Sister Bailey and her teenage son, Alan, picked us up in Thames on an overcast, muggy, Monday afternoon. They had invited us, my missionary companion and I, to stay with them that night so that we could proselyte in their area the next day.
Sister Bailey was a middle-aged Maori woman with fair skin, coal black hair, and a strong spirit. I liked her because she was balanced in reality--she didn’t like men or women who demanded attention; she didn’t like hypocrites; nor did she believe something because it appealed to her emotionally. She also had a good and kind heart.
When we arrived by bus, they had just finished grocery shopping.
As we were leaving Thames, a small town at the base of the north-side of the Coromandel peninsula, a wasp suddenly flew out from the grocery bags sitting behind us and flew into the front where Sister Bailey and Alan were.
As I was reporting what I saw, it flew over to Sister Bailey and disappeared down the neck of her overcoat. "It’s gone down....." I began saying but she let out this half-scream, half-cry, smacked her neck with one hand and with the other hand pulled the car over to the side of the road.
Jumping out of the car, she threw off her overcoat. Alan and my companion saw the wasp fly away. I noticed the red welt appearing on her neck as she rubbed it with her hand.
"Are you alright," I asked as she climbed back into the car. "Are you allergic to bees?"
"No," she replied. "I’m not allergic. I’ll be alright. Thanks for asking."
On the journey to their home, I entertained them with stories about my dad (who is allergic to bees), who, when confronted with a bee in the car, would nearly get in a crash before he could pull the car off the road. It seemed to ease the tension from what had just transpired.
The Bailey’s home sat down river 15 kilometers at the crossroads between the Thames and Paeroa road and the road that crossed the steep Moehau mountain range to the small village of Tairua. To Americans, there home was "in the country."
When we arrived at their house, it was late afternoon. Sister Bailey asked Alan to bring the goats in from the outer field and chain them into the paddock near the house. My companion and I volunteered to bring in the groceries so we did so.
The Bailey’s lived in a small but livable home. Area rugs covered the cement floors where people walked and congregated; the floors were bare everywhere else. There were two rooms to the house. The main room was moderately-sized. It consisted of a kitchen, a small dining table, and two couches that sat in the corner by the sliding glass door to the backyard.
The smaller room was used for their living quarters. It consisted of two beds that were separated by blankets sewn together. There was a toilet enclosed in a closet-sized room and a makeshift shower. Though it was nothing compared to what I was accustomed to in America, it felt like a home.
"What would you like for dinner," Sister Bailey enquired, as she began putting her groceries away. I noticed the spaces in the cupboards. When she opened the fridge, I saw she only stocked the necessities.
"Anything," my companion and I replied.
"I was thinking lamb and potatoes," she said.
She can’t afford this meal, I thought. I suddenly was feeling guilty.
"That sounds awesome," my companion said.
"Yes," I iterated. "That is awesome. I really appreciate it."
My companion and I were going to be sleeping on the couches so we began moving our bags and scriptures from the tables and chairs to the area by the glass door. Alan suddenly burst into the house. "The goats are being stung," he screamed.
We followed Alan back outside into the back yard that connected to the paddock. The swarm was so thick it was like a dark cloud. I thought of the Angel of Death that visited Egypt the night the first born sons were taken.
The swarm circled the goats who were running about wildly, sometimes bucking like bulls in a rodeo, sometimes diving into the ground, and sometimes rolling about like animals on fire. Even from our distance, we could see that their coats were matted with wasps.
Both goats tried biting at the skin they could reach. But mostly they just screamed out of mouths that seemed stretched unnaturally wide, the sound of which not only pierced me to the core but could have cracked the gray sky if it were solid.
At first, we made an attempt to get to the two steel posts that each goat was chained to. If we could release those chains, that would free the goats to run off. The wasps, however, came at us. We retreated.
In a different attempt to save them, we carried out the watering hose and sprayed the swarm still hanging about in the air. But the hose didn’t reach far enough to do anything but shoot water out in a forceful, narrow stream. Alan used this to try to spray the wasps off the goats. It was no use.
I had believed since a child that Moses parted the Red Sea using his power from God; that Jesus calmed the raging Sea of Galilee because his innate power could control the sophisticated workings of nature. And I swear at this moment, when all hope seemed lost, I felt myself prompted to raise my hand and cry out in the name of God to strike down the wasps. But I didn’t. For a split second, I doubted the ability and doubted myself That prompting never returned.
We stood watching the goats till they gave up the ghost. They cried till the very end.
I mourned their loss most severely. Was I there for the sole purpose of saving them? If so, I failed. These deaths still haunt my soul.
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