Going to Church

My days are blending together.  I cannot tell a week day from a weekend.

This morning one of the drivers asked me whether I was going to church.  Then I realized it was a Sunday.  A volunteer warned me to be careful as a number of our recent Ebola cases have come from Lunsar.  The only church I remember seeing is St. Peter Claver Parish in the center of Lunsar.  As none of the drivers knew the time for the Sunday service, we just drove there.  As it turned out, the first service was nearing its end.  The second one began at 9:30.  I learned that seventy five percent of the people here are Muslims.

St. Peter Claver Parish

The pews started to be filled with parishioners while a nun seemed to herd the men to the right side of the church and the women to the left, though this was not strictly followed.  She shushed the people when they were talking as there was confession taking place in one of the booths. There must be about 600 people in there.  Along the sides were tall stained glass windows depicting scenes from Christ’s life.  A cooling breeze gently blew through open windows and the aisles.  Before the service began, the nun exhorted the congregants to reflect on their lives but with such harsh scolding tone ringing constantly in our ears; it was difficult if not impossible to seek a quiet moment to do just that. She was the same person who wanted all to be quiet for the confession.

During the service two monitors walked along the aisles signaling people to sit apart from one another.  I chose a pew seat by the aisle but for some strange reason, the woman sitting next to me crept closer to me after each standing and sitting.  In the end I was just sitting on part of the bench with one leg settling in the aisle, almost falling off my seat.  There was no exchange of peace and only a third of the congregation took communion. I was told that other churches require washing one’s hands before entering and having one’s temperature taken.

The service continued for at least two and a half hours but I had to leave for the ETC.  Outside in the yard, a number of men and women with canes were sitting under the searing sun, waiting patiently for the service to be over and hoping to receive some alms.

At the ETC we learned that 4-year-old Fatmata K died last night having a tough time breathing.  When she was alive she seemed to be always grimacing in pain or profoundly afraid; crying without tears or uttering a noise.  In death she was reported to look peaceful, finally released from her lonely and agonizing time in the ETC where she was unable to communicate to anyone.  In the end she was never showered with assurance of love form her own mother and grandmother.  When they turned her away at their bedside, she must have felt the full impact of rejection.  I wonder how her cousin Doris, her mother and grandmother are coping with her death.   

Kadiatu K left for home, she had a miscarriage and the good news is she does not have Ebola.

By the afternoon only one of the ten admissions came, two others may still show.  I was not assigned to the ETC today so a group of us traveled west to Port Loko to attend a weekly round table conference organized by WHO for various NGOs: Goal of Ireland, PIH (Partners in Health) and IMC to gather and share cases and experiences.   This has started a few weekends ago.  We would have to take turn to host or attend the conference.