One year later I sat beside Aschalew in a rickety passenger van, and we rumbled down the washed out roads of Gurage territory in Ethiopia. There were nine of us–four Americans, Aschalew, the driver, a worker from the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, and a couple from the church in Addis Ababa, who were hoping to adopt an orphan from the Kidmia center in Gunchire. There was a palpable nervousness in the cab of the van because, as Aschalew explained, this was to be the first domestic adoption in Ethiopian history. A lawyer by trade, I salivated at witnessing this seminal case, a formative precedent in what I hoped would be a long line of domestic adoption proceedings. As a follower of Christ, I was even more excited. After all, this act would pave the way for Ethiopian families to adopt their own, to fulfill the scriptural metaphor of kinsman redeemer.

We pulled to the courthouse, and my heart raced as we exited the van. Aschalew asked us to wait outside as he entered the courthouse to speak with the judge. Moments later he returned, informed us that the judge was concerned that Americans had been brought to the proceeding. “He is worried,” Aschalew said, “that the locals will believe the Ethiopian family is only a scheme, that they will believe the children are being sold to Americans. I am sorry, but you will not be allowed into the proceeding.” Crestfallen, my American contingent loaded into the van, leaving the adoptive family to attend the legalities of the day. The parents smiled, told us not to worry. We would see their united family soon enough, they said.

“Yes,” we said. “Good luck.”

We were transported from the courthouse to the local Kidmia care center where children awaited our arrival. They ran to us from the spacious and lush yard, met us under a thatched-roofed pavilion. They spoke staccato Amharic, faces puzzled as we tried to explain that we could not understand their language. The children dropped all attempts at verbal communication, opted instead to swing on our arms and instigate games of tag. One child took me by the hand and led me proudly to the to the community garden where ensete grew tall as Indiana corn. There were mango trees, vegetable plants, grains, and nut trees. I kneeled down, scooped soil into my hand and smelled it, rich as Mississippi mud. There was a chicken coop beside the garden, and the child tucked his hands under his arm pits, flapped his elbows up and down and said “bwawk, bwawk.” We held hands like relatives. Laughed boisterously.

The lunch call rang out, and we returned to the pavilion, where nurses and caretakers came with rolls of injera–that Ethiopian flat bread that tastes like sour crepes. There was chicken and Coca-Cola, and we, along with the children, ate and drank to our hearts content.

After lunch, we continued to play with the children and waited for the adoptive family to arrive. It seemed like hours before we spotted the white passenger van pulling up the driveway. Aschalew exited the van first, followed closely by the couple that had traveled those many kilometers from Addis. They were all smiles, and the wife embraced a smallish bundle wrapped in a blanket. I ran to the van, smiling wide with hope. Aschalew hugged me, pulled me close like only an Ethiopian brother could and said, “I want to introduce you to Eve, the first mother of the Ethiopian orphan. And to her new daughter, too.”

I stared at this Ethiopian Eve, this native mother full of furious love for her new-claimed child. I watched the child snuggle, nuzzle into the soft spot between her mother’s collarbone and neck. I cried unashamedly. Eve and her daughter, they were beautiful. The Ethiopian church, she is beautiful, too. She is ready, willing, and able. She is capable. She is fierce. She is the mother of her children. And we? We can participate in the redeeming, in the celebration of a lost child finding her belonging. We can participate in uniting the orphan of Ethiopia with her first family.