RHONDA HAS MOVED!

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My daughter Tori thought we should share this correspondence with the world. I agreed, since it happened over the holidays, and it has that feel: international, snowy, with a lesson for us all: "Let nothing you dismay."

Mum,
      I'm sorry to tell you that something nasty happened to your Norwegian sweater. I had it stored in the basement. The basement flooded. Water got inside my clothes' containers. No one notified me, not even the landlord. When I finally went down there, I had two bins of totally moldy clothes. Disgusting. I sent the valuable ones to the dry cleaners...including your sweater. Now there's a hole in the front (can mold EAT clothes?) and irreparable staining: the blue dye bled into the white part. Should I give it away? Hang onto it? It's not moldy anymore, but who would wear it? Do you want it back?

Grieved,

Tori

* * * * * * *

Dear Tori,

      Be at peace! This is all part of the Peer Gyntian drama of that sweater. It all began in 1979 when I was an exchange student in the land of fjords and trolls.

      It was gifted to me by a young lad whose family had hosted me in Oslo. He came to visit our family farm in Illinois. He was pleasant looking. He was destined to be a doctor. He was warm and bright and...and...his mother had knitted a sweater for me. A frail, illness-plagued woman who had taken me to gather blueberries on a hill outside of Oslo! Who invited me to remove my shoes before entering her pristine home, and gave me thick warm stockings to wear on her wooden floors. The classic Norsk design, the sizing of the sweater, all chosen for Rrrroonda de amerikansk.

      What could I possibly give in return? Was I expected to marry her son? I secretly turned to my own mother. She brought out a needlepoint throw pillow she had made. "This is for your mother," I said to the lad. He looked very pleased. "You made this?" he said hopefully. I shyly mumbled something. Was I destined to be a doctor's wife? I had nary a thought. Tore--yes, his name was Tore! with a slash through the O and pronounced "toorah"--did not captivate my heart.

      He went his way (to Ohio, I believe), and I went mine. 

      Ah, Tore Lappegard. His name meant "small field" (should a farmer's daughter marry him or no?). I have a photo of him somewhere: his family took me to a park in Oslo where I photographed a statue of a naked stomping baby called (English translation) "Little Spitfire."

      I did love that sweater. Unlike Tore, it fit me perfectly. And I found love while owning it: your father, the truly suited suitor. We and the sweater moved to Massachusetts. There I, a starry-eyed new homemaker learning to do my own laundry, washed the sweater. And dried the sweater. The WOOLEN sweater. And...and...and...as the Norwegians say, og...og...og....

      It shrank. Shrunk.

      Too tight in the armpits. Like Too-rah, nice but not really comfortable.

      I thought I'd taken the sweater to a thrift shop long ago. Occasionally, I thought of it, but always with a cringe, as "that beautiful hand knit sweater that I stupidly shrunk." Until this moment, until your note, the remembrance of the sweater has given little joy.

      But ah, this final demise. It is like the dank dark woods of Thor's very realm. "Baldar the Beautiful is dead! Is dead!" Midnight blue bleeding into rams-white wool. The smell of rotting leaves trodden by cruel landlords who lie, who steal, whom the gods must avenge.....ahhh, Hulga! Hilda! Hoy ya hoy YA!

      Be free. It is a Nordic saga for a frosty winter night. Take dramatic photos of it. Involve your Norwegian husband's ancestors somehow. Above all, save the buttons. They can become anything: charms to ward off howling wolves, stoppers for sacks of rich wine. Ornaments which you hang on the first fir tree of your new life. As all who go to Norway say (unless they are mismatched),

Jeg elsker deg.

Mum

The Quick Change Room

I’ve had many part-time, temporary jobs over the years, but none harder than Costume Director for a small community theater production. I was paid what I was worth (a bag of chocolates, I think it was), so no one really had the right to complain about my performance. But surprisingly, they did.

The play was called “The Quick Change Room,” and my job was to coordinate the costume changes backstage. Whoever volunteered me should have known better: you don’t give this job to someone who is easily distracted, likes to chat, and can’t see well in the dark. Focused, silent, eyes like a cat—these are the stuff. And the more amateur the actors, the more at stake. This particular troupe took great pride in their entrances onto the stage (which were, I’m sorry to say, usually better than the acting they did when they got there).

The job requires precision. Prepare for complaints. “Next time, unzip the black dress before you stick it over my head.” “Leave the top two buttons of the skirt undone—I have big hips.” “Could you just sand the soles of my shoes? I slip every time.” And my favorite: “You need to set the hat eight inches to the left—I’m used to grabbing it there.” There were also dangers. Two actors came to me breathing murderous threats against each other; the issue was (I am not making this up) a shoelace hole. As the saying goes, there are no small parts, only short fuses.

I trouble-shot and fumbled my way through five performances and at the end of each, while the actors were out celebrating, I checked and rechecked zippers, repaired rips, ironed undergarments, hung slumps of dresses back on their hangers, and rinsed out the armpits of the men’s shirts. The bag of chocolates didn’t last long.

Half-way through the first performance, I knew this was not the career for me. There’s no future in a field where you are the personal pin cushion of a prima donna. There’s no workplace pride when a misplaced boot forces an improvisation that ends with an actress in tears.

The irony in all this was that “The Quick Change Room” is a comedy taking place in a dressing room. The setting is a Russian theater. The troupe, and the country as a whole, is transitioning from communism to capitalism. The laughs come as characters bumble and hustle in and out of costumes, agonize over missed cues, and bemoan the public’s changing tastes. In the end, they turn Chekhov into a Broadway-style extravaganza, and the place sells out.

I can’t recommend it for the whole family (there is one scene that has, uh, no costumes and is rather…hippy), but it is a very clever play. And I learned a lot. Some fascinating discussion took place in the (real) changing room. The best actor was a big bearded Italian with a host of family anecdotes and a loud, happy voice. Joe was actually the one responsible for the lost boots (he had left them under his dressing table), and he graciously apologized, which was no small consolation amid the slings and arrows I was dodging. Joe liked to call attention to his orientation. He talked about his “crush on this cute guy at Walgreens," and he liked to describe features of the culture he hung out in. One actress bantered back and forth with Joe about their lifestyle differences. She was the mother of four. So was I. One night Joe said, “Do you know what we call women like you? Breeders.” The actress laughed, and I felt curiously unoffended. I liked Joe. He was nice to me. He was polite about buttons, and he sprayed all the shoes with Febreze. He meant no harm. He was simply offering a glimpse into a social order that he himself didn’t seem to take all that seriously.

