Black Coffee and 9th Grade

Two days ago I watched Annie take a sip of black coffee she had just made.   

“Ummmm.  Ahhhhh. This is sooooo good!” 

Her eyelids were half closed as she was drowning in the moment, enjoying the rich African coffee, the complex aromas and flavorful oils from the beans preserved by using a french press.

Black coffee? At 14 years old? When did that happen? 

I don’t remember making that black cup for her the first time. I don’t remember when she moved from a mocha with whip to a mocha no whip, to a light mocha, to a plain latte to a black coffee…to a coffee connoisseur who appreciates the richness and boldness and purity of 100% Arabica coffee beans.

Well, okay, it is true there are no Starbucks in our remote village in Malawi in the middle of Africa.  Sure, it’s probably quite logical that Annie had to learn to drink black coffee during one of the many days we’d run out of milk or sugar in our home in our remote village in Malawi in the middle of Africa.

Still, seeing my daughter drink black coffee and like it – no love it – still gives me goosebumps as I write this (yes, I am unashamedly a coffee freak.)

Don is no longer my black coffee partner. Without a fancy espresso machine here in Malawi,
I can still make him a creamy cappuccino, worthy of documenting in this picture!

Now that I think about it, she must have matured into my black coffee-drinking buddy about the same time she ended 8^th grade and started 9^th grade.  All without pomp and circumstance. All without calling attention to herself.  All in Annie’s dainty, demure disposition.

Demure definition: “Characterized by modesty and shyness.”

I cherish the memories of Demure Annie in the 5^th grade at Iowa Street Elementary with Mrs. Fieri.  This teacher was passionate about writing. Her “Showing Writing” lesson would teach Annie’s class to embrace creative words … 

to feel the words and 

mold the words and 

delight in the words 

like a warm, squishy puppy that you want to snuggle and kiss, words that are alive and jump and just bring out the JOY in your soul.  

In this 5^th grade Showing Writing lesson, Annie had to choose a fresh phrase, an adjective that attached to her name to cleverly capture her true spirit.  And then, she had to create a paragraph of creative metaphors and similes to describe her name phrase.  The writing assignment concluded with a "fashion show" to read and show her writing in character.

Her personal description: Demure Annie 

Her costumed character: an angel

That was five years ago!  And this demure damsel--who somehow resembles a confident teenager more than a shy, modest 5^th grader and is now drinking black coffee and homeschooling in Africa and working on advanced Geometry and writing her own creative, showing words that would bring tears to Mrs. Fieri’s eyes--is really in high school!

While our three other children had 8th grade graduation ceremonies at a brick and mortar junior high school, Annie sat quietly at our dining room table in Malawi, finished her last test, closed the book, and walked outside to begin her day at Hope Village.   I sat next to her, finished my coffee, put her book away (for her!), and never related the close of that book with the close of 8^th grade.

Could I have done more to commemorate this academic occasion? Gulp.  Yes!  

So I write this tonight for Annie.  In lieu of a junior high school graduation, a family party, a summer celebration with friends before high school, I hereby publicly acknowledge that Annie Green has finished 8^th grade. (And she excelled, if I can be so un-demure!).

So this blog is my own little Hallmark card for my little girl.

“Congratulations on a job well done.”

“You’ve made your mom and dad SO proud.”

“You are a STAR.”

“You’ve made it to high school!”

“Keep drinking black coffee because studies show it increases your academic performance.”

OK, maybe I can do better than these trite greetings.  I’ll get help from the psalmist who wrote:

“Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD,

the fruit of the womb a reward.” (Psalm 127:3)

So, here is my real greeting:

“Annie, you are truly a gift from the Lord. You are a reward yes, but your dad and I did not earn you, as your feats far surpass our parenting proficiencies. You are demure when appropriate, but full of body and flavor too, as pure and complex as fresh-roasted coffee. And oh, by the way, thank you for drinking black coffee with me…and big congratulations on excelling in 8^th grade.  We are so proud of you.  You are loved, and cherished!”

My girl!  Ready to conquer the world.

It's Raining Babies at Hope Village!

This week, Hope Village has been an oasis in the desert for 4 small babies and their families: Vyda, Yosefem, Ndaziona and Ruth. Yes, we feel like it’s “raining babies” here! Each came with a sad story, but each was sent home wrapped in the hope that we can provide their basic need for nutrition and medical care for the first year of their life.

Can you help us to find a sponsor for these little ones, (help us by sharing this blog with your friends or family), so we can continue to provide baby milk and medical attention for these little ones? Three of the four babies have lost their mothers due to complications in childbirth. Bless you and thank you for your helping heart!

