Adjusting

People keep asking how the adjustment is going. It's going good. Today the kids had their physicals and tomorrow they will start school. (That is if we have school. No school today because of a dusting of snow.) We decided to put both kids in the same grade and we will shave some time off Grace's age. I was too afraid to put her right in the eighth grade because I believe they'd eat her alive in the 9th grade school next year. She is soooooooooooooooo shy. I had a few moments, well a whole day, where I thought this was not going so well. I contacted a couple of friends who adopted teenagers and ask for their advise. Well just like taking your car to the mechanic and nothing being wrong, the next day Grace started talking. I really believe I was rushing things and she is painfully shy. Today she talked with a friend of ours, Noah's Ethiopian uncle Mebit, she was just explaining to him what she needed to make spaghetti sauce in Amharic and she was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO embarrassed. She was fanning her face and she turned very red. This is a shyness like I've never seen. She is talking to Simon D, right now in fact, in the kitchen, I just heard her say she was not going to marry and Ethiopian man or a faringe (foreigner). I think I said the same thing once upon a time:-)and I married both! LOL. Manny on the other hand is wide open! He has just jumped right in with the other boys. It's funny to me that girl are more likely to be adopted than boys, because boys are so much easier. :-)
If you think of them tomorrow please say a prayer for their protection and guidance at school. While your at it pray for me, their Mom, who will be trying not to worry herself sick.

copied from Wrecked for the ordinary and praying that we all will be!

The Hardest Thing I've Ever Had to Say

Posted in social justice by Jamie Finch on 1/5/2010

This isn't going to start out any other way than any other thing I have ever written. But it is very much unlike any other thing I have ever written.

Because I don't want to be writing it.

This is one story I do not want to tell. But it is the one story that I need to tell. Because it is the one story you need to read. It's long, but please. There is much to say.

Tonight, I had coffee with a dear friend of mine. Standard event, typical occurrence. But no, not really. Tonight was different. I am so much older than I was yesterday. I am going to break a few rules here and tell you the effect before the cause, her response before what I had said.

She asked me if I ever did yoga.

I answered yes.

She told me something that someone she does yoga regularly with told her once.

"You know how, sometimes, you'll be in those really difficult positions and you become so self aware that you notice something strange about the positioning of some part of your body? (She bent her right middle finger) Like, when your hand is on the mat, and you look down at it and see your finger isn't quite resting as it should and it just looks kind of... ugly. The most important way to respond is to see it. Really see it, notice it for what it is. Call it the ugly that it is. Then accept it for being such, and then soften it. Make it gentle."

Well, no matter how badly I may be fighting this right now and how much I really don't want to do this, this is how I make my ugly into gentle. This is how I soften...

The other night I was coming home late from being out with some friends. Details don't matter; all that matters is that it was late. Really late. The kind of late that turns into early. And I was coming home. I came up out of the train and after taking a few steps, noticed that someone was walking, in near-perfect synchronization, with my pace, just a few steps behind me. I became uncomfortable. I got "that vibe"- every woman knows the one I'm talking about. My phone was dead so there is not much I could have done anyway, except just keep walking. Quickly. So I did.

I made it to my doorstep with this man still behind me, and I began to walk up the stairs. The first step had me feeling like maybe I had misjudged the man and jumped to conclusions too quickly. I was safe. I was home. I was on my front step. But when I reached the second step- I was sexually assaulted. The man reached up my skirt and- to be as delicate as possible- touched me inappropriately. I don't need to expound. You know what I mean.

In all honestly, I have never wanted to cry like a child in my entire life more than at that moment, right there. My knee jerk reaction was to yell, "Oh my god!" and then choke out that sob that wanted so badly to wrench itself out of my body. But in the next instant, I was angry. Livid. Not only because of what he did, but because he made me feel that way. And he was not allowed to make me feel that way. No one is allowed to make me feel that way. So I turned and screamed at him with everything I had in me. "DON'T TOUCH ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!"

He laughed. And walked away.

I cried that night, but functioned fairly normally for the next few days until last night, where a panel conversation among men about sex trafficking had a much deeper effect on me than I expected it to. A poem was read that left me in tears, choking back those same sobs from only 4 nights before, and after the panel, a friend and co-worker asked me if I was alright. I'm an honest person- I said no. We began to walk and talk and I started to tell her how I was feeling and midway through a sentence she stopped, grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye, and asked me if something happened.

