Here in the rural heart of Burundi, there is a red dirt route that serves as a 5k walk for me. Down the hill, across a small stream, then keep going until you turn left at the cemetery. Due to its proximity to the hospital where I work as a family medicine missionary physician, this cemetery has expanded greatly in the years I’ve lived here. It is mostly a collection of bare wooden crosses scattered in the shade of fast-growing eucalyptus trees.
But halfway through the cemetery, there is a small clearing. Here the graves are prominent, with large, white-painted crosses that give names and dates of births and of deaths. The graves are covered with tile, sometimes flowers. These are mostly people I’ve known. I was present for most of the burials. They were colleagues and friends at the hospital. Most were my patients before they died.
Read Full Article »