Tag Archives: ethiopia

To Keep Hope Alive

Nothing said “home” to me about the disheveled collection of huts. 

They were lean-tos really and in my American mind, this pocket slum in Addis Ababa resembled a child’s treehouse or fort: crooked walls made of found materials, small square holes left empty of glass allowed in light and air.

Someone’s donkey was tied to a post just a few feet away from the cheap plastic bins, some empty, some partially filled with grain I didn’t recognize. The grain didn’t belong to the donkey but to the women who lived in the tiny hut structures just a few steps across a dirt path from one another. Read the rest of this post…

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Morning Coffee

“In your generous love I am really living at last! My lips brim praises like fountains.” {Psalm 63, The Message}

coffee at one of my favorite cafes

I am not attractive in the morning. I need a twenty-minute makeover — daily. My eyes are puffy and my hair flaunts a bad version of David Bowie tangled with the Flock of Seagulls’ wings. Perhaps a full night of snoring contributes to the mess. I’ve never awakened looking refreshed and dewy. Yet, in spite of my inability to be Sleeping Beauty my sweet husband brings me coffee, love in a cup, and says, “Good morning, honey! I brought your coffee!” and I feel all princessy.

My IQ is dependent on coffee. There is a direct correlation between coffee and my ability to think. In the morning brain is fuzzy, furry, stuffed with the down of sleep until I get a few gulps of the good stuff (Yirgacheffe, from Ethiopia). I’m not a coffee snob, but I do like a decent cup of coffee. And, I like it delivered to me, with more than a drizzle of half and half, by my guy.

He sets it on the inevitable stack of books tottering on my nightstand.

It waits for me. I am hungry. My stomach complains, empty from the night of fasting and my caffeine-to-blood ratios are dangerously low, so I choose to stay propped in bed for the first few sips. And I think of how, later in the day, coffee might be pick-me-up or a fun thing to sip when adulterated with frothy milk and chocolate syrup, but it’s those first few slurps off the edge of a full mug in the morning that make me love it.

Because I am on empty.

1. Are you On Empty?

How often are we empty, truly empty? For those of us in first world nations, with a Starbucks on every other corner and a Costco in every suburb, emptiness is subjective. Does our culture encourage any kind of poverty? Can someone who has everything she wants actually need anything? Can someone who’s been fed Bible verses and praise songs mean it with sincerity when she sings, “I am thirsty for more of you, precious Jesus.”?

2. Are you satisfied by what fills you?

A couple of friends that I consider mentors have separately mentioned to me “You know, I just don’t need as much anymore….” What they’re saying is that as they have taken in more and more of the good stuff, the truth of God’s word, the reality of His divine purpose for them, they’ve learned to leave behind some of the substitutes and lies this world offers. Contentment has become a natural attitude. Freedom in grace a familiar place. That line between needs and wants grows into a chasm when we’re hooked on Living Water.

King David experienced hunger and thirst while he was forced out into the Judean Wilderness. Real hunger and driving thirst. Physically painful emptiness. But David knew his calling to one day be king. He also knew his God. A God of covenants and blessings–a promise keeping God. Even when David cried out in hunger or despair, he cried out to God.

So when he sang the words we call Psalm 63, David was a mess. He was filthy with the desert dust, wearing the scent of days or weeks on his flesh. He was unappealing on many levels yet he raised the cup of hope, voice parched and hoarse, and received his fill:

“O God, you are my God, and I long for you. My whole being desires you, like a dry, worn-out, and waterless land,my soul is thirsty for you.

Let me see you in the sanctuary; let me see how mighty and glorious you are. Your constant love is better than life itself, and so I will praise you. I will give you thanks as long as I live, I will raise my hands to you in prayer.

My soul will feast and be satisfied, and I will sing glad songs to you.”

Jesus said on in his hillside sermon, “Happy are those who know they are spiritually poor, the kingdom of heaven belongs to them!” {Matthew 5:3}

Was Jesus remembering his own excruciating wilderness days and forty long nights in the wilderness when he told his followers — be empty?

3. Does poverty scare you?

It’s scary when we can’t stretch the income to fit the bills each month. It’s scary to face unemployment unprepared for the future. Poverty is real and frightening. We approach God ready to get busy, give him all we’ve got (or at least enough to appear Christian-y). Spiritual poverty rubs humanity the wrong way; does spiritual emptiness frighten us the way that material poverty can? Does this fear compel us to stockpile good works, commitments and spiritual busyness? Do we strive to provide a wide margin between ourselves and poverty of spirit? Are we ready to exchange the substitutions and reach for the really good stuff so that we may experience the fullness of God’s satisfying love? We can when  we are emptied of all the ideas and stuff of this world.

