Gimbie Reports

Voice of America broadcasted a report in Afan-Oromo featuring an interview with hospital administrator, Paul Howe, on Thursday, July 2. To listen click the following link http://www.voanews.com/horn/afaan_oromoo_audio.cfm and then select your preferred player (i.e. Windows media, MP3, etc). It will be available online for a week.

Praying for milk

As Feyisa and I drive in the Land Cruiser (me driving, Feyisa shot gun) through chaotic Nekempt toward the East Wollega Health Bureau, I express my doubt that it's going to be a successful trip. Feyisa listens patiently, nodding his head.

He knows better than to be optimistic.

I was here just last Thursday, with the same mission: to pick up free UNICEF milk for our malnourished kids. It was a disaster--a dead end. After waiting for nearly an hour on creaky chairs in a damp office, we were told that the Pharmacy Guy with the only key to the milk stock room was sick, and wouldn't be coming in for the day.

Since he possessed the only key, I had jumped into the Land Cruiser with Ashebir the driver and Karessa the pharmacist and drove to his house to get it.

He wasn't there. "He's at the market today," his wife told us.

So we called this Pharmacist Guy. He said, "I won't be coming into work today, I'm sick. But I won't give you any milk powder, anyway. We don't distribute to the Gimbie area."

But I had papers from UNICEF in Addis, with specific instructions to collect milk powders at that office. I had an official request from our hospital as well, and plenty of stamps and signatures.

We tried to talk to the boss, the manager of the Bureau. "The managers are out today," the round-faced secretary told us. "Come back tomorrow."

That was a week ago. I have since collected more papers, signatures, and stamps, talked with the directors of Ethiopia's UNICEF Feeding Program in Addis Ababa, and received more instructions. But I'm still dubious that we'll leave the Bureau today with milk.

As we pull up to the gate I tell Feyisa that I'm going to pray. We stop the car and we pray. It encourages us, if nothing else. God knows our kids need that fortified therapeutic milk.

This time the round-faced secretary tells us that Pharmacy Guy is in the WHO (World Health Organization) stock room. Apparently they are counting vaccinations. A goose chase around the compound finally lands us at a small warehouse sort of building. The roof is rusted and cracked open in several places, floods of chilly morning sunlight pour in.

Pharmacy Guy shakes my hand.

The answer is yes. Yes, we have milk (we find it stacked to the ceiling in a small, dusty room, some of the boxes moulding and some chewed up by rats, none of it moved or touched in months and months). Yes, you can have as much as you want (we pack 60 boxes of 30 bags each into the Land Cruiser).

I am so happy. I don't know why it was so hard last week, and somehow so easy this time around.

I guess right now it doesn't matter. Feyisa and I smile all the way up and down the hallway, carrying armloads of boxes of milk powder.

The notes from the piano’s final chord died away, and the choir rose to collect songbooks and de-robe our flowing, blue gowns. The church service had gone well. Engidye, my fellow choir member and favorite hospital nurse, laid her hand on my shoulder. “Do you want to stay for foot-washing?” she asked. I couldn’t repress a shiver. It was a cold, rainy morning and nothing seemed more unappealing than sitting outside in the gloom while my feet were dipped in cool water. I politely declined, and began walking home. Halfway down the stairs to our compound however, I paused. The crowd of white-shawled women bustling about the church yard, basins in hand, towels over arm, seemed to draw me. O bother. I might as well stay. I re-ascended the stairs and began hunting about for Engidye. But after making a full-circle of the church and its yard, there was no sign of her. Somewhat relieved, I turned to the stairs once more. Before I reached them, an old lady caught me by the arm. “Do you have someone to wash your feet?” she asked, wearing a genuine expression of concern. “Well, uh, no.” I said. “Let’s wash each other’s feet!” she urged emphatically. Her upturned face was wrinkled from years of smiling, and a few gray locks peeked out from underneath her blue head-kerchief. I couldn’t refuse.

