Toasting A Good Book

It's hard to believe that we are closing January without a referral. We thought after all of the hooplah of the last month that it would have happened by now. This process has been a test of patience like no other. What would I do without Jesus? If it weren’t for my faith in a divine plan unfolding, I would surely have gone mad by now.

One thing that has kept me focused during this waiting game is reading. Of all the books I have read related to adoption and Ethiopia, the first I read is easily my favorite thus far-- There Is No Me Without You by Melissa Fay Greene. She writes of her experience as a medical practitioner in Ethiopia and a woman she befriends. The woman looses her family to AIDS and is later led to care for orphaned children. It is a harrowing and joyful story that infuses the current political climate of Ethiopia, its history and one woman’s journey. It’s worth a read by anyone who cares about children, the developing world and the AIDS epidemic.

I gifted Donovan three books of Sabastio Salgado’s photography for his birthday. Sahel:The End of the Road is the photojournalist’s story of the famine in the Sahel region of Africa in the mid 1980s. The Children: Refugees and Migrants is a collection of portraits of displaced children around the world. Africa specifically focuses on the continent’s beauty and the people who inhabit it and work the land. Donovan has always admired Salgado’s work; and I knew the images in these publications would have new meaning to us as a family. They are simply beautiful.

My list feels never-ending, but send me your suggestions for future reading. It will be a long flight to Ethiopia, so I’ll need a thick one to pack!

Calling in the Poops

While I wait to find out the size of my baby’s little bootie, I have begun looking into diapering those cheekers. HELP! Those of you who have mastered the art of cloth diapering…stuffing inserts and washing these suckers…please give me your two cents on which ones work best. Poly or cotton flannel. Snaps or velcro. Ones that last longer and grow with the kid or the ones with a shorter life but a custom fit. Some work well with front load washers, some not so much. Some retain unmentionable smells and/or skid marks, others come squeaky clean (but with bleach—really???). I have no tolerance for scrubbing much of anything, so can I be at peace with some skids? At this point I am leaning toward bumGenius or Fuzzi Bunns, but there seem to be pros and cons to both. Who the hoots knew there were so many options? So all you veteran diaper-slapper-oners out there, give me a holla with your opinions!

Making Mountains Low

I recently encountered the writings of Kevin Young , a contemporary African-American poet. This poem from his most recent book, Dear Darkness, reminded me of my own playground as a girl…

"No Offense"
If you wonder why
I’m not laughing, go ask
Brian, the sixth-grade cutup
the one with the most dirty jokes
who requested the tribal African song
Tina Singu each music class, black
vinyl spinning while Brian made
faces, knocked his knees together
like eggs. If you are curious about
me, just ask the boy who riddled
the whole playground or me
& my friends walking
home: What do you get
when you cross a black person
with a Smurf? I am sure today
he would answer you, would explain
now that he meant No offense just
like he did then above the crowd
of girls leaning close or the boys
trying to get his timing down,
just as after the punchline
he always said You know I don’t
mean you. It’s OK. And when
you see that boy whose last name
I don’t seem to remember, be sure
to tell him that this here Smigger
could care less yet could never care
more, that my blue
& brown body is more
than willing to inform
him offense is one hostage
I have never taken.

As we remember the life and ministry of Martin Luther King, Jr., I reflect on becoming a mother of a bi-racial family. While remaining conscious of personal experiences in an attempt not repeat mistakes of the past, the commitment to keeping focused on moving forward is a much nobler task. King dreamt that “every hill and mountain shall be made low” and that “the rough places will be made plain” and this, too, is my dream for my children. I know they will hear harsh words. I cannot protect them from that. But my prayer is that they will be equipped with so much strength and love that such words will motivate rather than erode, prompt compassion rather than fear and ultimately bring them closer to their maker.

The Insanity Settles In

I finally broke down and called AAI yesterday with some specific (and hopefully non-desperate sounding) questions. During the conversation, AAI referred to us being “at the top of the list” and that a referral should be coming “in the very near future.” At this point, I freeze every time the home phone rings, check my cell phone incessantly to make sure the battery has not died and check, recheck and triple check my email. I even cried (yes—actual tears) when the Fed Ex guy dropped off a package that looked as if it could be the same size as a baby’s file. It was really from State Farm Insurance. I didn’t break into tears because I was sad or disappointed; I cried because I realized how ridiculous I'd become. 

