Baby Shoe

In Tchad I lived with a family that had five kids, and who ambitiously made it an even six kids during my months of occupancy.

Baby Six was born in January.

In French, when you are soothing a baby, you say, "Chut! Chut, bébé! Chut!" It sounds like " Shoe, baby, shoe! Shoe!"

Baby Six had a name, Dugay Grace. But no one really used her name, and eventually they all just called her, "Bébé Chut."

Suare would touch the baby's head in the morning and say, "Bonjour, Bébé Chut!"

R + A

Howes

Refugee

I'm standing by the heavy drab curtain of my tobacco-scented motel room here in Nowhere, Virgina, lifting it aside with a finger. Through the window I watch the gas station customers come and go at the service station below me.

The customers are unaware that they are the prime entertainment for my slow, slow afternoon.

A graying woman limps to the door of the convenience store, followed by her bouncing, blue-hatted grandson, flinging his arms into the air.

A young man in a brown jacket pulls up to the diesel pump in a shiny car, starts the fuel flowing, then walks around to open the door for his waiting lady to get out. They smile at each other, knowingly.

A quick succession of customers fly through Pump 5: young teenager kid, middle aged man with a messy front seat full of stuff and empty coffee cups, then a peeling-paint van packed with kids who are NOT ALLOWED TO GET OUT, finally followed by someone grumpy in a hurry who is scowling in every direction.

Many of them drive up to the pump, slide their plastic cards through the machine, pump their gas, and drive off, with not so much as a wave to the gas station attendant, sitting inside with the computer screens for company.

They seem lonely.

I'm on my way to Tennessee for Rika and Aaron's wedding. They're getting married! In just a few days!

But my car broke down and it's beyond repair and I can't get a rental car because I'm so far far far away from anywhere and I'm even too far away for my dad to come and pick me up and so I'm spending the night here, in the motel that reeks of cigarettes that's attached to the gas station/car garage/greasy family diner.

The phone rings. The sound of it startles me.

It's Mary Ella, the little old lady who's working the counter in the convenience store tonight. "There's a singin' tonight at th' church up th' hill, won't ya like t' come along?"

I hesitate. Would I?

Oh, okay.

I pull on a skirt and my Mary Janes. A few minutes later I'm driving in Mary Ella's car up to the Glorious Valley Holiness Pentecostal Church.

NO sleeping in this church service. No. The evening program is a untamed mix of singing, clapping, dancing in the aisles, healing, tongues, and excessive use of tissues as the members join before the alter in tears. There is no one in the congregation younger than 60, and yet they are bouncing and hopping like you wouldn't believe.

The preacher calls out for a laying on of hands. "Place all your hands on the person near you. Touch them, let them FEEL the POWER of the Holy Spirit!"

I am covered with hands, the hands of strangers who are supporting me in my time of trials. They pray, they wail, they cry, they even squeeze my shoulders a little tighter.

It's nice, actually. I feel very supported with all of them around me, all this touch and all this concentration of love.

Later, the preacher instructs us, "Take the hand of the person next to you and I want to hear you tell them, 'I LOVE you with the LOVE of the LORD!"

Mary Ella squeezes my hand between hers. She grins, hugely. "Honey, I LOVE ya wid th' LOVE of th' Lord!"

Borders

I always secretly wish that the US customs officials would be more welcoming.

They scan my passport, they can see I haven't entered the country for twelve months, and now I'm back.

A nice, warm, "Welcome home!" or "Welcome back to America!" would be appropriate, don't you think?

Instead, I hand the uniformed immigration officer my passport, he scrutinizes the stamps and my picture, and then peers at my declaration form.

"You didn't sign your last name," he complains.

Sure enough. I've started just using "Ansley" as my signature because it's faster.

I borrow a pen and fill in my last name on the line.

The officer flips through the pages once more, stamps the entry date into my passport, and hands it to me.

He looks behind me, bored, as he waves to the next person in line.

I head to the baggage claim, find my luggage, and join my cousins Mark, Trudy, and Jonah as we walk through the last exit doors (which swing open-miraculously-automatically!) to the reception area.

