(The Nationalist, 10 September 1999)
I spent almost twenty years in Zambia in Africa as a missionary, returning to Ireland in 1997. I brought back with me many memories, both good and bad. One comes to my mind at the moment.
I was returning to the mission one evening after a long day visiting what we called “outstations” in the bush. I was tired, sweaty, hungry, and anxious to get back home for a shower and something to eat. As I drove along I saw a woman standing on the side of the road waving for a lift. In a country where public transport scarcely exists in rural areas, and private transport doesn’t existent you always give a lift when possible. I stopped and waited for her to climb in. She made no move but stayed there at the roadside looking vaguely at the car.
I became irritated, wondering why she wouldn’t get in. I opened the door – still no move. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I thought, ‘She asks for a lift, and when she’s given it, she won’t take it.’ Maybe my mind turned to the remark of Joxer in Juno and the Paycock, ‘The vagaries of the female is well knowen.’
Regretting that I had ever bothered to stop in the first place, I climbed out and went round to ask her what the problem was. Before I spoke a word, I saw it. She was blind and had been afraid to step forward not knowing just where the car was. As if that wasn’t enough, she was also a leper and had no fingers to lift her bags or open the door with. Feeling very ashamed of my impatience and glad that I hadn’t said anything, I greeted her with the lengthy process of handclaps and shakes and enquiries about the health of all relatives from ancestors to descendants. In Africa, where there’s no greeting, there’s no meeting.
Life is difficult for lepers. Imagine for a moment how many ordinary day-to-day tasks you could perform without fingers. Try buttoning a shirt, tying shoelaces or making a cup of tea using only your knuckles. Then try it again with your eyes closed – many lepers are blind.
The lady I gave the lift to was one of the happiest people I ever met. She poured out joy like a fountain, contented with the world and delighted at her good luck in being saved a walk. She told me about her children and her grandchildren and considered them her greatest blessing. She was a glad and grateful woman.
‘How can she be so happy?’ I thought, almost resenting her. If I were in her place I would be full of self-pity and have a chip on my shoulder against the world for my misfortunes. The meaning came to me afterwards: gratitude is not the result of happiness, but happiness is the result of gratitude.