Impossible

Tuesday

There are absolutely no words to tell you how amazing God was today, and yet I will probably type pages telling you the story.  A little background is in order first.

The last Hope for His Children big group trip was in January of 2012.  That trip was my second trip, and Dave and the kids joined me, so they all had their first HfHC mission trip.  We worked at CFI every morning, just as we are this week.  Working with the kids for half a day, five days in a row, gives you a real sense of their personalities and helps you remember their names and faces.  You learn something of their stories.  You take their pictures.  You pray for them.  You think about them when you’re home. 

I returned to Ethiopia with Hope for His Children this past October.  The fall trip was a small group trip – only 4 people.  As I prepared for that trip, I got a text from Michelle.  It was a photo of a precious Ethiopian face that I remembered – a young boy with his mother.  The message on that September 22nd was devastating:  “Please pray for Anatolee and his mother!!!!  Anatolee is 5 and has been missing for several days . . . his mother (Dirribe) has tried everything and is devastated.”  My response:  “I can’t breathe, let alone form a thought.”

When you work with these kids, you come to know that all of them are one small event away from devastation, enormous loss, or even death.  Anatolee’s mother had gone to work and come home to find her son missing.  No trace.  No evidence.  No indication whatsoever as to what might have happened.  There were guesses, speculation.  It was rainy season.  Perhaps he fell in the river near their home.  Maybe someone stole him.  Unspoken, between the two, we hoped for the river.  Apparently, (we learned just this week) the local government accused her of sending him off to the countryside, something that sometimes happens when parents can no longer support their children in the city.  They threatened to arrest her.  Can you imagine?

We travelled to Addis in October and found no developments, no new information.  Hope was fading.  It’s a helpless feeling to know that there is nothing you can do.  We prayed.  We prayed upon receiving the news.  We prayed in our nightly family time.  We prayed individually.  We asked everyone we knew to pray.  Days had passed into weeks, and weeks passed into months.  As we approached this current trip, we had sadness:  Anatolee wouldn’t be there.  We’ve talked about him this week.  There’s an empty space knowing he’s missing.  Someone even pulled out Anatolee’s bio sheet from the HfHC files this morning and read his story. 

Back to today.  The morning was spent at CFI.  More manicures, more Bible stories, more crafts.  More laughter.  Time spent at the soccer field in recreation.  Lunch back at the guest house.  Then we went to the government orphanage. 

Last year’s visit to the government orphanage is recorded in an earlier entry.  I confess, I did not want to go.  I was filled with a sense of dread.  I say again - visiting that place is a shattering experience.  As we pulled into the gates of the compound, my insides were strung taut.  We walked in the front door, and I wanted to run.   A couple of men were sitting on a bench outside the director’s office.  A woman was sitting on a bench beside the door.  A worker came down and spoke to her.  While we waited for the director, that worker came back carrying a small child which she handed to the woman sitting by the door.  We spoke with the director for a short while, and then began a tour of the facility.  As we exited the director’s office, I saw the woman by the door holding that small boy, stroking his face, kissing him, and talking to him.  He was talking back to her.  I couldn’t help but wonder.  Was she relinquishing her son?  Were we witnessing a farewell? 

As we walked up the stairs to the baby rooms, I resolved that I was not going to be a hot mess this time.  I decided to smile in each tiny face, stroke each soft cheek, coo and talk and love on them like crazy.  And I did.  I won’t deny my heart broke, and I definitely shed tears, but I loved on babies and small children, smiled, and touched them tenderly. We moved from empty bunk rooms, to the baby rooms, to the special needs rooms.  We walked by one room where one nurse sat on a small stool feeding one toddler.  A tray of bowls sat in front of her.  On the floor behind the eating child was a semicircle of quietly waiting toddlers.  There was something heartbreaking about that little circle.  Some of our group stopped to help feed the waiting ones.  Finally, we proceeded to an open area between two buildings where elementary aged kids were playing. 