She managed to find me a couple spare basins and seated herself on the sidewalk curb while I went to get water. Carefully, she removed her soiled, hole-filled socks. They were still wet and muddy from her walk to church. She didn’t cringe as she placed her foot in the icy basin. I stared at it in awe. The top knuckle sported a large, cracked blister. The sole was flat and calloused. One of her toes was half eaten away by a cancerous sore. I delicately took it in my hands and dipped it in the water. “Does your foot hurt?” I managed to say. “Yes, very much.” She answered cheerfully. What burdens had these feet borne? How many miles had they travelled?

Then, it was my turn. I had worn my long, black stockings because of the cool weather. Not wanting to immodestly begin undressing right in front of the church, I simply offered her my foot, stocking and all. She asked no questions. She gave me no funny looks. She quietly took my foot in her hands and began scrubbing vigorously. I was glad for the stockings. I would have been ashamed for her to see my neatly trimmed toenails and soft soles. They had borne no heavy burdens. They hadn’t travelled many miles.

We emptied our basins in the bushes and turned to thank each other. She hugged me happily and pronounced a thousand blessings upon my head. As I watched her painfully limp back inside the church, I felt – well, what I think Jesus intended us to feel after foot-washing.

Some people you know so well that you can hear their voice when they are not talking: in an email, a personal birthday card, or scribbled comment on a sticky note. I have a couple of those friends.

Shaunda, a good friend from college, recently left after a year of service to Gimbie. Our good-bye was short, and the moment of farewell was relatively painless. After the loaded Land Cruiser was out of sight, I headed home to the house we had shared. I found a note with my name printed in familiar handwriting; it was from Shaunda. While reading her reminiscent and encouraging words I heard her voice.

As I went about my morning routine, my mind drifted back to scrubbing walls with Shaunda at Green Lake clinic, to our rhythmic breathing during early morning runs, and human-wheel barrel stress relief exercises. The reality of Shaunda’s absence hit at various moments throughout the day: while choosing clothes from our now half empty closet, when I went to check the time on Shaunda’s now-missing alarm clock, and while sitting in the office we once shared. There was a hole, yet there is hope that we will cross paths in the States.

I wondered if Jesus’ disciples felt the same mix of emotions after He ascended to heaven. Did they walk along a certain path “remembering when,” or attend synagogue only to replay one of Jesus’ sermons in their head? I wonder if reading Matthew’s account of Jesus’ life triggered a mental sound clip of Jesus’ voice.

Wouldn’t it be great if miraculously an MP3 of Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount was available?! What if we could hear each pause, or when his voice got shaky because of his passion, or spontaneous joy in a conversation? Although the inflection is unknown, we still have his powerful words.

Like Shaunda’s note, the meaning of the Gospels is amplified with relationship. So, explore nature, meditate on holy lyrics, read the Gospels, and remember the cadences of his words and the value of his message.

Each weekday Ayelech comes to our house. Finally, it was our turn to visit her. She agreed to meet us at 2:30 on Sunday and show us the way. As we walked, Petra, Shaunda, and I made small talk with Ayelech. About 10 minutes later we reached her house.

Sena, Abde (Ayelech’s kids), and other children playing on the dirt road welcomed us. The bright green grass accentuated the orange-ish red mud house. The sheet metal roof reflected the bright sunshine. A pad lock kept the wood door securely shut.

As we entered, it took a couple seconds for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. Only the door and a window permitted sunshine to enter. We sat at a wooden table on wooden chairs; a bed shared the same room. The second room also had a bed and functioned as the “kitchen” too, I think. There wasn’t much to see. Ayelech offered us injera and wot but since we just ate lunch we did not eat.

While we sat, a hen and 6 little chicks pecked at the dirt near our feet. Their soprano voices reminded us not to step on them. Ayelech broke off a piece of injera and crumbled it and extended her hand to the hen. The mother chicken pecked one piece at a time, dropping each to the ground for her chicks. “She never takes for herself” Ayelech stated.

Ayelech makes a good wage working in a house of four farenjis. Like her chicken, Ayelch always gives, whether a place to sleep or money for clothes or school, to her family when in need. I’m thankful for Ayelech and her chicken who remind me to give to others.

