Concern or Cover-up

Anyone who has a love for Africa (or a concern for humanity) as well as a love for those spendy coffee drinks will get all warm and fuzzy walking into their local Starbucks. Pictures of African villages adorn their water bottle displays, traditional fabrics decorate bags and tumblers, and all around you they seem to shout "We care!" While our conscience urges us to "buy this thing and save a life because WE will donate .05 to an African charity!" (not taking into account that the price has been raised to compensate for their sacrificial donation)

But while standing in line last night, I found my mind wandering to a time only a couple of years ago when a love of their fellow coffee producers and their country was not so apparent and I had to wonder: this whole "Save Africa" push, Concern or PR cover-up?

I'm not staying that their marketing efforts appealing to customer's emotions are entirely bad, and it does reflect our society...in turn selling their product. It is the marketing way; it is the American way. We want to help, we are shocked by photographs of unthinkable conditions and our hearts are pulled. Yet, at the same time, do I really want to give up my drink and instead send the entire sum to their aid? How much better to buy something for myself and help those who are far away? Win win, right?

I Need Africa.

The fact that this is plastered over adoption blogs attests to the truth in the feelings of the message of this video. It says what so many have found when the travel outside of their realities.



I had this thought when the battles over Ethiopian coffee prices were in the news: what if lots of people just gave up one coffee a month...or two...and gave back. Well, they had the idea too and now many people can join in the efforts to make a difference while remembering that, while we may have life giving resources to help those in Africa, the people of Africa have the resources to give us a better life.

Africa's Greatest Need?

Our family is redefining Christmas this year (see above video). The following conversation was on that topic:

"So who should we give our extra Christmas money to?"
(Jake) "Probably Africa"
"Okay...so what do you think that people need in Africa?"
(Jake) "Well...they really need silverware."

Cultural awareness lesson to follow. :)

Movie Monday

I have been selfishly holding my memories of Ethiopia close...protecting them from people who just won't understand the fullness of them from a simple blog post. I know. This is selfish, and wrong. But the time I wish I could devote to explaining our trip has not been available and, like I said, they are memories that are deeper than I could explain.

But I will try.

Before we left for Ethiopia, I purchased a cd of Paul Simon. I listened to this song time and time again as it made it's way through the rotation, but it was not until we returned that it became More to me.

The feeling of Africa: like nothing I have ever experienced. There was something...was it in the air? was it the people? was it the buildings? It was unexplainable but it was entrancing. Something made me want to be part of it as I looked with foreign eyes through my car window. The pace was so fast, and yet relaxed. Always moving yet not hurriedly. There was too much to take in and no way to breathe in the feeling as deeply as I desired.

It wasn't until one of the last days, as we walked across a busy road, that it hit us. This was the rhythm of Africa that is so prized! Their lives, the traffic, the buying and selling, all follows a rhythmic pattern...over and over...never jolting or stopping until an outsider attempts to jump in. My fingers freeze as I try to describe it because I know that only in experiencing it will one understand. And our experience is so shallow.

The best way I can think of is to explain it in dancing terms. Our life is a waltz or foxtrot or some other such regimented, ruled kind of dance. The stop signs and traffic signals, the activities and plans of our days seem to follow calculated steps with the occasional showy dip or spin. But Africa. Not Africa. The rhythm is natural. Understood. Never still...ever moving. Beautiful.

The following video was put together to remember. There are many hidden things within the video which you will not understand. Many critiques you could find. But they are meaningful to me.

Such as the speed with which some of the photos are played representing how they moved by our car as we tried with all our might to remember them. Or how the music plays in meaningful placement to the photographs (if you are the kind who listens to the words of the song).

There is one photograph of which the memory is almost haunting. The photo at the end of the song of a mother and her child was taken as we were handing out bread to the beggars at the monastery gate. As I walked away, I saw her taking her child by the cheeks and pressing them to look at me...as she pointed and put the bread in front of his face. I walked back and knelt down as I took his hand and then hers. Never will I forget the look in her eyes. It was not simply "thank you for the bread." but a look of connection as we both held our babies in our arms and looked at the life of the other...the life of a mother loving her child.

I hope we can teach Noah to remember. I pray we can remember ourselves.



