In the Dark

I find it an odd trait of human nature (mine, at least!) how disturbing darkness can be to us. This evening I was in my little house doing some Saturday night clean-up when the electricity cut off Counting Crows’ “Hanginaround” in mid-sentence. Suddenly, a place that had seemed comfortable and safe seemed foreign and slightly unnerving. Why is that? I mean, I knew where the flashlight was and had my matches and candles easily accessible, as this is a frequent happening. Then, and this is just odd and amusing to me, when the electricity whirred back on it only came back at about 100v. Everything here is 220v, so the lights were on but in a dim, eerie way. Now it’s gone off again, so I am typing by the candlelight dancing on the walls. Talk about eerie!!
I haven’t been the best of post-ers lately (what is the correct way to phrase this?). I’ve said before but will say again, that it is difficulty to say what truly needs to be said. This place, these people cry out for a voice, and maybe more for an audience who will listen and respond. But I struggle to know how to form their cry into appropriate words, and how to string the words along into sentences that truly communicate reality.
It’s been a rough week in the project—facing death is hard and confusing and heartbreaking. But that is a relentless reality here. It’s impossible to cover in platitudes the harsh truth that a seven year old little girl is now an orphan. Her mom had a name and a face; yet, for most—even for me, so often—she will only be remembered because she added to some statistic of “the rising death toll due to HIV/AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa”.
Her name was Gannet. And her face was tired, simple, and lovely.

It's Always Interesting

I can pretty much guarantee that going to a restaurant to meet some people for dinner rarely causes this much thought process to occur; then again, it's not nearly so amusing anywhere else either!
So this evening I was walking to the intersection where I could get a taxi, and thinking to myself how at the same time people around you can feel reasurring and threatening. I got to a spot where several taxi drivers were waiting, told one where I was headed (to which his "I know where that is" was slightly dubious), and asked for the price. His was ridiculous, and when I won the price war a minute later by telling him in no uncertain Amharic that that was my final price, the other drivers laughed and called me "Gobez" (smart). I chuckled about that for awhile. About 2/3 way through our bumpy trip, the taxi driver turned on the headlights (yes, it was dark the whole time). Hmm, those could be useful, I guess! We got to the general vicinity of where we were going and ended up turning around; then my taxi driver stopped the car in the road and left to go ask another taxi driver if he knew where the restaurant was (this happens frequently). When he got back in the car, of course it wouldn't start! So my ever so gobez taxi driver proceeded to attempt to push and drive the car at the same time--onto a busy road with oncoming traffic!! After some guys hanging out on the roadside gave us a little push (and we almost ran into some federal police), we were up and running; obviously, I made it there and back alive:)
I'm still smiling. Life is never dull!

Just Another Walk?

One dreary, spitting, muddy morning this week I was headed into the project office via public transportation (which makes it sound so orderly and neat and efficient!). Between minibus stops, I was moving with the jostling crowd, picking my way over mud holes, all the while keeping my hand securely on my bag. I realized how draining this trek was, how assaulting all the reminders of where I was. Noise, constant noise: people, honking, the shrill cry of vendors, diesel engines, the plaintive call of beggars. And there were smells, overpowering smells: the black smoke that fills the sky and lungs, dirtiness, food, sheep, dogs, donkeys. But mostly I was overwhelmed by the sights, the images that are beyond disturbing. Women, children, men in too little tattered, dirty clothing; men and women without arms or legs or both scooting through the chaotic streets on strips of tires; nursing mothers huddled under scraps of plastic, holding out their deformed hands for change. It brought again all the questions: “How do I react? What do I do? Why is it this way? Why them and not me?”
This morning I was confronted with a new thought—what do they, these people on the streets, the crowds I push through, the children who grab my hand—what do they think of me? Of us, the ones who so obviously don’t “fit”? Do they think we are proud, selfish, stingy? Do they look in disgust at us, who think we have all the right answers? Or do they understand the turmoil that their very presence brings?

It Was . . .

a happy birthday. Thanks for all the cards and emails and happy thoughts. Just to prove it, I took a pic of myself being happy with some of my cards. See?

On the Journey

The settled happiness and security which we all desire, God withholds from us by the very nature of the world: but joy, pleasure, and merriment He has scattered broadcast. We are never safe, but we have plenty of fun, and some ecstasy. It is not hard to see why. The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and oppose an obstacle to our return to God: a few moments of happy love, a landscape, a symphony, a merry meeting with our friends, a bathe, or a football match, have no such tendency. Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.
–C.S. Lewis in The Problem of Pain

Sunrise in Arba Minch, Southern Ethiopia

For in this we groan, earnestly desiring . . . that mortality may be swallowed up by life.
–II Corinthians 5


The past months have lent both time and experiences to deepen this understanding that the soul restlessness we have will not soon fade. I am thankful for joys along the way; today it is for friends and family and emails, cards, and prayers. It is for work and tasks that allow me to see a glimpse of the big picture of life, for women and children and faces of both sorrow and hope. It is for simple and petty things: chocolate, music, sunny days, hugs, jokes, potato soup. It is for the people I work with, and the people whose work allows me to be here.

The ghosts of our glories are grey bearded guides
The sound of our sorrows has stirred us inside
But I think maybe I’ve never felt more alive
I think maybe I’ve never felt more alive
I asked you just once if you thought we could be found
You never did tell me; but I think I know now . . .
--Ellery, album Lying Awake