REDEEMED PIONEER

Although I started out in Afrikaans, I decided to write this reflection in English to make it accessible to ALL of my faithful readers and beyond. In response to an invitation from Hospice Bloemfontein, I embraced the opportunity to attend a special event this past Sunday evening.    HOPE AND HEALING, a profoundly deep, open discussion on the topic of ASSISTED DEATH which was hosted by a local Bloemfontein Dutch Reformed Church,  Berg & Dal NG Gemeente .    As introduction, a 24-minute  Netwerk24  video documentary was screened.    It told the heartbreaking story of the last part of 63-year-old Carol de Swardt’s journey to her life’s final destination in Switzerland, where she was able to legally end her own life with the assistance of medical professionals.    Carol’s unspeakable suffering for an unbearably long time led her to this decision, undoubtedly the most difficult and important of her entire life.    Her heartfelt plea was overtly simple -  I do not want to lose myself, I

This is an opinion-infused exposé on the dreary, drawn-out saga of South African government gwarra gwarra and the half-baked rehearsals of petty politicians, as expressed by a profoundly gatvol, straight-shooting South African woman, on behalf of ALL her fellow rainbow citizens. Like so many of my fellow South Africans, I also voted yesterday.    I arrived at the venue at 20:15 and by 21:35, I left there with a smile and a pretty faint purple-ish smudge on my left thumb from the last bit of ink left in the pen.    Although my indirect experience throughout the day was filled with frustration and anger, my actual direct experience at the venue was fulfilling and pleasant. Although they reside in areas all over the city now, most of my adult offspring and their respective significant others are still registered at the same voting venue as my beloved Assie and myself.    Three of them arrived at the venue at 07:00 and they were directed to queue in the first of two queues assigned to vote

I spent Wednesday afternoon feverishly working on my TEARS, TATTOOS AND THE TENDER WISDOM OF A FIVE-YEAR-OLD post.    At the time, the exciting chatter of family members in the lounge became a distant, gentle melody to my laser focussed mind.     “MOM!”     Suddenly I was yanked out of my mental cocoon by the intentional urgency of someone calling me.     Yes, I am MOM, but the voice does not belong to Annie (she was the only MOM-caller present at the time).     No, the voice belongs to Megan, my next (second) daughter-in-love who, actually, still calls me Aunty Lulu.     With heart-meltingly cute indignation, she informed me that I did not respond to “Aunty Lulu” after which she decided to go with “MOM”, because she was sure that it would have the desired effect.     It did, she was right! My very first published post was a reflection on MOTHER’S DAY 2023, in Afrikaans.    I used my own experience to reflect on what it means to me to be a MOTHER.    I am still stunned-into-silence-stu

  The older I get, the more proficiently skilled I seem to get in lachrymation secretion.    Uninhibitable and unstoppable.    Involuntary and indiscrete.    Volatile and vulnerable.    No, it’s not a weird, gross medical condition.    I shed tears.    I cry.    Every time…. My heart swells with love….I cry.    My heart is butchered by death/betrayal/rejection/injustice….I cry.    My heart is touched by something profoundly beautiful/pure/amazing….I cry.    My heart breaks for the pain of others….I cry.    Back in 1994, I didn’t cry because Mufasa died.    My little boy Daniel loved that movie and he watched it again and again.    Every time he hoped that Mufasa would not die and every time his hope would be shattered.    In 1994, I cried for Daniel’s pain.    Today, I still cry for Daniel’s pain.    In his story he is Mufasa, his beloved Sarabi died and their little Simba had to learn to navigate little-kid-life without a mommy.   There are four little beings who take a definite front