'You can never go back home'

If, during your youth, you ever thought that James Dean may have possibly been the coolest guy who ever walked on the planet (non-deity that is), than you might know that his favorite poet was James Whitcomb Riley. There is a poem in which Riley makes a rather simple but profound truth: once you have left home, you can never come back again…to what once was. In other words, things of the past are lost and are never the same again or reproducible. In his poem, you can’t help but sense his deep sadness at losing a childhood memory or the haunting of a distinct place and time in your history. “I remember when ran up the hill and rolled down over and over and over again”. “I remember when my father let me beat him playing basketball because he wanted to build my confidence. Right here, in this very drive way”. “I remember when I walked you home and you kissed my cheek before leaving you. I remember running all the way home with a smile on my face and a heart which was racing from excitement.” There are countless memories and emotions which flood our senses when we return to the places of our past. For many, our old homes and neighborhoods trigger a wave of memories. What Whitcomb would tell us is that things change and you can never go back to what was.

I am sitting in the airport heading for Ethiopia sipping on a rather boring cup of McDonald’s coffee. Now that I’m heading for the developing world, I am on a self righteous anti-Starbuck’s kick which will last until I get back to Dallas or an airport in Europe between flights. I am usually overcome with guilt about how much I spend on coffee when I am heading to Africa. However, at this very moment, I am deeply committed to cheap coffee and abhor how the West spends millions of dollars every year on hot water washed over a bean.

As I continue to sip with great pride, I am reminded of the best cup of coffee that I have ever had. On my first trip to Ethiopia last year, I stayed at a missionary guest home located in the middle of Addis Ababa. It was a rather beautiful morning amidst the audio onslaught of Muslim prayer calls, automobiles and the business of people on the streets. My friends and I got up and walked around the corner from the missionary compound and wandered into a local bakery and café.

We’re the only Americans in a rather crowded room. We make eye contact with every man in the café. There were no women customers. Of course I’m wearing a pro American military t-shirt which pays homage to the brave men who served on the USS Alabama. By the way, this typically isn’t a good idea when building cross-cultural bridges in Islamic cultures. Lesson learned. The only women in the establishment are working there. We are seated and greeted rather warmly by a young woman. I am trying to determine whether she is Ethiopian or Somali. Our guest tells me she is Ethiopian. The Ethiopian people may be some of the most beautiful people you will ever see and just as lovely on the inside. I order and am served the ‘best’ cup of coffee I have ever had in my life. I’m not kidding. I then find out that each cup is 10 cents. As the Lord would have it, I happen to have the equivalent of one dollar or, you guessed it, 10 cups of coffee. We continue drinking coffee and eating fresh breads and roles baked just that morning. In total I think we end up spending something in the neighborhood of 6 dollars for 5 guys.

That’s the first memory that comes to mind as I’m sitting here in the airport. I also remember people literally sleeping on the sidewalks. I remember driving by a person asleep on the open median of an expressway. I remember an HIV/AIDS positive woman who was in tears afraid that she and her two children were going to be evicted from her slum home because she didn’t have the equivalent of $1.50 US to pay that months rent. I remember going to an HIV/AIDS orphanage where 360 AIDS orphans under the age of six were being cared for by the Catholic Church and the story of how 100 of these children died at one time because the antiretroviral drug dosage was incorrect.

I think about how inequitable this fallen world is. A world where one Starbucks latte bought in Rockwall, Texas could pay two months rent for an HIV/AIDS mother living in an Ethiopian slum. I don’t want to think of these things but I do. I know that Africa is a beautiful and wonderful place. Most of the memories I have of the slums, of extreme illness, and suffering far outweigh the natural beauty, the relationships, and adventures. I pray that our Lord garrison’s my heart against the pains of Africa. I pray that he does not let me forget what I see and experience. I pray that I never become immune to a world in great need.