We woke at 3AM, dressed and showered in the dark rainy Addis morning, a lone rooster crowing prematurely. Masi was already up brewing buna (coffee) in a large pot on the stove, so I joined him in the kitchen with hands full of eggs to scramble before our 5 hour trip south to see the region our children had come from.

After breakfast our whole group of nine couples gathered in the common room with their bags while the old diesel SUVs lined up in the alley outside the wall of our guarded compound— anyone with anything in Addis has a wall topped with razor wire and a 24hr guard. Everyone wore their most conservative attire for the trip to Hosanna, an evangelical Christian area. With ankle-length plain dresses milling about, one felt like we were at a Christian home-schoolers convention.

The caravan finally set out at 5AM. The muddy roads were vacant except the occasional beggar or farmer on his way somewhere, which was hard to spot through the fogged-over windows and the dark morning haze. It was almost an hour before the countryside began to show through the rain. It was lush green with jaunty hills and sudden patches of rugged deep-brown earth. Exotic vegetation was everywhere, especially the “false banana” plant which is a farming staple in that region, and a few times I spotted the iconic flat-topped African tree standing alone on a plain, the sun rising behind it. As the morning matured, I began to notice cylindrical stick huts coated with hardened mud or clay and topped with a cone of grass. They were actually quite stunning in how they blended so well with the landscape. On the road there were herds of goats driven by 12 year olds with sticks and whips, sheep, cattle, and donkeys towing loads. Men walked with elongated wheel-barrows made of tree branches, and many women stooped along in pairs under the loads of sticks they had collected. Some people were dressed very fashionably, others in tattered stained clothes that were once nice, and a few children wore nothing at all. Most people waved as we passed.

For our trip, D had purchased 4 soccer balls and several bags of candy and small toys, and we began to look for opportunities to pass those out as we drove. The first opportunity came as the caravan stopped along the side of the road in a small village. There were some kids nearby, so D rolled down his window and began passing hot-wheels out the window. About 15 children crowded around the car to collect the gifts and then moved on, but as we departed, D hurled a Nerf soccer ball out to one of the boys. Nobody saw it except an older gentleman nearby who pointed and said something. The boy turned, darted after it with glee, and began kicking it excitedly. Success!

Soon after that we stopped at a restaurant in town for a bathroom break. At the entrance to the compound, a posse of shoe-shine boys were lurking about hoping for customers. D approached them with a bag of candy and stickers. They were happy to accept and put their arms around him for a few pictures. The Ethiopians have all been very enamored of D. Though they see forenji (foreigners) often enough, I think they almost never see a forenji child.

We drove off and spotted a group of 6 older boys on the road, and hurled a ball out while driving past them at top speed. The people in the cars behind us told later how they had quickly began playing with their new ball. Best, however, was a group of 20 or so 6 year olds that we passed. Our driver, who spoke little English, slowed way down as we passed, apparently voting for them to get a ball. We tossed one out and they broke into shouts, jumping up and down, chasing the ball— the cutest thing ever!

This system broke down, however, by the time we reached the office compound in Hosanna. The children there were accustomed to forenji visiting with candy, etc. every week. There were about 100 kids mobbing us for handouts, some saying “Candy,” some “Give me money,” the meeker ones just wanting to say hi and shake our hands. We handed the candy off to our driver to give out (as they strongly recommended), and D threw the last soccer ball into the throng. They went mad, a fight broke out, and eventually a kid huddled over the ball, crying and being attacked was rescued by his mother and dragged home scraped up, but with his prize (for now, at least). I don’t think any of them will enjoy the ball with others for fear of it being stolen. Too bad.

The office compound was U shaped with a courtyard in the middle and a gate protecting it. We entered, knowing that in one of the meeting rooms we would potentially meet birth-relatives, who had been driven from the far reaches of the southern region for this important encounter. As I entered I saw a well dressed young Ethiopian woman, her eyes scanning the Americans, tense with anxiety. There were several others, wearing their best, huddled near her. I looked away terrified of the intensity. I had expected my first view to be in the meeting room, but here we all were standing together, unable to speak, not knowing who we were now related to through the miracle of adoption.

In order to maintain my daughters’ privacy, since it is their story, I will skip ahead. Perhaps one day, they will share the missing portion of this story with you.

To finalize this encounter, we had a candle-passing ceremony, where prayers were bandied about in several languages (untranslated), and one at a time, birth relatives stepped forward, lit a candle representing the children they were giving up, and passed it to the adoptive parents saying a blessing as they did so. Then an elder stepped forward from the Ethiopians and prayed on behalf of the birth families. After this, our social worker asked the Americans for a representative to pray. I glanced about, seeing surprise and anxiety on peoples’ faces. I feared that too much hesitation would scare the evangelical Ethiopians, so I confidently stepped out and prayed on our behalf, hoping the Holy Spirit would do his work. I trust that He did.

After our final goodbyes, we drove to the Hosanna drop-off center to see where the children initially stayed before coming to the orphanage in Addis Ababa. It was a fine facility, but it broke my heart. There were some newborns there weighing about 4lbs, and worse, a room full of toddlers still stunned, looking about with terrified hope that a mother or father would be amongst us, their eyes welling up with tears as their abandoned state again came home to them.

On the return trip, we mostly slept, overwhelmed by the afternoon sun, the short night of sleep, and the intense, overpowering emotions of the day.

Dad