Where Are We Going Tonght?

“Daddy? Daddy?” I heard my cue that Micah was up from his nap. I snapped my laptop closed and started down the hall, “Micah, are you awake?” (I feel I can get away with asking ridiculously obvious questions when addressing a two-year-old – oh excuse me, two-and-a-HALF.) “Yea!” He called out just as I was reaching his door. There he stood, hair disheveled, eyes still sleepy and a nose that has been marathon training for more than a week, “Where are we going tonight?” he asked. I stopped for a moment, kinda stunned. First, I was impressed with his construction of his question. No grammatical errors, quite good pronunciation, and I’m quite sure that he knew exactly what he was asking. This past year, and especially these past few months, I have been impressed at Micah’s ability, that is, the two-year-old mind’s ability to pick up, understand, and use language. Even when he makes mistakes, the linguist in me often sees exactly why his brain took that particular route in creating the clause, and I’m further amazed.

 

Getting past the feeling of “Wow, God clearly programmed our species for complex verbal communication,” I was struck by something else in my son’s question, “Where are we going tonight?” It was asked with excitement, built on the recognition of a definite pattern he had observed. If he had had the words to express it, he would have said, “You know, last night we went to the house of the man that gave me the big black car, the night before that was the house of the nice lady who had singing penguins and had wrapped Christmas presents for Grace and me under her tree…and the night before that was church after which we packed out the Mexican restaurant. You know, so where are we going tonight?” It was a valid question, for during the eight weeks that we stayed down in Texas, we were probably not home about 80% of the evenings. That’s 5 or 6 nights a week with dinner engagements, not your typical routine for an introverted family like ours, especially with a brand new baby.

 

So why? Simply put, it was an onslaught of incredible expressions of hospitality, dear friends and a community of believers intentional about ministering to us. And boy have we been blessed. Three families opened up the empty rooms in their homes and shared their space in incredibly unselfish ways. Our hosts bought our groceries, five people brought over meals, about fifteen households hosted us for dinner at their homes, and there were at least a dozen times we went out to eat with friends (NONE of which were we allowed to pay our bill!). At first, the busy evening schedules were honestly a bit overwhelming and we didn’t quite know how to manage Micah’s bedtime being stretched night after night. But, as the madness became routine, we were overwhelmed with the blessing of it all: excellent home-cooked meals with no food prep, no clean up, and gracious hosts who emptied their toy closets for our busy little Micah to explore.

 

As I think through the blessings of these past two months, I’m blown away to realize that this hospitality saved us easily over $2000 in housing and food costs. In addition we were blessed with the hours upon hours of food preparation and clean up time. But most of all, we were blessed by the friendships and love of what we have come to know as our Texas family. We pray that God will faithfully return similar blessings to all those who so generously blessed us in these past weeks.

Down To The Last Dum Dum

One of the Top 100 things that we looked forward to doing during our time in the States was to “inspect” Micah’s Halloween Candy.  Of course, when writing that list, I was thinking of our little rodeo clown collecting a mountain of candy on behalf of our whole family’s taste buds. Well Micah did very well, knocking on doors and earning cute-points with all who opened them, but upon inspection of his loot, I felt something unexpected: my heart was overriding my taste buds’ plea!

Even now, one month later, I have a hard time raiding Micah stash after bedtime. Why? Certainly not because I don’t want to. After all, I am a pretty big sucker for sweets. No, instead, I find it difficult because I don’t want to rob him of the enjoyment of trying, say...for example, a Snickers. I love Snickers, but I know that Micah would love that Fun Size Snickers just as much, if not more than I would. And the dad in me wants to experience his enjoyment of it more than my own. It’s the same with ice cream. When we go to a DQ (which is more often than we ought to admit), we order a large size Mint Oreo Blizzard and share it between Andrea, Micah and me. All three of us love ice cream, but you won’t find me fighting for the lion’s share of the Blizzard. Why not? Because I love seeing both my wife and my son enjoy my ice cream with me. It goes for other things as well. When we went to a waterpark, I wanted so badly for Micah to enjoy the slides with me, which he did at first. But when one trip down bumped his noggin, his fun was over, and so was a part of mine. Sure I went down many more slides, but I would have gladly waited in a long line to go once with him down the “family slide”, than to zoom down a half a dozen Monster slides by myself.  Why? Seeing him enjoy something brings a far deeper joy than my own enjoyment alone. Another example, in October, I came down to Dallas a week earlier than the rest of the family. And for that week, I slept in a very nice trailer parked in a friend’s driveway. I loved having my own space, but I couldn’t stop thinking “Man, I wish Micah were here, he would love sleeping in this trailer!” I knew I would enjoy it more if I could enjoy it through the excitement of my two-year-old. Am I alone in this? I can’t believe that I am. I think it’s just that our abnormal lives magnify this feeling because there is only a 6-month window in which we have the joy of introducing Micah to our homeland/passport country. Cramming all the goodies of America into 6-months isn’t as easy as you might think.

Now if I, as a father, can experience a deeper level of joy in seeing my son enjoy something special, I ask myself, does my heavenly father delight in my enjoyment of Micah, his creation, and the life he gives? I have always respected Dr. John Piper and his emphasis on the sovereignty of God, but I never really got into his writings about Christian hedonism (ie. Desiring God). But, this idea of me enjoying life deeper through Micah’s pleasure is basically the same as the Christian hedonist who says God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in him.

