Beautiful Life

How many times have I walked the Addis streets to Elsa’s home, only to be greeted by her father’s sad, tired face and a little heap of body curled under the blankets on the mattress on the floor? How many times have we gone through her medicine, hoping for wisdom to know what else to give her? How many times have we tried to improve her appetite and diet with milk, eggs, oatmeal, Campbells instant noodle soup? How many times have we sent her by taxi back to the hospital, paying for a doctor and medicine but never for improvement? How many times have we knelt beside her on the cold concrete floor and prayed for her? How many times have we said, “There is hope”? How many times have you prayed for her? How many times have I prayed for her? How many times have we as a staff prayed for her?

It’s all countless, but yet never enough. She’s always sick, always weary, always hopeless, always wanting only to stay in her curled heap and not face a harsh world. She hasn’t been to our office in months because she is always at her house in her bed. I admit that I, too, had come so close to giving up on her as well. As one we couldn’t help, one who wouldn’t get better, one we would lose sooner rather than later.

Because Elsa has been so sick for so long, she hasn’t really been a part of a support group, which is the functional unit through which much of our project’s work is accomplished. She’s a member of the newest women’s support group, but has never been well enough to come to their meetings or be connected to the other women. Several weeks ago, her support group talked to Betty, the staff member who coordinates and directs the support groups. They said they wanted to take some of the responsibility of caring for Elsa, even though she hadn’t really been a real part of their group. So they went to her house, they bathed her and cleaned her house and fed her. In essence, they loved her—though she had done nothing to deserve their care and concern.

Today I was preparing to teach in the women’s support groups. I was upstairs at the project office, gathering my wooden toothbrush sticks and supplies to teach on hygiene. One of the support group women came and got me and kept saying I had to come downstairs. I kept saying, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” But she insisted that I had to come now. So she pulled me downstairs and into our group meeting room, where I saw a few other women waiting for support group to start. She kept tugging, and as I rounded the corner, I saw her.

Elsa. Smiling. Sitting up. Alive.

My heart swelled as I exclaimed in Amharic “God be praised!”

I ran upstairs to get Betty, and told her there was a surprise for her down where the women were. She skeptically entered the room, only to repeat my reaction of amazement and joy and praise. She ran back upstairs to get Alemu, another staff member, to send him down as well. We rejoiced together, with Elsa and her father and her support group. A small victory, yes, but an incredible one nonetheless!

I changed my mind about devotions in the next 5 minutes before support group started. We read instead Psalm 118, and all the while I kept glancing up to see Elsa’s beautiful, beaming face. Indeed, our God is good.

Oh give thanks to the Lord, for He is good!

For His mercy endures forever.

I shall not die, but live,

And declare the works of the Lord.

Psalm 118:1, 17