Walking Together
“Sister, is the market in your country like this?” Apriliza said as she tugged at my arm as we walked together along the crowded street.
Sweat dripped from my face in the afternoon heat. Ahead of us men loaded large bags of produce on top of a bus as a car and motorcycle squeezed through the narrow space between the bus and a row of women selling piles of dried fish, books, and plastic containers.
I stepped around the piece of garbage in front of my feet while an old Vespa with an attached side-car brushed past. On a table across the street were strips of butchered pork. Next to the uncovered raw meat stood a man calling out prices in rhythm from behind a large tub of swimming fish.
I blinked. The neat and comparatively sparse neighborhood farmers markets of Seattle couldn’t compare to the bustling activity of this market in rural Indonesia.
“There are markets, but not like this,” I ventured, cautious of the pothole in front of me, “most people in America buy their food in supermarkets.” Indonesia is not without supermarkets, but we were several hours drive to the nearest grocery store that was larger than quick mart.
The other students with us stopped and sorted through a pile of used clothes. A pair of sweatpants hung on a rack bearing the logo of a state university from the US. As we waited, I described large buildings with special sections of produce, aisles of pre-packaged goods, and instant food, all lined in neat rows.
The outdoor traditional market is the lifeblood of the people in rural North Sumatra. It occurs once a week, spilling out from the confines of the daily market area into the streets where, among an assortment of items used for daily life, one can buy rice, fish, fruit, vegetables, textiles, live chickens, and freshly butchered meat.
Arm-in-arm, we walked past a fishmonger scraping the scales away from a fish he had plucked from a tub and killed, a display of handwoven blankets called ulos, and a table spread of music CDs. Unmoved by the cacophony that surrounded us, Apriliza shifted our conversation. “So many poor people in Indonesia,” she said, and then added, “how about in your country, Sister?”
I was unsure how to relate the complexity of poverty and growing numbers of poor in North America. The discordant symphony around me distracted my mind as we meandered through the market.
One day in a village a few hours away from Balige, I joined with Arlisna in her ministry to the elderly. She walked to the houses of the grandmothers and called them for Sunday worship. The Oppung (respectful term for elderly in the Batak Toba language), unable to walk the distance to the local church, would otherwise not have worship. I was welcomed into their midst with laughter and smiles.
We sat on a mat spread out over the wooden floor as Arlisna led a simple service of a few hymns, a Scripture reading, and a short devotion.
When we had finished, Arlisna invited me to her home, a few minutes’ walk down the road. The simple house was near the end of a dusty path in a small enclave of a village. I slipped off my sandals at the door and greeted her mother in the customary manner with a handshake and then hand to my heart.
The living room was bare except for two beaten couches and a table against the far wall. We sat on a mat on the concrete floor, and together with Arlisna’s mother, two sisters, brother-in-law, and infant nephew, ate rice, tofu, and fried noodles.
After lunch we walked along the rice field to her father’s grave. Individual gravesites dot the fields and villages of the ethnic Batak homeland surrounding Lake Toba, some as large as houses themselves. Arlisna’s father is buried next to their field in the shade. It was a peaceful moment in the sweltering afternoon heat.
The next day, I was in another village, in the home of Delviana Naibaho, a fellow teacher at the deaconess school. Her mother had died a few days before, and I came with a group from the school to view the body.
We stayed in the house for the rest of the afternoon. I took my dinner outside under the stars. Diana, one of my students, was with me. She pointed to the houses beyond a dark corner of the yard, “my house is over there, Sister.”
All afternoon Diana had sat with us in the house to give respect for her teacher and the Oppung who had died. Fulfilling her responsibility meant Diana hadn’t been able to set foot in her own home.
In spite of the hardships in their lives at home and at school, the young students and the deaconess are strong in their faith and are bearers of infectious smiles, radiating the love of God in their activities, however great or small. And in spite of the many differences between us, we share a common calling to serve God’s people, wherever there is need.
My presence in Indonesia was not only as a teacher; I accompanied my sisters and brothers through shared moments in life. My time there was as much about walking through the market with Apriliza, ministering to the elderly, eating with Arlisna’s family, and visiting Sister Delviana after her mother’s death as it was about teaching English.
The road of accompanying sisters and brothers isn’t easy. Like my walk with Apriliza in the market, there are obstacles and distractions.
The journey is found in the labors of the farmers, at busy marketplaces, in breaking bread around a table, in sitting on the floor to eat rice, in the mourning the dead, in the classroom, and in the joys and pains of daily life. Every day there are opportunities to accompany sisters, brothers and strangers, near and far, if only we have eyes to see.