“You are never poor when you live to give. You are never rich in the sight of God when you hoard things to yourself. There is a relationship between living generously and being entrusted by God. God searches for those individuals though whom He can bless the world.”
--pg 164, Uprising, by Erwin McMauns

Priscila found an empty seat and I sat next to her in the aisle on a plastic gas container. About 40 minutes down the road we sideswiped another bus while going around a bend. Priscila and I just looked at each other in disbelief. Everyone quickly dismounted to see what damage had been done. The look of astonishment of our companions from the first bus and land cruiser matched what Priscila and I felt.

We stood outside the bus with packs on our backs and held each other’s hands, bowed our heads, and thanked God for his protection and asked for it to continue and wisdom to be given. Although no one was hurt, this was worse for Priscila and I; it was getting dark and we were in the middle of nowhere. I tried to call Girma, Seyoum, Paul, a taxi driver friend, but we had no service. “Help” I prayed again.

Not too long afterwards, a rickety old EMPTY bus slowly approached. Some people started to hop on so Priscila and I followed. They gave us seats in the front next to the driver. At first this was appreciated because we did not have to be squished like sardines in the back. However, it was the most dangerous spot. I sat sideways facing the driver with inches between my side and the windshield. If we stopped suddenly or hit anything, I knew I would go through the glass. Knowing our track record…I prayed again.

As more people than seats boarded, I better evaluated our mode of transportation. The bus was robustly shaking as we sat in neutral. The metal frame was rusty and in place of a speedometer and gas gauge were knotted wires. Adding to our seemingly hopeless situation was the horn that seemingly originated from circus clowns.

The driver drove cautiously, always beeping before turns. We chugged up hills and drifted down the other side. Most all vehicles past us, however, it was encouraging when we passed a bicycle and later a tractor.

That night we pulled into the Akso bus station just seconds before Girma, a hospital employee, who would take us to our hotel. We were so thankful to have safely arrived in Addis; hardly believing all day’s adventures. Our Sunday drive was not what we had expected.

Many expats and hospital employees have uneventfully traveled to and from Addis on public transportation and nothing like this had ever happened before. Thinking, I asked God “Why didn’t You intervene? After all, there were plenty of opportunities.” I know God could have kept the first bus running, the man crossing the street safe, and prevented the third accident as well. Each was an opportunity for God to step in and save the day.

God has his own timing, however. I was reminded of this via the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, three young men from Babylon. They were mandated by the king to bow down and worship a recently constructed monument. Refusing, the three were sent to the king, providing a seemingly perfect opportunity for God to intervene. Under the influence of God, the king could recognize and commend their boldness, courage, and faith but that did not happen. Even after a compelling speech by the three young men, God’s protective hand seems absent.

The king’s fury surged and the three young men were sentenced to death; still God did not intervene. They were tossed into a blazing furnace. It was in the moment of death that God interceded. When the king looked in the fire he saw the three plus one more that looked like “a son of the gods.” The king called them out of the furnace. The raging fire had no effect on their bodies or clothes, and they didn’t even smell like smoke!

God’s involvement seemed late. It was clear, however, that God did the saving; it was nothing that the three said or did, it was not fate, or anyone or anything else. It was God. Just like the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, Priscila and I did not understand the events happening to us. Nonetheless, it was clear that God was watching over us, intervening in his perfect timing.

“Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshack and Abed-nego, who has sent His angel and delivered His servants who put their trust in Him” Daniel 3:28 (NAS.

Sunday drives are typically leisurely outings with the windows-down on a winding country road or through a well manicured neighborhood. The sun light and fresh air initiate feelings of freedom and independence making the soul just feel good. Last Sunday’s drive was everything but that.

Priscila and I met in the hospital foyer at 4:45am. Despite the rain, we quickly walked to the bus station, fought our way through ticketless petitioners at the bus door, and found seats in the back together. We sat down, adjusted our backpacks, took motion sickness meds, and prayed.

By 6 our bus was pulling out of Gimbie town. My damp overstuffed REI daypack functioned as a pillow in my lap. I slept shallowly, in and out of awareness, for four hours. Then, the bus stopped. One by one people became tired of waiting inside and soon all passengers had opted for space in the shade along the road. We waited; 15 minutes, 50 minutes, an hour and a half.

While sitting on a tree stump a few meters from the road, we vacillated between the options of waiting for the bus to become fixed and hailing a ride. We were going to Addis to renew Priscila’s visa which expired in three days and it took two days to process. We prayed for guidance.

