Attention to Detail

Thursday morning, December 26^th, I woke up before my 6:45am alarm clock and gathered my stuff with an efficiency that betrayed the waking-up wooze that swirled around in my brain. Shortly after 7am, Work'u arrived and together we jumped on the motorbike to drive the fifty kilometers up to our translation office, where Janey and Thomas would be waiting. Arriving a bit after 8am, we exchanged greetings and poured ourselves right into the text. At quitting time (5pm), I switched gears to catch up on email, did a little bit of leisure reading, and watched an episode of LOST before crashing in the guestroom bed offered to me by the Catholic missionaries on whose compound we work. The next morning, 8am, we picked up where we left off (Acts 5, Ananias and Sapphira). Again quitting right at 5pm, I switched my sandals into steel-toed boots, threw on my motorcycle jacket and helmet and revved it up. I was tired and already transitioning my mind toward home. It had only been a 1-night stay away (usually I stay two), but with it being the first time since before our five-week stay in Addis Ababa, I was anxious to get home to Andrea, Micah and Grace. Besides, Andrea usually makes an extra nice meal on our Friday movie nights, and my meager "ramen noodle" lunch wasn't sticking.

 

Waiting a bit for the engine to warm, I took it off choke, only to have it immediately die on me. Starting again, I waited even longer, drove it down the road a bit, only to have it stall as soon as I tried to idle off of choke. Grr…I walked the bike back to the Catholic compound, not wanting to further inspect the bike in front of the gathering crowd of spectators. Safe inside the Catholic Father's garage, I cleaned the air filter, cleaned and checked the spark plug and emptied the sediment bowl in the fuel line. Trying it again, I saw no improvement. By now, Brother Robe, a quiet Italian guy who has faithfully served the Catholic ministry to the Gmz for many years, had come out to lend a much-appreciated hand. After exhausting all of these quick fixes, my hopes of reaching home that night were sinking along with the sun. I called a motorcycle-guru friend in Addis Ababa. "Hmmm…" he said, "based on what you told me, I think your problem is that you have a clogged pilot fuel thinger (ok, he didn't say thinger, but rather used the technical name that I have since forgotten). Unfortunately, I think the process in cleaning it out involves going deeper into the carburetor than you are wanting to go yourself." Up for the challenge, I gave him the green light to go ahead, "Hey, try me, if I'm not getting home tonight anyway, I gonna need something to do. And besides, I'd like to learn the inside of the carburetor." After receiving careful instructions from Addis, Brother Robe and I, with the help of their compound guard holding a utility light, set out in search of this pilot fuel thinger. After completely removing and disassembling the carburetor, we located and removed the clogged thinger. Basically, everything in there was quite dirty (a testament to the quality of fuel we get out of barrels at the local station) and so after giving every piece a thorough clean, we put it back together and wrestled it back onto the bike.

 

Just after 8pm, with the sun long gone, I mounted the bike for a test run, only to quickly discover that it was worse off than before – now it couldn't even idle with the choke on! Grr again…Brother Robe, pointed to the Catholic mission's truck, "Take it home for the weekend and then on Monday you can take the bike into a mechanic." Frustrated at our failure, and yet blessed by his offer to use their truck, I accepted his generosity without much fight and we began putting our tools away in disappointed silence. Suddenly the silence was broken by the compound guard over by the tool bench. "Eh, eh, yichi restenal!" (meaning: "Hey, we forgot this little guy.") You guessed it, there, pinched between his forefinger and thumb was the pilot fuel thinger. Brother Robe and I locked eyes before simultaneously dropping our heads with shame-filled smirks. "Take the truck and go home to your family," said Robe after a moment. "Sounds good, and I'll schedule another appointment with Mr. Carburetor Monday night." 

 

And so, as many of you blog readers are just beginning your workday (Monday morning, 8am CST), we will be ending ours (5pm) and I'll be rolling my sleeves up for round 2: Man versus Motorbike!  And believe me, this time I'll have my attention-to-detail levels turned up to the maximum threshold, which is where it seems to ride most days in the translation office. For just as forgetting the tiniest thinger has the power to change a nice motorbike into a useless collection of metal, plastic and rubber, so also we have seen many examples where one mistranslated word, one word order mistake and in some cases a simple spelling error can change truth into heresy. I pray that all of us on the translation team are more careful than Robe and I were last Friday night.

 

A Life Of Significance

I've always loved Frank Capra's, "It’s a Wonderful Life," but in this year's viewing on Christmas Eve, I was determined to discover exactly why. Sure, it has some cheesy elements to the "feel-good" plot, but yet somehow, every time I see it, I can't help but see myself in George Bailey's shoes. As a youngster, he had big plans and big dreams, saying, "I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow and the next day and next year and the year after that. I'm shaking the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world! Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Coliseum. Then I'm coming back here and go to college and see what they know. And then I'm gonna build things. I'm gonna build airfields. I'm gonna build skyscrapers 100 stories high. I'm gonna build bridges a mile long…" Although I never planned or dreamed of building things, most people who knew/know me well know that I've always had my ambitious "life plan" pretty-well mapped out. In addition, George, in conversation with his father after being asked to take over the family business, said, "I'm gonna build things, design new buildings, plan modern cities…I couldn't face being cooped up in a shabby little office…It's this business of nickels and dimes and spending all your life trying to figure out how to save three cents on a length of pipe. I'd go crazy! I want to do something big and something important." Oh man, those same words are definitely not far from my own after spending  the 1999 summer vacation as a state park maintenance worker, when I said, "I don't want to spend my life cleaning toilets that are dirty the next day and cutting grass that grows back in a week. I want to make a real difference."

 

And yet, as much as I still resonate with George's passion and need for significance, I have come to appreciate the incredible truth and wisdom in George's father's response "You know George, I feel that, in a small way, we're doing something important, satisfying a fundamental urge. It's deep in the race for a man to want his own roof and walls and fireplace. And we are helping them get those things in our shabby little office." In other words, I have since learned that doing something big and making a difference can be accomplished anywhere and by anyone, as long as they have the proper perspective. And that is what I believe the movie is all about. George dreamed big, but all of those dreams got squashed – traveling, schooling, building bigger and better things. Instead he had to sit back and watch his former classmates conquer those heights without him. And yet, despite being stuck in his father's shabby little office his whole life, the climactic scene at the end answers the big question that was being asked all along: Had George done something BIG after all? Had he accomplished something significant with his life? Obviously, the answer is yes, as evidenced by the number of people whom he had touched/blessed through the years. In the words of the wingless angel who had the IQ of a rabbit, "Each man's life touches so many other lives," and George decided to use his "touches" in a positive way. His foil in the film, Mr. Potter, like all of us, had the same opportunities to touch other's lives, yet his life pursuits were entirely selfish, such that, at one point, George accurately assessed his adversary's ultimate value, saying, "In the whole vast configuration of things, I'd say you're nothing but a scurvy little spider!" How about that for a charge of insignificance?

