The Amazing Journey of Samuel & Asher

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Mesfin & Kindred speaking with birth father

“Hello…..Amanuel?” Those were the only words I understood of the conversation that took place between my new friend, Mesfin, and Amanuel, the father of my adopted twin sons, Samuel and Asher. Sitting outdoors at a Starbucks last week, all I could do was marvel at the sight of Mesfin casually leaning back in his chair, talking in Sidamigna on his cell phone to my sons’ birth father in rural Ethiopia with the same ease that my wife calls me to say, “Don’t forget to pick up diapers at the store.”

When Meredith, Emerson and my father traveled to meet with the twins’ father in his village in  Dec. 2010, it was a joyous occasion. Amanuel was very hospitable and overwhelmed with gratefulness that they had come to visit him bringing pictures of the boys and our family and a letter from me promising to be the best dad I could to his sons. As a Protestant Christian, he was thrilled that we were Christians too and that his sons would learn the Bible. Before Meredith left, Amanuel’s mother hugged her and, through translation, told her, “Now I know their mother will rest in peace.”

Followers of this blog know that the twins are now happy, healthy, and have had an amazing first two years of life. In just 14 months they went from severely ill and dying to appearing with Jennifer Lopez in a movie and walking (or should I say “toddling”) the red carpet and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Not too shabby. It’s been an inspiring story, and one that has focused more attention and publicity on our family than we could have ever imagined.

Recognizing that we have been given a platform we didn’t expect, Meredith and I have done a lot of praying, talking, and pondering. We both feel deeply that the twins’ story should be told for the purpose of somehow inspiring those who read or hear it to ask, “What more can I do for orphaned children and to help provide more medical resources in developing countries so that women like Samuel and Asher’s mother not only survive but thrive?”

As a writer, I decided to embark on the challenging but worthwhile project of writing a book about the boys’ journey thus far. But to do that I needed to know more. I had not been to meet Amanuel and the twins’ family, and Meredith, in an effort to be sensitive, had not pressed for too many details. If only there was a way I could talk to Amanuel myself, I thought.

Then, a few weeks ago, Meredith found a piece of paper she’d acquired in Ethiopia. On it was the phone number for the twins’ grandmother, written in her own hand.  To be honest, we had forgotten we had it.  Meredith and I sent an email to the director of the orphanage to let him know we would be contacting the grandmother soon, and he quickly responded that he actually had Amanuel’s phone number  if we would like to contact him.

Fast-forward to last Wednesday. A few weeks earlier, some friends introduced Meredith and me to Mesfin, a young man of Ethiopian birth who is fluent in English, Amharic (the national language of Ethiopia), and Sidamigna (the regional language of Sidama, where Samuel and Asher were born). Always eager to help others, Mesfin agreed to act as my interpreter. So we met at a Starbucks and gave Amanuel a call.

“Hello, Amanuel?” Mesfin was off and running, rattling off words in Sidamigna that I had no way of understanding. For all I knew he was saying, “Hello, Amanuel. I’m sitting here with this creepy white guy who’s raising your children. I wouldn’t let this guy feed my hamster; what were you thinking letting him adopt your kids?”

After a few seconds, we got cut off. Bad reception. “Amanuel said that the reception is bad,” Mesfin told me. “He is going to higher ground. But he is very excited we called! All he kept saying was, ‘Oh my gosh! How are the boys? How is the family? Tell them that I love them all! I am so glad they called. This is a blessing!’ He wants us to call again in five minutes.”

We refilled our coffee while we gave Amanuel a few moments to go to a place where he would get better reception. Then Mesfin dialed again. “Hello, Amanuel?”

Through Mesfin, Amanuel and I conversed for nearly ½ hour. I told him that the boys were fine, that it was an honor to speak to him, and that we talk and think about him and his family often. He asked when we would come to visit. I told him that we are hoping to be able to come within  a year or 2.

At my request, Mesfin asked Amanuel if I could ask a few questions about his life and the day the twins were born.  Amanuel graciously said yes, affording me the opportunity to learn more fully all that he had experienced when it came to the twins and what his family had lived through.

I asked Amanuel what he farmed. Corn, beans, and ensete (false banana) were the answers. Sidama is actually a region rich in coffee (Ethiopia’s primary cash crop) as well. But Amanuel, it turns out, does not grow any.

