Thanking God for the Small Things

We had a wonderful pre-Thanksgiving sermon on Sunday. I came away with thanksgiving in my heart.

After that, my thoughts on Thanksgiving seem a bit strange and I feel foolish sharing them. But, I’m thankful for my fuchsia composition book. I'm especially thankful because it has lime-green polka dots. There are other colors, too—as you can see from the picture—but I like the lime-green against the fuchsia. Such an interesting and unexpected color combination.

Don’t misunderstand. I’m thankful for the basics: God, family, country. In fact, there are times when I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for them, and I understand these blessings make me rich beyond most people’s comprehension.

I’m also excited and thankful because my rheumatologist reduced my steroid prescription from 10 mgs per day to 5 mgs per day—and that I’ve experienced only minimal discomfort so far. (He said the Remicade would take care of it, and apparently it has. I’ve even been able to skip the bedtime snack some nights.) But I'm holding these feelings in check. Perhaps I’m afraid to get excited about health issues. I could make bold statements of faith, but has God directed me to go that route? I'm reluctant. I feel His message on the subject has been to look to Him and leave the outcome to Him.

However, on another level altogether, I so enjoy looking around and thanking Him for those little things—the small pleasures that bring smiles and encourage me. Things like my fuchsia composition book. I use it for journaling.

Since I’ve been blogging, I don’t journal as much as I did. But I still use it to record extraneous thoughts—and to record bits of info I think I might want or need. It's always in plain view, my fuchsia composition book with lime-green polka dots. And since God saw fit to create colors, I think He's pleased when I enjoy them.

So, with a joyful heart, may I recommend that you Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise. Give thanks to him and praise his name. (Ps. 100:4 NLB) Enjoy His blessings. Enjoy His colors. Recognize Him as your source and thank Him for the little things.

(We leave tomorrow to join our oldest daughter and her family for the Holiday. Blessings, and have a great Thanksgiving.)

Trusting God for Weight-Control

I have a weight problem. In fact, I’ve had a weight problem so long that I barely remember life without it. But for several years, in response to God’s direction, I’ve been losing. Then, last summer, because an attempt to change my medication wasn’t working, my rheumatologist prescribed steroids as a temporary measure. After brief periods on larger amounts, the dosage was reduced to 10 mgs on August 29.

This is my second experience with steroids and I learned the first time around that I must eat. If not, my stomach goes wild; stomach ulcers are a threat. And so, I’ve gained ten pounds. On a normal day, I try to not think about it, but on Sunday I happened to catch part of a feature on a woman weighing almost 700 pounds. One line from her story caught my attention—she began gaining weight during her recovery from hepatitis.

This may sound like an excuse, but it’s my reality and I think others would benefit by hearing my story. My weight gain began when recovering from hepatitis while I was in my late 20s. The objective was eating protein to rebuild the liver. Even in the hospital, while hooked up to IVs, I ate two eggs, bacon or sausage, cooked cereal, two slices of toast, and a large glass of milk for breakfast. Instead of lunch and dinner, I ate two dinners. In the afternoon and before bed, fabulous snacks. With activity curtailed, I looked to food for stimulation.

When sent home, the recommended diet followed the same pattern. Because I wanted to get well, I followed it. Six months later my doctor declared a full recovery. I’d gained 30 pounds.

In a reasonable world I’d have returned to eating the way I ate before and lose the pounds gradually. Instead, I went on a reduced-calorie diet. I think I lost about 25 pounds.

During the following year I gained about 35 pounds—something like that. I do remember for sure that I went up and down for years—the numbers were always a bit higher on the scale when I went up than they had been before I went down. The yo-yo effect.

The last time I was satisfied with my weight occured over 20 years ago when I lost an amount I can’t remember for our youngest son’s wedding. Many told me I looked great.

You’d think I’d have been motivated to keep up the good work, wouldn’t you? Truth is, by that time I’d forgotten how to eat normally. I either dieted and lost or I ate and gained (and felt guilty). Eventually, I gave up. I remember telling Ken that I couldn’t live that way anymore.

