Sometimes in life, our experiences are indescribable. On one hand, we feel that we simply have no words to explain the depth of our feelings; on the other, no amount of words would ever be enough. When I was asked to write about our mission to Ethiopia, I immediately agreed. Such an incredible, life-altering experience must be shared. But when I attempted to put into words the impact of it all, I found myself at a loss. And for those who know me, finding myself at a loss for words is no small feat. In fact, in my career I use words to persuade, convince and prove; they are my swords and shields, and rarely do I find myself in shortage.

I realized, however, as I attempted to convey with my own words the soul-shifting perspective I gained during my two weeks in Ethiopia, that my desire was not to use my own limited vocabulary, but instead, to allow you to hear the voice of those we encountered, the ones God placed in our path along the way. That is, after all, what we are called to do: to speak up for those who have been muted by the oppression of their circumstances. So I want to tell you a story, but it is not mine. This is Eden’s story, and just like her namesake, the garden of her heart was ravaged by the greed of man…

Eden is 18 years old. She is a stunning girl: tall, slim, a complexion of café latte, large almond eyes, and a quiet, sweet disposition. You sense almost immediately, however, that there is a firm resolve, perhaps a solid wall even, beneath the nearly silent exterior. When I met her, she was living in a tiny, windowless room, with a roommate, and two babies under the age of 2. One of them was hers.

Two years before I met her, Eden was living with her grandfather and step-grandmother. Both of her own parents died before she was 9. At 16, Eden was in her second year of college (like our high school), making good grades, learning English, and hoping to become an engineer one day. Her plans were crushed, however, when a family member raped her in her home. Instead of seeking punishment for the rapist, Eden was blamed, cast out, cut off and left homeless. She soon discovered she was pregnant. At first Eden considered abortion; she was a driven young woman with plans of higher education and had no idea how to support herself or her unborn child. Unsure of what to do, Eden encountered a nun from a pro-life organization who counseled Eden and helped her make the difficult decision to have her baby.

In the blink of an eye, Eden’s life transformed from one of promise and future to a story of broken trust and desolation. As you might imagine, limited resources, poverty and desperate need are not new stories in Ethiopia—especially for women. For Eden, however, her circumstances arose in spite of the desire and a true attempt to overcome her past; her predicament was the result of abuse, abandonment and loss. Eden found herself excommunicated from her family and completely at the mercy of handouts and charity from a local organization that works with street children. When she should have been supported, vindicated and counseled, she instead was treated with disrespect, left in disrepute, and held solely accountable for a situation she had no part in creating. The injustice is staggering.

Her reaction is even more shocking. When her son was born, she named him Amen. According to Eden, his birth marked the end of her sad story; he was her Amen and the beginning of a new life. I sat and choked back sobs at the maturity of this 18-year-old girl who told me that she wishes for her story to be an inspiration to other women who have suffered similar abuse. She told me she recognizes that God “is the only one who heals people and that He is the one bringing help.” She said she knew this was true, because how else could my sudden presence in her life be explained? I marveled at her faith, at her strength, at her quiet resolve. I sat in awe of her easy rapport with her son, whom she so easily could have resented but whom she so obviously loves with her every breath.

In preparation for my trip, I had read several books about counseling, healing and listening to women who have been victims of abuse. Although no amount of reading can prepare you for the kind of devastation women like Eden have faced, in listening to her story, I was reminded of the words of one of the authors: “Facing your history means facing what you’ve lost.” I suppose it is her loss that makes Eden’s story in a veritable sea of poverty stand apart from the rest. Before her rape, she was headed somewhere; like so many of us young women in America, she had dreams, hopes, goals. I, and so many of you, can relate to her determination. The difference is that her abuse, and the consequences of it, were hers alone to bear. Judgment that should have been reserved for her abuser was instead piled on Eden’s own narrow shoulders, in the form of cruel isolation, in the form of a child she did not ask for: a constant reminder that all she had done to better her circumstance was easily destroyed at the whim of another. And yet, still, still, she clings to the hope that God has better things in store for her. That He will use her life to illuminate His power and glory in the otherwise dark corners of the hearts of abused women. Eden reminded me, as I was often reminded in my two weeks in Ethiopia, just how much we have to learn from those we seek to teach.

I could tell you so many things about our mission. It was an utterly amazing experience from start to finish—and beyond. But meeting Eden changed my life. Her story marked me indelibly, in ways for which I have no words except to say that I now know that broken-heartedness needs no translator, that the joy of the Lord has no cultural boundaries, and that God’s grace not only fills oceans, it crosses them. Her life serves as a constant reminder to me of all the graciousness God has shown me, of the many blessings I so easily take for granted. Eden’s apparent love as she looked at her son is the very reflection of the grace that God shows us each day. He should hate us for what we have done. We sinned against Him, and our wickedness cost Him His perfect son, just as Eden’s rapist took her innocence. And yet God’s grace, like Eden’s maternal love, knows no wrong, only infinite affection. I am humbled, awed and incredibly thankful for Eden’s life, for the way God has chosen to use her story to illustrate His own love for each of us. I am so grateful to share her story with you. These words are not my own but hers—and, prayerfully, His.