Imagine with me, God Almighty scoots to the edge of his throne in anticipation as I pour the mountain of Halloween candy onto the coffee table in front of my now wide-eyed two-year-old. The divine heartbeat quickens and an immeasurable smile spreads across his face as I play mountain guide in leading Micah through the different options – candy bars, chocolates, taffys, suckers, licorice, fruit snacks, etc. Finally after several minutes of careful scrutiny, Micah lands on what I was predicting all along – a lousy Dum Dum sucker. “I want this one,” he says with a full-face smile and excited eyebrows that race toward his hairline in anticipation.  My own taste buds pout in the corner of my mouth as yet another candy finds a different home, yet my heart rejoices in my son’s happy little dance around the room (“no running with a sucker!”). And to think, how awesome the possibility that God Almighty, sovereign over all, and our Great Father is taking a moment to enjoy my enjoyment of Micah enjoying his silly little Dum Dum. It’s hard to believe, but it may not be far from the truth.

God's Gift of Grace

Tears of joy streaming off my cheeks, I bent down and whispered, “I just have to stop crying, I don’t want to miss this!” Now, I can be a emotional person, but rarely is that shown on the outside. And tears? Well, tears are reserved only for the most special of occasions. But, here I was, all-out, unstoppably weeping with joy in the presence of complete strangers. Why? Because it’s the only suitable response for when God Almighty breaks through my narrow perception of this world and reveals his glory, power and grace. Such was the case Thursday afternoon when you, Grace Yabsera, were given to your mom and me as a beautiful gift from God Himself. The event of your birth brought both of us to tears, but more importantly, it burned within us a deeper love for our Father, the good giver of grace. May it do the same for you.

Wednesday, October 10^th, 2012, 11:55pm. My heavy eyes stared deep into my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was tired. I was a bit discouraged. But most of all, I was annoyed. I was annoyed by all the scraggly little whiskers that had taken over my face during this period “razor fasting.” You see, when our originally calculated due date for your birth came on October 1^st, it passed without any hint of your mom’s body wanting to give you up quite yet. This was no surprise as your brother Micah was more than 2 weeks late and we had just come to expect that with you as well. However, we didn’t want your delivery to follow exactly in Micah’s footsteps. So on the evening of that due date night, I committed myself to prayer on two very specific things. First, I prayed that both you and your mom would be safe and healthy after the delivery. And second, I prayed that your mom’s desire for a natural birth would be realized. I had thought a lot about your brother Micah’s birth story and the problems that led to the doctor ordering a c-section, but as I replayed it over and over in my mind, I became more and more convinced that the problems were not caused by Micah, leaving me little ground for arguing that this delivery would be any different. With my logical deductions suggestion another c-section, I made the firm decision to ground my hope not on what I saw, but rather on the infinite power and grace of God. I committed myself to pray fervently and consistently for this desire, but I knew that I needed a trigger to remind me to pray - something consistent in my day, something that can’t go unnoticed. So I started a “razor fast” – vowing not to shave my face until you arrived - knowing that I can’t stand having those prickly little needles digging into my skin. This annoyance and any other triggers associated with my facial hair would serve as the perfect reminder for prayer focused on you, your mom and the whole delivery process. If it kept me awake at night, I would use that time to pray. If I felt the fuzz when randomly touching my face, I would remember to pray. And even If I briefly glanced in the mirror, the unusual sight of facial hair would trigger a prayer.

Well, the irritation and reminders came and went quite regularly and I faithfully prayed with each of them. But now, here I was, ten nights later, more than just casually annoyed as the little daggers borrowing under my skin! I could see the red blotches of irritation all over my neck, wanting so badly to break out the old razor and hack away. But I didn’t. Instead, I prayed out loud as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, knowing that your mom was in the other room wrestling the discomfort of HUGE belly in order to catch some much-needed rest. “Lord, you know our request and we know that you are faithful. Please, by whatever means necessary, we ask for your favor in this childbirth process. I ask for a healthy baby, a healthy wife, and that her body might be able to complete the birthing process naturally. I don’t ask this because of who I am, nor who Andrea is, but because of who YOU are. I am asking for that which you yourself delight in giving, grace.”

I went to bed shortly before 1am and groggily woke up at 5:30am. I looked over at your mom sitting on the edge of the bed, she smiled and asked, “Wanna go with me to the hospital?” I shot up. “What? You’re having contractions? When did they start?” Calm as always, she responded, “They started at about 1am and I haven’t been able to sleep since.” I scratched my itchy chin as crawled out of bed, “Lord, its go time, may we find special grace this day!”

At the hospital, Mary, a veteran RN of thirty-something years, asked all the questions, did an initial inspection, and had mom sign the form acknowledging the risks of trying a natural delivery after a c-section.  Now, we had learned with Micah’s birth that the dilation of the cervix is a very important piece in the whole labor process. Without its full dilation to ten centimeters, the baby is stuck inside. With every check of dilation progress, we hold our breath, wanting to hear progress toward that magic number ten, yet at the same time afraid of being discouraged by reports of no progress at all. With Micah’s birth, you mom's dilation only got to seven, where it seemed to stop until eventually Micah’s heart rate showed signs of fetal distress. It was this that mandated the c-section. So now, Mary, before doing the initial cervix measurement, announced with confidence, “Based on the strength of those contractions, I’m guessing you’re already at eight centimeters.” I responded with excitement at her optimism. What an amazing demonstration of God’s grace that would be! Yet the official report of only four centimeters tempered my optimism a bit. “It’s a start,” I thought as I scratched my itchy chin, “Lord, may the next couple hours be characterized by steady progression culminating in a beautiful delivery! Our trust is in you as the good giver of grace.”

