Den of robbers

Yesterday my heart broke a little, when I heard the story I call the "den of robbers" from Norah (my first friends maid of 22years). My heart was so overwelmed with hurt by her calmly spoken words that all I could do is agree with what she was saying. Often when emotion is so powerful, I feel nothing that I could say or do would change it. Consequentially in this incidence I sat there is absolute astonishment.

My faithful maid, Viloet, of 22years, was like a mom to me. Bathed my twin and I. Cleaned up after us. Fed us. Played with us. Sang with us. Until 10 July this year when our family was in a devastating car accident. Violet didn't live to tell the story. My heart broke not having her around, kind of how it broke a little bit yesterday.

Stories testiment to her character and love for people (especially children) were told at her funeral not long after the 10th. The whole commuinity gathered to mourn and celebrate the death and life of Violet that day. In fact so many people came that half were not sitting under the tent. It made my heart happy to know that when Violet went home on the weekends, she had a life of her own. A life where she was loved and where she loved her commuinity.

This was until yesterday when Norah told me that Violets house is vacant and people from the commuinity are living in it taking drugs and sleeping around. My heart broke, this is total disrespect for a woman who selflessly gave to her commuinity.

It reminded me of the story in the bible in Matthew 21vs 12 on, where Jesus chases people out of his temple, saying that is a place of prayer but it has become a den for robbers.

Today I understand his anger. The injustice that he felt. Even if it is just a small dose.

Norah assured me that she was going to take Violets older brother and sort this ordeal out. I don't know how I should feel: happy that the house will be sorted out or hurt that people could disrespect my dear african mom. I suppose I am both.

What was a place of prayer has become a den for robbers.