*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.