—Submitted by Lindsey Roberson

When I first heard that PC3 was taking a group to Ethiopia on a short-term mission, I was interested. When I heard it would be a team of all women, I was very interested. When I heard it would be a mission of women serving other women, there was no question. I was going.

Ethiopia has always been a country close to my heart. My dad grew up in Ethiopia, and I always wanted to go and see where he grew up. I wanted to add images to all the stories I had heard. And although I did put images in my head when I was finally there, ones that will be there for a lifetime, that is not what has impacted me the most. The thing that changed me forever was awe! I was not in awe of the stamp in my passport or the new Crocs I bought for the trip. I was not in awe of the 16-hour plane ride or the 45 granola bars I packed in my suitcase (just in case I couldn’t eat the food). And although I experienced heartbreak seeing the children wandering the streets or the mothers begging in traffic, while holding babies on their hips, that was still not what brought me to tears. It was in the provision and sovereignty of our God.

God was pouring into the hearts and lives of the beautiful people of Ethiopia. I was in awe of the believers, Ethiopian and Western alike, that desperately sought after the heart of God and spent their days rescuing prostitutes from the streets, giving street kids the change in their pockets, pouring themselves into the disease-ridden, precious women of the bush. This is where the Lord brought me to my knees. Ethiopia didn’t need me to show them Christ. God was and is moving in the people of Ethiopia. I was in awe of Him, His people, His creation, His church, His world. I was slapped with the realization that God had allowed me to see His work, in a completely different way, to see that He was in control and moving in the lives of so many people. And although He allowed me to participate, what he wanted from me was for me to stop and see and be in awe.  And it was, on my knees, in awe of our God—in the middle of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

Our mission began in the States, as our team feverishly rushed to get all of planning and preparing done in time to leave.  Going into the trip, we knew we had a very busy schedule with a lot of things to do and a lot of people to see.  (Looking back, it is funny the things you go into a mission thinking and the things you come out of thinking.) On the way there, I was bummed that we had a layover in Rome but wouldn’t be able to get off the plane. I mean, how crazy is that. I am in Rome. Rome! And can’t see it, I thought. On the way home, stopping in Rome again, Rome was the last thing on my mind.

Upon touch down in Addis, my thought was, Let the culture shock begin.  And it did. Getting through customs in Africa is definitely a spiritual experience. By spiritual I mean you are praying the whole time that they do not stop you and ask you to step aside and open your bags. Driving through Addis Ababa is like New York City but with dirt roads. It is a bustling city. One major difference is that instead of skyscrapers, there were these very crudely constructed huts, called suks, along the side of the roads. This is where the locals sell mostly meat, cheese and fruit. In traffic it is common to see women and children begging in the middle of the road. We were good targets being light-skinned foreigners—FRnj (for-en-gee), as they called us. The city is intoxicating; you fall in love as soon as you experience it. Well, at least I did. I fell in love with the faces and exuberance of the people. This place gets in your soul! We made our way to the compound where we would be sleeping, the very same compound and the very same house my dad lived in when he was growing up. What an amazing coincidence. This was a sign for me that our compound would be a haven for us over the next nine days.

For the next week, we came alongside existing organizations and spent time with Ethiopian girls and women. There was an after-school program for girls called Yetsfa Birhan, where we played with stamps, and made bracelets and purses. It is interesting: You think that when you go to the other side of the world it would be so different that you couldn’t function or cope—but the girls wanted to do the same things that girls anywhere want to do. They wanted to play dress-up and be pushed in a swing and take pictures and laugh. Who needs the same language when you’ve got scarf purses and a Kodak!
We also spent time with the women of Desta Minder, a recovery center for women. This center is so wonderful because of takes women who have been shunned from their villages because of disease, and gives them hope, dignity and love. These tribal women are lovely and bright and deserve so much. Desta Minder is showing them the love of God. What an honor it was to serve with them. Most of these women will never return home.  They will never marry.  They will never get out of a hospital gown.  Desta Minder will be their home and its workers their family.

An organization called Women at Risk, or WAR, was where we spent most of our time. The teachers at the facility rescue prostitutes off the streets. They take them in, teach them about God, and give them food, medical treatment, education and financial support. The hope is that at the end of the year-long program, the women will get jobs and be able to support themselves and their families. We were able to show them things to make and sell in the market, and also teach them basic budgeting skills. Although that was great, my favorite thing about our time at WAR was when the girls would worship. They would all stand in a circle around one girl, the worship leader, who would play a drum. That’s it—one drum and 25 voices. Amazing! We couldn’t understand the words, but it didn’t matter.  They were worshiping, we were worshiping, and it was a glimpse … a glimpse at God.

That was it.  A glimpse, and a moment of awe, of our Creator, our God.  My whole trip can be summed up in that word: awe.  It was not about me or what I came to do—it was about God and what He was already doing.

—Submitted by Olivia Prevatt