The Tree by the Cook-House

Agnes MacDonald set sail from Canada for what was then known as the Congo, full of excitement and anticipation, as she followed the call of God. In her teens, she had felt called to go to China at a time when there were rumours that missionaries were being boiled in oil. She made up her mind to go. A streak of Scottish grit--combined with a determination to follow Christ--was stronger than her fears, but the door to China stayed firmly shut, and a boat bound for Africa via England was where she eventually found herself.

After weeks of travel by boat and then by sedan chair, carried into the jungle, she found herself in another world. The African children called her Mama Macadoni, but some fifty years later, I knew her as Aunt Agnes, my friend.

She had another friend back in the jungle, a young missionary named Frances. Frances was as spunky as Agnes, with a head of glorious red hair. The missionaries often fell prey to tropical diseases and were buried in a cemetery high on a nearby hill. All of them kept wooden coffins under their houses, ready for use if suddenly needed. In the heat of Africa, quick burial was essential.

Agnes had told Frances once that if she were to die, she did not want to be buried far away in the missionary cemetery; "Make sure they bury me under the tree by the cook-house," she said to Frances, little knowing that before long she would be critically ill with malaria and Frances would do her best to ensure her friend's wish was honoured.

Not expected to live, Agnes sank into a coma. She couldn't move or speak, but she could hear everything said in her room. She heard Frances arguing with someone--insisting that if Agnes died, she was going to be buried under the tree by the cook-house.

Agnes wasn't afraid to die. She was grieving the loss of her beloved mother's death, and felt that there was nothing to go home for anymore, and she felt so very ill.

Then she heard a man at her bedside, praying, calling on God to heal her. When she heard his prayer, she knew she wasn't going to die. She wanted to tell the man to stop; he was interfering with her plans, but she couldn't speak.

Agnes recovered, but having malaria meant that she had to leave Africa and go home. She left behind Frances and a fellow missionary whom she loved. Her first love had died in the First World War, and now she had to leave her last love and their dream of working together on the mission field. Agnes came back to Canada, where she served God in several provinces, and eventually worked in the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada head office for many years. She never married.

The paths that a life takes are sometimes hard to understand, but if I hadn't met Agnes, I would have missed part of who I became through knowing her. Selfishly, I am grateful for having known her and for our friendship, which became very special to us both.