West of Eden

My family tree was always generically typical. You know--the kind with nice straight branches that make sense. Grandparents. Parents. Me and my sisters. There weren't really even any divorces or remarriages or steps to speak of.

When my husband and I decided to adopt, I knew our family tree would grow and be a bit more complicated, but for the most part, I believed the tree would continue to be rather straightforward.

Until it wasn't.

I remember this one time I was chatting with a man at the the grocery store and he asked me if I had kids. I said yes, and then he asked how many. We were in the middle of the adoption, but things were starting to go south. I wondered if the man's question was a test. (Of my faith?)

I told him I had 4 kids.

I didn't take the time to explain our situation, but I walked away feeling confused and uncertain.

And it was then I realized our family tree was getting messy.

It was around this time that we learned about an adoption ministry in our community. On all their literature they printed a verse from the Bible.

I loved that concept. I thought of my kids in Ethiopia as little seedlings that we were going to uproot and transplant with great care, being mindful that they put down roots here in our home. I prayed that they would become mighty oaks trees. That they would grow into strong and beautiful adults. That people would look at them and be amazed at what God had done.

I even took that verse of Scripture and made it into a wall hanging in our living room. It served as constant reminder of the journey we were undertaking.

"Bloom where you're planted," that's what they say. My children were going to bloom. My bio son, Jack, was going to bloom, too. We were going to be the most gorgeous and prolific garden west of Eden. God was going to restore the years the locusts had stolen from my Ethiopian children (Joel 2:25). All those years without parents, all those years in an orphanage. God would repay and restore, and it was going to be glorious. A splendor.

But six years later, my three oldest kids are still in an orphanage. They have parents, but not legally. Only in name and in heart--and 7,000 miles away. And sometimes, most days to be honest, the situation doesn't seem that glorious.

As I questioned God, asking him WHY they hadn't been transplanted, He reminded that they were planted. They are a planting of the Lord. They aren't planted where I want them, but where He wants them.

And that's a hard, bitter pill to swallow.

Sometimes I wonder whether God didn't think I could handle four children. Maybe my parenting skills or our financial situation weren't up to snuff.

But how could they be better off in an orphanage than right here with me?

I don't have the answer to that.

I wish I did.

I've thought a lot about the concept of planting, and I remember when I was living in South Florida for several years,and I never really felt rooted or established there. But that's where God planted me those eight years, and I had the choice to wilt or bloom.

Sometimes life feels like a series of transitions. You're waiting to finish school. You're waiting to get married. You're waiting to have kids. You're waiting to move into the bigger house. You're waiting for your career to kick off. And you never really feel planted.

But you are. You are where you are. Maybe it's just for a minute, or maybe it's for a lifetime, but perhaps it's possible to thrive and be strong and reflect the splendor wherever you currently are.

Some places, admittedly, have poorer growing conditions than others. But my kids in Ethiopia? They are a planting of the Lord, right in their orphanage, right in the town of Mekelle, smack dab in the Tigray Region, in the Horn of Africa.

And they are getting stronger every day. I see God's splendor reflected in them. Dawit, with his thoughtful questions and gentle kindness toward others. Meron, with her quiet touch and expressive eyes. And Menalush, with her wide smile and talkative nature.

And if a 17-year-old boy, a 14-year-old girl, and a 12-year-old girl can bloom under those growing conditions, I am confident I can bloom (maybe even thrive?) right where God has placed me.

I might not be partial to the soil. The sun may not shine every day. I may long for a stream of water to alleviate my dry and thirsty soul, but it's enough. He is enough. I am a planting of the Lord. My branches may not be as strong as I would like, and I may not be the most beautiful tree in the neighborhood, but God says I am for the display of His splendor.

And because of that, I.am.enough.

(You are, too.)

I used to be a writer...until I ran out of words. 

I used to love writing. The little quirky things that happened in a day's time. Deep thoughts and sudden realizations. Updates on what I was doing, where I was traveling.

In fact, it was when I was in the Middle East, blogging about having been baptized in the River Jordan, that Ken and I really first connected. He was a fellow-blogger, and we fell in love with each other's words before falling in love with each other's hearts.

And then, when I became a mother, I wrote about the joys and sorrows of having a child. Of losing my mom just a few weeks before I became pregnant. Of funny little things my son did and said.