After that question, I don't think I stopped crying for an entire hour.

Not just over this situation, another extremely hurtful and fairly demeaning one had occurred recently in my life as well; but in regards to this experience, she suggested I take action against this assault. Seeing as how I never got a good look at the man, I'm not sure if there is much that I can do. But something she said has stayed with me since that conversation. "You're not a victim if you take action."

And while contacting the police might cease to make me feel like a victim externally, more importantly to me, is the necessity of no longer feeling like a victim internally.

And for me, that means to write. The way I process, the way I heal, the way I communicate, is through my written words. And ultimately, as negative as this experience was, it made me connect with and understand something so important to me in a way that I never had before.

When that man took that action against me, something was taken from me in that instant: my value and worth. As a human being. As a woman.

In that moment, I was nothing more than an object that happened to possess the pieces necessary to make him feel a certain way. Turn him on. In that moment, I was treated as property- though never purchased- that he felt he had the right and ability to touch and use for his own pleasure at his own leisure. In that moment, I had no voice, no thoughts, no feelings, no soul, no mind, no emotions, no power, no potential. I only had legs and what lives between them. And he felt entitled to it. Entitled to receive something precious and protected from me without actually knowing or caring anything for me.


This is how I call it what it is:

Ugly. Violent. Shameful. Unacceptable. Wrong.

This is how I accept it for what it is:

Painful. Hurtful. Discriminatory. Disrespectful. Wrenching. Haunting.

This is how I soften it, reign it in, make peace with it, and turn it into something gentle:

I speak. I feel. I tell. I connect. I cry. I learn. I fight.


My horror is matchless to that which they endure day after day, year after year, but my heart stands with them in solidarity- in a more powerful way than I have ever experienced before. I do not stand on that step and cry like a child, I remember my strength and I yell like a woman. And then I remember that I do not yell only for my own sake, but for theirs too. I yell my story, and then I yell theirs louder.


These women, these girls who are sold like cattle, beaten as property, chained like prisoners, and abused like objects. These women, these girls, that have something taken from them 5, 10, 15, 20 times a day. I knew this. But never before had I been in the position of knowing what it feels like to have something taken from you in that way.

Until now.

As someone who has resigned and committed my life to eradicating sexual violence and slavery, I must speak up for myself now that I myself have been affected by a form of sexual violence and assault. I must speak because if I remain quiet, my silence claims that it is acceptable. And anyone who knows me well knows that if you want to fan my fire, ask me if I believe whether or not sexual exploitation, in any form, of women is okay.


Having just completed work on the initial appeal for the Nomi Network holiday campaign, I used the illustration of the power of our stories and shared the story of one of the women working with us in Cambodia (read it here). She was brave enough to share her story with the world, and it was and is my obligation to retell hers and share my own.
And the truth is: We all, each and every one of us, have an obligation to do the same. For if we remain quiet, our silence claims that it is acceptable.

We know what is right, and we know what is wrong. But do we feel it burning in our bones? Do our souls catch fire at the sight of injustice? Has it taken hold of our time, money, thoughts, energy, resources, conversations, lives? Because if not, it is only because we have tragically forgotten that we belong to each other. 


Had I chosen not to share my story and invite you all into in with all the honesty and vulnerability I have in me, I would only have been laying down in the tracks of what I fight against on a daily basis.

This has made me mad as hell.

Beyond that. Outraged. Infuriated. That man was not entitled to lording power over me in any way. No man is entitled to lording any sort of violence or domination or power over any woman in anyway. Ever. What that man did to me was unacceptable. What happens to millions of women around the world every single day is completely unacceptable.

We have got to stop acting like it doesn't matter if it doesn't happen to us or nothing will ever change. We have got to start speaking up, both women AND men, when we see or experience injustice. And we have got to stop pretending like it's not happening. We have all become responsible. And if knowing their horror and knowing their captivity doesn't make you want to scream and cry and fight for freedom with absolutely everything you have, I don't know what ever will.

Welcome home Merry Christmas

We woke up at 6am on Christmas morning. Ryan and the kids missed their connection and stopped and got a room. Ryan was too sleepy to make the drive from Chicago. They kids sat patiently waiting for them.

