A Sacred Place

Any place where people gather in love is a sacred place.

We left the white panel van to follow the beaten path towards the huts.  Doro cross the path, clucking anxiously as we draw near.  The compound is partially enclosed in fencing made of rough hewn sticks, and I still find myself amazed at the unexpected green-ness of it all, the rich smell of soil and rain.  I can see the huts now, earth, wood and thatch, and bigger than I expected.  I see cattle and a hungry looking dog.  And children and men and women who seem to be waiting for us.  And then he steps out from one of the huts, and I see him.

He is my height, and wearing a button down tan shirt, tan jacket and tan pants with a hole in the knee.  He looks nervous.  When I reach him, I shake his hand with a "salaam."  His hands are thickly callused.  We enter the hut together and take a seat on a wooden bench.

My eyes take some time to adjust to the darkness.  We aren't alone.  There are at least 10 others - men, women, children - inside the hut.  And two cows.  The cows are indifferent to our presence, the people are staring intently.  I am nervous.  And when Sue squeezes my hand, I know that she is too.  I read the letter we have brought for him, our promises to care and love his daughter, and listen as the translation is made, English to Amharic, Amharic to Oromo.  He nods his head and repeats the same word over and over.  "Ishi, ishi."

Before coming to this place, Sue and I agreed to the questions we would ask.  Our list was short and simple. And the first one we ask is the one we both felt was most important.  "What do you want us to tell Aberash?"  His answer comes rapidly and intently, as if bursting forth from within him.  "Tell her I love her.  Tell her that I wanted her to be cared for, and to have enough food, and to go to school.  That was why I did this."

This is a sacred place. 

There are other questions and answers that follow, but all seem less important than the first.  We eat roasted corn together.  And then we drink shots of areki, a drink that melts away any remaining tension.  We leave the hut and there are photographs.  As we walk back to the white van he holds Sue's hand, smiling shyly.  I shake his rough hands a final time.  And then we are gone.

My daughter has two fathers.  One watched as his wife and other children died, one by one.  He labored to feed her and care for her.  He protected her in uncommon ways.  And when he felt he could not care for and protect her, he let her go.  I see his smile in her smile, and I believe that he is responsible for her strength, her determination, her humor.  She is angry with him right now.  The memory of the late night trip and the time spent in the scary place remains fresh in her mind.  And she needs a place to direct her anger.  She also seems to understand that after anger will come grief, and this grief is even more scary to her than the time she spent in the orphanage.  She is seven.

How do you explain the depth and meaning of sacrifice to a seven year old when you can't fully explain it to yourself?  Don't think that rationalization is enough, because it isn't.  It is the superficial explanation for a decision that is wrought with emotion as deep as the soul. A decision of selfless, pure, sacred love.  What is the path like that leads you here?  How many times to you have to grapple and torture over the pros and cons of letting go?  And what waits on the other side?  A leap of faith?  The hope that you made the right decision, and your sacrifice won't be in vain?    

So I tell her what I can.  I tell her that he wanted her to be cared for, to have enough food, to go to school.  I tell her that I see his smile in her smile.  And I tell her that I understand that she is angry, but that I know he loves her.  That I can only imagine the kind of love it took to say goodbye.  These are the only words I have right now and for now, I hope they are enough.
.
My daughter will always have two fathers.  And this father may never be able to fully explain the sacrifice made by the other, the man with the shy and gentle smile.  But he will spend the rest of his life working to prove himself worthy of it.  Because we are connected.  Through our shared love for a little girl, and a vow.  Made in a sacred place, and sealed with areki and clasped hands.