhop. It was September 1971. Our first date was a few days later. I cooked, and she survived my homemade spaghetti. In those early days, we discovered three shared passions: travel, classical music, and church. What were the odds? Our relationship deepened built on a foundation of shared traits, values, and experiences. A year later, we were married.

During the next thirty-nine years, we traveled whenever we were able. Not only for the fun and adventure but also because travel informed and deepened our understanding of how the world works. Not being born to wealth, feeding this passion demanded that both of us work and fit trips in as we were able. So I practiced law for thirty-five years, while Cheri spent twenty-two years as a nurse in the county jail. And time quietly moved along as we settled into our life together.

But looking back to ourselves as children and young adults revealed the one constant: our belief that someday we would end up in a faraway place. We had no idea how this was going to come about; we just knew that it would.

Both of us were raised in the Midwest in the 1950s. My hometown of Richmond, Indiana, was about an hour west of Cheri’s home in Middletown, Ohio. We were lucky enough to grow up in what was possibly the last age of innocence, when a child could imagine and dream on a teaspoon of information. We each read books about bold (and sometimes scary) ventures into the unknown and imagined ourselves there. We were young sponges eager to get out, see more, and use all our senses to experience the world we imagined.

Our visions for the future were shaped through family vacations by car or train, the windows framing moving pictures of landscapes or little towns. My family took vacations most years. They were diverse: trips to lakes in Northern Indiana, the Allegheny River in Pennsylvania, and the obligatory family pilgrimages to Mississippi.

As we grew older, those vague notions and dreams about the world were fine-tuned by the teachings of our church about a brotherhood across the oceans and the importance of a broad worldview. Church life had been central to both our families’ experience, and it became one of the pillars on which we based the family we were now creating together. The influence of our families’ worldview found expression in our marriage through frugality, an acceptance of responsibility, and the desire to intertwine our lives with our faith’s tenets through active participation in church activities, both as leaders and as volunteers.

We also fed our spirits through travel, continuing the explorations begun with our families when we were children. In the early years of our marriage, we drove through much of Ontario, Toronto, and Montreal. In later years, we were fortunate enough to venture farther afield, traveling to Rome, London, Paris, Brisbane, Luxembourg, and their surrounding countryside. We discovered some of the great churches, including the Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence designed by Henri Matisse. We drove through the small towns and villages of Tuscany and Provence. On other vacations, we hiked in the Grand Tetons, Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park, the French Alps, and the Apuan Alps of Western Italy.

Neither of us was interested in package tours and being shepherded along by guides pointing out the important sites. We did the planning ourselves, hunting for lesser known destinations (and lower prices). We hoped our looser, more random path would lead to the real payoff—serendipity, the mother lode of travel. By staying true to the experience rather than the itinerary, we often found those unexpected, wonderful moments we had hoped for. Looking back, many of the experiences we best recall from our travels were not at all planned.

In keeping with our goal to use our travels to learn about the world, we always tried to engage with the local people wherever we went. We also got lost regularly. Although getting lost was unnerving, through our continued efforts to make contact with the local residents wherever we found ourselves gave us the confidence and faith to ask strangers for help when we needed it. And those small victories we enjoyed in finally spotting a familiar street or landmark boosted our confidence that we could handle ourselves in foreign countries.

So when, for the first time, Cheri and I realized we had no travel plans for the upcoming summer, we realized that perhaps we had come to a turning point in our lives. That maybe this was the time to go beyond being a traveler and truly become an explorer. We definitely were not ready to fade quietly into the stereotypical golden years. We wanted something different that would challenge us, drag us out of our comfort zone. Maybe even something a little risky.

PLANTING THE SEED

One Sunday in January 2007, there was a note in our church bulletin announcing that our senior minister was planning a mission trip to South Africa and inviting anyone interested to come to a meeting. The lure of the Dark Continent was tantalizing, harkening back to my childhood daydreams of Tarzan and Cheetah and Cheri’s memories of seeing the suffering of African children and wanting somehow to help them. Something was telling us to walk in the dust of the third world not only to truly experience it in all its pain, desperation, and tears but, hopefully, also to find its grace and joy, however fragile, and to work to nurture and protect it in whatever ways we could. We knew we couldn’t accomplish anything remotely as important as this by sipping coffee in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

Cheri and I attended the meeting fully committed to making the trip but had to drop out when Cheri underwent major surgery. I was still determined to go one way or the other.