Are you feeling empty? Do your activities, the things that take your resources of money and time and energy, leave your calendar full, credit cards maxed and your spirit dissatisfied?Jesus says “Good! It’s about time! Now let’s get you filled up with the good stuff!”

The answer is in the middle of David’s prayer. God’s constant love. It’s there for the taking. Anytime. Are you hungry enough?

Linking up with Tracy here

 

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How Recycling Got Me to Africa

It all started with recycling.

And it led to a trip to Africa.

Yes, as in paper/glass/plastics curbside recycling.

And yes, as in Africa, the continent.

One day my husband announced, “Honey, we can’t change everything. And I know we aren’t going to save the planet or anything, but we can do little things differently and be more responsible for our choices.”

We never recycled before, and then we started to.

Beginning that week, we began using our blue bin, the one the garbage company had issued for recycling actually for that purpose. It had held balls in the garage, potting soil in the garden and snow during the winter when the kids wanted to make a snow-fort. But it had never been placed street-side on garbage day.

Then, one week, it was. And that little change, that decision announced one day, became habit.

What we were unaware of, as we were living our average western lives working and eating and recycling, taking the kids to dance, going to the gym and to the park, is this: little changes lead to bigger ones.

Our caring about being more personally responsible with our trash was a small step toward taking a more honest look at our finances. Were there small changes we could make with our personal finance decisions?

And then, our relationships needed considered. Were we engaged in relationships that were healthy mutually beneficial and did our lives honor God together?

Then, our deeper values and spiritual concerns were examined. What did we really value? What was our family’s “culture” and how were we preparing our children to engage the world?

The baby step of recycling may sound like a silly starting point. But don’t we all get caught in our individual rut? Don’t we get used to the familiar ebb and flow and comfortable with the way things are done?

There are two ways to get out of a rut: you get kicked out or you climb out. Either way, you find yourself up on the surface and the view is different, expanded.

During this subtle shifting in our family-values paradigm, God began to nudge. So many events that seemed unrelated at the time began to line up like dominos. Finally, the smaller changes became bigger, life-altering challenges and we landed in a season where we found ourselves being redefined. And it all came to this question: if we cared about recycling stuff and responsibly spending and raising our children to be compassionate adults, did we care equally about restoring people, reaching them with God’s transcendent love and unremovable grace?

After all we all know that people are more valuable than things and money. So the answer should have been easy-peasy.

But it wasn’t. We were hard-pressed to present proof to our feeble answer: “Yes, we cared about people and sharing Jesus with them.”

We said it with our mouths, but not really with our lives. And although no one was watching, we felt a little chagrined, embarrassed even.

James tells us that faith without proof (works) is lifeless, pulseless, as good as dead.

We really weren’t participating in engaging with others to restore them to their Creator-God or reach them with God’s great love and transforming power and amazing grace. We did small group and church and all the things that western Evangelicals do. We tithed when we “could” more or less and really did love Jesus!

In our rut, we could only see “this much” but we were oblivious to all this potential living and giving and sharing that God had for us out there.

You see the Bible tells us that God has good works prepared for us in advance (Ephesians 2:10). He’s got the adventure planned and the itinerary mapped out, we just have to decide if we’re going to jump in with him.

I don’t know how many years we’d been recycling, but one day my husband and I were talking about big world problems that we sometimes try to solve while sipping iced tea on the patio or driving to Costco. You know the rundown: violent civil wars, child-trafficking, generational poverty and the like.

We are such average Americans, middle-class, union-worker husband, stay-at-home mom that we usually ended the conversations feeling flat and useless.Because, what can average people like us do about any of this? We’d shake our heads and lift up the same childish prayer my children would whisper at bedtime: “And God please help all those starving people in Africa. Help them to find food.”

food for the poorest: canned milk, rice and grain... there were dozens waiting in line for this

And God began to ask us, “Do you really care or do you just want to discuss it?”

“Let’s go to the store and see if we can find chocolate that’s labeled slave free,” suggested my husband, “And coffee, too. We can’t do much, but we can do little things differently. We can start small.”

And so we did. (He suggested coffee and chocolate, of course we went!)

God had us close to the jumping point. It was on that fair-trade-slave-free scavenger hunt that Angelo remembered we had friends that started a coffee business and ministry in Ethiopia.

my husband and a lovely macchiato

Then he took the leap. He looked up their number, had a great conversation, found out we could buy coffee that directly benefited the industrious and impoverished coffee-growers in Ethiopia and support ministry at the same time.

Before we knew it, we were getting passports.

We hugged and kissed our kids, left them in the capable hands of one brave college girl and jumped into the adventure God had for us. We didn’t know why, really. We didn’t have a great purpose. We weren’t going to build a school or teach nurses or adopt a baby.

We were going to see.

We climbed out of the rut and realized the world is very big indeed. And so is the God we worship.

