Our Christmas celebration got off to an unfortunate start. Two weeks ago we decided to decorate for the holidays. There was a box full of Christmas decorations in the closet in the Big House, so we put on the Christmas tunes and pulled out the box to see what we had to work with. The box was decrepit and all the fuzzy red velvety things inside were coated with dust and rat urine. How do I know it was rat urine? We found the RAT, dead, semi-mummified, impaled on the metal hanger of the Christmas wreath. At first I thought it was just an ugly Christmas decoration (the Mouse King from the Nutcracker?). Then I saw that the wreath and the Santa hats had been chewed on. In an un-characteristically un-feminist moment, I decided there must be a boy around somewhere to take care of the rat-stuck-on-the-Christmas-wreath problem. Dave gingerly removed the dead rat and flung it into the underbrush outside the back door. The chewed-on Santa hats became chew-toys for Emily’s puppy; the rat-pee soaked Christmas stockings were banished to the laundry room; the wreath was rehabilitated and hung on the front door. By the time we were done decorating, it looked like we were living in Santa’s elf house at the mall. It was perfect. Out of place in tropical highland Ethiopia, but otherwise perfect.
Ethiopians celebrate Christmas on their own calendar – but not on their equivalent of December 25 (which would be Jan 3 in the US). Ethiopian Christmas is Ethiopian December 29/ American January 7. Even the Catholics celebrate on Dec 29/Jan 7. I feel like writing a letter to the Pope just to make sure he knows that Ethiopian Catholics are celebrating on the wrong day! We decided to celebrate Christmas like Americans on December 25, and then re-celebrate with the Ethiopians on Jan 7. Of course, Dec 25 meant nothing to anyone except the Americans so it was just another work day. Actually, it was worse than the average work day.
Christmas Eve morning was greeted by a mutiny of the nurses. They were furious that the clinic wasn’t giving them a raise, and they felt the government wasn’t giving them enough perks either. All four nurses left the clinic and went to a meeting at the local Health Department office. We had to close the clinic. Then truly sad news arrived – one of the orphan kids on the TB program died suddenly the night before. No one knew his age because he had no family, but he looked about 10 years old. Despite faithful TB treatment, he hadn’t improved much. His little body still rattled with cough and he cried when you touched his ribs because of the chest pain. His chest x-ray frightened me – it was hands down the worst x-ray I’ve ever seen on a child. He completed the intensive phase of his TB treatment but was so symptomatic that Edwin extended his treatment, per the DOTS protocol. His repeat sputum tests were still positive for active TB disease. Clearly he was struggling, and we were struggling with how to help him, but his death still came as a total shock – especially to Edwin, who had agonized over the boy’s treatment. They brought his body to the clinic to prepare him for burial. The sight of his tiny motionless form wrapped in a white sheet and strapped tight to a banana leaf stretcher was almost too much to bear. A heavy sadness followed us for the rest of the day. Our Christmas Eve was turning out to be about as festive as a dead rat stuck to a Christmas wreath.
Determined to recover some Christmas spirit, I prepared Christmas Chili for supper – a Gerwing tradition. Emily and I listened to Harry Connick Jr and Bing Crosby sing Christmas carols as we cooked. Emily made marshmallows from scratch (which I didn’t think was possible!) to float in our Christmas hot chocolate. Supper was followed by pistachio pudding. After supper, Emily and I assembled rice-crispy bar houses from a kit that someone in the States had sent her, complete with icing and gumdrops. Edwin made peanut butter cookies. It did feel a little like Christmas.
But – there was more in store. We had a midnight surprise, and it wasn’t Santa coming down the chimney. It was ants. Ants, pouring in through the electrical fixtures, swarming in under the door, clustering in vicious black ribbons on the steps outside and on our cement floor. Thank goodness that Edwin was up working late, because I wouldn’t have noticed the silent invasion until morning! He sprayed every possible entry point to thwart the attack. We put down the mosquito net and tried to sleep with the suffocating odor of roach killer. Opening the windows seemed like a bad idea, given the army of ants waiting to sneak inside.
Christmas morning held more promise. First, the only ants in our house were dead ants. Hallelujia! Second, it turns out Santa did visit! Emily left little gifts for us under the table-top Christmas tree – an Ethiopian scarf for me, coveted Kool-Aid packets for Edwin, and chocolate candy for us all to share. The work day was blessedly uneventful. After work we ate leftover chili, Emily’s failed pumpkin muffins, and my failed gingerbread cookies. We even took our rice-crispy houses down to the orphanage to share with the kids. We tried to explain that it was part of celebrating American Christmas, and we attempted (without great success) to teach them “Jingle Bells.” I don’t think they really understood any of it other than the part they could eat! After dark, we sat together around the coffee table and assembled a Charlie Brown Christmas jigsaw puzzle until we were too tired and cross-eyed to continue. As we all said good-night, I realized with sadness that it was the first time in my life that I hadn’t gone to mass on Christmas or Christmas Eve.
So in the end, I can say we tried really hard. All the right elements were there – we sent Christmas cards (which no one has received, that’s a different story!), we decorated with wreathes and stockings and ornaments on a Christmas tree, we ate Christmas Chili, we made Christmas cookies and listened to Christmas carols. Unfortunately, it turns out that Christmas festivities seem a little empty when you are the only three in the country celebrating! And of course, we all missed our families very much. Perhaps the lack of Christmas trappings should have put the emphasis back on the religious meaning of Christmas. The birth of Jesus, the promises of salvation and peace and freedom from oppression. If anything, those promises mean more here in Ethiopia. I hear the carol “O Holy Night” in my head, the part that sings “and in His name all oppression shall cease,” and at the same time I think of our orphan TB patient’s small lifeless body laid out on Christmas Eve, ready to be buried by strangers in an unmarked grave. I think of justice arriving in the form of a small child. And I wonder, both with heartache and with great faith – when will the promises of Christmas finally come true?
