EDGE to Ethiopia
Several weeks ago our caseworker was over for a visit. She had recently visited Ethiopia and we were comparing our travel experiences. Though she stayed at a different guesthouse, she had visited the place where we stayed. At one point she said “I give you credit for staying at the guesthouse you were at. I don’t know if I could have done it.” Apparently, her guesthouse was a little “cushier” than ours!
Now the funny part about this conversation is that our accommodations in Ethiopia never really struck me as that bad. Okay, so there was no carpet in the house. And it was quite cramped with three of us in a pretty small bedroom. And the guesthouse experienced some plumbing issues that week forcing us to share the bathroom part of the time. And the water wasn’t always warm. I guess the more I started to think about it, I realized that our little guesthouse probably would seem a little “quaint” to the average traveling American.
But, you see, I was not the average traveling American. My expectations have been completely warped by several years of volunteering for EDGE–our church’s high school youth ministry. Through many mission trips, weekend retreats, and sleepovers, I’ve been well-conditioned to endure less-than-four-star accommodations.
So without further ado, I thought I’d have a little fun here and present a list:
“The Top Ten Ways Youth Ministry Has Prepared Me For Ethiopian Travels”
- I’ve been awakened by many odd occurrences while on youth group trips, including mischievous teenagers (or was it their leaders?) spreading peanut butter on my face. So waking up at 3 AM to roosters crowing in Ethiopia didn’t really strike me as too odd.
- I’ve grown used to odd bathroom situations, especially on some of the trips I took with the great Niekerk youth group. On several retreats, middle-of-the-night potty breaks would require a trek to another building. On another mission trip, the “shower” was a choice between sticking our heads under a sink inside, or taking our chances outside under a water hose with a thin shower curtain hanging precariously from metal rods to protect our privacy. Our private shower in Ethiopia—though not always warm—seemed perfectly lovely!
- The noises of giggling and chattering from teenage girls have kept me awake ‘til the wee hours of many a morning. Good preparation for the dog fights and street dancing I heard while in Ethiopia. (I’ve learned that withholding Mt. Dew after 9 pm somewhat alleviates the problem of giggling teenage girls… I’m doubtful that strategy works for Ethiopian dogs.)
- In youth ministry, I’ve slept on camp beds, air mattresses, gym floors, and rocky mountaintops under the open air. Simply having a bed in Ethiopia seemed impressive to me.
- On many a youth adventure, I’ve been pushed to the extremes of exhaustion. And, ironically, I also have a horrible time getting to sleep. All that sleep deprivation, while trying to keep up with teenagers, was great training ground for the lack of sleep I had in Ethiopia, this time while trying to keep up with a new daughter!
- Directly related to #5: My faithful fuel for every youth group adventure has been coffee. Ethiopia—coffee’s birthplace—also fed my caffeine addiction so that I could survive the week. With proper caffeine consumption, I can forgive nearly any inconvenience. Sidenote: Does anyone know if there’s a way to get an IV drip of caffeine?
- I’ve scratched my head and struggled to understand teen lingo many a time during youth group trips. (And I’m especially clueless about all the texting abbreviations they use!) Trying to understand the youthful version of English was just training ground for the challenge of deciphering the heavily-accented English of our Ethiopian hosts.
- Through youth ministry, I’ve grown accustomed to the “cozy” transportation method of packing people into a van. On one trip, my seat was actually a 24-pack of water bottles wedged between the real van seats and the side door. The taxi vans we shared with other adoptive families in Ethiopia seemed downright spacious in comparison. (Of course, I will add that the driving of my fellow youth leaders has never made me as nervous as that of our Ethiopian taxi driver. And our youth group has never come within 2 inches of being run over by a steam roller.)
- When teenagers get a little tired and cranky, you can usually brighten up their attitude with some sort of food. A similar strategy works for Ethiopian one-year-olds.
- Here’s the part where I get a little serious: In youth group, I’ve had the pleasure to serve alongside many wonderful people—both adults and teens. Good preparation, I’d say, for the amazing people we spent our time with while in Ethiopia. I know our guesthouse accommodations were modest—I’m not sure they’d earn even one star on the American rating system. But give me good people over the Ritz Carlton any day of the year. (I wouldn’t know how to behave in those fancy restaurants anyway.) I’ll never forgot our incredible Ethiopian hosts–Nesibu and Birtukan–and I would stay at their guesthouse again in a heartbeat, just to savor being around their beautiful hearts.