 

In further contrast to the nasty Mr. Potter, I love the statement that George's brother Harry makes upon his arrival at the party. The recently-decorated war hero, raises a glass and announces, "A toast, to my big brother George, the richest man in town!" I like that line so much because although George gained a lot of money that night, his earthly wealth was still nowhere near that of the untouchable Mr. Potter. Rather, it seems clear to me, that Harry is using "richest" to point to a different, and more important type of wealth: that is, the wealth of friendship, having invested his whole life in others. Even when George's company faced the $8000 deficit in fiscal wealth, his true wealth was untouched. If financial wealth has value, then friendship, or social wealth, has more. Yet, think the Bible teaches of a wealth another tier higher: eternal wealth! At the end of my life, hopefully having invested in significant, that is, eternally significant things, I hope to be numbered among the truly wealthy, that is, the "good and faithful servants," not with the "scurvy little spiders" who ruled in our earthly lives.

 

There is one other part of the story that always gets me, especially these last few years. At the end, when George and his family are standing in front of the Christmas tree, shocked and awed at the blessing of gifts from their friends, I suddenly find my stomach in my throat every time Ernie reads the telegram from Europe stating that their long-time friend "Hee-Haw Sam" approved the advancement of up to $25,000. The Bailey Building and Loan had an $8000 deficit before the money started rolling in. The gifts given by local friends very well may have made up for that and then some, but then to slap $25,000 on top? Their cup of blessing overflowed and flooded the house! Sure, it's predictable, maybe a bit cheesy, but it gets me every time because that is the way that Andrea and I feel when we get our finance statements. The faithful individuals and churches that make up our regular supporters provide a strong, and invaluable foundation. And on top of that, we are occasionally blessed by surprise one-time gifts that help us meet surprise needs (such as truck repairs). This past year, while our regular partners have remained consistent, we have been observing a sharp decrease in this one-time giving, something that is expected to happen the longer we stay overseas (and the more detached we become from potential partners). Yet, this month, December 2013, has seen an amazing incoming of extra gifts. Like George, our cup overflows, and we can only stand awestruck and humbled as a result! Of course, we never expect to amass nor wield earthly wealth like the Mr. Potters of this world, but hey, that's not the riches we're interested in as we pursue our own life of significance.

 

The Advent of Immanuel

I have faint memories from my childhood of counting down (or up) the advent calendar by means of opening little doors on a Christmas-y picture and finding little pieces of chocolate. I'm sure there was more to it than that, but anything else must have seeped into my understanding of what it means to relive the anticipation of our Savior's birth. (Our trip to the German School Christmas Bazaar taught us that the "picture with chocolates behind little doors" thing is claimed as originated by the Germans…well huh, probably for the better – Germans have MUCH better chocolate than Americans!)

This year for the first time, Andrea, "borrowing some ideas from her B.C. loving sister-in-law," put together a series of fun little activities and lessons for Micah to build toward Christmas. Each day has its own little cloth bag which are numbered and hung on our tree (I mean, branch). Micah gets to look for that day's number, open it, hear a part of the Luke birth story, answer a question and do a fun activity. Since most of these have happened while I was at the office, I often get to hear about it at the end of the day (and sometimes reap the benefits when baked goods are the order for the day!).

Opening the Advent activity bag and finding cookie cutters!! Woohoo!

And so, this year's Christmas feels a bit more Christmas-y than the past years. We've enjoyed making sugar cookies one day and frosting/decorating them the next. Micah and Grace got to see Santa at the German Bazaar, but the choice of a skinny Ethiopian greeting everyone in German kinda threw us all for a loop. Micah reluctantly sat on his lap, but only after negotiating that he receive an extra cookie/candy from Santa's stash afterward.

 One day's activity was to make strings of popcorn garland to put on our Christmas branch. Rumor has it that all of Micah's popcorn unfortunately got rerouted on its way to his string and is still yet to be found. And then I had to laugh when I came home one day and saw pictures on the camera of Micah and Grace enjoying an afternoon at the sledding hill!

It isn't all goofing around with bellies full of goodies. Andrea is also introducing Micah to some very foundational elements of our faith. I am so thankful for a wife who is pouring valuable truths into our family. As for what Micah is retaining from these mini-lessons, that is yet to be seen, but I can assure you – that little sponge inside his noggin sucks up a whole lot more than we often realize. Last week in church, when the Christmas carols began, we all rose from our seats, including Micah whose chin barely summited the backrest of the chair in front of him. "Rejoice, rejoice, Immaaanuel." Suddenly Micah's chin leaped off the chair and pointed directly up at me. "Hey, they’re talking about Rachel!” (aka. Rejoice). “Not exactly,” I said as I hushed him back into his dormant position. The second time through the chorus however, he piped up again, “He they said Immanuel." Surprised that he had not only heard and correctly processed that long word made even longer by the song, I bent down, hoping for a teachable moment, "Do you know what Immanuel means?" Surely, I could put my seminary education to work here…or so I thought. "Yea, it means God with us!" Micah responded without hesitation. Impressed at his confident response, I thought about it a bit more: Immanuel, God with us. A lesson so simple that a three-year-old can learn it, and yet so complex that the greatest scholars never truly mine the depths of meaning and significance. As the carol continued, my heart entered deeper into worship.

We've Got Charlie Brown Beat.(but arguably not by much)

Last week's cutting down of the evergreen tree outside our gate coincided nicely with the beginning of our Christmas celebrations with Micah and Grace. And so, taking advantage of the downed timber, Andrea slipped out of our gate on the morning a neighbor man had been appointed to chop it up and haul it away. She offered to help take one branch off of his hands, he amiably agreed and she dragged in a medium-sized branch, which Micah and I later manicured to create our 2013 Christmas tree (or, as it has been more appropriately titled, the "Christmas branch"). But I have to admit, it doesn't look half bad propped in the corner of our room, many thanks for Lumi's newly acquired Christmas lights and ornaments (which she bought off of a colleague who left Ethiopia last summer). Oh, and the masterpiece is topped off with a string of green and purple lights sent to us by grandma and grandpa just a few weeks ago. Don't look too closely or you might notice that the bulbs are spooky spiders, likely not designed to adorn a Christmas tree! Despite all its faults, I'd say our Halloween-infested two-dimensional Christmas "tree" has got Charlie Brown's limp little twig beat, but you can be the judge.

The tree (or branch) really adds to the Christmas "spirit" we are trying to build as we (mostly Andrea) are leading Micah (and somewhat Grace) through a daily advent activity. More on that in a later blog…

I do have to admit, however, there is something really nice about having a Christmas tree shining brightly in the corner of an otherwise darkened room. I suppose I could launch into a mini-sermon about it being a symbol of hope amidst despair, of truth among lies, or of vibrant life in a world overcome by death, but even more than that, I appreciate the twinkling lights, dancing off the evergreen branch in the corner of my living room for how they stir up in me the unconscious memories of special times together with family, enjoying holiday traditions as together we remembered and celebrated the Word taking on flesh!

Cutting Covenant

It seems most of my best stories come from the sorting out of key terms – how boring will my job become once we get them all nailed down? I'm kidding.