I don’t know how high my weight finally climbed. I was too depressed and too defeated to address the issue—even for reasons of health—so I stopped getting on the scale. I remember thinking the Bible used food as a metaphor for God’s blessings. If food was a blessing, why was it a problem? But I don’t remember praying about food.

(I’m sorry—but relieved—that I can’t post a picture from that era. We didn’t have a digital camera then.)

Then a friend—a large friend—approached me about joining her and others in a program called “Weigh Down.” There I faced a horrifying reality—food had become a sort of God in my life. I looked to food for comfort, for excitement, for fellowship. And this is what I want to highlight. If you have a weight problem, however it started, it indicates a deeper problem.

In the program we had freedom to eat anything at any time—if we were truly hungry. We went through a process of identifying true hunger and then volume-control became key. I can’t say how many pounds I lost because I didn’t know my top weight; I went down several dress sizes.

Well, the program came to an end, I was sidetracked by an event, lost my focus, and gained about 15 pounds. I was afraid to try anything that might begin the yo-yo effect again, so I visually monitored my food intake and stopped gaining. No fun, but it worked.

Then steroids entered the picture and I learned about a churning stomach. But this time I knew God could intervene. When the steroids were removed from my list of meds, I prayed desperately and I felt God gave me a directive: Don’t eat anything in the evening after dinner.

That was it?

Sometimes a little difference makes a big difference. Although I didn’t lose by making that change, I stopped gaining. It was a start, and I knew God was interested in my weight, that He would help me.

Three months later I prayed specifically about food again. This time I felt He suggested I stop eating salad dressings. I was primed for this—was tired of bottled dressings and a friend had been promoting alternatives. I lost a few pounds after that adjustment. Today I totally enjoy salads by dressing them with oil, balsamic vinegar and seasoned salt.

The next thing He impressed upon my heart was giving up soda. That was hard, but today I only drink soda for a special occasion. On a normal day, I don’t miss it. Although I don’t understand the chemistry, after that change my appetite seemed to decrease and my weight continued moving down slowly but consistently—until my recent experience with steroids when it began going up again.

There have been a few other changes—some temporary. I believe God was in some of them. My tastes have changed somewhat.

Tomorrow I see my rheumatologist and, because I’ve stabilized, I’m hoping he’ll begin weaning me off the steroids again. Perhaps because of that silly TV program—I was never even one-third of her weight—I’ve been thinking about it. Whatever happens, whenever I go off steroids, I know I’ll think of dieting—be tempted to kick-start the process of losing pounds quickly. But I can’t. Dieting puts the focus on food. Yes, I need to control food. I can only do that by putting my focus on God.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all your do, and he will show you which path to take. (Prov. 3:5,6 NLB)

Heart to Heart, Spirit to Spirit

The most important aspect of life is connecting with another personality—heart to heart or spirit to spirit.

Ken and I attended several special sessions at a local church this week. On the one hand, we learned nothing new. We might be able to say the conference wasn’t for us.

But it was, because our hearts were touched—by the way the speaker connected to his audience and by the way he somehow made me realize anew the importance of connecting to others. At one point he shared a story about taking one of his sons on trip when the boy was 4 years old, a son that tragically died at the age of 22. The child needed correcting all day for wandering or for generally putting himself in danger. But when the day was over he buckled himself into the center section of the truck's bench seat so he could lean against his dad, and then he proclaimed it had been the best day of his life.

The father/speaker’s point was that he loved being with his son and didn’t dislike the son when he needed correcting—and that our Father in heaven feels the same about us. God loves to be with us and doesn’t dislike us when we need correcting.

I agree with and appreciat his point, but came up with my own point: connecting with another personality makes life worth living. Be that person God or another human. You could see it in the father’s face and hear it in his voice. The memory was life to him, even after the son was dead.

I skipped church on Sunday morning. After a Friday evening meeting and three meetings on Saturday, I moved slowly. But God and I had a special meeting while Ken was gone. I asked Him five questions that have been plaguing me. He didn’t specifically answer any of them, but He gave me one big answer that encompassed two of the questions and touched on the others. I was more than satisfied—mainly because I felt we had connected.

