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.