To tease out a metaphor: We are in a quick-change room, and rehearsals aren’t going well. It’s not exactly a family-friendly show. Apparently a new world order is afoot and we're all expected to shift a little to the left.

I am a mother (of an admittedly wild brood), not a politician or pundit, and most of my job is done. The hustle and fumble and forced improv was worth it. I couldn’t ask for a better role. I’ll admit that, as the show goes on, I worry. But I have heard that the director is very good and, as he is wont to do, will flawlessly pull it off in the end.

           

                                                        

                                        

The Name's the Thing

I became an English major so that I could read classics and avoid laboratories. I wanted to write poetry, not research plants. I understood symbolism; I didn't understand cells. These were two incompatible worlds, a divided campus, Caliban spurning Ariel. Indisputable theory and playful imagination were impossible bedfellows. Which is why I was intrigued by a recent radio broadcast.

The program combined a touching narrative (a young girl named Claire is enchanted by a bird) with biological insight (the bird's evolutionary purpose). All was tied together with deep philosophical hypothesizing—mainly by me, while driving along the I-15.

The bird is called the honeyguide, and it lives in Mozambique. Its name is sweetly practical: this species actually does lead people to honey. To summon the bird, you must first master its sound, which was nicely demonstrated on the program: a long rolling rrr followed by a sharp humph. You whir and huff your way into the forest and soon, playful as Puck, out flies the little brown honeyguide. Follow it leaf by leaf, and you will discover luxuriant, edible, dripping gold.

According to the broadcaster, “Scientists believe that, billions of years ago, the bird may have evolved an innate desire to lead people to honey.” My first thought was that a chocolateguide would have been just as useful. But then the bird would have ended up in South America, never to be discovered by young Claire.

My second thought was this: prior to honing its innate desire, the bird surely evolved organizational skills and an altruistic instinct. In fact, a group of honeyguides could easily form a non-profit. On their continent, many important causes could be targeted: world hunger, micro-financing, and/or eco-tourism, to name just a few.

Third thought: My son could capitalize on this. He works for a company that helps non-profits to raise funds. By successfully marketing its services to the honeyguide, he could help his company expand internationally. Sam, declaring himself “the fittest,” could then muscle his way up the ranks. This natural selection would mean, of course, a hefty raise.

However, as we have seen, evolution is not without its hitches. There is such a thing as moral devolution, in which a progressive desire for luxury masks itself as biological Necessity. If it comes to this in Sam's case, I will have to keep an eye on him, maybe offering to do research—on, say, an all-expense paid trip to the Mediterranean.

But in the meanwhile, hats off to the honeyguide for sticking around these billions of years to make life sweeter for all of us. As Shakespeare would say (if interviewed by NPR) a honeyguide by any other name wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

The Invasion

          No European nation could have bested our rural Illinois town. We had a loyal citizenry, our own vernacular, a representative cuisine, remnants of family dynasties and even some unique tourist sites. We were better off than much of the world, and there was rarely outside interference. Our borders were secure.

           So when the French invaded, we were naturally alarmed.

           Some say that the most tragic year for the English was 1066, when the Normans crossed the channel and completely wrecked the language. We were no philologists, but we too would have fought hard at Hastings.
          Freshman year. French I. A small but resilient band. The teacher was an outsider, new to the school, and though we didn't dislike her (quite) it was hard to keep a straight face when she introduced herself as Miss Diggle.
          Oh rare Miss Diggle! Orange hair as big as a continent, parchment-pale skin, searing red lipstick, soft, sly voice. Her teaching method was calm, quiet, almost hypnotic, but all the while she was preparing a siege. She would take us captive and immerse us in French.
          Day One. Do not open your textbooks. Listen. Listen again.
          “Papa, mangeons dans un restaurant ce soir. Oui Papa, dinons en ville. Excellente idee, mais demandez a Maman d'abord.”

           Now repeat, line by line.

           That was when heads began to roll.

           We said,“Papa, mowgee doo resteroo sissy. Wee paba deeno veal. Egg-sale day may day dom dibbo.”

           After a few rounds of this, Miss Diggle told us what we were butchering. Apparently, two children in France wanted to go to a restaurant. Their father liked the idea, but they had to ask Mom first.

           We howled. Why didn't they just say so? 'Mowgee' and 'deeno' for eat? What kind of family was this? 'Wee' for yes? That kind of thing could get you in trouble. A 'resteroo sissy'? Hardly an excellent idea. They ought to stay home. Let them eat toast.

           Miss Diggle was unfazed. She went on to teach us about French culture. Over there, people spoke through their noses. They ate goose livers. They took their dogs to all the restaurants. Women carried loaves of bread under their armpits, which they never shaved. And there was always a revolution going on--probably because the masses couldn't pronounce anything.

           We learned that life was very hard in France. They had something called the Imperfect (no surprise there) and a lot of confusion about masculine and feminine. But what did it matter? Le, la, it's still only a table. Cats aren't always male. And just because it's covered in sweat, bread isn't necessarily boy-like. Losing points on quizzes only increased our prejudice against the French.

           None of this was really Miss Diggle's fault. She had many strengths. In addition to her bold lipstick and her ability to keep a straight face, she had convinced the upperclassmen that they were now fluent. One day a senior girl stopped me in the hall to express, in raptures, how lucky I was to be starting French. She had loved it; it would forever be her favorite language; it was branded in her soul. As proof, she casually rattled off Lesson One:

           “Papa, monjo noon restawraw sisswa...Weeee...Ay-zay-lone eeday....”

           Well I say, Berets off to Miss Diggle. We remember her with delight. In fact, I googled her surname just now, and as I suspected, there is great dignity in it. We would have paid more respect, I think, if we had only known that Diggle “derives from a geographical locality, from the village of Diggle, once a farmstead, scarcely a hamlet, on the Yorkshire border.”

           I don't know exactly where that small town was, but I bet they, too, fended off the Normans before letting themselves be conquered. History does repeat itself.

The Mask

         There was a house in our town that had no green lawn, no trees and a single cracked step at the door. Really a cement square more than a house. According to my imagination—I never was inside—it had only one room, occupied by a family of fifteen children. I imagined that they all slept side by side on a hard floor, like sorted lumber.

           The reason I believed in the existence of fifteen children was this: there seemed to be one in every grade. Except for height, they were exact replicas of each other: brown hair, scattered freckles, short and slim, a bit smelly, and uncannily quiet. J. was in our class. He was not a bad kid, but had absolutely no self-assertion. I was on the other end of the social spectrum: smartest in the class and teacher's pet. The reader will forgive this claim; it is not a boast. I abused my status terribly.

