Tadessa

           Some days there are five or less people to be seen at the clinic. Other days there is a crowd waiting and a steady flow of new arrivals until we finally close the door. This day, about a month and a half ago, was one of those seemingly endless stream of people days. A man came in that I didn’t recognize and told me that his father was sick and I needed to come see him in his home. He said he couldn’t walk, was very sick, and had some wounds. I asked how long he had been unable to walk or leave his home. He said his dad had been in bed for a year and eight months. All you medical people out there just yelled, “Bed Sores!” That’s exactly what I said. I told him that when I finished with all the patients who were at the clinic I would follow him to his home to see his dad. The man sat on the bench for the next hour and a half waiting for me. The final patient treated, I locked the door and followed the man to his home. It was very close to the church compound where the clinic is, so my parental readers can take a deep breath. J I was not in danger.

I ducked into the dark home, and before my eyes adjusted I could smell the man inside. The entire home is one room. No windows. Just a small table and bed, on which a very wilted old man lay under a heavy felt blanket.

 He had leprosy before, as evidenced by his stubbed feet, fingerless hands, and empty eye sockets. Although now healed from the leprosy, he was completely lame and blind. Flies covered him. They crawled into his nose and flocked in the holes where his eyes had been. I grasped his hand, introducing myself before pealing back the blanket. The man was emaciated, and the smell when I removed that blanket was unlike anything my young nostrils had ever suffered. I took a quick look at the wounds that were there and ran back to the clinic to get what I needed. I grabbed a huge bag of masks along with the wound dressings.

 I put three masks over my mouth and nose for the smell, but still as I cleaned and dressed his sores I audibly gagged several times. I was grateful for his hearing loss in that case. He would turn slowly and cooperatively as I needed him to, and would call out, “Hakim!” (Doctor). There were balloons of pus under his skin in two places, which I drained.  As I worked he yelled and jerked in pain. Each time I uncovered a wound, flies would flock to it. I found scores of maggots crawling between his legs and inside his wounds. They may have been doing something good, but I pulled them all off him. I rolled him over onto his other side to reveal a small open pressure ulcer on his hip. I couldn’t believe how small it was for having laid on it for a year and eight months. There was no sheet on the bed. He was lying on layers of coats. They were so dirty – straw, dead skin, and small stones caked into his sores. There was a lake of thick pus from his wounds underneath him, and he was also incontinent. After cleaning him as best I could, I removed the top layer of coats and put a disposable towel underneath him. I covered his body again with the blanket and prayed with him before leaving. I put him on an antibiotic and pain medicine, and instructed the neighbor lady in the room to turn him frequently, and to change the dressings every day like I had, and that I would come every three days.

I went to his home every three days as I promised. Every time I came, it was worse. The smell lessened, but the pus continued to drain from his body like a spring. And the wounds got bigger and bigger. The true size and depth of them was slowly revealed, until one day he moved his leg, and I realized I was looking at his muscle. Then I saw his bone. Eventually, his entire hip was bare and open.

I visited him on a Thursday and found two screws – apparently he had had surgery at some time - sticking out about an inch in the midst of it all. The wound was yellow, and Tadessa was cold and lethargic.

 Two young ladies from my church were with me on this day - Mandy and Abby Forenz. They had been adopted from Ethiopia four years ago, and were revisiting for the first time. I warned them before entering Tadessa’s home that it was going to be difficult and emotional. I was so proud of both of them when inside. Abby opened and passed me supplies while Mandy spoke soothing words and held Tadessa’s arms that were unconsciously fighting me. When we finished with the wound dressing, we knelt to pray with him. I again prayed that the Lord would just take him quickly. Tears fell from all our eyes, as we realized this man’s time on this earth was almost spent.

I went to his house again the next morning. The door was locked, but when I looked through the cracks I saw the bed was gone. There was a tent outside with people inside it. This is called the likso bet. It’s a place of mourning where people will come and sit with the family for over a week. “He’s gone,” I said. “Praise God.”

Sometimes my job here in Korah is a lot of fun. It’s always hard work, but there is a lot of instant gratification. People are often so appreciative, and I see the fruit of my labor. That part makes it such a pleasure. Other times, like this one, it can be very hard. The first time I met Tadessa, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to make him well again. He was a hospice patient. It was painful to watch him get worse and not be able to stop it. I had the privilege, however, of praying with him often, and reminding him that he was not alone. I told him every time that Jesus was walking with him, and would not leave him. He had four sons – three in the federal prison and the one who brought me lived in the countryside. Everyone had left this man.