I read a book recently titled Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell. Bell makes several points, but in the end, the book is his story—his testimony, so to speak. The portion that spoke to me was the section on asking God questions. The types of questions he referred are no longer issues for me—questions about God’s nature, evil, etc. I don’t profess to have all the answers, but I’m content with the revelation I have. Except as it relates to my current daily life!

While reading the book, however, I realized I had been slow to come to the Lord as a young woman because I didn’t dare ask those unthinkable questions. When I finally got mad enough to question Him loudly and angrily, He met me. The same is true now. I can suppress frustrations, pretend everything is fine, but reality is that I need to be honest with God about the things that bother me.

On Sunday morning I was honest. And we connected.

I’m not going to tell what I thought He said. I have to walk it out first. But I do want to say that sometimes one moment of connection can sustain a person for a long time.

When Ken and I were dating, we had a special evening. Ken visited me regularly the summer after my mother died in a car accident. One weekend we went to a drive-in movie theater—does anyone remember those?—to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It was cooler than usual that evening so I made hot chocolate as well as popcorn. Somehow, magic was in the air that night. Nothing monumental happened, we simply connected to each other, heart to heart and spirit to spirit.

There have been many times when I've drawn upon that memory—when it sustained me. (Even though, when finally we saw Seven Brides for Seven Brothers again, we both wondered what had been so special. Certainly not the movie. It was the magic of being together.)

I believe this is true in our relationship with God as well. It was true for Abraham who waited and waited for God to give him the promised son. People have come up with various answers as to why God took so long to answer Abraham's prayer, but the Bible doesn’t provide that information. There are things we can’t figure out on our own—or demand to know.

Yet asking clears the air.

I would never recommend staying home from church. I’m not even willing to say it was right to stay home Sunday. I’m only sharing one story out of a lifetime of stories. Left alone, however, I drew from some of the sustaining moments God has given me over the years. Then I asked some of those troubling questions. The heavens could have been silent. I knew God didn’t have to meet me or answer my questions.

But He did.

Since then? Well, last night I had two incidents with the car—while on my way to a meeting I had had questions about. Did I misunderstand God’s message? Or am I being tested?

Nothing is ever easy. So I have to draw from the sustaining encounter. Almighty God let me feel special, connected. Awesome.

A New Project

Today is election day and I don’t want to write about it. But after realizing it might be harder to avoid the subject tomorrow, I decided I’d better not postpone Sunny Pathway until morning.

My big focus the past week has been overcoming jet lag and coming down from the adrenalin high of visiting our family in a foreign country. To be honest, after arriving home a week ago on Sunday eve, I barely pulled myself together to write last week’s blogs.

This last Sunday, however, I came out of a fog and began working on something I’ve been thinking about for several months.

For twelve years—from July of 1981 through June of 1993—I wrote a short, short weekly column.

It began when I was writing a monthly personal column with a gentle Christian slant for The Back Forty. The publisher of the Daily News of Wahpeton, ND, - Breckenridge, MN, asked me if I’d be interested providing a weekly column for the church page of that newspaper. I thought through aspects of the project, wrote samples, and submitted them to him. He came up with a title—Thoughts for Inspiration—and a format. And we were in business.

From the beginning I tried to write ahead—fewer deadlines that way. Usually I could do one in the morning and one in the afternoon—two days a month seemed sustainable. Occasionally I spent several days on one short column. No problem. Research and soul-searching was part of the joy.

But eventually the columns became familiar territory. And all sorts of events occurred with one common denominator—they kept me busy. In time, I could churn out four or five columns after our evening meal and drop them off in the morning. The excitement was gone.

Even worse, I realized one day that I no longer consistently prayed for Thoughts. This was Christian material. What had happened? Something had to change. And when I humbled myself that day to pray, I felt God told me I needed to give up the column.

Hard. Really hard to give up something that had meant so much—more than my other writing because the focus was God and His Word. The final blow came when I realized the columns had become part of my self-image.

I cleared my decision with Ken. Then I wrote several months ahead to give the publisher time to find something else, made an appointment with him, and told him my decision.