          One contribution to popularity was the Halloween costume. It was especially impressive if sewn by your mother instead of store-bought. Halloween was an amazing day at school, all silliness and distraction and pretending not to be recognized. Typically the costume fit the personality, especially the villainous or goofy ones.

          If you wished for complete anonymity, you kept your mask on at recess. I can feel one today. You endured the sharp edge of cheap plastic cutting into your ears; the eye-hole was never big enough; you had to keep tilting your head to see out. The thing always needed adjustment, because the elastic was slick as a dandelion stem and kept slipping. You had to hold it by its chin when you turned your head. Your face got sweaty and your wig (necessary for hiding the other four-fifths of your head) was itchy. Inevitably the mask would be cracked by the end of the day. What a relief it was when the cupcakes were brought out! You pushed the mask—finally!--up to the top of your head so that you could eat.
          On Halloween in second grade there was great alarm and a lot of whispering: J. didn't have a costume. Not even a mask. He was that poor. What would he do at the party? Maybe he ought to go home. But while we were on the playground, the teacher detained him in the room. When we filed back in, J. was at his desk wearing a mask. Dear, kind Mrs. L. apparently kept a box of spare masks in her closet for poor children and had helped J. to choose one.

          It was a pathetic sight: the still boy alone in the center of the room, facing the blackboard. We saw his hair, his pale skin, the curved edge of the mask he had chosen. It was—this is painful to tell—a cartoon character called Porky Pig. That bright pink face was the whole of his poor disguise. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge us, just sat with unwavering stoicism while we pretended we didn't know who he was.

           Things must have improved for J., because the next year he had a full costume and had also signed up, along with two other students, to bring the party cupcakes. I was surprised that he even had a mother, let alone that she would bake.

          Jeff's cupcakes were very beautiful, heaped with colored frosting. But popularity brings power and every year more cruelty, and I spread a rumor that we shouldn't eat them. They might have cooties; let's only eat Mrs B's and Mrs D's. Because I did this, my ongoing punishment is an image of J. leaving school with a full tray in his arms, silent as the Pieta.

          Elementary school is an inevitable spectrum of achievement, and I was a “high level” reader. I deliberately chose the thickest books. My especial pride was choosing one that, in a decade, no one else had endeavored to read. It was some nautical adventure, with "Courage" in the title. I didn't especially enjoy it, but my name was now immortalized inside the cover on a pasted card, which was what I was really aiming for.

          The books I genuinely loved--blessed be our teacher for having them!--were the Oz books. The Wizard of Oz we all knew, of course, from television. But here was Ozma of Oz, The Patchwork Girl of Oz, Rinkitink of Oz, wonderful thrilling escapes that saturated the mind with strange new color and imagery. And when the teacher took us on a field trip to the library, what did the librarian tell me? That there were twelve more! A whole series on the shelf, just around the corner, second aisle.

           But another explorer had already landed there. Crouched on the rug with Book Five in his hands, was J. He did not see me--my hesitation, my soured hopes, my fear of association. He was far into the splendid world, one he had discovered before me.

           I didn't read any more Oz books after that, and my life is the poorer.

           Fifteen years later I took my beautiful little daughter to a testing center to have her assessed for academic readiness. It was just out of curiosity, really. She was only five, extraordinarily bright, already reading under my own tutelage. The woman who tested her said she was certainly more than ready for kindergarten.

           When we came out of that office, there was a young father with a little boy tucked in close at his side. I knew by the face of his son that this was J. We said a surprised hello. J. was still quiet but not shy, neatly dressed, handsome really, a gentle-seeming parent, and when I asked he told me that his son had just finished the tests and scored very high. He used the word “exceptional” without the barest hint of a boast or a mask of false modesty.

           I'm very glad that I saw J. that day. His son would be twenty-seven now. I hope with all my heart that he is well and content and still the pride of his father, enduring with equal fortitude the sharp edge of brittle things.

On Shore

I wrote this poem many years ago, after a time among women whose lives were very, very broken. I felt inadequate even to speak an encouraging word. I don't know if the poem is any good, and perhaps it should go back in the drawer. You can tell me what you think, if you'd like.


From where I stand

I see the endless sea

Check out, check in.

I myself am empty, a shell really,

Can barely hold sand,

Can only echo, shaped as I am,

The sound of waves.

All this is ground bone,

Salt-sea washed and soft as flesh

Beneath a tattered hem, a woman's weeds.

Unlike me she was not formed

But flung

Abandoned and unsaved

From off the breast of sea.

So much debris

From where I stand.

Into Light

She sat across the courtyard in open sun, and he thought he had never seen light glint so distinctly from a girl's hair, or catch so vividly the individual strands that framed—no, haloed—her face. Her hair was pulled back, and it brought to mind a painting he had once seen in a book, of a peasant girl standing in a field. Song of the Lark, that was it. He could picture this girl singing. In fact, her chin was lifted, her lips parted, in that very pose. No matter that she sat on a cement ledge, leaning against a bland building with a closed door on the end. There was artistry in that pool of light.

The ledge must have displeased her, because she seemed uncertain about whether to sit or no. She kept shifting her slim form forward. He could move closer to her, out of the shade of the tree where he had spread his books. But it was her solitude, too, that was so beautiful and delicate. He stayed still and imagined the cool slimness of her fingers and that he could see a pink flush of light in the dip of her throat.

Suddenly she stood up. She began to pace. When she moved to the right, she seemed almost irritated, as if someone who was supposed to appear had failed her. He was at her right, but he knew he was not the expected one. And even though she faced him, she did not seem to see him; instead, her eyes went to the tree's leaves where, he believed, she saw light dancing.

When she moved left, she did something odd but charming: tilted her head as far as she could toward her shoulder, until it seemed impossible that she would not strain the slender muscles of her neck. She looked upward, like a child curious about clouds. No, not that; it was a posture of strained listening, an impatience to hear something, the mild agitation one feels when waiting for a better song to begin. Her friends likely said, “She always does that when she is....” Friends whose laughter sparkled around her like those white-gold strays of hair. This silence must be filled, it seemed: the girl made a quick little sound, a single high tone that came from the back of her throat.

Then she turned to sit again. First, she examined the ledge, determined to take exactly the same spot as before. It must be the angle of sunlight there, or a particular cleanness on the surface. Once seated, her little hand darted across her face, because of the stray hairs. She scowled, and a line came to him: Do I dare disturb the universe? He could not remember where he had read it, but it made him smile.

