The Original Kettle Korn

Today three other “feringe” women and myself ate at an Ethiopian friend’s home. She always amazes me by her hospitality and generosity out of the very, very little that she has. We said “baka” (enough) over and over but she kept giving us more food!! After the meal, there was a coffee ceremony, which is a integral part of culture here. They roast coffee beans over an open flame, grind them up, and brew dark espresso-like coffee. Then they dump in spoonful after spoonful of sugar into the little teacups, and give you cup after cup of it! It is around the coffee ceremony that community is often nutured, that business deals are made, that stories and secrets and just lives are shared. Generally alongside the coffee they serve kolo (roasted barley) or popcorn. Today it was popcorn, bought by the handful because that was all the money she had to spend on it. It was properly popped in a little kettle over the flame, poured onto a platter, and generously sprinkled with precious sugar!! Hence, my title–maybe this is where it all started! We laughed over our bad Amharic blunders, talked about why feringe women don’t put butter in their hair, ate too much, got caffeine jitters from drinking the darkest coffee you’ve ever seen, and most of all had the joy of getting to share a few hours with several women whose lives we can never comprehend.
On another note, I am HAPPY!! My big brother is coming to see me in 23 hours (hopefully!)!! I am so excited to get to share this life with someone from my “other” life, to in some way attempt to bridge the gap between my two worlds. And . . . I am glad that a break is coming soon! We are going to play complete tourists and go to Kenya and on a safari and buy lots of African souvenirs:) I’ll share stories and pics later!

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Mystery

“There cannot be two different faiths—one for you and one for the poor. The question on which the whole social problem really pivots is whether you recognize in the less fortunate, even in the poorest, not merely a creature, a person in wretched circumstances, but one of your own flesh and blood: for the sake of Christ, your brother . . .

There is suffering round about you, and those who suffer are your brothers, sharers of your nature, your own flesh and blood. You might have been in their place and they in your more pleasant position. The Gospel speaks to you of a Redeemer who, although he was rich, became poor for your sake so he might make you rich . . .

Just as the rich and poor sit down with each other at the communion table, so also you feel for the poor man as for a member of the body, which is all that you are as well . . .

Divine compassion, sympathy, a suffering with us and for us—that was the mystery of Golgotha.

You, too, must suffer with your suffering brothers.”

–Abraham Kuyper in The Problem of Poverty

My black scarf is on my desk at the office again, waiting for the trek to more lyksos (wakes). I cry for Habtamwa, for my friend who two months ago was laughing and joking about my bad Amharic. I cry because I didn’t get to hold her hand, to tell her I cared, to say again, one last time, that there is hope. I cry because there are more Habtamwas. I cry because I know how little I see myself as the poor, the broken, the blackest of sheep so desperately needing a rescuer. Because I fail to and refuse to acknowledge that truth in its entirety, I cannot suffer with and for the Habtamwas of this world as I am called to.
The mystery is inexplicable. Riches for me? From Him?

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Slippery Grip

“I felt my edges start to slip . . .”
“It’s just a fear, unnamed
We shouldn’t have to do this to ourselves
We shouldn’t have to do it this way . . .”

–Ellery

Today I am tired, a little unsure about life in general, joyful yet pained in my soul. My head is swirling, and I sometimes just don’t know how to process it all. What to do, how to react, to one of my women who is dying, but doesn’t want me to come see her bacause I am a foreigner and she is still so afraid of the stigma from the community. She’s dying, and I know that and I ache to hold her hand, to tell her again of the only Hope there is. I want her to know that so desperately, to not spend these last days, weeks, eternity itself in fear. And thinking about the great big huge gaping “What’s next?” question. Wondering how I can ever reconcile my two worlds, how I can bear to not be a part of either of them. Yet not for a moment wanting to not have had the chance to love and be loved, to share in the great joy of walking through life alongside others in these places. There’s a lot more, but that’s my bit of honesty for the day. I’m not honest enough–with myself, with my Father, with the people in my life. Is that driven by fear? Yes, probably. I’m so glad that His perfect love can drive out ALL fear–of death, of uncertainty, of loneliness, of heartache, of doubt. I am glad that one day I will understand that in a way I don’t now.
On a much lighter note, today I had a chest x-ray (I am fine to all of you who are freaking out right now!!) and it cost me less than $10 US. What??!! That’s crazy. When I had that dumb foot surgery a while back my total bill was like $4000 dollars, and I think a couple hundred of that was the 3 xrays I had on the offending appendage. The healthcare system is, well, not really a system at all here. It’s a constant struggle to work with, to wish there was more. But today it was nice to only pay 10 bucks for 2 x-rays!

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