Diary of a ministry trainee: May

Andrew Robinson | 1 May 2007

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It’s rainy and dark and I’ve just walked home after dropping my friend Dave on the Kingsway to get a taxi home.

David has book-ended my day: he woke me this morning and we walked together to Helen Joseph Hospital up the road. It was my first trip and it was quite a surprise. There is free treatment here, but you have to wait for it. We arrived at about ten to eight in the morning and the dingy waiting rooms were already filled with hundreds of people. Waiting.

Dave has a terrible skin condition: his whole body is dry and flaky, even his scalp, so he wears a beanie and long sleeves even on the hottest summer days. This was his second trip to the clinic and he had an appointment with the dermatologist. There was no need for me to wait, so I walked home.

My day rolled along – the usual stuff: talk preparation, admin, passing conversations with my colleagues. But by one o’clock, the time we have lunch and skills training for the homeless lads, Dave still hadn’t shown up. I wondered where he was.

But at one point in the late afternoon something hit me and I began to feel incredibly tired. I’ve started to call it ‘poverty fatigue’.

I was sick of people asking me for help. I even rudely responded to one friend who called asking to borrow our only extension cord. You’re at the mall: why don’t you just buy one!

I decided to have a sleep to try and feel better – I’ll have to admit, I didn’t even think to pray. I napped fitfully until I was woken by a familiar voice at the door. Dave was back.

To my relief he had a bag full of medicine, and even a referral to the hospital back in the Free State where he’s planning to return soon. Because it was getting late and I realised he was probably after a minibus taxi fare – R5. As I handed him the coin, he looked at me and rubbed his stomach. Some food, please.

My heart sank as I slouched into the kitchen – we didn’t have much food either – but eventually I scraped together some cheese sandwiches and bananas. For a moment or two he sat on a chair on the cold porch and quietly ate.

Because of security, we’re not supposed to have the homeless guys inside our house – we’ve had four break-ins to the yard since I’ve been here – but as I stood there watching him I realised that it was actually Jesus sitting there in the rainy cold.

So I invited Dave in and we had coffee and boerebeskuit – a kind of rusk that you dip in hot drinks – in front of the TV on our two vinyl chairs. When we finished, we walked down the hill to where the citybound taxis stop.

It’s raining outside and freezing cold on the city’s dark streets, but he’s actually quite excited: tomorrow, he assures me, he’ll be sleeping in. He’ll be staying in a house tonight – squatting, I guess, in one of the many abandoned buildings around central Johannesburg.

I think God wanted to tell me something this afternoon, you see. Don’t get tired of loving people, he said. I never do.

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