This afternoon, we were checking through the final verses of Acts 3, when we came upon the word for "covenant." Granted this wasn't our first encounter with this loaded key term (it is used twice in Luke as well as multiple times in the footnotes we included), but when translating it previously, this word caused the Gmz translators surprisingly little trouble. I remember, on at least three occasions, walking through a detailed teaching on what a Biblical covenant involved, including a description of the covenant cutting ceremony. As I explained how the various animals would be slaughtered, cut down the middle and their halves laid out so as to form a gruesome highway down which the covenant-maker would walk, I remember without fail seeing mixed expressions of confusion and interest on my Gmz brothers' faces. Then, finally, after describing the whole procedure by which Hebrews "cut covenant" I concluded, "And why did they do all this? Because the one who walks through the animals, the one who makes the promise is in effect saying, 'If I do not fulfill the words of this covenant, may I be made like one of these halved carcasses I just passed through.'" At this point, all three times I taught it, the collective confusion immediately erupted into chitter chatter. After their attention gradually turned back to me, I received a very short explanation. "We have that in Gmz – we call it gacaha."

Great! Job done! Or so it seems, but any Curious George in my role isn't satisfied with plopping gacaha into the text of Scripture without at least knowing the Gmz background to it. After all, what they agreed upon to be a cultural equivalent may not be all that equivalent after all. Having used the term gacaha now for 11 months and with our publishing of Luke on the horizon, I knew it was time to pursue a deeper explanation. And so seizing the opportunity afforded by Acts 3, asking, "Have you guys ever seen a Gmz make a gacaha?" The surprised scowl which immediately adorned their faces gave me my answer, "Yes, of course, many of them." "So then," I replied, "tell about it…when is it done? How is it done? What does it accomplish?" We all sat back in our chairs as the translators have grown quite accustomed to Travis going on one of his "word tangents."

As the scene unfolded before me, I immediately grew nervous - the connection to the Biblical covenant was nowhere to be found. What is a gacaha? Well, let's say that all of Work'u's cows were stolen (that is a big deal, it is like someone hacking into your bank accounts and milking it dry with no insurance policy to cover your back!). Work'u suspects that it was Janey who stole his cows so he goes to the elders and makes a formal accusation. The elders than call Janey to a tamba, that is, a trial, in which a board of elders present the accusation and hear his defense. Janey, innocent of the crime denies that he stole the cows. Work'u (like the elders) will not accept Janey's denial and will demand proof – they will likely ask for a gacaha. The elders will request that the elements of the gacaha be brought to the tamba meeting place and presented to Janey. These might include any of all of a number of possibilities: wood from a tree struck by lightning, a bullet, a cup of water, the head of a snake, or donkey poop. Whatever was collected would be gathered together in front of Janey and he would be asked to place his hands over them and make a gacaha. What he is in effect saying is, "I am telling the truth when I deny that I stole Work'u's cows, and if I am lying, then may the bad things represented in these elements happen to me this day (or another short period of testing – like one week). If there is wood struck by lightning in the mix, Janey is saying, "If I am lying, let lightning strike me this week." Likewise, the bullet obviously refers to being shot, the water refers to drowning and the head of a snake to being bitten and killed. I was confused by the donkey poop, not sure I wanted to know what "death by donkey poop" would look like. "Oh no, they responded, the donkey poop symbolizes having to walk around pooping like a donkey (followed by a very nice sound effect, bbpt…bbpt…bbpt…bbpt). I'm sure it this refers to diarrhea or constipation or just uncontrollable bowels, but it sounded bad enough that I would want to avoid it.

Now, the key to the success of a gacaha lies in the fact that Gmz people take the spiritual realm very seriously. If Janey did, in fact, steal the cows, there is no way he is going to enter a gacaha saying that he didn't, for he can't lie to the all-seeing spirits, in the same way that we can't lie to the all-seeing God. So, in effect, the truth of Janey's words are seen not at the end of the week when people see that his is still alive, but rather at the point when he is presented the opportunity to entered the gacaha. If he refuses, then he admits to the crime. If he accepts, then he is strengthening his word, strengthening his promise, declaring it to be unquestionably true…and it is here, I believe that the Gmz gacaha and the Biblical covenant find a very important connection. When God cut the covenant with Abraham in Gen 15, he didn't change his promises given in earlier chapters, rather he performed the ceremony to strengthen his word, to affirm the certainty of his promise and it's fulfillment; "I am so serious about blessing you, your decedents and the whole world through you, that I am willing to say, 'If I don't follow through on that, may I be killed without mercy.'" The Gmz gacaha also involves entering into a very risky statement like that, risky that is, if one is not absolutely 100% confident that their word is truth. We praise God, that he, without question, can speak with fullest confidence as he cuts covenant with his people throughout the Biblical narrative – and even with us. His word is truth…PERIOD!

 

I Am...The Yuckiest

Both Micah and Grace seem to like music and so I never get voted down when I want to fire up our Mp3 player in our home. Many times it seems like the random shuffling of songs simply provides a soundtrack in the background of our lives, but every now and then Micah pipes up with a comment or randomly breaks into song, revealing that he is at least unconsciously tuning in. I encourage Micah in his singing, not because I expect him to flourish as a vocal artist down the road, but rather because we have a lot of fun and sometimes it's just downright hilarious. You see, this little 3-year-old mind has an ever-increasing store of vocabulary (which I find quite impressive), but when a particular song uses a new word, or if the diction isn't quite clear, Micah's fills in those gaps with whatever makes sense to him.

 

The other night at dinner, Micah started singing for our friend Lumi. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back and, in a very sweet tone, began singing, "I am…I am…" But then, unexpectedly, his eyes opened, and his serious expression cracks into a mischievous smirk, "I am…the yuckiest!" he finishes before busting into a deep belly laugh. Lumi was entirely confused and yet entirely amused. How could a song begin so sweetly only to end with the "yuckiest"? We helped Lumi out by playing the sappy Ben Folds Five love song "I Am The Luckiest" from which Micah derived his version. Originally, Micah thought the song actually said "yuckiest," and now, despite knowing the real word, he much more prefers his version – and it has become his favorite joke to "tell" our guests.

 

His mistakes-turned-into-jokes don't stop here. There is another song we hear occasionally which says "All I…wanna do…" Well, having learned a bit of Spanish from Dora the Explora, Micah was certain the lead singer of Better than Ezra was saying "Hola…" On another occasion, Micah asked his little sister, "Gracey, do you want to rock with daddy in the rocking chair?" and then he broke out into "We will…we will…rock you!" We then joked around about how Queen was originally singing an advertising jingle for an infant day care facility! Micah doesn't limit his parodies to secular music either. When he was a baby, I frequently sang "How Great Thou Art" to him as I would sometimes rock him at night. I'm glad the song rubbed off on him, but I guess my nighttime diction wasn't the greatest, for instead of "Oh Lord my God…" he picked up the lyrics "Oh Lord, Micah…" If the original sin was man wanting to take the place of God, Micah committed it very early in his life.

 

Was Mary A Polytheist?

