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

 

Igzabeher Yimesgen (Praise God)

Last Thursday a medical team from America arrived in Addis, led by Emily’s mom, Cherrie Cornish.  What a gift they have been to us and to the community here! On Saturday we visited an orphanage which is home to thirty children. We had a baby station and an older child station. Each child was held, prayed over, and heard their name spoken in love. Orphanages are always emotional for me. This one was the cleanest, most organized one that I’ve seen, but there were still children in it. Those children have no families, and some of them never will. Ethiopia is very concerned with papers and stamps, and not so much about the person. If one paper is missing, or one thing was done out of order, a child becomes unadoptable. There are so many in this situation. They will grow up in that orphanage until they are (I think 16?), and then pushed out into the street. UNADOPTABLE. What an awful brand. I think sometimes for one reason or another people think they are unadoptable to God. Something they did, something they said, a deformity or disability that makes them undesirable to Him. Thank the Lord that we cannot be branded UNADOPTABLE by anybody or any government. Jesus set that adoption process in order a long time ago. We are ADOPTABLE for His purpose and glory. Igzabeher Yimesgen. Praise God.

One particular child captured my attention. She was on the third floor, in the farthest crib from the door, in the corner. She lay on her back, legs and arms sprawled in every direction. She looked like she might have Down’s Syndrome. Her hair was oily and stuck out in long thin strings like a sea anemone. She had dried mucous and saliva all over her face. Her skin was dull and dry. She labored to breath, and just stared at me. I guessed her to be nine months old. I tried to sit her up, but she did not have the strength to sit by herself. The nanny responsible for the babies in the room watched me carefully.

“Simat man neow?”  I asked. What is her name?

“Hiwat.” Replied the nanny.

Hiwat? In Amharic Hiwat means life.

“Sente weur neow esua?” How many months old is she?

“Hulet ameut.” Two years old.

I was stunned. I turned back to the malnourished child and lifted her weak body into my arms. Her mattress was imprinted where she had lain, and the back of her head was flat. I wondered when she had last been held or taken outside. She lay against my chest and rasped. I took Hiwat out on the balcony and sat down. She fussed a little, (probably because my milky white face scared her) haha. I prayed over her and talked to the Lord.

 “Why would you give a name like Hiwat to a child like this, Lord? Life? What kind of life will a child like this have? She likely will not ever have a family. She may not ever walk or run. She will probably die young. Why would you give her a name like Life?”

He answered me in His still small voice. “Life is not found in walking or running. Life is not about ice cream or snow mobile rides, or any of the things we define it by. Life is not even found in a family. Life is found in Christ Jesus, a relationship with Him. And we are adoptable! Hiwat is adoptable. She may have a simple mind. But sometimes I think simple people have a greater understanding of God than the intellects in this world. Hiwat can know God, have life, and have it abundantly. I held her and sang, “How Great is Our God” because He is.

The next day we arose at 4:00 AM and fell into the vans headed for Shashamene. We arrived about an hour and a half behind schedule, but no matter. This is Ethiopia. We set up our clinic inside a long building with several examination rooms. We had an eye/ear/teeth station, four doctor stations, and a pharmacy. I got to play pharmacist all day. J All of you medical people out there cover your eyes lest your head throbs from our defiance of alleged scope of practice. We worked until the kids came no more (about one hundred). Emily and I had made new charts for the children in our program for the year, so it was great to get a baseline assessment for most of them. We spent the night in Shashamene and left Monday morning for Akake, the second boarding school our kids attend. There are much less of our students there, so we only did clinic for a couple hours. Thoroughly spent, we packed up our meds and stethoscopes and headed back to Addis.

Tuesday we started clinic in Kore. We begin at 9:00 AM, break for lunch, and return to treat until 3:00 PM. I don’t have a final count yet. Today is our last day. Everything has gone very smoothly. One day, a watch battery was pulled out from the ear of one of our drivers. He told us that a child had put it in his ear twenty years ago, and he had never had good hearing in that ear. The battery was rusty and corroded. He could instantly hear. He held his head in his hands and wept, praising the Lord for His goodness.

