Many years ago, when South Africa was in the stranglehold grip of the system of racial hatred and separation known as apartheid, I visited that country to learn about and report on the freedom struggle there. On one of my last evenings, a young man named Jabulani was showing me around the black township of Khayelitsha outside Cape Town, just as the sun was beginning to set. Domestics and laborers, weary from a long day’s work in the city, were making their way home in the last glimmers of daylight. A stream of women, water jugs balanced on their heads, some with swaddled babies on their backs, moved slowly out from the central spigot of the township’s rutted roads in the encroaching cool of the evening. Paraffin lamps came to life, one by one, up and down the rows of small and fragile homes constructed of plywood, cardboard, and corrugated metal.
At the entrance to the township, spread out on a table, were rows of sheep’s heads, blood still running from their necks and the look of terror from the slaughter on their faces. Women tending fires cut pieces of meat from the carcasses and skewered them for sale. A family with several children that could not afford the mutton bought scores of the sheep’s legs, scraping off the hair and cooking the pile of bones with scant meat for their dinner.
I thought of all the children I had met throughout South Africa in my weeks there, many with the distended bellies of malnutrition, some living at a dump and surviving on the garbage they could scavenge. In the township of Crossroads, two young boys created crude push toys out of fragments of wire stuck through rusty tin cans, while their even younger sister tried to craft a hair bow out of a plastic bag she had fished out of a stagnant, sewage-laden puddle. They were growing up in a landscape of military occupation—with razor wire and whips, searchlights and armored personnel carriers—robbed of their childhoods.
As we walked, Jabulani spoke softly about his work in the freedom struggle; about his arrest and torture by police; about all the shelter and education, land and freedom that the enforcers of apartheid had stolen from his people. As the sun slipped over the edge of the horizon behind him, the sky turned from pale rose to brilliant red. We stopped walking, speechless, in awe of the flaming canopy spread over South Africa. After a moment, he whispered with a smile, “But they cannot take the sky from us.”
I thought of Jabulani last night. It was the end of a long week in which we were reminded daily of just how corrupt and sinister and outrageous our nation and its leadership can be. But last night…ahh, last night, the moon was full. The deep snow glistened as if strewn with diamonds. The trees, their bare branches encased in a layer of ice, sparkled and shimmered as they danced in a gentle wind. The sky and all the world glowed. I have never before seen anything quite like it. At the end of a difficult week, it was good to be reminded: They cannot take the sky from us.
Joyce Hollyday 
Thank you, Joyce, I needed to be
reminded of God’s grace after, as you say, a very looooong week. Gratefully, Kay
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Thanks for taking the time to reply, Kay. I’m grateful for the reminders we give each other about God’s grace and steadfastness.
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It’s amazing how resourceful humans can be, isn’t it, Joyce (I’m thinking of those children and their “toys”)? And the moon, yes, and the sky…😊 I grasp for hope wherever I can find it, and for a moment this helps. Thanks.
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Thanks, Becca. And you and the Mujeres are signs of hope for me as well.
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Love this!
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Thanks, Ken. And you know how grateful I am by your faithfulness in keeping us all informed and inspired through Prayer & Politiks.
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This morning when I walked out to get my and my neighbor’s papers, before the sun rose over the mountains, the sky was breathtakingly beautiful. And then I read your article. Yes, in spite of the past week’s burdens, they can’t take the sky from us….
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Yes. Amen. As I remember so well, the mountains, sun, and sky are as breathtaking there in North Carolina as they are here. Thank you, Betty Jane.
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Your writing is so beautiful Joyce–I’m tearful!
And yes, the sky belongs to all our brothers and sisters.
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Thank you, Mary. And I love that the artwork that is your profile is an elegant sky-and-trees creation. What I try to do on the page you definitely do with flair on the canvas!
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It warms my heart to read the comments after I read your essay, partly because I am very happy for you, realizing that words matter and people like you and Ken have a gift that not only tells truTh, but tells .i.t poetically. thank you, my friend.
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And thank you, Jo. Always grateful for our friendship.
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These are healing words that put our own fears in proper perspective. Thanks, Joyce.
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Thank you, Doug. It’s so easy to lose perspective these days. Glad we have one another to help us stay grounded and hopeful.
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As much as the president and others are trying to divide this country, many folks around the nation are striving to put an end to all the ugliness. Thanks for the blog to make us feel hopeful!!
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Almost a year later, your words are still timely and a powerful reminder. Thank you!
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Thank you, Shannon. It’s nice to know that words written in a time that now seems long ago still have power. I’m struck that I wrote this reflection just a month before the pandemic hit, having no idea what this past year would bring. We need to keep encouraging one another, and I’m grateful for your words of encouragement to me.
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