A joyful welcome home.

Brothers first hug:-)

After a breakfast at my inlaws and dinner at our house, we, along with my parents went to our Ethiopian families house to celebrate once again. Selamawit Grace was thrilled to see injera (Ethiopian traditional food.)
AFter a long day and jet lag the kids tuck in for their first night home.

What a wonderful Christmas!
"Fall on your knees..Oh hear the angels voices..Oh ni-ight devine. Oh oh night when Christ was born."

Last day, Having some church

We got up and got ready for church at 8ish. I am feeling a bit depressed. I feel heavy hearted about leaving the other family. I feel sad because we didn’t have our embassy appointment. I feel scared because Derara and I are making an international flight alone. I feel guilty because I am angry that the cooks didn’t fix breakfast yet. Yep, I am ugly.
We are told it is a short walk to Beza International church. I quickly realize it is not so short. These Ethiopians walk everywhere. We finally arrive at the church and can’t go in yet. We are a little early. We meet a missionary family from the US and their children (one adopted from here) and talk a while. They open the door and we file in. It is kind of like a warehouse turned into a church. We take our seats a few rows from the front and shortly the service starts. The place is packed. We start with a word from one of the pastors about his walk with the Lord. He says we are all children of Abraham. However, we not only received the inspiration of Abraham we also received the condition of Abraham. This is why our actions and our beliefs don’t always agree. This is why our thought lives are so difficult for us to manage. I wonder does he know how this “condition” has left me in such a funk this morning?
The worship pastor comes out and says “If there is breath in you today, you owe God a praise.” The music starts for “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” We in American churchs can learn so much from the Church in Africa. They know how to praise. They understand the bible in ways we don’t. They know what it means to be the “good shepherd” when the daily see shepherd boys with their sheep on the main streets. They know what it means to be “The bread of life” when people around them are hungry. They know what is means to be the “Living water” when their drinking water is contaminated. They understand the phrase “King of Kings and Lord of Lords” when they have have lived under a King. They know what CS Lewis says in Chronicles of Narnia “He is not a tame Lion, but HE is good.” The Jesus they worship is not the one you can beat up. He is Holy AND Good. I think of in scripture when God told Moses to take of his feet he was walking on Holy ground. I read somewhere that God wanted to be skin to skin with Moses. I am in the presence of brothers and sisters in Christ who are worshipping skin to skin and I feel overdressed. The pastor gets up and we do corporate scripture reading. It is nothing like corporate scripture reading here in the states. It is loud and joyful and people cheer. The pastor talks about people facing mountains in their live and that mountains melt in the presence of our God. He asks if anyone wants to come up for prayer and many go forward including Ryan and I. We are prayed over by an African man and I am feeling more and more free.
We go back to our seats and the sermon begins. It is about giving. It is a sermon about giving like none I’ve ever heard. It clearly in the beginning is not the prosperity gospel. It is about how our giving is about obedience and it is also our opportunity to participate in the ultimate sacrifice of Christ on the cross. It is an amazing sermon and I hope I can find them online and participate from a distance in what is going on in this place.
We have a lazy day until the wee hours when Derara and I check in at the airport. We say our goodbyes. I fight off tears. I know it is a short goodbye. I no longer feel scared. I thank God for being the melter of mountains.

More from me after our first Christmas together. Thank all of you who prayed for us, donated money or offered us encouragement. You are valuable.