I wasn’t done writing just yet, however. Among other things after that, before Ken and I retired I published five issues of a Christian tabloid-size paper I called Avenues.

While closing down Avenues I had a strange impression. I felt that someday I’d publish the Thoughts columns. I paid attention to the idea because it came out of nowhere, but the only kind of publishing I understood at the time would require a book or a magazine format—hard copy publication. Impossible. I didn’t have the money or knowledge to take on such a project; I put it on hold.

When I developed serious health issues, we moved from the lake into a condo in town to make life easier. During quiet times I began exploring the internet—and Ken grew so tired of me encroaching on his space that he decided we needed a second computer. Wow.

I somehow discovered blogs—and started a couple of my own even when not quite sure what a blog was. And I realized blogging was a form of publishing! I could publish my Thoughts columns on the internet!

That’s what I plan to do. I’ll publish them daily, Monday through Saturday beginning on January 1, 2009. I’m using the original name—Thoughts for Inspiration. Because they don’t quite fit the devotional format, I added a subtitle—Daily Words of Wisdom. Hope that isn’t too grandiose.

I’m more excited about this than I was when I began my current blogs. Just the same, at some point on Monday morning, while rereading the columns—all 624—I thought I might give up the idea. I’d started Sunday evening and realized I’d be at it not only all Monday but most of Tuesday (today) as well. I needed a confirmation that this was right if I was to continue. I asked God if He was really in this—and I told Him I could give it up—even if I’d be embarrassed because I’d contacted the Daily News and received permission for reprinting them,

Several hours later I wondered whether I should publish five each week, one for each work day—or six, one for each day but Sunday—or seven. And somehow, I knew in my knower that six was the number. It took at least another half-hour before I realized I had my confirmation: God provided direction for the details because He was in the big picture.

After that, everything went better. Now I’m thinking the biggest challenge will be organizing and deciding what will be published—I won’t need all 624. But even though that will be frustrating, it will be satisfying.

I'll need to collect more photos as artwork (I have some). I'll need to find a server who will send them out as emails so I won’t be tied to that daily chore. There’s the gruesome job of typing (or keying-in if you are part of the younger generation) them into the computer. And the dreaded proof reading. Not so great.

Just the same, I’m eager to launch this project that seems so special. Lots of work and lots of prayer. Hopefully, there will also be lots of fun.

Ethiopia: A Recap of Our Experience

Repost from another blog - by Solveig.

Any account of a country based on a nine-day visit is inadequate. We spent all of our time in Addis Ababa, making our exposure even more limited. But I’m unable to transition away from our trip just yet—so, one more blog post on Ethiopia. I've included quite a few pictures because they add so much.

In a sense, mountains define Addis. They rise above the Sahara and the jungle to create a high, rugged plateau. Elevations in the city vary from 7,000 to 8,000 feet. That gives an idea of the terrain. Temperatures are consistent throughout the year, reading in the low 70s during the day and mid-50s at night. It cools quickly; I wanted a sweater or jacket every night. Could a climate be more ideal?

But my dominant impressions involve people. I came away with a different understanding of servants. Marta has two close friends from childhood. One married a man of means, the other did not. We were blessed by both as they moved in and out of the guest house where we stayed while there—helping, serving. The privileged and the not-so-privileged worked together. During breaks, seated on traditional stools in the kitchen, they laughed while eating traditional food together with Genet, Ted and Marta's nanny/maid. The gals were beautiful and I'd love to provide a picture but feel I need to respect their privacy. Although social distinctions are real, they aren’t as divisive as I thought they would be. Servanthood and hospitality seem to be key cultural responses that cross social boundaries.

Then there's the pervasive poverty. Remember that Ethiopia was ravaged by famines; its infrastructure was destroyed by Mengistu’s communist government. I asked Ted about the necessary room for the many make-shift dwellings built by squatters. He said the unthinkable: Outside. Active beggars approached cars in the streets and the homeless draped ragged blankets or tattered plastic sheets against more stable structures for shelter at night.

