A day with family

The laughter from memories being shared are slowly replacing the tears that used to be shed here; here in this tin and tarp home. Each time we see each other again, our hearts mend a little more.

She said goodbye to her children one sunny day in December almost six years ago. On that day, they all lined up for a photo. The oldest crying and the other two looking around tentatively as they watched the adults and big brother shed their tears. The meaning of all this and what was coming next was something they could only dream of or imagine. But no imagination was big enough to hold all of the upheaval that was to follow. Their dreams were big and fanciful. Their imaginations holding back all sorrow, all pain. They played their way through the next week as only young children can, waiting to fly away to their new home. So much has happened between then and now.

Today, as we pull up in the van and step out onto the muddy street, we know it is our last time to see them this trip. I bring with me, our shared son Dawit, my son Blake, Jason, our pastor and friend, and Girma, our translator and friend. Dawit's mother, Kidist, her new husband, Yetayo, and two small brothers are waiting for us. Their smiles always greet us and we know without question that we are family and that we belong here. Dawit is grabbed and held and kissed with vigor by his mother and I wait my turn for greeting. After greetings are shared, we are swiftly ushered into their home with a familiar “gibu!” meaning “get in!” We pile in and sit along the edge of the bed of the one-room home. When the edge of the bed is full, I slip off my shoes and step up on the bed and sit behind. There is always room for us all.

Now, with traditional Ethiopian hospitality, preparations begin to fill us to overfull with fresh baked enjera, potatoes, cabbage, rice, spinach and bread. Kidist, opens the drawer and takes out some birr and gives it to a child to run to the market for soda. We are soon being offered a variety of sprite, fanta, and coca-cola. Kidist runs to and fro from the outdoor community kitchen to bring more and more food which is piled generously on our plates. We eat and eat until not another hand-full (because here we eat with our hands) can fit into our grateful bellies!

As Kidist takes off again to the community kitchen to make preparations for our bunna (coffee) time, I climb off the bed clumsily to follow her. I am curious about where she goes and how she makes all of this amazing food! The bread is thick and fresh; what kind of oven does she bake it in? I follow her. Partly from curiosity but even more to be with her, to know her better, to understand her life more fully. Instead of allowing me to follow her though, she drops me off at the neighbors house along the way. As soon as I say “hello” to the neighbor outside, I am again commanded with the familiar statement “gibu!” (get in!) and Kidist disappears! I guess my curiosity about the community kitchen will have to wait for another year because as I crouch to enter the neighbors' home, I see that I will have my first round of coffee here.

Four women and two small children are here and I introduce myself all around. A grandmother on the edge of the bed, a young lady crouching by the charcoal stove, one young women hidden in the shadows looking small and somehow separate. At first I don't even see her there.  My greeting surprises her. I immediately wonder about her story, her condition and I wonder especially after she takes no coffee. I ask why and they tell me simply, “she doesn't drink it, she doesn't like it”. To my right, the children eat rice out of a bucket on the floor. The lead woman of the house (I call her that only from observation) sits at the door and directs those around her. She is brought the freshly roasted beans from Kidist's home and begins to grind them with mortar and pestle. Her pestle is a thick, heavy section of re-bar. She pounds and pounds, then stretches her back and coughs. I tell her, “Izosh!”, which is an encouraging word to “be strong!” but then I offer to help. They all laugh! What a thought; a “ferengie” (white person) grinding our coffee for us! They tell me that I am so small and they compare my small hands with the hand of the child in the room. I try not to be offended. Of course, I'm not; I do look small and pathetic next to the woman doing the work.

I look around the one room house. It is so dark. There are plastic bags of belongings strung about along the walls. Some light does make it's way in though. The outside is seen where the wall meets the ceiling; there the mud and stick wall of the home has been weathered away. The rain must come in there. It can't not. And now it's rainy season. I'm not talking about rain that comes in a drizzle or a mist, I'm talking about sheets, torrents, of rain. Rain coming down at all angles, from every direction. Now the plastic bags make sense; anything left uncovered in this home would be ruined from the rain water that surely makes it's way in each time it rains.

As I look around, trying to soak every detail in, I consider so much. I ask myself if I could do this. What would it be like to live among these people? I don't mean just to live here in Ethiopia; here, and yet “ferengie” separate. I don't mean to live a far off in a safe and secure villa with gates and barbed wire separating myself from them at night. I mean to truly live among them. To use the community kitchen (which I still have not seen), to fill my yellow jerry can at the community water pump, to use the community bathroom (can you call a hole in the ground a bathroom? Of course you can.), to bathe my children in a basin outside my tin front door. But all the inconveniences aside- to live among these people. To share their joys and their suffering. To grieve, to laugh, to cough, to drink bunna, to play along side these people. Would that beauty keep me here? Would their story, their reality, crush me? Or could I share in it? Are my shoulders, like my hands, too small for this work?

After I have enjoyed the first cup of coffee, I tell my gracious hosts that I must go back to Kidist's home for the rest of coffee ceremony. They understand and we all kiss cheeks and shoulders goodbye. I also kiss the small one in the corner; again she is surprised. I cross the muddy street and rejoin my family and my friends. We tell more stories, we share more coffee and we also share our thankful hearts. We are thankful for each other and for the unique family we have together and for the beautiful part we each are in each others life. After Blake shares his gratitude, Kidist tells him such an unforgettable thing, “Even though you aren't from my body, you are like my son and I love you.” I marvel at the statement thinking, yes, just like I do for your birth children! I tell her, “We are a big family now; two mothers, seven children”. We both laugh.

When it is time to say goodbye, we take more photos. They will remind us all year of our time together- until we meet again next year. The last hug between mother and son brings the reality of this moment to it's tragic head. How can this be the story? So much healing but the wound will never be gone. To ignore it would be dishonest. Her tears encourage mine and as we load into the van, I kiss my hand and wave it to her. The whole community waves us off. I keep taking him away.