Translating Mary's Magnificat (that is, her song of praise after learning she was so blessed to give birth to her Lord and Savior) actually went better than I thought. Sure, with it being located in the first chapter of Luke, it was the first time we encountered some pretty loaded Biblical concepts, but overall, we finished with the feeling that we had given justice to the original text. The review committee check over those verses went well, as did the consultant check last May. Everything was fine and dandy, that is, until another read through surfaced a very unfortunate possible reading which made Mary out to be a blatant polytheist! Come with me a bit into the Gmz language to show you exactly what went so terribly wrong!

 

Luke 1:46-47 read as follows "Maariyaam daka, 'Fahatsa alam dafarok'w s'ee-Misa ala-Etagirba. Gafic'a alam daaŋgahaiil kaMisa kacanaka, ka-etambidok'wa-ara' – which can be word-for-word translated as "Mary said, 'Soul of me it raises up name of God of the Lord. Spirit of me it rejoices to God a lot, to the one who saves me.' Looks ok with those glosses, but in the umpteenth read-through something occurred to me - "kacanaka" as it was written could either be an adverb meaning "a lot" modifying the verb "rejoice," or it could be an adjective meaning "many" modifying the noun "God." In other words, instead of, "My Spirit rejoices a lot in God," one could accurately read Mary to have said "my spirit rejoices in many gods." Ouch! Not exactly the message we want to communicate!

 

Now most of the time when there are ambiguous, dual readings like this, we must go back to the drawing board and find a different way of stating the correct meaning more clearly. That wasn't, however, the case here. Instead, I decided, once and for all, that we need to mark the Gmz language for tone.

 

You see, the Gmz language is tonal, in that saying the same word with high pitch and with low pitch can completely change its meaning. Faithful blog-readers may remember a very early linguistic blog which addressed the potentially embarrassing difference between the two meanings of t'isa (http://taw05.blogspot.com/2010/09/what-of-god.html). At that time, I hadn't yet discovered that these two meanings are actually differentiated by tone (yes, for those most interested, the "barking spiders" are accented by a HIGH tone – insert your own sound effects here).

 

So, the Gmz language has some important tone variation in it, but whenever I tried to write it down, it found it nearly impossible. Why? First of all, because the overwhelming majority of Gmz speakers don't realize that they are speaking in tones. Secondly, the tones have a complicated set of rules that can change in different grammatical contexts. And so, partially out of frustration, and partially out of needing to simplify the Gmz writing system and spelling rules, I tried my best for more than two years to write the Gmz language without with any marking of tone. Yet I couldn't let Mary rejoice in many gods.

 

In Gmz, there are two prepositions: High tone ká- meaning "to/for" and low tone ka- meaning "with/in/from." Most of the time, the context clearly limits whether an unmarked ka- should be high or low tone, but in Luke 1:47, daaŋgahaiil kaMisa kacanaka, is truly ambiguous. However, with the simple addition of an acute accent (or as one translator calls it, the vowel's 'hair') over the high tone preposition in káMisa and no accent on the low tone in kacanaka, the problem was solved. And Mary, the mother of our Lord has once again become a solid monotheist! Whew!

 

And so, striving for consistency and freedom from further ambiguity, last week, while I was in Addis Ababa for some meetings, I charged one of the translators to read through the entire draft of Luke's gospel placing "hair" on all the high tone ká- prepositions and leaving their low tone counterparts bald. No doubt, Mary's near-heresy wasn't the only theological disaster averted.

 

Time Together

How many husbands do you know that can kick back in a rocking chair after supper while his wife (who made supper from scratch) washes all the day's dishes by hand? Taking it a step further, how many of those stellar husbands can then make a comment like, "I really enjoy spending time with you like this," and not expect a well-deserved soap-sudded fist suddenly honing in on their position? Well, I may be in a category of my own, but that scene very accurately describes me multiple times every week, as I enjoy what I consider to be a very important part of Andrea's and my intentional habits in "time together".

 

Sometime shortly after moving out to Gesas in 2010, we became tired of silently tackling the piles of dirty dishes each evening after Micah was in bed. And so, having found a number of old paperbacks left behind by our predecessors, we decided to begin the tradition of reading out loud each evening as we one of us washed dishes. What once was a loathsome duty at the end of the day, soon became the anticipation of the next episode in our novel, or stimulating chapter in our book. Over the years, our reading genres have been all across the board – classic missionary biography, legal fiction, marriage and parenting, deep theology, missiology, a Shakespeare play, Christian allegory fiction, how-to books, and on and on. This past year, much of our dish washing reading time has been consumed reading Scripture as we have committed ourselves to a "read through the Bible in a year" program, following along a sermon series preached at one of our supporting churches in 2012.

 

Although our reading/washing tradition functions like a "date" for us, we learned this summer that we enjoy having a third wheel along for the ride. It was great having Maateyos join us for three months, not only in that his place in the washing rotation kept our hands dry more often, but it was fun to share the reading of this summer's books with him. We read a series of powerful fictional stories written to challenge cross-cultural workers with real issues we all face. We read an excellent missiology/personal spirituality book called Spirituality of the Road by David Bosch. And lastly, we enjoyed a brand new book from a South African author named Marc Secchia. This book, The Enchanted Castle (Shioni of Sheba), is a fictional fantasy set in an ancient Ethiopian kingdom. Apart from the story being well-written, with well-developed characters involved in some action-packed adventures, we particularly enjoy the Ethiopian cultural insights scattered throughout. Coffee ceremonies, navigating a society of respect, ethnic diversity, traditional folklore, specific animals native only to this region, and more…it's fun to see how the author wove into the story his knowledge of life here in Ethiopia. You see, Marc is one of our colleagues over here, keeping our organization's computers alive by day, at night his fingers tap away on the latest book he is drafting. Ever wanted to experience a bit of the culture we live in?  Well, here's your chance! Check it out at http://www.amazon.com/dp/1482348667. And if you like it, we can also recommend the second book in the series, The King's Horse. Andrea and I are in the midst of this second adventure in our evening dishwashing "time together".

Bbwi

I realize there is a fine line between enjoying and making fun of a child's first words, and I readily admit to more often than not falling on the jester's side, but hey, at least I can employ my linguistic training to do so with a level of sophisticated professionalism. I'm sure Grace will appreciate that.

As a linguist, of course, I have to get technical by first over-pondering questions such as "What is the definition of a word?" and "How many recognizable repetitions constitute its realization of having completed the process of standardization in the infant's conscience?" and, of course, "What level of phonological variation would be tolerated?" I'm sure all normal parents wrestle with these issues so I need not go further.

Well, I have officially identified Grace's first word, and as you will see, it is a beauty - "bbwi." The double /bb/ at the beginning of the word is what I am using to represent the bilabial trill. That's right. Grace, no doubt wanting to make her daddy proud, chose a very cool sound to begin her first word. Y'all with Spanish influence around you know about, and are likely frustrated by, alveolar trills, that is, the Spanish "rolled" /r/. Grace's trill is in that same category except instead of occurring inside the mouth, with the tongue slapping the roof of the mouth, she chose to bring her trill out in the open with the her two lips flapping in the wind. Yes, though we might better recognize it as a poor sound effect for a motorcycle engine, the voiced bilabial trill is an actual linguistic sound used in some languages to create words. Apparently, Grace feels that she is living in one of those languages.