My parents' enthusiastic hugs more than make up for the customs officer's indifference.

It's good to be home.

Gimbie Art Project

One of my favorite nursing instructors, Dana Krause, started an art project while I was in school at Southern. Students would go to her house or meet in a classroom on free afternoons, and paint canvasses that illustrated Bible verses.
They would carefully print the verses along the bottoms of the paintings, and then donate these paintings to the city hospitals. Many patients and family members were blessed as they strolled the hospital corridors and saw the cheerful and inspiring artwork.
I would like to start the same project at Gimbie Hospital. We are in need of some colorful and uplifting artwork to brighten up the bare walls. I am currently collecting Bible verses in Oromiffa, in the hopes that I can find friends and family members who are willing to donate their artistic talents to our facility.
Since I'll be home in the States from the end of September until December, this is a good time to work on paintings and then get them to me before I head back to Ethiopia. They can also be sent with other volunteers in the future.
I recommend using acrylic paints because they are easy to clean up and very cheap at the craft stores. Let me know if there's a specific Bible verse you'd like to illustrate. Size is not important, as we'll try to hang groups of paintings together and different sizes are fine. But try to stay within several feet by several feet that will fit in a large suitcase. Or smaller.
Thanks for getting involved.

September 12

I went to church this morning in Addis Ababa at the SDA Union church--a large, Western-style A-frame building, which probably seats 1000 people.
The Adventists in Addis make me embarrassed of my brown chaco sandals and long skirts, well worn from excessive hand washing in the desert. The church women are dressed impeccably in shiny heels and cardigan sweaters over brightly printed silk blouses. Their nails are polished, their lips are painted, their hair is perfectly pinned into fashionable shapes.
They drive to church in large private vehicles, glinting in the morning sun. The whole family emerges, dressed as if for a wedding party, clutching soft colored Bibles and velvet purses.
As I sit in the service, soothed by piano and electric keyboard and the choir in their matching blue robes, I can't help but think about the street people who I see every morning, sitting outside the gate of the church compound on the muddy sidewalk.
There is a woman with her two babies who is missing one of her legs. There is the old lady who sits under the tree and yells at me when I walk by. There is a thin young man who sells small servings of toilet paper, in case you've run out. They raise their empty palms to me, trying to meet my eyes with their empty gazes. They are hungry, homeless, hurting.
There is something wrong with this picture.

Calendar

While passing by a tourist office this afternoon, I noticed this sign, "Experience 13 months of sunshine in lovely Ethiopia." I don't know about the promise of unending sunshine--we've seen plenty of clouds and rain in Gimbie this summer--but the Ethiopian calendar does actually have 13 months.
Strange, I know.
It turns out their there are 12 months of 30 days exactly, and then the13th month, made up of the five or six days of leftover scraps, comes at the end.
New Year's comes in September, with the first day of the New Year falling on September 11. (A slightly difficult day for me, an American, to feel like partying).
The year is now 2002 in Ethiopia. I haven't yet been able to figure out why.
Ethiopian Christmas, according to the Orthodox calendar, falls somewhere in the middle of January. So as foreigner residents, we can choose to celebrate these holidays multiple times: New Year's, Christmas, then New Year's and then Christmas again.
Happy New Year!

Small spaces

We inhabit a tiny guestroom at the church offices in Addis, Cassie and me. The room includes a narrow table with three plywood chairs, a short double bed with a soft mattress that melts around you and sucks you in, and a full size fridge that is broken--open the door and you'll be by a horrible stench. We are spoiled with our own bathroom and hot water.
For the first few nights Nick joined us and slept on the only patch of free floor space. Then Sathah and Katie arrived and there wasn't room for the boys. They went to sleep in the ambulance, which is parked in the back lot, waiting for repairs.
The room is overwhelmed by stuff: fruit from the market, a jar of old roses from an appreciation meeting, dishes, computers, wet laundry, shoes, luggage, piles of random papers, passports, tickets, small bags of cardamom and tea spices that I bought to take home to my family.
This sort of habitation creates an amiable sort of chumminess. Take tonight, for example. Cassie and I are trying to cook pasta in a bitsy pot over my temperamental and smoky backpacking stove--we share both laughter and shrieks. I'm using a pair of socks for hot pads; the pot of noodles gets too hot, it boils over, I'm struggling to use the socks to protect my hands from being burned and one of the socks catches on fire and suddenly there is smoke everywhere. More shrieking.
The boys are on the floor, trying to use the can opener on a pocketknife to open a can of fri-chic. This process isn't going so well. They are very focused, coming up with various methods, giving each other advice and tips.
Later we will all sit on the floor, this brown carpet filled with crumbs, eating pasta and drinking weak tea out of various recycled plastic containers.
I will remember this moment, and be happy: the class-C pasta from Egypt filling my belly, the wilting charity roses on the table, our pile of muddy damp shoes in the corner, the warm and cheery conversation filling the air