But then we attempted an adoption of three siblings from Ethiopia, and all my writing centered around that. Other things were still important, but we lived and breathed that adoption for six years. It was all I could write about. At times, it was all I could think about.

As that dream died a long, slow death, I ran out of words. I lost my identity. I became unsure of all that I had once been so sure about. My faith floundered, replaced by a heart-wrenching grief.

I quit writing.

It all seemed so futile. Everything wise that could be said was already being written by bloggers who were making money off of clicks or promoting their books. Their words were so eloquent, so far above what my pen could put on paper. So I linked to blogs. I retweeted others' tweets. I read and thought, but I didn't write. I occupied myself with being angry at a system that favored the strong and took advantage of the vulnerable. I buried myself in painting and art and Pinteresting DIY's.

...

But I think my words might be coming back. This morning, still in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about writing. But where to start? What to write about? How do you jump back into something you loved and left?

...

So here I am, jumping in.

...

I like to describe forgiveness as a two-step-forward, one-step-back process. Oftentimes I think I've moved past something, that I've truly forgiven, only to have something trigger my anger, my disappointment. Sometimes it takes a long walk or a drive in the car to work through those feelings. Sometimes it's five steps forward...and then ten steps back. Very rarely has forgiveness been a singular act for me. It's more like a continuum.

Grief has proven to be a similar process in my life. Sometimes I feel like I've gotten over something...like the disappointment of a failed adoption. Several weeks ago I told my therapist that I was doing good, that I was content and had reached a place of okay-ness. I was able to communicate with our kids in Ethiopia nearly every day via Facebook messenger, and we even had video chats every once in a while. It wasn't how I imagined our family, but it was sweet in its own way.

But then our 16-year-old, Dawit, got mugged on his way to the market, and they stole his phone. His sole line of communication with us. Thankfully he was not hurt, but since then we've only been able to send quick one-liners every few weeks--when he is able to borrow a phone or go to an Internet cafe.

And I miss him. I miss his updates. I miss the girls. I am angry, again. It's not fair. It's not good. Three orphans living in an overcrowded orphanage with a mom and dad who want them..and the government won't allow it because of their pride and their stupid change in laws.

I didn't realize how angry and unsettled I was until I saw two separate social media posts about parents bringing their adopted children home. Instead of being happy for these families, my stomach clenched, my heart pounded, and I quickly scrolled on.

I realized I still have work to do.

I am constantly telling Jack, our 8-year-old, to be happy for others--even when they have something he doesn't. It's easy to vilify others for no reasons other than jealousy, grief, and unforgiveness. It may even be normal. But it's not healthy.

...

As I write this, I am keenly aware that I am again writing about adoption, the very identify that I became lost in not long ago. Maybe that grief--that disappointment--that journey will always be a part of me. I pray it will make me better, not bitter. I hope that that particular grief has become only part of my story, not my identity.

You won't see me walking in downtown Wheaton with three brown-skinned beauties. I won't be known as the lady who adopted three orphans from Ethiopia.(<<-- That's hard for me to admit, because I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be a difference maker--partly to make a difference and partly, I confess, to be known as a difference-maker.)

So here I am, just me. Mom to Jack, wife to Ken, quasi-mom to three kids in another country. A sometimes-writer who is finding her words again. Giving up the feeling that I have to compete with all the gifted writers I read. Enjoying art and painting and reading and sitting on the couch with the two laziest dogs in the entire world.

Pushing ahead two steps in this process called life, realizing there will be missteps and backtracks, and being okay with that.

Last night, we wrote letters to our children in Ethiopia. Ken wrote personal letters to each of them, and I wrote one letter to all three. I wrote the advice I would give them if they were here, living in our home.

Sometimes when I write I think it's for the benefit of the reader, but really it benefits me the most.

So I re-read my letter this afternoon, trying to believe the things I wrote last night--in light of today's circumstances. 

And as I read, I wondered if some of you could benefit from these reminders as well. So insert your own name, as needed, below.

"My dear children, I love you so much and I think about you every day. I look forward to the day when we can see each other again.

As you go back to school after the rainy season break, I want you to remember how important it is to choose your friends wisely. Stay away from kids who lead you into temptation or pressure you to do bad things. Choose friends who are kind, honest, encouraging, and who have good character. 

Tigray, Ethiopia

Always cherish your special friends. Forgive quickly, and don’t let misunderstandings become arguments or end a friendship. You will make mistakes, but always try to do your best. Treat others the way you want to be treated.