Every member of our group was soon engaged with the kids.  They had some kind of animal cards, and several of us were involved in sharing the English word for each animal and trying to learn the Amharic name.  Some played counting games.  I heard Nathan saying to a small group of kids, “Show me your foot.”  He waited to see if they understood the English and could find the right body part.  A couple looked around, unsure, until Nathan said to Elizabeth, “Show me your foot,” and she demonstrated.  After that, they did well, until “stomach”!  A young girl I guessed to be about 7 came up and held my hand.  I asked her name, told her mine, and stood still as she wrapped her arms around me.  For at least 15 minutes we stood together without saying anything.  I wrapped my arms around her, stroked her cheeks, her hair, her ears.  I squeezed her tight.  We swayed slowly for a while.  Every once in a while, she’d look up at me and smile.  Tears fell silently as I thought with profound conviction, “Every child needs a momma.”  I wondered if she’d ever have one. 

As I stood with this precious child of God, I heard Michelle calling my name.  I looked up to find a shocked look on her face and tears streaming down her face.  She said something I couldn’t understand.  It looked at if something was terribly wrong, and I began to move toward her, pulling my sweet girl along with me.  As I approached her, Michelle said, “This is Anatolee!!”  “What?!!”  I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.  “This is ANATOLEE!”  Electricity ran through my whole body, and everything moved slowly.  “What?!”  She looked at me with utter shock, eyes wide, tears pouring.  She pointed.  I saw Peter kneeling and weeping, ever so briefly, in front of a small boy.  He stood up, then bent over, looking into the boy’s face, quietly asking him questions.  I looked back at Michelle.  Again, “It’s Anatolee!”  Once more regarding this boy, I couldn’t form a thought.  How on earth could that be?  How?  He’d been missing for months.  How’d he get here?!  All I could think to say was “Are you sure?”  Michelle asked Peter, “Are you sure?”  “Yes” came Peter’s reply. 

Somehow, a 6 year old boy had wandered away from home on a September afternoon, been taken to a police station, and then transferred to the government orphanage.  On a March afternoon, as Peter stood in the yard of that orphanage, that boy saw Peter wearing a CFI t-shirt.  He walked up to Peter, grabbed the t-shirt where the logo was on the chest, and said, “That’s my school!”  Michelle said Peter looked down at the boy and then said, “An . . . , Ana . . . .”  He couldn’t even get the name out.  Finally, “Anatolee . . .?!”  A nodded reply affirmed he had gotten it right.  Several questions later, while shouts went out to various team members of “It’s Anatolee!  It’s Anatolee!”, it was clear Anatolee had been found.  We sobbed with joy.  We looked at each other dumbfounded.  We kept shaking our heads.  Nothing terrible had happened.  Something unbelievably wonderful had happened! I said to more than one person, “This is impossible!”  Michelle, Peter, and Anatolee were off to the director’s office.  The director herself couldn’t believe it.  Nothing like this had ever happened there before. 

After conversation with the director, the pulling of Anatolee’s file, more questions and conversation with Anatolee, we had to go.  I have no idea how long we’d been there.  The hardest part of all was leaving Anatolee at the orphanage.  He had to be claimed by his mother.  Initially, when Peter told him what was going on and that he had to stay and Peter said goodbye, Anatolee turned and walked back into the orphanage.  I was the last one of our group out of the building, and I watched him go.  I saw another boy reach out to him, and Anatolee turned and scowled heavily at him and kept walking.  However, after we loaded into our vans, we noticed him standing on the front porch of the orphanage, watching us go.  He smiled. 

Can you imagine?

We talked a whole lot on the way back to the guest house about God’s sovereignty and His goodness.  A million details had to be coordinated for us to be in that place, in that very yard, at that precise time, when Anatolee was walking through, with Peter in that CFI t-shirt.  God orchestrated each one perfectly.  Initially, we weren’t even sure which day we were going to the orphanage.  God chose Tuesday.  We were supposed to leave the orphanage by 5.  By God’s sovereignty, we were still there at 5:10, because our driver was running an errand for us.  Our driver was actually out buying children’s Bibles for us, because in God’s utter wisdom, one of our bags had been lost on the flight or stolen from baggage claim, and the gifts we had brought for the 70 CFI kids were gone.  By the grace of God, even though he was running late to meet us for the orphanage trip, Peter had stopped on his way out to change his t-shirt.  In fact, he’d gotten all the way outside his house and then went back in to put on a clean one, a CFI one.  God’s hand was on every detail, weaving perfectly, so that a lost little boy could be found.

