Now that you have an idea of what we were up to last month, let me tell you some stories.
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One time when my squadmate BJ and I went running, we approached the outer fence and BJ asked me if I wanted to stop and cool-down-walk it in to the guest house. I replied, sooo out of breath from the 6km in high altitudes, “The run’s not over till I hit the front step.” That’s something I’ve told myself since I was 11 years old – the age that I was allowed to leave the house to go jogging by myself. I mean, little did I know this would be theologically appropriate to preach about – because till I hit the front step of the Kingdom of Heaven, I’m not gonna stop working hard for the things that matter. But, instead, what came to mind at the end of this horrible run was something ELSE that I’ve said to myself at least since my early teenage years: “The times I feel closest to death are the times when I feel most alive.” Every time I’ve physically exerted myself to exhaustion, both car accidents I’ve been in, different “close calls” I’ve experienced, have shown me just how alive I’m capable of feeling. Does that make sense?
I said it in my last blog, but my heart was broken at the end of last month (still mending it). However, similar to reaching points of death, reaching a broken heart has reminded me how much love I’m capable of giving. I feel like I learned how to TRULY love. Because the ways different people I met showed their love to me boggled my mind, and made me want to do everything in my power to show them that they meant just as much to me as I seemed to mean to them…
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Let me tell you about Abite. He’s 5 years old. He has SO much character for his age, and is SO smart. One day he sat in my lap, watching the teens play soccer. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand and started pulling me up. He told his friend Malese (also 5) and his siblings to follow him (in their language, Amaric, of course). I got up and followed him to the front step of his house. I thought he was just showing me his home me so I smiled and showed my appreciation to him for bringing me there. But he pushed me inside, forced me into a chair in the living area, pulled up a plastic table and started running around like he was looking for something – asking Malese’s older sister where to find it. Before I knew it, he had brought a plate of injera (traditional Ethiopian food) infront of me. I was so surprised. This five year old was showing me such unexpected hospitality. He grabbed a napkin for my hands and started “cleaning” them, noticed the cut on my right hand, and very lightly brushed over the bandaid, being careful not to hurt me. After sharing food together, he pulled me around to each of their rooms to proudly show me where he lived. He pushed me to sit on his bed, then Malese and Abite jumped down to my feet to remove my shoes, and pushed my feet to be up on the bed, shoved a pillow at my head, and demonstrated what lying down looks like so that I would understand that he wanted me to take rest…
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I got sick and basically unintentionally fasted for 5 days because I couldn’t keep anything down. I returned my cup to the kitchen, and my lovely Ethiopian cook-friends were sitting at a table. They asked how I was, I pointed to my stomach, and the lack of smile on my face said it all. “Martha, come. We pray,” said Mama Alfaneje. She opened her arms, and I sat down on her lap, arms around her neck, crying on her shoulder. The three kitchen ladies prayed boldy in Amaric over me, holding me, believing so faithfully that God would heal me. I opened my eyes at the end, and one of the cook-ladies was also in tears. Feeling my pain, loving me like a daughter. I experienced something so powerful. I can’t explain it and do it justice. Let’s just say I felt SO crappy that week, I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. But if all that happened just so I could share that moment with those ladies of faith…well it was worth it…
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Gadisa left for Addis Ababa for four or five days, and I was in the midst of playing Duck-Duck-Goose with the kids from the compound when Gadisa arrived back at the guest house. My back was turned to him, but mid-way through the game, I just heard “GADISA!!!” and the kids were all gone in a flash. I turned to see Gadisa setting his bags on the ground, big smile, scooping up eight kids. It was like a father embracing all his children at once. Most of these children fatherless, but experiencing the love of THE Father through a man so determined to follow the Lord and so adament to serve anyone and everyone, knowing that Jesus put those specific people infront of him for that perfect time and place…
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I wore flip flops to paint in, so I wouldn’t get my shoes full of paint. I stepped in mud on my way to the work site, and one of our friends from the month – Baba (who’se in the midst of creating a proposal to open a Biblical seminary in Ethiopia) saw that I had muddy feet. I asked him where the hose was to clean them up. He said, “I’ll show you.” I saw the hose, and said thank you, but before I knew it he was scrubbing my feet. I stood there, over him, in disbelief, so awkward. Why was this man washing my feet? They were filthy. I tried to tell him to stop, that I could do it myself. Like, I was INSISTING. And he said, “I serve a God who serves – who calls people to serve. He has served me and so I delight in serving others.” What a crazy parallel to conversations I have with Jesus all the time. Being dirty, insisting I can fix myself, and Him desiring to help me if I would just let him, telling me, “I delight in serving others…” This was the first time someone ever washed my feet. The second was two weeks later when Gadisa washed each person’s feet on the squad…
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Saying goodbye was THE hardest thing. I just held Malese in my arms for 20 minutes while everyone else hugged everyone else. His head resting on my shoulder. So content. Little did he know that it could have been the last time I ever held him. Abite kept whispering, “I love you so much Martha,” as our squad prayed one last time with the people from HOPEthiopia, and tears started streaming. I could see those two little guys from the door of the bus as we were pulling away, and heard my name again and again until the noisy bumps of the bus took over.
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One of the local workers, my friend Germa (whose wife is expecting in a few weeks!) said something in Amaric, as I looked out the window of the bus, heading to the airport, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.
Gadisa laughed.
“He said, ‘Don’t be sad. We know you’re coming back.'”
I pray that he’s right.