Day 8, Feel like someone punched me in the gut

We woke up that morning, quickly dressed and went to get Iella. We skipped showering etc, until we get back the guest house, for obvious reasons. Ryan has mosquitos bites on his forehead as big as silver dollars. I pray we don’t contract malaria as I scratch the bites on my legs. We go to the patio and wait for Iella. We think we will order a macchiato and but no one comes to take our order. Iella comes out and we get in the car and drive a little ways to the main strip. We get out and go in to get our macchiato. There are no ladies here, just men. I think I’m missing something. We take a table. I am causing quite a stir and wonder if we should leave. The waiter comes over and tells us they have no macchiato. We go to two more places in search of the blessed liquid. We find a Kenyan place in a fairly large building and we climb the steps. They have macchiato. I have two. Iella laughs at me. While I’m drinking it there is a program on the tv about morbidly obese Americans….hmmm maybe I shouldn’t use sugar in my drink. I get up to go to the bathroom and find what you find in most public Ethiopian bathrooms…..filth. The ladies has no seat and it is literally black with filth all over it. The smell makes me gag and I decide to hold it until it comes out my ears before I’ll go in there, squatting is not even an option. I hold back the urge to vomit my macchiato up and go to get the men so we can run some errands for Biruk before picking up the kids.
We arrive at the shanty and everyone comes to give us hugs and kisses. Derara looks a little haggard. He slept on the floor fully clothed. The other kids look fine, as this is how they have lived until two months ago. We are served breakfast, pasta with vegetables and it is delicious. Then we are served coffee. My bladder is already full, but I can’t offend the cook. After visiting with the everyone, we say our goodbyes. This is it. We are leaving Biruk. I feel like someone punched me in the gut. I climb in the car and can’t stop crying. Ryan is sobbing. Guta is wiping his eyes. Selamawit and Derara just sit there. Maybe they have no tears left. We are leaving their biological family. They feel like our family now. I wasn’t expecting this ammount of pain at this goodbye. We cuddle in the backseat. I put one earbud in and turn on Shane and Shane, I give the other to Derara so he can listen too. My face is in the window, the sun on my skin and the wind hitting me, the tears begin to dry. We drive two hours back to Addis, forever a little different…….I still need to pee.

Day 7, Meeting Grandma

We went to the embassy this morning and they would not interview us today. They said Monday was the best they can do. We were scheduled to fly out Sunday night. Ryan is making calls to find us an exchange flight. I am quite upset. I am very homesick. I will probably have to fly home with Simon Derara and Ryan and the other kids will come after they get their visas. I have never flown alone before. This has always been a fear for me.
We traveled to Weliso to visit the kids family. Our first stop was the Emanuel orphanage. . Eyob is the director of this orphanage and he invited us to visit and partake in the coffee ceremony. The kids are quite anxious to see older brother, Biruk, but agree that we should go. On our way, driving down a dirty dust road we saw Biruk!!! What a surprise. He was in his rickshaw. He jumped out and gave hugs all around. He followed us on to the orphanage. Eyob had a quite intimidating appearance. He is tall, black as night, has heavy curly hair and big gummy smile. He looks like an African warlord, but is in fact a kind, gentle Christian man. The kids all ran out to see us and shake our hands, many yelling Faringie, Faringie. (The native word for foreigner.) He gave us a tour of the grounds, the boys room, the girls room, the baby room. The baby room was empty, we were told there was an outbreak of malaria and the babies were moved into the city until they could be safely at the orphanage. We were a little disappointed. Derara and I were wanting to have another baby party like we did at the CCI house. We were introduced to pastor of the orphanage. The area is conservative Muslim and this guy is opening his own church on the back of the property. The only thing that adorns the walls are scriptures. We are shown Eyobs office and the church. To say this place was a pitiful sight is an understatement. To look at the place, it looks uninhabitable. But it is very inhabited. 45+ children call this place home. I feel Jesus presence stronger in an orphanage than anywhere else in the world. Eyob leads us to the kitchen and there we are served coffee. They have the place fixed nice for us. Plastic table clothes, cans with flowers in them. I feel unworthy of being in this space in time. They have nothing and are still going all out for us.
Next we travel closer to grandmothers house. We stop along the way to visit the kids fathers brother, Birhanu. He lives in a oromia thatched roof hut with his wife and two children. They invited us in to look around their home. I had never been in a home that looked like this. It had dirt floors and dirt walls with newspapers on them. They treated us kindly and I wondered to myself “Is this how Derara lived as a small child.” I had been to his brothers shanty but not to his grandmothers house.
We traveled off the road onto a dirt road and stopped when it became impassable. We made the rest of the journey on foot. Then she saw us…hugs and tears around. This is the house Simon and Kaleab lived in as small children.
She tells us that Derara was very sick when he was little. She thought he might die. She gave him a nickname that means “God is with us”. She gave also Kaleab Mercy a nickname and though I cannot remember the name I remember that it meant “The cross of Christ.” I look at where my kids came from and I begin to cry. I have been at my emotional breaking point all day and this tender moment I had the privilege to witness was my undoing. “God is love. God is Holy. “ In this moment I am seeing his character.
She keeps her arms around Derara from the time she sees him. She tells us she is so happy. She keeps thanking us for all we have done for her family. I never feel like we have done anything. But this time I see it through her eyes. Her daughter died. She loved her and misses her still. She wasn’t able to care for the grandchildren. She is too poor…and on another continent a family puts her daughters children back together. They won’t be naked, they won’t be hungry and they will be together. I am so thankful to be the instrument of joy for this woman.
We walk back to the vehicle and say our goodbyes. I don’t know if this is the last time the kids will see their grandma or not, but I know we all will always remember this day.
We drive back out to Biruks shanty. It is a four room structure and 3 people each have their own room and one room, the room that my children lived in is empty. We go in and talk. While everyone is talking, I am handed a small tattered photo album. I go outside so I can clearly see it and I am stopped in my tracks. Their biological parents. My eyes are locked with the eyes of my kids Mom and Dad. She is small and looks like Selamawit. He is tall and muscular and looks like our own Sweet D. This is such a treasure. I begin taking pictures of the photo pages. There are a couple pictures of my kids when they were smaller. Kaleab Mercy as a baby. Selamawit as a baby. It looks like the family was doing well when Selamawit and Biruk were babies. That is when the most pictures were taken. There are few pictures after that time. I return the photo album and sit down for dinner. Their fathers sister is the cook in the area and she fixes us traditional Ethiopian food. It is quite good. She is happy with our compliments. We talk to Biruk about his future and how we can help him. We make some plans. It is getting late and dark and the kids are tired. They decide they’d like to spend the night in the room with Biruk. I look around and see a few stools, homemade border on the walls, one small pallet on the floor and an old suitcase in the corner. “Where will you sleep?” I asked Derara. He says he will sleep in the floor and wants to stay. We kiss them all goodnight and take off to our hotel room.
On the way to the room Iella, our cab driver tells us this is one his favorite days. “We made the old lady so happy.” It is one of my favorite days too and I am happy he was with us. We have drinks on the patio when we arrive at the hotel. I am a little leery of going in the room and want to stretch out the night. When my eyes become too heavy we walk to our sleeping quarters.
I have never been a more pitiful hotel room. It cost us 7 dollars!!! Can you imagine? I’m afraid my pictures of it don’t do it justice.