I don’t know what else happened.  I just know that God is amazing, all-powerful, sovereign, faithful and merciful.  He loves tenderly and passionately, and His hand is truly on the smallest sparrows.  He worked an absolute miracle today, and we got to see it.  Can you imagine?

When Gabriel told a young girl named Mary that she was going to have a baby even though she was a virgin, she said, “Nothing will be impossible with God.”  (Luke 1:38)  Amen and Amen.  Jesus said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”  (Matthew 18:26)  Indeed.  Today we saw the impossible.  It was utterly, completely glorious. 

By the way, as we left the orphanage, the woman was still cradling that little boy on the bench.  I’m praying for more of the impossible.

Touch

Monday

I started a new vocation today.  I became a manicurist. 

We started our week at Compassion Family International, a drop-in center for impoverished children, run by Peter and Elizabeth Abera.  CFI, as we call them, is the main organization that Hope for His Children supports.  Each morning this week, as we have on past trips, we will spend the morning at CFI.  Some of the team will conduct Bible school activities with the kids.  They’ll do Bible story, craft, snack, and recreation.  The kids will all also get a new pair of shoes with new socks. Some of us work with the mothers of the children.   We try to teach them a craft, something perhaps they might be able to do to make money for their families.  We talk and laugh and share time together.

This morning was our first day of Bible school at CFI.  CFI is in a new facility, which is smaller than their last.  So rather than having all the mothers come every day, with a new activity every morning, half the mothers came this morning and half will come tomorrow.  One lucky half will get to come again on Wednesday, and then Family Day will be split between Thursday and Friday.  The new building can’t accommodate all the kids with all their parents/guardians, so half will come on Thursday and half on Friday.

Before we went to CFI, Michelle read to us the story of the leper healed by Jesus.  A leper no one would touch was touched by the Son of God.  He told Jesus, “If you are willing, you can heal me.”  Jesus said, “I am willing,” and He touched the man and healed him.  An appropriate way to start a week where many dirty and diseased children will be begging for our touch.

As the kids arrived at CFI this morning, I picked out familiar, sweet faces, hugging and picking up children, smiling and calling out names.  Four trips in, I’m now able recognize them and call them by name.  As mothers arrived, I recognized some of their faces as well.  Last year was our first year to do activities with the women, so I don’t know them as well as the kids, and I’m horrible with names, so I couldn’t call any of them by name, sadly.  However, some of them recognized me, too, and we were able to kiss cheeks, left, right, left, right, shake hands, and bump shoulders in the traditional Ethiopian greeting that I love. 

Last January, we took one day to do manicures for the women.  There were over 30 of them attending by the end of the week, and we had only three team members working with women, so doing manicures for 30 women took some time.  Because we were working on another project that day as well, we got only a few of them done.  There were many disappointed, although gracious, mothers at the end of last year’s women’s ministry.

We started with manicures this year.  Our first day, with a much smaller team and only two of us working with the women, we started doing nails right away.  While we worked with finger nails, the ladies made beaded bracelets.  For the manicures we start with a simple bowl of cold water and wash the women’s hands.  We then use lotion and give them a quick hand massage.  Finally, we finish with painting their fingernails.  We don’t do cuticles, base coats or top coats, or filing.  In a country where most folks don’t receive basic medical care, common issues like nail fungus and infected cuts are common and untreated, and more serious issues like AIDS/HIV and hepatitis present much greater risks. 

It is utterly humbling and a privilege to be able to minister to these women in this way.  Hands that are calloused and dirty, that care for children and other family members, that work so very hard and are rarely if ever held or caressed or stroked were placed in our bowls of water.  Immediately, every woman began washing her own hands.  Gently, we shake a finger to indicate “no”, and point to ourselves, and say, “Please let me.”  They don’t understand English, but they get the message.  They are utterly dumbfounded by the experience.  Some laugh nervously.  Some sit silently without moving.  Some refuse to meet your eyes.  But none of them refuse the touch.  We gently but firmly rub the lotion into their skin, covering each finger, massaging their palms with our thumbs, and gently stroking the backs of their hands.  Then we point to the row of polish, 6 small bottles of various shades of pink, and indicate that they should choose their color.  With the completely wonderful but strangely uncomfortable experience of handwashing over, they laugh, look at you shyly, and pick. 

