resence? That’s just the opposite of absence isn’t it? Really, what can you hope to achieve through presence alone? But, you can relate. Sometimes you come away from something and say to yourself, “it was good that I was there.” In this culture where absence is felt palpably, presence conveys a powerful message.
We live in a fairly busy part of town. In the evenings, our street becomes alive with the sound of the gathering crowds. After the sun goes down, people start to flock to the numerous restaurants and settle in for their evening meal. Crowds gather for roasted beef kebabs, fried tilapia, Ethiopian food, tea and coffee. Preparation for the day starts early for these restaurants. One such restaurant is an Ethiopian restaurant, our neighbour. At around 7am, almost without fail, women can be heard chopping onions and grinding down coffee beans with mortar.
The morning of August 28th, however, I was awoken by the sounds of wailing shortly past 6am. It was clear that there had been a death. When the wailing had subsided at around 9am I headed over. As I made my way to the door, they said “We’re closed today.” I said that I was just coming as a neighbour. I greeted the men and asked what had happened. The husband of one of the women working at the restaurant had passed away in Ethiopia. I was then ushered into a small room where two women sat on the floor. Beds were arranged around the perimeter of the room where the men sat quietly. I took a seat and sat there in silence as the men quietly passed around a plate of roasted beans. Coffee and water followed all in perfect silence. I must have sat there for ten minutes before it occurred to me that we had a bag of kollo in the house. The Ethiopia equivalent of trail mix, kollo is a snack of roasted barley and peanuts mixed with Ethiopian spices. It happens to be one of my favourite snacks. This particular bag was brought over from a friend in Ethiopia who had sent it to Nairobi, Kenya. We then carried it up with us to South Sudan. It seemed though that God had sent it up for this specific purpose. I gestured silently that I would be right back, went home and brought back the bag of kollo. One of the women preparing food in the back opened the bag and started to serve the mourners. Again I sat in silence for another ten minutes. A man who worked at the restaurant with whom I usually placed my orders for food then turned to me and said one solitary word: “pray.” “Ok, let’s pray,” was my reply. Despite the language barrier there was still a quiet “hmm” of acknowledgement when I uttered the word “Jesus.”
The next day I went over, and did a little more of an introduction. They had mentioned that they could hear me playing guitar in the morning for devotions. After asking if they would like me to play guitar I went home and got the guitar and brought it back to play for them. I played a number of songs and asked about their own songs of worship. They sang a number of songs as the coffee and kollo came out to be served. Though the mourning process continues for the widow, the atmosphere was markedly different with lighter banter (all in Amharic) going on. Really, what more could you ask for than spending time together just being present and sharing a bowl of kollo. Through it all, a simple truth was hammered home to me: all relationships start with presence. Whether it’s in simple silence or singing together, it’s all just part of the ministry of presence.
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