He's Got the Whole World in His Hands

 

       Several months ago, I wrote a blog about a little boy named Abreham with Down Syndrome and two heart defects. My friend Emily, along with his sponsor have been working all year to get this child a medical visa to the United States for surgery. To read his background story, go to this website by his sponsor, Wendy:

http://harper9.blogspot.com/2013/05/operation-abraham.html

       About three weeks ago, Wendy began talking with Emily about a doctor that would be traveling to Tenwik hospital in Kenya on June 2nd. He could do testing to see if Abreham is a candidate for surgery, and not too high risk. A cardiac surgeon is also available at the hospital. The doctors and hospital agreed, and arrangements were made for Abreham to travel to Kenya. I was asked to escort him and his mother, Yangoose, along with my Amharic teacher Ebise to translate.

 

 The Lord marvelously provided the funds through Wendy’s networking, and everything else fell into place like stepping stones. The Lord prepared the way for Abreham.

Before leaving, I printed an e-mail from a lady at the hospital summarized like this:

When you get to Nairobi, get a taxi to the bus station. Take a bus to Bomet. At Bomet, take a taxi to the hospital. Ask the guard for operation room reception and ask for Lucy. And then she gave estimates for how much the tickets and rides would be.

            I laughed when I read the e-mail. “Lord,” I looked up, “you do know I’ve never been to Kenya, right?”

We arrived in Nairobi Saturday night on an uneventful flight. Yangoose was stoic, and Abreham slept the whole way. We got through the airport with little delay and out the other side. Several taxis were lined up on the curb, and I was immediately approached by a smiley gentleman with a lot of teeth. I told him we needed to go to the bus station and he loaded our bags in his trunk. All four of us sat in the back. When I looked up, the car was moving but there was no driver and no steering wheel! I panicked for 3 seconds until noticing that the driver was directly in front of me clutching a wheel. Kenyans drive on the left side of the road. The traffic was similar to Ethiopia – lawless - but much much faster. We bought the fattest bananas I had ever seen through the window while stuck in a traffic jam.

            Found the bus station, got tickets, four hours on a rock hard seat to Bomet, taxi to the hospital, guard pointed to reception. No Lucy was to be found, but another sweet nurse led us to the guest house. Tenwik is a Christian campus including the hospital, a church, housing for the staff, and a guest house for visiting doctors and patients. It was an absolutely beautiful, serene Godly atmosphere. Sunday morning we went to the church on campus and rested.  

Monday was the big day. We found the correct line to stand in for registration, and there we stood for the next three hours. I guess Kenya and Ethiopia are sisters. J Eventually we were ushered into an examination room where Dr. Lisky (the traveling doctor) and Dr. White the cardio surgeon were waiting. They were both wonderful, and good with mother and child.

At the end of the echocardiograph they were both in agreement that Abreham’s heart is inoperable. The two holes are small, and his heart is compensating for them now. “If we operate,” they told us, “his life will be shorter.” My own heart sank into my chest. Dr. Lisky explained everything through Ebise to Yangoose, and prayed with us there in the office. Yangoose wiped her eyes and fastened Abreham to her back. I thanked the doctor and headed back to the guest house. I felt as if Yangoose thought the doctors had sentenced her son. Ebise and I sat down with her again to explain the truth of the situation. She responded well, and I am convinced she understood.

It was hard for me to understand myself. It’s so hard to look at a sweet-faced boy like Abreham, know he is sick, and hear a doctor say there is nothing more we can do. We have done all that we can do for this child. We often as Christians say, “Well, all we can do is pray.” I have said it myself, but I think it a grossly inaccurate thing to say. First of all, Abreham’s life was never in our human hands. His life never depended on what we did for him, and prayer is not a last resort! God has had his hand over this child’s life the entire time. He was knit in his mother’s womb, and planned from the beginning. God’s got it. He has not moved. He is sitting on his throne. We are not in control. I have peace that God is, and that He will keep Abreham according to His perfect will. He’s got the whole world in His hands.

           I e-mailed their sponsor Wendy and reported the results. She responded as I did, and said she would change our return date for Wednesday. She then asked me if I would take them to do something fun before we left. I asked around the campus, and everyone voted safari. Tuesday morning I spoke with the visitor’s coordinator who arranged for us to leave within thirty minutes and to spend the night in what she called “a five star tent”. I loaded my troop into a pick-up truck, and off we bumped down the bumpiest “road” I have ever seen. I mean, we could have all used a chiropractor within the first ten minutes. Haha, I loved it! It was only fifty kilometers or so, but it took us two and a half hours to make it.

