Why I Love My Job

Watching our African elders discover the challenge and fun of bingo

A sudden, unexpected outburst of Oromo singing in my car, on a Wednesday morning, that had me grabbing my camera at a stoplight.

Don't you love the short chuckle at the end?

Max and a Wild Thing

Middle-Age Lament

Remember when you were young? Maybe you are reading this and still are. If you are, please, for me, be aware of your youth. I think because I've always had a pessimistic, half-empty natural bent, I was always aware of my impending death (hopefully later than sooner), so even when I was young and spry, I was aware of being young and spry. I was pretty good at keeping my eyes open and appreciative of young skin and energy and being free to travel and roam and stay up late and drink too much caffeine.

One of my oldest friends posted this morning on facebook a photo of us taken more than ten years ago. We were sitting in a 'krcma' (pub) in Slovakia, leaning on each other, pretending to be tipsy. We rarely ever really were. Except that one time when this same friend had me and another friend over to show us the video of his trip to China and kept refilling my glass of 'beton' when I wasn't watching. I was kind of drunk by the end of that night, not even sure how it happened. I was only 24. Twenty-four. Twenty and four years.
I woke up this morning in a funk, despite the warm, bright day. Everything was bristly and irritating to me. The boys left the house to run errands, and I'm drinking too much coffee and listening to old CDs from college, mix-CDs made by friends. Last night Ted took a photo of me and Abe, and I was just a little bit aghast at how old I looked. I feel so middle-aged. I suppose I am. I really am. I'm almost the age my mom was when she married my stepfather. That realization this week made me feel oh so old.

I'm not exactly sure why I'm putting these laments about aging out there. This morning, I simply feel sad, not about aging but about the loss of the lives I've left behind. Maybe it's just that I miss my friends. I've always been quick to make space in my heart for new people. The result is that I have a trail of loved ones behind me. I've never left a place without tears. It's jarring that realization that you'll never again be as beautiful, as thin, as free to roam. Wouldn't it be nice to go back to relive just one day?

Please don't take this as meaning I don't love my current life. I do. I just might think you're crazy if you never look back without even a twinge of longing every now and then.

My advice to a new college student

One of my oldest friends has a daughter who just started college. I am mailing her a care package this week, with this letter included.

Happy graduation!
Welcome to college!

When I was 18, you were born, and I remember feeling you kick around in your mom's belly. That's a long time to know someone, and I'll tell you something--all that stuff about youth being wasted on the young and time flying and so on? Well, it's true. It just is. When you hit about mid-20's, life speeds up. Let your life tell a good story. Be aware of every day. "Live with a healthy appreciation of death," Rich Mullins once said. We're not gonna be here forever. What story are you going to tell? Keep your eyes open. Be sure to travel as much as possible. Learn another language and not from a textbook but by getting to know speakers of that language. Be fearless but careful. Turn off technology for thirty minutes (at least) every day and stare at the sky. Or trees. Or rain. Or a face of someone you love. Let generosity and compassion lead you. Be moved by poetry, by beauty. Lady Gaga is awesome but never wear a meat-dress or gun-bra. Read these two books. Both changed me. Eat lots of whole grain, nuts, and veggies. Don't shop at Wal-mart because they are evil-doers. Come visit us in Oregon. It's real purty up here. I love you.

Ethiopian New Year 2003

He is three. In year 2003.

Gentle Alemu

One of our favorite Portlanders, giver of incredible hugs. If you meet her, ask for one. Really.

One a beautiful fall day, a little bit of beautiful Ethiopia. We are so lucky to live in a city with such a thriving community of Ethiopians who welcome us so openly. I feel a little like a hanger-on but am so grateful for this hospitality and kindness.

We Love Fire Fighters

Yesterday on our walk to a friend's house, we came upon two firetrucks parked in the middle of the street. Turns out it was only a small kitchen fire, and no one was hurt, so we hung around and watched the action. One of the fire fighters gave Abe a junior fire fighter sticker. Then another let him wear her hat and then invited him onto the truck, which was still idling and rumbling loudly. Abe wasn't so sure about it. Lady fire fighters are the coolest.

See Mom? Here I am on the truck, being brave even though it's really loud and rumbly which is sorta freaking me out.

