Giants

I think, in my old age, God has allowed me to walk among giants. Not people big in size like the giant David killed with a stone and not giants in industry, medicine, science or government. Nor am I referring to people with slicked back hair, expensive suits and mega- size membership in some church. My giants are not high profile politicians, media moguls or people who are rich and famous financially.

The giants I speak of are giant servants of God in spirit and deed. I don’t “hang” with them or even communicate with them on a regular basis but I treasure what little time I have had with them

Well then, who are these giants?

Marta Gabre Tsadic and Demeke Tekle-wold founders of Project mercy at Yetebon Ethiopia. Project Mercy

The late Haregoin Tefera, foster mother to a thousand orphans. http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/

Ababech Gobena, “Mother of many” “Mother Teresa of Ethiopia", founder and General Manager of AGOHELMA Orphanage. Agohelma Orphanage

Hannah Teshome, founder of Hanna’s Orphanage in Addis Ababa Ethiopia. Hannas Orphanage

Each, in his or her own way whether large or small are living the lives God has called them to do.

I am blessed to have been able to share time with them.

I am sure there are many more. Unsung heroes as it were, doing as God leads.
What about you?
Are you seeking/following God's will?

Are you a giant?

Orphans of Debre Tsige Ethiopia

The journey began at 5:30 A.M. in Addis Ababa Ethiopia. The taxi arrived and I got in. Daylight was yet to arrive in the capitol city and the streets were nearly deserted. Daniel, my interpreter for the day introduced me to the driver and seventeen year old Zerihun who I had not previously met and whose home in a remote village we were going to visit. He and his brothers have lived alone since their parents died seven years before.

We drove through the Merkato, purported to be the largest open market in Africa. The darkness was palpable. It was an eerie feeling to see the paper and trash littered street empty except for a stray dog scavenging and trucks parked along the side.

At the bus “station” it was different. Hordes of people were milling about, some shouting above the din of diesel engines which were belching the exhaust smoke that created an enveloping cloud.

We were placed on one bus, then another. I could not understand what was happening but interpreter Daniel did his job well and finally the last bus we boarded lurched onto the street and began to climb out of the valley into the emerging light. Thankfully it was going in the right direction.

Two and a half hours of driving along the twisting turning mountain road we arrived at the village Debre Tsigie and went into a dingy little restaurant where Zerihun and Daniel ate breakfast. I would not eat in that place!

Our trek to the village began downhill on a lava rock strewn road that soon became a track and then, before we reached the valley floor disappeared. For an hour and a half we walked. We skirted fields of wheat, beans and maize (corn). At times the terrain was marshy and our shoes sank into the muck.

Half way across the valley was a big two lane concrete bridge. No road, just a bridge complete with concrete rails.

I could see a person in the distance who was wearing a red coat watching us. He began to draw near and soon was following a few steps behind as we traversed the valley and climbed the steep slope towards our destination, a series of low stone walled compounds at the top of a hill. He was a boy, perhaps ten years old, a silent companion who chewed on a broken twig and smiled a shy friendly smile.

The house was a square mud hut with a tall thatched, conical roof, called a tukul. The walls had been recently re-covered with a coat of fresh mud, cow dung and straw veneer inside and out. There was a wooden door which could be locked but no windows.

The interior was cool and dark and the floor was earth, swept clean, and bumpy from protruding rocks. A fresh pile of sleeping straw was stacked in one corner and in another, perched on the low rock foundation, was a wooden box that had a closed, hinged top. A few bottles and personal items sat along the ledge and in another corner, near the door, were bags of grain and a round, broken injera basket.
Zerihun brought out some animal skins, spread them on the ledge and there we sat and talked.

As politely as I could I refused a drink of milk and explained: “I have been sick” which was true. Sometimes it is a bit of an adventure to eat the local food.

There is another “house” where cooking is done and a smaller one made only of poles placed vertically, spaced close together to protect the domestic animals from the hyenas.

I presented gifts for Zerihun and Dogachow, his twelve year old brother and Wondeson, fifteen, who was in a distant part of the country “following the harvest.” He works with a sickle, squatted down. The crop is cut by hand, dried, and threshed by walking animals round and round to separate the grain, beans or peas from the hulls, after which it is tossed into the air for the wind to blow away the chaff.

I met some neighbors though we could not converse, photographed the local children, the house and the animals.

