I have spent countless hours over the past month staring at a blank screen, scrambling to find the right words for all of the emotions and experiences I have had since arriving in Addis Ababa. To put on paper all the feelings, good and bad, and accurately portray what my life here looks like. But that requires processing, and processing is painful. To be real and honest with you all about how I feel and what I experience day to day forces me to actually be real and honest with MYSELF and that is hard for me.
The past month I have been working at a refugee camp with over a thousand refugees from the Ethiopian/Somalian border. The part of Addis Ababa that I am living in is home to many people of the Oromo tribe, the same tribe as the refugees. There is an initiative with this camp for the Oromo people to take care of their own—without the assistance of foreign aid. It is only by the grace and favor of God that they have allowed us, a group of 22 “faringees” (their word for foreigner) to come in. Almost every single one of them is Muslim. We have been allowed to come in under the condition that we do not mention Jesus.
Our main job is to show them love, and they are desperate for it. But to not be able to mention the name of the source of our love is hard. Nothing I do is out of my own strength. There is no humanly way possible for me to have that much love in me to give out, but I must trust with every hug, every hand-hold, every kiss on the cheek, and every smile, that they somehow know deep in their hearts that the love I have for them is not just my own.
Every day I am swarmed by hundreds of kids. They just want to TOUCH me. Hold my hand, wrap their arms around my neck, kiss my cheek. It reminds me of the crowds that followed Jesus. They thought, if only I could TOUCH this man, my problems will go away. I feel so unworthy of the same level of honor. I see their desperate attempts to obtain and hold onto my attention for a few minutes. Countless fights break out, rocks are thrown, and tears are shed as they try to get their chance at a few minutes of fame in my eyes. What they don’t know is that I see each and every one of them. What they don’t see is the love I have for them unless they physically experience it. And its so so hard to show every single one of them attention. For 5 hours a day, my arms are pulled in every direction, dozens of scarves are wrapped around my neck, I count to 10 in Oromifa maybe a thousand times, kids scream in my face in a language I don’t understand, and it is exhausting. It is more than I can handle some days.
Every day I see girls my age who are already married with 3 kids. I get asked to take their babies home with me to America. I HATE that my citizenship and my lack of melanin elevates me in their eyes. I HATE that they assume and full heartedly believe that I could provide better care for their babies simply because of the color of the parents I was born to and location I live.
Every day I sit in the middle of an open field and have a whole crowd around me of men, women, and children of all ages watching my every move. Whether I am holding a sleeping baby, or leading the group in a camp song, or getting my hair braided, or just staring back at the crowd, they are drawn to me. My very existence to them seems to be a spectacle. They can’t seem to wrap their heads around the fact that I am there just to love them. ALL of them. Within their community, there are the families who they have deemed unworthy of our love. There are some kids who get yelled at when they crawl into my lap; people tell them to get up and leave me alone, along with other hurtful things, I’m sure. I cling to those kids tighter. I stick up for them when they have rocks chucked at them for no other reason than the fact that I am holding their hand. I have come home and cried feeling guilty that the love I am giving them is causing them actual physical punishment. AM I doing the right thing by showing those kids attention if it is an excuse for others to hate them? But I am reminded that if I don’t stick up for them, who will? When the world around me is tearing me down, making me feel unloved and unwanted, don’t I cling to the only hope I have: Jesus? Don’t I only focus on His love for me?
Though they don’t know it, every soul at the camp craves the hope and joy that comes only from the Father. It manifests in their desire to be seen and loved by us. All I want is for them to know that every ounce of love we give out is coming from the Father directly. He is our source and we are only the overflow of His love and goodness. It takes a ton of faith that they will somehow see Jesus through us, despite our inability to communicate that with them.
This month has been one of the hardest months of my life. I come home from ministry some days exhausted and discouraged. Some days are filled with homesickness. Some days are filled with actual sickness. I close my eyes and see the faces of my children, in the same dirty, torn clothes every single day. I see the pain in their eyes when our eyes lock that slowly melts away when their faces brighten with a smile. I don’t want them to place their hope in me. There is actually not a single thing I can do for them. My time with them is limited, and if I, as their source of hope, leave then what will they hold on to? I pray that they see behind my smile to the face of the one who WILL remain when my time here is done. Are my prayers for them really enough?
Yet the Lord continually confirms that He has me exactly where he needs me. A few years ago I had a vision standing in an open field. I looked down to the tops of a dozen kids’ heads hugging me from all directions. I clearly remember vivid colors. On one of the especially rough days, I stood in the middle of the field at the camp being tugged in every direction. I cried out in my heart for more strength because I couldn’t make it on my own. I looked down at the tops of a dozen kids’ heads, covered with colorful hijabs. The Lord is so faithful. It was a gentle reminder that the Lord is here and He is moving, even when I can’t see it. He has allowed me to join in and to be His vessel. I am so thankful for each and every child and adult I get to love on. It is difficult. It is exhausting. It is discouraging at times. But in the midst of being whirled into their world of pain and suffering, I get the honor of being the light in the dark. A beam of hope. Not by my own strength, but by the strength of our Father who sees and loves every single one of them.