Bless the beasts and the children

For in this world they have no voice

They have no choice…

My teenage voice sang along to this tune, “Bless the beasts and the children” with the Carpenters in the 1970s. My middle-aged voice started humming this tune again as I reflected on these 4 new babies. I wept over each story, knowing full well they have no voice … and that their families too, have no choice. Desperation and desolation hang over their poverty-stricken homes like a dark winter storm that never breaks.

But, God brought these families and their babies to Hope Village so we can show them hope, be that light to break through their heavy clouds.

Baby Vyda: Mom dies in childbirth, so Dad learns to bottle-feed

Baby Vyda’s mother died in childbirth just last month. The family was given one tin of formula from the hospital when they sent the family home without a mommy to breastfeed. When that tin ended, they struggled to buy more formula, but it took one week’s wages to buy just one tin. They couldn’t do it. Vyda’s father is a farmer who grows cotton as his main source of income.

Baby Vyda was showing signs of dehydration

Little Vyda is the youngest of 3 children borne of her mother. Her father, Paulo, had two wives, and has 8 children with the other wife. His financial responsibilities are truly tapped! In Malawi, it is quite common to have two wives, and if one wife dies, the living wife does not accept the children. The grandmother will care for baby Vyda, but the dad was eager to learn how to measure the baby formula and feed the baby. He said he would stay involved in caring for Baby Vyda.

Baby Vyda's father learns how to make the baby milk by Enert at the Hope Village baby house.

 

The grandmother holds Baby Vyda, while the father, Paulo, looks on.

  

Baby Yosefe: Dad has 2 wives and the baby's mom, feeling neglected, has no breast milk

Sadly, Baby Yosefe is also borne of a family divided, a father with two wives. Yosefe’s mom came to us because she could not produce breast milk, and the baby was quickly becoming malnourished. At four months old, he was 1kg below the danger line on the baby chart, and had been steadily losing weight. They have been feeding him maize porridge (corn flour and water) for the last 2 months, but this does not have the required nutrition for his small, developing body.

Baby Yosefe was not happy with us when we placed him on the scale!

Annie tried her best to squeeze a smile from Baby Yosefe.

Yosefe and his mother Grace were accompanied by the baby’s father, who carried them for 5 hours on his bicycle to bring them to Hope Village. The small family sat in our clinic and shared their brokenness. The father has 2 wives. Grace feels neglected, because he spends more time with the other wife and her 5 children.

So, Grace recently "divorced" him (which occurs in Malawi when one partner leaves the house) and moved back home with her mother and 2 children. Grace was vocal about her feelings of neglect, while the father barely spoke. But, we were encouraged when he told us he was committed to helping this baby survive, and would make the 10-hour round-trip bike ride each week to collect the baby milk.

The father and mother were clearly at odds in their relationship, 
but both agreed to do what was needed to keep Baby Yosefe healthy.

Baby Ndaziona: Her mother is dead but the aunts pour love into her little life

Baby Ndaziona’s mother struggled for her life after delivering the baby via C-section, and eventually died from surgical complications when the baby was just 3 weeks old. The grandmother then named the baby “Ndaziona”, which means, “Trouble has come”.

Baby Ndaziona's sweet face does not resemble her given name, "Trouble has come."

The baby’s 2 aunts brought Ndaziona to Hope Village just 3 days after burying her mommy. They had been feeding her cow’s milk for the last week, but knew it was not full of the nutrition she needed, and knew they could not afford to buy baby formula.

Baby Ndazion's aunts receive a baby gift from Hope Village, presented by Glenda

In God’s perfect timing, we had a visitor from Northern Ireland the day Ndaziona came. Glenda McMullen’s heart broke when she held this new baby, hearing the story from the aunts, watching it drink from the bottle we made. Glenda poured her love and prayers over this baby and the aunts who carried her for hours to get to us in the heat of summer. After we said goodbye to the aunts and they were packing their things for the long trip home, one of the ladies came running back to the clinic, found Glenda, and gave her a tight hug.

It’s a funny thing in Malawi. People don’t hug. They don’t even say “thank you” very often, although we know they are full of gratitude. But this young lady clearly felt the love and light from Glenda and was compelled to embrace her before she left. Glenda had given them a gift, but little did they know that a hug from that aunt was a gift Glenda will never forget.

Glenda was eager to cudddle 3-week old Baby Ndaziona 

Baby Ruth: Loses a mom but finds a name with a legacy of faith

I’d just finished this blog about 3 babies and deemed it ready to post when the good Lord guided another family to Hope Village this morning. OK, so this can be a blog about 4 babies!

This petite grandmother carried her daughter’s 5-day old baby on her back, accompanied by her adult son. She buried her daughter just a few days ago and was now looking for help in feeding this small, 6-lb little girl with no name.

