*This journal entry was written October 4 in the middle of the night...

I saw the stars tonight. It was beautiful. Here in Addis we’ve experienced a long rainy season. I remember when I first arrived I looked into the night’s sky, from a city of 3-6 million and was amazed that it was still possible to see nature’s light. I couldn’t see them until I neared my residential compound, but the last 400 yards of my walk gave me peace as I ended my night. I’ve been searching for them for almost 3 months now and they finally arrived to bid me farewell.

I booked my ticket home tonight. That final click of the mouse making the purchase official was bittersweet. I don’t have to worry about having to extend my visa, not seeing my family and friends, and missing my trip to see half my family in North Carolina. I don’t have to worry about that. Now my worries are of my departure and those I leave behind when my plane takes off Tuesday evening. I have my farewell dinner tomorrow night at my favorite restaurant with all my dear friends I’ve met during this journey. Though they assure me they’ll see me soon and that tomorrow is not a goodbye at all – I’m hoping its true though doubtful as well.

The next several days, including my last hours will be spent at Kechene, my home in so many ways while I’ve lived here. It is here where my heart is and though I’ve tried to spend time away and assist other children; my heart had been stolen by the amazingly, beautiful, loving, mischievous, playful, curious tikes and children of Kechene. There are no words to describe how I feel now about them. Words are not adequate. My thoughts are not adequate. Nothing is. When I leave Kechene for the last time, knowing when I return someday that those smiles, hugs, and dashes toward me will not be from the children I’ve grown to love as my own – first I will rejoice knowing they’ve found families. Second, I will weep, knowing that I can never have those days back, ever again Knowing that the toddlers that can now say my name won’t be there to greet me with their clumsy run and near flop into my legs. Baby Hiwot’s smile will never again greet me as I approach what used to be her crib. Baby Lukas will never blow spit bubbles into my mouth as he clumsily stands in my lap. I won’t be bombarded by Tsegerida, Tarafa, Ilsa, Eyearus, Beamluk, Wutu, Tariku, Foostu, and Simon while I cute the pineapple that they love so much. Medina won’t bend my body in half so she can kiss my cheeks. Dawit won’t cry, “Bettina-yay” all day long or laugh while I tickle his over-sized belly. Abraham won’t greet me with his shake and shoulder tap and color pictures of us together. Wutu won’t hang on to the back of my pants while I walk – waiting for that moment when one of my hands is free. Meta won’t speak to me in Amharic – believing I can understand everything she says. Tarafa won’t laugh uncontrollably. And I won’t be there when Bamlie awakes from her nap and holds her arms out to be held tightly – content with me sitting down, stroking her hair and allow her to fall asleep again in my arms.

These experiences will never be repeated though they will never vanish from my memory. They are in my heart and I know that in the future I will recall those days with laughter, tears, and contentment. They will eventually find homes – Gladney is doing an amazing job of finding wonderful homes for many of these extraordinary children.

It’s just so unreal – unrealistic. Me. Leaving. Five days left. And all I can think about is “when can I come back?”

I’ve heard it over and over again. For those who have visited and especially lived in Africa – it becomes a part of you. Your longing to return to the continent is so great (sometimes unbearable) something which cannot be understood by those who haven’t discovered her greatness. I know my heart will ache when my plane leaves African soil and will feel replenished again upon my return. Until then, we’ll see where life takes me.

*Written somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean Oct 9, 2007

And I don't know
This could break my heart or save me
Nothing's real
Until you let go completely
So here I go with all my thoughts I've been saving
So here I go with all my fears weighing on me

Three months and I'm still sober
Picked all my weeds but kept the flowers
But I know it's never really over

And I don't know
I could crash and burn but maybe
At the end of this road I might catch a glimpse of me
So I won't worry about my timing, I want to get it right
No comparing, second guessing, no not this time

Three months and I'm still breathing
Been a long road since those hands I left my tears in but I know

It's never really over, no

Wake up

Three months and I'm still standing here
Three months and I'm getting better here
Three months and I still am

Three months and it's still harder now
Three months I've been living here without you now
Three months yeah, three months

Three months and I'm still breathing
Three months and I still remember it
Three months and I wake up

Three months and I'm still sober
Picked all my weeds but kept the flowers

Somehow those lyrics have awoken the writer in me. It's been exactly three months to the day that I left home from vacation. I knew that I should have been capturing my emotions and random thoughts about my departure from Ethiopia but nothing could create the clarity in my mind required to write. I couldn't write. I didn't know what to write. How do you end a chapter in your life that you never want to see end while at the same time know that everything... everyone would eventually change... even disappear into the unknown. Even now, I still don't know what to say. Perhaps my freshest and most vivid memory is that of leaving Kechene. It's not real. It simply can't be. I know I will return to Kechene but my hopes and fears will be realized that day. I'll return, many faces would have disappeared. Not from my heart, my memory, or my soul - but nonetheless without a trace. I'll ask where so and so is... oh 'he has a family now (overjoyed). 'Where?' I'd ask. 'Umm... somewhere in Germany (overburdened despair knowing that I may never see them again).