I am afraid to climb in the bed. The mosquito netting has holes in it. The bathroom stinks. I tried to talk Ryan into getting back in the car driving to the city but he will not. I am reminded of my earlier struggle with being a spoiled American and I let sleep have me. At least I am creating a memory right?

Day 6, my prayer closet

We just hung out here at home today. We have been trying to resolve an issue with the kids passports. They gave them the wrong birthdates and the embassy would not take them. In these birthdates they were 6 months a part in age and they said that wasn’t possible for biological siblings. So the day we got here we received new birth certificates with new ages (correct ones). We then had to go to immigration to get new passports. Our embassy appointment was supposed to be today and we did not get Selamawits passport. We went on to the embassy to talk to them about it and they were closed. So if we don’t get it tomorrow we won’t come home Monday. This left me feeling particularly bummed. So bummed in fact, I had to try my best to keep it together. I don’t have a very good poker face though and folks were asking me what’s wrong. As soon as we got back to the guest house I ran up to the bedroom and closed the door. I shed a few tears and Ryan came in and we talked a bit. I asked him to call home and check on everybody but not to give me the phone. I knew if I heard anyones voice at home I’d started crying all over again. I guess I’m home sick. I was home sick one time when I was a little girl. It isn’t a good feeling. Selamawit came in the room to get her “chruch musica” that she picked out yesterday. This sweet daughter of mine is already ministering to me. I followed her lead and got my iphone out and put my ear buds in and listened to Shane and Shane. I consider this my prayer closet. I went down stairs and sat with Selamawit as she listened to her “Church Musica”. I began to sing aloud “ I was dead in my sin, you came in yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah. You made a way when there was no way. You covered heaviness with garments of praise. You wrote a song and your singing it over me….”
I left my buds in and we walked across the busy street to find some dinner. I passed a lady with her infant on the side of the road and I stopped and gave her some money. Selamawit was so happy to see this. I can feel the spoiled American beginning to slip away.