After an hour or so, a second RN came into the room, Jeannine. She was spunky and full of energy, excitement and encouragement. Jeanine told us that she had been called in with the intention of us being her patients, but that Mary had changed her mind and said she liked us too much to give us up. So we would be blessed by both of their help. Thank you Lord! Jeanine was great about introducing us to all of the different positions which your mom could use to help her relax through the contractions. There was the standing and swaying position, a leaning position, rolling back and forth on the birthing ball, straddling a chair, etc., etc. This introduction, once again, raised my optimism because it was adding an element to the labor process that we were not allowed to have in Micah’s delivery. You see, for whatever reason in the first pregnancy, we were told that mom had to be laying down the whole time because the doctor at that hospital did not like his patients walking around. Maybe, now, allowing gravity to help would be just what we needed to advance the labor beyond what happened with Micah. Could this be the mechanism of God’s grace?

The doctor checked on your mom around lunchtime, but when his measurement of the cervix came back at only four centimeters, my heart sunk to the floor. More than four hours of hard contractions, for what? The doctor promptly took a long plastic needle and “broke her water,” in the hope of speeding up the labor process. With the water cushion removed, your head now pressed directly against the cervix opening, surely it would open up much faster now.

As expected, the contractions got heavier and harder after the water was broken and your mom was in such horrible pain. The contractions also started coming faster than before. Both the doctor and the nurse commented that they were coming too quickly, adding unhelpful stress on both you and your mom’s body. “If we were inducing her, I would turn down her Pitosin right now, but that,” Mary lamented, pointing at the computer monitor, “that is her own body doing that to her.” The monitor showed some contractions lasted several minutes only to launch into another equally pounding one while still descending from the first. I stared into the computer screen until my eyes refocused on my own reflection. I was wiped out just “being there” for your mom and rubbing her back, I couldn’t even pretend to imagine how she felt right now. I thought to myself, “If every one of those whiskers represented a prayer, it was clear that God was not answering them by gracing us with a quick or ideal delivery. But, then again, maybe this was his answer. Maybe this barrage of contractions, pressing your head hard against mom’s cervix was opening that door for you to be born naturally. Maybe this was exactly what I had been praying for.

Mary came in and out several times asking your mom if she wanted to be re-measured, as surely such activity should be having some effect. After an hour, your mom agreed and out came the report, “Well, it’s not quite a six, let’s say a strong five and a half centimeters. That’s progress, not great progress, but its progress and that’s what we want to see.”

Your mom struggled through the bombardment of these super-contractions for about an hour longer until something scary happened. Something that literally caught my breath – your heart rate dropped low, far too low, before gradually creeping back up.  I held my breath, eyes riveted on the monitor as the next contraction, another strong one, maxed out the sensor yet again. As it decreased, so did your heart rate and my eyes glazed over with fear. This was entirely too familiar – fetal distress. Not twenty seconds later, Mary came bursting into the room, “What is your baby doing?” She tried to be light about it, but I could see total seriousness written between the lines on her forehead. Our fears were confirmed when she performed another measurement, “Barely six centimeters,” she said. I couldn’t muster a smile as I caught a glimpse of myself off the bathroom mirror, “Lord, we ask for grace.”

Mary then apologized profusely for now having to order your mom to stay lying down on the bed, a position in which your mom had a very hard time staying relaxed. Confined to the bed, the contractions only hurt more. While your heart rate stabilized for a short while, it didn’t last very long. Soon, re-occurring signs of distress brought Mary back into the room. We tried changing positions, we tried giving oxygen, we tried many things, but none of it could stabilize your heart beat like it had been all morning. Something was wrong and you were crying out for help.

Mary, always the optimist, finally piped up, “Well, maybe we should do another measurement, maybe you are fully dilated and ready to push.” In preparation for the check, your mom changed positions and Mary’s eyes got big, “That is a large blood showing. That is not a good sign.” She quickly did the measurement and without telling us the result, she got up saying that she needed to inform the doctor right away. Just then, another nurse walked into the room, “The doctor is on the phone for you, he is wondering what is happening on Andrea’s tape.” Clearly he had been watching the live stream of monitoring data from in his office a couple blocks down from the hospital. “Great minds think alike,” Mary said as she walked out the door and I scratched my itchy neck with frustration, “Lord, where are you?”

Returning just a few minutes later, optimistic Mary shot straight with us, “Well, I want to be honest with you, things are not going as we had hoped and from everything that I see, this is not going to end up as we had wanted. She is still at the six centimeter dilation and with the baby’s distress, he/she can’t keep going like this for much longer. We have tried everything. Now, I am not a doctor, but I’ve been doing this a long, long time, and everything I see is pointing toward this ending in another c-section for you guys. I’m sorry. Your doctor is on his way over right now, and unless something changes between now and when he arrives…well, I’m just being honest with you. I’m sorry.” Mary exited the room.

My lips tightened in a packed bundle of emotion. I grabbed your mom’s hand tight, leaned down and hugged her the best I could. Feeling my scruffy whiskers against her hair, I prayed in a soft whisper “Lord, we simply ask for grace. We know that this whole pain and problems in childbearing thing is a result of humanity’s sin, our sin. It wasn’t a part of your beautiful creation, now marred from its original glory. We acknowledge and we accept that consequence. But we also know who you are. We know that sometimes, you, by your own choosing, break into our situation and override this broken system. We know that you, by your own choosing, bestow unmerited favor and that you delight in doing so. We know that you are gracious. And so Lord we simply ask for grace right now. When the doctor arrives and does his assessment, give him your infinite wisdom just this once in the decision that he makes here and now. And give us the grace we need to accept that decision as from you. Amen.”

Not five minutes after Mary had left the room, she re-entered, this time with the doctor, both in hurried step. He scrubbed in no time and took his position at the foot of the bed. This was it. Hoping against all odds that somehow, something had changed since the disappointing measurement only ten minutes earlier, I closed my eyes, buried my fuzzy chin in my cupped hands and tuned my ears into the voice down at the end of the bed.