I enquired as to whether all of his farming was subsistence or if he grew any for market. Amanuel responded that he rarely could grow enough to feed his family, much less any to sell. When I asked what he did for income, he told me that at the time the twins were born, he would use his donkey-drawn cart to transport people from one village to another in exchange for a birr (Ethiopia’s standard currency—equal to 1/16 of a dollar at the time Meredith and I visited the country). However, since our visit, Amanuel’s donkey had died, leaving him with no way to pull his cart or make money. Humbled and embarrassed by my own tendency to think that I face financial challenges, I elected not to press him further on his means of income.

Most personal of all, Amanuel shared with me the details of the day the twins were born. Prior to their birth, Amanuel’s wife, Martha, had given birth to six previous children. The first were twins. Only one, Amanuel’s daughter (now 10) survived. Next, Martha gave birth to a boy who died at birth, then a second set of twins, both of whom died. She then gave birth to Amanuel’s oldest son, who is now 8. Finally, came Samuel and Asher.

Mothers in rural Ethiopia usually give birth at home with only the help of local women. But given Martha’s history with childbirth and her great level of discomfort, Amanuel and his wife agreed that he should fetch a trained midwife. With the donkey wearied from days of work and unable to make the journey, Amanuel walked for two and a half  hours to the home of the nearest midwife, convinced her to come with him, and walked two and a half  hours back.

 I could see Mesfin’s face fall as Amanuel continued, “When I returned home, the twins had been born, and my beautiful wife had died giving birth.”

Hearing Mesfin relay to me all that Amanuel was saying, I felt my heart both breaking and filling with admiration for this young Ethiopian father.  My heart broke for the unimaginable pain he had endured at the death of his wife.  And yet I was in awe of him and admired him deeply for his strength and the dignity with which he continued to love and lead his family.

Amanuel shared how the days that followed were hard. Over 300 people “not counting the women and children,” turned out to mourn Martha at her funeral. She was buried just yards away from the home where she had loved and served her family.

For four more days after the funeral, Amanuel attempted to tend to and take care of his new babies. But, even with his mother’s help, the twins were dying. All he had that they could digest was water. There was no one to nurse them. At his mother’s urging, and with great sadness, he did the only thing he could do. He had his mother, his uncle, and a member of the Red Cross take the boys to the orphanage.

I wrote frantically as Mesfin relayed to me all that Amanuel was saying. But as I wrote, my mind was racing. A spectrum of emotions ran through me as I tried to process all I was hearing. Some of it I already knew. Some I could have guessed. Some was harder than I ever could have imagined.

Towards the end of the conversation, I jumped on the phone. I wanted to hear Amanuel’s voice myself. I would imagine he probably wanted to hear mine as well. “Hello, Amanuel,” I said.

“Hello,” he enthusiastically responded. That was all we could say that we both could understand.

For all the young farmer had been through, all I could detect in his voice was joy and gratitude. He was joyful that his sons were doing well. He was grateful for me and Meredith and the fact that we had contacted him. And he was faithful to God, believing that God had always been good and in control.

Talking to Amanuel, I felt blessed and elated. But I also felt small. Through the words and life of this brave, faithful man, I was confronted with my own selfishness.  Here, in middle–class America, I have it so easy. For all the troubles I have, I have never once worried where my children would sleep, what they would eat, or whether or not they would even survive childbirth. I watched my wife go through 3 c-sections, never once doubting that she would be okay. And yet, I can lose my faith so easily. At the slightest financial challenge or change in circumstance, I can get out of sorts, wondering “Why me, God?”

Amanuel is a man whom the world looks at and sees as impoverished and in need. I see him as my brother and friend.  Speaking with him I realized that he is in many ways a stronger and better man than most. He has faced and continues to face challenges in life that would crush most men. Yet he not only survives them, he overcomes them with joy, faith, peace, and an undying hope that most could only wish for and many could not even begin to fathom.

Before getting off the phone, I thanked Amanuel and assured him that we would call again soon. He was excited and said that he could not wait to hear more from us and stay updated on the boys.  He has given me so much in both my sons and more than one spiritual lesson.  I pray that I can make him proud in the way I raise Samuel and Asher.  Until the next time Mesfin and I say, “Hello….. Amanuel?”

Daddy reading to Sammy & Asher-March 2012