 

 Yesterday was difficult for the team. There were a lot of sad cases. I had left the compound to run an errand, and heard my name being called. “Kayla!” a friend of mine called. I turned to see a boy climbing out of a car with the help of my friend and another man. I have only seen such a skinny person in pictures. His face was gaunt, his arms hanging from nothing but shoulder blades. I greeted him, but he could barely shake my hand. He wore a hooded sweatshirt that I don’t think was a big as it looked on him. I ran my hands down his sides. He was half the size he should have been. I felt only ribs. “He’s starving,” I thought. I led him into the clinic, helping him up the steps and down into a chair. The doctor examined him and listened to his caring father, who was the man accompanying him. “He is taking all the right medications,” The doctor said, “but he needs to be carefully monitored. He needs IV’s. He needs to be in the hospital.” The boy had cardiomyopathy. On the X-ray he showed us, his heart took up more picture than his rib cage. “He’s dying. There’s nothing we can do.” What an awful thing to hear. There’s nothing we can do. The doctor sat down with the father and the boy and explained with a translator that he needed to take him to a heart clinic for further treatment. Then he told them about the great Physician, the one who heals us from the inside out. They listened attentively, and we laid hands on them both to pray. Tears fell from many eyes as they left. Who can know how seeds planted will grow?

A baby came in with a large burn on his back. He screamed as they pealed back to dead skin and dressed it. It was dramatic, especially for the mother. Another lady came in seven months pregnant. She had ultrasounds with her from two weeks ago that showed the child she carried was dead. The hospital she went to did the ultrasound and told her, but left the baby inside. This morning I will take her to the clinic to be induced and deliver her child. Sometimes the work here is heavy.

Please pray for us as we wrap up the clinic today. Pray that the people needed to be seen will be seen. The line is never-ending, and we rarely see everyone that comes. The team leaves tomorrow. What a great blessing they have been to us and the people here.

God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good.

 

When Helping Hurts

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 21^st birthday in Africa.

 

I never did prefer to be like everyone else…..

 

 

For His Sake

Two weeks ago….

We forced our eyes open at 6:00 AM. Monday morning is rough in any country. Our van rolled into Kore and pulled up in front of the office. Sumer and I went inside to count workbooks, soap, and hair oil. Each student would receive a decided amount of these things. Two sighs of relief as we found the correct amount of each thing……besides the hair oil, which takes a certain backseat to soap or workbooks. The hair will just have to wait.

Kids collected at the gate gradually until we had a legitimate mob of them, along with parents and friends who had come to say good-bye. We hugged, kissed, and congratulated them while we waited for the buses. One by one the buses came, six of them. The doors folded open, creating instant chaos. It’s really very entertaining. When we were almost sure we had every child, the buses filed out as they had come. (It reminded me of the scene in Pinocchio when all the boys drove away hanging out of those carts.)  Luggage piled high atop the buses, their arms waived a frantic good-bye to loved ones and to Kore’s familiarity. The staff rode separately in our usual van, (thank you, Lord). We caravanned four hours south into the countryside, stopping only once to squat behind a cactus. That was an experience in itself, given the passing oxen and the army aunts that attempted to feast on my ankles. We arrived at the school ahead of the buses, stretched our legs, and organized the backpacks we would hand out to each student. Most everything went according to plan, and about four hours later our van was headed back to Addis.

We’ve been back to Shashamene twice since we dropped them off. Both trips were busy and fruitful. I have never been here for this part, but from what I understand, we will go every week for a while, and then eventually it will slow down.

