Did I ever tell you the story of my harvesting basket?
The memories came flooding back to me as I picked today’s verdant herbs. Sure wish you could take a big wiff of my parsley, basil, oregano, mint, and thyme!
Way back in one of my past lives, in Bophutatswana, a homeland for the Tswana people of South Africa, before apartheid was abolished, our home, close to the Botswana border, nestled in the township of Lehurutse. I was fortunate to develop close friendships with women as we lived life together. They taught me their language and ways, and I taught nutrition and childcare and development, and we studied the Bible together. One such friend, a widow of two sons, both of whom worked in the diamond mines, helped me learn how to smear (dung, clay, and straw) a home, and cook over an open fire. She lived off of what little her sons sent her from the mines.
One day, as we sat together chatting in her courtyard sipping chai, she tearfully shared with me that her eldest had been transferred to the mine-company hospital for tuburculosis and she didn’t know how to reach him. Our family had one of the few land lines (way, way before cell phones) in the township besides the German hospital up the hill. So, I did some sleuthing, found her son’s location in Johanesburg, and off my friend and I went the very next day.
We packed our car with blankets, sheets, toiletries, and several tinned and packaged items from the store before heading out for a 3-hour drive south. With my being white and she being black, we carefully picked our rest and refreshment stops along the way. On arrival, I had to do a lot of explaining as to why I needed to enter the “Blacks Only” infirmary with my friend. But, Oh, the joy of seeing son and mother wrap their arms around each other when we finally located his bunk! No matter how old a child is, a mother’s arms are so healing.
My friend ended up staying a week with her son in the hospital. She slept under his bed on the floor at night, bathed and fed him daily, as was the bare bones norm during apartheid in South Africa at this time. Nursing staff was not avialble to Blacks for personal care deemed “extra.”
After the week was up, he was transferred to a sanetorium where she could not visit. Therefore, I returned and brought her back home. Several days after our return, I heard her cheerful greeting, “ko ko,” as she gracefully strolled down my front walk with a basketfull of freshly baked corn cakes balanced on her head. This laden basket, now my basket, artfully woven by my friend’s own hands, was her gift of gratitude to me for taking her to see her son.
My friend of my youth taught me how to give a basket full of gratitude, and I daily remember her as I use it to harvest and share my bounty with others. During this season of gift giving, let us learn from this story how to fill our baskets to over flowing and give away whenever and however we can out of gratitude.
What a lovely reminder of the things that are really important. Thank you for sharing that story.
The older I get the more I get rid of “stuff” and find peace in the beauty of relationships and a few treasured “things!” Grateful you like this story.