There are no words

I was wondering what we would say when we met Matthew’s mother. (Matthew is our just adopted child.) We had a list of questions that we wanted to inquire about. What was Matthew’s father like before he passed away? What did she do for work? How was her health? It occurred to me sometime during the 6 hour drive into the Ethiopian countryside that it probably didn’t matter what words came out of our mouths. After all, I didn’t want our one-time encounter to feel like some kind of awkward job interview. Instead I realized that what Matthew’s mother needed was beyond words. I wanted her to know how deeply we respected her. I wanted her to know how honored we felt to raise her child. And I wanted her to be able to ask us any questions that she had about us.

Her name was Marta, and she was a small, pretty woman on whom life had obviously taken its toll. She wore a lime green shawl over a purple dress, undoubtedly her best outfit. She had no shoes. We sat down with her in a small room with two translators (Walatina to Amharic to English and then back again). I took her hand and bowed my head to show respect. She bowed lower, so I bowed lower. She bowed lower still. I found myself unable to outdo her courtesy. The conversation started out uncomfortably quiet. No one really knew what to say. My wife suggested we give her the photo album we prepared for her. We were told to include pictures of our family, our home, and some pictures of us with Matthew. She started flipping through the pictures and at first she was unmoved. But when she saw her son Matthew she burst into tears. She began to kiss every picture of him. Her tears were contagious. Unexpectedly, hers were tears of joy. She told us that the last time she saw her son, he was very frail and had yellow hair from malnutrition. In the pictures he was smiling and healthy. She was overjoyed. She began to bless us profusely. “God Bless you,” she said and, “to God be the glory.”

Eventually she asked us some questions, and one thing she wanted to know was if we were “Protestant Christians.” This was surprising since most Ethiopians are either Orthodox or Muslim. She rightfully wanted to know how her son would be raised. She was assured to know that we were of the same faith. (Although I hope I didn’t scare her by adding that I was actually a pastor in such a church.) She blessed us some more. She said “God bless your journey home” and “may you be safe.”

The whole encounter was beautiful beyond words. We saw yet another glimpse of God’s glory. Our perspective had changed once again. We began to wonder if our response to adoption was simply God answering the prayer of this Christian widow on behalf of her son. He is so gracious and so loving that it seemed likely to be so.