Too soon we needed to leave. The buses don’t wait.

We walked another hour and a half back to the village and located a bus which was traveling in the right direction, sat inside and said our goodbyes to Zerihun. When he turned to leave he was stifling back tears. He has been head of household since age ten we were his first non resident visitors and I was the first farangi to have ever been there .

God Bless whoever has helped them.
Orphans of Debre Tsige

Miracles Still Happen

November 2009
Twelve year old Tadila struggled across the compound with the help of Kafreta, her father, stumbled and fell to the ground against the masonry wall. She lay there week, disoriented and able to only move her head.

No one knew what was the cause of her illness. She and Kafreta had arrived in Addis Ababa, the capitol, two days previously from a remote village in the Gondar region of Northern Ethiopia where no medical help was available.

I had yet to meet her but I went to her, put a hand on her head and prayed, mostly in the Spirit, since I knew nothing about her. She was very thin, too small for her height I thought.

A taxi arrived. Child and father were driven to a hospital.

The next day we sneaked in to visit her. She would not, could not, take nourishment.

I took hold of her small, pale hand. It was rough, like heavy duty sandpaper. I could not help but wonder about the difficult life she must have lived.

I prayed as before, quietly, in the Spirit, not knowing what else to do.

Two days later she returned to the little converted store room she shared with eleven year old TB stricken cousin Rosa, who is from the same village. I marveled at Tadila's recovery and worried about the T. B. since they shared the same room

The girls took their meals separately from the rest of us and after evening meal Tadila and Kafreta were in the main house when the mobile phone of my hostess rang. She answered, gestured to Kafreta and excitedly he talked in Amharic over the phone. His sixteen year old daughter, missing for a year was found alive and well!

The housekeeper put a video on the TV with traditional Gondar music and Tadila, who seemed near death two days before, danced a celebration dance. She danced with vigor, for such a long time I tired and went to bed while father and daughter continued the celebration into the night.

Ain't God good?

Visit to family of Yonatan

It was April 2007 when our daughter Rebecca, her husband Vernon, granddaughter Larissa and I journeyed to Addis Ababa Ethiopia to "bring home" two deaf, orphaned children.

The boy, Yonatan, was six. His mother, Woinshet, in a selfless, sacrificial act, signed the papers that would make it possible for him to go to a new, better life where he could get the education and health care she, an unemployed widow with three young sons, could not provide.

Information about the families of Yonatan and the girl Fetlework was not available to the adoptive parents but, since the children were "older" it seemed important, in spite of cautions by others, to locate the families and allow the children to connect.

At first Yonatan had almost no ability to communicate. He had not been taught sign language. As he gained communication skills he wanted to know: Were his brothers well? What about his mom? And the quest began.

Initial reports were dismal and not factual. The father of the boy was Muslim. It could cause an international incident if the uncle, in whose care he had supposedly been left, were to learn the whereabouts of the boy.

A year and a half later I returned to Ethiopia and hand-delivered the post placement papers to the school where the child had intermittently attended. First I thanked the principal and vice principal for their care until we could come to get the boy. Next I inquired about the family. The vice principal, a man, agreed to help. During the next year we corresponded by email...........some.

The following year I again visited with a follow up post placement report which included many photos. When I arrived for the appointment the uncle, mother, and both brothers, were there!

After an emotional greeting and much discussion we agreed to meet again since I did not have the gifts for the boys with me.

At the appointed time the taxi delivered me to the house. When I entered there were computer generated signs on the wall: "Welcome to Ethiopia!" All around the perimeter of the large room sat members of the extended family. On the coffee table in front of a sofa was a round, paper enclosed object. I was instructed to remove the wrapping which uncovered a large loaf of Ethiopian bread. The custom, as I learned, was for the honored guest to begin slicing the bread which was then distributed throughout the room.

Introductions were made, more people arrived. While chickens pecked away on the front porch we had coffee ceremony, made photographs, talked, the boys and mother opened and displayed their gifts and the "connection" between families was made.

The color on the faces is different, we share no common language yet we are indeed, family.

Ain't God good?
Video  "Family" Visit

On a foggy overcast day they gathered in front of the rustic little church building for a group photo.

From around the nation and all walks of life they had come to celebrate and share with each other the trials, difficulties and triumphs of adopting orphaned Ethiopian children. The overriding theme? Love.

