Postal Traditions

(This blog is just an excuse to share some Micah pictures with you, not a pitiful plea for packages in the mail.)

The tradition is expanding. We arrived in Ethiopia in May of 2009 and in July of that year, we received our first package. Since that time, we feel there has been a pretty steady stream of care packages coming from all of the US, for which we are very grateful. Since receiving goodies/surprises from home is not an everyday occurrence, we tried to make the grand opening of each one a special occasion. When it was just the two of us, we would wait until bedtime before opening (that way we weren’t distracted by phone calls, work, or dinner burning in the oven.). Then, when bedtime came, we wouldn’t just rip into it. Instead, without looking, we would take turns reaching into the box to pull something out (no we have yet to be BITTEN by anything inside! Don’t get any ideas, there are customs laws that protect us there!). So, it’s always fun to see what we pull out (especially when I pull out something like the book “Becoming a Woman of Beauty and Strength.”) Anyway, we enjoyed our little tradition as it was, that is, until we welcomed a new addition to the family.

Now, for the first 4-5 months after Micah was born, most of the stuff inside the package was for him anyway, therefore, we thought it would be good to include him in the celebratory opening ceremony. First that meant doing it at a time when he was still awake. Then, for the first several months, his involvement was limited to just laying in our lap as we pulled stuff out of the box and piled it up around him. But, now that he has motor skills and loves to grab stuff, we have revised our tradition a little. Andrea and I still don’t look into the box, but Micah can. Then we ask him to grab stuff as he chooses. His eyes get real big as he sees all the goodies inside and then he is so happy when he finally gets a hold on something. Once that thing in taken away, he turns his attention right back again to the box of goodies. Let me give you some examples pictures from the last two boxes we received (one from each set of Micah’s g-rents).

“Ah yes, a package! Let me at ‘em!”

“Yuck, Oatmeal, boatmeal, double moatmeal, I hate Oatmeal.”

“Oooo, canned chicken? Hey dad, I thought you said baby chickens come from eggs!”

“Ah yes, it’s one of those funny things I have to wear when I eat.”

“Wow, my very own monkey finger puppet to remind me of my grandma singing me the ‘Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed’ song!”

“Dust rags? What are these for? Could you open the package so I can taste them?”

“Woah! Every time my mom blows into that circle thing, these trippy butterflies escape only to vanish when I try to catch them. If I only had an Encyclopedia for Babies to read up on this amazing species.”

“Wow a magazine! Now if only I could read.”

“Yea, a plastic bag! I love plastic bags! What’s that mommy? What’s a balloon?”

“Oh yea, a book, jar of Nutella, and my favorite - a spongy toy car!”

“Oh, THAT’S a balloon! That’s even better than a plastic bag!”

God in Our Midst: Part 3 - Be Faithful

Remembering this “God in Our Midst” truth is not a part of my (or our) human nature. In fact, it often sadly lies buried in some file cabinet in my mind until a particular situation causes me to stumble onto it. Such was the case with this little baby boy who fell in the fire. Throughout those trying days, it was easy to see God’s footprints…it was easy to call out to him for wisdom and help…it was easy to view the situation from his vantage point...it was easy, but only for a time. I’m sure you know the story all too well. The tide of time washes in and before you know it, the Divine footprints sink back into the sand of our consciousness. Such was the case only a week after our trip to Bahir Dar, as my initial reaction to unwelcome news revealed that the “God in Our Midst” truth had already been buried under…well…under “life” I guess.

