Lessons From An Ethiopian Soccer Field

This is Casey… Emily is sleeping, thankfully.  I am not a writer, but I do have a story worth telling.   

To give you a picture of life here, it is 4:45AM, and three of us are down in the dining room sipping strong Ethiopian brew.  None can sleep, and we all sit here working out life with its author.  One man with me is free-spirited poet, whose has encouraged me since I met him.  He and his wife are adopting a child found in a latrine.  The other is a young lady who has tried 3 times to adopt the same child; this time may not work either.  Her faith, her perspective, and her perseverance reminds me that our adoption, thus far, has been comparatively smooth.  I ache for her as I think about her going home yet again without her son.  On many levels, she has humbled me.

The chanting has started below us, as the Muslims compete with the Orthodox church to see who is the loudest, and who can turn on their PA the earliest.  The Muslims would have won this morning with a 4:45AM start time, though the fighting street dogs beat even them by about 4 hours.

I have been humbled on several occasions this trip, and have been amazed that when I come to serve, I am served.  I have particularly enjoyed playing soccer with the local street kids.  We play outside our guest house in the street.  If I tell the kids that I’ll play at 3:00, they are waiting outside our guarded gate at 2:00.  Obviously, there isn’t a “pitch” here for which to play… the street is rocky, with a ravine running along one side.  In the open ravine rests rain water from the last soaking, as well as the local sewer.  There is trash, dead animals, and feces in there… and as much as we try to avoid the ball from falling in, it is inevitable. 

Early in our first game, I managed to shank a shot on goal, and the ball landed in the ravine with a splash.  I knew the splash was a bad sign.  The ball was covered in slop, for lack of better words, and as I reach down to get it, a little boy we were playing with us stopped me, saying “No, I get it.” 

We keep playing, and I manage to trap a slop covered ball on my thigh.  As I looked at my new, $49 Columbia “captain travel pants,” now covered in feces, I wonder what to do.  Before I could decide on the best action, another young boy runs to me, looks me in the eyes, and begins using his bare hand to wipe the feces off my leg.  I stood there, unable to express what was going on in me.

This was all Thursday.

We went to play again yesterday (Friday), but realized that we had no ball.  The guard at our guest house was kind enough to lend us his ball.  2 hours into it, we popped it.  I made the executive decision that it was a good time for a Coca Cola break.  I walked down the street, and bought 14 glass, warm Coca Cola bottles for “Team Ethiopia” for 49 burr, or $3.25 US money.  As we enjoyed our Coca Cola, there was more gratitude in those children’s hearts then my heart has felt in a long while. They didn’t demand anything, and were grateful for what they received. Every single child, from 7-16 years old, made a point of coming up to me and saying thank you.

I sat down to talk to the kids, and soon began talking with a 16 year old boy with a make-shift cast and sling on his arm.  I asked him what he did, and he said he broke his arm a long time ago.  He asked me to go to his “house,” and look at his x-rays.  I did just this, and needless to say, the house isn’t a house by our standards.  Tin roof, one room about the size of my breakfast nook, and a goat wandering throughout the place… no abode is complete here without a goat.  This boy hadn’t moved his arm in 2 months, and had no idea when he was supposed to get his cast removed.  We talked through what kind of fracture it was, the fact that he would probably never be able to rotate his hand again (pronation, supination) as the fracture was never set.  He smiled with joy, and was incredibly grateful for my time, and for answers.

We now faced the reality of a popped ball.  I knew this wouldn’t go over well with the guard, and I knew I didn’t want to upset the man who guards the gates to our little abode.  He demanded, “What you do!  You popped my ball.”  I tried to convince him that I would pay him for it, and he told me it would cost $150 burr. About the time I go in to get my wallet, the kids start yelling at me.  They tell me that one child has ran home to get his soccer ball, and that he will give it to the guard in order to replace the popped one.  I told them that I could pay for it, and yet they persisted.  They were going to give up their one possession that they hold dearly so that I wouldn’t have to pay ~$9 for a new ball.    

The children here have been given little, yet they give so much.  They have every reason to be bitter, yet they have joy.  They outrun me, and hustle with more vigor than I could muster at 8500 feet elevation.  They are compassionate, caring, and humble.  They look out for eachother, and serve one another.  Lord, please make me more like an Ethiopian street kid.