Rethinking healthy

Rethinking healthy
Monday night finds me once again in the tiny choir room of the Union SDA church in Addis Ababa, surrounded by smiling men in suits. Three of them are pastors, one is the Union president, and the last is Amanuel, my translator, who is the director of Health Ministries for the Ethiopian church.
I am shy, and after pleasantries and hearty handshakes I slip into the corner. I watch them drink lemonade and chatter in Amharic. I know exactly four words in Amharic; it sounds sharp and musical in contrast to the lulling Oromiffa of Gimbie.
In a few minutes the opening hymn will be sung, and we will all file out onto the platform. Pastor T. will give the opening prayer, a group of four teenage boys will struggle through a squeaky special number, Pastor H. will offer the welcome, and then it will be my turn. My job is to present a 20-minute lecture on a health topic, which will then be followed by a rousing old-fashioned Adventist sermon.
It's fun, really, this opportunity which brought me to the polluted, Amharic-speaking city of Addis Ababa. Cassie (a pre-med student from Southern Adventist University), and I arrived a week ago to assist with the health emphasis of this evangelistic series. We help coordinate a health fair every afternoon on the front church patio, and take turns giving wellness lectures during the evening programs. Our focus is the NEWSTART (Nutrition, Exercise, Water, Sunshine, Temperance, Air, Rest, Trust), program, with an emphasis on nutrition, mental health, and disease prevention.
The health fair includes booths where participants can measure their blood pressure, blood glucose, body mass index, lung capacity, and activity tolerance. We also offer 10-minute massages, the "health age" evaluation, and pastoral counseling with bonus free Adventist Reviews.
Surprisingly, the health fair has been a hit. Hundreds of visitors have flooded the church patio every night, lined up and eager even before we've set out the tables and supplies.
Cassie and I are privileged to tackle this endeavor with Amanuel and Tigest, both kind and enthusiastic nurses who share our passion for health education. Amanuel, who graciously translates our talks every evening, hopes to continue these health campaigns in other states of Ethiopia.
Tigest keeps me on my toes, squeezing my arm in a mothering way and insisting that I practice the message I'm promoting.
She smiles her sweet, concerned smile, "Sister Ansley," she says, "Have you had good rest today? Have you been drinking water?"
The whole experience has been a pleasant reminder that our health matters. That we must take care of ourselves in order to care for others.

Running

My cell phone alarm rings at 5:30 am. I turn it off and slide deeper under my heavy felt blanket.

Alban doesn’t move.

“Alban?” I whisper.

“What?”

“Do you want to go?”

He sighs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

We tie our shoes, shivering, and step out on the porch. The stars blink down on us as we trot up the muddy steps to the hospital’s front gate.

It’s cold. The chill hugs my bare ankles and blows across my sleepy face. But the cold is also our friend. It’s not brisk enough to burn our lungs, and we can run a long time before we notice the sweat at all.

Gimbie town smells of freshly roasted coffee, bus exhaust, and rancid butter. I carefully hop over the puddles that stain the road next to the huge transport truck tires—that’s where the street children pee at night. Why do they use the truck tires as their target? I have no idea.

The streets are nearly empty at this time of morning, but we can smell all the signs of the day beginning. The dust of the street sweepers, the burning bean scent as the coffee roasters start up their charcoal fires, the smouldering incense in little houses wafting out from behind curtain doors.