I cannot begin to explain to you how blessed I am to be able to serve these women in this way.  We gave everyone name tags today, so I was able to call each woman by name, inquire through an interpreter about her child/children, pray for her silently when the interpreter was called away, and ask them at the end if they liked their new look.  Many of them were posing for each other afterward, laughing and spreading their hands across their scarves or in front of their faces to show off their beautiful new nails. 

Before we had started this morning, I told them the story of Jesus washing His disciples’ feet.  What an honor to be able to say, “I am a follower of Jesus Christ.  Jesus tells us to serve one another.  Jesus was the Son of God.  He came to earth, and while He was here, He washed His disciples’ feet.  He told us to serve each other, like He served.  We are here to serve you today.  You are mothers, daughters, sisters, and daughters of God.  We would like to honor you by washing your hands and painting your fingernails.”  They nodded and smiled. 

How appropriate that story seemed the day after Easter.  How perfectly fitting that activity was following our morning devotion. These women of hard life, dirty hands, and frequent disease were longing, just as the leper who approached Jesus, for a gentle touch.  Like Jesus, we were willing to give it.  Following His example, we laid out a towel, dipped our hands in the bowl, and washed the hands of another, a sister, a precious daughter of God.  

Jesus was right.  The least is the greatest, the servant is the blessed, the privilege truly is in the washing, not in being washed.  

“If you are willing . . .  “  We are willing, Lord.  We will wash more hands, touch more hearts tomorrow.

Easter Sunday

Sunday

It’s midnight, and I am sitting on a rooftop terrace under a cloudy Ethiopian sky, looking out over the lights of the city and listening to the barking dogs of Addis Ababa.  Today was Easter in the U.S.  It was not Easter in Ethiopia.  However, Beza International Church, the protestant church we attend while we are here, had a full Easter service this morning.  I LOVE Beza church.  They know how to worship, and they preach a good message.  However, today either I was off or they were.  I’m sure it was me.  The worship was wonderful, but I struggled during the sermon.  It was good, and I actually learned a lot from the message, but I found it hard to listen and frankly, had to fight hard to stay awake.  Very unlike me. 

We left Beza and returned to our guest house for lunch.  Yeshi is the wife of Ephrim, who runs the guest house, drives us everywhere we go, and generally takes complete care of us while we are here.  Yeshi is the best cook in Ethiopia.  We had a lovely lunch, and then took a walk in the neighborhood around the guest house.  Some of the guys, one of them being Tyler, an eighth grader, wanted to find a pick-up game of soccer with local kids.  We walked to a vacant field where some cattle were grazing (yes, we are in the city), and immediately a soccer game ensued.  The guys and kids soon had an audience, as the locals watched the firenjis play soccer with the local kids.  The hot Ethiopian sun was shining, but the cool Ethiopian breeze was blowing.  The sky was blue, with a few rain-filled clouds, and I suddenly realized how beautiful the day was.  It occurred to me again, “Today is Easter.”  Throughout this trip, I have been constantly reminded of God’s goodness, His beauty, His tenderness, and His love.  This was one of those moments. 

We returned to the guest house to sort out all those bags of donations we had brought with us.  The work was fun. Seeing all the wonderful gifts we get to bestow on those who need them and on those who will put them to good, kingdom work was a blessing.  Soon it was dinnertime, and Yeshi really outdid herself.  On top of a salad, which you just can’t ever eat here except when Yeshi makes it, we had two main dishes, bread, and my very favorite – sambosas.  Sambosas look like empanadas and are every bit as tasty.  Yeshi made both meat and vegetarian sambosas, and they disappeared quickly.  To top it all off, she made us a chocolate cake, “because it’s Easter”.  We never eat dessert in Ethiopia, so chocolate cake was a special treat.