Mom’s pregnancy with you had been almost exactly like it was with Micah. She had no sickness, she carried you high and strong, with no evidence of dropping at or around your due dates; the date of inducing was scheduled due to overdue-ness, yet both times she went into labor on her own; she showed early progress in labor, but despite very strong contractions, it didn’t progress beyond that crucial point before putting both of you and Micah into distress. It was clear to Mary, and many of the other nurses and techs that your mom’s body and the labor process, for whatever reason, are not compatible. And now here, only ten minutes after the last disappointing check, what hope could we have had that we should hear anything new? All the evidence in my mind was already wheeling your mom toward the c-section room, but God’s grace slammed that door shut when two words pierced the silent delivery room, “It’s complete!” What? It took a half a second to register in my mind. “It’s complete?” I asked the doctor, as Mary rushed toward the door, “You mean…she’s fully dilated?” He nodded. “Are you serious?” He looked dead into my eyes, “Oh yea, that cervix is gone!” I looked back at your mom but her face immediately blurred with the onslaught of uncontrolled tears. God’s amazing grace had opened the door for the natural birth we had been begging him for, and I couldn’t help but weep.

Seconds after Mary shouted the announcement down the hallway, our room was bursting at its seams with activity. I felt the commotion all around, yet I saw only blurred images as tears cascaded over my cheeks and rained down onto the bed below. I bent down again and whispered into your mom’s ear, “I just have to stop crying, I don’t want to miss this!”

Eventually regaining clear sight, I soaked in the excitement around me. Every push that your mom gave inched your head little by little toward the outside world, building our anticipation of finally meeting you. The doctor looked over at your heart rate monitor, “Mid-eighties, that’s not good, I think we better give her some help,” he said as he pulled out two huge metal bars – forceps. Then, right before the next contraction began, he tempered our excitement, “I’m going to try turning the baby’s head for better positioning and then pulling, but I warn you, it’s either going to go or it isn’t.” I learned from that statement, that a repeat c-section wasn’t yet ruled out, but honestly, it didn’t rattle me one bit. “Of course it would go!” I thought to myself, “God had already revealed his grace-giving presence so undeniably, that I don’t have a single ounce of disbelief left in me.” And so it happened, with a mighty push from your mom and a mighty pull from the doctor, I caught the first glimpses of your beautiful hair. Soon after, out came your nose, your ears, your chin, your shoulders, your belly, your legs and your tiny feet bringing up the rear. Immediately after hitting the air, you let out a strong cry, which brought a HUGE smile to the faces of everyone in the room, especially your mom. A hard fought battle, which we had won, but not without the pivotal arrival of God’s amazing grace.

“It’s a baby girl,” the doctor announced. I locked eyes with your mom and she mouthed your name to me, “Grace Yabsera,” and I could only shake my head in disbelief at how entirely fitting that name was for you. For as you know, your middle name, Yabsera, means “the work of the Father.” You, my lovely daughter, you are a work of God, knitted so perfectly inside your mom’s womb. But your name means more than that when read together, “Grace is the work of the Father!” I couldn’t have summed up these last few hours any better. Grace is the work of the Father. It’s a declaration that our Heavenly Father is about doing the work of grace. He delights in showing unmerited favor, not only in the small things like our preferences, as he had just done in allowing us a natural delivery, but also in the HUGE things as he does in offering free the free gift of salvation by the forgiveness to his rebellious creation. God is in the business of doing works of grace, and it is our prayer that you will declare that truth your whole life long, not only with your name, but with your words, your actions, your attitudes and your life as a whole. Grace IS the work of the Father! For which we are FOREVER grateful!

We had asked for grace…and that’s exactly what he gave!

Changing Places

We were grateful, this past week, to attend a church service as normal people. We entered late, obscurely sat in the balcony, and didn’t even venture downstairs to partake in an all-church cake reception. However, despite our attempts to lay low, I found that I couldn’t quite hide from the sermon’s opening question challenging my thinking in an unexpected way. It wasn’t an unusually good question or necessarily thought-provoking, but it’s more that it hit me in a strange way. The question was: “If you could have changed places with any person in the world for this past week, who would it have been?” The pastor suggested sports heroes, famous people at the Emmys, and a great wildlife photographer. None of those struck a chord with me, so how would I answer?

Now I ask questions like this to Andrea all the time when we are out in the bush, “If you could eat at any restaurant tonight, what would it be?” “If you could spend tomorrow with any one person, who would it be?” “If you could order one thing delivered on dry ice from Dairy Queen…” So, these types of questions rattle around our minds all the time, which made it even more surprising this time when my mind drew a complete blank. Who would I trade places with? How about my college friend Jason? I haven’t kept up with him at all, but I know that he is a pastor in Vermont and Vermont is one of the two states that I have never set foot in. Besides Vermont in the Fall sounds extra nice when I haven’t seen the changing colors of fall leaves since ’08. A tempting response, but I thought there must be a better answer than that.

What if I switched places with our Canadian friend at Gesas (our home among the Gmz)? It would be nice to be there for a week, checking up on all the aspects of work, seeing that our water tanks are full, worshipping with the Gmz church, etc. Besides, I thought, my Canadian friend could get a break back here in…then I realized something. Switching places means actually switching. How fun would it be to switch places with one of the Gmz translators? Say Habtamu. Taking him from his remote village up on Gesas mountain and plopping him into American culture would be an amazing cross-cultural experiment! Sure, I would be royally bummed if I couldn’t be here to “show him around,” but at least I could have Andrea explain it in great detail when I returned. Oh and how I would love to record his conversations with people in his village after he returned. How would they describe an indoor bounce house business? Or Walmart at the peak of Halloween marketing?