She was up again. She swayed, then paced, then paused, feeling, he felt sure, the very movement of the earth in her body. She was doing something with her mouth now that he could only describe as scrunching; that was not at all the right word, of course, though it could become a juxtaposition, this charming imperfection in her fair face. Yes, fair. It was a good choice for this girl who herself was an anachronism: peasant demeanor with queenly command, and himself sitting, insignificant for now, at the edge of her realm.

The door in the bland wall opened. A large woman stepped out. “Come in, Elena,” she said.

Elena did not turn.

“Come in. Come in, Elena.” The voice was low, perfunctory.

Elena ignored her, and the large woman moved forward, holding out her hand, palm down, as if offering its scent to a wild animal. There was something about this woman that could not be trusted. As if sending a signal, Elena gave out that high, clear tone again.

The woman kept moving forward.

Now he decided to come to Elena; he, at least, would not be an unfriendly intruder. He would give her a sympathetic look, appearing from the shadows into her bright light. 

When he was a few steps from the open door, he heard singing. The voices inside were very ragged: 

                                    The wheels on the bus go round and round

                                    Round and round, round and round

                                   The wheels on the bus go round and round

                                   All around the town.

“Come in, Elena. It's your favorite. Don't you want to sing your favorite?”

Elena jerked around and almost collided with him. Now he saw clearly the cruel distortion of her mouth, the humorless obscurity of her gaze. She swatted at the air between them, flapping her hands like a wounded bird and making her shrill sound.

He was already late for his class and, hurrying off, he knew that the poem he had begun, about the palpable invisibility of love, could not possibly bear up under the heat and glare of the rest of the day.

The Worker

           When we lived in Eritrea, there was one relationship that I was hesitant to mention in my letters home. I didn't know what to call her: 'maid' seemed aristocratic; 'domestic help' sounded almost canine. In the local language she was simply called 'the worker,' but that translation was hardly adequate. She was a cultural adjustment, but indispensable. She was order in household chaos, calm in family storms. Her name was Tsegeredah, which meant rose, and while she did have a sweet spirit, she was tough as nails. 
          Nearly every household in Asmara had a worker, or serahtenya. A young girl might live with a family to help with the baby. Or a cousin might come from a village to stay. Grown daughters shared the workload until they married and had their own home and serahtenya. Side by side, these women handwashed clothes in plastic basins, cleaned house with limited water supply, prepared dough for the bread that was cooked daily, chopped vegetables, and sorted grains and legumes by hand. 
          Tsegeredah washed our clothes, wiped floors, did dishes, all with a careful conservation of water since the city pipes frequently broke. She scrubbed market vegetables, straightened messes, found lost shoes. She negotiated the various personalities who appeared at our gate: the man who sold papaya, the woman who sold eggs, the man who sold potatoes. She advised me if the price was too high or the product too bad; she scolded the seller if he was too pushy. With a self-imposed determination to protect us, she dismissed realtors, favor-seekers, people who'd reached the wrong house, and the landlord himself if, in her view, he came at a bad time. 
          Tsegeredah wasn't an avid talker, so we only had a brief sketch of her life. She didn't know her birth date--our celebrations were a novelty to her--or even her age. “Ane?” she said; “Me? Maybe...thirty?” Three of her siblings had been killed in the war; Tsegeredah had fled to Ethiopia as a young girl. From a start of selling tea along the sidewalk, she eventually owned her own restaurant. One day fire broke out on her block, and all the businesses were destroyed. So Tsegeredah came back to Asmara to live with her mother in a one-room mud-walled home. Before she worked for us, she had no job. 
          Part of our challenge was linguistic: Amharic was her first language, Tigrinya a broken second, English a sparse third. I knew no Amharic, floundered in Tigrinya and, with three small children, sometimes spoke a discombobulated third.
          Our children loved Tsegeredah; the best translation for this was "to pester." They tugged her away from work for a ride around the yard on her back (a very broad, strong one). They threw sand in her wash basin, to test her temper--which she displayed with a growl and a laugh. Her hearty "kee-DOO!" put them in stitches: from Tsegeredah, it meant "go away, you goofy kids, until I have time to play."
          With Tsegeredah, there was less waste in our home. If she saw some leftover destined to be thrown out, she would take it home for her chickens. She could burn unwanted paper in her earthen stove. Empty cans were perfect for dipping water out of a barrel, and a jar made a fine drinking cup. Her own house had no electricity, so why use ours? Even if the daylight was waning through the tiny kitchen window, she would work in the dark. In three years, I never saw her flip a switch. 
          One day we insisted she go to a local celebration with us. “Leave your work,” we said; “we'll only be gone an hour.” When we came home, there was a stranger's coat and pair of shoes on the floor, and all our rooms were disheveled. A thief! Tsegeredah was riled in an instant. She rushed around the house and yard, looking in every corner--"Alo! Alo! He is still here!”  She paced around with angry tears, punching one fist into her palm. She blamed herself: she shouldn't have gone out, it was her job to stay and keep house, why did she ever go? The day was ruined; those festivities pointless. She was so upset that I couldn't be, and felt oddly light-hearted about the intrusion. 
          The next day a policeman and a teenage boy came to our gate. I knew it was our thief: he was wearing my husband's L.L. Bean jacket. He was barefoot; we had his shoes. I thought, “When Tsegeredah sees him, watch out.” But she only took one look, gave a quick growl, and went back into the house. Her part—the indignation, the mourning—was done. It was not for the boy to fall into her hands.
          I've said that having a maid was an adjustment. But surely we were a new culture to her. I tried to explain American things. “Ay-ya,” she said, looking very thoughtful, “Than-sgee-ving... Ay-ya, Vah-leen-tine Day.” Her tone was one of recollecting a far-off memory; I never knew if she had really heard of these things or was only pretending. “Ay-ya, To-pay-ware...." 
          Our evangelical faith was something new. She wasn't a church goer; no one had taught her the Bible. One day, side by side in the kitchen, I told her the story of the woman at the well. I found myself intensely excited. Tsegeredah's hands were in the dishwater, but she was listening closely. She kept trying to guess the outcome. When I told her that Jesus knew, without being told, that the woman had five men, her eyes grew wide and she sucked in her breath. When I told her, “Jesus said, 'I can give you living water,'” she shook her head at the extraordinary claim. She was seeing it all. It was real, a story of her neighbor, like yesterday's news. She knew what a well looked like; yes, yes, she could see the woman hauling water. Ah, yes, that is a tiring job. Yes, she would want that precious water, too. Oh, the shame of living with all those men. And oh, she could just picture the woman running into her village eager to report this extraordinary man.
           For three years, Tsegeredah saw five sinners up close: tempers lost, mischief made, insufficient gratitude, complaints of thirst. When we moved back to the States we lost touch with our worker. A new war scattered the people again. Now, in my neat home and empty nest, I have all the gadgets I need to work alone. But I would like, if only for a while, to sit with Tsegeredah—if I could make her sit. I would drink tea with her and thank her for a thousand things. And I might ask if she could not, after all, tell me something about when and where she was born.