Nega (from Onesimus, a ministry for street kids) and his wife Emebet and their 4 month old miracle baby joined us, along with Jonathan and Jess Bridges and their 4 year old son and 3 month old baby girl.  Jonathan and Jess are Americans who have given up everything to move to Ethiopia and support the Onesimus ministry.  Peter and Elizabeth and Joshua were with us, too.  We enjoyed fabulous food, great conversation, and then heard Jonathan and Nega talk about how both their ministries were started.  Hearing of their work with street kids (orphaned, abandoned, forced out of their homes, runaways escaping homes of alcohol, abuse, poverty, or worse), rescuing the vulnerable and serving the ones hardest to love and yet in the most need reminded us all why we were here.  With tears we prayed for them and then said our good nights. 

It was a strange Easter.  No Easter baskets or fancy clothes.  No candy or traditional Easter feast.  No standard Easter church service.  Nothing at all American style Easter.  Physical weariness was combined with great joy, beautiful moments were followed by stories of great sorrow.  No family members were present, and yet we had sweet fellowship with wonderful brothers and sisters in Christ.  And a story that reminds me of what Easter really means:

The first child Nega served at Onesimus was a boy named Desi.  Nega invited Desi to the Onesimus drop-in center and ministered to him, even allowing Desi to live with him and Emebet for a while.  Nega loved Desi, but Desi wasn’t really ready to be loved.  Desi returned to the streets.  Again, Nega sought out Desi, asking him to return to the drop-in center.  Desi did, only to leave again.  Again Nega pursued Desi.  Again Desi ran away.  Seventeen times Nega followed Desi, and 17 times Desi rejected Nega, returning to his destructive life on the streets.  Finally, Nega found Desi again.  Desi returned to Onesimus.  Finally, Desi stayed.  He entered and stayed in school and began to straighten out his crooked path.  Began to really live.  He met Jesus and found the Saviour he’d always looked for.  Jonathan, who told us this story of Nega and Desi, concluded by saying,  “Desi’s story is all our stories.”  He explained: We run from God again and again, turning our backs on Him, rejecting Him, choosing our own destructive ways.  And God is just like Nega.  He pursues us again and again, always imploring us to return to Him – to grace and forgiveness, to love, true love.  Nega and Desi are the perfect picture of God with us. 

And Easter appeared to me so clearly:  Jesus came all the way from glory to the cross, the tomb, and the throne because He really and truly loved me.  Me.  And you, too.  And every single one of those street kids that are still out there. 

I hope your Easter was as blessed as mine. 

Hard Stop                           

Saturday:

I have nothing profound or deeply spiritual to say today.  We have been travelling for almost 24 hours.  Everything has been amazingly smooth (with a couple of small exceptions) and unusually beautiful at times.  We arrived at the Indy airport to find almost no one in the ticket line - amazing to me given that Spring Break has sprung in Indy and it's Easter weekend.  My travelling companion is Lisa, Carlos’ school teacher.  The rest of our team flew out Thursday.  Due to teaching and other scheduling conflicts, Lisa and I left Friday.  True to mission trip form, we both had our full allowable luggage load – two full-sized suitcases and two carry-ons each, all loaded to or sometimes just above the weight limit of 50 pounds with our minimal personal items and as many donations as we can stuff in.  Check-in is always a dance of shifting items from one bag to another until each one skims in under or at the weight limit.  Sometimes the airline personnel are gracious and helpful, other times impatient and rude.  I won’t name airline names, but those of us who have flown more than once know which airline is which. 

Yesterday, God gave us an angel at check-in, literally.  Angel was the very nice gentleman who checked us in and then allowed us no less than 15 minutes to weigh, unzip, switch, repack, rezip, and reweigh a couple dozen times.  My wonderful husband was the muscle who lifted those 50+ pound bags off and on the scale all those dozens of times.  In the end, with Angel allowing us 50.8 pounds and 50.6 pounds on a couple of bags, we were within weight limit on everything, sacrificing only one ream of computer paper to the weight restrictions.  Angel said, “I hope you are going on mission?”  I laughed.  Yes.  I can’t imagine any other reason that would merit this luggage tango.  He then informed us he had been to Ethiopia himself on a mission trip with his church within the last year.  I love divine appointments.

