Family visit

It was quiet at Addis Kidan Guesthouse.
The sun had dropped below the peak of the mountain, in the fading light I set down my book, leaned back and, unwilling to exert myself to walk to the light swithch, closed my eyes and enjoyed the quiet of the evening

Soon Megana came in. Her parents are from India. She was born in U. S. A. Tall and thin, her mocha colored skin contrasts not only my European “white” and the “black” of the native Ethiopians.

“I’m going to take Maxie to supper” she announced.

“Good. You two enjoy” I replied.

Would you like to join us?

“Sure.”

Complete darkness had arrived. We exited the compound and, as we walked down the rough, rock strewn street greeted the guards at other gates as we passed.

Soon we were climbing the hill towards main paved road. A small figure dressed in black and wearing a white scarf emerged from the crowd and greeted us excitedly. She had seen us before we recognized her. 

Kidist, our hostess, was returning from a visit with her sister and her newborn niece.

Hugs, kisses, and light conversation and we were on our way.

Beautiful Child

When I first met Rosa she was under quarantine.
The doleful, vacant stare of her dark brown eyes set in a sea of pearl provided only a hint of the the youthful exuberance that could have, should have been there. 
Somehow, in a remote village in Gondar region of northern Ethiopia she had contracted Tuberculosis.  Her prognosis was good thanks to the love and compassion of distant cousin Christine Gilmour who had recently visited, rescued her, and brought her home to the capitol city, Addis Ababa.
Now she was sequestered away in a room mostly used for storage; sleeping, resting, slowly recovering.
When her time of quarantine was over she would sit in on the porch for a time and visit.
 Quiet and shy, she would hold her hand over her mouth awaiting the time when she would no longer be contagious.
Now, nearly a year later, her dark  eyes are bright and sparkling. An engaging smile has returned to her beautiful long face  but sadness awaits. Like a thief, it lurks in the shadows waiting to pounce on this beautiful vulnerable child.
She has value in the village again. She is strong and can carry water, sweep the earthen floor and attend to the smaller children.
Her mother wants her to leave school and return.
She is beautiful and healthy.
She would bring a good bride price.
She is twelve years old!
Before I left to return to the U. S. A. she asked to get into my suitcase and come with me (she was not the only one). I laid hands on her and cousin Tadila and prayed for health, safety and good life for them.
I think I need to pray some more.

Giants

I think, in my old age, God has allowed me to walk among giants. Not people big in size like the giant David killed with a stone and not giants in industry, medicine, science or government. Nor am I referring to people with slicked back hair, expensive suits and mega- size membership in some church. My giants are not high profile politicians, media moguls or people who are rich and famous financially.

The giants I speak of are giant servants of God in spirit and deed. I don’t “hang” with them or even communicate with them on a regular basis but I treasure what little time I have had with them

Well then, who are these giants?

Marta Gabre Tsadic and Demeke Tekle-wold founders of Project mercy at Yetebon Ethiopia. Project Mercy

The late Haregoin Tefera, foster mother to a thousand orphans. http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/

Ababech Gobena, “Mother of many” “Mother Teresa of Ethiopia", founder and General Manager of AGOHELMA Orphanage. Agohelma Orphanage

Hannah Teshome, founder of Hanna’s Orphanage in Addis Ababa Ethiopia. Hannas Orphanage

Each, in his or her own way whether large or small are living the lives God has called them to do.

I am blessed to have been able to share time with them.

I am sure there are many more. Unsung heroes as it were, doing as God leads.
What about you?
Are you seeking/following God's will?

Are you a giant?

Orphans of Debre Tsige Ethiopia

The journey began at 5:30 A.M. in Addis Ababa Ethiopia. The taxi arrived and I got in. Daylight was yet to arrive in the capitol city and the streets were nearly deserted. Daniel, my interpreter for the day introduced me to the driver and seventeen year old Zerihun who I had not previously met and whose home in a remote village we were going to visit. He and his brothers have lived alone since their parents died seven years before.

We drove through the Merkato, purported to be the largest open market in Africa. The darkness was palpable. It was an eerie feeling to see the paper and trash littered street empty except for a stray dog scavenging and trucks parked along the side.

At the bus “station” it was different. Hordes of people were milling about, some shouting above the din of diesel engines which were belching the exhaust smoke that created an enveloping cloud.

We were placed on one bus, then another. I could not understand what was happening but interpreter Daniel did his job well and finally the last bus we boarded lurched onto the street and began to climb out of the valley into the emerging light. Thankfully it was going in the right direction.

Two and a half hours of driving along the twisting turning mountain road we arrived at the village Debre Tsigie and went into a dingy little restaurant where Zerihun and Daniel ate breakfast. I would not eat in that place!

Our trek to the village began downhill on a lava rock strewn road that soon became a track and then, before we reached the valley floor disappeared. For an hour and a half we walked. We skirted fields of wheat, beans and maize (corn). At times the terrain was marshy and our shoes sank into the muck.

Half way across the valley was a big two lane concrete bridge. No road, just a bridge complete with concrete rails.

I could see a person in the distance who was wearing a red coat watching us. He began to draw near and soon was following a few steps behind as we traversed the valley and climbed the steep slope towards our destination, a series of low stone walled compounds at the top of a hill. He was a boy, perhaps ten years old, a silent companion who chewed on a broken twig and smiled a shy friendly smile.

The house was a square mud hut with a tall thatched, conical roof, called a tukul. The walls had been recently re-covered with a coat of fresh mud, cow dung and straw veneer inside and out. There was a wooden door which could be locked but no windows.

