self-preservation

http://www.latimes.com/world/africa/la-fg-islamic-state-video-ethiopian-christians-20150419-story.html

Between posts of sleeping babies and chihuahua videos, I see this. This. It seems impossible to carry on but also completely easy. I feel compassion and heartache as I read the article and see the pictures, but as soon as I look up from my phone, it's gone. Like it isn't there. Like it never happened. Is that normal? Some kind of self-preservation? Well, I don't want to be self-preserved. Real lives ended in forceful, brutal ways. Heads severed from bodies, yet here I sit with my head firmly attached; across the world- my neck is in tact. All around me, children's shouts of excitement echo off the walls of this aquatic center where I now mourn. The kids swim, slide, splash, dive. They are rightly oblivious to the crazy sickness of hatred and pride which clambers to strangle out freedom. Devotion to the God of peace ended the lives of these Ethiopian men on the sunny beaches of Libya. The contrast between the beauty-beach and the ugly that occurred there is deafening and odd. My swimming-pool life contrasts their martyred lives in the same odd way. I feel silent, helpless, supremely lucky and unfairly privileged.

Goodbye Again

The line taxi is full of people and ready to pull away but the hugs aren't finished. How can she let go again? It hurts a thousand times less this time but still, it hurts; like pressing on an old wound. 

Two mom's crying.

In urgency, she hugs hard and looks hard, memorizing his face. We are too soon pulled away and ushered onto the crowded van.  She stands on the curb waving and crying. I stick my white hand out the window and wave. Panic for the finality of this moment overtakes me- “Wave goodbye to your mom” I command. He turns and waves through the dusty window and I hope she sees him.

“Why did you cry, Mom?” he asks me on our walk from the taxi stop to the house where we are staying. How can I explain why this hurts me too?

“Because I can't imagine having to say goodbye to my child again.”

I also cry because I know that I am the one that takes him away. I am the priveleged one that gets to take him home and watch him grow.  

Reunited

“Are you Dawit, Kidist's son?” We are still around the corner and a ways up the road from their home. I nod and the inquirer runs on ahead to spread the word, “Dawit is home”. We turn the corner at the big Orthodox Church called Gabrielle. The church where this man-sized boy used to hold out his hand for birr to be fed by when he was small. As we round the corner people start coming from all directions. Smiling, hugging, laughing people. People carrying on in Amharic, embracing him and looking into his stunned eyes for recognition. 'Does he remember them?' and 'Wow, how he's grown!'

He is passed through several unfamiliar hugs on his way to the one he is waiting for- the one that he came all these miles for.

“I'm really shaky” he says to me.

He does look unsteady. As we draw nearer to the small dwelling that used to be his home, we stop for a brief second.

“You ready?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

He leads the way for the last few meters and then suddenly the moment is upon him. With arms outstretched she runs to him and throws them around her son. She buries her head in his shoulder crying, then crosses to the other shoulder and embraces again.  And then back again. She let's go for a moment to take him in. She can't believe the truth in front of her. She embraces him again. This is what he came here for. This is what she has dreamed of.

In this moment, the beautiful nature of God is plain. To reconcile- to mend the broken hearted, to make broken things whole again. This is the mysterious and perfect work He accomplished on the cross. Through his one act of selfless love, the sacrifice of His very life, He made a way out of the brokenness of this world; out of the pain and hurt and into a life of wholeness. Here, now, these lives are being made whole again, the empty spaces are being filled.  

His kingdom come.

We walk together to the house and step across the threshold. We all pile in together maneuvering around one another for a place to settle. Dawit, myself and our translator sit in a row along the edge of the bed. Kidist takes the place on a low crate in front of our dangling legs. Yetayo (her husband) takes a seat on a yellow jerry can beside the door. Faces crowd around the doorway- smiling, beaming faces, here to see the news- in the flesh. Dawit's half-brother, 3 year old Yonas, has been spreading the news around the neighborhood since yesterday, “My brother is coming!” But when Dawit is really here, Yonas makes himself scarce and is afraid to come close. People sit around outside the door. Someone puts on music. It's a party; a celebration!

Dawit looks around his childhood home in disbelief then turns to me, “Did this place shrink? It feels like they cut it in half!” His question is so genuine that the translator asks if the one room house had undergone any size reduction! They smile and reassure Dawit that it's the same as it has always been. It is only perspectives that have changed.