We had lunch with our precious families and then made our way to our gate.  Arriving 5 short minutes after the boarding process had begun, we were almost left behind because everyone else was already on the plane and ready to leave.  We left 15 minutes early for O’Hare, a relief as almost every flight out of O’Hare is delayed. 

We boarded an enormous Boeing in Chicago, headed for Frankfurt, Germany.  Pulling away from the gate at the exact departure time, I was amazed at how well this trip was going.  As we taxi’d leisurely to the runway, the huge plane suddenly slammed to a stop.  I actually thought we had hit something, although I didn’t hear the crunch of metal you would expect with an accident.  A voice somewhere in the plane screamed out, “Oh, my God!”  The pilot announced that another aircraft had cut us off and he’d had to slam on the brakes, an odd experience in a huge airplane.  We taxi’d a bit longer, and then the pilot came back on and told us that two flight attendants had been up and about during the incident, had been thrown down, and were injured.  We had to go back to our gate so they could get medical attention.  Yikes.  We now needed two new crew members.  Where does one get those on short notice?  One hour later, we pulled away from the gate again, a new crew member on board and on our way with no other issues. 

As we flew over the Atlantic, in the middle of the night, I watched a three quarter moon rise over what looked like the ocean, but was actually a sea of clouds.  Occasionally the clouds would part, and I could see the moon reflecting off the water below.  It was magnificent.  I was reminded of God as Creator, the maker of beautiful, wonderful, indescribable things. 

We landed in Frankfurt with too many hours to kill, despite our delay.  Neither of us cared for the Frankfurt airport – sparse, old, and unfriendly - but were soon off on our next 8 hour flight to Khartoum, Sudan.  I don’t relish this part of the trip.  I am never comfortable in Khartoum.  I’ve flown through there 3 or 4 times now, and I’m better than I used to be, but I don’t enjoy it.  Sudan is not on my list of places where I want to hang out.  We landed with another hard stop.  The runways in Khartoum are apparently very short.  I swear I heard the tires squeal.  However, I watched the sun set over Sudan today, and it was stunning.  Khartoum sits in the Sahara Desert, and everything in and around the city is brown – desert, buildings, roads, open fields.  The only color is an occasional brightly painted building of turquoise or yellow and a green patchwork quilt of irrigated land running along either side of the Nile.  As we taxi’d to the runway, the setting sun turned all the buildings a glowing orange, and as we took off, the sun sank halfway behind the horizon, sky blending with ground until you couldn’t differentiate the two, a huge blazing ball of red fire sinking lower into the darkness as we climbed.  The sun turned the wispy clouds skirting the whole horizon neon orange, rosy pink, and bright, metallic gold.  It was breathtaking.  Once again, God’s glory emblazoned for all to see. 

The stop in Khartoum was short, and as I type, we are now on the last 1½ hour leg to Addis Ababa.  Five airports and over 24 hours after departure, we’ll be in Ethiopia.  I have to say, this trip is hard.  It’s long.  The changing flights require miles of walking (or what seems like miles) bearing carry-ons that are much heavier now than they will be on the way home.  The flying requires many long hours of sitting in cramped space.  Time shifts by 8 hours, and you can’t sleep, at least not comfortably or for long periods.  The food is edible, but not healthy or delicious.  And getting into Ethiopia takes almost as much time as getting there.  Not really, but it sure seems like it.  The visa line, customs, waiting for baggage, x-raying baggage, dragging everything out of the airport by yourself until you finally see the precious faces of dear Ethiopian friends waiting for you behind security lines in the parking lot.  It’s long and exhausting.

And yet, as I imagine walking out of the Bole’ airport and looking out from its hilltop view over the city, breathing in the cool African night air, seeing faces of those I’ve come to love, thinking of the tender care we can give to precious women and children, some sweetly familiar and others new, I think, “It’s worth it.”  Whatever it takes, it’s so worth it. 

So thank You, God, for the moonrise, and the sunset, and Your protection as we travel.  Thank You for this place that has become a part of me.  Thank You for friends half way round the world.  And thank You for the privilege of serving the ones You love.