Alban runs with me for a while, a warm-up, and then after we stretch at the top of the hill he takes off into the gray dawn. I’m pretty slow.

Ethiopia is famous for its runners. In one running event in the 2008 Summer Olympics, Ethiopians won the gold, silver, and bronze metals. An Ethiopian also won the marathon.

The last time I was in Addis, I remember looking out the car window at a school running camp set up in a large city square—hundreds of skinny teenagers stretching and sprinting and bouncing in small formations. It was startling to see them in their tiny tank tops and brightly colored running shorts—more skin exposure than I’ve ever seen in my time in Africa.

“Do you know why we run?” Girma, who was driving, asked me.

I smiled. “Why, Girma?”

Girma is wise and well traveled and also one of the most pessimistic people I’ve ever met.

“They say that the Ethiopian runs in order to run away from poverty. We are always running, running, running, but we can’t seem to beat it.”

The heart of life is good

It’s Friday evening. I’m crying as I chop onions in the kitchen, whipping up a lentil bake for potluck tomorrow. The electricity is somehow always off on Sabbaths; we have to bake tonight while we can.

I peek around the doorway to the living room. Alban, my brother, is sitting on the couch, holding tiny baby Senna in his arms. She is a fat bundle, wrapped like an Eskimo in three pastel blankets.

Alban is focused, talking to her. “Hey, little girl,” he says, “No more wiggling, okay? Are you trying to get your arms free?”

She murmurs, sleepily, in reply.

[Senna’s story, in a nutshell: she’s our newest arrival in the baby department. Her mother died during the home birth, leaving an impoverished father with seven other children to care for. He brought Senna, which means “blessed” in Oromiffa, to the hospital compound, desperate to find someone who would adopt her.]

Becky is at the computer, receiving love and support from the homeland via email. She laughs to herself occasionally, shaking her head at her family’s narrated antics.

I put the lentil bake in our diminutive oven, heat water for tea and prepare mugs for all of us—chamomile for Alban, peppermint for Becky, chai for me. Alban and I then sit on the couch together and sip our tea and play with the baby’s fingers and toes until she wrinkles up her face and finally falls asleep.

We sit in the quiet of the evening, relishing that good feeling of Sabbath beginning, the hushed, clean house, the food in the oven, everything in its place, the expectance, the peace.

Stupid deaths

I’m standing in the lobby, asking the guards to take a note to the laundry man, Bekele, because the female ward is all out of linen. It is 9:10 pm, a quiet and chilly evening.

A van pulls up outside the gate. There is some shouting, confusion, a few people hop out, run up to the guards. The nurses in male ward here the commotion and understand and come running with stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs.

One of our practical workers runs downstairs, I’m not sure why.

There is a woman in the back of the van, pregnant, in labor, but when we assess her we find she has already died. She is cold. It was some time ago.

The van brought her from Nijo hospital; we don’t know what happened.

The nurses are stunned and sad. The family members begin their mourning process, grabbing the fences and shaking them with all their might and wailing and wailing, an eerie, terrible sound.

I’m currently reading a helpful book called Awakening Hippocrates: a Primer on Health, Poverty, and Global Service. In its introduction, Dr. Paul Farmer speaks of his health work in developing countries and vividly describes seeing “the panicky dead end faced by so many of the destitute sick.” Farmer illustrates a smattering of these “dead ends,” or “stupid deaths,” as he calls them—a child writhing in the spasms of a terrible infectious disease for which a vaccine has existed for over a century, a pregnant woman dying of preventable malaria, young people slowly consumed from the wasting diseases of AIDS and tuberculosis.

These ends are not fair. It's difficult for us to see them happen, to be participants in them.

Tonight I’m watching family members tearfully talk with the guards about what to do with the body in the back of the van--this is their sister, daughter, wife, friend. Her death is senseless, unnecessary.

If only the education of health professionals was more proficient. If only the hospitals had the appropriate equipment and training. If only the roads and the vehicles were smoother, more reliable. If only the patient’s condition wasn’t so compromised by malnutrition and the births of nine other children and a daily life of hard manual labor.

If only if only if only.