Seriously, not joking. Get me off this thing. Enough.

At a coffeeshop in our neighborhood that we go to sometimes, a group of fire fighters come in pretty regularly for drinks. They are almost always in the truck when they come. It makes me happy. They always give all the kids stickers and then stand around looking heroic and manly. Fire fighters rule.

One of our favorite books is New York's Bravest, about Mose the legendary fire fighter in New York City. We got it from the library a while back, and I couldn't stop crying the first time we read it. And then every time we read it. It always makes me cry. This winter when we were in New York, meeting the mother of one of the fire fighters who died at Ground Zero left me wrecked for the whole day. I wrote about it here.

On facebook today, as a lot of people are posting their memories and tributes of what happened 9 years ago, two posts stood out to me. The first is by a friend who is now living in Ethiopia:

To me, the most beautiful photos from 9/11 are those of NYC firefighters and citizens running INTO the World Trade Centers. ♥

The second is by my old high school friend from Pakistan:

Two things happened on 9/11-- Thousands of innocent victims lost their lives and thousands of family members were affected by the loss.... and second, the image of Islam/Muslims everywhere was ruined by crazy terrorists who were far from being muslim in the first place :(

At some point today, I hope to read this book with Abe. If you're looking for a good children's book about this day, I recommend this one. Highly.

Parent Fail

I'm in the basement watching a video that I got at work. Most of it is has subtitles which are in yellow print, which was probably not the best choice. I'm sitting on the couch squinting to read the print and concentrating pretty hard. One of the clients who comes to our program is being featured, and I'm working hard to focus on the video of her.

I hear footsteps coming my direction. I tense up even more in my focus on this video. The footsteps get closer and I see Abe's legs coming down the stairs. He's holding a small pink bowl with a fork. He says, "Hey Mom! Look what I have for you! Do you want to share?" I'm irritated, not so much with Abe as with Ted for sending him down when I'm trying to focus on something (I hadn't even told Ted what I was watching and my need for focus, so yeah, I was being especially difficult).

Abe is excited to show me what he's brought down. He sets the bowl next to me on the couch and starts to climb up. Because I'm so focused on trying to decipher difficult-to-read subtitles, I barely look his direction. The bowl tips over spilling watermelon all over the couch and my leg. Abe has climbed up on the couch by now. I quickly stand up and call upstairs, "Hey Ted! Why did you send...." but I'm interrupted by Abe's wailing. And I mean: monster, heart-broken wailing with rivers of tears.

The second I yelled out Ted's name, Abe started crying. He laid on the couch, covered his face, and sobbed. It turns out that before he'd come downstairs, he'd been in the kitchen with Ted, determined to share with me, his ogre-mother. Ted even told him that he could offer me his watermelon but "Mom might not want any so don't be sad if she doesn't." He came down anyway, so excited to share with me.

Yes, that soul-crushing experience for our son was a special gift from me. Major parent fail. In that moment, I so hated myself.

I couldn't have felt worse. I sat down on the couch and put him on my lap where he snuggled his head into my chest and continued to cry, getting the front of my shirt wet. It took him several minutes to calm down. I just kept apologizing. I turned the video off and rocked him and said "I'm sorry" over and over.

I told him I'd love to have some watermelon. Through sniffles and straggler tears, he nodded. I sat him next to me on the couch. He took the fork, speared a piece, and fed me. Then he took a piece for himself. We ate the whole bowl this way. One for me, one for him. When it was down to two last pieces, he gave me the small one and said, "I like the big pieces, okay?" Abe, no problem, little man. You take the big pieces.

Later in the night, he needed some time on the step for some act of disobedience (can't even remember what it was), and when I went to get him off the step, he said to me, "Mom, sitting on the step was a good idea, right?"

Who is this kid? How can he be able to so quickly forgive and so quick to understand the need for discipline? I wish I were the kind of mother who never showed her impatience, who was always willing to turn from what she's doing to give attention to her child, who is tuned in to her child's spirit more often. I'm not though. I just hope that my willingness to ask forgiveness when I mess up will truly make up for my mistakes as a parent.

For the rest of the night and now this morning, this song has been going through my head.

Teach your parents well,
Their children's hell will slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.