So many people come calling as we sit there! They come to the door and lean across the fire where Kidist is roasting the coffee beans for ceremony. They reach to Dawit to shake his hand and they congratulate Kidist on this momentous day. Each guest wants to know if Dawit remembers them and then they tell how close they used to be. “I was your childhood friend”, “I was your neighbor who cared for you”, “I tried to visit you in the orphanage but they wouldn't let me in”.

They all marvel that he can not longer speak his childhood language. I explain to them about the transition to America and how the adopted child's brain is bombarded with so much new information- new language, school, food, family and culture that it is often impossible to retain the past. They all nod in agreement and understanding. Dawit's lack of communication doesn't bother them a bit. They continue to beam and cluck their tongues in amazement. Many run home to get old photos they have of Dawit, Dagmawit (Josie) and Robel when they were small and still beloved members of their community. Photos of birthday parties and gatherings when a tiny Dawit held on to a tinier Robel and Josie is embraced by childhood friends. Depictions of children who knew nothing of the upheaval and heartache that lay ahead of them.

During coffee ceremony Dawit reads the letters from his siblings through our translator updating their mama on their foreign lives in the United States. Lives of learning to read, loving a pet dog, playing sports. She listens and smiles and stirs the blackening beans.

She thanks and blesses and thanks again for bringing Dawit back to see the family. I tell her, “God's intention for family is not to sever the bonds and send children away simply for lack of food. When you gave up your children in order to save them, there was a breaking. Dawit comes back today so that you and he can both heal. We do it for healing.” She nods emphatically, seeing him is healing her pain.

She tells us that giving up her three was the hardest thing she ever had to do. She was sick over it. Her body responded with high blood pressure and anxiety. While they were at the orphanage waiting for a family to adopt them, she wanted so badly to get them back. She went to see them and asked Dawit if he wanted to come home. Through tears he told her, “Mom, it will be better for you without having to take care of us.” And so, she left them there with the hopes of a better life for them and survival for her.

During this time, she shares a dream she once had: In her dream she asked Dawit,

“Dawit, will you forget me?”

“Mom, I will not forget you.” He answered.

“Dawit, will you ever forget me?”

“No Mom, I will never forget you.”

Then she woke up crying.

Our time together ends sweetly, with promises of coming back tomorrow to visit yet more family in a neighboring area. So many smiles, so much relief; like a great weight has been lifted.

lunch with a friend

Maaza greets me on the street. Selamno! We exchange our three cheek kisses. She is still on the same corner another year later; selling her "bekolo" (corn).  She invites me over for coffee that very day but my day is full. “Another time”, I tell her. She nods, smiling. The next day, I see her again in the morning with little Binium in tow. I grab him up and kiss him and tell her in my limited Amharic, "later today okay?" She nods and we part ways.

Later in the day, Pastor Tesfaye takes me to her home.  After some walking, he pushes open a tin door along the side of the road. Stepping in off the streets into the small clusters of homes is like entering a new world. Life slows from the busy traffic of cars and people to the intimate moments of daily living. There are spices drying out in the sun, clothes hanging on the line, a smoking “enjera house” in which the daily supply of enjera (traditional bread) is prepared. A women is bent over a washbasin with soapy water and clothes. Children play about. Narrow pathways lead to the small homes made of sticks and mud.

We follow a narrow path past a couple of low doorways until we reach Maaza's doorway. Tesfaye calls out and Maaza answers. She pulls back the curtain and says, “Gibu!” (Come in!) We step into the dimly lit room which is her home and carefully over glowing coals burning in a small cook stove. She pats the bed for us to sit down. We sit for a moment and I tell Tesfaye that I can stay here alone and he can go back to his office; back to his work. After he's sure that I'm sure, he leaves and she leaves with him and I am sitting alone on the edge of her bed with the jebena of coffee steaming on the coals at my feet. She is gone for enough time for me to wonder- I wonder lots of things. I wonder where she is and how long I will sit here alone in her home. I wonder if the coffee is going to boil over and if it does should I remove it from the coals? I look around her home and wonder what it's like to live here. In this dark room with my son? My son with HIV.

I take this opportunity to take pictures; capturing the experience (flash makes everything looks bright but in reality, it's very dim). The walls of dirt are covered with traditional posters- a woman pouring coffee, a child and mother, Jesus Christ himself holding open a Greek Bible. On the shelf there is a tv showing Ethiopian dancing, photos frames with her sons and other family members. One lightbulb hanging in the center of the room and a small corrugated plastic skylight over her bed offer dim lighting.