Farewells

Saturday arrived too quickly.  In the midst of all that we saw and did, the time flew so fast.  Up through Tuesday, I was present and enjoying every experience, every moment.  On Wednesday, I didn’t feel well, so I sort of felt like I lost that day.  Then it was Thursday, and we only had two days left.  As I described earlier, Friday was a blur.  Then Saturday was here, and it was time to say goodbye. 

We spent Saturday at another orphanage.  We left Addis around 9:00 a.m. and drove out of the city about an hour.  The drive was lovely – through the mountains that surround the city.  We arrived in Solulta and entered a large compound that housed the orphanage.  The Solulta orphanage houses 54 kids from Addis.  These children come from the streets of Addis, abandoned.  They are from 7 to 15 years of age.  The orphanage was started by an Ethiopian pastor, who now lives in Phoenix, Arizona.  The compound includes two dormitories (The girls’ dorm is much neater and cleaner, is decorated with lovely paintings the girls have made, and smells nicer than the boys’ dorm!), a dining hall/classroom/worship center building, a building that houses supplies, the clinic, and the administrative office, a chicken house, a garden and small fruit orchard, flower beds, a basketball goal, and a half-finished schoolhouse.  In the front, it is surrounded by a concrete wall with a big iron gate, as are most houses and compounds in the city.  However, on the other three sides, the area is enclosed only by a tin fence.  The director told us that they are constantly repairing the fence, as the winds in the mountains are frequently blowing parts of it down.  When the fence is down, hyenas can enter the compound.  Need #1: money to complete a stone or concrete wall around the compound.

The children in the school are driven every day all the way into Addis to attend school.  The village and area surrounding the orphanage speak a different language than is spoken in Addis.  In Addis, school is taught in Amharic, the national language.  In the villages, a number of tribal languages are spoken.  A new school is being constructed so that the kids don’t have to ride so far to school every day.  In the middle of the project money ran out, so the school sits half finished while they wait for more funding.  Need #2: money to complete the school.

The children in this orphanage are smart.  Many of them speak a bit of English.  The director boasted about how many of them are artists and what wonderful artists they are.  (In a land focused on survival, how amazing to hear someone in an orphanage discussing art!!)  In the rainy season, they have a garden that provides fresh vegetables for the children.  The chickens provide eggs.  The orchard contained apple trees that produced apples for them until a hail storm demolished the trees.  They are re-growing, but it will take a while for them to produce apples again.

The orphanage is run with committees.  The director reported that they have a health committee, a supply committee, a food committee, a discipline committee, etc.  One boy and one girl from the orphanage are on every committee.  They have a voice in how things are run.  They raise issues and make sure that kids’ needs are being met.  They get a vote.  They help decide who gets what and what needs should be met first.  Again, the idea that the children are involved in how things are run in an orphanage is stunning!  As Dave pointed out, not only does this give them a voice, but it gives them experience and responsibility that they can use to make it in this world.

We also learned that the folks running this program are committed to seeing these kids through to employment and self-sufficiency.  For those able, they are given support in applying to and paying for the University.  For those unable, they are provided funding for vocational school.  No child will be turned out without the means for survival and success.  Unheard of!  Most orphanages have a maximum age limit.  Once you reach that limit, you’re out, sometimes with a small sum of money, often with nothing.  To equip kids to be successful in the world as they leave an orphanage is rarely ever done.

It was a lovely day.  Again, as is almost always the case, the sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, the sky was blue, the kids seemed happy, peaceful, and okay.  What a huge blessing to see what orphan care can look like when it’s done right.

We returned to the city and to the guest house, and the flurry of packing by our teammates began.  It was weird to sit and watch, knowing that we weren’t leaving.  It left me with an ache.  I didn’t want anyone to leave.  When you experience something so intense, so moving, and so life-changing with a group of people, your lives are forever sealed together.  These people had been kind and gracious and loving to my children and to me.  We had wept together, worshiped together, worked together, prayed together, eaten together.  They had blessed me.  We had shared emotions and experiences that many never know.  I couldn’t bear the thought of them leaving.  We gathered for one last team meeting.  Carlos couldn’t even participate.  He is my sensitive child, and the thought of his new friends leaving was more than he could bear.  He left the room, standing just outside the doorway or the open window, and cried as we met.  All too quickly, they packed their luggage into the waiting vans and drove away.  We stood as a family and cried together.