But Jesus, Creator of the world, never left him - a reminder also to the healthy.

Marta 'n Me

Many of the kids in our program attend a local school here in Addis. Those children come to the church for lunch every school day, and then return to their classes. The clinic and the feeding program are in the same compound, so if Emily or I am at the clinic around lunch time, all the local school kids are there too. This should be a great system for us to see them and address their medical needs. It is, however, a terrible system, and one that I prefer to avoid. The reason being, that the children are not honest about their ailments. They will all crowd in around the door to see the “doctor” and make up the most pathetic story they can come up with.

They want bandages and chapstick, lotion, toothpaste, vitamins and bandaides! If they had a need I would gladly give them those things, but in fact the majority of the time they do not need those things! They know what to say to get the yummy medicine. “I am coughing.” for cough drops. “My stomach is upset.” for Tums. Sometimes I purposely give them a half dose of the nasty tasting cough syrup so they don’t tell me that lie again.

It is also a battle to get them to come in one at a time. The moment I stick my key into the   lock there is a herd of blue sweaters stampeding me into the door. I try to push them all out and slowly let one person in at a time. Sometimes they simply won’t get out. I do one of two things. I jump up on the examination table, cross my arms, stick out my lip, and refuse to treat until they all leave, or I beat them out with the clinic broom. We don’t have to be politically correct around here. Often, one or two of the students will self-appoint and stand at the door and filter the patients in for me. Sometimes that is helpful, and other time I just want that self-appointed gate keeper on the other side of the door too!

(This is not Marta)

This past week, I was having one of those days. Cough drops, chapstick, broom beatings, the whole nine yards. A student named Marta was guarding my door. She is one of the worst for asking. Admittedly, when I see her come, sometimes I groan to myself. This day, though, she was actually quite helpful keeping back the crowds. When I finally had enough and closed the door she picked up a mop and a rag and started cleaning the floor and wiping down the room. She worked until I stopped her. I started down the road, and Marta followed me. As we walked she merrily chatted along like any fourteen year old girl. I quite enjoyed her.

She paused for a minute and asked me where my boyfriend, Murad, lived. I told her the area, and then she inquired whether I lived with him or not. I was surprised by her bold question, but thrilled to answer her. Murad has told me that almost all dating couples here sleep together, Christian or not, and that the students probably assume we do too. Earlier, Marta had noticed two rings on my fingers and asked who had given them to me. I referred back to that question and explained the concept of my purity ring. I told her I have worn it every day since my dad gave it to me on my 16^th birthday, and will wear it until I give it to my husband on my wedding day. She was amazed, and marveled at the idea of purity.

Then I asked her what her family religion is. She told me that her father is dead, her mother is Orthodox, but she (with her chest puffed out) is Protestant. J After more conversation I realized she really had very little understanding of salvation through Christ. Orthodoxy is a very works-based faith. They worship saints, angels, and God together. They fast, pray, and go to church on schedules. There is no love or relationship between God and man. They are threatened by Hell and are working to earn a place in Heaven. Marta asked me many questions about angels, sin, Jesus, and salvation. I told her the story of the fall of man, how sin entered the world, and how man’s relationship with God was consequently broken. I told her how the wrath of God was upon the world in response to our sin, and that we needed a perfect blood sacrifice to satisfy His wrath. And then I told her of the amazing gift of Jesus Christ, how he willingly came and satisfied that wrath on our behalf. And by grace we are saved through faith. Praise God.

Many of you have been praying for my language learning, that I would pick up Amharic quickly. One of my goals was to share Christ with someone by Easter. Marta does not speak English. This entire conversation was in Amharic. She listened intently, chin on her knuckles, understanding everything I said. My sentence structure was not perfect. I’m sure many of my words were pronounced incorrectly. But Marta heard the Gospel by the work of the Holy Spirit from my mouth. I can finally be a mouth piece.

One broken vessel.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

 

የ አግዘአያበሄር ስም  የመስገን 

               

Six Cents and a Handful o' Spit

I was walking from one taxi to another in Macanisa, headed home. Sitting on the ground, knees folded to her bony chin, was a little beggar woman. She didn’t look up when I walked by. She only saw above my dusty Toms the whiteness of my ankles, which triggers for a beggar blinking dollar signs. Her arm bounded up and down more aggressively and she yelled louder, “Se le Mariam! Se le Gabriel! Se le Igzyabeher!” (For the sake for Mary, Gabriel, and God.)