The interior was cool and dark and the floor was earth, swept clean, and bumpy from protruding rocks. A fresh pile of sleeping straw was stacked in one corner and in another, perched on the low rock foundation, was a wooden box that had a closed, hinged top. A few bottles and personal items sat along the ledge and in another corner, near the door, were bags of grain and a round, broken injera basket.
Zerihun brought out some animal skins, spread them on the ledge and there we sat and talked.

As politely as I could I refused a drink of milk and explained: “I have been sick” which was true. Sometimes it is a bit of an adventure to eat the local food.

There is another “house” where cooking is done and a smaller one made only of poles placed vertically, spaced close together to protect the domestic animals from the hyenas.

I presented gifts for Zerihun and Dogachow, his twelve year old brother and Wondeson, fifteen, who was in a distant part of the country “following the harvest.” He works with a sickle, squatted down. The crop is cut by hand, dried, and threshed by walking animals round and round to separate the grain, beans or peas from the hulls, after which it is tossed into the air for the wind to blow away the chaff.

I met some neighbors though we could not converse, photographed the local children, the house and the animals.

Too soon we needed to leave. The buses don’t wait.

We walked another hour and a half back to the village and located a bus which was traveling in the right direction, sat inside and said our goodbyes to Zerihun. When he turned to leave he was stifling back tears. He has been head of household since age ten we were his first non resident visitors and I was the first farangi to have ever been there .

God Bless whoever has helped them.
Orphans of Debre Tsige

Miracles Still Happen

November 2009
Twelve year old Tadila struggled across the compound with the help of Kafreta, her father, stumbled and fell to the ground against the masonry wall. She lay there week, disoriented and able to only move her head.

No one knew what was the cause of her illness. She and Kafreta had arrived in Addis Ababa, the capitol, two days previously from a remote village in the Gondar region of Northern Ethiopia where no medical help was available.

I had yet to meet her but I went to her, put a hand on her head and prayed, mostly in the Spirit, since I knew nothing about her. She was very thin, too small for her height I thought.

A taxi arrived. Child and father were driven to a hospital.

The next day we sneaked in to visit her. She would not, could not, take nourishment.

I took hold of her small, pale hand. It was rough, like heavy duty sandpaper. I could not help but wonder about the difficult life she must have lived.

I prayed as before, quietly, in the Spirit, not knowing what else to do.

Two days later she returned to the little converted store room she shared with eleven year old TB stricken cousin Rosa, who is from the same village. I marveled at Tadila's recovery and worried about the T. B. since they shared the same room

The girls took their meals separately from the rest of us and after evening meal Tadila and Kafreta were in the main house when the mobile phone of my hostess rang. She answered, gestured to Kafreta and excitedly he talked in Amharic over the phone. His sixteen year old daughter, missing for a year was found alive and well!

The housekeeper put a video on the TV with traditional Gondar music and Tadila, who seemed near death two days before, danced a celebration dance. She danced with vigor, for such a long time I tired and went to bed while father and daughter continued the celebration into the night.

Ain't God good?

Visit to family of Yonatan

It was April 2007 when our daughter Rebecca, her husband Vernon, granddaughter Larissa and I journeyed to Addis Ababa Ethiopia to "bring home" two deaf, orphaned children.

The boy, Yonatan, was six. His mother, Woinshet, in a selfless, sacrificial act, signed the papers that would make it possible for him to go to a new, better life where he could get the education and health care she, an unemployed widow with three young sons, could not provide.

Information about the families of Yonatan and the girl Fetlework was not available to the adoptive parents but, since the children were "older" it seemed important, in spite of cautions by others, to locate the families and allow the children to connect.

At first Yonatan had almost no ability to communicate. He had not been taught sign language. As he gained communication skills he wanted to know: Were his brothers well? What about his mom? And the quest began.

Initial reports were dismal and not factual. The father of the boy was Muslim. It could cause an international incident if the uncle, in whose care he had supposedly been left, were to learn the whereabouts of the boy.

A year and a half later I returned to Ethiopia and hand-delivered the post placement papers to the school where the child had intermittently attended. First I thanked the principal and vice principal for their care until we could come to get the boy. Next I inquired about the family. The vice principal, a man, agreed to help. During the next year we corresponded by email...........some.

The following year I again visited with a follow up post placement report which included many photos. When I arrived for the appointment the uncle, mother, and both brothers, were there!

After an emotional greeting and much discussion we agreed to meet again since I did not have the gifts for the boys with me.

At the appointed time the taxi delivered me to the house. When I entered there were computer generated signs on the wall: "Welcome to Ethiopia!" All around the perimeter of the large room sat members of the extended family. On the coffee table in front of a sofa was a round, paper enclosed object. I was instructed to remove the wrapping which uncovered a large loaf of Ethiopian bread. The custom, as I learned, was for the honored guest to begin slicing the bread which was then distributed throughout the room.

Introductions were made, more people arrived. While chickens pecked away on the front porch we had coffee ceremony, made photographs, talked, the boys and mother opened and displayed their gifts and the "connection" between families was made.

The color on the faces is different, we share no common language yet we are indeed, family.

Ain't God good?
Video  "Family" Visit

On a foggy overcast day they gathered in front of the rustic little church building for a group photo.

From around the nation and all walks of life they had come to celebrate and share with each other the trials, difficulties and triumphs of adopting orphaned Ethiopian children. The overriding theme? Love.

“We’ll soon adopt four more”, one mother stated. “We want to get another some day too.” “Does he understand English yet?” “What a beautiful baby.” Ethiopia makes beautiful babies.”

These were some of the comments overheard above the rising and falling sounds that permeate the air in Silver Dollar City.

At the close of the weekend: Tired bodies, aching feet, a true sense of community, and comfort in the knowledge that another soul has been rescued from misery and poverty.

Ain’t God good?

More photos here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/42271616@N02/