But God is so gracious.  Just when we were prepared to enter an empty, quiet, lonely house and sob ourselves silly, in walked three new guests.  We had housemates after all!  God provided for us so tenderly in our moment of sadness and vulnerability.  We so needed new faces, introductions, and a distraction from the grief of good-bye, the sadness of ending an experience that had changed our lives and marked our hearts forever.  Thank You, Lord!  You are always and completely good!

Changed 2012 had ended, but a new adventure was beginning for the five of us.  (Dave’s sister, Terri, stayed with us.)  We were leaving the next day for Awassa, in southern Ethiopia, to take Kidist back to see her birth family for the first time.

As I write these words, that adventure, too, is over.  It has been a crazy, frightening, glorious week, but it is done.  We will be leaving, too, in a few hours to come home, blessed home. I will have to tell you the story of Awassa and what happened after once we return home.  We have over 24 hours of travelling ahead of us, and at least a day to recover, but I will be back in a few days to share the rest of the adventure.

A hard, hard day

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.

Snapshots

As this week has progressed, what has been burned into my heart are images, visual snapshots, pictures of my teammates:

Carrie sitting with a beautiful young woman at Bright Hope School, looking at her school notebook, complimenting her work, laughing together, both of them totally engaged, eyes dancing, smiling and talking.

Zoe playing clapping games with young boys at Onesimus and holding that precious little girl until she fell asleep. 

Tim pulling fighting boys apart with firm but gentle hands, the perfect picture of fatherly discipline as it should be.

Dick giving up a whole day of his mission trip to sit at the guest house and supervise the Ethiopian electrician so that we could all be safe and have power and hot water.

Carlos standing in a tree at CFI, acting out the story of Zaccheus for the children.

Kidist holding hands and playing with other little Ethiopian girls her age, so very much alike and yet so very different. 

Terri stirring the cooking pot at CFI’s family day, helping the staff and mothers cook the food for our luncheon today.

Dean spending so much time with Carlos, playing cards, talking, watching him play computer games, consoling him after the fire, selflessly engaging a 9 year boy, just because he’s kind and good.

Neil loving on and being loved by every single child we come into contact with, acting goofy, making them laugh, playing, teasing.

Mark taking the time to shake the hand of every single mother/guardian at CFI this morning and watching their faces open up and smile and some of them duck their heads shyly, as he paid them respect and attention.

Erica jumping out of our group picture (more than once) to hug and say good-bye to yet another CFI child who is precious to her.

Michelle T. in intense discussions with Peter and Elizabeth, Ephrim, Derejet, Nega, Jonathan and Jess, and others about the present and the future of the ministries Hope for His Children supports in this place because her heart is on fire for the women and children here.

Cindy flawlessly coordinating more donations than a whole team of people can keep track of, along with all the suitcases and duffel bags that carried those donations here.

Michelle R. paying tribute to her husband’s sweet service on this trip and talking about how proud their girls would be of their dad, tears flowing.

Kathy B. passing out hugs which bring people to tears because in her arms you are safe and at peace and loved, at least for that moment.

Dave staying up way too late to prepare a Bible story for the kids at CFI, just in case the person on tap to give it doesn’t make it there on time.

Deacon so eager to be a team leader to the kids at CFI, excited to participate and be a part of the team and serve.

Kathy L. offering that calm wisdom that blesses me so often.

I confess I felt a little guilty about that.  The trip, after all, is about sharing the love of Jesus.  We are here to serve in His name and bring Him glory.  I shouldn’t be so focused on my teammates, right?  And then I realized:  these snapshots are so intensely sweet for me because my teammates are reflecting the very face of Jesus.  They are the perfect image of Him as they love, serve, laugh, share, and listen.  I love them so very much, because they are so very much like Him.  Those images are so pressed upon my heart because my heart recognizes His Spirit within them.  It is about them, because they are about Him.

Thank You, Lord, for this team.  They are precious to me, and I know they are precious to You.  Bless them, please.  Show Yourself gloriously through them in these last two days.