Count Our Blessings or Count Our Days

            As I spent some time one afternoon this week perusing through a beautiful cookbook, full of wishful thinking, I was reminded of the reason I often give for enjoying such reading material so much. The reason my cookbooks need to have pictures, the reason said books are dangerous reads for me. I always trace it back to a Garfield¹ episode I saw in my youth. John had no food in the house, to Garfield’s grave disappointment. So the hungry cat pulls out a cookbook, peruses each page, then tears them out one by one, crumples them, crams them in his mouth, swallows. He can almost taste the lasagna in print. Reason number one why I love to read through cookbooks: I am just like Garfield.

            Reason number two: I’m addicted to trying new recipes. At least once a week, sometimes every two weeks, I’d try a new recipe back home. Grandma Leone, still regularly trying out new recipes in her 80s, is my role model. I hope I still love the adventure of embarking on new dishes when I reach her age.

            So let’s see. If we don’t give me the benefit of the doubt, and we go with the lower average of one new recipe every two weeks, that’s 26 new recipes a year, 52 new recipes in two.

* * * * *

            I’ve grown accustomed to think of our time here as a bookmark, a dog-eared page, an intercalary chapter. Maybe even a minus sign. As if we paused our lives last year, and now we’re waiting until we can Resume Show in 2014. We’re putting things on hold, and merely growing older in the meantime. Two years without a single salary between us (certainly not the best financial decision we’ll ever make—as we spend without earning anything considerable). Two years added to the time before we can become homeowners (see above: “no salary”). Two years more before Daniel begins his doctorate. Two years less with beloved family. The sum of all this minus fifty-two recipes. And were we home at this moment, I can’t help but think I’d be painting a nursery. Instead, as if this were one big Choose Your Own Adventure novel, we chose the road less-traveled, and left the nursery-painting to our American doppelgangers. I envy these nonexistent doppelgangers more often than I’d like.

            If I’m not careful, I listen to the voice of my idea of the world pressing me in a condescending tone, What are you doing with your life? and I take it to heart. I stand stunned, stuttering nothings. But more often, Christ steps in, interrupts that voice, and answers for me: This. This is what she’s doing with her life, thank you. He helps me remember.

            I know it must offend God if I view the task He has given us, the hearts and passions He has grown in us, as an inconvenient detour, bringing us to our intended destination much later and more bedraggled than planned. Yet as a constant analyzer with a handful of OCD, I can’t help but try to turn it all into some ridiculous, irrelevant mathematical equation. I am constantly evaluating: Is the sum of what we are experiencing here greater than the sum of what we could be doing in our homeland? Or does this equal out to being a sacrifice, the very thing I tried convincing family it wasn’t? And what if it is? Does it change anything, really, or just the way I look at it?

* * * * *

            So allow me to walk you through the steps I routinely walk myself through, on nearly a monthly basis:

Gain:  At the very most, my husband and I are a part only 3 hours a day. What more can we ask for? We love this abundance of quality time and know that no other job or situation could give us this.

Gain:  We’re gardening for the first time, a long-planned desire of mine. And it’s a garden of necessity: with the exception of tomatoes, nothing in that garden is available in Adwa.

Gain:  This lifestyle grants us ample time to read and write, activities necessary to our desired careers. The trick is to use it wisely.

Gain:  Not too many things look more impressive on a resume than JFK’s personal 2-year stamp of approval.

Gain:  All food limitations aside, we can still be creative and learn new things in the kitchen, poorly stocked though it may be. We’ve made yogurt and ice cream. We’re perfecting delicious vegetable curry in a land where you can’t buy “curry powder.” I’ve created my first recipe from no reference, and it’s now a favorite weekly staple². And while I love to cook for people back home too, cooking has never meant as much as it does here. Our fresh-off-the-plane-this-week homesick and mildly sad volunteer who still detests injera texted me: “Your banana cake makes me feel I’m home. Thank you.” The kitchen’s intended purpose.

Gain:  We will never again eat this healthy and organically. Ever.

Gain:  We’re delving deeper into our years-long relationship with spices, and becoming friends of substance. We’re coming to know and recognize them better in their original and whole forms, dusty and unlabeled in large burlap sacks. I suspect I’ll feel I’m standing among strangers next time I find myself in the spice aisle of Meijer or Giant Eagle.

Gain:  Coffee-making is more fun when you get to roast and pound the beans yourself. Talk about aroma.