As we were getting up from the stump, I saw an empty land cruiser. I stuck my hand straight out, signaling we need a ride. It pulled over in front of the bus. Others saw it and started to run toward it. I did to. Somehow I got there first. I opened the passenger side door and asked “Addis?” He nodded.
“Birri mecca?” (how much?) I inquired.
He didn’t say anything.
“Two farenjis” I said while holding up two fingers. “Lama farenji” (two foreigners).
He nodded.
“Vamos” I said to Priscila and we ran to the bus to get our bags.
I climbed into the bus and passed her my backpack, our water bottles and jacket. She ran to the cruiser while I unwedged her bag from under the seat.

Desperate passengers were swarming the cruiser when I arrived; the back seat already full with two men and Priscila. The driver was defending the front seat declaring “Farenji! Farenji!” I jumped in, closed the door and we were off!

The comfort, the speed, the seatbelt! It was so good. “Galaatomma” “Fayata” “Thank you” Priscila and I uttered again and again to our driver and to our God. Talk radio was on, something about the economy and the US dollar. I wondered what was being said about our currency. I wondered who was driving us, why he had such a nice car, why he stopped, and why he saved the seat for me. We traveled in silence since our driver did not know English or Oromifa.

With only two hours until Addis, we made a quick stop in Ambo to stretch our legs and grab a drink and we were back on the road again. Ten minutes past Ambo, there was a large Izuzu truck blocking the other lane. The road was straight and we could see for miles in front of us; no one was coming. Then, the passenger door of the truck opened into our lane and a man stepped out. He started to cross the road. We beeped. We breaked. He looked the other way and proceeded to cross. We beeped again and started to swerve to the right, away from the man and the truck. Simultaneously, he saw us. With wide eyes and an aghast expression on his face he tried to run across the street in the same direction that we were swerving.

We hit him—causing his body to spin vertically.
He hit us—leaving a mark on the driver’s side of the cruiser.

We quickly pulled to the side of the road and hopped out. His friend from the Izuzu truck had run to his side. “Malo! Malo!” (Please! Please!) he screamed. “Malo!” It was all he could utter. His twisted legs, exposed bone, and bloody clothes confirmed what we just saw. Priscila, a doctor from Argentina, was giving commands in Spanish. My job as translator has never been so stressful.

One of the guys from our car understood English. I communicated that Priscila was a doctor. “We shouldn’t move him” I translated but it was too late. Someone had sat him up. We had no stretcher, no medical supplies, no concrete form of communication, but shock and chaos were plentiful. One of the two doors was unable to be opened. Leaving a painful mystery of how they maneuvered to get him in.

The ten minute ride back to Ambo felt like an hour. We got to the hospital. Priscila went with the patient and I stayed with the vehicle and tried to call Paul, the hospital administrator and friend. A bit later Priscila came out and we met up with the others from our car and headed to the police station to report the accident. We gave our names and phone number incase witnesses were necessary.

We waited in front of the police station as a storm blew in. Priscila and I again listed the options: stay at a hotel in Ambo, contact Adventist orphanage just outside town and stay there, call Seyoum to see if he could pick us up, or continue in with our driver; we knew that the man would be transferred to a hospital in Addis and since the hospital didn’t have an ambulance we figured our driver would have to take him in. We prayed for guidance.

Finally, the driver told us we needed to find another ride to take us the rest of the way to Addis. In the rain we paid, thanked him for helping us, and wished him the best. Just then he pointed to a bus and said “Addis.” We saw the other two guys boarding so we ran and jumped on.

Infanticide. It’s a term used in history books on ancient Greece and Rome and in criticisms of China’s one-child policy. I assumed that in a devoutly religious country with a large international adoption program, infanticide would never occur. Sadly, the practice is prevalent in Ethiopia.

It seems to be common knowledge that Gimbie has designated dumping sites for infants. Parents either strangle their children at these locations or simply abandon them to await death from the elements or from hyenas. The victims of late-term abortions seem to find there way here, as well.
It gave me the shivers to think about these things last night as I held a baby who narrowly escaped such a fate. He was born in our hospital on Thursday, and an intuitive Ethiopian nurse pulled Petra aside to apprise her of the mother’s desperate plans. Ansley and Monica agreed to take turns caring for the baby until the YWAM (Youth with a Mission) adoption agency could take custody. Last night I took a shift.