But she didn't stop there! Her two lips bouncing out of control wasn't quite enough lip-action to communicate what she was aiming for, so she added a common linguistic feature known as labialization, that is the /w/ that transitions from the trilled consonant /bb/ and into the vowel which then carries the syllable nucleus. I suspect that this labialization is due to assimilation to the sounds she hears in the Gmz language all around us, as labialization is very common for them as well. As a budding linguist, she was obviously very quick to pick up on that. That's my girl!

Lastly, the vowel. I have transcribed it here as an /i/ (which makes the sound of /ee/ as in /bee/), but often this vowel tends to centralize in the vowel space into something more resembling a /ə/ (which makes the sound of /uh/ as in /well huh/). Centralization of vowels is yet another common feature of the Gmz language, over which much academic ink has already been spilled. I figure by the time Grace starts kindergarten she will have cracked its mystery and presented a paper or two on the topic at academic forums across Africa and Europe.

So what does bbwi mean? Well, assuming that I was able to get the video loaded onto this post, you can likely see for yourself how this magnificently designed word finds meaning in the language of Grace. Her pronunciation in this particular take isn't quite complete, but her actions pretty well show what she means by it! If the video doesn't load or if it isn't clear to you, then think about it. What concept, highly important to an 11 month-old, deserves such a triple labialized word? It's absolute brilliance!

 

So-Called Waterproof

One of the treasures I brought back from the States in January was a pair of steel-toed, waterproof boots. These made the top of our "must buy in the States" list months before we came home when my big toe was smashed by a rock kicked up by my motorbike's front tire. Thus far, nine months into our time back in Ethiopia, the steel has done its job, as I know of at least one occasion when it spared me another three months painful steps. For that, I am grateful.

 

The second selling point, however, has turned out to be quite the farse. Waterproof? Well huh! Tell that to my dripping socks! No, not just dripping, rather socks from which water streams out like an open faucet!

 

Over the first year and a half of riding the 50 kilometer-commute up to the project location, I never once got caught in the rain. Unfortunately, that streak ended this week, as Work'u and I got nailed twice! Thanks to some rain gear purchased for us by one of our supporting churches in Pennsylvania, Work'u and my computer bearing backpack stayed relatively dry. My waterproof pants, left over from the Kilimanjaro hike, did a good job except for leaking through the front zipper, resulting in what looked like a toddler "accident". My feet, however, twice this week, were extracted from my boots shriveled like prunes, proving that any shoe designed with a hole in the top (into which one sticks one's foot) cannot honestly be called "waterproof". Rather, the boot's effectiveness in preventing the passage of water kinda had the opposite effect. On that first trip, last Monday, after splashing through the umpteenth "pool" of standing water (calling them puddles would be a sad understatement), I wiggled my toes and noticed that, while they are impotent in stopping water from splashing into their tops, they are very effective in not allowing that captured water to escape! Thus, instead of being sold for the attempt to keep feet dry, their marketers should consider promoting their ability to create something more like a luxurious spa experience. Then again, I can't really say that it felt comfortable walking around with buckets of water on my feet. Maybe it could grow on me.

Jack of No Trades

We learned early on of one major cultural mismatch between us and the Gmz people. At first I was confused by some of the strange requests the Gmz people would bring to our door. It seemed anything mechanical, anything electrical, anything medical, and practically anything anything was for some reason brought to me with the expectation that had all the answers. I forget exactly, but likely it was a more-experienced co-worker who pointed out to me that Gmz society, unlike our own, is not fractured into fields of specialization. In other words, the base of common knowledge is quite large and specialized knowledge is quite small. And since everyone knows everything within the Gmz culture, why would I not be expected to know about everything that comes from my cuture? That’s why I've been asked to wear many unexpected hats over these last three years: Bicycle mechanic, electrician, computer hacker, radio repairman, cell phone diagnose/repair, and on and on.

It is not that Gmz are ignorant people, not at all. If you test any Gmz man, woman or child on naming the individual names for every tree, every plant and every variety of grass, they will ace your test and put any non-horticulturalist to shame. Or, if you dare, move onto species of birds! Some of the longest discussions in the translation office are over things like, "exactly what type of bird the Holy Spirit resembled when he descended upon Jesus at his baptism?"

If you look closely you can see our friend Wene laughing hysterically in the background.

Earlier this summer, when Matthew (our summer intern) and I went out to the peanut field to "help" with plowing, it soon became clear that we fish out of water. The Gmz men, on the other hand, young and old, knew exactly what needed to be done, where and how. This was proved to me even more when we stopped for lunch, and one of the young boys picked up the whip and plow and started driving the huge bulls just as the bigger guys had. When dry season comes and the wells are out of commission, you can ask any little girl and they can tell you just how to locate a spot, dig a hole and wait for it to fill with water. The wealth of Gmz knowledge is HUGE with regard to that which is important in their lives, and all of it is considered common knowledge.

In this way, I wish I was more Gmz. I wish I held a workable knowledge of a large variety of things found in our culture – someone we might call a "Jack of All Trades." Instead, it seems, with most areas, I have a tiny bit of knowledge, which, when combined with common sense and trial-and-error can barely scrape by on most jobs. Take last Saturday for example. I am not a plumber, or a roofer, or a mechanic, or an electrician, but projects in all of these areas made it onto my must-do list. It made me think of a conversation I had with Matthew this summer. Reflecting on how narrow the field of linguistics is and how job opportunities outside of Bible translation are quite slim pickin's, we brainstormed what trades we might want to put in our back-pockets to broaden our knowledge base and open up potential opportunities down the road. Well, for Matthew, it was clear all summer long that he was quite sharp with computers and so could see himself going into programming of some sort. As for me, choosing a field/trade wasn’t so easy. I'd love to shadow a plumber for a time, or better yet an electrician. Then again, there is a whole lot I could learn about mechanics and even shadowing through a major construction project. It all sounded like a lot of fun, with HUGE practical implications for life right in the meantime. When it comes to these skills, I feel like a thirsty sponge searching for knowledge to soak up.

This topic brushes on another topic that has been on my mind a lot lately, the kind of question that sets me up for a grand mid-life crisis in a few years. It goes something like this: "So Travis, if you want to find yourself at 50 having "mastered" some trade, some skill, some field of study, some anything, what are you doing at 33 to sharpen yourself and move yourself one step closer toward that?" If right now I am a Jack of No Trades, becoming a Jack of One begins with selecting and narrowing my focus onto that one field. I have some ideas…

The Revolving Door

Following up on our blog from a few weeks ago, I think we have gotten over the initial sadness of saying goodbye to our friend and co-laborer we enjoyed in our summer intern, but Andrea and I are still processing how Micah and Grace are shaped by the unique life that they were born into. Living between Gesas, Addis Ababa and America, Micah is always excitedly anticipating the next move. When we went to Addis to drop Matthew at the airport, Micah very quickly started talking about what he was going to do when we went back to Gesas. He even packed his backpack with the particular toys he wanted to take with us. The exchange went something like, "Daddy, where should I put my backpack? It's ready to go to Gesas."  "Micah we aren't going for more than a week." "Oh, well, where should I put it so we don't forget it?”

