Holding Up the Sky by Sandy Blackburn-Wright

almost took on the status of urban legend. The more we discussed it, the more discouraged he became. I, the eternal optimist, believed that where there was a will there was a way. But Msizi was thinking more long-term than I and couldn’t see how we could make it work. We discussed whether we should simply stay together as long as we could, even if it was only for another year or two, until a decision to part needed to be made. To an idealistic twenty-three-year-old, this sounded very romantic and lent an edge of intensity to the situation that it may not have deserved. We still had not reached a conclusion when it came time for me to go. The only thing we could agree on was no more tears.
    While leaving South Africa again was a wrench, I was more certain this time that I had a future here, in one form or other. Steve was considering setting up a separate youth organisation in ’Maritzburg, one that was focused more on community development and less on missions and evangelism. After all I had experienced that year, I knew the faith I had brought with me was not the same as the one I was taking away. I needed a more integrated faith that spoke to God’s presence in a world of suffering, rather than sermons on how to make time for regular bible study and prayer or how to love a noisy neighbour. I wanted to know where God was when a baby was dying of cold in the rubble of a bulldozed house. Even if the clergy had no answer, I needed them at least to ask the question. I saw that in South Africa there were many people who asked the hard questions, worked in unwinnable situations and yet still had a deep faith. I imagined that working in the organisation Steve was thinking of building would give me a chance to find an expression for my changing faith. I suspected that trying to do that at the centre might put me on the edge of the community there, as it seemed to have done with Steve. What I did not know at the time was that there were factors other than his activism that may have distanced him from the centre leadership.
    In a heartbeat, I was leaving again. This time I was flying out of the small airport in ’Maritzburg, with Msizi to see me off. The night before, as I sat crying on my bed not knowing where our relationship was going, Msizi reminded me of our ‘no tears’ agreement. I had not been able to keep it then, but was determined to appear in control of myself at the airport. When it finally came time to go, he looked at me and said, ‘You’ll be back’. I hugged him, knowing that he loved me, knowing I was his first choice and not knowing much else, then left without looking back.
    On the plane back to Canada I spent much of the time thinking about the other people I had met in ’Maritzburg: Steve, Gary, Tshidi, Kedrick, Vusi, Fred, Klaus, Big Al, Charlie, many of whom I would not see again. Over the years I heard snippets of news about a few. Gary and Vicky married and Gary took up a parish in Johannesburg. Kedrick went back to Zambia and worked for the Church there. Sadly, Vusi died of AIDS. I also realised how naive and trusting I had been when I arrived, something Msizi enjoyed reminding me of. It turned out that Big Al, one of our real favourites, was not Al at all. Msizi bumped into him on a university campus many years later but he did not answer to his name. He would not be drawn on why he used a false name and what, if anything, we knew about him was true. Things happened during the apartheid years and people had to do what they had to do. Another volunteer at the centre was in fact a police agent. But he was also a young man in trouble and Steve had done everything he could to help him. He disappeared shortly after Steve confronted him about his real identity and we never heard from him again.
    On that fight, I realised that you either trusted no one or you put your trust in people until there was cause not to; these were the only two choices. I knew my nature was to