Gain:  We are building our spiritual immunities against ungratefulness and the calloused spirit of entitlement. When we return home, nearly everything will be leagues easier, and we’ll be so thankful for the seemingly “little things.” Our standards for our next home have plummeted drastically; requirements: hot shower, flushing toilet with working seat, electricity, oven. Wait. The place comes with a refrigerator? And laborers (electricians, landlords, propane-sellers) will actually come when you call—or at least come when they say they will. In short, Ethiopia is making it difficult for us to ever complain easily again. Peace Corps is something similar to Becoming Better People Camp.

Gain:  And, of course, there’s all the obvious gains. Learning a new and difficult language and alphabet; becoming well-acquainted with a foreign, historically-rich culture by living with the people; falling in love with a strange, delectable cuisine; being kissed on the cheek and fist-pumped by loving children way-too-many-times-to-count-daily and answering to their calling our names maybe 50 times a day; building amazing friendships with good people so incredibly different from ourselves; seeing the world! (our current travel plan—aside from our visit home—includes a hopeful 3 countries, 2 of which are in Africa); employing good people who have otherwise little income; and, finally, filling a trunk-load of great stories and new cultural traditions that we can someday share with our children. If nothing else, their parents will at least be exciting and adventurous.

            I suppose that beside these great and numerous gains, the losses that most of our American friends and peers are enjoying, have no choice but to cower under the stronger shadow. And if I don’t visualize this cowering, if I don’t remember Isaiah 58 (⁶Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? ⁷Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house…? ¹⁰if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday. ¹¹And the LORD will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail) –if I don’t remember this, my heart grows unsettled. I will tell you again and again how happy I am here, and it is the sincere truth. I believe we are currently some of the luckiest people we know: this is life, the life God is leading us in, and we’re living it. I am truly grateful. But in the midst of all this happiness, a person’s heart can’t help but to be turned towards home. And this woman’s heart can’t help but to be turned towards motherhood.

            So maybe some of this is a sacrifice, a “fast” so-called in Isaiah—but it’s one I am confident we will never regret, as it’s a worthy one. We are lucky and blessed to be making a sacrifice for the very people towards whom Christ couldn’t help but to turn his heart: the poor. So, what is our choice but to “pour ourselves out for the hungry?”

            And Gains take the win.

Footnotes

¹I know little about Garfield. What I do know is that the actor Nick Offerman, Ron Swanson in Parks and Recreation, is the exact human replica of this cat. Am I right? See for yourself.

²Aforementioned favorite recipe I made up:

Fried Rice with Indian Spices and Kolo

1 cup uncooked rice

2 small onions

palmful of chives

1 carrot, shredded (shreds chopped in half)

2 garlic cloves, minced

3 dime-sized slices ginger, minced

2 small tomatoes, diced

1 small lemon/lime (note: Ethiopian lemons are ½ the size of American)

olive oil

salt, pepper

cumin

turmeric

ground coriander

nutmeg

garlic salt

roasted kolo (barley), to serve

Saute onions, chives, carrot, garlic, ginger, salt and pepper in olive oil for 4-5 minutes. Add diced tomato and sauté further. When rice is boiled, add to mixture. Add a few sprinkles of nutmeg, 4-5 pinches ground coriander, 6-7 pinches turmeric, 1-2 TBS cumin, and squeezed lemon. Sprinkle in garlic salt. After frying rice for 4-5 additional minutes, serve topped with kolo.

What We Do With Our Time

As newly-married kids in Waco, Texas, we discovered the perfect form of entertainment, per our lovely friends Cameron and Wendy Moore’s suggestion: we began reading aloud to each other, and Treasure Island, a copy received as a wedding gift, was our first. (Daniel soon discovered I inherited my mother’s affinity for falling asleep within seconds; this remains the single challenge to a most beloved activity in our home. I am not only capable of falling asleep while he reads to me, but also while I read to him). The time of day does not particularly matter.

Since we have arrived in Adwa, we have read the following books aloud to each other. We are currently reading Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling

A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L’Engle

A Wind in the Door, Madeleine L’Engle

Death in Holy Orders, P.D. James

An Unsuitable Job for a Woman, P.D. James

Murder Room, P.D. James

The Secret Adversary, Agatha Christie

Postern of Fate, Agatha Christie

Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie

The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins

The Hunger Games 2: Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins

The Hunger Games 3: Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Kidnapped, Robert Louis Stevenson

The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

This affinity for sleep, restlessness and daydreaming while being read to (I have an exceedingly patient husband) has led me to believe I am a kinesthetic learner. I must be moving; my hands must be active in order for my mind to be. So this has been the remedy:

Crocheted to the Harry Potter series, along with a pair for my sister-in-law Lindsay, not pictured. 

