Ethiopia Trip #1

March 22, 2007
10:30 a.m.
Denver International Airport

I could get used to traveling first-class. Hanging out at the Admiral’s Club. Reading the Wall Street Journal.

Our flight to Chicago is already delayed, but thankfully we had a three-hour layover, so hopefully we’ll be fine. Missing the flight to London would royally suck (get it, London, royally. You know I’m funny.)

It’s funny to me that 36 hours ago, I wasn’t even sure if this trip was going to happen. Some issues came up, some doubts were cast, and I was left in limbo, my emotions protesting at the yanking around they had dealt with. I don’t think they’ll stop complaining until our plane touches down in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia!

I always like to process before a trip…try to figure out what my expectations are, preparing myself emotionally and spiritually. This trip encompasses so many firsts for me. My first time to Africa. My first trip with Compassion. My first encounter with unbelievable poverty. I’ve seen poverty before. I saw it in the tiny cinderblock houses in Brazil, in the long extension cords that shared electricity from the house of the most “wealthy” to the least.

But I didn’t see poverty like expect to see in Ethiopia. I didn’t see children whose stomachs were bloated with hunger. I didn’t see mothers dying of AIDS. I didn’t see houses of cardboard and dung.

Part of me is scared that my heart is hard, that this poverty will just bounce off of it. But then, the other part of me is scared that I won’t be able to handle it. That my heart will implode under the weight of what I will see.

When I shared those fears with my prayer group, the most succinct way I could think to pray was that God will break my heart while keeping me together enough to do what He’s called me there to do. To tell the stories of these beautiful mothers who are doing all they can to raise their children. To serve with dedicated Compassion workers who spend countless hours traveling to distant villages and patiently teaching mothers how to keep their children healthy, their homes clean and their stomachs full. To open my eyes to the ministry of Compassion, and see first-hand the lives that are being changed, even saved.

Well, that’s entry number one. I’m curious to see how this will compare to the entry I will surely write when I return to Denver. Maybe I’ll sit in this very same chair, with the people of Ethiopia embedded firmly in my heart and their stories flowing through my fingers.

Nobody knows

Nobody here knows about March 5. Nobody knows that's the day that changed my life forever. The day that I lost the man who raised me as his own daughter. The day a part of me died.

I keep thinking that it will get easier. And perhaps it has. The pain is less sharp. The grief less crippling. But it's still there. And every year, I try to fight it. But at the end of the day, it's like I've worn a rain jacket into the ocean. There's just too much of it. It washes over me, cold waves that leave me gasping for breath. I surface only for a moment, bobbing on the next crest before being sucked under again.

But nobody here knows. They didn't know that it took every single ounce of energy I had to get off my couch tonight and be around other people. They don't know that the worship songs I sang felt like gravel in my mouth--hard and gritty. They don't know that as I drove home I sobbed, waiting for the clock to turn to midnight, so I could say the day was officially over.

They don't know because I don't tell them. How does that just come up in conversation? "Hey, did you know that my stepdad died five years ago today?" I hate the uncomfortable looks that come with that conversation. The mixture of pity and surprise that I'm not "over it" yet. What does that even mean? Will I ever be over it? Should I be?

Thirty-nine minutes ago, March 6 came. March 5 faded away, until next year. But this grief I feel has little respect for the calendar. It cannot be confined to this one day a year. On that day, though, it gains strength. For a day, I can't forget.

The body and the blood

I've always grown up taking communion once a quarter. Four times a year we would pass the silver plates through the pews, four times a year I would chew on a dry square of bread, four times a year my hands would shake as I pulled a plastic cup filled with juice from its slot--not because I was emotional, but because I was afraid I would spill it. I heard the familar words--"Do this in remembrance of me"--but my mind was usually on what was for lunch, or how much longer the service would last.

I don't blame my church for my poor attitude. I just never fully grasped the importance of what I was doing. It took me years to get to a place where I viewed the Lord's Supper with any kind of reverence. And my heart's still not where it should be.

But this Sunday, I had a moment of clarity. The church I attend now takes communion much more frequently, maybe even once a month, but it's a little different each time. Sometimes we stay in our seats and pass the sacraments. Other times we walk to the front. Once we walked to the back. I've knelt below a cross, stood in praise, sat in silence. This Sunday, as I walked back to my seat, a bit of cracker in one hand, a thimble-full of juice in the other, I felt broken. I prayed fitfully, but my words felt jumbled. So finally I silenced my tongue by placing the breaad in my mouth. And I felt like the Lord was just telling me "Be quiet. Take of my body." So I did. I chewed and quieted my mind. The bread was dry, scratching my throat, making me thirst. "Drink." The cool, sweet liquid filled my mouth as tears pooled in my eyes.

This Do In Remembrance of Me.