SVD Mission Articles: A Cultural Lesson

Facing my Fears
By Fr. Maciej Malicki, SVD

Fr. Maciej Adam Malicki, SVD was born in Poland. He professed his first vows as a Divine Word Missionary in 1992 and was ordained to the priesthood in 1998. He was missioned to Botswana after ordination.

Many things in Africa can be frightening: absolute poverty, AIDS, cemeteries overcrowded with fresh graves, homeless children roaming the streets – and hospital visits. But it is here in Africa where I have learned to be a priest. I have more appreciation now for what I have and less worry about what I am lacking.

Today I was called to the hospital. An old man had had his leg amputated and I was called to anoint him. I am always afraid of hospital visits. Yes, there are medical horrors, but I am afraid of questions to which I do not know the answers. I am afraid of hopelessness. The old man had injured his leg three months ago and it hadn’t healed properly. The doctors had originally prescribed aspirin, but the wound had only worsened. By the time he was admitted to the hospital, the only medical option was amputation. I entered the ward looking for him. I found him smiling. We talked. We laughed. We prayed.

A man in the next bed asked, “Are you Catholic? Will you pray with me?”

We prayed, and then he told me that he was preparing to become a Catholic at Easter. He was in the hospital because a deranged man had bitten him on the hand. The infection, left untreated, had advanced to the stage where amputation was again the only medical option.

Unfortunately, I could tell about many similar visits to the hospital. At first I feared not having the right words to console a person who might ask me, “Where is God in my suffering?” Or, “Why does God allow this to happen to my baby?” What I hear when I go to the hospital is, “Pray with me, Father. Give me a blessing.” I have learned faith from my parishioners.

Some months ago, I visited a little girl in the hospital. My senses filled with the smell of sickness and poverty, tears and silence. In the corner was the little girl lying on the floor. Eugenia’s body was covered by a severe skin rash, and she was in obvious pain and discomfort. Tears streamed down her face. The doctors were stymied. The pain killers had stopped working.

The little girl was an orphan, but she was cared for by an uncle. He told me, “I do not know what to do any more. The doctors want to discharge her from the hospital.”

I asked the uncle if I could do anything. “Yes,” he said. “When she is home and feeling better, she wants to receive her First Communion.”

Today was Eugenia’s First Communion day. Everyone wished she could be at the Church with the other children, where the Mass would be celebrated with music and dance. But she was too sick; we had the Mass at her uncle’s house.

I wanted to make the occasion more special, I thought of gifts, music, food. Eugenia had none of those thoughts. For her, none of that was important. A little girl in continuous pain which robbed her of relief was asking to receive Jesus.

Africa has taught me about fundamental and simple things. Africa has taught me to be a priest.

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