 

Then when we finally came out to Gesas about two weeks ago, Micah woke up the next morning asking when we were going to go back to Addis. That same day he re-packed his backpack for the return trip. Rarely does a day go by that he doesn't ask about when we are going to Addis, and sadly the middle October won't come soon enough. Part of the problem, especially with Gesas right now, is the absence of friends for him to play with as our Canadian friends at home on furlough, thankfully returning in another month.

 

The revolving door isn't just our ever-changing physical location, it's also our friends, especially those we connect to the most. When we made the decision to come to Ethiopia, we shed tears over not going to our second choice – Uganda, where we had the opportunity to work alongside some very dear friends from our schooling time in Texas. Knowing that close friendships were important to our "success" overseas, we began praying that God would prepare in advance meaningful relationships for us in Ethiopia. And so, our first year over here, we praised God when we were blessed by the friendship of our housemates. However, they left when their work was completed later that year. Next we began seeing how God was answering our prayer through another young family from a different organization. When we first moved out to Gesas they easily topped the list of "must-see people whenever we come to Addis." However, when they went on furlough that next year, a variety of important things kept them from returning to Ethiopia. Another time around the revolving door. Around that time, our friendship with our co-workers in Gesas was growing quite special, only to have a similar furlough trip result in their redirection. Now, in returning  from our furlough in 2013, we identified two couples who have landed themselves at the top of that must-see in Addis list. Not to our surprise, one of them told us as dinner the other night that this is likely their last term in Ethiopia…

 

Hmmmm…it is us? I know that my personal hygiene has plummeted from American standards, but really? Rather I think we are simply living in a revolving door, but one thing must be acknowledged. God has repeatedly heard our prayers for friendships, and provided.

Staying Out Of The Basement

Dishes piled high on the drying rack, toys for the most part put away, teeth brushed, it was shortly after 10pm and Andrea and I were making our final preparations for bed (you know, filling the water filter and stuffing the towel under the crack in the door to prohibit entrance to any scorpion visitors). Suddenly, out of nowhere there came a loud crack in what sounded like something large hitting our tin roof. Then it was silent again. Andrea and I made eye contact, maybe shrugged a shoulder and went to bed without a word. My thought – earlier that week I had been up on our roof pounding in the nails that had wiggled their way loose over the years. Well, I figured that one of those secured nails lost its battle again as the tin popped and scrapped up to is more comfortable resting angle. No big deal.

I thought nothing of it again until the next morning when Andrea and Grace headed out to the outhouse to make a deposit of last night's disposable diaper. Not five second later I saw them re-appear and call out to me through the window screen, "Hey do you want to see what that sound was last night?" And sure enough, what once was a nice building perpendicular to the ground, now appeared much more like a cheap version of that famous tower in Pisa.

 

Apparently, the cement pad had decided that it was done holding our weight in keeping our feet (and likely our ankles, calves and knees) out of the "miry clay" below. And so, it was granted its early retirement as neither of us have been willing to step foot on that now slanted floor.

To be honest, we will greatly miss the convenience of that maintenance-free outhouse (a bucket and pile of sawdust was suggested in its stead), but we are grateful for one thing – that the concrete slab picked a very appropriate time to submit its letter of resignation. In general basements tend to be dark, damp and smelly, but this particular one might need its own set of adjectives to do it justice.

This Is The Work That Never Ends

Remember "Lamb Chop's Play Along"? Lamb Chop, Charlie Horse and of course Boney? – "I'm Boney! I'm Boney! Leave me alone-y!" Ah yes, I can identify with Boney sometimes. Anyway, remember the other song that was introduced in that show?  It's probably the only other song in history to be more annoying than "I love you" sung by that big purple dinosaur. I hate to start it because it itself tells the unfortunate story of some people who started singing it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because it is the song that never ends… Woah that was close!

 

Anyway, that song crept into my head the other day as I was thinking about our lives and the work that God has given to us to be a part of these days. For this last month, two of the translators have been away at school, and our summer intern was able to work with the remaining translator mostly by himself, thus giving me amazing freedom to catch up on other things – things that I had wanted to finish during out time in the US last year. I studied through a PhD dissertation on the Gmz language, I revised an orthography/spelling paper that I had written two years ago (explaining and justifying why we spell in Gmz the ways that we do), and I have been getting ahead on my exegetical checking of the drafted Scripture. In fact, yesterday afternoon, I hit a major milestone in the completion of my exegetical check of Luke. That means that I have studied through every word in the Greek, English and Gmz texts, consulted various exegetical and translation helps, and written a whole mess of questions and comments on the 1151 verses Luke passed down to us. The celebration of finishing the Luke check on a Friday afternoon was wonderful, but now as I look ahead to Monday, my work inbox is far from empty. Instead it is weighted down with all 1007 verses of Acts, the sequel to Luke's first novel, not to mention my desire to refresh on some Greek grammar details, read through a discourse grammar of NT Greek, study a couple still unclear things in Gmz grammar, write up a "scripture readiness" assessment of the Gmz society and on and on.

 

Although not in an eternal sense, it truly does feel like the work that never ends. "This young lad started doing it, not knowing what it was, and he'll continue doing it forever just because it is the work that never ends…" No, Miss Lamb Chop, that's not correct in my case. True, I started doing it, not really knowing what it was (as with most jobs). And I'll continue doing it "forever" just because…it is an amazing privilege to see God at work in the translation of his Word, ever shaping the language, the people, and ME along the way! 

 

Bittersweet

“Ohhhhhh…Maateyos…Ohhhhhh….Maateyos…” Micah’s grieving the loss of a friend was as real as it comes. As we pulled into the airport parking lot, loaded Matthew’s stuff onto a cart, and placed him (Micah) on top for the ride to the first security checkpoint, everything seemed fine and dandy. But as soon as he heard the words, “Micah it’s time to say goodbye to Maateyos now,” he lost all composure. The tears streaming down his cheeks and the terribly sad frown he wore was enough to rip both Andrea’s and my hearts out of our chests. Little did we expect it would be this hard to say goodbye. After all, it had only been three months since Maateyos (aka. Matthew) arrived in Ethiopia as a summer intern through Wycliffe Canada. I had the eerie feeling that we had been set up for this misery! Hmmmm…and the more I thought about it, I think I have a legitimate case.

Don't trust that goofy smile, being an MK himself (ie. having grown up overseas), Matthew must have known what he was doing all along, a long, brilliantly-crafted plan to sabotage our emotions. Early on, he must have assessed each member of our family, so that he might specifically invest in just the areas that he knew would lead to ultimate hurt later on. For me, he purposefully engaged me in deep, intellectual conversations, not to mention taking what appeared to be an extremely genuine interest in the Gmz language and even spending hours upon hours pouring into the Gmz project with me! Incredibly deceptive yet pulled off without a hint of my suspicion. For Andrea, he always expressed thanks at every meal and helped a ton with things such as washing kids’ hands before meals and dishes afterward. He even managed to connect with Grace, who would often light up when he walked into the room! But, as we now see clearly, Matthew targeted most of his work on our little Micah, rightly assessing that if he could wrench his little heart, he would simultaneously crush ours as well. And so, looking back on his interactions with Micah, it is all too clear. Your average college student wouldn’t eagerly crawl into a three-year-olds cramped little forts in order to read aloud through the HUGE tower of books Micah had erected. Your average college student wouldn’t be down on the ground playing trains, up running around playing “I’m gonna gecha!”, or in the slower moments rock quietly with a three-year-old on his lap and watch evening cartoons before bed.