When you experience disappointment or hurt, as we all do, don’t keep thinking about those situations or become bitter. Give them to God, because He can take all those bad things and use them for your good.

 

The road leading to our children's orphanage

M....Our youngest daughter

Remember that God is for you, not against you. He loves you so much, and I am praying that He will be very real in your life. I am asking Him to answer your prayers and speak to you through the Bible and in your dreams.

 

Me with M and M

God is directing every step your feet take. He knows the path you are on, and when the future seems uncertain, remember that He can make a way out of no way.

In the Bible, the Israelites didn’t know how to escape their bad situation with the Egyptians. But God had a plan. They started to journey to the Promised Land, but then they came to the mighty Red Sea, and the Egyptians were chasing them. They had nowhere to go. But God opened up the sea and made a pathway right through it! Nobody knew it was possible, but with God nothing is impossible. Nothing! He can do anything!

God delights in every detail of your life, and your prayers will be answered at just the right time. If you feel lonely, remember that you are never alone. God is with you. And even though we are many miles apart, we are together in heart and in spirit.

M...our oldest daughter

You have a mom and a dad and a little brother who all love you very, very much. And so many people are praying for you in the United States… aunts and uncles, cousins, grandmas and grandpas, friends at church, friends at school, friends in our neighborhood… hundreds of people who know your names and love you and want the very best for you. Someday you will meet them and they will say, “Your mom and dad showed us your photos, and I was praying for you!”

 

D, M, me, and M

Listen closely because God wants you to hear His voice. The Bible says He is a Good Shepherd, and we are His sheep. He is whispering to you and saying: “I made you. I love you. I have a purpose and a plan for your life. You are so special to me, and I am going to do amazing things in your life—things that are so good that you can’t even imagine them! Be patient. Keep believing.” 

D—my handsome, strong son: Hold your head up high. You are a child of God, and you will change the world. I love you, D.

M—my beautiful, sweet oldest daughter: Lift up your head, and listen. Your prayers will be answered. Let love in, and be joyful. I love you, M.

M—my charming, pretty youngest daughter: Guard your heart, for your beauty comes from inside, and keep smiling because your happiness warms the heart of everyone you meet. I love you, M.  

Until next time, close your eyes and remember a hug from me. 

Love, 

Mommy

A Difficult Task

For those of you not on our Facebook page, and/or who haven't heard, it looks like our adoption isn't going to happen.

I could recite all the explanations they've given us, but not one makes sense. As our agency told us, it's mind boggling.

Yesterday Jack and I were out shopping, and he spotted a pink pair of pants. "Mom! I think M would love those!" I smiled and nodded.

A few minutes later he saw some ruffly dresses. "Mom, we should buy those for the girls!"

I smiled again.

"Don't you want to put them in the cart, Mom?"

"Honey, I don't think M, M, and D are going to live with us. Remember, I told you that the Judge said no?"

"Mom, you have to keep hoping if you want it to happen!"

"Oh Sweetie. I do want it to happen, but it doesn't look like they'll be coming."

"Maybe we need to pray more. You know, we haven't prayed about it lately."

I changed the subject, and he forgot. For now.

I couldn't tell him that I pray with every breath, but that I don't pray aloud with him because I don't want him to doubt God. The way I do sometimes.

A few days ago I told Ken that I wanted to buy new linens for the girls' room, the room that will now be an extra room. We're having various guests over the next few months, and I can't bear to have the girly lavender quilts on the beds. They were bought for the girls,and the thought of someone else using them makes me too sad.

It really was the sweetest little girls' room you could ever imagine. The picture doesn't do it justice.

So tonight we removed the girls' quilts and replaced them with gray and white damask quilts. The walls are still lavender; we don't have the energy to re-paint them. It's fine. The room seems drab without the bright pink rug and the polka dot bedding, but it will do. It doesn't scream "little girl room," and that was the main thing we wanted.

D was going to share a room with Jack, so no major changes are necessary in there. The next task will be the clothing. The dressers are full of pajamas, still with the tags on them. Underwear and socks still in the package. Tshirts and jeans and shorts. Dresses and jackets and boots and shoes and hairbows and jewelry and coloring books and Amharic-English dictionaries, and little pink dollhouses and a brand new 10-speed bike in the garage for D, price tag still hanging from the handles.