As I thought about it more, I saw something new within myself. People have asked us a number of times, “So do you miss being over there?” to which both Andrea and I immediately respond with a simple, “no.” But now, having been here just about three months, I see myself starting to look forward to our return. Don’t misunderstand, it isn’t the feeling that “we want to go home” as some overseas workers say. Ethiopia is not our home, but then again neither is any one place here in America. Home is wherever  Andrea, Micah, and I are together and so we don’t feel that we have left “home” behind. Rather, we have left behind one of our communities. We have strong community of family and friends in Wisconsin, and then again in Michigan, and of course down in Texas, but we also have our community in Gesas. And just this morning, we received word that our Gesas community is grieving the death of one of its patriarchs, our friend, WoTaak. We know our Gesas community is beating the drums and singing clan songs in honor of WoTaak, yet our ears are too far away to hear and our feet too far away to get us there. It is saddening, even for Micah. Unsure of what Micah knows about death, we told him that WoTaak died today. He repeated it over and over again at lunch, “WoTaak died…WoTaak died.” He has seen dead animals in the road and dead chickens, so we wondered if he could apply that same concept to a person. Without prompting from us, he asked, “WoTaak died. WoTaak all gone. WoTaak sick?” followed by a cold stare out the window. Another string pulling our hearts toward our Gesas community.

So are we beginning to miss being over there? Yes, but we know that soon after we go again, we will be missing things back here. No doubt, wherever we are, we are missing somewhere else. But that’s ok. It is simply a reflection that we love and are loved by many people in many different places. Our travels these past three months confirmed that over and over again and we thank each one of you who are a part of it.

Ridiculous or To Be Expected?

“Well Wiffee, what do you think?” I asked as we roasted marshmallows over last night’s campfire, “With this morning’s presentation, we have officially completed our pre-Bobby speaking schedule. Looking back, was it ridiculous so that we need to rethink how we plan, or was it simply what is to be expected again the next time around?

 

“Remember how we came up with this schedule. We knew that there were 11 weekends between our return to the States and Bobby’s due date.  We had 7 supporting churches to which we wanted to give priority in scheduling our Sunday morning speaking engagements. The remaining four weekends we wanted to give to our families, except not in that order. We gave first dibs to our parents in choosing their weekends with us. Then we talked with the churches and gradually pieced together our Sunday schedule, trying our best to minimize back-and-forth travel between Wisconsin and Michigan.

 

“At first, it didn’t look intimidating. After all, I remember telling you that we had all of Monday through Saturday wide open. Ha, I didn’t intend it as a joke, but now it seems to be one. Remember, as we began to fill in our week days with visiting people, presentations to small groups, doctor appointments and even recreational activities, our expectation of having loads of “free time” seemed to be quite a bit off base. I need not remind you that both us reached multiple breaking points along the way, begging each other, “No more road trips!” “No more staying in other people’s houses!” “No more asking Micah to be patient with such a messed up schedule!” and “No more people!” (spoken like a true introvert!).

 

“I suppose that is to be expected when you consider the statistics of what we had planned. Related to our work, we gave our short presentation eight times and the longer one twelve times. We had ten occasions in which we mingled with people by our display table, five special meals in our honor, two sermons to prepare and preach. All in 11 weeks. We spent a weekend at Makinac Island, a week in Traverse City, a weekend family reunion in the Dells, three trips (two unplanned) to Peoria, a baptism in the Madison area, a visit to a zoo, two children’s museums, the State fair, Brewer game, Spartan football game, blueberry farm, apple orchard, over 15 different playgrounds, and on and on. All in 11 weeks. Oh and over those 11 weeks, we slept in a total of 16 different beds. But remember that one week when we both melted down (thankfully on different nights)? Do you realize that we slept in 7 different beds on 7 consecutive nights? It was Wednesday in Peoria, IL; Thursday in Elkhorn, WI; Friday in Random Lake, WI; Saturday in Sheboygan, WI; Sunday in Libertyville, IL; Monday in Wheaton, IL; and Tuesday in Jackson, MI. That was crazy, but remember the HUGE feeling of relief we felt knowing that we would then be in one place for a minimum three weeks? We hadn’t done that since we were way out at Gesas for 3.5 weeks in June.

 

“So, what do you say, was it ridiculous? Or is it just to be expected?”

 

Taking only a moment to think, Andrea responded with confidence, “It’s to be expected.” In unison, we both let out long sighs, yet at the same time, we couldn’t hide our smiles, knowing that the journey was also dotted with many, many points of encouragement, blessing and the never-ending feeling of privilege that we have to serve God alongside the Gmz church.

The Land of Extravagence

As we have said to a number of people since our return to the States in July, we aren’t all that shocked by American culture. In fact, it feels a bit strange how normal things feel despite the radically different “normal” we feel over in Ethiopia. Well, we put that normal to the ultimate test earlier this month when we joined in the fun of a family reunion in the Wisconsin Dells. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the Dells, it is a fairly typical tourist town. Wisconsin in general is Chicago’s weekend playground as evidenced by the crazy Illinois drivers that speed up the interstates on Friday and zip back down again on Sunday. Where do they go? Lake Geneva and Door County are hot spots, but for the true adventurer, bent on overdosing on fun, Wisconsin Dells is where it’s at. Huge resorts, golf courses, amusement parks, themed restaurants, native American shows, boat rides, rock formations, cave tours, and Noah’s Ark, the largest outdoor waterpark in the world. Why someone would build the largest waterpark in a state like Wisconsin is beyond me, but three months of summer must generate enough revenue to make it open up year after year.