Sewn to The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, for our fellow American and Filipino volunteers in Adwa: Doug and Bahereh, and Uziel.

Crocheted to Murder Room and a podcasted sermon (Slave to Child) by Rev. Steve DeNeff, for our little neighbor and friend, Meron.

Stuffed and sewn to The Wind in the Willows, for our living room window. Pictured clockwise from left: Ohio, Indiana, Ethiopia, Texas. Blame the wind for Ohio and Ethiopia’s being backwards.

…and many more.

The Employer's Woes

I have never been somebody’s boss before, not really. Being a Senior Branch Administrator with an administrator below me is something different. I didn’t pay her; the same person paid the both of us. As I left Girimkil at the front door to retrieve money for him, I thought, “Did I ever think I’d be asked that question: ‘Can I have my wages in advance?’” Not that that was what he said exactly: translating intended meaning is far more complicated than that. Neither did I ever plan on being the employer of somebody whose mother tongue wasn’t my own.

It’s just weird, really. Deciding how often to give raises, and how much of a raise is appropriate. Having to draw the line somewhere between wanting to support a struggling family, and paying them for services we neither want nor need. Let’s rewind: this working relationship began when a blind man offered to be our guard. Daniel and I stole side glances at each other, but eventually decided it would be good to have a reason to pay them. Now Girimkil is the ears of this outfit, and his sons the eyes: I feel silly now for not understanding it then.

The moment we step out of our compound, we’re bombarded with, “Give me money” at every corner. “Ginzab habani” if they don’t know English. Or simply, skip the “give me” and use “Money” as our names, shouted as they run after us. By people who need it, by kids who don’t need it (but want candy). Third world countries have been trained to expect and ask money from the first-worlders. Because we have it, and they need it. (This should be a simple equation to solve). And our histories are chock-full of our countries giving to theirs on the grander scale. But narrow is the path that leads to development and sustainability. Somehow we have to break the cycle and stereotype of Americans, Italians, the English having pockets full of disposable cash to bestow on everyone we pass. And yet we are Christians: we’re supposed to be giving the clothes off our backs, when asked. Right? (Cultural note: it is not faux pas to ask someone directly for something on their person. I’ve had Luam point to my earrings and say “habani”--“give me”--, and Nesanet ask me more than once to give her my clothes. Several little girls ask for my ring. Yet I say no, and feel awful afterwards. Embarrassed for them, guilty for me). So how the heck are we supposed to stay sane? How much do we give, and when do we say no?

When I gave Girimkil his guard wages, and Misilal her bread-making wages, three days in advance, Girimkil said, “There is some problem in my household.” He mimed raking twigs off our ground, and asked if we would pay them to do that for us also. About once a month they ask if we’ll hire Misilal to do our laundry, if we’ll hire Luam to wash the inside and outside of our home. Each time we politely decline. The twigs don’t bother us, we “enjoy” doing laundry (it’s cathartic and simple), and I can’t bring myself to hire someone to clean my own home. There’s not a trace of that in my blood. I will clean my home, thank you. I am a capable woman and housekeeper. But they’re running out of money, we’re running out of needed jobs to give them, and I’m running out of reasons to feel okay with all of this. Each time we catch them pouring water from a bucket onto our porch to “clean” it (essentially, creating mud), I want to say, “This is not dirty. Don’t worry about this. But what about the trash?”

You see, littering is very much a part of Ethiopian culture. (Okay, so it’s not “culture” but something else: a direct result of not having a trash pick-up service). Because of this, our yard looks like the third circle of Hell. The neighbor kids play in our compound every day. And since we agreed to have Girimkil guard for us, he and his boys moved into a room within our compound. As a result, there are bits of Styrofoam, homework, old shoes, old telephones, razors, shards of glass, nails, lightbulbs, and food wrappers all over our yard. We’ve tried explaining this to them a few times. I think the problem is, the authority figure can’t see what we’re pointing to, due to lack of eyesight, and he doesn’t understand either our English or Tigrigna pleas, in this case.