I was able to organize a second trip for later that year. Cheri couldn’t participate, still recovering from her surgery. Three people, Kim, Kelly, and Tina, signed up for the trip. I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. None of us had ever been to South Africa, but each of us was prepared to meet the unknown. What followed was an immersion into a world we could not ever have imagined.

Three encounters on that trip immediately stripped away any leftover childhood fantasies I may have brought with me and, at once and forever, changed everything.

Cato Manor [Durban, South Africa] October 2007

Cato Manor is an informal settlement surrounded by the port city of Durban. For decades, people have lived there in shanties, tin roof structures held down with discarded tires. We were met there by Roger Scholtz, a local Methodist minister, and Phelo, our guide. No one in the group spoke as Phelo quietly led us through the labyrinthine network of dirt paths that wandered through the settlement.

Our first visit was to a shack occupied by a woman and three children. There was no door, just an opening. The woman was grandmother to one of the children and cared for the two others. All four lived in the ten-foot-by-ten-foot shack. There was one bed, a small shelf with two or three basic pots and pans, and a hot plate whose only source of fuel was highly flammable paraffin. There was no electricity, no water, no heat, no windows, no job; a life of exquisite poverty.

The woman invited us in. Phelo acted as interpreter, explaining who we were and that we had come to visit her. She began to cry as she struggled to wrap and lift the youngest child on to her back. The moment I saw her tears, I felt the crushing weight of her poverty. Kim reached out and held her hand for a few minutes. Reverend Scholtz asked me if I wanted to pray. I froze. Prayers were said by the others, and that seemed to give the woman some comfort.

We left a food parcel. This family would live another day.

I had made this trip to witness third world conditions. It was everything I hoped it wouldn’t be. But at the same time, the experience was the catalyst for accepting a new reality, one in which I would play a part. The enormity of what I had just seen couldn’t be encompassed by any grand plan. I knew I had to do something, but I didn’t know what or how. I felt paralyzed.

That day never left me. The memory was a constant reminder that I must do something. At the time, I had no idea that this was but the start of a long walk leading to the adventure of a lifetime.

COMEBACK MISSION [Adjacent to Soweto] October 2007

While in Johannesburg, we met a group of people who lived and worked in the colored township of Eldorado Park and was organizing an NGO to serve their community. All races would be included—colored, black, Indian, white, Asian, and other mixed races. During our two-day stay, we listened to the dreams that were unfolding in their minds. The group’s leaders were visionaries and their spirits irrepressible. I had never been in the company of such a group—people fiercely dedicated to improving other’s lives. The group’s initial focus was on those impacted by substance abuse. But that was only the beginning. The group also provided services to the 100–150 members of a small informal settlement called Heavenly Valley. This place was neither heavenly nor a valley. The vast majority of residents in the settlement were HIV positive. Housing consisted of large shipping containers and whatever siding was available. The conditions were as horrific as those in Cato Manor. Yet, somehow, a can-do spirit ran through the CBM people in a way that inspired us to believe that lives could be changed.

Rev. Dr. Peter Storey [Simon’s Town, South Africa] October 2007

The third event took place in a much more urbane setting. As part of our mini tour of Cape Town, we scheduled lunch with a noted South African Methodist, the Reverend Dr. Peter Storey and his wife, Elizabeth. Cheri and I came to know them a few years earlier when Dr. Storey occasionally preached at our home church in Tampa, Florida.

As a young man, Peter wanted to be a sailor and serve in the South African navy. Instead, he received a call from God that was nonnegotiable, and he entered the Methodist ministry, following in the footsteps of his father. Peter served at many churches throughout South Africa and eventually became president of the Methodist Church of Southern Africa and the South African Council of Churches. The council was formed to bear witness to the inhumane treatment of blacks under apartheid and to be a prophetic voice in the struggle for equality.

On a sunny, cloudless day over False Bay, the four of us met in nearby Simon’s Town, a historical seagoing port, and had lunch at Bertha’s, a local waterfront landmark just a few meters from a naval base. Peter was dressed casually in a shirt, light vest, and deck shoes, a not-so-subtle cue that he planned to go sailing and had limited time available for us.

Starting off in his usual blunt manner, Peter opened our conversation with What are you doing here, and what might it mean for you? Silence. Sensing our discomfort, he made some suggestions about the possible purposes of our visit. The conversation then loosened up a bit as we made a determined effort to say something not totally stupid. Peter helped us out of our dilemma and then proceeded to lecture us on a variety of subjects.