Joseph's face was black as night
The pale yellow moon shone in his eyes
His path was marked
By the stars in the southern hemisphere
And he walked his days
Under African skies
This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain

In early memory
Mission music
Was ringing round my nursery door
I said take this child, lord
From Tucson Arizona
Give her the wings to fly through harmony
And she wont bother you no more

This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain

Joseph's face was black as night
And the pale yellow moon shone in his eyes
His path was marked
By the stars in the southern hemisphere
And he walked the length of his days
Under African skies.

Somewhere in Africa, those who gave Noah life walk under African skies.
Someday we will return with Noah.
For now, we will remember.

Connection

They cry for help with smiles and open hands. Yet from a distance their cries cannot be heard. Our tiny ambassador does not know the service he provides - a reason to remember the empty palms of those suffering from famine in Ethiopia.

At this moment, I cannot imagine that this woman and her boy are anywhere else but where we saw them last: begging at the gates of the monastery. Praying for one more meal.

It is hard to believe or understand just how bad the crisis is right now. Unfortunately, reports are not positive. If you want to help, please e-mail me. We were able to touch bases with the pastors of the Ethiopian Reformed Church. They are men we would trust to help the poor who come right to their doors.

"Everyday when I go to fetch water at the river, I worry that my baby will be dead." -Ethiopian mother. Interviewed here

Arriving...and the journey there. Part II

There we were...sitting on the plane with 36 hours of travel ahead of us. We were tired and thinking, "We've already been awake for17 hours...now this?" Honestly, once I sat down in the plane seat, Ethiopia still seemed days away. Sleep was sounding nice.

But sleep did not and would not come for the entire journey. We arrived in MN feeling like we were at a mini-vacation spot as we headed down to the baggage claim to meet my brother, Jon. After some phone calls (they live quite close to the airport) and a couple trips to his house (I forgot to mention that we needed a carseat), we were sitting with them at their lovely home. We couldn't have asked for a more relaxing morning as we sat, talked, went for a walk, ate lunch, and even got to see Jon's school. I phoned the boys for what would be the last time I heard their voice until we returned. I am glad I did not know this as we were talking.

Time sneaked up on us and our mini-vacation was over. Time for more airports. Off we went.

It is a blur, really. The security lines, the cramped seats, accommodating (and not so accommodating) stewardesses, fussy baby, happy baby, too tired to read...too excited to sleep. We watched movies on and off in an attempt to pass the time and silence the progression monitor yelling out how long we had yet to go. Oliver did well...despite some fits of crying from hunger and even worse fits out of anger at our audacity to try to feed him formula.

My favorite part of international travel was not missed: watching as we slowly went from being the total majority to seeing and hearing the sounds of foreign cultures, to being the obvious minority. This has always intrigued me and, as we sat waiting to board our plane to Ethiopia it was all the more apparent. We met an Ethiopian man and his family from Washington...headed back after 20 years for a visit. We also met the questioning glances from the many other Ethiopian or Sudanese travelers. I was almost certain, from the path of their eyes, that they were disapproving of Oliver lying on the floor. However, I was not about to pick him up: the poor kid was happy to finally be down and stretched out. I did move down to the floor with him. I wondered how we would survive in Africa with our relaxed style of parenting. I knew that we would never see these people again, but they are the countrymen of our son and I deeply wanted their approval.

It was finally time to board. After three hours and three not-so-great coffees (one spilled) it was time to board. We took our spot at the beginning of the line (thank you Oliver) and prepared for the security ordeal again. I heard my name called out (totally unexpected in a foreign airport) and turned around to see Krista (adoption agency staff) and Ryan (our social worker). They were on their way to pick up their baby as well! We talked awhile and then they took their place at the end of the line as we went ahead. Through the check stations and up to the front for questioning...again. Apparently we were supposed to have a paper ticked for Oliver. Each time we were pulled aside and questioned about this. It was never a problem, but each time had me holding my breath. Another couple was there with us with a five month old baby. They lived in Addis and were returning from the states.

I can't say why seeing these two sets of people made me feel so at ease. I was thoroughly enjoying being the minority and soaking in the feeling of being foreign; yet I was thrilled to see them. I felt as though until now maybe we had been on the wrong flight...but there were others from where we were from...so we must be doing something right. Josh will laugh. I am sure he did not feel at all like this, and I can't say why I did. That's just how I felt.