Emily Cornish is the other RN that works here in Kore with Project 61. She and her husband had been in America for the last two months, and returned. It is so nice to have her back, working with me. She was here all last year, running the clinic in Kore and caring for the students in Shashamene. We work together now, which we both agree makes it much more pleasurable. We have been trying to bring more order to the clinic; labeling, boxing, and sorting medicines and supplies. It is quite the job. There are much much less patients coming to the clinic since two hundred and forty of them are in Shashamene. Now we see the families and students of Bright Hope school, a local school in which we have over a hundred sponsored children in our program. 

I had two delightful visitors last week. Tiffany from my home church came to bring her adopted daughter home. What a beautiful, and if I may mention, plump, little girl she is. It was so much fun watching Tiffany love and bond with her over the week. Tiffany was accompanied by Beth Forenz, who along with her husband John, is largely responsible for my being here in Ethiopia. Four years ago, in obedience to the Lord, they adopted three Ethiopian girls. The next year, John led a team of twelve from my church back to Ethiopia. I was on that team, and my life was obviously dramatically altered. Here I am, sitting in Ethiopia, drinking filtered water, listening to scores of quarreling dogs, scratching the bites on my legs, and it’s all their fault. Thanks a lot, guys. ;) I jest, but in all seriousness I am astounded at the difference in other’s lives that one decision can make. I am one of three people on that team who were called to missions in Ethiopia. Who can know the mind of God? Anyway, I had a wonderful time with Beth while she was here. I kept saying that I had my very own ferenge for the week. So nice to have a piece of home. I showed her my work in Kore and introduced her to the best chocolate ice cream in the world. We had a great time.

She also brought me two suitcases full of treasures from home, including my very own mamma’s whoopie pies. So good. I took one bite and my knees buckled. I fell on my bed and cried out, “Oh mom! Nefukshein betam!!! (I miss you so much).” I gave one to a friend to try. “This is called a whoopie pie,” I explained. He paused after the first taste and stared at me.

“Why did you come here?”

I get this question occasionally from people in Kore. They want to know why I left a rich developed country to come and work in “Hell”. They ask me what I find attractive about Ethiopia, or Kore specifically. It is a great testimony to the Lord and His leading, because I don’t have an answer for them. There is little attractive about Ethiopia, and nothing attractive about Kore. I left the most wonderful, peaceful, loving home. I will miss every birthday, my eldest brother’s driver’s test, my youngest brother’s first day of school, my parent’s 25^th wedding anniversary, the birth of my childhood best friend’s first baby. I close my eyes to them and turn to the people for whom my heart is broken, with the words of my God and my King echoing in mine ears, “He who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me….And he who does not take up his cross and follow after me is not worthy of me. He who has found his life shall lose it, and he who has lost his life for my sake shall find it.” (Matthew 10:37-39)

I am working every day to lose my life for His sake. Bless the Lord, bless the Lord, oh my soul.

Happy New Year!

 Greetings!

Today is the Ethiopian New Year. Malcam Addis Ameut Ethiopia! It is now 2005. (Their calendar has 13 months.) Not sure I want to go back to 2005….I wasn’t even old enough to live in Ethiopia…. I awoke yesterday to the chants and songs of a band of children, dressed in traditional clothing, banging on a neighbors door. All through the city there was celebration like this. Flags waived, coffee brewed, and music filled every ear. My friends and I went party hopping. We hit four homes, all of which insisted on feeding us. At the third home I could not sit up straight in my chair. When they came around with their pitcher of water to wash my hands I turned to an English speaker and said, “Tell them that if they feed me anything else, I’m going to throw up on them.” I don’t think that exact message was relayed, but I was not force fed anything else until evening. I was then made to eat a large piece of their nasty cake. No offense, Ethiopia, but your cake is not palatable – kinda like a wet, rotting sponge. I don’t know what they do to it, but it’s bad. Cake aside, it was a great time of celebration. May God bless 2005.

