8 - Faven

“You should be happy about turning fifty,” Faven said as we drove through the city. “Look at all of the things you have done.”

“I’m not . . . umm . . . unhappy about it,” I said. 

“You look really good for your age,” she continued—like my personal cheerleader. “You look way better than so-and-so’s mom, and she’s forty-six!”

I raised my eyebrows and grimaced. What do you know?

“Look at everything you have,” she continued. “A house. A husband. A car. Some kids. And!—you’re a writer.” 

I write, therefore I am. “I’m not, exactly a — writer,” I said.

“You’re not?” she asked, and looked at me. “Then how come you’re on the internet?”

“Lots of people are on the internet,” I told her.

“I’m just saying that you’ve done a lot. You should be happy.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “What have I done?” (as if we two could even be compared).

I pulled my eyes off the road, and glanced at her in the passenger seat beside me. 

Her skin the colour of a copper penny worn down; her gold-flecked eyes hopeful, then fiery—with only a blink between the two; and her tiny body draped in seventeen-year-old finery, but curled like a child into the bucket seat. 

My gaze swung back to the road as I said, “You’ve moved to a country across the world from where you we’re born. You’ve learned a whole new language. And you’ve moved in with a bunch of strangers—that you didn’t choose—who you now call family. 

But, other than that, (smile) you haven’t done very much at all.” 

We both burst out laughing. 

Faven has had to adapt more than people three times her age. Definitely more than me. 

It has not been easy, and there are a ton of days that I would say it has not been worthwhile. Not for her. Not for me. 

It is hard for me to remember that she has been fearfully and wonderfully made; and that her struggles and imperfections are simply part of her journey. And hers happens to be intertwined with mine. 

Faven and me, Ethiopia, 2008

Faven delights people almost everywhere she is known. She has an uncanny ability to make people who are less fortunate than herself feel good. Her “Faven is in the house” attitude draws people to her like iron flecks to a magnet. And although she struggles to be in our family, she offers me bite-sized pieces of joy, and I need to chew more slowly, and linger a bit longer there, whenever I can. 

Faven and me, Spring, 2015