Waking up to a telephone's ring at 6:00 a.m., I began one of the more colorful days of my life as a pastor in Zimbabwe. "Pastor Stoddart, my father is ill and wants you to come and pray for him," said the middle-aged woman on the poor-quality line. I knew her father well and had previously visited his home in the rural areas. He was in his seventies.
As soon as possible, I climbed into my reliable Peugeot 404.1 had to decide which route to take. The short route meant I had a walk of two kilometers through the bush from where the road ran out or the long way (another 50 kilometers), which enabled me to drive right to the cluster of rondavels. I had driven the long way before, so I thought I would try the short route. It meant a river crossing---on foot.
Then I turned south onto the dirt roads and finally arrived at the river crossing. Locking the car, I descended the two meters to the water, took off my shoes, and laced them together so they could hang around my neck. Along both banks were several staffs used by the locals to assist in the crossing. I took one that gave me some balance against the current as I made my way across the twenty meters of sub merged, slippery rocks. The water was up to my thighs. In one hand was my Bible, in the other hand the staff.
I made it to the other side, put on my shoes, and headed for the small cluster of huts at the end of the dirt track. The cool interior of the rondavel and the smile on the face of my aged friend made the arrival a pleasure. I spent an hour or so with him and his family, praying, reading the Bible, and discussing his chickens.
I told them that at home in Harare I had some bantams that laid lots of eggs. But I wanted them to breed. The trouble was that none of the hens wanted to sit on the eggs. When I mentioned this to my hosts, they reacted in a typically African fashion by insisting I take one of their hens! I knew that refusing their offer would not be right. So I accepted graciously and was given a large black hen.
When it was time to leave, I told them I needed to make my way back to the car.
"Take the bicycle," said the man. "Bicycle?" I asked. They wheeled out one of those black, thick framed, delivery bikes, the sort with a frame for a huge basket. It had no brakes, and the tires were bald. But it meant less walking down to the river, so I accepted. The children were given my Bible and the chicken and instructed to run alongside me as I wobbled my way to the river. In a few minutes there we all were at the bank of the river me, the children, and the chicken. Now I had an audience as I faced crossing the river with a chicken under one arm and my Bible in the other hand, which meant no hands free for the staff.
"It shouldn't be too difficult the second time; I know the current," I told myself. Shoes around my neck, I stepped into the water. The children were all quiet, but I could feel their eyes. One step, ten steps, I was doing fine. Then, at just about the halfway point, a green, algae-covered rock moved under my foot. I began to topple.
In a split second I had to decide how to fall and still prevent myself from being swept away, save the chicken, and keep my Bible dry. What comes first, the chicken or the Bible? I am afraid the chicken lost. To howls of glee from the children, the minister baptized the future mother of my bantam chicks. I have to admit, even I thought it was humorous at the time. Holding the Bible as high as I could, I landed on my side, chicken side down, and then managed to regain my footing, with the poor bird held tight against my side. I stumbled out the other side and looked back, to find that the children had run in case the minister was going to tell them off for laughing. I am sure that many a fireside chat was enlivened by their description of Mr. Stoddart's river crossing.
Getting to the car, I then had to decide what to do with a wet hen. Have you ever smelled a wet hen? The people in animal cruelty societies would object, but the only place I was prepared to put the bird was in the car's trunk. I then drove home, drying off in the hot air from the outside. The Bible lay on the seat next to me unscathed. I still use it today.
The chicken somehow survived the trauma of the dunking and the ride in the trunk. When I introduced her to my bantams, the rooster found her quite attractive (there's no accounting for taste.) Within a week she was sitting on eggs and was soon after pecking and clucking around the garden with her adopted children scurrying around her. We called her Mvura. It means water bird.