“We’ll soon adopt four more”, one mother stated. “We want to get another some day too.” “Does he understand English yet?” “What a beautiful baby.” Ethiopia makes beautiful babies.”

These were some of the comments overheard above the rising and falling sounds that permeate the air in Silver Dollar City.

At the close of the weekend: Tired bodies, aching feet, a true sense of community, and comfort in the knowledge that another soul has been rescued from misery and poverty.

Ain’t God good?

More photos here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/42271616@N02/

Remember the village

When I arrived ten year old Fetlework was busy cooking dinner, preparing sauce for the spaghetti with little help from her mom. She chopped and mixed.
Her tall slim body was clothed in blue jeans and a tee shirt. Her head, topped with long, beautiful black hair was gathered into something like a pony tail in the back, and shrouded by the steamy mist as she dropped the pasta into boiling water.

I marveled at how she has changed in two years, from the shy, undernourished wisp of a child into the promise of a beautiful young woman.

Tired of watching, I went to the sofa and opened a map of Ethiopia. Soon she came and sat beside me and together we searched for the location of the village where she was born. It wasn’t there, but the nearest town was.

I surmised that when I visit her brothers in the fall it would probably be a grueling ride on the bus and a long walk to the village.

“Yes, a long long walk” She said.
I wondered. When I visit will the distance I must walk be as great as her young mind remembers?

She thought for a while and began to remember some of the details of her young life with her mother, father and brothers, before both parents died and she had become deaf.

We discussed her past in sign language and voice. She has an incredible ability to communicate.

“The house was made of sticks and had small windows. The windows did not open and close with glass but wood.” she said.

“Was the house round?” I asked.
“I don’t remember.” She replied.

When asked, she said: “My bed was like Yonatan’s ( her brother’s bunk bed) but some slept on the floor. “

“Did the house have a fire in it?” I asked.
“Yes, it was rocks in a circle.”

“Was the fire near the door?”

“I think so, and at night the windows were closed. We could hear the hyenas. They were very loud and sometime I could hear them chew the bones. There were potatoes in the garden but I don’t know if they were sweet.”

She vaguely remembered the other houses where members of her father lived nearby.
We discussed how many years ago did she live there and decided about six. A lifetime to a ten year old.

Her dad and brother returned from their errand and it was time to go to the table.

There will be other times to discuss the village when I have returned with pictures.

Ain't God good?

FEVEN

At Agoheld Orphanage in Addis Ababa she was the very best friend of Fetlework, our "favorite" adopted granddaughter.
I still remember the two girls holding hands during the farewell ceremony when more than 100 children goodbye, we love you.
It was a magical moment, packed with emotion. Tears flowed as the children sang with feeling.

She is no longer living at Agoheld. Her illness is better cared for where she lives now, with her aunt Tsehay, a very attractive woman whose name translated means sun, and surviving sister.

I was able to contact the aunt and visit with the two of them.

We met on a street corner. I suppose the aunt was too embarrassed for me see where they live. The driver took us to a little sidewalk cafe where we talked for an hour or so and I photographed them.

It is not easy to describe the scene. Much auto traffic, throngs of people walking, taxi horns honking, the not so appealing aroma of burning garbage, the gawking stares of other patrons and pedestrians.

We attracted a lot of attention: The lady, the young girl, the taxi driver and the white man (ferengi).

The curiosity is obvious on the faces of the passers in the background of the photo above. I wonder what they thought, but no matter.

Waizero Zeleke wore a blouse and long skirt, and her head and shoulders were covered in the traditional style which most mature women wear at such occasions as a sign of respect.

Her life story was written on her heart shaped face. It described the hardship and sadness of the troubled times she must have experienced.

Feven was dressed in a pink and white hooded sweater and pink sweat pants. They probably came from donated garments at Agoheld. She was heavier than before. The combined effect of care by her loving aunt and financial help from the orphanage was evident. There were scars on her smooth young face. How did they happen? I wouldn't ask.

We were able to communicate mostly in English with the occasional assistance from Daniel, my ever helpful driver/interpreter.

When the time came to leave, Daniel drove to a place where they could get a ride home. I gave them money for that and told Tsehay: "You take good care of those girls."

"You come back. You will see." She replied.

Feven poked her head through the open window, kissed me on the cheek and Daniel drove away.

It was hard to not cry.