When 5-day old Baby Ruth came to us this morning, she had no name.

The baby’s mom died from excessive bleeding during childbirth. The grandmother, a widow and a farmer, also does day labor as income. She bought powdered milk to feed the baby for the first few days, but spent the last of her money yesterday. The village chief told her about Hope Village, so she set out at 5am this morning. She and her son walked for 4 hours to get here.

 

This picture was taken shortly after the grandmother and Baby Ruth arrived, 

tired from walking over 4 hours in the already humid, heavy heat of the morning.

After we provided the instructions on making the baby milk, gave them a newborn gift, and prayed over the baby and her family, the grandmother asked if we’d bless this baby with a name. Surely we can do this, and with joy! George McMullen, one of our Northern Ireland visitors, was quick to offer this gift in the name of Ruth.

“Ruth is an example of how God rewards faithfulness,” his wife Glenda whispered to the grandmother through her tears.

Yes. As told in the Bible, God’s love in Ruth’s life overcame so many obstacles—poverty, racial prejudice, age disparity, and physical temptations. And this is our prayer for Baby Ruth's life as well.  

There wasn’t a dry eye at our clinic today as we watched this baby with no name be carried away with a new name, a new legacy, and a new future.

George and Glenda shared some smiles and some love with Baby Ruth, her grandmother and uncle.

Can you help us bring light to these babies?

I can’t get that 1970’s song out of my head, and keep singing the last chorus:

Light their way

When the darkness surrounds them

Give them love

Let it shine all around them

As I watched Glenda give love to Ndaziona, or when George teared up as he named Ruth, or when Don cradled the malnourished Yosefe, or when Vyda's daddy learned how to make formula…there was a light I saw shining...all around them. We are so thankful for these divine opportunities at Hope Village to help “light their way, give them love, let it shine.”

In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. Matthew 5:16

You can email me at leanne.green@me.com or Tracy at hopevillage@hftn.co.uk for specific information on baby sponsorships costs. Thank you!

A Peculiar Parallel: Matthew is 21 and Henry is Starving

I had an epiphany today about my son Matthew, turning 21 tomorrow, and Henry, a young Malawian man suffering from near starvation.  A peculiar parallel, but I’d like to share it with you.

Henry, once strong and hard-working as a contract painter at Hope Village, is now dangerously close to starvation due to a mysterious disease eating away at his throat and esophagus. He is a 30-something father of 4, his only son a 10-year old wheel chair prisoner due to cerebral palsy.  

Here's a picture of Henry before he got sick.

Henry lives in a typical mud brick home in the middle of a shade-less hot and dusty Malawian village. With no income since becoming ill, he aches more from the worry of how to feed his son and 3 young daughters than he does from the acute throat lesions that have kept him from eating for two months.

I suddenly realized:  I never hear Henry complain.

After a 12-hour day today – 4 hours in the car and 8 hours at the hospital – Don and I take Henry home. We leave him, once again, with no answers from the doctors. No hope for relief. No advice on how to eat, or drink, or gain strength. I watch him lay down slowly, weakly, on his mat ...

on the ground

on the dirt
               next to his son's wheelchair

               outside his home made of mud. 

How can it be, I wonder, that I never hear Henry complain?

I dwell on this phenomenon as we drive home, staring at the propensity of third-world poverty passing by my window.

Malawians never complain. Not Henry. Not the orphans or widows or sick and starving people I meet every day. They have so many reasons to whine. I know I would.  But they don’t.

And then I think of Matty. He’s turning 21, so I’m having oodles of Matthew memories gushing from my heart.

And I realize. I never hear Matthew complain.

Like flipping channels between a light-hearted sitcom and a heart-wrenching documentary, the obvious dichotomy between Matthew, Henry and Malawians doesn’t stop my comparison.

I remember the first 21 years of Matty’s life with a grateful smile, a warm tear, a heavy sigh, and a thankful heart. 

I still hear the giggles in thousands of moments of loving, cuddling, playing, camping and just abundantly blessed living. But I also recall growing pains, school mistakes, and sports disappointments; complications from blended families, too many homes, and too many schools. 

A mom who worked too much,

  a dad who pushed too hard,

    and expectations from both that were set too high. 

But in every flash of my memory, I never hear Matthew complain.

He never laments over little things like doing the dishes, or big things like moving houses 10 times or changing schools 7 times. He never groans over silly things like sister drama or life-changing things like parents who live in separate houses. If a friend shuns him, he shrugs it off.

Disappointments roll off his back like raindrops on a waxy windshield.   They just don’t stick.

Some people, like Matthew and Henry, are just not wired to whimper.