There's so much to do. So many decisions to make. But not today.

Next week we'll have a conference call with our team in Addis; I guess so they can tell us they tried everything they could and that this journey has come to an end. But until then, I'll hold on to the tiniest sliver of hope. Because we promised M, M, and D we wouldn't leave them as orphans. That we would come for them. And so we can't leave any stone unturned.

...and there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time...

This video was shot just 80 miles south of where our Ethiopian children live, 31 years ago. Their parents and grandparents survived this devastation. The U.N. has warned that the current drought in the Tigray Region--where our children live--could become comparable to this Famine of 1984. #BearingWitness #NeverAgain

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I never imagined that another Christmas would be upon us and half of our family would still be across the ocean. The three stockings I bought last year for two young girls and an almost-teenage boy are still in storage. And little ornaments I made for them last December were hung on the tree two weeks ago with sadness in my heart.

Yesterday I opened the dresser drawers in the girls' room, and I found neatly folded shirts and socks and underwear--still in the package. A little jewelry bag that I had forgotten about caught my eye--gold necklaces with the initial of their first names. Christmas dresses and lacy sweaters hang in the closet, and D's brand new bike--the one he's been dreaming of--still sits in the garage, tags dangling from the handlebars.

Ready for school

And I wonder. I wonder if the clothes will still fit them. I wonder if D has learned to ride a bike. I wonder if they will have gifts this Christmas. I wonder if they have food to eat, medicine when they're sick, warm beds on cold nights, and hugs and kisses when they are sad.

We got our bi-monthly update on them today, only 2 months overdue, and I couldn't find a single picture where our now-10-year old girl is smiling. She's the more reserved, quiet one of the bunch, but still, it made me sad.

The report says the children frequently ask about us--when are we coming for them and why we aren't there aleady. D tells the orphanage manager that he's trusting God that someday, someday, he will meet us in person. And the orphanage manager confessed to the social worker that he often ignores or avoids their questions--because he doesn't know how to answer them.

And yet, there's still a glimmer of hope. Hope that the drought in the Tigray Region will force the hand of the regional officials who maintain they can take care of their own; that they don't need foreigners adopting their children.

So despite the irony, we continue to pray for rain. Rain to quench their dried-up land. Rain to nourish their fields and provide food for their people. Rain to melt the hearts of stone.

After all, isn't Advent a season of Hope? Hope in miracles. Hope in goodness. Hope in humanity.

And most of all, hope that the boy Mary delivered ... will soon deliver our boy and his sweet little sisters.

When You've Done Everything

We have been reticent to share details about the adoption process lately, because it seems every time we share something, things change.

For example, the Federal Court is supposed to be closed during rainy season, and normally nothing happens with adoptions during that time. And it is closed...mostly. Except that for some reason, this year the family court judge is still holding court for some cases related to divorce and civil issues, and he decided to review two adoption appeals...ours and one other.

So first we were given a date of August 28 for our case to be decided. Then September 9. Then September 10. Then September 23. And now September 24.

I'm not kidding.

We are thankful the judge is even willing to look at our case since he's supposed to be off, but the waiting and the delays and the rollercoaster of emotions is a lot to handle.

Why all the delays? First, new info had been submitted by the Region and by the Ministry that are opposing the adoption, and the Judge wanted our lawyer to have time to respond to their claims. We appreciated that.

Then he had a personal matter and cancelled court.

Then he decided he needed more time to review our case.

And he was taking some vacation days.

So he said Sept. 23 would the The.Date. The Final Decision. The Big Day. The Day We've Been Waiting For. (Or Dreading...depending on how it turns out.)

But then the Judge was informed Sept. 23 would be a national holiday because the Muslims in the country are celebrating Eid-al-Adha. Oh, you didn't know that? Apparently the Judge didn't either. They seem to set national holidays quite arbitrarily, and more than likely our Judge is Orthodox Christian, so he isn't on top of every Muslim holiday.

It's only a one-day delay in a nearly 3-year journey...no big deal. Still, I was curious to see what Eid-al-Ahda was all about.


So I did a little research, and it's a day when Muslims honor the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael in submission to God's command ... as well as the resulting intervention by God to provide an alternate sacrifice.

Even though we're not Muslim, and we attribute this story to Abraham and Isaac, not Ishmael, maybe there's a lesson in there for us? 