 

Two months earlier, I was sleeping in a mud-walled, tin-roofed hotel. One of the nicer hotels in the areas whose amenities included very loud music blasting outside my door until 10:30pm, onion choppers tapping away at 6:00am, two community squatty potties in stalls without doors, shared with people who obviously have very bad aim, a shared shower in the common bathroom, once again without a door, a sizeable hole in the ceiling which I hoped the rats were aware of so as to not join me and the fleas in bed (yes fleas), room service and most important, electricity, with the added feature of the management running a generator from 7pm-10pm if the city electricity is shut off – all for the competitive price of 35 birr (aka. $2) a night. I’m not bragging, nor looking for sympathy, that is just normal. But, if that is normal, how could I walk into a two-story, three bedroom air-conditioned condo rented on a golf/waterpark resort, situated in a city built entirely to satisfy those with a craving for flashy, overpriced fun? How could I feel normal shooting down water slides in one of the two HUGE indoor waterparks, or keeping my head above water in the wavepool when my neighbors in Gesas are busting their tails to find water six months out of the year? How could my head not spin in circles as I walked through the resort’s arcade room, bigger than my Ethiopian house, with a multi-leveled, high ropes course overhead, a massive indoor playground the next room over and a 3D mini-golf course on each side (whatever 3D mini-golf is)? How could I not be shocked as we drove around looking for go-kart places, checking for special offers at four different places just on the main drag of town? How could I not do a double take at fancy gimicky restaurants such as the one that earned my business and Micah’s resounding approval with their billboard – “Have your meal served on a train!” (I have to admit, the model train delivering the food to our table was pretty cool, and those down the line from us were lucky not to lose a fry on the way by)?

 

And yet, our weekend in the Wisconsin Dells was not dampened by culture shock. Why? Because it felt oddly normal – just as normal as the hotel in Gilgel Beles, Ethiopia. Such extravagance is what we, as Americans, have come to expect of our entertainment, resort towns. At the end of the weekend, my uncle Dave came up to me and asked, “What do you think about all this? Pretty ridiculous compared to what you live in, huh?” Yes, he has a point, but it made me think. Is it wrong to enjoy a weekend at the Wisconsin Dells? Do I owe the rest of the world an apology for these two days of soaking in extravagance?

 

It reminded me of the first time that I brought rural Gmz people into Addis Ababa for the Anthropology workshop. Habtamu and WoHis were scared spitless for the first couple days as there was much more than they could take in.  Slowly, they adjusted and ventured out on their own here and there. One evening we had them over to our house for dinner and Habtamu pointed at the stove and asked, “What is that?” I explained that there is gas hooked up to it and we light a fire on it for cooking. Then I closed by saying, “You know, we foreigners, are lazy and we don’t collect firewood or make clay pots for cooking our food.” Habtamu cut me off before I could finish, “No, no, no, you aren’t lazy, you do different work and this stove thing is a good thing.” In other words, he did not accept my apology for our simplified cooking methods. There were a few times, as I stood in line for a waterslide or buzzed around the go-kart track, that I thought to myself, “What would the Gmz think of this?” Sure they would think more practically about how a go-kart would help them get to town and out to their fields. And seeing all the chlorinated water in the waterpark may create some interesting reflections. But, overall, I think that the Gmz people would not accept an apology for our enjoying even our most extravagant playgrounds. Rather, they would dive right in and enjoy it with us if they had the chance. Eventually, the final whistle would blow, the pool would be emptied, and the Gmz would return to their subsistence living with the same joy and contentment that they always had, changed only by the memory of extravagant living.

 

I guess what I am saying is this. Our Wisconsin Dells weekend was a time to be enjoyed, a temporary experience, building lifelong memories as a family. Our contentment in the real world should not be based upon, nor even affected by our enjoyment of the occasional extravagance. For us that’s actually somewhat easy. In Ethiopia, our everyday life is simple, and there is no other option. Here in America, you are constantly confronted by billboards of life screaming out the latest technology, entertainment venues, “gotta have its,” and “you deserve its” whose primary goal is to erode your contentment in the simple life. When we come into Addis, eating at the Italian restaurant is a nice. When we come to the States, driving through Wendy’s is a special treat. When we arrive at the extravagant, over-the-top waterpark resort, we enjoy it to the fullest, without apology, and without regret.

 

Enjoy Your Pie: A Eulogy Message

Jack C. Williamson
March 2, 1921 – September 9, 2012

Banana Cream, Coconut Cream, Chocolate Cream, Butterscotch Cream, Custard, Pumpkin, Apple, Blueberry, Raspberry, Cherry, Peach, you name it, he liked it. Sorry, it’s not good to under-exaggerate…my grandpa Williamson didn’t just like pie, he was a true connoisseur, devoted to the dying art of pie eating. And that devotion was one he loved sharing with others. My dad remembers times as a kid on family vacations, walking into small mom-and-pop diners, you know the type with the big glass case housing some of the most mouth watering pies you’d ever seen. Well grandpa, grandma, my dad and my aunt Joan would walk into the diner and head straight to the pie case, weigh their options and place their pie orders BEFORE ordering their meals. That’s just good parenting if you ask me. First of all, it teaches available resource management, you can’t let some joker come in off the street and buy the last irresistible piece of banana cream while you’re still munching your meatloaf. And second, it teaches simple space management, having laid eyes on tasty treat to follow, the Williamson family learned very quickly to leave open the appropriate wedge-shaped corner of their stomachs. I don’t know if my grandma entered marriage as an expert pie maker or if she became one out of necessity having married my grandpa, but believe me, all of us in the family have benefited from grandpa’s devotion to these circular sensations.

 

Now of course, Grandpa Williamson was devoted to more than just his sweet tooth craving for pie.