“Truly he told us to love one another;
his heart is love and his gospel is peace.
Chains shall he break
For the slave is our brother,
And in his name all oppression will cease.
Sweet hymns of joy
In grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise his holy name.
Christ is the Lord,
O praise his name forever!
O night divine,
O night when Christ was born
O night, O holy night.”
Ethiopians celebrate Christmas on their own calendar – but not on their equivalent of December 25 (which would be Jan 3 in the US). Ethiopian Christmas is Ethiopian December 29/ American January 7. Even the Catholics celebrate on Dec 29/Jan 7. I feel like writing a letter to the Pope just to make sure he knows that Ethiopian Catholics are celebrating on the wrong day! We decided to celebrate Christmas like Americans on December 25, and then re-celebrate with the Ethiopians on Jan 7. Of course, Dec 25 meant nothing to anyone except the Americans so it was just another work day. Actually, it was worse than the average work day.
Christmas Eve morning was greeted by a mutiny of the nurses. They were furious that the clinic wasn’t giving them a raise, and they felt the government wasn’t giving them enough perks either. All four nurses left the clinic and went to a meeting at the local Health Department office. We had to close the clinic. Then truly sad news arrived – one of the orphan kids on the TB program died suddenly the night before. No one knew his age because he had no family, but he looked about 10 years old. Despite faithful TB treatment, he hadn’t improved much. His little body still rattled with cough and he cried when you touched his ribs because of the chest pain. His chest x-ray frightened me – it was hands down the worst x-ray I’ve ever seen on a child. He completed the intensive phase of his TB treatment but was so symptomatic that Edwin extended his treatment, per the DOTS protocol. His repeat sputum tests were still positive for active TB disease. Clearly he was struggling, and we were struggling with how to help him, but his death still came as a total shock – especially to Edwin, who had agonized over the boy’s treatment. They brought his body to the clinic to prepare him for burial. The sight of his tiny motionless form wrapped in a white sheet and strapped tight to a banana leaf stretcher was almost too much to bear. A heavy sadness followed us for the rest of the day. Our Christmas Eve was turning out to be about as festive as a dead rat stuck to a Christmas wreath.
Determined to recover some Christmas spirit, I prepared Christmas Chili for supper – a Gerwing tradition. Emily and I listened to Harry Connick Jr and Bing Crosby sing Christmas carols as we cooked. Emily made marshmallows from scratch (which I didn’t think was possible!) to float in our Christmas hot chocolate. Supper was followed by pistachio pudding. After supper, Emily and I assembled rice-crispy bar houses from a kit that someone in the States had sent her, complete with icing and gumdrops. Edwin made peanut butter cookies. It did feel a little like Christmas.
But – there was more in store. We had a midnight surprise, and it wasn’t Santa coming down the chimney. It was ants. Ants, pouring in through the electrical fixtures, swarming in under the door, clustering in vicious black ribbons on the steps outside and on our cement floor. Thank goodness that Edwin was up working late, because I wouldn’t have noticed the silent invasion until morning! He sprayed every possible entry point to thwart the attack. We put down the mosquito net and tried to sleep with the suffocating odor of roach killer. Opening the windows seemed like a bad idea, given the army of ants waiting to sneak inside.
Christmas morning held more promise. First, the only ants in our house were dead ants. Hallelujia! Second, it turns out Santa did visit! Emily left little gifts for us under the table-top Christmas tree – an Ethiopian scarf for me, coveted Kool-Aid packets for Edwin, and chocolate candy for us all to share. The work day was blessedly uneventful. After work we ate leftover chili, Emily’s failed pumpkin muffins, and my failed gingerbread cookies. We even took our rice-crispy houses down to the orphanage to share with the kids. We tried to explain that it was part of celebrating American Christmas, and we attempted (without great success) to teach them “Jingle Bells.” I don’t think they really understood any of it other than the part they could eat! After dark, we sat together around the coffee table and assembled a Charlie Brown Christmas jigsaw puzzle until we were too tired and cross-eyed to continue. As we all said good-night, I realized with sadness that it was the first time in my life that I hadn’t gone to mass on Christmas or Christmas Eve.
So in the end, I can say we tried really hard. All the right elements were there – we sent Christmas cards (which no one has received, that’s a different story!), we decorated with wreathes and stockings and ornaments on a Christmas tree, we ate Christmas Chili, we made Christmas cookies and listened to Christmas carols. Unfortunately, it turns out that Christmas festivities seem a little empty when you are the only three in the country celebrating! And of course, we all missed our families very much. Perhaps the lack of Christmas trappings should have put the emphasis back on the religious meaning of Christmas. The birth of Jesus, the promises of salvation and peace and freedom from oppression. If anything, those promises mean more here in Ethiopia. I hear the carol “O Holy Night” in my head, the part that sings “and in His name all oppression shall cease,” and at the same time I think of our orphan TB patient’s small lifeless body laid out on Christmas Eve, ready to be buried by strangers in an unmarked grave. I think of justice arriving in the form of a small child. And I wonder, both with heartache and with great faith – when will the promises of Christmas finally come true?
“Truly he told us to love one another;
his heart is love and his gospel is peace.
Chains shall he break
For the slave is our brother,
And in his name all oppression will cease.
Sweet hymns of joy
In grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise his holy name.
Christ is the Lord,
O praise his name forever!
O night divine,
O night when Christ was born
O night, O holy night.”
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