Back from Ethiopia

The lights of Addis are behind me. The Ethiopian sun has not kissed my brow in seven whole days. I have kept my peace. I will never be the same. 

The drama is warranted. Before I flew across the globe to my mother’s homeland, my country-boy husband said to me, “I hope you find a belonging that gives you more confidence.” Oh, how his prayer was answered. 

This woman has lived a life of mixed up heritage. While my paternal ancestors landed in Plymouth Country, Massachusetts in the 1600s, my mother landed in Nashville, TN in the 1980s. I have had a strong honor inside for both branches of my family tree. The beds at our house are clothed in gabis under hand-pieced quilts. 

For many years I have abated the ache for East Africa, longing to go “back home” to a place whose stories and photos are woven into my memories second hand. It was finally my turn. My four children in the care of their father wished me well and off I went. 

This is the moment I wish I could sit you beside me on my green sofa and scroll through my camera roll. I would tell you everything about every photo and skip a few embarrassing videos for my own sake. I would fight back tears every time the faces of my loved ones hit the screen. So much love bound up in my heart would reach out through my words. 

There I am in a crowd of thousands of people with the same bone structure as me and my family. Here I am walking in a garden, breathing fresh air in the sun. That is the moment I scooped up every memory I could from my grandfather’s stories, taking pictures of pictures. There I go listening to the composer of my childhood soundtrack play in real life. And there is your girl being taken care of with so much love and grace by people who love her after decades of space and time. 

I gained more than I ever imagined in these twelve days. If you have known me, you might have perceived me as a bold or confident person. The truth is I am just a human who struggles with imposter syndrome and wonders about her place in this world like other humans do. Any confidence or boldness I have ever had has come from Jesus. He mercifully filled my tank afresh on this journey. 

Never have I spent so much time quietly sitting in the sun without an agenda or a task at hand. I definitely have not slept through the night that many times in a row since I had my first child almost eleven years ago. No work emails. Relaxation that comes from knowing my kids are safe in good hands. Limited internet access. My whole self relaxed on day one. I got fresh peace. 

As ready as I was to be with my little women and sturdy man at home, I did not want to leave. I whispered “drive slower” to my uncle on the way to the airport. The Addis lights stood tall as we coasted onto Airport road. I was afraid all the peace I had would get lost like carefully packed luggage missing a connecting flight. 

My theology is solid. My identity is in Christ. I am a woman of the Word but I am imperfect and the fear of going right back to my too-busy life was greater than my heart could take. God’s goodness was radically displayed to me in a million small moments these two weeks where I slowed down my mind enough to notice. What if I forget? What if I leave it behind? I wept the first few hours of my flight as my “Vibing in Addis” playlist rocked me all the way to Rome then to Chicago then to Nashville. Back home. 

I said before I left that I was excited to be in one of the last places on this earth where I am the baby. The first granddaughter hanging out with her loving grandparents, auntie, and uncles with no responsibilities in the place I longed to visit my whole life. It was like a retreat into the softer part of myself to be healed and it took me completely by surprise. 

A few days after returning I finally spilled my thoughts from the moments in prayer I would share with you, now: 

I did not make it twenty-four hours in the states before I let the hustle swoop me right back up and toss me around like an oversized comforter in a washing machine - squeezed into a space too small to be effective. 

There is so much of me. The schedule I live within is not big enough - no, is not built correctly - for the woman God has made me to be. 

The good news is that I know the Master Architect of time. It is not solely on me to figure it out. 

So, I race to the throne of God Himself, expel my ragged, weary breath along with my last ounce of self-reliance and cry “help”. No exclamation. No tears. No eye contact. Just a whispering wisp of words through cracked lips asking for help from the only Helper who is helpful. 

Immediate, the swell of my heart fills with my portion forever. “Help” turns “Hallelujah” and I may rise. Having nothing to offer - for not even my life is my own - I am met with mercy then grace then goodness all covered in love. The warm drink of help from my loving Creator…without answers or new calendars, without words or instructions, I am helped. 

In my control seeking self, what I would have asked for is all the details, the ins and outs of how to survive my life and my calling. Yet, the throne of God cleared up my mind from what I think I need to accept what I actually need. Were I to get all the details, I would work until I had no strength left to do it all on my own saying, “Thanks, Lord, but I’ve got it from here.” 

Instead, I got real help. The help that holds your hand and leads you step by step. The kind of help that makes straight the path while you are already walking. This help is a relationship that cannot be neglected in any moment. It is an always and forever help of the Holy Spirit that can’t be lost at baggage claim. I have not lost my peace because He is not going anywhere. He introduced me to new parts of my Ethiopian-American self and the confidence is solid as I see how wonderfully He made me, by His grace. 

In the spiritually rich air of the motherland, I took a breath that I will exhale for the rest of my life. 

Thanks be to God. Ameseginalehu.