I truly feel blessed by all the many adventures God has put in my path, both in the U.S. with our youth group and abroad to Ethiopia. I still shake my head at God’s sense of humor: How he took an uptight, anxious, type-A planner like me and plunked me into high school ministry several years ago. . . I can only imagine how the heavenly hosts got a laugh out of that one. And the way he’s constantly challenged me to hand over all my plans, fears, and insecurities to him over the years—without those challenges, I don’t think I’d have ever been able to face the uncertainties and surprises of our Ethiopian adoption journey.
Of course, it hasn’t always felt that great to have God chipping away at my edges (honestly, at times it was more than I wanted to bear). But in the end, I’m grateful because they made it possible for me to be a little more care-free, a little more adventurous, and (I think) a little more fun. And ultimately, it all led to a little girl named Annie. My daughter. My girl. What a ride. I can only imagine where it will go from here.
Questions
Wow. It’s been five months home with Annie already. Hard to believe in some ways. In other ways, it feels like she’s been here for longer. I think we’ve all settled into the “new normal” here at the Tol house. It’s a busy, tiring, hold-on-and-try-to keep-up-with-the-kids kind of normal–but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Part of our new reality, of course, is that we’ve become a more conspicuous family. For better or worse, we’ve dived into the world of an adoptive, bi-racial family. Before Annie’s arrival, I’d read a lot about the unique issues and struggles we might face. In particular, I’d been dreading the inevitable rude, bizarre, or unthoughtful comments that many families have had to endure from strangers. Now, I’m on the other side of the adoption and all those things I read about are becoming reality.
I do feel like we get “noticed” a lot when we are out and about. Honestly, I can’t go to Meijer with the kids anymore without being stopped by at least three people to comment on how cute Annie is. (The thoughtful folks include Noah in their compliments.) And perhaps I’d be hearing the exact same comments even if we we had the same color skin. A few people have asked where she was adopted from, which I don’t mind. And I continue to be amazed by how many people are fascinated by little black-girl hair. (Funniest comment I’ve heard so far about Annie’s hair–which was parted and put in little puffs: “So did her hair come that way?” I think it was just the inquirers way of trying to find out if I did her hair. But really?!?)
For the most part, I haven’t minded any of the questions or attention. But there’s one question that drives me absolutely crazy, and I guess I feel the need to vent (and maybe educate) a little bit. The question that raises my blood pressure is this:
“So what happened to her parents?”
I’ve heard this question in various forms. And I hate it. Why? Well, here’s the thing. I’m guessing most people aren’t really intending to be nosy–they probably just want to show interest in our adoption. But when you stop to think about it, that’s an incredibly personal question. For every child who’s been adopted, there’s a story that brought them there–and it’s never a happy story. Think about it. When you ask an adoptive parent “So what happened to the parents?” or “How did she get to the orphanage?” the answer is always going to involve some pain, some tragedy. Most of us don’t go around broadcasting our tragedies to the world. They are personal and painful, and we only share them with the people we trust most. For Annie’s sake, Brian and I want to limit how much of her story we share and who we share it with. It’s her story–we want her to decide how she shares it when she grows in her maturity and understanding of the past.
This really struck me in a powerful way recently when we were at a graduation open house. There I was, sharing some cake with Annie while chatting with a stranger across the table. They asked where Annie was from. “Ethiopia.” They asked how old she was when she came home. “About a year.” Okay questions. Nice small talk. But then this: “So were her parents killed or something?” Seriously? First of all, my daughter is sitting right next to me. And I know she’s only one and a half, but why would you say something like that in front of a child’s listening ears? Secondly, if her parents were in fact killed, do you really think I would want to talk to you about that (with Annie listening in?!). And thirdly, my daughter’s personal family history is none of your business!
Okay. Sorry about that rant. But I guess this is one of those aspects of adoptive parenting that’s going to be frustrating for me. How do you handle questions like that from strangers with truth and respect? I don’t want to lie. And I’m not trying to “hide” the truth because we’re ashamed of it or anything. But it’s Annie’s story. And I’m not about to throw it out there just because someone’s curious.
I just wish more people would understand that and think through what they’re asking when they want to know about a kids’ past. Adoptive kids (and their families) have a history to deal with–a bittersweet history because one family is born out of the pain of another family. I’m an adult and I’m still struggling with that reality. So please don’t bring up that history with me–and especially with my young child–when you don’t really know me. It’s personal. It’s painful. And I don’t want to talk about it at the grocery store or while I’m eating cake at an open house.
So there you have it. My simple plea for the day: You can comment on Annie’s adorable cuteness all you want, but please don’t ask me to share her story. Its hers. And with God’s grace, I will help her learn it, wrestle with it, and treasure it. And then, when she’s ready, she can decide if she wants to tell it to you herself.