There’s more I could say, and I will sometime. But I’ll share this:

Our coffee that we love and drink every day–the dark, earthy beans touched by so many African hands–is now served to thousands every week at our church. The ministry behind the brew found a strategic partner in our generous and grace-filled church. Two dozen more people decided to get a vision of the beauty and devastation that is Ethiopia — and came back changed, engaged, participating in ministry together with our Christian friends in Africa. Ethiopian missionaries are being supported, women are being taught about God’s true design for them and lives and communities are changing.

He used this average family, to make the connection between local church and Ethiopian ministry. Just people who could only see so far as to make little choices, small changes. But God always sees the long view.

me, walking with Stephne, in Soddo, Ethiopia

Friends, this is the gracious way God works. He leads us by the hand through small and big changes alike and always, always has exciting opportunities, abundant blessings, deeper relationships and always more grace. It’s good for us to embrace small changes, to take time to examine our status quo, to climb up and see the world from a closer-to-heavenly perspective.

If you’re facing life-altering challenges or subtle nudges to make adjustments to your everyday life, I encourage you to be courageous. You never know where God may take you and how he might use you to love others into his saving grace.

me, my friend Sharon, and the beautiful world-changers of Ethiopia

linking with jen! and shanda, too

And here, with Laura @ Playdates at the Wellspring

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Desolation to Delight

She sat in the courtyard in the brilliant African sunshine.
 
Her dark skin failed to conceal the desolation in her eyes.
Her arms, weak from holding the child, now lay still and empty. Her hands rested on the cotton skirt that covered her thighs, her fingers played at the creases.
 
Her child, the boy, naked and brown with shining eyes and a perfect mouth, was in the arms of another, hungrily working at wrapping those flower-blossom lips around the bottle nipple.
 
His blanket was but a dirty square of fabric, ripped from something larger, to be made small enough to enfold the baby.
 
Swaddling clothes.
 
 
 
And I listened to the lilting voices speaking words that sounded like the tinkling of bells and falling water. I didn’t understand the language.
 
But the story was clear.
 
The baby was healthy, declared the staff nurse.
 
But malnourished.
 
The girl with the desolate eyes explained: no milk had come. He had slurped water from her cupped hand, lapped at the creases of her palm instead of the colostrum of her breast. She was, indeed, desolate.
 
Three days he’d been here, born on a day in November to a land called Africa. And such a world to great him. 
 
No father. A mother with no means at all to care for him.
 
Not a stitch of clothing, nor a diaper.
 
He was such a baby that anyone would be proud to call him son. Ten fingers, ten toes, alert eyes, strong neck. But in this suspended moment, he was no one, and every one of us, wrapped in the filth of earth thirsty for life and love and a chance.
 
We sat around the low, orphanage tables under the shade of some foreign tree and I watched the intake process. I listened to every syllable of the story, translated by a social worker.
 
She was only a girl, fifteen, raped in a bathroom she had been cleaning. And now, here she sat, empty with a single friend beside her.
 
Her friend explained she would keep the child if she could, but she had taken in a foundling, a little girl not yet two-years old. She couldn’t take any more; she herself had little income, poor by even Ethiopian standards. So, she brought the girl and the baby here, to the one place where there was hope.
 
Fatigue overcame desolation and she swooned on her stool.
 
“Had she yet seen a doctor?”, the question came.
No.
“Was she bleeding still?”
Yes.
 
We left the orphanage gates, perfect boy in the arms of competent nanny, and swept the young mother into the Land Cruiser to the hospital.
 
I sat beside her with a soul full of things to say and no words to say them. The Atlantic Ocean may have ridden those bumpy streets between us the gulf was so large.
 
Both of us mothers. Her the same age as my daughter, penniless and sick. Me, a daughter of luxury from the land of plenty. But I wanted more than anything to tell her: you will no longer be called Desolate. Your name is not Forsaken. Jesus came for you, and me, and that precious baby. You are his bride. He delights over you.
 
I squeezed her hand.
I prayed.
I begged God’s love and peace to flood her soul.
 
I noticed the smallest smile in her eyes as she said thank you. She turned and I watched her small frame pass through the hospital doors.
 
 
And later, when I held that child, and chose his first little, blue outfit, and when I fed him and changed his tiny diaper, I prayed salvation over him. I was only a visitor, but I’d seen a vision. And it altered my soul.
 
When I think of her I wonder, did she get to say goodbye?
 
###
 
Friend, we live in a broken world. We live with the distortion of sin inside us, around us, because of us.
 
But, we are not abandoned! Salvation and goodness can be found in every dire situation.
 
If you feel like your name is Desolate or Forsaken, you are not beyond redemption.
 
You are not beyond redemption.
 
The Lord sees. You.
 
He will claim you. And heal you. 
 