Many come from rural areas, looking for a better life. There are very few jobs for these people, they must create their own employment. Many not only survive but thrive because entrepreneurs are a resilient bunch. Whether new to the city or whether long-time residents, they set the pace and are key to the future. Large modern buildings connect to each other not by wide walkways but by tiny shops built of rusted corrugated metal and other discarded materials. Many consist of a shelves lining a backdrop, but many others extend inward with larger display areas. A small percentage include make-shift dwellings attached to the back.

Whatever their current status, the shops wouldn’t be there without a measure of success. Because they’re small, they specialize. Perhaps in clothing or light fixtures or bathroom fixtures, or whatever. Some have more permanent quarters with metal grates similar to those we see in shopping malls that expand at night to protect the shopkeeper's investment. Marta said the best prices for the freshest fruit were found in these shops.

Marta wanted Ken and I to wear traditional clothing for the baptism. Ken and Ted were outfitted in a small shop that was completely enclosed—indicating someone was doing well indeed. We shopped for me in an area that I thought looked less prosperous, but the stores carried exquisite, high-end goods.

I thought the area looked less prosperous because sheep occupied a large fenced-in area across the road. However, that was also a place of business: buyers left with purchase in tow on a leash of some sort. The gals smiled when I asked who killed the sheep. I learned some go to a butcher, others are slaughtered in the homes. Ted explained later that all animals are slaughtered according to Old Testament law. He also said, They eat fresh meat.

A smaller sheep market regularly set up business about a block from the guest house where we stayed. Here Ted and Simon look them over. Again, an entrepreneur found a place and a way to make a living.

Because land is expensive, houses are multi-level to make use of space; townhomes are common. Built of concrete, these structures will be around long after American homes are gone. And look at the floors in our rented guest-house—made with exquisite craftsmanship from local materials.

But again, in a developing country, problems are the norm. Ken tried to find the source of a leak in our bathroom and determined it couldn’t be repaired without breaking into the wall. The rooftop tank, built to improve water-pressure, regularly ran dry. The small water heater in our bathroom was inadequate. There’s nothing quite like running out of hot water during a shower—and even worse, just after lathering your hair. Ask Ken. Nevertheless, they’re building houses, sturdy houses. People are moving up in the world.

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The building on the right was our guest house. Although violent crime is rare, apparently property crimes are not. All private property is surrounded by eight foot fences topped by barbed wire or broken glass. Flowering shrubs that climb up and over the edge soften the visual impact.

Yards consist of courtyards that provide places for washing clothes and places for little boys to play.

Here's a picture I took that I'm especially proud of, a Sheraton walkway with a vista of the city peaking through.

Altogether, it was a time of sensory overload.

Ethiopia: Precious Moments

A baby’s smile. Wow. During our first meeting, our granddaughter Salome (pronounced Sal-oh-may) looked at me intently while I gazed in admiration. Then she sighed and turned her face; no amount of chatter from me could capture her attention again during that encounter.

That afternoon, however, she seemed to recognize me. Surprised to see this face again, she made sounds, her whole body involved in the effort. I was awed by her perfection before; now I reveled in her unexpected response and expressed delight. And then she smiled.

Do I need to tell you I was smitten? Later there were days when I approached her, smiled—and she smiled back without any enticement on my part. How could she identify me and my facial expressions so accurately? Ken had a similar experience. She was open to relationships. Does she miss us now that we’re gone? I've promised my children to publish only non-identifiable pictures of the grandchildren and I think this qualifies. Sorry that I can't give you her smile.

Meanwhile, her older brother—just 2 years and 2 months old—generated a wonder all his own. When we saw Simon last Christmas he communicated without expressing himself verbally. He understood us when we spoke in English and somehow we understood his responses, often illustrated by body language. Now he’s learning to speak three languages as part of his daily life—English, French, and Amharic (language of the Amhara people, the largest ethnic group of Ethiopia). I had a hard time recognizing the specific language being spoken—even when it was English—let alone understanding what he meant.

Also, although Simon remembered us, we needed to forge a new relationship in new surroundings, and it took time. Now the joy wasn’t a smile—that came readily when playing hide-and-seek or some other game. Now the joy was sharing a picture book when reading to him or feeling the pull of his hand when walking down an Ethiopian street. It took time, but we had precious moments. Here he's playing in the courtyard. (Note the basin on the left filled with pungent chopped ginger left to dry in the sun.)