It's difficult to believe that leaving these children in Ethiopia would be best for them. I'm afraid for them. I'm afraid they will be left to their own devices. I'm afraid our boy will become a street kid. I'm afraid our girls will be taken advantage of or they will be trafficked. I'm afraid they won't have enough to eat. I'm afraid they won't get the medications they need. I'm afraid they will be forced to live with someone who doesn't have their best interests at heart.

I imagine Abraham was afraid to lay his son on the altar. He probably questioned what on earth God could be doing. It didn't make sense. He had waited so, so long for this child. 

This child was his identity. 

The promise of God, fulfilled.

But he obeyed anyway. And God came through, at the very last moment.

Are we willing to lay our three children on the figurative altar, believing God has their best interests in mind? 

I will try. 

And I will pray for their deliverance. 

Raw Honest Truth

A friend asked me recently if there was any news on our international adoption because she hadn't seen a blog post in a long time. I was reminded that not everybody is on Facebook, so some people don't get my regular updates.

I haven't blogged in a while because it feels like I'm always saying the same thing about our adoption: we need one more paper (and that paper always is changing); it's out of our hands; your prayers are appreciated.

And that's pretty much where we're still at, but with an added urgency for an expedited process. The Federal Court in Ethio closes every year for a "rainy season" closure. We don't know the exact dates this year (they tend to change from year to year), but most likely they will close from August 6 until mid-October.

So, if we don't get a court date ASAP, we're looking at several more months before M, M, and D can join our family. Typically when the judge agrees to hear a case, he sets a court date about 4-6 weeks later. So it is imperative that we get a date ASAP to beat the August 6 closure.

I was asked recently via email how I'm dealing with the delays, and this is how I responded:  

This morning as I checked email yet again hoping to hear some good news from our agency, I was reminded of back when I was single and obsessed with some guy, and I would constantly check voice mail/email, etc. for a message. It's the same now. I'm addicted to checking for messages.


When I do get a message from our agency--and it's about something other than our kids--I am supremely annoyed. Like how dare they waste my time with info about a conference call recording or a new webinar or a program update! My feelings aren't particularly rational or logical. :) I vacillate between having a great attitude and being fully confident that God will accomplish this at just the right time ... to being all-out angry and frustrated and disappointed with God. Sometimes I ride the roller coaster several times in one day. And wow is it tiring! I've never been so tired in all my life from doing nothing but waiting. My mind feels preoccupied most of the day.


And then there's all the FB adoption groups I'm a part of. Some are super encouraging and informative, but others are like watching a train wreck. It kills me to hear stories of children who were probably trafficked, and the adoptive parents are the last to find out. Or their home becomes a living hell after the child gets home, and they question whether they should have adopted. 

God has clearly only given me grace for today (most days!) but I am not equipped to deal with possible future problems for which I have not been graced-up.

We willingly stepped into this journey knowing it would be difficult, so we're certainly not looking for sympathy. But my best self-therapy is writing, and the best thing for our family is prayer. Hopefully today's raw, honest truth accomplishes both.

Thanks for walking with us. We love and appreciate you.

Nobody Should Cry Alone

Nobody should have to cry alone, especially a kid.

In one of our last updates on the children, the social worker that sometimes M gets sad and goes off by herself to cry for a while.

I know all kids cry. My 4 year old cries at some point nearly every day. But Mom or Dad is always nearby to comfort him.

I keep wondering what would cause a 9-year-old girl to cry. It could be anything really. A toy not shared. A disagreement with her sister. The perception that someone else is receiving preferential treatment.

Or maybe she cries because she has no mommy to tuck her in at night. Maybe someone is bullying her, and she doesn't have a grown up to stick up for her. Maybe she longs for a daddy to tell her how beautiful and funny and smart she is. Perhaps she is hungry. Feeling sick and not getting the right medication. Maybe she longs for a family. Maybe she is sad or scared or anxious and doesn't know why.

Whatever the case, the fact that she sometimes cries, alone, keeps me motivated.

We won't give up on these three children. No matter how long it takes. No matter how much money it costs. We will keep praying, advocating, and trying every avenue we can think of to get our kids home.

It's Beyond Me

When I was a young girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, my friend invited me to go to the Y with her and her mom.

I didn't know how to swim, but being a tall kid, I usually managed to keep my head above water and had a good time in the pool.