Aiming High

      For one whole week I was the substitute teacher for a fifth grade class here in San Diego. Actually, there was no real class in attendance. They had flown to Virginia to study colonial America. Only three students were left behind, and somebody was needed to work with them.

      The school was a “classical academy,” modeled after the strictures of the British prep school and the artes liberales of the Ancients. This translated into a pretty heady curriculum. Since we weren't out touring Williamsburg, we were told to read Jonathan Edwards. Picture the scene yourself: three ten year-olds who had just missed the Rapture, expected to discuss “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” With a substitute teacher who forgot to bring pipe-cleaners and string for the mnemonic device they were supposed to create: a dangling black spider.

      Our venture into Puritan poetry was much better. We read Anne Bradstreet's poem “Upon the Burning of Our House.” I went over it slowly, unraveling the hard syntax and clarifying words like “bereft” and “succourless.” Then I gave the suggested assignment: Draw a picture or write a poem about something you once lost.

      One girl did a quick scrawl of her dog; the other drew herself saying goodbye to a friend. But the one boy, Austin, wanted to write a poem. Without flinching, he told me he would write about “this boy I knew when I was seven who got killed by a truck.” Like his announcement of this heavy subject, his poem was spare in detail, sober but not sappy, and heroic. He tried to imitate 17^th century diction: “The truck did speed” and “In the ground he lies,” and his work embraced Bradstreet's worldview: “I will see him again/In the heavenly mansion on high.”

      Austin was smaller and younger than the others, with a sweet face and a sweeter soul, the kind of boy who engages adults earnestly and feeds on their affirmation without guile. As touching as his poem, was his eagerness to read it aloud to the other teachers. He typed it up that night (with a few format improvements I'd suggested) and brought it in the next day. He said he'd like to try writing some more poems.

      He was a poet all week. He never lost his earnestness, his soul never shrank, but his work did suffer from a certain hurried commercialism. Each day at lunch he called me over to announce that he was going to write another poem. Right then and there. On his napkin. Did I have a pen? And, um, what should he write about? He only had about five minutes.

      The readiest advice I had (which was given to me in college, when I wrote a pathetic story about a carnival worker) was this: “Write about what you know about.” Austin looked stymied, so I suggested baseball. He had a poem scribbled out before recess. It included the Padres' latest score and the line “Cameron Maybin robs a home run.” There was some fair imagery--“the crack of the bat/There's nothing better than that” and “He throws the ball like a gun.” But the effort was more indicative of a future sports announcer than a great poet. But here was a worthy idea: Customized Verse. Why not? After all, every young artist needs a patron. Shakespeare had his queen, Bach had his dukes. Austin had me, for the week at least.

      With versifying well in hand, Austin turned to a bigger challenge: entire recesses spent shooting a basketball over and over and over from the three-point line. I suggested he move closer to the basket, since he was only making one out of every million shots. But this was overstepping my authority. The point wasn't to make it. The point was to fire away. The idea was to work and hope and hope and work and finally exult in that one elusive moment of pure poetry.

      I have Austin's poem in front of me now—not the one about loss (his parents treasure that) but the one about triumph (he typed it off the napkin). In the boy's uneven meter, as Mrs. Bradstreet would say, “There's wealth enough, I need no more.” One perusal of this crumpled page has the power to compose me. It gives the unfolding day balance and form, as surely as any greater artist's preface or prelude to beautiful things.

The Big Big Room

     I have a friend who grew up in war-torn Guatemala. She told me that, as a child, she thought she could stop all wars if she could just get everybody in one room and talk to them. "But I had a problem," she said. "I couldn't find a big enough room." So I wrote this little story for her.
     I hope my friend will forgive me for a touch of adult skepticism. I wish that the scene were really possible. But human effort has proved a failure. The diagnosis is too serious. Happily, there is a long-term cure, and the littlest of children can come unto it.
    But here's a small tribute to one child's dream. I picture a fiercely earnest little girl with a wild mop of curly hair and very keen, dark eyes: my visionary friend in miniature. We'll call her Esperanza.


If I could find a big, big room, I'd have everybody come.

If the room was big enough, everybody in the world could come.

When they came, I'd tell them what I want to tell them.

If only I could find a big, big room.

If I could get the whole world into one big room, I'd say, "You're all here now, so listen!" (I'd have to stand on a tall, tall chair.)

I'd look at all of them and say, "You need to stop fighting so much."

The whole world would be surprised, to hear me say that.

"You should share, instead of being greedy," is the next thing I'd say.

If only I could find a big enough room!

With everybody in one room, I could tell them, "You shouldn't hurt anybody, just because they're smaller than you."

They'd have to hear this, too: "Don't go around stealing things! Stealing is just plain bad."

Everybody in that big, big room would be thinking.

 "Don't call people ugly names," I'd say. "Why would you want to be so mean?"

The whole world would hear, because they were in one big room together.

"When you tell lies, it just hurts everybody--even you."

Everybody would have to agree, if they were all there.

I'd need to say this, too: "Stop cheating. Who wants to live in a world of cheaters?"

And everyone would say, "Not me!"

With the whole world together, I'd see the different faces and remember to say, "Don't hate people just because they're different. Do you want people hating you?"

Everyone would start looking around at everyone else. They'd shake their heads.

If someone in the corner of that big, big room hollered, "I'm going to do what I want to do, and that's that!" I'd holler back, "Don't be selfish!"

Then the people would whisper to each other--one big whisper in that big, big room.

Somebody in the middle would raise a hand and ask, "How are we going to do all that?"

Then that big, big room would get very, very quiet. And I would have to think very, very hard.

"I think," I'd say, "we ought to do what we ought to do. We ought to love."

That's what I would say.

But I have a big problem.

Where am I going to find a big enough room?

Picture-Taking

     When I was thirteen, I had a strange bout of anxiety. I realized—and it hit me suddenly, like a sharp rock under a bare foot—that I didn't know how to use a camera. A terrible “What If” darkened my world, and I had to take a long walk to work it out. I left the house and headed down our rural blacktop road. What if someone asked me to take their picture, and I was...discovered? What if I was the only person who didn't...didn't...know? I was alone and inadequate in a potentially pitiless world. None of the neighbors driving into town for groceries that day could have guessed that the lone girl walking on the edge of the ditch was undergoing a terrible crisis.