Last night, as I sat up bottle-feeding George (so named to discourage our attachment to him) and changing his diaper, I felt like the child in the story of the starfish on the beach. The child stood throwing the starfish back into the water one by one as thousands upon thousands lay drying out on the beach. When an older man accused him of wasting his time, he tossed one into the waves determinedly and said, “It mattered for that one.”

I suppose all of our work at the hospital is like that, and I don’t believe that helping individuals is a waste of time, especially since we’re talking about human beings rather than animals. Still, I think some prevention is within our reach. We need to try to turn off the clogged sink rather than spend all our energy mopping the floor.

We hope to soon expand our public health education efforts and especially target young girls. They need to know about birth control, the dangers of back-woods abortions, and the risk of STD transmission. They also need mentors and a place to turn for help. For many, unwanted pregnancy leads to two options: 1.) Hush it up with a risky abortion or infanticide or 2.) Risk disownment and lifelong destitution. These girls need a third option.

Monica has a vision to create a combined orphanage and single women’s home, where unmarried women who choose to keep their babies can live and work in safety. They would serve as caregivers to the other orphan children, and perhaps other industries could be opened, as well. Such a program would certainly not encourage promiscuous behavior, as these women would still face a stigma and have very slim marriage prospects. But their food and clothing would be sure, and they would be in a loving and supportive environment. Hopefully, if this third option existed, fewer babies would wind up in George’s situation.

When I look to the Bible for the definition of faith, in Hebrews 11 it says that FAITH is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. So by definition every time that we exercise faith, we are leaping into a territory where we cannot see or imagine what will happen next, yet we are SURE that it will happen! Wow, I don’t think I am sure of anything, and that is what faith requires? But how do I know that what I have faith in, is what God wants to accomplish? What if I just want this to happen for some gain for myself?

As you have already noticed from my emails, I question everything, especially my motives. So when Paul, our administrator at Gimbie Adventist Hospital, asked me to get together funding for 36 goiters surgeries to be done in the middle of June, I said yes, right way, but then started to doubt. We have only a couple of weeks before the surgeon gets here, and $7200 is a lot of money for a missionary in Ethiopia. And on top of that, I hate to ask for money, even for a great cause. But then I looked at the pictures of the women suffering with the goiters. Why wouldn’t God want them to be healed? Of course He would. So as each of these ladies goes to surgery, I will make sure they hear that God sees them as BEAUTIIFUL, and that He sent us to tell them that He loves them so much that He wants to heal their afflictions.

Okay, so now I know that we need to leap out in faith for the goiter patients. It takes my faith a while to get “warmed up”, but now it is HOPEFUL and CERTAIN in something that I cannot see. So let’s leap and jump, and even scream while we do so. For our God is REALLY good, and I think I don’t exercise His will in my life enough. If I did, everyone would know how great He is.

So here is the background on the Goiter Project, see what part God wants you to play in this:

About eight months ago, we started a list of patients needing goiter surgery here at Gimbie Adventist Hospital. To our surprise, the list grew to well over 100 women, with goiters ranging in size and severity of condition. We have found funds for six goiter surgeries, since the women are usually from extremely poor families, are unable to pay for a surgery costing 1800 to 2200 birr (about $180-$220). Here at Gimbie, we have donated funds for emergency surgeries, but goiters are not usually life-threatening, so these surgeries fall between the cracks. Yet if I had a goiter the size of a softball under my chin, I would definitely feel that it was not just a cosmetic surgery that was needed.

Unfortunately, the soil in Gimbie has eroded for thousands of years, washing the precious iodine down to the lower lands. Iodized salt is available, but it is more expensive and the taste is not comparable to the salt that the Oromo people regularly use. So when the girls of the town hit puberty, the goiters start. If caught early enough, treatments can start that can dramatically help these girls, but most of the time the patients do not come to the hospital until the goiters are very large.

