"Have a good morning!"

School is pretty much in full swing.  I have three tests next week in the Nursing department and a couple of projects coming up soon in Honors. My RA position has steadily become more demanding. I'm a relatively high-strung person with a lot of nervous energy, so the busyness is fine with me.  I'm still trying to get back in the rhythm of Belmont life, though.

This summer, rhythm was undeniably a part of life.  On a typical morning, Zeger and I would get up before dawn. We would sit in the silence of the pre-morning, perching carefully on the wall and sipping coffee in the crisp morning air. Sometimes other volunteers or Jasmine and Troy would join us.  As the eastern sky brightened with the hope that is the dawn, we would slip out of the orphanage and go for a walk. It really didn't matter which direction we went at first; we almost always ended up in the Boma buying fritters for $0.10 a piece from some village kid for a pre-breakfast snack.

Upon arriving back at the orphanage, usually I collapsed on the front steps while we waited for Enock or Peter to let us in. Inevitably, we raced each other to the kitchen for a glass of water. Depending on the time, the kids were usually eating breakfast.  The next few minutes were one of my favorite parts of the day. Essy, the lady who works in the kitchen, would look over her shoulder and smile in greeting. "Mwashibukeni!"
"Ea mukwai. Mwashibukeshani?"
"Bwino."

Sometimes she would ask where we had gone. "Naile kuBoma." Often she laughed good-naturedly at my pronunciation, and many times she would say something I didn't understand at all. After I had scarfed down some eggs, I would run out the door to gather the kids' school material as Essy's friendly voice rang out behind me, bidding me to "Have a good morning!"

In every work situation, there are people who throw their hearts into their job, and there are people who are only there to draw a paycheck.  Nobody ever does an exemplary job all of the time, and Essy was no exception. Sometimes she burned the food or forgot to turn off the kettle.  Cooking and cleaning aside, Ido fully believe that she very sincerely loves those children.  If one of them was sick, she asked about them frequently through the day.  She cried when Jessie died.  One morning I stumbled into the kitchen after a particularly rough night-- between Gladys and Jessie, I had barely slept at all. Gladys hadn't eaten in several hours and I couldn't get her to keep her medicine down. For the first time, I feared I might lose her. Essy first asked how the babies were, and after my short explanation immediately started a kettle of hot water. "Coffee will help," she said.  I sat in silence for a couple precious minutes while she bustled around the kitchen. My thoughts were sifting through the temperatures and respiration rates of the last 8 hours, and my ears were pricked towards the open window in case the princesses woke up and wanted to tell me about it.  As I filled a glass with filtered water to make Gladys's bottle (which I knew she would barely eat from anyway), Essy called softly after me. "You are trying very hard. Gladys is strong. I think she will make it."

I had a very different relationship with Essy than I did with any of the other staff. I think this is mostly due to the fact that we just worked together in a different context.  When Gladys first came to us, she was a very fussy and sick approximately-eight-month-old.  She screamed bloody murder if you sat her down for even a moment, but she wasn't really happy being held either. She writhed and whimpered and clawed at her face and stomach in obvious discomfort.  She raged with fever for days and was not tolerating food well.  One morning I went to make breakfast.  No one else was awake yet.  Seeing no other good option, I sat her in a highchair and let her scream it out while I scrambled enough eggs to feed myself and the four Morrow kids.  Essy watched me run back and forth between the counter and the kid for a few seconds, then she started cooing to Gladys in Bemba.  She scooped her up and held her close, and immediately Gladys fell silent. Her exhausted little head rested comfortably against Essy, and for a few precious moments, I think my little angel was happy.

I felt relieved and helpless all at the same time.  I would give that baby the heart from my chest if she needed it, but I couldn't seem to give her comfort.  Referring to a running joke between the two of us, I shrugged in surrender. "I guess it's because you're not musungu." Essy smiled at me, but her eyes were glued to Gladys. "No," she explained simply. "It's because I'm a mom."

I dearly miss my morning exchange of banter with Essy.  On the days she worked, it was as much a part of my rhythm as the sun rising over the arena in the morning and setting over the Congo that evening.  We shared one of those rare friendships where each of us was better for knowing the other, even if just in small ways.  When I daydream about pulling through the side gate of that orphanage again next May, I imagine that hers will be one of the first voices I hear. She'll probably greet me in Bemba. She may ask me where I've been. And when I dash back out the kitchen door to go scoop up a kid, I'm sure I'll hear her calling after me, "Have a good morning!"