The average college student would not enter into the crazy world of pretend such as where Micah lives. They took turns being the fisherman and the fish (oh yes, and the ever popular strawberry fish), they flew in Papa’s airplane (ie. the couch), they rode the “motorcycle” to the “office” to “work”, they hunted and killed pretend snakes, etc, etc. Maateyos even tried to enter Micah’s world by making sense of his jibberish talk (which he talks in quite frequently) and by “interacting” with Micah’s imaginary friend, Sape. No college student in their right mind would go to such great lengths in befriending a three-year-old, that is unless he was harboring a devious scheme of heartbreak at the end.

And what a heartbreak it was! Micah whimpered/cried for about 20 minutes of the ride home from the airport, before falling asleep in his car seat. And with every round of “Ohhhhh…Maateyos…” our hearts too were throbbing the pain of loss. Having shared in our experiences, having shared in our laughs, Maateyos had successfully weaseled his way deep, deep into our family, but why? Does his sick mind revel in our suffering to say goodbye? Or could it possibly be that God used one of His servants to bless us, to enrich our lives simply for a time? And like all good things that must come to an end, that end is necessarily bittersweet.

Woah Travis

Names in Ethiopia are important. So important, in fact, that they are not given to a newborn baby for at least a week after the baby is born. And then, many Ethiopian cultures have a naming ceremony of some sort. We know one tradition where three names are chosen, one by the parents, and one by each of the sets of grandparents. On the appointed naming day, the three names are written on pieces of paper and placed in a hat, leaving the child’s name to the luck of the draw. Names are often given with the hopes of them being prophetic as the child grows into them. For example, Habtamu means “the rich one”, Teshome means “the promoted/exalted one”, and Getachew means “their lord/master.” Every name has a translation, and often a story or a reason behind it, a part of Ethiopian culture we have come to love!

The Gmz people, however, are traditionally cut from a slightly different cloth. They still wait for several days or weeks before naming a new child, but their names are not so much prophetic, but rather descriptive. WoHis means “Mr. Black”, WoMpu means “Mr. White”, and WoC’agad’ means “Mr. Eye Crusty”, all of which are physical descriptions of the newborns. Many times, Gmz names are descriptions of their times of birth. For example, one of the translation team member’s name is Janey, which means Thursday, the day of the week on which he was born. The name WoTaak comes from the word for millet (taaka). He was born during the millet harvest season. Dewan was born at a memorial celebration for a village elder, an event called a “dewan”.  One Gmz name was intriguing to me when I first learned of it - WoAanz means “Mr. Poop.” Not exactly an honorable title to carry around throughout one’s lifetime, but we know plenty of people who bear it. At first I thought maybe it was a descriptive name given to a baby who had a few impressive bowel movements early in life, but it turns out to be that the mother-to-be mistook the labor pains for her own impending BM. Hmm… Finally, Gmz names are sometimes given in connection to special events that happened around the time of their birth. For example, WoPawe was born in the hospital in Pawe, where is mother was taken to receive emergency  care. Wok’ob’, meaning “Mr. Hunger” was born during a time of a famine in the area. And when the first foreigners moved onto Gesas mountain, at least three babies were known to have been named WoJohn after the Canadian in whose house we now live in (affectionately referred to as 1^st John, 2^nd John and 3^rd John). We moved into Gesas in 2010, and just a few months later we were informed that a local witch doctor gave birth to a baby boy and named him WoMikiyaas. Mikiyaas, being Micah’s Amharic name, was the first naming marker of our arrival.

Now where am I going with all of this? Those of you who receive our prayer partner emails been reading some about our friend EyC’uli. After two babies dying shortly after birth, EyC’uli became pregnant again, and on June 14, gave birth to a tiny baby boy. However, within that first week of his life, it was clear that both he and EyC’uli were having health problems. Not eating well, not pooping, not gaining weight…there was more than one time when it seemed this tiny new life would be cut short. Yet God, in answer to our prayers, seems to have had a different plan, as today both mom and baby were back in church for the first time. We invited them to our house afterward and chatted some more. At one point I took the baby’s tiny hands and commented on the tiny fingers. EyC’uli smiled and asked me, “Did you hear the baby’s name?” Seeing my smile, she continued, “It’s just like your name, WoTravis.” Feeling the rush of honor and flatterment (is that a real word?) which my culture associates with such a respectful naming gesture, I looked away in embarrassment. Had Andrea and I made such an impact on this friend to warrant their child bearing my name the rest of his life? One might think so, and therefore think more highly of me, so maybe I ought to stop this story right here. Unfortunately, that would be ignoring the point I already made above, Americans and Gmz have very different factors at play in naming their children. Still holding baby WoTravis’ tiny hand, EyC’uli laughed and went on to explain some more, “My husband said WoTravis was a good name for him because the baby is really skinny, just like you!”

Now wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute! I am used to being called thin, skinny, bean pole, etc, back in the States, but to hear that such a reputation precedes me even among the Gmz people? And even during the hunger time of year? Wow! I don’t know if I should feel bad for the little guy or not, “Well, WoTravis, you were named after the little twig of a man we once knew…” There is already a common Gmz name used of thin babies, (WoMakash, meaning “Mr. Thin”), so I wonder if WoTravis will simply take on the superlative meaning translated something like “Mr. Toothpick”! Yes I did recently make a new hole in my belt, but has it really come to this? Well, I’ll have you know that right now, as this blog is posting, we are travelling back to Addis Ababa where upon arrival I am going to stuff my face with one of the nicest, fattest cheeseburgers the whole country! No, make that two cheeseburgers! Anyone know any self-help books such as “From Bamboo to Baobab in Just Ten Weeks” or “Seven Secrets to Doubling Your Chin Without Lifting a Finger”? Little WoTravis and I have a reputation to change!

Silent Night

Almost a year ago now, we had the opportunity to visit many of you and to share the exciting things that God had begun with Scripture-based songs in the Gmz language (for those that didn’t hear/read of that, check out our Feb 2013 blog called “United in the Clan of Christ”). Continuing that vision, we encouraged the writing of three special songs for the church’s celebration of Easter, which, according to the Gregorian calendar followed here in Ethiopia, was celebrated on May 5^th this year. Sorry, I’m a bit late in posting this blog.

 

The goal was three songs, with three powerful messages taken from the passion narratives, songs that could be used in, yet not limited to, the church’s annual celebration of Easter. The first song was written from the “triumphal entry” story as the people of Jerusalem hail Jesus their king!

 

If we stay quiet, the rocks with cry out!

                If we stay quiet, the rocks with cry out!

 

                Jesus is the true Son of God.

                Jesus is the true king of all creation.

 

                Come, let’s give praise to Jesus, the King!

                Let’s give praise to Jesus, the Son of God!

 

                Come, let’s follow Jesus!