       I now have many friends who were former teenagers and have learned that I wasn't unique in being tortured by something so benign. Who knows what roads my peers were walking that same day? As far as I can tell, most of us made it home. I've even caught us laughing at our old deficiencies. Some we have conquered, some we haven't, but the old disdain for ourselves has been replaced by compassion for the children we once were.

        I don't have much to do with cameras now. People are using their phones, and I can't see into them without my reading glasses. My daughter and her friends sometimes ask me to take their picture, and they twitter (in the old sense) and arrange themselves, and I say “one-two-three!” and then have to ask “Which button do I push?” Then it's “Just touch the screen.” Nothing could be easier, which is why it's so hard for me.

        But in 1979, when I turned seventeen, I got pretty good at taking pictures. I went to Norway as an exchange student, and my parents bought me a camera. I took some really lovely photographs of seagulls drifting over the north Atlantic. Possibly no Norwegian ever took photos of those same scavengers, but I came from an Illinois farm and had never seen a gull or an ocean, which just goes to show that you never know where a road might take you.

Dorothy

When we lived in the Chicago suburbs, I worked as an aide in a retirement home, on the fourth floor health care unit. I led activities, which were simple ones, because most of the patients had some degree of dementia. At the end of the day I was required to fill out a form provided by the state, reporting each patient's participation. The rows were labeled with things like Music, Crafts, Reading and Nature.

The most ambiguous item was Socialization. There were just two options: a check for “yes,” a dash for “no.” I was required to mark it and encouraged to be very liberal: check yes if the patient is breathing. I was told that you never knew, that the person might be socializing with him or herself. Or with someone in a dream. Or you simply may have missed a meaningful movement of their eyes.

The most difficult patient to judge was Dorothy. Her dementia was among the worst, and her behavior was unpredictable. The head nurse told me, “Don't stand too near her; she sometimes hits people.” This made Dorothy a liability on the ward. They kept her wheelchair next to the nurses' station all day. She had lost the ability to speak, and did not move her head, which made her look very sullen.

The genuinely sociable patients spent the day in the dining room seated at tables of four. Some of them could stand and poke around the room with their walkers, but most stayed seated all day. They especially liked Bunco and could still toss the dice from their bent fingers. The ladies loved getting their nails painted, choosing colors like Fire Engine Red and Passion Pink.

These residents were mostly from Cicero, and a few had seen Al Capone himself. Nearly all had heard Benny Goodman live. They remembered Marshall Fields at its most magical, and were ardent White Sox fans. But the topic that animated them most was Friday nights at the Aragon ballroom. They really did use the phrase “the good old days” for it. One woman, who could barely put together a sentence otherwise, told me she had met her husband on the dance floor. “He was woo-hoo,” she said, with a breathy treble on that last syllable. I regularly played big band records and took these ladies by the hands for a dance. They couldn't leave their chairs, but they could bob their shoulders and swing their arms for a little fun. On those days, everyone within earshot got a check mark for Music.

Despite the cheery moments, decay loomed on the fourth floor like the wet ends of cut flowers. There was a fecal smell from poor bathing; an odor like horses from old teeth. There were smiles, but also complaints, some irrational, some fair enough. I was once chided for lifting the window shadows to let in the morning sun. I thought it would cheer them, but they told me it hurt their eyes.

Parked at the nurses' station, Dorothy couldn't hear the music. She couldn't tell what she remembered, and had no amusing qualities or ability to exchange basic pleasantries. She had a folkloric face, large and square with a sharp nose, long hairs on her cheeks, a chin that angled outward rather than curving nicely from her bottom lip. Her forehead never relaxed. Her shoulders hunched to the level of her ears so that she could not look up into faces. Even so, you could tell she'd been a tall woman. Her hands were mannishly large. Her feet were unattractively long. She looked, in fact, a bit sinister, an impression that was reinforced when she exasperated the staff by suddenly swiping her hand and spilling juice, with a scowl that made it seem on purpose.

One day a fellow aide told me that Dorothy had, for decades, been a very active member of the Salvation Army. The image came to my mind (granted, more Victorian than post-Depression) of a severe woman in a cape swinging a schoolmarm's bell. I saw black-booted feet planted on a cold walkway of snow. I saw her staring down people who averted their eyes and walked on. This was all I could tell of the soul of Dorothy.

The day finally came, the inevitable pronouncement on ninety-three years: Dorothy was put on hospice. It had been delayed by a strong heart and a daily dose of large pills. Now the nurse brought them to her bedside in a paper cup the size of a communion glass. The juice was poured directly into her mouth, and the droplets that hovered on her lips were dabbed away. Witnessing this, I checked 'yes' for socialization.

Her slippers were empty on the floor, permanently stretched in the shape of her feet. The hospital blanket stayed molded over her long form. Her hands, streaked with veins like swollen rivers, stayed still. Had she even wanted to, she couldn't turn her head to see the bits of sunlight that slipped through the edges of the closed shades, or the gifts that had accumulated on the windowsill: a potted plant, stuffed animals, thinking-of-you cards.

One day I tested what was in her line of vision. With my face next to hers, the only thing I saw was the clock on the wall. I considered taping up her cards or digging an old poster out of the activities closet. I wondered what Dorothy would like to see. The question, I realized, was ultimately, Who was she? What would speak to this unyielding captain at her watch?

People active in the Salvation Army know all the best Bible verses, so I decided to write one on a card for her. In the office I found cardstock and a marker, and wrote out a portion of Psalm 23:

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want

He maketh me lie down in green pastures

He leadeth me beside still waters

He restoreth my soul.

I put the over-bed table across her straight body and made sure it was at eye level. I folded the cardstock into an inverted V so that it stood up. I took off her eyeglasses and cleaned them; she blinked her blue-gray eyes and did not flinch. The glass was badly smudged from neglect, which in retrospect explains a lot.

Dorothy's eyes slowly scanned the words. Or did I only imagine it? Was it pretense on my part, taking credit for a good deed? Maybe, like all those check marks, I was falsifying what I saw. But no, there it was again; I was sure of it: her forehead relaxed a little and she really seemed to be reading.

A few days later I arrived at work and saw two men pushing a trolley out of Dorothy's room. On it was a canvas bag the length and girth of a body. They wheeled it toward the elevator. Nurses stood aside. The door slid shut.

It's a strange thing to walk into a room and see a bed that has just been stripped. It's strange to gather up hand creams, a hairbrush, stale candies. To open a closet and see blouses hanging there and a pair of dress shoes on the floor. To stand in a room that is large with absence and to consider that a life had been there, a person incapacitated but able to see a promise, even in dim light, and perhaps discover that, on no strength of her own, she could still draw near to someone who had dared draw near to her.