Last week, Great Hope Ministries invited the community to a program at the church commemorating the transformation of Korah. There were two large pieces of ply wood covered in pictures. On the far left were pictures of the children in the trash dump. They were three years younger, but sad, filthy, hopeless. In the middle were pictures of Sumer’s family, and the many teams of ferenge that had come, sponsored kids, and made a difference. And finally on the right were pictures of the children now. Picture after picture of their smiles, bright and confident smiles. There were pictures of them at boarding school, on field trips, and home in Korah. The heading read, “The Transformation of Korah”. True that.

 

Several people stood and shared with the community how Project 61 had changed the lives of their family and publicly gave the Lord praise for His blessings. The name of each person from Korah who is now in America; whether adopted, student, or visitor was mentioned, and again God was praised. A group of students filed out in somewhat matching attire to sing, dance, and mime for us. And finally, the leaders recognized the children with the highest grades. Each child strutted down front between our chairs while we clapped to a peppy beat, shook the proud hand of a ministry worker, and received a gift for their hard work. What a wonderful way to lift their morale for the new school year ahead!

 

It is back to school time. This week, Sumer and I have filled three hundred something backpacks with supplies for each student. Her house was filled with mounds of socks and pencils.

 

Today we dropped off the first batch of kids at Akake boarding school. This is a branch of the larger school in Shashamene that the majority of the students attend. It was exciting. They poured off the bus, received the backpack with their name on it, and entered their dorms. I look forward to watching them grow where they are planted. On Monday, we will transport the remaining 234 students to Shashamene. It will be quite the day. 

This past Monday was my first day of Amharic school. I loved it. There were ferenge from many parts of the world, speaking many other languages, and there for varying purposes. My teacher is the sweetest thing since canned peaches. We are not allowed to speak in Amharic in class yet. Their teaching method is that we will learn as we learned our mother tongue, initially by listening only. When we are confident in the word’s use and pronunciation, we may use it starting in the next phase. The rules, of course, only apply in class, and we are encouraged to experiment outside. It’s so much fun to go out and hear words I just learned in use by the nationals. My language is growing by the day.

The rainy season is coming to a close. The rain is less and less and the sun shines more and more, though today we had a good storm. I’m in no hurry for the rain to go. Soon we will be hot always, and I do love the rain.

Last week, a girl in our program named Buzayu came to the clinic to see me. She sat in the chair and pointed to her ankle. A large round something was just barely sticking out of her skin. She explained to me that it used to be in much deeper, and on the other side of her ankle. I gloved up, grabbed it with my fingers, and pulled quickly. She jerked away from me, then looked in astonishment at what I had extracted from her ankle. It was a thorn, roughly an inch in length. She told me it had been there for a year and seven months. Over the past year, she had gone to numerous doctors, had x-rays, and went on antibiotics trying to figure out what was wrong with her foot. Everyone had told her nothing was there.

 

I could only think of the Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:7-10. He cried out to the Lord concerning a “thorn in his flesh”, that the Lord might remove it from him. But God, in His sovereignty, allowed the thorn to remain. Paul even alludes to the fact that it was given to him intentionally to keep him from boasting in his own ability and accomplishments. The Lord’s reply to his prayer was this alone, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” We do serve a jealous God, who will get the glory He deserves. Paul continues by praising God for his difficulty, knowing that in human struggle and weakness, the power and faithfulness of God is made known. How backward this thinking seems! And yet, even on the other side of the world, His grace is indeed sufficient for me in every difficulty, distress, or persecution.  

A Day In The Life

My eyes opened at 6:44. I reclosed them and rolled over to hug my pillow. I frowned at the discovery of a trio of new bites on my arm. The side I sleep on is irregularly polka dotted from ribs to knees. Oh well. I straightened my bed and smooshed the flea that scurried over the sheets. An orange T-shirt today will do, with brown pants and a Rastafarian headband. I ate a bowl of last night’s rice and an apple as I read through the book of Esther. What an amazing young lady. What an amazing God.