The flight did not seem as long: the last leg rarely does. Yes, it would be hours, but in our minds we were almost there.

Arriving...and the journey there. Part I

Sunday-The Lord's Day - and we were home. Or rather I was home with a recovering Maxwell. We do our best to keep sickness out of the church rounds and, since antibiotic had not had their full 24 hours to kill the strep virus, it was better to stay home. I hurriedly packed up the loose odds and ends and did my best to bring the house to a state I would want to return to before Josh, Jake and Warren returned.
Of course we got out the door later than we hoped and, after a stop at Costco for some snacks and lunch, we were on our way. The realization hit us quickly that today was the day for returning from 4 of July vacations. It was a slow trip to Portland but we made it. It was also a busy day at the zoo: the parking lot was full. Oh well. the make-shift shuttle provided my kids the opportunity to ride a real genuine school bus!
The remainder of the evening was spent enjoying the animals with the boys...a fun way to say goodbye and spend time with them. By seven we headed out and made our way to the airport for dinner. By eight the time had come to say goodbye. I knew it was coming. I pulled two overly-tired, overly-excited boys close to me and hugged them with more emotion and feeling than they could appreciate. They were ready to go to grandpa but I was not ready to let them go.
"Bye, mama! Bye Daddy!" And two little boys walked away with their grandpa. One sad mother sat down and cried. "Goodbye boys! I love you!"

The next few hours were spent aimlessly wandering around until we found our place at the terminal waiting area. The following is my journal entry from that night.

"Sleep attempts to close my eyes; pulling with the force of gravity, yet excitement, emotion, anxiety all keep them open: overcoming the natural forces. They may be simple means of assuring that our bodies are grounded and rested yet, at this moment, my mind soars; sleep can find no companion with emotions in flight
Tomorrow we will enter the unknown world which our son calls home. That African land so full of mystery to me. Al land which I love and fear. What will I feel for this place once I have experienced it? Security is so loved, so prized, so sought after with every ounce of our minds - and yet it is an illusion outside of the sovereign hand of God. The "what ifs" of life pull at my heart as I said goodbye to my boys tonight in the quiet food court of the airport. People watched on - catching glimpse into the life of a stranger; no doubt imagining a story to put with our tearful scene as I so often do. But the real story was simply a mother who has never left her children - leaving them to travel half way around the world to a country full of sickness. I could not hold back the "what ifs" from my mind. Yes, all at the sovereign hand of God...and yet all so alive in my heart.
I sit here now - at the end of the terminal (Gate D11). Every sound is magnified at this hour in a quiet airport. There is a boy playing with magnets - making a loud sound as he tosses them into the air. His mom...or sister...sits by him on the floor - talking on a phone barely above a whisper. I wonder how she cannot be bothered by the boy next to her who obviously does not have the same concern of being heard. Oliver lies on the floor - trying with all his infantile might to keep himself awake; not willing to surrender to the comfort of his pacifier. People pass by...the seats begin to fill up...everything feels so real - everything but the reality of what we go to do. My thoughts and emotions seem detached from the boarding pass in my hand. I travel through the security point routinely- automatically following the instructions given to be-but it simply doesn't feel real."
-Journal entry, our trip to Ethiopia

"Gotcha Day" Part II

continued from Part I

Mr. Sintayew was a nice, great man who on any other day we could have spent a long time with in conversation. But now was NOT that time and the customary goodbyes could not end soon enough.
We loaded into the car...Ollie on Josh's lap in the front seat...and we started again on the unfamiliar road.

I searched each corner for the right turn. I knew for sure I would recognize it from the hundreds of times I had seen it on the video from someone else's travels. And there...like a dream...was the familiar sign. Surely this couldn't be real! We turned off the pavement onto an ally-like road filled with potholes from the new rains. Past the high walls of compounds, a mechanic nailing sheet metal onto the front of a taxi, children with their herd of goats and large piercing eyes; finally, around another corner and into my view comes the blue gate of Toukoul.

A small boy (maybe aged 3 years) with worn clothing and bare feet plays in the side ally next to the gate. I wonder if he would rather be on the guarded side of the gate playing with the other children. What does he think of the commotion coming from the other side? What does he think of us or the countless other families who come alone and leave with a child just like him?

