Today after Amharic school, I
walked to a corner café called The Coffee Shop. My friends and I will often eat
lunch there before or after work because it is close to Kore. I chose a table
outside by the railing to enjoy the breeze. I ate alone today, listening to praise
songs on my ipod as I scooped up sheep meat in my hand with soggy injera. They always give too much injera, and when the meat was gone, two oil
sopped rolls were left on my plate. I rose to go wash my hands in the little
sink in the back. When I returned to pay, I saw a haggard looking man standing
on the ground below staring at my table. His eyes were wide, bulging, and
desperate. His greasy hair sprung out from under an old filthy cap, and his
face resembled that of an un-mowed lawn of burned grass. The jacket he wore had
surely not left his body for the past twenty years, nor his pants for that
matter. In his hands he held out a piece of flat cardboard. There was a small
pile of the like on the ground, from whence I’m sure he claimed it. He hollered
brashly at the waiter, who looked disgusted to be communicating with him at
all. Then the waiter picked up the plate I’d left, and slid the oily rolls of
injera onto the man’s awaiting cardboard. His hands retreated, folded the
cardboard, tucked it under his arm, and tramped away. I swallowed hard and took
my seat. I never get used to seeing hungry people. Especially when those hungry
people are eating things I have wasted.
There
are countless vagrants on the street here. The sit in the street with their
deformity, wound, or hungry baby displayed. They cut me off on the path as I
walk, telling me why I must give them money. They thrust their cracked,
withered hands through window in the taxi where I sit, staring boldly into my
eyes. They have no pride, no concept of worth as a human being. Last week I
passed a man on the street lying on his side with legs and no arms. Yesterday I
stepped over a man’s swollen leg, covered in sores. I want to help them all. I
want to treat every wound, hold every hand, and give every beggar 100 birr. But
I can’t. I cannot unfold a suitcase of medicine in the street, nor do I have
the resources to care for every person that would line up if I did. 100 birr
won’t help that beggar. He needs a job. It is so easy for us American
missionaries to walk in and want to instantly solve the issues presented. They
are dramatic issues, and we are from a culture that preaches instant
gratification. Fix it fast. Fix it now. But so often we put a band-aid on a corpse.
I am not here to give out band-aids.
I pray, “Oh God, show me when helping hurts.”
I am anxious to share the Gospel with these
beggars. I want to sit beside them on the street and tell them of a God who
hears their cries for help, who has the ultimate solution. Please pray for my
language to come quickly, that I may do so. Amharic school is going well, and
submersion is certainly convenient. But I am praying that the Lord will give me
the language as a gift, that I may share the hopeful news of salvation with
them. I pray for my patients in the clinic in English, but want to pray with
them in their own tongue so they can understand. Please pray for me in this
area.
The rainy season has closed, and
now we have sun every day. Every Ethiopian is relieved. Personally, I miss the
rain…. The children are doing well in school. We will soon be distributing
their first batch of monthly supplies: soap, exercise books, etc… I can’t
believe they’ve already been in school for a whole month. Time is like a locomotive.
I turned 21 last Saturday.
Everybody raise your glass! Nobody panic. Just kidding. My friends threw me a
surprise birthday party, showered me with gifts, and took me out for dinner. Thank you everyone for all
the birthday messages, cards, and calls! I had a great day. Not many kiddos get
to spend their 21st birthday in Africa.
I never did prefer to be
like everyone else…..