 

Year after year, he showed his undying devotion to the tiny little garden back behind the garage. Declaring all-out war against rabbits that might nibble off his pepper plants or disturb his tomatoes, we received frequent updates from the front lines in the backyard veggie wars.

 

Although he wouldn’t overtly admit it, I think deep down he was devoted to mission of putting the All-You-Can-Eat Buffets in town out of business. I never remember my grandpa being particularly tall, or certainly not large, but I kid you not, that man could pack away more in one sitting than I care to eat in a day. Surely, the buffet owners cringed as they saw him return to his table with his fifth plate heaping with their fine foods. I often thought, not only did he get his money’s worth, but also made up for us kids who struggle to hold our own.

 

I suppose you could say that he was devoted to the principle of keeping the air clean of what he viewed as noise pollution. My dad remembers riding in the car with grandpa listening to the radio, “Up next ladies and gentleman, ’96 tears’ by the group known as ‘Question Mark and the Myseterians’ – (na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na). No joking, grandpa could not last 10 seconds into that song without blowing a gasket!

 

Yes, it’s true, my grandpa was a man of devotion, but his area of greatest devotion was not related to his tastebuds or his stomach. My grandpa demonstrated true devotion first and foremost, to his family. In a world fractured by dissolved relationships and broken homes, grandpa set the bar high in his faithfulness to my grandma for over 60 years of marriage. If monogamy is learned by example and passed down from parents to kids, we, his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren are indebted to Jack and Betty’s devotion to one another. Even in the final week of his life, as he knew the outcome of his diagnosis, his primary concern in leaving this earth was this – I want to be sure that Betty is taken care of! That’s devotion down to the very last day!

 

Grandpa was devoted not only to his wife, but to his children as well. Story after story are told of special events at home, visiting relatives, and on family vacations, investing the most important gift one can give their children – time. From what I understand, there was a lot of time spent together in boats, fishing up in northern Wisconsin. Legend has it, one day he and my dad were out fishing and they found a bay covered with lilly pads. Hoping for some tasty bass that evening, they began to cast into the weedy waters, only to get their lures repeatedly stuck. My dad put a special weedless surface lure and after only a few cast, reeled in a most interesting of catches – a big old bullfrog. Unsure of what to do, he asked his dad, “just put it in the bottom of the boat.” He said. With the bullfrog hopping around at their feet, they went back to fishing and soon hooked, another bullfrog. Well, as the hours passed, they never did find the fish they were hoping for, but they pulled into dock that evening with a boat full of about 20 large bullfrogs, hopping every which way. The fish dinner they had set out to find, was transformed into frog leg surprise and a lifelong father/son memory was born. Shared memories like these are what bind us inseparably to our loved ones, and grandpa new that, investing in his children every step of the way.

 

Grandpa’s devotion to family didn’t end with his own children, but rather extended down to us, his six grandkids. Despite loud mouths, our rambunctious play, and the infamous breaking of the marble jar, I know that grandpa wouldn’t trade a day with us for anything. Even now in our adulthood, he loved our visits, always speaking of their being room in his inn. Evenings at grandpa and grandma’s house were always fun when shared around the kitchen table playing cards. As my memory recalls, grandma was most often out in front, with grandpa, almost without fail in, and I quote, “the basement.” In the community drawings, my grandpa was uncharacteristically lucky, but his luck ran dry at the card table, as he would say “loused by all the unsensible players at the table with him.” Yet he always played. Why? Certainly not to win, but rather to be with us, enjoy our company and express his devotion to us, his family. His devotion to me personally was demonstrated in his and grandma’s faithfulness in writing letters to us when we lived overseas. For some, out of sight means out of mind, but not for grandpa as usually once a week we would receive a long email full of questions about our work and news from home. We were never behind in knowing the Peoria weather forecast and kept abreast on the status of his garden scene battle with those pesky rabbits. We heard of restaurants coming and going, special deals to be found, and of course how lousy the Cubs were doing that year. Another theme surfaced in those letters especially as his body was getting weaker and weaker. The theme of Anthony’s help. Anthony drove us here. Anthony fixed this and that. Anthony took a day off of work to help with such and such. Grandpa appreciated all that Anthony was doing for him and grandma, as we all do, but I know that if you ask Anthony, he will tell you the other side of that story. He would say, “I am the one indebted to him, after all he did in stepping into the father role that I otherwise would not have had. How many times did he take Mark and me fishing? How many Cubs games did he take us to? How would I have learned about mechanics, or electrical systems, or general maintanence, or so much of life in general without his direct influence and intentional investment in me? Believe me, my helping them these past few years was is only a fraction of the gratitude I have for his shaping me into who I am today.” My grandpa invested in us grandchildren, devoted, I believe, above and beyond the call of duty for the average grandpa.

 

But Jack’s devotion to family didn’t end with my generation either, his love didn’t run out when it came to his eight great-grandchildren. It seemed nothing brought a smile to his face faster than to have one of his great-grandkids burst into the room. Thomas, Peyton, Elise, Tessa, Micah, Jackson, Penelope and Calvin. As much as he loved watching these bundles of energy tear into their toy basket at home he loved interacting with them even more, unintimidated by the near 90-year age gap. What some would call uncalled-for racket, grandpa would shake his head and smile, “that’s just my little Bright Eyes and Punky Punk having a good time as they toddle laps around the house.” For my family personally, I was touched to learn what grandpa said earlier this summer, “I want to be sure to live long enough to see Travis and Andrea come home from Ethiopia, and of course to meet my little Micah.” The fact that Micah held the final spot of grandpa’s bucket list demonstrates his devotion to his family. What a joy it was, just four weeks ago, to go on a picnic at Bradley Park, I thought grandpa’s face was stuck in a permanent glow as he watched Thomas, Micah and Jackson monkey around the playground and zoom down the slides.

