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

 

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…..