 That all-too familiar knot pushing between my ribs that makes me want to laugh and throw up at the same time won't go away once we know the face, age and name of our little lover. The insanity will undoubtedly be replaced with a new level of madness I have never before experienced. Having to wait 4-6 months to go embrace our little shining person, hear his/her little bird voice and pat that little chocolate bum will be torture. I take comfort in knowing there are wonderful people holding, rocking, kissing and singing to each baby at Wanna House. And our baby, likely there in the orphanage now, is being loved as I write. So for now I buff my cell phone, unplug and re-plug in my home phone, call my voicemail to make sure it is still working and turn up my ringer to the highest ring. You know, just in case. So please don’t call me. I wouldn’t want to tie up the line.

Praying for Rain

The latest news from AAI is that babies continue come to Layla House/Wanna House (the orphanage) in Addis. This is good news for those of us who are anxiously awaiting a referral, but it does not bode well for the conditions in Ethiopia. The influx of babies coming to Wanna is largely due to the drought that has been plaguing the country since last year. Food prices continue to rise which only contributes to many families not being able to provide ample nutrition for their children. Food and water shortages continue to worsen and many report that it is the worst drought and famine since 1984. AAI is currently caring for 64 infants and toddlers—typically this number is significantly lower. 

Unfortunately, AAI’s resources are being tapped due to the extra food, diapers, supplies and staff needed to manage all of these babies. Not only are more babies in the care of our agency, they are staying in their care longer due to the back-up of processing the paperwork and scheduling court dates. This means that once we receive a referral, we will likely have to wait 4-6 months instead of 3-5 months to travel to bring our baby home.

The process of adoption is bitter-sweet. While we rejoice in growing our own family, Donovan and I mourn for our child loosing his/her first family. And so we pray for Ethiopia. We pray for food and rain. We pray for tomorrow. We invite you to pray with us. Amen.

Click here (or paste this address into your web browser) to watch a 5-minute USA Today video report about how the drought and hunger conditions have affected the children in Ethiopia . . . 
http://www.usatoday.com/news/world/2008-08-17-ethiopia_N.htm

Being Gursha-fied

Last evening Donovan and I celebrated the Ethiopian Christmas at a dinner prepared by our friend, Etayehu Zenebe. Etayehu sponsored a Christmas celebration where she catered for over 100 people. We dined on her organic, free-range eatables, which are all locally grown. I think my favorites of her creations are siga wat, beef cooked with caramelized onions and a berbere (hot pepper) sauce and ater allcha, her split peas with more onions, lemon and ginger. Yum. Despite the fact that I have a pretty adventurous palette I am not yet a raving fan of injera, the unleavened bread that is such a staple in Ethiopia and is used to hand-scoop all of the food on one’s plate (go ahead, boo me now). It might just be an acquired taste for me. Before leaving, we purchased a jar of her homemade kulet (caramelized onions) so that I can meagerly attempt to prepare some beef or lamb of my own.

For those of you who are local-schmocals, Etayehu has a stand at Eastern Market, which is now closed until June and a stand on Sundays at Building Character. She also has a busy catering business called Gursha, which means “a bite.” This refers to the Ethiopian custom of hand-feeding someone you love.

To find out more, visit her website at www.gurshaorganic.com. Thank you, Etayehu, for helping us properly celebrate the feast of the Epiphany!

Lessons In Care-Giving

My beloved grandfather passed away the other night. He and I had a relationship like no other—something difficult to put into words. He was the gentle hand in my life from the time I was a rambunctious little girl. He loved that I was ornery. I instinctively knew that he liked me—grandparents have an automatic love their grandchildren, but Poppop and I genuinely liked each other from the beginning.

As his health failed, I spent time feeding and caring for him. His extreme thirst warranted the use of a sponge to give him water as I stroked his throat to prompt him to swallow. In those last moments, I thought of the cycle of care-giving. I thought of this man who fed me as a young child, bought me doughnuts early in the morning each time I slept over and taught me the simple things in life. He taught me how to tend to a tomato garden, to predict the weather by observing the squirrels, to listen to a baseball game on the radio and to create a winning poker hand. And as I got older, he modeled how to be kind to the bees, that less is often more and that soft words can be the loudest. And sometimes, when I was really listening, he taught me to shrug my shoulders and not take life too seriously.

Someday soon I will care for my own child. I regret that he/she will never know Poppop. But I hope to teach him or her the simple truths Poppop unconsciously taught me. And if I am lucky, my child will know to care for me someday by virtue of being taught the lessons of love and gentleness early in life. And then the cycle will be complete. This would make Poppop proud.