 I pass hundreds of beggars in a week. Every day, on every street they are there. They hold out there crinkled palms, step out to block my path, bang the cloth in front of them, tilt their heads, moan, and send out their small children to run after me. I have learned the hard lesson that I cannot hand money and food to every beggar that intercepts me. I can’t, but it’s hard. A lot of my perspective on them changed when I began the hospice program and realized how many of these people I personally knew were on some street doing this for their living. Most beggars – I have also learned that not all – depend on their beggings for income. Their food, their rent, their water, their health care.

I often drink machiatos at a café on a main strip with friends. There are easily ten beggars sitting on that strip daily. Some of them have children, some disabilities – blindness, missing limbs, etc…

            We sit out on the porch most of the time, which gives me a clear view of the walkway on which the beggars sit. I watch people, Ethiopians and foreigners alike, hurry or mosey through. The beggars call out to each person, but no one looks down. Everyone sets their faces forward and does not acknowledge the calls. This is not hard to believe. It’s extremely awkward to have someone looking up at you asking for money. What gets me more, is that even when people stop and give them money they do not look at them.

They drop the coins carelessly on the cloth without stopping. Never is there eye contact, or a sense of a person to person exchange. Beggars are dehumanized by the rest of us. Also the passersby are dehumanized by the beggars, only seen by them as potential donors. I observe these things intently from my seat at the café - my sociology teacher would be so proud haha – and wonder about my own behavior when I walk this street. I was ashamed to realize that I do as all the others. I walk by with my face forward, acknowledging with my eyes and my smile the world that is walking as tall as I am, but dehumanizing those sitting at my feet. I still know that I cannot stop and give to every beggar, but I can meet them. I can learn their names and their stories. I can hug their children and show them there is more to a ferenge than an opportunistic dollar. My dream is to sit down next to each one and tell them I will give them 50 birr if they will listen to a story. And then I will tell them the story of the fall of man and of grace that cannot be begged or earned, but is given by a wonderful, merciful God. I cannot do that yet. I can tell the creation story, and the story of Noah. Next I will start on the life of Jesus. By God’s grace I will tell the rest of the story soon.

So all of this was in my mind when I passed the little folded up lady in Macanisa this week. I started to pass and stopped. At my hesitation, she again began to cry louder, “Se le Mariam! Se le Gab-“ 

           “Simish man neow?” I grabbed her outstretched fingerless hand and interrupted her. (What is your name?)

She stopped begging and smiled the biggest smile a person can smile with only two teeth. “Werkaye!  Werkaye! Werkaye!” She repeated her name again and again, and then bade me to say it.

“Werkaye. Werkaye!” I got the explosive ‘k’ the second time.

“Yes! Yes! Werkaye!”

 I don’t think she would have been happier to shake the hand of the queen of England, and I had never been acknowledged as a person by a beggar either.  For the first time we saw each other. I was no longer a white ankled wallet and she was not another faceless crinkled palm. Praise the Lord. I reached in my pocket and placed a ten birr in her hand. Once in a blue moon does a beggar receive ten birr. Most donations are not more than coins, and even one birr is generous. She popped her crusty little eyes open in astonishment.  She again seized my hand and kissed the whole of it. Then she turned my hand over, opened my fingers, and she spit in my hand three times. Three times. She spit…in my hand. It’s a good thing I’m not in the healthcare system or that might have really grossed me out lol. I am in the healthcare system…and it was pretty gross. But I remembered that in the movie, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”, all the relatives spit on the bride all the way down the isle and they were blessing her. Not that Greece and Ethiopia have many things in common, but I wagered that the puddle of spit in my hand was no less than three blessings from a beggar. Ten birr is equal to six cents. That was not a sacrifice for me. It cost me nothing from my purse. It cost me a handshake, a smile, a moment of my time….and the need to really really wash my hands. J

Werkaye was made in the image of God, planned from the beginning of time same as me, same as all of us. And he can say her name perfectly.

They Bless Us

I haven’t written much about the hospice program that I am working with, so I thought I would give you a window into what we do here through hospice ministry. Strong Hearts is a wonderful and Christ centered ministry in Korah that I was exposed to on my first ten day trip to Ethiopia. There are a wide variety of things offered through Strong Hearts, including an academy for preschool, kindergarten, and elementary, micro-financing and skill training, street kid’s center, coffee farming, and hospice.

