Grief is woven into the fabric of my life. Sometimes I think grief wants me to be its best friend.

I grew up in Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of Congo. When I was in primary school, my little brother died at 9 years old. While I was away in Kikwit for secondary school, my younger sister died at 14.

At the time, I thought it was enough that God took away my siblings at such young ages. Now I am convinced the journey of grief will continue until I join my family in heaven.

Sammy, my youngest brother and the only other surviving sibling in our family of nine children, died in 2021. I was in Kinshasa working on projects for Mama Makeka House of Hope, an organization we created in honor of our mother. Sammy and I had enjoyed a lovely visit only three days earlier, and his sudden death opened the wounds of watching my family disappear one by one — parents, four brothers, four sisters, nephews and nieces.

Two sisters and a brother died from sickle cell anemia. A brother died from cancer of the liver. Another brother was hit by a train in France, and a younger brother was killed by Angolan army soldiers after having been abducted by rebels fighting government forces.

Deaths of family members are not my only source of grief. Since 1976, when I was a student at Fresno Pacific College, I have been living with the consequences of a car accident that left me confined to a wheelchair. In 2018 I had surgery for prostate cancer.

I also grieve for my country. War is raging again in eastern DR Congo. A rebel group backed by the Rwandan army has besieged the cities of Goma and Bukavu and other towns.

Recently I talked by phone with Clarisse, the cousin of a member the Bukavu Mennonite Brethren congregation. I was in tears as she told me about a bomb striking her house in Goma, killing her sister, her sister’s husband and two children, and wounding her father. The hospital where her father went for treatment had been looted of equipment and medicine.

She told me, “I still don’t know where to look for food for my children. We will die of starvation.”

My wife, Linda, and I are back in Kinshasa after living for 25 years in Fresno, Calif., where I worked for the Mennonite Brethren mission agency and Mennonite World Conference. Now we see firsthand the trauma we had watched from a distance.

During three decades of warfare in DR Congo — including repeated incursions by rebels, mostly in the eastern part of the country but once in Kinshasa — more than 6 million people have died. Millions have been internally displaced, 400,000 since January. More than 500,000 women and girls have been raped.

In February, UNICEF reported sexual violence in eastern DR Congo “surpass[ed] anything we have seen in recent years.” In one week, “the number of rape cases treated across 42 health facilities jumped fivefold. Of those treated, 30% were children. The true figures are likely much higher. . . . Our partners are running out of the drugs used to reduce the risk of HIV infection after a sexual assault.”

The most recent news is that more than 3,000 people have been killed and more than 3,500 wounded in Goma since Rwanda-backed rebels seized that city of more than 2 million people in January.

My contact in Goma told me that just a few weeks ago a 16-year-old girl from her neighborhood was raped by 10 armed men. She is one of many; rape is especially common in camps for the displaced. The Wall Street Journal reported that in a group of 13 teenage girls interviewed for a U.N. agency study, 12 said they had been raped.

This is personal to me. These people are not just numbers. They have names, just like Clarisse. They are members of our Mennonite churches. We met some of them when we visited South Kivu in eastern DR Congo. They are our brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces. Their grief is my grief.

My journey of grief is also a journey of hope. My wife and I decided to return to DR Congo because I believe beauty will rise from the ashes.

A friend asked where my hope comes from. I think it comes from a sense of belonging: I am, because I belong — to God, to my biological family, to my adopted American family, to my local, national and global families of faith.

I remember my parents’ words each time death struck at our door: “You are all gifts from God. We presented you to God as children. God gave you to us, and God takes in his own timing. We therefore grieve with hope.”

The faith I received from my parents still carries me through the storms of life. In 1976, after my almost-fatal accident, a local businessman hired a plane to fly me to Fresno from Medford, Ore. I was paralyzed from the neck down. (Miraculously, I regained the use of my arms and the ability to walk, although now I use a wheelchair again.) In my hospital bed, I remembered that on the night before I left for Fresno, my mother prayed that God would watch over me. Her prayer gave me hope.

When I went back to Fresno Pacific College after several months in the hospital, my hope was nurtured by former teammates. (I had played soccer and once scored three goals in a game.) Two soccer players and a basketball player committed to care for me. My American family provided care that my biological parents back in Zaire could not.

Today my own family — children and grandchildren in California, family in Kansas, Iowa, Minnesota, Canada and France — are part of my community of belonging.

I draw hope from the global faith community. When I was baptized, I wanted Jesus to be my personal savior. But it did not take long to realize my faith was a community affair.

During my last year of secondary school in Kikwit, far from home, I got very sick with severe headaches. When my dad, a pastor, came to Kikwit for meetings, many other pastors joined him to pray over me and anoint me with oil. I was diagnosed with and treated for cerebral malaria and returned to school a year later.

The hope that comes from belonging to the global family of faith became a reality for me when I worked for Mennonite Brethren Missions and Services International and later with MWC. I had already sensed this after the car accident, as congregations in Zaire prayed for me. Later, when family members died, I felt the love of my Anabaptist family around the globe.

Now I am 72 years old, and my journey of grief and hope continues. A cloud of witnesses — saints above and saints below — are my companions. Some joined me during my yearly journey to DR Congo since 2002. Others did not hesitate to accompany me after I became wheelchair bound. Now in Kinshasa, I am surrounded by friends taking care of my basic needs. They assure me that, although I grieve, I can still hope, because I belong.

Pakisa K. Tshimika of Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo, provides leadership at Mama Makeka House of Hope, founded in honor of his mother with a vision to bring hope, hospitality, education, faith and empowerment to those who suffer due to a lack of health and education and from repression and violence.