 

We drove through a gate and into a circle drive. We fell out of the truck and saw a man and woman standing in the doorway with a tray of rolled hot cloths. “Jambo!” she greeted us. By tongs he handed us each a cloth for our faces and a cup of mango juice. The woman continued to welcome us and explained the schedule. We were to eat lunch on the deck by the pool, drop our things in the tent, go on the first game drive, and eat dinner. Tomorrow, we were to go on an early morning game drive, eat breakfast upon returning, and our driver would come to take us to the airport. The “five star tent” was a small house inside a large canvas tent, fitted with refrigerator, flushing toilet, pillow-top beds, and a hot shower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      Our “tent’s” balcony overlooked a river with hippos and crocodiles we could watch. Everything was stunning, and the food was like a delicious never ending stream into our mouths. The game drives were amazing too. We saw every animal I imagined on a safari, with an exception to elephants. We were so close to them! Yangoose, Abreham, and Ebise enjoyed it immensely. When would they ever get to do something like this? It was such a blessing for all of us. My breath was taken by all the different and wonderful things the Lord has made. We watched the sun go down and the sun come up on the savanna.

 

 

He commands the sun to move. He fashions the horn of the buffalo and the paw of the lion. He teaches the gazelle to leap and paints the zebra’s stripes.

Truly, He's got the whole world in His hands.

 

  

 
 

 

             

He is Jealous For Me

In my time with the Lord I have been reading through the Old Testament prophets. I have enjoyed it immensely. So much of God’s character is revealed through the situations and prophecies. I am now at the end of Zechariah. Yesterday, I was very struck by this verse:

“Thus says the Lord of hosts, ‘I am exceedingly jealous for Zion, yes, with great wrath I am jealous for her.’” – Zechariah 8:2

“I am exceedingly jealous for Zion…” We, the church, are Zion. He is exceedingly jealous for us. That verse was not the first or only time in the book the Lord said that He was jealous for them. Zechariah said repeatedly, “‘I am jealous for Zion,’ thus says the Lord of hosts.”

I got very stuck on that. I know He wants me. I know He loves me. But to think that He is even jealous over me. Jealous? Yes, and “with great wrath” He is jealous. I’m a really jealous person. I want to be liked, I want to be loved. I am jealous for the attention of people that I love. (My mom is nodding her head. ;) ) That jealousy is not always satisfied, because the people that I love also love others and may even like others more than they like me. The hearts of the people of Israel had wandered from God time and time again. But it amazes me that each time God scattered them, he gathered them back to Himself. Our hearts, as theirs, constantly wander from the fold of God. And yet, He gathers us back because He is jealous for us.

Chapter eight continues with God’s promises of how He will bless and strengthen Israel, how He would build them up again, and bring them peace. Then the last verse of the chapter reads:

“Thus says the Lord of Hosts, ‘In those days ten men from all the nations will grasp the garment of a Jew saying, “Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you.”’” (v.23)

I was thinking….uh…whoa. It should be like that for every Christian. I remember my dad praying at the dinner table often that people who don’t know Christ would look at our family and notice we had something they didn’t have. People should notice. It should be very obvious that God is with us.

My dear brothers and sisters, God Almighty is jealous for us! With great wrath He is jealous for you! He gathers you from the corners of the earth where you have been scattered. He strengthens your feeble hands and your shaking knees. He has purposed to do you good. You are the apple of His eye! Praise Him, all you people!

He is jealous for me

Loves like a hurricane

I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy

When all of a sudden

I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory

And I realize just how beautiful you are

And how great your affections are for me

Oh, how he loves us so

Oh, how he loves us

How he loves us so

God Equips The Called

                Wednesday morning I set out with the hospice team as usual for the home visits. There were three patients on the agenda: Marage, Yeshiemebet, and Yisharege. Marage first. We trekked up the streets, down the footpaths, and through the bushes to find her home. Up a narrow alley between two houses, we finally arrived. These houses are tucked in! We entered her dark home, barely bigger than the bed she was lying in. Marage was on her side, and so skinny her hip was defined under a thick felt blanket that covered her.

“Marage,” I addressed her. “Dehna nesh?” How are you?

                She did not respond, but lay weak and motionless. Her eyes rolled back, and her mouth was dry. Her blood pressure was too low and her pulse was too fast. One of her neighbors sat by the door, very concerned. “Bezi samint menim megeb albelachem.” She hasn’t eaten or drank anything all week. The lady told us she was concerned that Marage was going to die alone. Her husband left her and their small daughter when she got sick. Her other family lives in the countryside. There is no one here in Addis to help her. The lady told us that the homeowner and other neighbors had carried Marage to the local hospital twice last week. Both times they had been refused admission because there were not enough beds. They gave her a reference to a governmental hospital about fifteen kilometers away, but they had no money for transportation or to pay for her care there. Marage had been in bed ever since. She was severely dehydrated.

“She needs an IV,” I said out loud. The other hospice members – none medical – looked at me. I examined her tiny arms, from which surprisingly popped large veins.

 “I’ll be right back.”

Her home was fairly close to our clinic, a blessing to count. I knew we had a bunch of IV supplies in totes in the back of the clinic. We had planned to donate them to a hospital, because we hadn’t ever needed them before. I dug through the totes, thoughts a merry-go-round in my head. In my last semester of nursing school I did a proctorship in the emergency room under a wonderful nurse named Mary Buth. I told her at the beginning that I wanted to get good at starting IV’s, and she made it her objective to be sure I did. Under her guidance I became quite proficient at it. I had been very comfortable then, but this month marked one year since graduation, and I hadn’t started an IV since school. I also have never decided of my own accord to give an IV, what fluid to give, how much, and how fast!