I began working with the hospice program when I first came to Ethiopia in August. When I started Phase 1 in Amharic school, however, I no longer had the time. I have chosen for Phase 2 Amharic to have a tutor instead. This significantly freed up my schedule so I was able to return to Strong Hearts and rejoin their hospice team. I work with them on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings. I praise God for the opportunity to work with this staff and serve the people of Korah in this way. Ironically, it is largely a blessing to me. On the team, there are three nurses, a pharmacist, and many spiritual encouragers. (In the picture with me is Elilta, the pharmacist and my dear friend. Oh, and I'm the really white one. ;) )

We sing praise songs – well they sing Amharic praise songs and I listen ;) – and pray each morning before going out. There are 25 patients at one time permitted in the program, all of which are infected in some stage with HIV AIDS, tuberculosis, or cancer.  We go in groups of three or four into patient’s homes to assess their physical, mental, and spiritual state. Much of the medicine for these patients is provided by government programs, so we provide over the counter medication, counseling, and palliative care.

We give them emotional support and spiritual encouragement by listening to their concerns and praying with them. Their concerns are many. A typical response is worry for the provision of their children when their illness has finally beaten them. “Who will care for my children? Will they go hungry? I have no husband. Who will pay the rent?” Questions every mother would ask. I am never unaffected when we ask them what their current occupation is and they respond, “Beggar”.  

I think of a new patient who has tuberculosis. Her beauty strikes me every time we visit her. Although we wear masks in her home, she covers her mouth with the scarf on her head to shield us from her breath. I can only see her eyes most of the time, but they are deep and dark and tell a story of pain, of hardship, of soul. I sit beside her and listen to her breathe with my stethoscope. God gave her that breath whispering in and out of her sick lungs. Sometime in her life, she made a poor decision, or someone else made a selfish decision that cost her her health. I grieve for these people, who helplessly and hopelessly wait for death to come. It is our privilege to tell them the hope they have in Jesus. We prayed with a patient who received Jesus last week! Praise God!

There is a mother and daughter who are both patients in the program. They both have HIV AIDS, and the daughter has a ten month old baby. Neither woman has a husband. To whom will the baby go? What will happen to him?

 I can’t answer all the questions, but I fall on the God who can answer and does every time. I praise the God who clothes the lilies of the fields and feeds the birds of the air. It is not my or anyone’s responsibility to despair for these people, although it is so natural to do so. It is our responsibility as the church to see them, hear them, and not ignore them, but to pray with them, for them, and tell them about this wonderful God with all the answers. The most difficult thing is His answers are not always what I would have chosen or what I think seems fair. I can only trust that He is sovereign and knows exactly what we need. Igzabeher yimesgen.

Please pray for the hospice ministry and those of us involved. Pray that we would be encouraging to the patients in their desperate state, and that the Lord would open their ears to the mystery of the Gospel. Pray for the safety of the staff as we enter dark homes with tuberculosis in the air and HIV in their veins. Pray for us that we will be led to the patients God has for the program, as all patients are referred to us by others.

The Lord is abundantly using the hospice ministry in Korah. I am so blessed to be a small part of it. I love walking along the paths of Korah and voices from many corners yell, “Kela! Kela!” They know my name, and I know theirs. When I think about HIV AIDS and TB victims of the world, I have many faces attached. They are not statistics in my mind anymore. It is the most humbling and the most amazing thing to kneel by the sickbed of a dying woman, take her stained weather-beaten hand in mine and pray. They bless God and bless us as we leave.

How true it is that they bless us.

 

The Beginning

Ah Monday morning. I faced it eight hours before America. It was a beautiful Monday. It was the beginning. Emily and I went to the clinic together this morning. Monday is a distribution day for baby formula and plumpy nut. While Emily distributed, I saw patients. I was there for a few hours treating people and organizing the store room. We have a recent problem with pigeons flying in through the gap between the walls and the roof. At least three times as I examined people I grabbed a broom and aggressively attacked the trespassing birds. Not sure what to do about that…the birds I mean.

A wonderful girl named Cristiana has come on the scene. She is waiting on an entrance exam to go to medical school in Italy. Cristiana is half Italian and half Ethiopian, and can speak both perfect Amharic and English. She often comes to the clinic and translates for Emily and I, which makes a huge difference for us in assessment of the patients. She was with me all morning.

Yangoosey came through the door, smiling as usual, with a contented Abreham on her back. (Abreham is the child with Down syndrome whose medical visa for heart surgery has been processing for several months.)