I left my house in my red plaid flats and bag over my shoulder. Walking to the bajaj station is always interesting. The people never tire of seeing a ferenge (foreigner). They are surprised every time. Boys hanging out of cars yell going by, “Baby! Where you go? I love you.” Those shoulder to shoulder with me stare as they walk. People along the side of the road watch me wide eyed. Others walk past and intentionally bump into me or lean over and whisper, “Ferenge”.  Yes, I know. I finally reach the bajaj. A bajaj is a motorcycle with a tricycle type cart over top of it. They are known for tipping, and every time I enter one I know I could surely die. The driver packs us in like meat in a tamale and we scoot into traffic, both dodging and racing larger vehicles. I pay him 1 birr and 40 cents for the 2 mile ride. (Equal to about 8 cents). I walk across the street and down the road to the place where the taxi will come. There are about 50 people waiting on the street. A tall smirking man flirts with me from the pole he leans on. “Hello. What is your name? Sister. Where are you come from? Where do you go now? Hello. Sister. Are you fine? Where are you go?” I keep my eyes forward and do not answer his questions. Eventually he gives up, shuts up, and goes away to annoy someone else.

The first taxi comes. The mob runs altogether next to it as it decides where to stop. Everyone tries to pour into the taxi at the same time, reminding me of sand in an hourglass, except all the sand cannot go through at one time. I am not aggressive enough, and join the rest of the sand back on the street looking for the next taxi. Another comes, and I dive in the pile with all my hay bale tossing, corn shelling, baby carrying, barn boot stomping strength, and hit the bottom of the hourglass. On to the next one. Taxis are blue and white minivans with a boy that hangs out the open door or window hollering where they are going. If there are no traffic police paying attention, they will pack as many of us into the 8 seating minivan as we will fit. In mine today, there were 20. The lucky boy next to me practically sat on the lap of a ferenge the whole way. Abisha (Ethiopians) don’t like fresh air blowing in their faces, so they close each window tightly and smell each other instead. We stop a mile from our destination to get gas. I endure the dirty looks to crack my window. In another mile I bang the side of the wall. “Wede Jale.” (I’ll get off here). I cross the street and pray I am not killed by the ever-flowing lawless traffic. I am not killed. “Kore?” Someone asks me. I nod and he shoves me into his taxi headed there. We stop six times to get more people to stuff in the cracks. Finally I am in Kore.

I joined Strong Hearts, a ministry I am also working with this year, for a devotional from 2 Kings. Then I went out with the hospice team to do two home visits. We visited a woman who had been in her home in her bed for 8 months with what they called bone tuberculosis. (I have to look that up.) She has three children, no husband, no income, and no strength to stand. The ministry is providing her with medicine, food, and spiritual encouragement. We talked and prayed with her, and listened as she cried. The next home was a couple in their nineties. The husband was a recovered leper, and lay in bed with one leg, no toes, leaking eyes, and a discouraged face. We also prayed with him, and promised to return to take him to the hospital tomorrow.

I then headed over to my clinic to play doctor. I bandaged legs and dispensed medicine and looked in mouths and kissed boo boos until there were no more. I hung up my lab coat, locked the door, and walked with my friend, Misiker, to her home for lunch. She speaks about as much English as I speak Amharic, but we still have a great time. Her sister served us macaroni noodles mixed up with scrambled eggs. (I think the eggs were mostly for color, to be honest.) We had three rounds of fresh roasted, pounded coffee, and watched the news. Her mother taught me how to spin cotton into thread with a drop spindle. P.S. I’m not very good. (I’m pretty sure it’s magic actually).

I gave nine kisses between the three of them, left their home, dropped off some receipts at the office, and boarded my first taxi for home. Eighteen people in this one. The bajaj driver tried to cheat me on the price, but I’m a sharp ferenge. Home again. I skyped with my beautiful sister, followed by my beautiful mother, drank a coke and fell in bed. I hate coke. Put some hydrocortisone on a few of my flea bites. Good night, Ethiopia. I will see you in the morning while my homeland sleeps.