Marta wanted Ken and I to wear traditional garments for the baptism. Although a photographer took many pictures, we won’t have access to them until later. So for this picture we dressed ourselves here at home with no one to help drape the shawls. Then we asked a neighbor to take the picture. We won't dress this way when we attend church in North Dakota this Sunday, but I thought we looked rather impressive when ready for the baptism.


Boys are baptized when 40 days old, girls when 80 days old. Salome was one of four, two boys and two girls. I suspect baptisms occur almost every day.

There’s no way that I can describe the details; I’d surely get something wrong. First of all, there's the building itself. A beautiful structure with a separate attached building just for baptisms. Here's a pictue of the outside:



Four priests were involved, each with specific roles. Anointing with oil was included. There was much chanting in ancient Geez. Everything was liturgical and outside our experience—but it was so normal and comfortable for those who grew up in that tradition. I’m glad we have a God who meets us wherever we are, in all cultures and within a variety of doctrinal expressions.

After the baptism it was back to the guest house for food. Lots of it—of the traditional variety.

When we visited Ted and Marta in the United Arab Emirates about a year-and-a-half ago, we went to an Ethiopian restaurant one night for Ethiopian food. A unique experience. We thought they probably engaged in such activity on special occasions—similar to our eating lutefish and lefsa at Christmas.

Not so. Ethiopians eat Ethiopian food every day. Imagine that.

The mainstay of the diet is injera—a large, pancake-shaped, sourdough bread spread across the plate. Made from a locally-grown grain, it’s not generally available in places other than Ethiopia. Soft, spongy, and malleable, it functions as the primary eating utensil as well as a food.


In a typical meal, large pieces are cut and rolled. Individuals help themselves and roll the injera open across their plate. Then prepared dishes and sauces—some very spicy-hot—are spooned onto it. Smaller pieces are torn from the edge or from an additional piece with the right hand. These are used to pick up morsels of the prepared dishes and sauces which are then placed in the mouth.

Could you follow that? Although sauces stick to the right hand, the left hand remains clean, ready for picking up beverage glasses or for spooning more sauces onto more injera. Ritualistic washing before and after the meals are often part of the process.

Simon loves injera, would eat it plain when his mom gave it to him. Ted must have enjoyed it as well for he ate freely with finesse. And I enjoyed it, even though I frequently used my left hand to help out. The sour flavor of the bread is strong, but it blended with the hot sauces. Ken doesn’t care for spicy food at any time and struggled with both the taste and the mechanics of eating without utensils.

Because the kitchen of the guest house was not set up for traditional cooking, Marta’s older sister and servant prepared much of the food. The aromas that arrived with the food that morning prepared me for the feast to follow. It turned into a great time—even through I didn’t understand most of what was said. People who couldn’t make the 12:00 baptism kept dropping by all afternoon. I especially wanted to visit with a pleasant older lady—to no avail. On the other hand, several younger men opened doors for conversation.

Ken’s reaction to the food continued to be problematic. In addition to Ethiopian food at home, we ate out in several Addis restaurants (where we also enjoyed traditional music and the traditional dances of several tribes). But at home Marta took to cooking pasta for him and he was selective with sauces. On one of the final evenings we were invited to friends who prepared an European-style dinner and also provided utensils—a special blessing.

So, it was good to be there and now it’s good to be home. Ken’s recovering. And although I didn’t react as he did, I’m recovering, too. A trip of such magnitude took something out of us. But obviously, it was worth every bit of energy expended.

For more on our visit to Ethiopia, check out my Red Red Berries blog.

The Ethiopian Orthodox Church

Repost from another blog - by Solveig

Ken and I are going to Ethiopia for the baptism of our granddaughter. But, as I am wont to do, I've been researching, learning as much as I can about the country and about historical information related to our special event.

I'm probably sharing less than one-fourth of the information acquired. Picking and choosing was difficult. Because I'm motivated to look at different Christian expressions, and because a Christian event is the centerpiece of our visit, this post will focus on the Ethiopian Orthodox Christian Church.