It happened while I was drinking an orange soda with Dema in the little town closest to us, after bringing some more sick people into the pharmacist. By chance, Dema’s phone rang with a call from the Bahir Dar hospital. The administration lady who was overseeing the baby’s treatment was calling with our first update since dropping them off. Because the volume on Dema’s phone was up so ridiculously high, I could hear most of the conversation as this lady, in a very frustrated tone, described the past eight days. As promised, the doctors had watched the baby’s progress and became increasingly concerned about the possibility of gangrene in the baby’s left hand. The littlest finger had been burned the worst and had already fallen off by itself. Now the doctors were requesting permission to amputate the other fingers (and possibly the whole hand, after more observation). However, my heart dropped when I overheard that the baby’s father was “imbi ale.” This phrase is used of doors when they are “stuck” or of animals when they act “stubbornly.” Most often with people, it is best translated as “refuse” or “reject.” Now, “imbi ale” is a strong word, but apparently from what the voice on the phone went on to describe, the baby’s father was exceeding its normal force. Many doctors, nurses and even some friends in Bahir Dar had talked with him about the need for amputation, but he would only respond with increasingly hostile rejection, creating quite a stir in the hospital. His anger was spilling over mostly onto his wife as, of course, this was blamed on her (for he was not living at home when it happened). Let’s just say that his threats revealed to all the hospital staff that the baby’s life was not the only one in very real danger. My mind drifted off the conversation as I knew the fine line between such threats and their fulfillment.

My cold orange soda didn’t quite taste as nice after Dema hung up the phone. Why had I gotten involved in all of this? Why had I given up my Sunday to run to Chagni’s clinic? Why had I canceled my Monday and Tuesday work and invested my time, my vehicle, my fuel, and my money for covering hospital costs? What was the value of risking and then dealing with the car accident hassle? We had warned the father of the need for amputation, which was the only reason we were speeding off to Bahir Dar, since all other treatment (dressing, antibiotics, etc.) could be done at the smaller clinics nearby. My frustration and anger spilled out as I updated Larry on the case later that day. Hearing myself vocalize such questions revealed to me their source – my selfish human nature. Had God not been in our midst? Was He not still? Must everything make sense or go according to OUR plans with successful outcomes that justify our labor?

The next day, Andrea and I thought through any other ways we could help. It was obvious now that amputees are not welcome in Gmz culture because they are simply seen as a burden on the society. For the same reason, a lazy person who doesn’t work, isn’t given food. So, this baby’s father was thinking that he was saving his child (and himself) this status. But what about Habtamu?  He is a strong believer, who at the same time is unable to have his own children. Why not have him and his wife raise his one-handed nephew as a way of demonstrating God’s love and grace? Then we thought about the orphanages and adoption agencies that we have contact with. Surely, a family could be found for such a child! If only we could get the parents to agree to such an arrangement, then we could go ahead with the amputation. Though good ideas in our mind, they have yet to get off the ground because Gmz people do not just give their children away. Instead, the father was given an ultimatum and upon his refusal, the baby was discharged from the hospital and returned home. Last we heard (from about one month after the accident) the baby is still alive, though we don’t know any details, and are somewhat afraid to ask.

When I was a Youth Director with Campus Life, I had a sign on my desk that simply said “Be Faithful.” It stayed there for three years as a reminder that I was called to be faithful simply in loving and sharing Christ with the High Schoolers of my hometown…leaving the results to God. In this situation, we were faithful in providing the care we could and are willing to do more if opportunity arises, but ultimately, we leave the results to God. After all, He has a history of restoring shriveled hands, broken minds, and stubborn hearts.

God in Our Midst: Part 2 - "It Cut My Heart"

(This is part two of the previous blog, so if you didn’t read the previous story ‘God in our Midst: Part 1 – “Lives at Stake”’ scroll down to find it. This story assumes information told there.)

Shortly before 7:30am, Habtamu, his sister, brother-in-law, and nephew piled into the vehicle with me and started once again down the bumpy road, this time with the destination of Bahir Dar. Andrea and Micah stayed home for reasons obvious to anyone who has tried travelling more than a few hours with a baby. If everything went as planned, I hoped to arrive at the hospital at or before noon so we could connect with an assigned person there (‘Mr. Bean’), get our patient checked in before the lunch break, and then head back home, arriving before dark.

