A New Hero

Many of you have heard about a new friend in my life. His name is Jamal Kadir Bokolo. He and his family are from the country of Ethiopia and immigrated on August 31st after spending 13 years in a refugee camp in Djibouti, a neighboring country. He is an amazing person as is his wife, Amina.

I met Jamal coincidentally when walking my two small dogs with my daughter. He jumped out of the way of my tiny canines, unsure whether they would bite. When he asked about them in his characteristic accent, it gave me opportunity to ask about his origins and learn that his country only kept dogs to guard against hyenas and were evidently large breeds. In later conversations, he referred to these dogs as German--evidently, German Shepherds! Quite a different view than what stood before him on that serendipitous walk. To this day, he seems confused my dogs are not puppies, but full grown adults. One day, I have determined, we will visit the local dog park, so he can see just how many canine breeds exist in our world!

Thanks to the generous support of my church, Jamal was provided with lots of clothing, kitchen supplies, a dresser, laptop computer and printer. In addition, his children had a wild, wrapper tearing holiday season in honor of our Christmas. A first for a Muslim family with no orientation toward our great giveaway. For children without access to books, toys and movies, it was a grand time to watch! I felt honored to be our church's ambassador. The movies did and continue to be a source of unending amusement and imagination for these three youngsters; they always make comments about how it is the animals are talking. Animals never talked in Djibouti, Africa!

Several months after our initial meeting and hours spent listening to Jamal, I continue to be amazed at his process of adjustment and thrill at the ability to see things through his eyes. During one of our '3 cups of tea' meetings, (there is no such thing as casually dropping anything off at his house) actually consisting of a full Ethiopian spread of food and coffee, I was greatly amused at hearing his experience at getting the good, old-fashioned, American bureaucratic run around. The recounting of this amused me and hence, his elevation to the status of hero, particularly to his family.

Jamal was always anxious to get to the time when he could 'stand on his own 2 feet' as he put it. World Relief, his sponsor, was able to enroll him at Highline Community College for extended English and cultural studies. They were only able to provide this for one member of the family. I encouraged him not to rush through or quit school for a minimum wage job in his quest for independence. The opportunity to improve his spoken English and understand this culture was a gift that could lead to better pay in the long-term. In my mind, Jamal was capable of doing translation with a little further training; he speaks Orromo, Somolian, Arabic, Russian and English. I didn't want to see him be stuck doing janitorial work with such potential. I took him to Worksource, hoping they could give him some guidance.

Worksource evidently referred him to the Track Association, from how I understand it. It was supposed to provide him with some vocational training and job leads. When he went to Track Association, they told him that World Relief must sponsor his enrollment in the program. He went to the World Relief office and they told him that he must be sponsored by DSHS. He went to DSHS and they told him that World Relief must sponsor him--mind you he does not have a car and it is the rainy season! He went back to the Track Association and the contact there was extremely rude to him.

Jamal spelled out his problem with the upcoming gap between rent due and DSHS support to the rude attendee. He said, 'You people come to Africa ALL THE TIME to help us, but I am here NOW and in front of you' and cannot get help! Knowing him, I am sure this was said calmly and with assurance. Now here is the funny part. He was accepted into the Track Association's program and will be interviewing on Thursday for a possible position at the airport 1 day a week that within 6 months will turn into a full time job assisting non-English speaking people filling out applications in Human Resources. In addition, his wife now has sponsorship to learn English and a vocation at Highline Community College. Because of his persistence in knocking down doors, Amina will now have opportunity previously closed to her. I have not been able to speak to Amina except through hand signals, but her smile could light up a room. I am thrilled she will be able to move ahead along we her husband as a team.

He is a hero indeed...

Pentracing

Dates that leave a mark: Sunday, March 6th

There have probably been a handful of times the 6th day of March has fallen on a Sunday in the last 23 years, but today, I happened to notice. I just told a church member, who lost a parent recently, the ebb and flow of grief lasts for a lifetime, but the first 3 years are the worst. You alternate between gut wrenching sob sessions and hysterical laughter as you remember the personality quirks and antics of your mom or dad. Somehow or another, you just get used to their absence although you never stop missing them. This was wisdom shared with me by a neighbor in the spring of 1988 and wisdom I pass on with all sincerity. Today, however, I feel a twist in my heart. How do you describe an event deeply embedded in years past forever affecting your notion of life and God?

I was 26 years old. Ken and I had moved from Forest Grove, Oregon, where we met at Pacific University, to the other side of the country. I didn't question Ken's wanderlust in my youthfulness and followed him to his eventual destination after a few "layovers" to Andover Newton Theological School. Shortly after our arrival, we discovered I was expecting our first child, Micaela. After her delivery, my mom and dad came to visit once when she was 6 months old and I went to visit them when she was 10 months old. This was the last time my dad, Raymond White, was to see her and he would never meet my son, much less witness the beautiful people into which they would develop.

In February, 1988, I was planning another trip out west to see my folks and a special hike in late March with my Dad. My dad loved the outdoors and was an avid camper and hiker. He loved photography and took pictures of wildflowers, memorizing their scientific names. He had been an ordained minister, but nature was his church. Our hike together never happened. On Sunday, March 6th, he went hiking with the Sierra club in the Columbia Gorge. A mile or so into the hike, he had a massive coronary, which killed him almost instantly. I received a phone call from my brother at 11:00 pm that night informing me of the news. I was so young and so unprepared to handle his death.

Like most girls, I was Daddy's little princess. He was far from perfect and, in my adult wisdom, I came to believe my dad's heart issues had a lot to do with attitude as well as diet. He constantly created his own stress, driving adrenaline through his system. Nevertheless, he was the glue to our family unit. It never seemed after his loss, my mother, brother and myself had the same connection. No matter how good or not good at being a father he was, he always communicated our importance-family's importance. He wanted us to have a better experience and relationship with him than he had with his folks. He took reels and reels of slides with my mother, brother and myself front and center. The continuity in pictures even went by the wayside.

I missed my dad the most when raising my children. As my mother was not oriented toward children, I craved his validation of them and myself as a parent. I have a picture of him holding Micaela at 9 months old and it brings me comfort. I wish I had a picture of him with Jesse Raymond, his namesake. There was a huge hole. This was a mark, a scar on my soul always. It was both a huge loss and a point of enormous grace. I felt God's salve applied there often, usually after I took the time to feel all the feelings. It was like being orphaned. Who was I to rely on except the Spirit?

Do I wish this never happened to me? Of course. Nevertheless, it did and, when my children were older and I had time and was more open, I believe my father let me know he was "alive and well" on the other side and oh so active in my life. The day I realized this, big crocodile tears ran down my face. As Jesus said, "Bless those that grieve, for they shall be comforted".

Today was a mark in my personal spiritual history. The picture of my dad's shoes left behind at a Sierra Club member's house prior to the hike haunts me. They are shoes that cannot be filled by anyone but God. The picture of myself on my last hike a year prior with my dad haunts me. We were ignorant of what was to come and totally took for granted each other's company. Life is a never ceasing wonder and we never know when we will take our last breath. Love each other like it is your last breath everyday!

Pentracing