 

Friday she had invited me to come to lunch on Monday, and here she was to lead me to her home. She welcomed Cristiana to join us, and I locked the clinic door. We followed her through the Korah maze of stones and houses. It is so dusty right now. We filed into her one room home. The ceiling is higher than in most homes. The walls made of cracked mud are not painted. Cristiana and I sat on Yangoosey’s bed and she hospitably served us a delicious (and slightly dangerous for the ferenge intestines) meal. By the time we were finished eating Yangoosey had a coffee ceremony well under way, and the smell of burning incense and percolating coffee filled the room.

There were a million children – well like eight – that were sitting along the wall watching Cristiana and I talk. I told her that I was learning to read and write in Amharic, and that I was learning with a wordless book to tell the Creation story from Genesis. Then I remembered I had the book in my bag. So I pulled it out and asked the children and Yangoosey if they would like to hear a story. Children are children everywhere, and immediately leaned into the bed to see the pictures. “Beu majambria menim alleu. Igzabeher bichahon nebere…” In the beginning there was nothing. Only God was there… I began with that. And little by little, stumble by stumble, I told them about the creation of all the animals, and man, and woman, and God’s command, and Satan’s lie, and their disobedience, and the consequences, and ended with: “Ahun hatiat weudeu alem geba.” Now sin had entered the world. And they understood me!!! I was amazed. I was thankful. I was humbled. I celebrated it in my heart for the rest of the day.

I am working very hard on the language, but I do not pretend that my hard work is what is making it stick. I have asked many many people to pray for me to learn the language quickly, and I just want to tell those of you who are praying thank you. God is answering speedily. I have soooo much more to learn, but today was victorious.

Today I told the first story in the Bible. Today was the beginning.

Fish, Like Jesus

                Wednesday morning at 6:15, Sumer knocked on my door and informed me that her youngest was ill. She was therefore going to stay home and care for him. She read me my list of things to do, messages to relay, and receipts to collect while I tried with some difficulty to keep my eyeballs open. She finished and started for the door, “Oh, and Sami Driver is coming at 6:30 not 7.”

                We were driving to Shashamene to pick up our students and bring them home for a two week break. It’s always a full day when we truck 216 children 3 ½ hours home. I enjoy it though. They are always excited to go home. Home is home, even if home is Korah.

                We had driven over two hours, and everyone was hungry. “Kayla,” Yiesmachew started, “Do you want fish? Fresh fish. Very nice.” Murad nodded, “Yes, very fresh.” We drove down one dirt path, and then another. I was gracious. “Ok, sounds nice……It is cooked isn’t it? Murad?” I hadn’t finished speaking when I noticed a barefoot man walking on the road. He held in his left hand a string, and sure enough dangling from their lips were six very fresh fish. “Uh…Murad?” Sami stopped the van and spoke with the man for a few minutes. “Lord? Please don’t make me eat those fish!” I pleaded. I praised the Lord loudly when we continued to drive. I was sure that was the “fresh fish” for breakfast.

         We drove into a compound by a large lake. There was a herd of cattle wading into the water,

                                                                                                                       and large hideous birds walking on stick-legs in the marsh. They were so ugly, in fact, that I approached one just to ask it, “Excuse me, but do you know how truly ugly that you are?” We walked along the shore until we reached a huge shoala tree by which several women were frying fish.

 

We joined other men who were sitting on wooden benches around the fires. “Kayla! Mirinda, Coka, Sprite?” “Mirinda.” A woman with fishy fingers popped the cap and handed me a warm Mirinda (orange soda). Damp spices clung to the bottle, and I should not have sniffed them. A boy passed through the benches holding a gutted fish by its gills and passed it one of the women. It was dripping with lake water. Fresh fish. She sliced into its body three times, slapped on the seasoning, and dropped it in oil. The gills opened in the heat. “Murad, I have to pee,” I whispered. “Where can she pee?” He asked the ladies loudly. I did not understand the entire conversation, but they motioned toward the shoala tree behind them. He shook his head. I started to assess its potential. It was, after all, the size of a small bathroom in diameter. “Nope,” he decided. We left our fishy Mirindas and walked around for some time before I promised I could just hold it. I sat down and a plate was handed to me. The fish was whole – gills, head, skin, bones, lips – whole. The eyeballs were the only thing missing, for they had melted into the mush of the skull.

 

Murad thanked God in Amharic for our breakfast, and dug in. “Do you know how?” he asked me. “I’ll figure it out.” It was the best fish I had ever had. I ate two all by myself – with exception to the heads, which I gave to Murad. Everyone has their limits.