                He will save us from within sin.

 

The second song we encouraged them to write was to focus on the heart of the passion narrative, yet exactly what they felt that “heart” was…that was for them to decide. In reading through the entire narrative with the song writers, they chose to write a song about the curtain in the temple tearing in two. This, in their understanding, meant that the path to God has now been opened as a result of Jesus’ death.

 

                Sin separated us from God.

Sin separated us from God.

Jesus died on the horizontal tree (aka. cross) for us.

               

The judgment for sin,

The punishment for sin Jesus carried.

 

                The path to return to God,

he opened the way.

 

The final song focused on the resurrection, a song we encouraged them to write not only for singing at Easter time, but also at funerals, emphasizing Jesus’ victory over death and our resulting hope!

 

                Jesus rose from within the hole of death (aka. grave).

                He has defeated death.

 

                Because he rose from within the hole of death,

                he will raise us just like that.

 

                The women did not find Jesus’ body.

                “It is not here. He has risen none.” (aka. He has risen PERIOD! Booyah!)

 

                Jesus rose from within death.

Only clothes alone.

 

The “clothes alone” idea was apparently important enough to make it in the song, but I suppose that makes sense for a culture known to dig open the sunken graves of their fathers to refashion the dirt into a nice new hollow cavity in which they can once again lay out the bones in a respectful way. Finding only clothes in a grave three days old, now that says something profound!

 

Easter morning, the church gathered and sang their new songs, a bit tentative given their newness, but nevertheless, the truth of God’s word went out in song under the tin-roofed church where fifty some Gmz believers worship regularly. Now, it was our hope that these songs wouldn’t stay under that roof, but rather make the trek back to the villages. And then as families (both Christian and non) gathered in celebration of this national holiday, we prayed these new songs would find their beat on the various communities’ andinga drums that evening. This year, however, Easter evening was quite a silent night on Gesas mountain, but we continue to pray that God’s word in song would exit the mud walls of the building we mistakenly call “the church”, and instead make their home in the real church, the community of Gmz believers, on whose lips they reach the very heart of Gmz life and culture.

 

An Extra Special Marinade

"Anza-Hosa" I said under my breath as I rifled through our Ethiopia pictures in preparation for sharing with partners last August. Knowing the group at my brother's house would enjoy this story, I right-clicked on this particular picture and pressed "set as wallpaper." Later that evening, when asked about it, I told what little I knew about the scene.

We had been invited to a Gmz wedding celebration, or rather a bride send off (it was a home village's send off for a girl going to be married to a man from a different clan/village). As usual, despite having no connection to the family, we were given seats of honor right next to the bride – who was quite easy to identify since she had covered her body in red dirt. Very attractive indeed!

Not only were we assigned to sit in an awkward place of honor, but they also granted us front row seats to the show, that is, the preparation of the large bull slaughtered for this special occasion. 

There it was: the meat, the white meat (ie. fat), and all the edible innards being meticulously dissected and laid out on the mat of its own hide. Several village dogs prowled the area staying just out of reach of the stick-wielding kids. They looked jealously on the swarms of flies who were already getting the first tastes, and were no doubt leaving behind a bit of seasoning.

I watched the dissection carefully, trying to identify each of the parts that I knew: saaŋkama (liver), k'obitsama (heart), fateema (lung), çiilama (intestines)…impressing not only myself, but also the few Gumuz near me. In the midst of the activity, I zeroed in on the person emptying the intestines, "Anza-hosa (cow poop)," I said, which of course, incited the laughter of my little audience. But then as I watched, something occurred to me: they were emptying the "anza-hosa" into a saucepan! The pan of poop was then given to a woman who casually mixed it with some chopped-up hot peppers, and then carried it over to the people gathered under the temporary shelters.

I knew that the Gmz people ate almost every part of the animals they slaughtered, but this? Fighting back a sour expression on my face, I watched as people dipped their pieces of meat into this extra special marinade. Clearly, it was time for us to go, I didn't want our gracious host to wave that pan under my nose!

That is all I knew of the special marinade, and the people gathered at my brother's house that night agreed that we had made the right decision in our quick departure. Little did I know that the night's story-telling would have long-term effects.  Because for whatever reason, that "anza-hosa" photo has yet to be replaced as my desktop background – eleven months running!

When we returned to Ethiopia and I first worked with the team of Gmz translators, they saw my background and immediately recognized it, saying, "Lakaanziya manamaas! (Lakaanziya is yummy!)" We got into a mock argument with me insisting that it was cow poop and them saying that it is rather a sour sauce found at a certain point in the small intestine – a point they say occurs before it turns into true poop. I wasn't buying it, and wrinkled my nose in disgust every morning when we opened my computer to begin work. "Its yummy!" they would say, "You should try it, one day you will try it with us!" Oh my, what did I get myself into.

And so, after almost six months of being told how much I will enjoy it, the day finally came. And it couldn't have been more appropriate, a feast on feces to celebrate July 1^st with our great neighbors to the north (that is, Canada Day, of course!). We wanted our summer intern, Matthew, to feel "at home" back in Canada, so we gathered a bunch of the project workers (translators, their wives, and some review committee members) and killed a goat in celebration.

When preparing the insides, Work'u made a point of showing me the particular section of the intestines in which the lakaanziya is found. Slicing it open, he tasted the brown liquid with his finger. 

Likely my facial expression directly contradicted the smile that spread across his face, "That's it!" he said. The two to three foot section of intestines was cut off, tied on both ends and set aside for later. Oooo, I could hardly wait!

The rest of the meat was cut up and boiled over the cooking fires that the women had gotten roaring in the little grass house. Micah has learned pretty quickly that if he is standing near the cooks, he will constantly be slipped little goodies along the way. First, came the liver, only seared on the outside so I requested that ours be cooked a bit more. After all, the liver's job is to clean the blood of all its contaminants, why would I put those captured contaminants in my mouth, uncooked? When the fully cooked livers came back, it also came with pieces of the heart, lung, kidneys, and intestines. 

Micah dug in straight away, not objecting to the lakaanziya, the special marinade, offered along side. Micah tried it without knowing, nor really caring, what he was eating. Matthew and I were unfortunately very well informed and yet we partook enough to satisfy our delighted hosts, "Its good, isn't it?"

Well, I have to admit, it wasn't necessarily bad once we got past the psychological barrier. There was something sour about it, giving an extra kick to the hot peppers mixed in. Not that I am going to order it at a local restaurant (which is possible if you get there early enough on the morning of a slaughter), but at the same time, I'm proud to say, "Been there, done that," next time a Gmz asks me if I have tried this fine delicacy.

Having cooked everything to perfection, the Canada Day feast began, complete with Canadian toothpick flags, napkins and other decorations spread around the room (decorations I was given by a particular outspoken "proud to be Canadian" friend we are sad to see leaving Ethiopia this month).

Oh Canada, long live your beautiful land of fishing, hunting and cheap prescription drugs. For the most part, we enjoyed our party in your honor. Unfortunately, I can't promise that we will be faithful in celebrating your exciting holiday from now on, I don't know what it is, maybe it just left a bad taste in my mouth.