I've been blessed to find several of the parents of children still waiting at Kechene - particularly those of Tsegerida and Tariku. My relief upon finding them accidentally on the Internet brought me to tears. I was overjoyed - beyond explanation. Part of my family had been identified and I know that someday, hopefully not too far away I would be able to see them with loving parents and an entire family to call their own. All theirs. Forever and ever. Thank you Renee and Geert for your kindness and I hope that upon my landing on US soil I hear you have finally received that elusive court date you've been waiting for for much too long.

Then, there are those that I can almost guarantee will be there upon my return. I'll weep, knowing they still cry and fall asleep alone. From the toddlers whose birth mothers refuse to care for them or legally release them for adoption to those girls of 15-20 who may end up aging out of Kechene, having never found anyone to call their mom and dad. I'll weep some more.

There really isn't a happy ending. One child's life will be saved but the others will continue living the life that they continually hope and pray they can escape. Even if Kechene was renovated into a palace, the children still wouldn't have the one thing they dream about all day and are haunted of all night - a family. Someone to call their own. Knowing that someone will love them unconditionally and forever. I can't imagine what my return will be like. And for now, I just can't think of it anymore.

I haven’t yet told the story of taking Yordanos, Beamluk, and Maryawit from the only home they had ever known. These three beautiful girls are now living at Selamta’s transition center where they will soon be placed with a permanent foster family. Last Monday would have been Beamluk’s first day of school, as Yordanos never had enough money to enroll her. Yordanos had received a scholarship to attend a private school and was then forced to leave the little girls on their own all day – no mommy or daddy in sight.

I didn’t know what to expect as I entered the compound, would the girls be crying, would they be smiling, or would they, like most Ethiopians, be reserved and try hard to hide their feelings – whatever they were. I walked to the back of the compound and found Maryawit getting her hair put into two little puff balls, one on each side of her head. She had different clothes on this day, proof that she owned at least two outfits. Beamluk was there next to her, assisting her little sister and making sure she looked pretty and clean. Beamluk wore the same clothes I had always seen her in. She only had one outfit; however, this time her jumper was under her shirt, she must have decided to change things up a bit. Yordanos was beautiful, she must have worked on her hair all morning as it was in small tight curls – and looked absolutely perfect. I tried to imagine just how scared she must have felt at the idea of leaving, though I know I have no comprehension for such things because I have never been in her shoes. She was quiet as usual, but also more withdrawn. Again, I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be a 16 year old girl, leaving the only family you have ever known (the community) and arriving at a place where you know no one, are worried about what everyone thinks of you – especially at her age, and trying to make a home of it. I was most worried about her but I also believed in her strength and perseverance to succeed. I gave the younger children suckers, as if to help convince myself that it would help them with this big step they were about to take.

Soon after arriving, Maryawit’s hair was finished and I knelt down to take her into my arms, which she was already walking toward. Like she always had she melted into the contours of them and relaxed. We soon made our way into one woman’s house, which comprised of a small room with a bed, couch, hutch, tv, and coffee table. I was invited to sit as is the Ethiopian way and so we sat down, waiting for the Selamta director to arrive so we could bring the children to their new home. There was silence as no one was sure what to say. The women in the compound didn’t want to see the children leave but they knew it was in their best interests. We didn’t want to take the children away from these wonderful people but knew they didn’t have the resources to provide for the children though they had tried in vein.

Soon enough, the owner of the house asked Maryawit, who was falling asleep in my arms where she was going. Maryawit quickly replied, with her sucker still in her mouth, as though it was obvious that she was going to “America.” The women giggled a little and asked her if she was sure. She was, as she continued to reply to the same question the same way three more times, “ America,” “America,” “America.” The first time was enough to break my heart. Oh, how I wished I could take these beautiful children home with me, but I, like the other women in the compound could not care for three children in a sufficient manner and it was in their best interest to stay in Ethiopia though I knew I would cry when I was forced to leave them.

The women began to quiz Maryawit again and one woman asked, “Well, who is your mother.” Again as though it was a matter of fact, she replied, “fereng” which garnered a gigantic laugh from the audience. Fereng means foreigner as I have explained before. She couldn’t remember my name, that wasn’t important. Her new mother was the fereng who adored having her in her arms. She insisted on replying the same another 3 or 4 times. Heart broken yet again. How would we get this tiny 3 year old girl to understand that she wasn’t coming home with me? Soon she was falling asleep again.

GREAT NEWS!!!! We have found a sponsor for each of the three girls! Thank you Rachel and Renee for stepping up for a great cause.