One day Daniel and I had had enough. We thought, “It may not be our trash. But it is our yard. It is beautiful, but they’re making it ugly.” So, in an animated huff, we covered the spacious grounds and filled two bags with nasty trash. As the neighbors stared, a few times I indicated the trash and said, “Nimintay?” (Why?) in the kindest voice of disbelief I could muster. They kept watching. I eventually said to Teddy and Shewit (4^th and 6^th grade, respectively): “Koshasha aydalin. Betami himak iyu. Maaz koshasha allo, nabzi, ishy? Bajakum.” (Translation: I don’t want trash. It is very ugly. When there is trash, put it in that trash hole, okay? Please). They nodded, took the bags out of my and Daniel’s hands, and finished the job for us. With all our might we tried explaining, in essence, we mean continuous present tense, not present tense. We mean future tense. Everyday tense. What we were saying was, “Please don’t throw trash on the ground.” But what they heard was, “Pick up this trash now.” It only took a week or so before the yard again looked the way it did before we embarked on this “education project.”

Fast forward to this week, when Girimkil offers to pick up twigs from our ground for payment. At the tip of my tongue I held the words: “Twigs?! What’s wrong with twigs?! W h a t a b o u t t h e t r a s h?” But then I remembered. I certainly can’t pay them to pick up trash that they throw in our yard in the first place. (Additional note for effect: Daniel reminisces about our first days here, when he was almost hit in the head by an airborne laundry detergent box that one of the neighbors threw over the stone wall, into our yard).

Why isn’t it easier? Why can’t I just find a time where no one is at their house, sneak in, and hide 100 birr notes under their bedsheets, in the chicken coop, in the injera holder? Isn’t that essentially what the main character in Dave Eggers’s You Shall Know Our Velocity did? And wasn’t it portrayed as a good thing to do? We were rooting for him!

Yet on the Peace Corps sustainability spectrum, we’re the oddballs for even tithing in our communities, giving to charities/struggling institutions we want to support. For Pete’s sake, I was given incredulous, disappointed looks by other Peace Corps volunteers when I excitedly told them about all the books our family and friends donated to the schools. One hundred and fifty-six books for empty primary school libraries! Praise the Lord, is what my racing heart is saying. But what they were saying: “I’m a foreigner. There’s no way I’d let anyone in my community see me giving boxes of things to anybody.” So, wait. We can’t give BOOKS either?

I am torn. Not in the nonchalant way that this adjective is used when you’re deciding between two peanut butter brands, but truly in the term’s intended meaning: shredded and tattered, ripped apart. I confess that the poverty here has not moved me to tears. Not once in our 8 months’ stay. The disabilities, the twisted legs, the baseball-sized goiters jutting out of necks: these things, yes. But not the poverty. It has become a normal term of life, nothing at all surprising.  I’m a bit amazed and saddened at myself, that I’m not always choking back tears. But maybe you only have those experiences once, and mine was that semester in Uganda. I saw it, I understood, and I went home and lived differently. I stopped buying clothes. We made a household rule to buy one canned good for the poor every time we step into a grocery store (am I allowed to recommend this to others? It’s been a joy for us). I will never willingly install a dishwasher, or any other pointless, pricey, pretty appliance that my own hands can race, etc. (We’ve been over this. My apologies). Ethiopia seems to have brought us to phase two: These are our neighbors, these are the sizes of their one-room homes, this is the standard of living in which they are placed, and really, what can we do about it? How can we become immobilized by sadness over these conditions that are the conditions of almost.every.single.home.in.our.community? It seems we just have to accept it, and go from there. Because, if every home is a one-room home, a one-room home can’t be the face of poverty anymore, can it? It becomes the face of average, of middle class, of everyone.

And yet here we are, two people sharing a three-bedroom home with living room, kitchen, and bathroom, making loads more than our neighbors on our “volunteer stipend,” and yet we feel our hands are tied. We have money to give, and hearts that want to, but what about the American or British volunteer who moves in after us? We have to think of them, and every other foreign worker who comes to Adwa, to Ethiopia, to Africa to do good work. And we have to think of the Ethiopians. Is it dignifying or empowering for them if they are just repeatedly handed money that they didn’t work for?

We cannot set a standard of just handing out money because we think it’s right. Because, actually, somehow it isn’t. And that’s what drives me crazy.