Ade Fana

      During our three years in Eritrea, East Africa, I tried very hard to use the Tigrinya language. It's a Semitic tongue with its own alphabet and its own phonemes, and it kept my vocal chords in a constant state of culture shock. An activity as simple as buying an egg was a real workout. In English the word is as fundamental as the thing itself. But in Tigrinya, it's an onomatopoeia: the sound, I was told, that a hen makes when laying the egg. Very difficult to hatch in an American throat; it always sounded like I was ordering a Coca Cola.

      There were two kinds of eggs on the shelf: small and brown or big and white. The grocer urged me to choose small. “They are the best,” he insisted; “The white ones are big, yes! But not so good. Those chickens eat only one kind of food. These chickens--” his hand swept over the brown eggs--” eat whatever they can find. A variety!” True; chickens in the capital city were given great range. Still I preferred white. Especially when I got to know Ade Fana.

       To me, Ade Fana represented what was most endearing about Eritrea: toughness, humor, simplicity, dignity, an open door and a low stool to sit on because, best of all, there was always time to chat. When I came for eggs, she greeted me with three strong kisses: right cheek, left cheek, right cheek again. But she never gushed or fawned. Her manner was as blunt as her wit was sharp, and she quartered no nonsense. She was Socrates in a shawl. One day I reported being startled by a mouse in the night. What did Ade Fana think about mice in the bedroom? She shrugged. “What is a mouse, or a rat? What harm can they do? You just say Shoo! Now a snake in the house...Ay!

      My favorite moment was early in our acquaintance. I think she was still sorting out who I was. I was the first “Italian” to frequent her home; I attempted to speak her language; I was kenisha (the word for Protestant that still connoted “heretic” in the villages). Ade Fana shuffled up very close to me, tilted her head back and peered under her glasses to look into my mouth. I thought a compliment about my Tigrinya was coming. Instead she said approvingly, “Of all the Italians I have seen, you have the straightest teeth.”

      Fana and her husband HabteMariam lived through the long decades of war. Like so many of their peers, bad news came in swift succession, the messengers of Job running up to their door again and again: first, one soldier son killed, then another, then—perhaps most tragically, for it was after liberation—a third was shot down, and their daughter-in-law died suddenly from grief.

      Ade Fana was a wisp of a woman, slender features, thin shoulders, swift little hands. Her husband was tall, stooped, big-boned. His eyesight was clouded by cataracts. Except for pumping water, he mostly sat in his chair, tended by his wife. One day I found Ade Fana sitting on a stool in front of him. She was holding his big bare foot in her hand and using a razor blade to cut away his corns. Not surprisingly, neither of them flinched.

      Though he was nearly blind and deaf, HabteMariam (his name meant “riches of Mary”) walked to and from church several times a week. To do so, he had to cross the busiest road in town, guided only by a hand-carved prayer staff. It was no small wonder, this parting of airport traffic for Aba HabteMariam. His wife went at different times. During the fast seasons it was twice a day, every day, five a.m. and again at noon. Together they kept the fasts, which lasted for weeks and consumed nearly half the year. They would eat no meat, no milk products, no eggs. From drar (evening meal) till fadus (noontime next day) they ate nothing at all and did not take even a sip of water.

      One day I heard that Ade Fana was sick; they had taken her to the hospital. (At that time--the early 90s--the one place you did not wish for your friends to go was the war-wasted city hospital). Her granddaughter told me she suspected it was all that fasting; Ade Fana just got too weak and dehydrated. One couldn't think of Ade Fana, grown thinner and at risk, without theological concerns. An elderly woman, frail as a dry reed, walking two miles fasting, standing through the long service fasting, listening for hours to the drone of an ancient language that she could not understand. A splintered cane at best, but she grasped it firmly.

      When my friend was back from the hospital, I visited her. It was good to see her smile, though in an uncharacteristic pose: resting on the big bed inside the modern house with her feet up, being waited on. She looked happy when I gave her the gift of a Tigrinya Bible, and she nodded approval when I read aloud from it.

      In the way of all flesh, the chickens eventually stopped laying and had to be eaten (in the proper season, of course). Ade Fana bought new ones, and the price for their eggs remained 60 centimes, no discounts. But you could still come sit on a stool and chat. It was a very good deal for the largest, whitest eggs in town.

Poem for a Young Friend

I have a Scottish friend whose little boy once left a sock at my house. His Scottish background had nothing to do with losing the sock (in fact, I think most Scots hold onto their socks very tightly). It was only that his foot was very small and the sock very light. I decided to mail it to him with a poem, because a little sock in an envelope seemed to need accompaniment. The boy's name is Rhuidrih, which is approximately pronounced "Rory;" it means "Red King." I needed a poem about a king who lost footwear, and as I worked on it, it got more serious than the ditty I originally intended. Here it is, with a variant of the Gaelic spelling, which I hope my young friend won't mind.

Victory of the Red King

King Rhodri, challenged by the Dane,

Rode forth his title to retain

While nobles followed at his will

To thwart the treacherous foe.

To thwart the foe his nobles rode

While in the rear his poor troops strode

Shoeless, tattered, loyal still,

Foot soldiers 'gainst the foe.

Foot soldiers 'gainst the foe were they;

King Rhodri tarried in the way,

Surveyed his troops, then cried out “Halt!

Behold these peasants' feet!

“These peasants' feet do stain our road,

Dragged for miles 'neath heavy load

Their steps of blood the battle mark,

Yet none do beg retreat.”

Yea none did beg retreat nor flew;

The king, amazed, his great sword drew;

“Hark, noblemen—this day our might

Is writ in peasant blood.

“This peasant blood doth show the way,

Nor sword nor spear will win the day,

Nor horse nor shield the foe will rout--

But this great sacrifice--

Great sacrifice, beyond all price,

Tho' hidden in a pauper's guise.”

Then king, his nobles to inspire,

Removed his own shoes.

Removed his own shoes, then held

Full forth his sword and gilded shield,

With naked feet he led his band

Of nobles high and low.

Nobles high and low went forth

To battle on the enemy turf,

And scornful Danes did point and jeer

At this, a weakened foe.

A weakened foe, or so they thought

Not knowing victory would be bought

By men emboldened by their king

Who unshod took the field.

Unshod he took the battlefield

Where scornful Dane was sure he'd yield,

Mocks and jeers, like javelins thrown,

Did meet the hero band.

But hero band did lift the sword,

The spear, the bow, and at the word

Of their dear king, with fearsome shout

They broke the enemy line.

