Held in Relief

[posting pictures is still a challenge  - after I post them, I cant see them, evidently I posted 2 of the same one in the last post - I think I have fixed it.  I will add a picture of Girma and Dorothy to this later]

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart, I have overcome the world.”  Jesus – as quoted in John: 16:33

From our balcony we see acres of corrugated tin roofs, punctured by the occasional minarets and steeples and halfway completed high rises. The Muslim’s call to morning prayers (duly amplified) at the mosque start at 5am sharp, is soon met by the singing of the psalms from the orthodox church (equally amplified) and then the buses and trucks start their chirping and bleating, then the breakfast coal fires start filling the air with a sweet smelling smoke – and then the day is upon you like a stiff wind.  Because we have been going to bed so early, the 5am stirrings are no bother; they are a gentle sort of beckoning to another day of the totally foreign.  We get up, say our prayers, eat breakfast, have a little family meeting (trying to figure out who goes where) and then plunge into Ethiopia. Amharic is an enchanting sounding language but it is difficult for our stiff, fat tongues to lift the sounds delicately enough to match our hosts’ prompts.  Their thick accents make even make English sound foreign. 

Well, there is nothing quite like surrounding yourself with the totally unfamiliar to distill yourself down to your own basic personal recipe – your character’s “DNA,” if you will.  You wind up feeling somewhat naked, separated from your own culture - the one you have spent your life mastering, the one you can deftly manipulate in front of others to cover yourself and present a more elaborate, less vulnerable version of yourself to.  Over here, you feel peeled and basic; your person’s list of core ingredients is frank, short and unflattering:  Spoiled, selfish and untested.  You easily discover so much to repent of – there is nothing else to do – your favorite hiding places aren’t currently available – so you repent, ask for forgiveness and wait.

Against this broad theater of the “human condition” (conflict, depravation, tragic suffering) as parents, Julie and I think of our preoccupation in the US with keeping ourselves and those we love safe and comfortable; somehow all the mental energy we invested in that seems manic, if not comical.  It reminds me of my grandmother, who during World War II would take turns with neighbors watching the skies for Nazi bombers.  She was living in Hartford, Connecticut.  What have we been afraid of?  If these people can trust in God, why haven’t we?  Do not worry…says our Lord – like I’ve said before, such words have new meaning here.

Our hosts have made us feel so welcome, so important, so valued that it is hard not to get a little puffed up.  They are very protective of us and want us to be comfortable.  “You are very welcome to be here. Whatever you need you ask me, ok? All arrangements can be done for your satisfaction.  We will make you a nice home….”  Here at the church compound they work long hours, face arduous daily journeys on an astonishingly elaborate network (albeit v. fragile) of public transportation.  Simple things turn into day long trials of patience and wit.  (I spent half a day looking for a single 7 amp fuse.  It was something like joy when I found one in a little hole in the wall store in a dusty ally.) Despite this, they still smile a lot and genuinely enjoy each other - they never rush us or seem to busy to listen. 

They insist on doing for us, buying us tea, snacks, and even meals.  Sometimes, they crack a bit, they get you alone in an office and ask for a computer, or a hearing aide, or a scholarship for their teenage child.  “My child is berry intelligent, but there is not good future here, please, make for me a scholarship so she get good degree.”   You want to help and assume you should try to figure something out.  You talk it over, but can’t help feeling bewildered, knowing there are thousands of yet to be spoken requests by all your other new found “friends.”  The next day, the petitioner finds you, apologizes, ashamed of their forwardness – “just pray that God help us.” If you are at risk of any sort of Messiah complex, this place will expose that ruse within seconds.

Each person here seems to have a personal story that knocks the wind out of you – one that makes your own story seem akin to “born, bred and over fed in a padded, clean room.”  This morning we met a 16 year old boy, Girma, who is being sponsored in school by a local missionary.  He is a mix of tough and sweet.  Both of Girma’s parents died when he was very small, so he lived in the streets.  He was given a job selling little packages of Kleenexes – but then he got too big (the smaller, more pitiful children sell more).  He somehow lucked out by finding this missionary (a widow from Arizona, mind you) and petitioned her for money so he could go to computer classes, from there he has been working to get caught up in school (school isn’t free here) and the missionary helps him as best as she can.  He still lives on the streets with a friend, but he has a plan, he has faith and God has presented Himself in this boy’s life in the form of a white haired elderly widow who seems to simply love Jesus. 

As Girma (prompted by his sponsor) recounted his biography, my kids sat listening - watching him as one might watch an actor from Slum Dog Millionaire being interviewed for TV.  Is he an actor? Can this all be true?  That can’t all be true, right?  I would love to get into their minds and see how they are processing all of this.  They seem to be faring well.  We’ll see.