Madagascar
Like my father, I am a zanatany. I was born in Madagascar in January of 1956, in the Catholic Hospital in the capital city of Antananarivo. I was to have been born in March, down near the southern tip of the island. But my mother's nearly fatal hemorrhaging made for a quick ascent from Fort Dauphin (now, Tolagnaro) in a DC-3 plane to the airport of the capital city.
The pain-killers used for the C-section did not take, so my mother sang hymns to survive the pain of giving birth to me. The medical folks told my dad that my mother had 50% chance of survival, and I had none. Even so, here I am. My mom made it through, too. Miraculously, one might say.
My memories of Madagascar are "impressionistic"--for the most part. Not clearly defined. Some things are vivid, and some are true. Others are influenced by the passage of time and the stories of others.
I suppose that over the years I developed a need to put behind me a place and a people that I thought I would never see again. It seems easier, you know, that way. But thanks to the generosity of a missionary elder, I was provided with the means to make this educational journey and spiritual pilgrimage. This odyssey of remembrance. Also, my continuing education provision as a pastor-chaplain of the ELCA employed by Northfield Retirement Community helped enable me to go.
Thank you to all who made this possible. Blessings of the Most High!