Unfortunately, I wasn't exactly aware of what my height was, because I jumped in the pool at a spot where it was way too deep.

And by "way too deep," I don't mean it was super deep. But it was over my head.

I remember gasping for air, waving my arms frantically, and swallowing a whole lot of water. It was a terrifying, desperate, out-of-control feeling.

To this day I am not a big fan of being underwater.

. . .

I was driving down the road last week, on my way to somewhere I don't remember, and I thought, "Wow...I am so tired. And I've been tired for a while now."

I try to be positive on my blog and in my FB updates about this crazy adventure we're on, but truthfully, it's exhausting. It seems like every day we hear something new from our adoption agency. Great news one day, terrible news the next. Up, down, up, down, up, down. Rollercoasters ain't got nothing on this ride.

Sometimes I feel like throwing in the towel. I hate to admit that, but I do. And then I remember the sweet faces of three Ethiopian kids. A brother and two sisters who don't have a mom or a dad. Who don't have a home. Who don't have stability. Who don't have the love of a family.

And so we press on.

This song says it all.

Finally...A White Christmas!

Merry Christmas!
Melkam Genna!

መልካም ገና

Today is Christmas in Ethiopia! And it's a white Christmas (but only here in Chicagoland). Ethiopians follow the Julian Calender, so Christmas falls on January 7.

 I wished Jackson a Merry Christmas today, and after some strange looks by him and an explanation by me, he asked, "Do Lucia and Mary and David have a Christmas tree up?"

 No, probably not.

Christmas in Ethiopia is celebrated very differently than here in the United States. I was going to summarize what I've learned, but this website explains it so well that I decided to simply copy and paste. 

*I don't know if this is exactly how our kids are celebrating today, 

but this is the traditional celebration. 

My guess is that just like every family in the U.S. has their own 

variation on Christmas, so do folks in Ethiopia.*

 

Many people fast on Christmas Eve (January 6th). At dawn on the morning of Genna, people get dressed in white. Most people wear a traditional garment called a shamma. It's a thin white cotton piece of cloth with brightly colored stripes across the ends. It's worn like a toga. If you live in a big town or city you might wear 'western' clothes. The early Genna mass starts at 4.00am!

The Ethiopian capital city is Addis Ababa. It's a modern city. Most people who live outside big cities live in round house made of mud-plastered walls which have thatched cone-shaped roofs. Sometimes houses in the country are rectangular and made of stone.

The design of Ethiopian Church is similar to the houses. In the country, they are often very old and have been carved out of rock. In cities, modern churches are built in three circles, each within the others.

 The choir sings from the outer circle. Everyone who goes to church for the Genna celebrations is given a candle. The people walk around the church three times in a solemn procession, holding the candles. They then go to the second circle to stand during the service. The men and boys are separated from the women and girls. The center circle is the most important and holy place in the church and is where the priest serves the Holy Communion or mass.

It's also a tradition that one of the Wise Men who visited Jesus came from Ethiopia.

Around the time of Genna, the men and boys play a game that is also called genna. It's played with a curved stick and a round wooden ball, a bit like hockey.

Traditional Christmas foods in Ethiopia include wat which is a thick and spicy stew that contains meat, vegetables and sometimes eggs (sounds yummy!). Wat is eaten on a 'plate of injera' - a flat bread. Pieces of the injera are used as an edible spoon to scoop up the wat.

Twelve days after Genna, on 19th January, Ethiopians start the three day celebration of Timkat. It celebrated the baptism of Jesus. Children walk to church services in a procession. They wear the crowns and robes of the church youth groups that they belong to. Adults wear the shamma. The priests wear red and white robes and carry embroidered fringed umbrellas.

Musical instruments are played during the Timkat procession. The sistrum is a percussion instrument with tinkling metal disks a bit like a vertical tambourine. A makamiya, a long T-shaped prayer stick is used to keep the rhythm and is also used by the priests and a stick to lean on during the long Timkat church service!

Ethiopian men also play a sport called yeferas guks. It's played on horseback and the men throw ceremonial lances at each other (sounds rather dangerous!).

People don't give and receive present during Genna and Timkat. Sometimes children might be given a small gift of some clothes from their family members. It's more a time for going to church, eating lots and playing games!

So from the Doman home to yours, Melkam Genna!

(Interesting tidbit: On all the children's paperwork that we have received lately, their last name is listed as Doman. I like that.)