We could have been in a graduate seminar were it not for the spectacular surroundings. Peter laid out his dream for a new Methodist seminary. Leading figures in the Methodist Church of Southern Africa had recently determined that there was a need to send all ministerial applicants through the same institution. The intent was to establish more rigorous academics and formation than the current programs offered around the country. As president of the governing council, Peter was the driving force in the project. We learned that construction of the buildings was already in the planning stage and final approval for the project was about two weeks away.

As the conversation was ending, I asked half jokingly, Peter, if you get your seminary built, do you think I could get a job there? I knew it was a long shot.

Well, he replied, I don’t know what you would do. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?

Yes.

Then I don’t know what you would do. I will pass it on to others, but I doubt much will come of it.

Of course, he was absolutely right. What on earth would I do at a seminary? I supposed I could help with some light custodial duties or paperwork. Nonetheless, I e-mailed him a couple of times later just to see if there was any interest in my offer. There wasn’t.

Over the next three years, my vision for the future evolved from retired lawyer, man about town, sitting on boards and playing golf on Wednesdays to volunteer without portfolio working in South Africa. I had changed. (Unbeknownst to me, Cheri had for years been praying for such a transformation.) I would talk to anyone who would listen about my experiences in South Africa to the point of being boring. I had no words for it, but I felt it. I didn’t know how the new me would get there or what I would do; I just knew that was where I had to be.

The following year, I organized another South Africa trip that closely mirrored the first. Cheri finally was able to join me. Four other volunteers made up our team. Cheri and I decided to offer ourselves to some nonprofit organizations during this trip to see if our goal was capable of realization. Two of the groups we spoke with held real possibilities for us to live and serve there awhile as volunteers. But when we more closely analyzed these options, we saw that they couldn’t work for us based on practical considerations like housing costs, health insurance, expenses, and the like. Although these issues were daunting, we would not give up. We had taken a big step by offering ourselves where needed. We had planted some seeds. Now it was up to the Lord.

We researched websites hoping to find other ways to serve, including volunteer opportunities in foreign countries. These turned out to be mostly light work like sweeping floors, feeding animals, and paying handsomely for the privilege to do so. These were more vacations than selfless service. We were not a bit interested in becoming poverty tourists.

I recalled that I had applied and been accepted into the Peace Corps in 1965, the year of its birth. At twenty-one, I was captivated by the speech given by Sergeant Shriver, the Corps’ first director. Coincidentally, that day, March 16, 1965, was the third march on Selma, Alabama. Several thousands of my fellow students were in the Indiana University auditorium that day as Mr. Shriver began his speech with a request for silent prayer for the marchers.

Although I was committed to the Corps’ principles, I was also afraid of venturing into Turkey or Colombia. At twenty-one, I chickened out. But forty years later, I was ready.

The Peace Corps was open to people of our ages, sixty-seven and fifty-eight, and met our desire to serve abroad, We slogged our way through the application process, completed a blizzard of forms, drove several hours to be interviewed, and waited.

Eight months passed. Then I received a follow-up call from a staffer who was working on the right placement for us.

Encouraged, we read several books written by former Peace Corps volunteers hoping to gain some insights and practical tips that we could apply when we received our own posting. Our excitement was tempered only by the possibility of a medical disqualification. Two months later, a letter from the Peace Corps was in the mailbox. We opened it together and learned we had been disqualified based on a medical condition affecting Cheri’s eyes. She has an eye condition that could demand treatment within a four-hour window, and any delay could cause her to lose the eye. By their nature, many placements simply are not equipped to satisfy such a requirement.

Although our disqualification was deeply disappointing, in reality, it was a godsend. Just before we were disqualified, we had been in contact with a Peace Corps staffer who let us know that if we were accepted, our most likely placement would be in Kyrgyzstan, one of the Central Asian regions of the former Soviet Union. Tragically within a year, the historical tensions in Kyrgyzstan between the majority Kyrgyz and minority Uzbek populations erupted into civil war, displacing four hundred thousand residents and collapsing all governmental infrastructure.

We continued to wait, and we did not despair. In some strange way, our experience with the Peace Corps had provided the momentum for us to keep trying. Eager to be as prepared as possible when what we hoped to be the inevitable call to service came, we enrolled in a course on serving as missionaries offered by the United Methodist Church, Southeastern Jurisdiction. So we