For the first 30 minutes of the trip, I was silently debated a decision I had to make. Should I, or should I not stop to pick up one of our colleague’s employees to take with me. I had talked with our friend, project manager “Larry,” and he had recommended that I take his employee, a guy named “Dema.” This guy was at home with his family for Christmas break (Jan 7 is Ethiopian Christmas), but I would be passing right by his house. Taking Dema with me would make things so much smoother. He knew how to get to the hospital in Bahir Dar. He knew the process of getting patients checked in. He knew Mr. Bean, the person in Bahir Dar who Larry had sent along with other patients to oversee their care. So taking Dema with me had its advantages, however, the introverted side of me (which is most of me) thought about the 4-5 hours of “alone time” that I could soak like a hot tub in on the trip back home. A bit of an understatement here, this solitude would be very much compromised with an extrovert like Dema in the car. But, in the end, reason, or maybe wisdom, got the better of me and I pulled off the road near Dema’s village. Little did I know exactly how important his help would become. I interrupted Dema during a fancy coffee ceremony at his neighbors’ house just before he took his second bite of breakfast. Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Dema left his breakfast behind and hurried with me back to the truck. Without looking back, his plans, like the rest of ours, had taken a drastic turn and so together we tumbled down the road toward Bahir Dar.

The trip was uneventfully smooth, making great time and arriving at the Bahir Dar city limits with plenty of time before lunch (at about 11:40am). However, an unexpected detour began just a few minutes from the hospital. Let me set the scene. Once reaching the Bahir Dar city limits, the road widened with a nicely fenced median and palm trees creating an attractive boulevard. The far right side of the road for the first several kilometers is busy with dozens of little three-wheeled vehicles, like mini cars, called a Bajaj. Then, although there are no lines on the road, there is enough space for what I would call two driving lanes. Normally, people drive in both lanes at once because of the frequent and unexpected invasions by Bajajes, pedestrians and animals. Now, I was coming up on a very large dump truck, and, not at all uncommonly, he moved over into the right unmarked driving lane, so as to allow me to pass. Or so I thought. For just as I was coming up alongside of him, no doubt because of a Bajaj’s sudden movement on his right, he swerved sharply back toward the median. The spot God chose for such an unfortunate surprise could not have been better. For there was a large break in the median that was completely void of people or other cars. To avoid being squashed by the massive dump truck, I swerved into the median break, which unfortunately was rapidly coming to an end. I hit the brakes which laid down a bit of rubber on the concrete before my front end jumped the curb and mowed over a metal fence post. Not surprisingly, I looked up to see the dump truck continuing merrily along his way.

Needless to say, we did not get our patient to the hospital before the lunch break. Instead, my God-given helper for the day, Dema, sprung into action. He knew that we needed to get a Traffic Police involved to inspect the scene before anything was moved, so he jumped into a Bajaj (which function as taxis) and went to two different police stations before finding the right guy for the sub-city district in which the accident occurred. The policeman inspected everything and then helped for the next 30 minutes or so as we changed the tire that had popped (the only real damage to the vehicle) and then brainstormed ways of removing the vehicle, whose undercarriage was wedged in place by the overturned cement footing that had been holding in the fence post. Sparing you the detail of several imperfect plans for removal, we eventually solved the problem by systematically jacking up the truck and putting a path of rocks under the tires so as to create an elevated surface to drive on, safely clearing the displaced concrete footing.

Finally, back on level ground, the policeman said that we needed to go to his office for some “property damage” paperwork. Upon arriving, we mentioned the need to finish quickly and get to the hospital, at which point the traffic guys stopped mid-stride “You need to go to the hospital?” “Yea, that’s why we came to Bahir Dar, this baby fell into a fire and needs to get to the hospital.” The baby had been wrapped up the whole time until now and when the policeman took one look at him, he did a 180 degree turn and led us all back to the truck, “Let’s go!”