Broke enemy line; but scornful Dane

Made one last, lasting mark of pain:

The royal steed's white flanks were smeared

With blood from Rhodri's feet.

For Rhodri's feet, in battle fierce,

Alone of all his men's were pierced;

His nobles, peasants, all could stand,

But not their sovereign lord.

And this is how the tale doth go:

That Honor honored those below.

Kingly feet, once well-prepared,

Humility caused to be bared.

Miming the lowly, the Red King gave

To every man, soul to be brave.

Binyam

In May, 1993, our family moved to Eritrea, East Africa, expecting many years of service there. We had three children (ages 5, 3 and newborn) when we arrived. In 1996 we came back for the birth of our fourth, expecting to return in six months. But politics in the land closed the door. We have not been able to revisit Eritrea since. Along with memories of its sweet hospitality, warm friendships, and God's faithfulness, I often have keen regrets and questions about my own contribution to the good of the people. This reflection comes out of that experience. The end is a reference to Genesis 35, which may or may not be used well, but it is intended as an expression of hope. Binyam would be in his mid-20s now, and likely forced into unrelieved military service, along with the majority of his peers.

The small East African nation of Eritrea ranks among the world's poorest, but it has a treasure that sets it apart: a capital city built above the clouds. Asmara sits on a plain at seven thousand feet. Palm trees line the streets, and gardens manage to bloom year round. You do not realize the height at which you live until you drive a mile or so beyond the last street. Then you can look down at a thousand rugged peaks in every direction. Moist air from the Red Sea gathers in countless valleys, filling them with white, promising clouds for this dry land.

Our family lived in Asmara for three years. Afternoon drives were our main source of diversion. When we parked our car to stretch our legs, we first stopped some local shepherd boy to ask if there were any land mines nearby. Eritrea had recently won independence from Ethiopia in what was called “Africa's longest war,” and the damage of those thirty years was everywhere. Tanks rusted on the roadsides. Shepherd boys were among the wounded. Our children could not race along a path freely.

In a freshly injured land the people often appear most beautiful. Captivated expatriates described the Eritreans as dignified and hardworking, handsome, courageous and hospitable. Outside of Asmara, herders and farmers lived much as in biblical times. In the city, young men and women craved exposure to the Western world from which they had been cut off. They had grown up in a besieged city—once described as the world's largest prison—and their older siblings had either escaped abroad or been killed, one by one, in the war. Relief groups were hurrying into the country to help rebuild. Missionaries forced to flee decades earlier returned, gray-haired, still in love with the slender, dark-eyed people of the land.

While my husband taught English and Bible, I carried my own small load, never more literally than on my weekly trip to market. I shopped mostly on foot. I knew my favorite vendors by name. Their one-room shops were crowded if three customers stepped in at once. Hefting five or more bags and baskets, I took home kilos of potatoes, cabbages, oranges, beef, bread, lentils, and imported canned goods. By noon my arms ached. I was dusty. The sun felt too direct, and I wished I had help.

Help stood on the street corner one Saturday. Catching sight of me from half a block away, a small boy ran up and stood in my path. He looked up expectantly, as though we were long familiar with each other. I smiled and tried to pass on my way. As slight as his figure was, his persistence was strong. He followed me and soon had grabbed the handle of one of my bags. His dark hand kept near my pale one, and he tugged for control.

I looked down and saw that the boy was barefoot. This surprised me. As poor as the nation was, the children of Eritrea usually wore shoes. Almost every family could afford the kind of sandal worn by the liberation soldiers, manufactured from cheap rubber. But this boy's toes pressed against the hot cement. The edges of his soles were ash grey.

“Hansab, hansab—Wait.” The boy's arm went slack for a moment; he stopped to listen to me speak his own language. “What is your name?”

“Binyam.”

“Binyam.” I let him take two of the bags—his weight in potatoes alone—and we walked together to the taxi stop. “Here is far enough,” I told him.

I had exactly ten birr left in my pocket, and I needed it all for my fare home. I wondered what to do with my unsolicited employee. Very carefully, he set my bags at the curb. His clothes were torn and unwashed. The dust of the streets had settled in his hair, so that the overall effect of his person was of a field in drought. His name meant Benjamin, 'son of the right hand.'

“Where do you live?”

“Akria.” It was a neighborhood far on the north edge, where no foreigners lived. I had been through it only once.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Eight.”

I thanked him for his work and said, “Binyam, I want to give you something. But I do not have it with me. If you come here--” I told him a familiar street address and explained it was a church meeting place--”tomorrow morning, I will have some shoes for you. I want to give you shoes. I want you to hear the word of God also. Your name is in the Bible, did you know that?”

Binyam came to the church, and I met him at the front steps with a pair of shoes. They fit him perfectly; as I had guessed, he wore the same size as my son. During Sunday School I watched for a look of pleasure on Binyam's face and for a new pride in his posture. He did not seem particularly interested in speaking with me; he quietly took his place among the other children and sang songs and heard stories. It was good for him, I thought, to be off the streets and in this crowded, happy room. Afterward I invited Binyam to come every week.

He came just once more; he came in the same dusty clothes, and he came barefoot. When I asked him, “Where are your shoes, Binyam?” he looked away and moved into the group of children out of my reach. All that hour I was distracted by his feet. When he did not attend the next week or any week afterward, I could not get him off my mind. The absence of the slight, shoeless boy was bigger than his presence had been. I kept imagining scenes of great turbulence for Binyam. Had other boys beaten him for his shoes? Had his father punished him for taking a gift from an unknown, condescending foreigner? I wondered if he had sold the shoes for money. I wondered what had happened to the shoes that I had given in the name of God. What had happened to the boy? Were his soles still the color of ash? What had happened, what had my own hands done, to his soul?

Many expatriates published articles on the virtues of this new nation, and many, like us, hoped to stay and work for several years. But the day came when the government, made up of the guerrilla fighters who had fought for independence, declared that all foreign relief agencies were illegal. Rumors spread about boxes of donated clothes arriving from the kingdom across the Sea, lined with militant religious tracts. The national press reminded the people that by their own will they had won independence, and by their own hands they would rebuild. The country was kicking off its shoes, and few outsiders knew where they went.

The people were left as poor as ever, but for a while the newspapers reported their jubilance. There were more battles fought along the border. My husband's work ended abruptly; we returned to raise our family in the States. But still I tell myself the stories of that city above the clouds. I think through the weighty times and the places we walked. And I remember Binyam, in the heat and in the dust, my burden upon his small shoulders, son of my sorrow, son of the right hand.