 

Jack’s Williamson devotion to his family is the resounding theme that echoes down the corridors of our lives. A lesson we all ought not soon forget.

 

I was told that when grandpa received word that his body was in its final decline, that he took the news well. When he was told that this particular condition would take him quickly, he said “Good, that’s what I want.” As news spread to family members, so also did the sadness of knowing we would soon say goodbye. But, as family members came by the hospital during those first few days after the diagnosis, they reported to us that grandpa was in good spirits, sometimes almost even excited at the prospect of his own passing. Thinking about that after church one day, I asked an old nearly-retired pastor about his experience with people at the end of their lives. He told me this, “There are really only two people who approach death without fear, either it’s the strong believer or the strong atheist. The atheist has nothing to fear because he believes that death is simply an end, with nothing more. The Christian, however, has nothing to fear, because death is the beginning of an eternal existence far more preferable than the one we know here on earth. The Christian has a plethora of promises packed into Scripture that, if believed, should eliminate any fear of the so-called “great unknown.” How could my grandpa approach death with excitement, while the rest of us mourned? Because he stood firmly on the promises in Scripture. For example, Romans 8 says, “There is now no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus.” Revelation 20 speaks of the glorious New Jerusalem with language that parallels the  perfect paradise originally created in the Garden of Eden. My favorite passage, loaded with promises for eternal life after death is found in 1 Cor 15, a long chapter on the resurrection from the dead. Verse 22 speaks of all being made a live in Christ. Verses 42-44 talk about the perishable being raise in imperishability, the dishonorable rasied in glory and the weak raised in power. Finally I love the end of the chapter where it promises “When this perishable body puts on imperishability and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled, ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’ ‘Where, oh death, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting?’This victory over death and the promise of eternal life in heaven is a powerful force in our lives. As I think about it, setting our hopes the promises of eternal life in heaven is not at all unlike the Williamson practice of setting their hopes on choice piece of pie before the meal began.

 

Jack Williamson, somewhere in his 58 years of devoted membership here at United Presbyterian Church, heard and internalized the gospel message, of Jesus’ death that took the punishment for our sin and his resurrection demonstrating his victory of sin’s ultimate curse – death. With devotion to these life-giving truths, Jack approached the ugliness of death with confidence and interestingly with excitement, because he knew its ultimate Victor – Jesus Christ.

 

If we could call grandpa on some sort of a spiritual phone, what would we tell him? “Grandpa, dad, Jack, we rejoice with you this day, having finished your race with confidence and now having entered into the eternal life with your Savior. Enjoy the pie God set aside for you when you trusted in him for salvation. Enjoy it well. We down here, we still have to finish our meals, but through our faith and devotion, our pie has been set aside for us too. And boy do we look forward to eating it alongside you again. Until that time, enjoy your pie, as God’s promises tell us, the stomach never fills and the buffet of God’s goodness never closes. Enjoy your pie.

 

 

 

 

Time Warp

How do I begin again after a month and a half of silence? Well I guess, I can assure you that no news is good news…very good news for us. We praise God for the many blessings we have received upon our return to the States. These blessings included a quite uneventful 24 hours of travel between Addis Ababa and Chicago.

Micah slept probably 75% of the 17-18 hours in the air and seemed to enjoy exploring the Istanbul airport to help us pass the layover time.

His biggest meltdown was in the US immigration line in Chicago, but even that was short lived and everything was made better when he was greeted by grandparents, and other BALLOON-wielding relatives upon breezing through customs. It was great to be together with family again, not to mention the Dutch apple pie for breakfast.

We have been back in the States now for about 6 weeks and one thing we have been asked is, “Was it a big shock to come back?” Our answer, “Surprisingly no.” Sure, our nieces have gotten older, things have changed around our home towns, but, as Andrea puts it, it feels less like a culture shock and more like a time warp. Yea, it’s nice to drive on smooth roads, we love the convenience of a cashless society, and it’s ridiculous how many choices of cereal there are at Piggly Wiggly, but we expected all of these things.

Our little two-year-old boarded a plane and woke up in an amazing amusement park, and apart from the occasional sensory overload, he is loving it.

 Bicycles, strollers, playgrounds, water to play in, dogs that he is actually allowed to play with, and eating more sweets each week than he got in his first two years of life. Of course he enjoyed my goal of eating ice cream at least once a day for our first month in the country (a goal which I not only reached, but exceeded).

People have asked how we are coming on our top 100 list and the official count today shows that we have met 48 of them, with plans in the works for more even later this week. It has been very fun to share some of these dreams with family and friends. We appreciate all those who whether intentionally or unintentionally helped us enjoy this transition.

More than that, we are enjoying the opportunity to reconnect with many of you in person. Having now visited three supporting churches, we are being filled beyond capacity with encouragement, more and more convinced of our privilege to serve as only one part of a wide network of people who make this Gmz Bible translation project possible.

Ps. I expect the blog entries to be less frequent and more intentional during our time in the States, first of all, because I want to spend more of my personal time in personal study these next five months. In addition, I could tell 10 stories a week about fun things such as go-karting with Antney, going to a Brewer game with my bros, Micah’s new bike, Frisbee in the street, the gift of home-grown veggies, blueberry picking with grandma, meeting great-grandparents, fishing on Lake Michigan, and riding with Micah down the huge State Fair slide, but I don’t sense that this type of story is what you as readers are wanting to find on this site. Instead I will try to stick to telling stories that have taught me lessons, events through which God has challenged my thinking, hoping that he may challenge yours in my retelling.