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe.  Phil 2:14

Admittedly, I am part of this crooked and depraved generation.  But I also know that God calls us to try to be blameless and pure, so even without the use of words, we can bring others closer to Him.  I am humbly uplifted by people – like Matthew and Henry and so many Malawians -- who shine not because of something they have, but because of something they lack.  A void of complaints. By failing at wailing.

So today, on Matthew’s 21^st birthday, I thank my Creator who gave this child to me on September 22, 1992, with such a gentle disposition that “shines like stars in the universe.”

I thank Him for this day with Henry, for opening my eyes, closing my mouth, and drenching me in His mercy.

And for Matty, 10,000 miles away, I say “Thank you for your bounty of gifts that come to me as smiles, hugs and shoulder rubs instead of gripes or complaints."

“Thank you for your gift of grace through my failings as a mother, your sweet acceptance instead of accusations."

“Happy Birthday, Matthew. I love you and am so proud of you!”

11 Steps Closer to Leaving Us

Annie posted a video of Mada walking this week on Facebook.  I counted his steps. There were 11!  His smile was PROUD. He babbled so LOUD.  He toddled and teetered, as a one-year old would ... but did it in his 2-½ year old body.

Click here to see the 15 second video:

Mada is 11 steps closer to leaving us.

These 11 wobbly steps poke at my heart, not only because I am here in California while he is there progressing wildly without me, but because he is 11 steps closer to leaving us.

(Madalitso -- aka Mada -- is the malnourished orphan we have grown to love and selfishly consider "our own" since he came to Hope Village a year ago for medical attention.  He has not gone home yet! Our agreement with Mada's family has always been that he would not return to his extended family until he could fend for himself in the harsh village life. Walking is imperative.)

So, it’s almost time for Mada to go home. Home to poverty. Home to his bed on the dirt floor, his bath from a bucket of cold water, his clothes of rags, his toilet—a hole in the ground.  Home to hunger and thirst. 

OK, maybe I’m being a bit of a drama queen. Maybe his life won’t be that bad.  But on my yardstick of a tolerable environment, his future seems ... well... a bit harder than I would wish for him.   But, the truth is, it will be harder for us at Hope Village to adjust to life without Mada, then it will be for him to re-adjust to life in the village again.  

Anyone think we have gone overboard on his wardrobe?

I can’t deny he is returning to a family that loves him.  Home to the aunt and uncle who took him in (and his siblings) when his parents died; who have faithfully taken turns to visit him at Hope Village every 2 weeks, (6 hours round trip on bicycle, sometimes in unbearable 120F and higher heat) so “he won’t forget who we are," they tell us.

Home to his 11-year old sister Mitale who carried him on her back for those 6 months of homelessness before we found her, as she struggled to feed not only herself and Mada, but her 2 younger brothers as well, foraging for leaves in the bush to cook, begging for food from neighbors.

Aunt Mary offered Mada some peanuts, reaquanting herself with him last month.

Mada eyed his 11-year old sister Mitale with curiosity, and comfort, when they saw each other 

last month for the first time in a long while. She was once his sole caretaker.

  

Don always reminds me, “We’ll know it’s time to return Mada to the village when he can walk.”  

Because Mada was severely malnourished when he came to Hope Village a year ago, his immune system was crushed.  He has been tormented with chronic malaria, endless ear and chest infections, parasitic worms, relentless diarrhea and fevers. 

His health has been our daily battle.  With God on Mada’s side (not to forget assistance from Dr. Don), I think the battle is nearly won.

As subsistence farmers, his aunt and uncle admit they are not inclined to care for a sickly child.  They get to their fields around dawn and many days don’t come home until dusk.  Mada’s twin died while under their care last October (his “daycare” was sitting out in the hot sun while they planted, weeded, harvested), and his death was apparently from complications due to fever and dehydration.

So, all of us at Hope Village are in unison.  Two-and-a-half year old Mada must be able to walk when we say our goodbyes.  To walk when he is thirsty and grab his own cup of water.  To walk when he is hungry and find his own banana.  To walk to his sister, or brother, or aunt when he’s got another ear infection, or a fever from malaria, or a tummy ache from another bout with worms.

Don is right -- walking is Mada's ticket out of Hope Village. (Not a ticket I'm eager to sell).  It's the lifeline in what could be a very hard, harsh, hunger-filled, poverty-stricken life for a toddler.

There I go again, drama mama.  

So I wait. And watch his steps.  11 and counting. 

If you'd like to help other children like Madalitso, you can email me at leanne.green@me.com.  

Or, you can go to our project donation site here, and donate with a credit card (tax-deductible):   

http://www.hopeforthenations.com/fundraiser.aspx?asset=2591&referrerId=1861