To speed this story along, this policeman helped us in so many ways throughout the rest of the day. He went with us to the hospital, then after eating some lunch with him (as we all missed lunch by about 2.5 hours), we returned to his office (not without a second flat tire along the way – thank God for those friends who advised me to buy and carry two spare tires!). When we arrived at the office, the policeman wrote up a confession for me (in Amharic). It basically said “I, Travis Williamson, was coming to Bahir Dar to deliver a badly injured baby to the hospital when the road was closed against me by a large truck. To save the lives of my Ethiopian passengers I chose to run into the unoccupied median, thus injuring two metal posts. This is my confession for the city council to estimate the property damage.” After signing the confession, our police friend told us the normal procedure for a property damage case: detainment in jail for two days, then appearing before the court in order to be given a trial court date. Then, at that trial, the punishment could be up to 6-months in jail with a 700 birr fine (about $45). However, the traffic investigator went on, “because you really did nothing wrong while driving, and you were coming to Bahir Dar to save Ethiopians in the first place, I will not turn you into the judicial system on this. Instead, we will go to the city commissioner’s office for their assessment as to the repair cost of the two posts you knocked over.” Once again, we got into the truck, arriving at the next office at 5:00pm, thirty minutes before closing. Thankfully our friend, the traffic investigator, knew just which “unmarked” office to go to but, not to our surprise, the expert property damage assessor was not there. They called him on the phone and we were told to wait. Now, nine times out of ten, this means wait until 5:30 and then we will tell you to come back tomorrow, but instead, less than 2 minutes later, I look up to see our police guy talking with someone. “Who is that?” I asked. “That is the expert property damage assessor.” Amazing, but it didn’t stop there! Normally, he would expect to get into our car and go with us to the site where it occurred to do a visual assessment. However, for reasons unknown to me at the time, the assessor invited the police investigator into his office, then minutes later, exited with a paper in hand. We then went to the treasury office and saw a HUGE line of people hoping to get their payment in before the end of the day. However, I had something they didn’t have. Call it a “Get out of line free” card, I had a uniformed Police Investigator waving my payment in the face of the guy behind the desk (as everyone does in lieu of a line). Without much delay, it was signed and stamped and I forked over about 550 birr (about $35). One final problem was solved when the head financial guy said that they cannot date such a payment on the same day as the incident. I thought to myself “Oh great, that must be to ensure the two day detention.” But instead, they back dated my payment to the week before so that the paperwork says that I paid the fine on January 6^th for the damage caused on January 10^th. That I still don’t understand, but I don’t have too. As we walked out of the payment office, the investigator handed me my driver’s license and said “It is finished.”

Now, you hear so often horror stories from all around the world of corrupt police making threats and demanding illegal bribes, I wanted to balance such testimonies with this one that shows a genuine, kind-hearted man in the Ethiopian police service. At the end of a long day together, we delivered him back to his office, exchanged our mutual gratitude and off he went. I learned more later as Dema translated for me some of which I had missed. The reason that commissioner’s office went so unexpectedly quickly was because of what our police friend had told the end-of-the-day workers, “I know that it is almost closing time, and I don’t blame you for wanting to push this until tomorrow, but when I saw that baby and the care he needed at the hospital, it cut my heart. Can’t you help them by finishing this today?” That’s why the expert assessor returned so quickly. That’s why we didn’t have to return to the scene of the accident. That’s why my payment was processed. That’s why I could hear the words “it is finished” and sleep in the bed of my choice, rather than the one assigned to me by a jail warden.

Can you see all the places where God’s fingerprints showed up? Physical safety in the accident. Vehicle damage limited to only a flat tire. Having a second spare tire for the nail that I picked up later in the day. Having Dema with me to avoid miscommunications both in language and culture. Having this particular police investigator walk through the day with us, sparing us from criminal prosecution as God was clearly tugging at his heart along the way.

We pulled away from the police station just as the sun was setting, and so to avoid further danger in driving after dark, we spent the night in Bahir Dar and checked on the status of our patient in the morning. Thanks again to God for the initial outcome there. Rather than jumping into rash decisions on amputation, the doctors decided to watch the hand carefully for the next week or two before making a decision on treatment/amputation. Please continue to pray with us that God’s presence would be evident in directing the doctors as well as the baby’s parents in the coming days. May they know as well, that the all-powerful, and all-loving God is in their midst!