I woke up that morning delaying the thought of leaving Africa
later that day. Even the thought of leaving the country I want to live in
someday made my heart break and my breath leave, because throughout that week I
had become friends with the children at the church we worked at. I had learned
most of their names, and had amazing memories with almost all of them.
I will
always remember and cherish thumb wrestling with Natneal, an eleven year old
that spoke better English than most of the adults in the community, playing
futbol (soccer) and volleyball with Ashanafi, a seven year old that melted my
heart when I first met him, and Mussie, an eight year old whose smile cause for
you to forget about any knotty trick he had just pulled. I also will never
forget when Marone, an eight year old that laughed about everything that came
out of my mouth and a group of other girls tried desperately to braid my hair.
Laughing hysterically while trying.
During the
week of the trip I had the privilege of getting to go to Hermella’s house, a
well behaved eight years old whose smile always lit up the room. Her house was
about the size of a full sized bed. Inside had dirt walls and a dirt floor,
there was a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. All that fit into their
home was a twin sized bed, but instead of a mattress they had plastic bags that
were filled with dirt, which her mother and her shared. Her mother was most
likely around twenty two years old but looked as if she could be thirty five.
That afternoon
I put on a fake smile that made it look as if I was okay. Before the trip I
honestly had not thought about having to leave those amazing kids. I didn’t
know that as the bus left the church for the very last time my heart would
slowly and silently break into a million pieces.
In my room
there is a line of pictures from the trip that circle my whole room. So every
night I fall asleep to their pictures and every morning I wake up to them.
Those pictures haunt me with different thoughts. I think to myself “Why do we
as the fattest country do almost nothing to help those in some of the
skinniest?” Thoughts like those bring me to think about the kids I had to
leave. Is Natneal’s stomach full? Does Ashanafi think about me as much as I
think about him? Is school going okay for Mussie? I know he is a hot head
sometimes and that worries me for him. How are Hermella and her mother? Do they
have enough money? Are they full?
I mourn for
Africa every day of my life and in a way I will continue to do so until Africa
and I meet again.
***Before we even left Africa, I made Sierra promise to write something about her trip. I desperately wanted some record (for her and for me) of her experience. I had nearly given up. . . and then she wrote this personal narrative for her English class.
Her last line "I mourn for Africa every day of my life and in a way I will continue to do so until Africa and I meet again." perfectly mirrors a very specific corner of my own heart.
Sierra tells everyone she wants to move to Ethiopia some day to be a missionary. That plan is not always well received. Some teachers have scoffed. Other well meaning adults challenge her to go to med school or teachers college or. . . trying to make sure she has something "practical" to fall back on. Our Berra-girl is brave though. She is sure of herself and confident in her faith. She tells me, "Mom, I know I could do all those things and maybe I will. Maybe I will get some sort of degree so that I have more skills to offer the people of Ethiopia some day. But isn't being a missionary the best things I could ever choose?"
I will not be surprised if some day, Sierra, will be added to the reasons for which I long to travel to Ethiopia. I know that there are many hurdles of life and faith yet to come in our daughter's life. If her plans and dreams evolve over the years - that is OK. However, my deepest prayer for her is that NOTHING will ever come between her and the God she so loves and so longs to serve.