There are aspects of the church that Western Christians considers unusual: Most Ethiopian Christians believe the Ark of the Covenant resides in the Church of Mary of Zion in the ancient northern city of Axum, Ethiopia. This treasure of antiquity was initially built according to plans given by God to Moses who placed it in the Tabernacle. King David brought it to Jerusalem and Solomon placed it in the Temple. Perhaps better known among the general public today for its notoriety in Raiders of the Lost Ark, it is nevertheless one of the most sacred religious artifacts of history.

Common wisdom of Western Cultures has said for centuries that the Ark was carried to Babylon after the Babylonian siege where it was subsequently lost, so the possibility of its being lost in a remote mountain village doesn’t register with many minds. But no one knows for sure and I found one source which said Ethiopian stories are not impossible.

Stories. There are several accounts and they don’t agree. I thought the most plausible version builds on the Biblical account of priests and officials who escaped by night while fleeing during the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. This account says they took the ark with them and landed in Egypt. Later, a smaller group took the Ark up the Nile and then to the city of Axum in the highlands of Ethiopia. Not unreasonable. If the priests tried to save anything, they would have saved the most important article of the temple—the Ark. They were probably aware of a Jewish presence in Ethiopia that would welcome them, and priests were the only group authorized by the Torah to carry the Ark.

Another story, one with historical implications, is that Solomon fathered a son with Makala, Queen of Sheba, during her visit in Jerusalem. After she left, he had a vision in which a greater display of glory followed Makala’s son Mendelik than the son who would reign in Judah. Solomon ordered a replica of the Ark sent to Ethiopia, but a priest exchanged the replica with the real Ark before transporting it to Axum. Sacred literature reports their physical encounter as well as his

vision.Both of these stories occur long before the advent of Christianity and neither explains how possession of the ark was eventually transferred to Christians. (For centuries, a priest has been chosen while still a child for a lifetime position to protect the ark. The current priest trains the child. Only appointed priests ever actually see the Ark. This practice is consistent with Old Testament Law. It also rules out the possibility of verification.)

Although there is evidence of an earlier Christian influence, Christianity became the dominant religion in Ethiopia during the 4th century after two brothers, sole survivors of a ship stranded on the coast of the Red Sea, lived their faith among their captors. Because they could read and write, they became slaves in the court. As they quietly practiced their faith, the queen was converted and she encouraged them to influence her son, Prince Ezana.

When Ezana became king, he released the brothers and sent them to Egypt. One returned to Syria but Frumentius was trained, ordained, and appointed as a bishop by the Egyptian bishop. He then returned to Ethiopia where he baptized King Ezana and many officials. Soon after, Ethiopia became a Christian nation, the second Christian nation in the world after Armenia.

Of course, Islam made an appearance. Because the Ethiopians gave refuge to Mohammad and his followers when they sought refuge in 616 AD, Mohammad instructed followers to respect the Ethiopians, but Islamic inroads eventually came through Sudan. Today the Ethiopian city of Harar is considered the fourth holiest Muslim city and there are other important Muslim cities in Ethiopia as well.

Because ties with European Christians were lost after Islam dominated North Africa, the Ethiopian church has a unique history. It developed theological doctrines of its own, accepted books as Scripture that aren’t in the Western cannon, and honored/honors saints not known to western Christians.

But central doctrines remain intact. They believe salvation comes by grace through faith in the person of Jesus. They look to His sacrifice on the cross and to His resurrection from the grave. Ethiopian Christians share defining doctrines with Christians everywhere.When we visited our son and daughter-in-law in Abu Dhabi, I attended an Ethiopian Orthodox service and found it exciting even when I didn’t understand the language. Although a high church with elaborate rituals, they trilled during a hymn. On the way home I asked my daughter-in-law Marta about the sermon and felt blessed because the message spoke to my heart.

Today Ethiopia is an island surrounded by Muslim nations. About 45% of the people are Christian, about 45% are Muslim, and the rest are Jewish or they adhere to historic tribal religions. The government is secular.