My thoughts are interrupted by the "honk honk" communication of African compounds. Slowly...like a dream...the gate is opened and I find the new sights around me eerily familiar. But I am here. A few children play in the courtyard and lazy guards give friendly nods to yet another adoptive family. The day for them is average. In my mind, it is a celebrated holiday!

Still unsure how the driver thing works, we ask our driver if he can wait. "Of course! Of course! I be here all time." Okay...taken care of...now what?

The office seems like a likely place to start so we head for the door...glancing around and making it obvious that it is our first time. Of course, everyone but us knows just what to do and we are shown into a room with a lady who is on the phone. Once her conversation is finished, she smiles and raises her eyebrows, allowing us the opportunity to speak.

"Yes, yes, you are the Yoders...you are here for Geda? Okay."

Papers...fidgeting...

"Josh...you better have the camera ready. We want to be ready!"

Oliver fusses and Josh informs me of the obvious that filming will be a little difficult at the moment. I take the camera and position my fingers for quick action if the moment comes.

Waiting...waiting...another phone call...

A small girl (about 6) comes into the room and is drawn instantly to the camera. We play around with it for a few minutes...her favorite part is zooming all the way onto the secretary. She laughs. Soon she is waved away and we are told we can go into the family room to wait. Okay...I can relax my grip on the camera.

We enter the room. We are the only ones here. We wait. I bounce and pace...this time I know it is not from the gallons of liquid residing in my bladder...the moment is almost here. The feeling is utterly surreal.

To be continued...

"Gotcha Day" Part I

Sorting through our feelings and thoughts of the recent trip has proven difficult. It will take evaluating and much consideration before I even feel half equipped to transcribe the things we saw, felt and experienced in Ethiopia.
There is one moment...almost separated from the hustle and bustle of the trip which stands out clearly in my mind for all time: the day we got our son.

We had arrived the night before on the late flight. By 12:00am we were in our bed.

Morning came quickly and with it the bright sun and new sounds of the streets of Addis. It was a relaxing morning and yet filled with much pacing, hopping, and wiggling from the anticipation of the events of the day (and perhaps too much water from attempting to bring back my milk supply for Oliver). As I waited for the clock to wind its way around to 9:00...the time given to call our Lawyer...I was called into the office for a phone call.

"Sintayew here. Can you be at the office in 15 min?"

"Of course! We will be there!"

Under normal circumstances, this would have been an impossible feat and I would have bargained for 30 min., but I was not about to risk having to reschedule, so I agreed and we flew out the gate...still swallowing what we could of our coffee as we hopped into the car. The only thing stopping us from going to the orphanage was this meeting and by golly we were going to make it!

The streets were abuzz with new sights; strange sights which appeared too much like the pictures to be real; as though someone had installed screens on the windows and inserted a video. If it was not for the constant turns of heads staring at us and the smiles which came when we acknowledged them, I might have wondered if this was the case. I was yet to grow accustomed to the life which filled these streets. The air is full of pollution, yet it is thin. I breath in Africa and pray that I will never forget.

The car is pulled to the side of the road and our driver steps out onto the sidewalk. We hesitintly open the doors...not sure what is "the right thing to do". All is so foreign...including us. There is a rift between "us" and "them" that I naively hope to conquer but later realize I never will. This is the beginning of the realization that we will always be "ferenge."

I see the welcomed face of our Lawyer, Mr. Sintayew - another "photo face" I recognize from the adoption paperwork. He smiles and leads us into his office. Small chit chat brings us to realize that it was he who tapped us on the shoulder at the airport the night before followed by an "I'm sorry...wrong person." He was not expecting Oliver to be in tow and thought he must be mistaken.

We are given our choice of drinks. Josh takes coffee...I take water. Papers are signed and a bit more chit chat. We get our first taste of Ethiopian baby magic as within a moment, Sintayew gets Ollie to laugh. One of his first laughs. It is comfortable in his office, but I am ready to go.

"Shall I call the orphanage and tell them you are on your way?"

Do you really need to ask that??? "YES!"

TO BE CONTINUED...

Familiarity - Noah's current home

En route to the orphanage - the streets of Addis





A video of LeToukoul (I don't know if I am allowed to put these on my blog because they show orphans of Ethiopia. You will have to leave the page to see it.)

Le Toukoul 1