I AM NOT A REAL DOCTOR!!!! But I was the only one there.

I found what I needed in the clinic and hiked back down the stony path to her house. I arranged my things on the table and gloved up. I looked above her bed for something to hang the IV bag on. Nothing. I don’t know how to say nail in Amharic, so I charaded pounding something into the wall. They understood, and produced a long nail. (I don’t know where all these things come from sometimes.) They pounded the nail into the mud wall, tested the strength and nodded at me. Things pretty much went like clock-work after that. I hung  500 mLs, set the drip rate for an hour and went to the clinic to see patients. After thirty minutes I returned to check her. She looked so much better! Her eyes were not rolling and she told me she felt much better. Her lungs were clear, blood pressure still low, heart rate still high. When that bag finished I hung another 500 mLs. Elsebet, a Strong Hearts nurse tagged me, and returned to take that bag down. She called my phone and said that Marage’s blood pressure was 120/80 (perfect), and she looked great. Praise the Lord! I told Elsebet to leave the IV and I would check her in the morning. The next morning I went to her home and found her eating a cookie by her own hand! She talked with me, very aware. Her blood pressure was low again, so I decided to give her some more fluid. A little later it was back up again and we discontinued the IV.

I thank the Lord for the way He equips me in situations like this one. I honestly do not have confidence in myself a lot of the time. I think of how the Lord knew this day Marage would need an IV, and prepared Mary Buth to teach me to start one. I praise the Lord for Mary. I praise Him for the little things like that nail to pound in the earthen wall. God is faithful. He walks into these dark homes with me, and provides everything I need. We never go alone. Please pray with us as we enter these homes, dark with the absence of Light.

 

 “God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called.”   -  Anonymous

 

What If I Give All?

 

           There’s a song by Ray Boltz called, “What If I Give All?” The chorus goes like this:

What if I give all I have?
What will that gift do?
My child, a gift like that
Could change the world
It could feed a multitude
He didn’t close his eyes
Or turn away
I can see him standing tall
He saw the need
And I can hear him say
What if I give all

The song is about a little boy in church, who after listening to the pastor talk about hungry children gave all the money he had to feed them. It compares this child to the one in the Bible who gave his fish and loaves of bread to Jesus. I love this song. I sang it in church with my brother, Devon, one time.

I was skyping with my youngest brother, Riley, one day. Riley just turned five years old. This is him with the dum-dums I left him for his birthday. J

 

He plunged himself in front of the camera and said, “Kayla! Did you get my money?”

“Your what?” I didn’t hear him.

“My money? Did you get my money?”

I looked at mom. She told him it hadn’t gotten there yet and sent him away. She then explained to me what had happened the day before. They had watched Riley go to the mailbox. They saw him come back empty handed. Mom waited for him to go inside before checking to see what he had put in the mailbox. She pulled out an envelope, heavy with a lot of change. Without letting on that she had removed it, she asked Riley what the envelope was for. He told her it was all the money he had, and it was for all the poor people in Ethiopia. Mom counted it later. It was just over five dollars mostly in change. Every time I skyped with my family that month, Riley would come flying over to the computer. “Did you give my money to the poor people yet?”

To be perfectly honest, I kept forgetting. I am surrounded by poor people. They don’t exactly stand out to me around here. But one day I was on my way home from Korah. I stumbled out of the nine seater taxi with twenty-three people in it, tripped on my flip-flop, and regained composure. Sitting toothless on the corner under a faded umbrella was my old friend, Workaye, the beggar. I wrote about meeting her in a previous blog. (She’s the one who spit in my hand.) When I saw her I remembered the five dollars I had not yet given out. “Workaye!” I called to her. She looked with delight into my face and asked me where I’d been. I told her I’d been busy, etc… I sat down next to her on the sidewalk, and we continued our conversation. People stopped on the road, grabbed friends, and stood there observing our interaction and eavesdropping on the conversation. “Workaye, I have four brothers. The youngest one’s name is Riley…” I told her about Riley, his trip to the mailbox, and what he intended for his five dollars. She listened intently as my gringo Amharic lurched out of my mouth, and by God’s grace understood.

“One hundred birr is about five dollars. And I have here,” I finished, “The one hundred birr from Riley that I was instructed to give to someone. I want to give it to you.”

She kind of stared at it for a minute. And then gratefully took it out of my hand. I don’t know if Workaye had ever held a hundred birr in her hand before. It was precious. She bowed low to the ground. She thanked me, she blessed me, she blessed Riley, she blessed my family, she blessed my cow (not really), and starting at my hand kissed the length of my arm. There was no spitting this time. J Just a lot of blessings.

What if I give all? What a concept. Who does that? Not many of us! Why is it always the ones with so little who are willing to give everything? That widow in the Bible did! (Mark 12:41-44) She gave all she had and it wasn’t much! Earthly wealth has such a hold on us. It’s amazing how we put our faith and our sweat into such perishable things like silver and gold. How very difficult it is to let it go. But, what if we gave all? My baby brother, Riley, did. What if you did? What if we all did?

What if I did? What if I gave all?

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.