As I finished the second one, I looked over the lake and wondered if this is how Jesus cooked his fish that day he made his disciples breakfast by the Sea of Tiberias. The disciples could not catch fish that night. From the beach, Jesus told them to cast their nets on the right side of the boat. One hundred fifty three fish were caught in their net immediately. They pulled them to land, and Jesus invited them for breakfast. He gave them bread and fish He had already prepared. My imagination now tastes the fish and hears the fire snapping.

Then three times Jesus asked Peter, “Do you love me more than these? Do you love me? Do you love me?” Each time Peter replied, “Yes Lord, you know I love you.” And three times Jesus said, “Then shepherd my sheep…..Follow me!” I thought about the first time Jesus said those words to the disciples. He found them fishing and said, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” They spent the next three years learning what He meant by that.

We are called first to follow Jesus. Then to fish.

We are to fish, like Jesus.  

 

 

 

 

Ferenge Again

Ferenge Again

Our trip to America could not have been more perfect. God gave so many confirmations to me over the two months that it was in His will for us to come home, and I am so grateful for the time. It was delightful and hilarious to watch Murad experience the multitude of firsts: drinking fountains, highways, Christmas, malls, grocery stores, McDonalds, four wheelers, snow, pop-rocks (HAH!) to just name a few! He marveled like a child at it all and thanked the Lord constantly for allowing him the privilege to come. “God is so good,” he repeatedly told me. “God is so good.” You just cannot wear out that phrase. God IS SO good. Friends, food, lack of bug bites...mmmm. The best part of the whole thing was getting my family back for a little while. I hadn’t expected to come home at all for a total of 13 months, but instead I came back after three. Every day at home I was reminded of what I had given up to move to Ethiopia, and it was very painful. I again was forced to count the cost of discipleship. Amazing just doesn’t cut it when I talk about my family. I have yet to count a cost greater than giving them up, for even one year. God must really enjoy doting on me. He gives and He takes away. He takes away and He gives. These last two months were a wonderful gift.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Heavenly lights who does not change with shifting shadows. – James 1:17

Although the shadows constantly shift, praise the Lord that He does not change.

Our final plane skidded down the runway and I slapped my forehead, “Oh man, I’m a ferenge again!” “Yes. Yes you are,” Murad replied with a triumphant grin. And ferenge I am. I walked to the clinic today from my home – roughly three and a half miles. (I plan to do that frequently so my American thighs may remain in my “skinny” jeans.) I stepped out my door in my little black flats, headed for the road. Stares. Glares. “Ferenge!!!” someone yelled. “Dang. They noticed.” The entire walk I was cat called, whispered about, pointed and laughed at, invited to male tea parties, and intercepted with hands wanting to be shaken. I made two babies cry and another child run behind a closed door. Lemen? Why? Because I’m different. Interestingly enough, these often irritating occurrences may become the very vehicle through which I can share the Gospel. The people notice me. They give ear to what I have to say.

I am starting Amharic school again next week, this time with a tutor. I think it will be more time efficient and I will be able to learn faster than in a class setting. I start immediately with the fidel (the written language). Anybody that has seen it just said, “Yikes.” I’m excited though. I am so anxious to gain a better grasp of the language. I can’t wait to have a full fledged conversation with people, disciple the girls in our program, pray in their own tongue, and especially share the Gospel! It will come in the Lord’s time. I asked my tutor to use a curriculum called Creation to Christ to teach me. This is the story of redemption using stories throughout the entire Bible. Ethiopia is a storytelling culture, and therefore I know the message will be clearer to them if told this way. It is six pages of stories, however, and Amharic is no piece of cake. So I would take all the prayers I can get as I study it. My goal is Easter. Ye Igzabeher ficad, ye hone. If the Lord wills, it will be.

I started with hospice again this morning in the Strong Hearts program, which I absolutely love. I so prefer to spend time with people individually, especially in their homes. Emily Cornish (the other RN that works with Project 61) has been doing a fantastic job here in the Kore clinic. It is looking better and working more efficiently every day. I love my job. Everything else is back to normal…whatever “normal” is in this country…  Electric is out, my shower doesn’t work, internet problems, belly rumbly, sunburn in January, bandana on my head. Yep. Normal.

Peace out, America. I’ll see you in September. Save me some of that cheddar cheese.

                                                                                       Sincerely,
                                                                                              Ferenge