About a week and a half ago, there was landslide in a small dumpster community called Korah, which is in the middle of Ethiopia’s capital, Addis Ababa. My team and I have been living right down the street from this community, but for the first week after the accident, the government closed it off to all.
Today, my team and I got to bring water and prayer to that community.
We walked through the tent the survivors fill. People who no longer have homes and are sitting on the benches they’ve also been sleeping on for the past couple of weeks. Dozens holding pictures–pictures of children, pictures of husbands, pictures of wives, pictures of parents, and pictures of the people they lost.
A boy sits with us. His name is Teddy. He is 22 years old. He lost all seven of his family members in the landslide. He is his family’s only survivor, simply because he wasn’t home during the accident.
I have no words. I feel helpless. I sit next to him with nothing to offer except the simple truth that he is not alone.
We walk to the site of the accident. There are bulldozers moving the parts of land that have been searched through. There is still a whole portion of land above that has not been touched, where both homes and people are still buried.
The boys we are with explain to us how fast it all occurred. Three minutes was all it took for the whole site to be buried. There was no time for people to run. An estimation of a little less than 200 people killed.
We walk to the other side of the dump where there are still hundreds of illegal homes, homes built out of trash.
My heart breaks.
Our friend John stands next to me. He explains how people are still living in these illegal homes.
He explains how these are the same kind of homes as those still buried. He explains how these are the kinds of homes he had to unearth people from. He explains how he and his friends unburied all seven of Teddy’s family members so Teddy didn’t have to.
John is 20 years old. A twenty year old should not have experience that.
I am silent.
“Don’t worry, Kylee,” John says. “Don’t be sad. God has a plan for us.”
I’m overwhelmed. Am I not supposed to be the one sharing this truth with him?
We begin to walk back. John walks with me.
“You know that song?” John asks. “The one that says something about how our God is greater? How our God is stronger, and how our God is higher than any other? That song is so true.”
We begin to sing together.
“Our God is healer, awesome in power. Our God. He’s our God.”
“God has called some of His loved ones home. And He is still taking care of the rest of us. He is good. He is greater than this. We are going to be okay.” John says
We get back to our guesthouse and I need a second. A second not to be okay. I sit on a bench and weep.
We live in a world full of brokenness. And yet, even in the midst of it all, there is still hope, still light to be found. There are some things in life I don’t quite understand—like the tragedy of a landslide or the strength of a 20-year-old. And I’m learning that the Lord isn’t asking me to understand it all. He’s just asking me to walk in the knowledge that He is still God. Just like John.