Luckily for the hospital, a wonderful surgeon, Dr. Saunders, is volunteering for a short time in June. He is willing to help relieve the suffering of these women with goiters. We just need to raise funds to cover the hospital costs that these women could never afford to pay for. So here at Gimbie, we have decided to let God lead in this project. We feel that God wants to heal these women, so we are booking 36 surgeries for the time that Dr. Sanders will be here. We are leaping out in faith and prayer, that the funds will come in for these women. We have already received $2000 of the $7600 needed from volunteers at the hospital, but we are hoping that some of you will feel led to give to this very worthy cause, too. I know that there are many needing help around the world, so please give only if the Holy Spirit moves you to give.

We here at Gimbie are excited to be part of God’s work helping the poor of Ethiopia, and we are dedicated to doing all we can to promote good health in the people here. And we are excited to exercise our faith. Who knows, we might be pretty “buff”, faith-wise when we are done with this project.

When I look to the Bible for the definition of faith, in Hebrews 11 it says that FAITH is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. So by definition every time that we exercise faith, we are leaping into a territory where we cannot see or imagine what will happen next, yet we are SURE that it will happen! Wow, I don’t think I am sure of anything, and that is what faith requires? But how do I know that what I have faith in, is what God wants to accomplish? What if I just want this to happen for some gain for myself?

As you have already noticed from my emails, I question everything, especially my motives. So when Paul, our administrator at Gimbie Adventist Hospital, asked me to get together funding for 36 goiters surgeries to be done in the middle of June, I said yes, right way, but then started to doubt. We have only a couple of weeks before the surgeon gets here, and $7200 is a lot of money for a missionary in Ethiopia. And on top of that, I hate to ask for money, even for a great cause. But then I looked at the pictures of the women suffering with the goiters. Why wouldn’t God want them to be healed? Of course He would. So as each of these ladies goes to surgery, I will make sure they hear that God sees them as BEAUTIIFUL, and that He sent us to tell them that He loves them so much that He wants to heal their afflictions.

Okay, so now I know that we need to leap out in faith for the goiter patients. It takes my faith a while to get “warmed up”, but now it is HOPEFUL and CERTAIN in something that I cannot see. So let’s leap and jump, and even scream while we do so. For our God is REALLY good, and I think I don’t exercise His will in my life enough. If I did, everyone would know how great He is.

So here is the background on the Goiter Project, see what part God wants you to play in this:

About eight months ago, we started a list of patients needing goiter surgery here at Gimbie Adventist Hospital. To our surprise, the list grew to well over 100 women, with goiters ranging in size and severity of condition. We have found funds for six goiter surgeries, since the women are usually from extremely poor families, are unable to pay for a surgery costing 1800 to 2200 birr (about $180-$220). Here at Gimbie, we have donated funds for emergency surgeries, but goiters are not usually life-threatening, so these surgeries fall between the cracks. Yet if I had a goiter the size of a softball under my chin, I would definitely feel that it was not just a cosmetic surgery that was needed.

Unfortunately, the soil in Gimbie has eroded for thousands of years, washing the precious iodine down to the lower lands. Iodized salt is available, but it is more expensive and the taste is not comparable to the salt that the Oromo people regularly use. So when the girls of the town hit puberty, the goiters start. If caught early enough, treatments can start that can dramatically help these girls, but most of the time the patients do not come to the hospital until the goiters are very large.

Luckily for the hospital, a wonderful surgeon, Dr. Saunders, is volunteering for a short time in June. He is willing to help relieve the suffering of these women with goiters. We just need to raise funds to cover the hospital costs that these women could never afford to pay for. So here at Gimbie, we have decided to let God lead in this project. We feel that God wants to heal these women, so we are booking 36 surgeries for the time that Dr. Sanders will be here. We are leaping out in faith and prayer, that the funds will come in for these women. We have already received $2000 of the $7600 needed from volunteers at the hospital, but we are hoping that some of you will feel led to give to this very worthy cause, too. I know that there are many needing help around the world, so please give only if the Holy Spirit moves you to give.

We here at Gimbie are excited to be part of God’s work helping the poor of Ethiopia, and we are dedicated to doing all we can to promote good health in the people here. And we are excited to exercise our faith. Who knows, we might be pretty “buff”, faith-wise when we are done with this project.