“As he slept, he dreamed of a stairway that reached from the earth up to heaven. And he saw the angels of God going up and down the stairway.”Gen28:12

Siprain Mulongwe was only 43 years old when he passed away last Friday after suffering a stroke. He leaves behind a widow, many siblings, but no children. He was a brother to the wife of our friend, Godwin. Today we were privileged to assist this family and the community with the funeral of Siprain. Philemon met us on the road into George this morning to guide us back to the funeral home – the house where Siprain’s widow now lives alone. Ron drove the truck deep into the village, winding through the dirt trails, following the path where there seemed to be none, making hairpin turns around small garden plots; until finally we reached a home where eighty or so people were gathered. There was a small bus waiting there already, which had been hired to transport people to the cemetery. We were greeted by an elderly gentlemen we didn’t know, who promptly brushed clean a small sofa next to the now burned out fire. The sofa was constructed of a wooden frame, what was once a lovely deep red upholstery with gold flowers, and about a half inch of foam padding which was now poking through the thread-bare seats. We sat quietly, waiting. There were women in the cooking hut, busy plucking a chicken and preparing vegetables for the widow. The youngest children were slung on the backs of the women in chitenges, and the older children sat on the floor of the hut eating a bit of nshima. A man about forty or so, very slight of frame, came to greet us. His words were humbling, and I don’t think we will ever forget them. He extended his hand, saying “You have come here to us with your humble hearts, serving our people in the way of the Lord. We are grateful, and we thank you.” Shortly after, a small boy of about three years came up to Ron. He spoke in Bemba, so we are unsure of the words, but his tiny brow was furrowed as he pointed to the truck and then to Ron, seemingly reprimanding Ron about something concerning the truck. Ron scooped him up in his arms, they made a survey of the truck, walking around it and peering inside. This seemed to satisfy his anxieties surrounding the truck, and he returned to his mother’s side. After some time, Godwin arrived, saying they had been unable to locate a coffin at Twapia. We would need to stop and purchase a coffin in Kabushi, a village on the way to the cemetery. Mourners piled into the bus and the back of the truck and we headed for Kabushi. As we drove along very slowly, crowded with people standing in the back of the truck and sitting on the side rails, singing of the glory of the Lord all the while, and hazard lights flashing, the police check points were not a problem. Funeral transports are not detained, and we didn’t even need to slow down – we were motioned to proceed as we approached each point. As we neared the cemetery, many of those on the truck emptied out, walking the rest of the way, making room for the coffin yet to be purchased. We stopped at an unlikely looking group of shops, and the empty coffin was quickly loaded into the back of the truck. This is when the heart-wrenching wailing of the women began; the finality of the situation tearing at the hearts of the sisters of Siprain. We returned to town to the mortuary at Ndola Central Hospital. The truck stopped briefly as most of the mourners joined the crowd of others waiting on the front lawn, also grieving their loss. We drove to the rear of the hospital, the odor from the mortuary permeating the air. We were number eight in line. I waited in the truck as a group of the men claimed the body, prepared him for burial, and then loaded the coffin back onto the truck. As we left the hospital we joined in the caravan of others making the journey to Kantolomba Cemetery. The singing began with the deep voices of the men, joined by the beautiful harmony of the women telling the Bible story from Genesis of Jacob’s Ladder – climbing the stairway, accompanied by the angels, to be closer to God. Upon reaching the cemetery it was much like our visit before – mourners crowded around the already too many mounds of dirt, singing and praying, wailing and grieving the loss of too many lost loved ones. The grave site was near the foot of a small hill. The men gathered near the grave, the women a little further back. Today’s ceremony was brief, with two preachers reading scripture and giving the prayers and blessing. The coffin was placed in the ground, and before they began covering it, one of the men scooped some of the soil into a shovel and passed through the mourners, offering them this last chance to touch and bless the soil which would soon cover the deceased. The grave was quickly filled and the dirt mounded on top. There was a eulogy from one of the ministers, telling in only a few minutes of the life of Siprain. Then the ceremony of placing the flowers began. As they called names of relatives and friends, they stepped forward to collect a flower or small wreath, knelt beside the grave, and offered their final prayers and respect as they gently placed the flowers on the mounded grave. A man was invited to come forward by one of the ministers, and he expressed the community’s appreciation for our support and assistance in transport, and then the minister placed a flower in my hand to place on the grave. As the crowd dispersed, singing filled the air, and we watched as the sisters of the deceased grieved almost uncontrollably, the older women helping them to climb the hill out of the cemetery. During the long drive back to the funeral home we heard songs which express their sorrow and grief - “Now we are weeping and mourning, he has chosen the way home.”