The next day, we head over to AHOPE to see the little kids. When we get there, they are all pointing at the sky. We look up and there is a bright ring around the sun. I have never seen anything like it and would never have noticed it without the kids. The next day, the story makes BBC News’ ticker.

The kids are running riot around the yard and I am sitting on the ground with one of them when a man comes over. He is the doctor and he comes to AHOPE occasionally to check on the children. He is very charming in the quiet Ethiopian way, and like all Ethiopians with an email address, he wants to write to me. He tells me that Baby S, the tiny girl who just came back to the compound from the hospital, is going back. She has a chest infection and needs to be more closely monitored. I nod, saddened that she is leaving, because it was nice having her around. She is a tiny thing, with spindly arms and legs, so little that she has to eat the protein peanut paste and spends her days sitting on the couch, barely moving. I am not surprised that she is still sick.

Then we go over to Big AHOPE, where we spend four hours. I take picture after picture of the kids, and they want to use the camera. I tell them each, “ant, beeeeetcha!,” thinking I am telling them, “only one!” I am impressed with my tremendous Amharic abilities, because they all nod, snatch the camera away, and bring it right back. It is only later that I realize I was telling them, “ONE YELLOW!” and they probably all think I am both bossy and stupid.

It is a nice afternoon, as usual, and the boys all crash around playing basketball, and the girls all braid my hair and play the rock-jacks game. It’s easy to be at Big AHOPE, because the kids just want to be with us, and were we not hungry and tired, we would stay all day–or maybe, forever.