She returns after a while with two glass bottled sodas, Mirinda and Pepsi, and a bag with bread and bananas. She places them in a plastic basket and hands it to me and commands “Bee!” which means “eat!”. She hands me a soda but I don't have an opener and so she disappears again. After she comes back and opens my soda, she props her bed pillows behind me and picks up my legs and muddy shoes up onto her bed. I am now in an extremely awkward position, reclining on her bed, while she takes a low seat by the fire. As her guest, I will myself to stay in this position only until the unequal status it suggests forces me to sit up. Instead, I lean on the pillows in appreciation.

She breaks the bananas apart and puts one in my hand, “Bee!”. I will eat a banana (my least favorite of foods) only for such a wonderful person as her, for such a grand moment as this! I give one to her and parrot her command to me, “Bee!” She smiles and takes and peels and eats. We eat bananas together in silence. I pull out all of the Amharic I know to make as much conversation as I can as we sit together eating bananas. We don't get very far with conversation but that's okay. She removes the coffee from the coals and pours me some. I balance a bottle of Mirinda, a cup of coffee, a banana and some bread on my lap. So many gifts. She replaces the coffee pot now with a pot full of prepared potatoes and berbere and other spices. She stirs this food and it looks like this is not just coffee but a lunch date as well.

I've been here for about 30 minutes when all of the boys arrive. My son, Dawit, who is having the time of his life here in his hometown, along with 5 other boys. They have just been playing soccer and now have found me. They all tumble into the room and she welcomes them warmly. Some on the floor, some on the trunk by the door, two leaning in the doorway and three on the bed. All pressed up together in each other's space. Now begins the joking and laughter of youth who retell stories of today's game and of movies they have seen. All the while 5 year old Binium laughs and somersaults on the bed behind us soaking up the attention of all this company.

We sit here together waiting for the potatoes to cook. This expanse of time, friendship, laughter and generosity is all gift and I am thankful. One of the boys comes around with a pitcher and basin for us to wash our eating hand. Soon the potatoes are done and spooned onto the enjera on a platter and then put onto a boys lap. We all laugh when the platter burns his thighs and Maaza shoves a towel under there. All together we partake of this platter and pass around the Pepsi and Mirinda. Sharing everything, each one considering the other. 

After each one is beckoned to eat more than they have room for, the pitcher is passed again to clean the eating hand again and it's soon time to go. With hugs and cheek kisses, I offer my thanks and appreciation for everything. It is so much more than I expected. It always is.

He's loved on today

Ten year old _______ has no mother. His father is so severely disabled that he has to walk on his hands. No one, except the local church, takes care of him. He dresses in filthy tattered rags and his toes can be seen through the holes in the tops of his sneakers. I have seen this boy three years in a row now. The first time I saw him, he caught my attention because he so eagerly sang along to all of the songs we led at Vacation Bible School. Today, the leaders in the church unzip a suitcase and call him in. They hold new jeans and shirts up to his small body to check for the right size. He undresses right there and pulls the new jeans up and smiles. They give him two shirts and he puts them both on. They are green and say St Patricks Day 2012. He thinks they're great. They take the old shoes off and put on a pair of white socks and addidas shoes. Black with white stripes and green laces. He looks like a new boy. He looks loved. Not that every dirty child is unloved; not at all. But this guy is neglected and uncared for and today he was loved on. When he leaves the church compound, the leaders tell him to walk a different way home; away from the crowds of kids, because if the kids see him with his new, clean clothes, they will come running and asking for theirs. There is never enough to go around.

I won't get used to this.

She kissed my hand for 1 birr. “Egzabiher yabarkot” I said quietly as I tucked the bill into her fingerless hand- “God bless you”. She held onto me then and kissed my hand repeatedly as if I'd given her a great gift. And now I wish I had. One stupid, tiny birr. I'm shaken. How poor and broken does one have to be, to feel so blessed by one birr? One birr equals 5 American cents. She is wrapped in the traditional gauzy white clothes of the Ethiopian culture. One hand with no fingers at all; all eaten by leprosy. Her tiny eyes sunken in a wrinkled face. She sits on the ground with a piece of paper in front of her; a rock at each corner keeps it from blowing away. On the paper are coins placed by the passersby who have pity. This is where she has landed. At the end of her life, this is how she spends her time.  Sitting in the dirt, begging for her next meal.