The next day, and the day after that, this happened again. It turned out the mother was HIV-infected. When the mother was close to death, she asked Mrs. Maphosela to take care of this child for her. It was one of those things! Word spread through the township about what had happened. The first child was well taken care of, then someone just left a child on Mrs. Maphosela's doorstep. More people began either asking her or leaving children on her doorstep. Why did she take care of all of them? She said, "Well, I must take care of them. What else am I to do?"
When we met her, she was living in a three-room house with a corrugated-iron roof and was taking care of twenty children at that time, aged between 8 months and the oldest was 21. Why was she taking care of the 21-year-old? She said, "Where am I going to send this child who has no job?" She could not send her out into the streets alone.
They lived in this small home by bringing out pallets to sleep at night. The boys slept in the kitchen and the girls slept in the bedroom with her. She had volunteers who came to help them -- women who were every bit as poor as she was who would help cook and clean and do laundry. Now, when you hear this, you may be thinking of loads going through a washer and drier. But in this household, it meant women standing outside at an open water tap with detergent and a bucket.
What was so striking at Mrs. Maphosela's house was: One, it was obvious the children were loved and loved her. When she would sit down for a moment, the children were drawn to her. They swarmed her lap. They held her hand. She clearly was the life-giving person for them. Then, two, there is a high incidence of TB and HIV in that township. Because TB is transmitted in households with many people living in close proximity, her household has become one of the sentinel points for a study on HIV and TB. Those conducting this study on prevention have given her some income and they've helped her with budgeting and planning for this household. So, all these children living in her home were clean, well-fed, happy, and so content. Amazing.
I love the psalms you wrote for this book. There are eleven of them, ending each one of the eleven chapters.
Psalms? You know I have never thought of that word to describe them, but I actually like that description. Yes, they are psalms, aren't they? We had called them prayers or poems as we wrote them. But I like using the word psalms, so maybe I'll start describing them that way myself. They are very important. This book actually came about almost backward from what you might expect. We wrote these prayer-poems, these psalms, first. Then that led into the chapters we wrote to describe these ideas.
Fascinating! So, you began with these psalms and then turned them into the prose, the stories you share.
Yes, it was almost like praying onto paper. It wasn't quite a one-to-one process, you know, not quite line-for-line. But these prayer-poems were the source out of which each chapter grew and finally the entire book.
One reason I thought of calling them psalms is that music is such a vital part of African culture. You describe one electrifying scene in your book in which a group of young people dared to stand bravely and sing defiantly -- even though they risked a violent response. Tell us a bit about the importance of music in South Africa.
Music underlines everything in South Africa, particularly in black communities. Obviously, it's central to worship. In the black community during worship, they'll never say what they can sing. Any piece of liturgy that is written down can be sung -- and will be sung in South Africa. In daily life, song is what carries people through their work. Even when songs aren't voiced, they're always present. Song carries the underlying themes of living.
Now, you're an American and music is everywhere in the U.S., too. Every young person has some kind of portable music player. The most popular TV series right now is "American Idol." How is music different here, compared with South Africa?
In America, music is privatized or professionalized, but that's not the case in South Africa. Everybody sings in South Africa. Well, I must say that right now in South Africa the culture is different than when I was growing up, because many young people do have headphones and they often listen to music from other countries. But at least in the South African context in which I grew up, music was not a private enterprise. Music was communal. When you heard someone singing at work, harmonies formed around that music. More often than not, you'll hear several people singing together. Music brings people together there; music doesn't separate us like it can here.
Your book also is a testament to the power of generational wisdom -- sharing wisdom from one generation to the next. So, finally, talk a little bit about this father-to-daughter connection.
The generational connection has power and poignancy for me. For a very long time, the one thing I was sure about in life was: I'm never going to be a priest. (Laughs.) For a very long time, that wasn't possible in our church in South Africa, so that was fine. Then, finally, I entered into my vocational discernment and I was ordained six years ago.
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