Here I am a week behind. At a certain point on a trip like this, your spirit becomes overwhelmed, and your body does, too. At the end of each day, all you can do is drag your body to bed, your mind numb, and fall into sleep. Last Friday was just such a day. Each day before that, after everyone else was in bed, I had plenty of quiet time to write to you. On Friday, however, I had nothing to give.
On Friday morning, our group went to a government orphanage in the city. The orphanage holds 150 kids but is currently housing 210. The children in the orphanage were found by the police on the streets of Addis, abandonded. Even when you are full, how do you turn down a child who has no place else to go? The woman who runs the orphanage truly has a heart for the children. She is developing new programs to ensure that the children are able to transition into normal society after they have to leave the orphanage. Still, it is a disturbing place to visit.
We pulled in through the gate, got out of our vans, and walked up a rocky hill. A group of small children (all under the age of 4, I would guess) were playing on the dusty, rocky hillside. Every single one of them had a nose running thick green and yellow, which was smeared over their faces. Most of them had eyes running the same way. Their clothes were rags. None of them had diapers or underwear. When I picked up a little boy who was maybe two, his pants fell off, because the elastic in the dirty little pair he was wearing was worn out. They all want to be held, and when you are holding them, they are desperately jealous of the attention. The little one I had, at less than two, would try to shoo away any other child that came near us. Anyone not being held was desperately jealous of the attention as well. A boy slightly older than my little one came up and pinched the leg of the one I was holding, hoping, I suppose, to cause him to get down, so he could be held. Nothing doing. I suppose you could have pulled my little guys' leg off, and he would have clung to me for dear life.
When these precious, sick, filthy children run to you holding up their arms, there can be a hesitation. Shameful as it may seem, there is that thought, “What am I going to catch?” or “How sick am I going to be half way round the world with no medical care I am comfortable with?” I confess I had that hesitation. My exact thought was, “I wonder if Michelle has pink eye medication?” (Michelle, our team leader is a doctor and comes well prepared on these trips.) The hesitation for me was short, but it was most definitely there. And I sure didn’t feel good about it. As the pink eye thought was crossing my mind, I was scooping up that precious little 2 year old boy. Then I noticed: They were all playing with trash. The boy I picked up had the remains of a blue plastic shopping bag. Another was running around with the jagged edged lid of a tin can. Yet another had a piece of spring from a chair. Garbage. Their toys were garbage. Dangerous items. My little friend proceeded to wrap his dirty piece of shopping bag around my neck. It was not a moment I enjoyed for either one of us. Hard reality brings out the hard truth of this life and the hard truths about ourselves.
After playing with the kids for awhile, we went into a large room in their main school building. A TV was turned on, and the kids were given a snack. We were invited into the director’s office where she told us about her work and her commitment to care for these kids and make life better for them. As bad as this place seemed to us, it is better than the alternative every single one of them faced, especially with a woman like her sitting behind the main desk.
We were then given a tour of the facility. We walked through the boys’ sleeping room and the girls’ sleeping room and were then taken to the baby room. The baby room was small, with small glass bassinets like you see in the hospital. The babies were small. These were the newborns that had been abandoned and brought to this place. (Can you imagine a police officer carrying the tiny, tiny form of a wailing infant through the city streets to the gate of this facility?) Many of them were two to a bassinet, and in one bassinet were the tiniest ones of all – twins, as tiny as matchsticks it seemed, eyes closed, not moving. Not all of them survive. The director explained that their greatest challenge in that place was keeping the little ones alive when they arrive. I stroked cheeks, whispered softly, and tried to pray. Honestly, my mind couldn’t form a thought. A defense mechanism, I suppose. Any thought I might have formed would have crushed my heart, I’m sure.
We were then encouraged to move on. We left the room through a door at the opposite end of the room from where we had entered. I remember only having a sense of relief that we would be moving on. As we stepped through the next door however, a greater shock was waiting – a room easily three times the size of the one we’d just left, holding what seemed to be hundreds of baby beds, every single one of them filled with either one or two babies. It was like slamming into a brick wall. Every breath leaves your body. Your mind reels and tries to reject what you are seeing. As I forced myself forward through the room (the door out was on the opposite side of the room), I saw a number of my teammates weeping. One looked intently into my eyes as if demanding an explanation, an answer, a solution. I had nothing to give. All I could say was, “I know.” The only conscious thought I remember having was noticing that the beds were so shallow that any child could easily fall out if they only stood up or leaned over the edge. Again, I stroked cheeks, whispered to them, and walked on through. What else was there to do? One little guy, a bit older, perhaps one or so, stood up in his bed in the corner and wailed loudly the entire time. It was clearly a cry for help, a plea for rescue.
After the baby ward, we were taken so a small room in another building where the special needs children were kept. It had maybe 10 beds. It seemed dark, but I know it had a window. One nanny was feeding a child whose head seemed very small and who looked to have Downs Syndrome. He was having trouble eating the porridge she was feeding him. I didn’t stay in that room long. I had gone completely numb by that point and was just following the person in front of me as we moved on.
I don’t know what we did next. At some point we left. We were destroyed. Hearts shattered. Horrified. Desperate. How can it be? What can be done? How soon?
Friday afternoon, we travelled to an area of Addis called Bole Bulbula. It sits on the outskirts of the city near the airport. It is hilly, and there are small gatherings of huts and shacks on the hills and the ridges. In one of those communities, there is a church, and that church has done some amazing ministry. They have dug well. They have started a women’s ministry – training women skills that will allow them to earn income and provide for their families. They have a drop-in center for children. they are looking to open a full-time daycare for working moms. It is run by a wonderful pastor who has a love for the people. It was a much needed lift for the soul after our morning.
I had seen Bole Bulbula before and been won over by the ministry they provide to women. Some women from my church were won over as well, and I know we will do work with and for this ministry in the future. However, I have to confess that all I really remember from our visit this year is the scenery. We left the church compound and drove a short distance to park and then walk to the location where a new church will be built for this community. We laughed that we could have just as quickly walked from the original location to the new and avoided the drive. After seeing the new building site, we inquired with the pastor and learned that we could, indeed, walk back to the current church compound, so a group of us set off across the hillsides on our walk. It was breathtaking. The sky was a clear blue with puffy white clouds, and a cool breeze was blowing. The hillside was farm country, and we came across two farmers threshing their grain with pitchforks. Cattle and goats covered the hill. Carlos had opted to walk with me, so part of the way we held hands and enjoyed the scenery. I had the overwhelming sensation of “I am in Africa!” There was nothing to think about, no plans to make, no problems to solve. It was simply beautiful.
I didn’t think a lot at all on Friday. I did a lot of feeling. Wretched, desperate lows and lovely, peaceful highs. And God was in the midst of all of it. Thinking or feeling, choosing or being, He is there. He knows. For Friday, that was enough.
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