 
Isaiah 62:4
Never again will you be called “The Forsaken City” or “The Desolate Land.” 
Your new name will be “The City of God’s Delight” and “The Bride of God,” 
for the LORD delights in you
and will claim you as his bride.
 
 
I’ve linked up again with the amazing community that meets on Fridays at Lisa Jo’s. I usually go over the five-minute rule, but I do follow the rule of writing stories for the love of it!
 
 

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Night Vision, Halogen Headlights, and a Friend in the Darkness

A rising full moon and crystal sprinkling of stars shone clear as we drove the mountain pass that leads through the Cascade mountains towards home. 

'Moon Over Bourbon Street' photo (c) 2010, Jinx! - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

We thanked God for dry roads, free of ice and January’s customary snow, for a car that performed and the safety we experienced. But, inside, I felt fear. I felt it nudging along my spine, dispelling any sense of peacefulness; I felt it’s grip tightening on my neck; I felt the arrows of doubt, those thoughts I tried so hard to deflect, piercing my confidence:

It could happen again.

And, if it does, will your children escape this time?

What are the odds of surviving similar life-threatening injuries out here, this far from cities, hospitals and emergency care?

Careful breaths brought momentary comfort. I employed my habit of replacing doubts with truth, logic and scripture.

The Lord is my Light and my Salvation — whom shall I fear? {Psalm 27:1}

I will never leave you or forsake you. {Hebrews 13:5}

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything…present your requests to God. {Philippians 4:6}

We overcame the summit and descended into the windswept plains of central Washington state. Stark, jet-black silhouettes of pine and tamarack gave way to more ambiguous hills, tenacious scrub brush and the occasional flash of the Columbia river, ribboning through the rough landscape toward its Pacific destination.

As we descended, we sank into a deep fog.

A monochrome of watery gray, as thick as a painter’s washwater, colorless and absorbing, surrounded us. Headlights did little but cast impotent candle-flickers on the road. Shadows and silhouettes, moonglow and starshine smudged together in a boggy, clouded and heavy darkness.

Mile after mile we pushed on.

My neck muscles  were losing the battle with fear. Would I ever be excited for the adventure of a roadtrip again? Was this what a psychologist would label Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Why, when the God who protected me through the most frightening experience of my life, did I now feel strapped into the straightjacket of anxiety, clasped with the sharp, metallic buckles of terror? Helplessness, like this watery fog, threatened to stop my mental listing of hope-filled verses of an all-powerful God. Could my “God Who Sees” see us here, on the freeway, careening through sightlessness to who-knows-what disaster?

Our mirrors reflected a light behind us. A pair of bright, halogen lights rushed toward the back of our van. A left-turn signal flashed in the fog. The big pick-up truck, a later model Ford, had a pair of effective head-lamps, and from it’s left lane position, illumined our path.

Then the driver did something curiously personal. For several miles he drove alongside us, ahead by just a few feet, and shared his light. We tagged along, like a child holding his father’s hand, grateful for the visibility he leant us, aware of our own headlights’ weakness. His powerful beams cut an illuminating swath across the thick veil of fog enabling us both to safely drive onward. And with his light came confidence.

And the fog became less of an enemy. The darkness and uncertainty lost their grip. The comfort of the light loosened the fear-grasp on my neck. I breathed and truth ebbed into the cracks of my soul:

Come to me, weary one. Take my yoke upon you. {Matthew 11:29}

Follow me. {Matthew 9:9}

I am the Light of the World. {John 8:12}

The Lord is near. {Philippians 4:5}

The God of all comfort…comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we have received from God….Christ our Comfort overflows. {1 Corinthians 1:4-5}

And the verse that God’s spirit etched across my mind on so many occasions, like the time I held the hand of a beautiful Ethiopian woman dying of AIDS, like the moments before the accident that summer night that crushed my leg and lung:

The Lord is my light and my salvation–

whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life–

Of whom shall I be afraid? {Psalm 27:1}

And this one thing I knew as the pick-up truck finally pulled farther ahead of us, leaving us with a wordless message of light and comfort:

I am still confident of this:

I will see the goodness of the Lord

in the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart

And wait for the Lord. {Psalm 27:13-14}

He always shows up. Always.

***

Friend, you are not alone in your journey. Whatever steals your joy, whatever causes you to hold your breath in fear, whatever hardship or threat looms in your vision cannot overwhelm the light of Jesus’ love for you and his ultimate power over everything. Like a friend on a dark highway, he will lend you light, strengthen you, comfort your spirit and guide you safely toward his embrace. Keep pushing forward — you will see his light in your rearview mirror. I know this, not just from my experience, but because His Word gives us that promise; and His Word never, ever fails.

Blessings,

Alyssa

linking up at these lovely places:

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