The ringing phone woke us up at 6:00 a.m. on Easter morning. It was Alabachew, our dear friend. He called to say his wife, Habtamwa, was in labor and needed a ride to the hospital. We had been expecting this call for weeks so I wasn’t surprised. I quickly pulled on the clothes nearest to hand, pulled a ball cap over my morning hair and rushed out the door. Remembering Habtamwa’s quick deliveries, I ran back into the house, grabbed several clean towels and a pair of sterile gloves, then shot out the gate.

Before I had even gone a few hundred yards Alabachew called again to say Habtamwa’s water had broken. They were making their way up the road from their rented mud house by the rivers and we made plans to meet at the closest place I could get with a car. I assured him I was on my way and felt the car bounce, jerk, and jolt over our neighborhood roads as I stepped hard on the gas.

Two minutes later I was there. But they were nowhere to be seen. I climbed out of the car and began scanning the roads for them while I dialed Alabachew’s mobile. No one answered. I began to ask people passing by in the early morning light if they had seen them. One man thought they were at home. I thought they must have gone back to have the baby there instead of on the road.

Just as I grabbed the towels, the gloves, and the keys to the car my phone rang. It was Alabachew. Habtamwa had just had the baby. We took off towards their house.

Breathless, I arrived to their house only to find they weren’t there. A young girl grabbed my hand and as we ran she said, “They’re here! They’re on the road!” As we ran past stray dogs and trash and as my shoes slipped in mud and excrement, thoughts crashed through my head. What would it mean to give birth on a road like this? What if there are complications? How do I cut a cord? How would I find a sterile razor blade? How can I keep the baby and Habtamwa clean? How could I get them to my car?

I knew I’d found them when I saw the crowd. I pushed my way through to find Habtamwa leaning against a man I didn’t know. (I still don’t know whether he was even someone she knew or if he was just a timely passerby). Her mother and husband were trying to help her and trying to shield her all the while under a blanket awkwardly held up between her legs.

My eyes met Habtamwa’s and she smiled—smiled! As if to say, “Well, it happened again!” Only one of her four babies was born in a hospital. All the rest, including this one, were welcomed into the world on a dusty Ethiopian road. Had I not seen it, it would be difficult to imagine delivering a baby on a rocky road, with no sterile pad, no one around to help, twenty or more people gathered 'round to watch, someone occasionally throwing a stone at a stray dog who came licking too close or shooing away curious children, wondering if your baby is okay because she’s not crying. Wondering what happens now? How are you going to get up and climb the rest of the way up the hill to the car? Do you go back home? Go to the hospital? How will you ever get clean? Once you’re back up do you say “Sorry about the mess” to the people assembled around and the others passing by?

The story doesn’t end there. I assured Habtamwa that help was on the way. Phone calls were made and before she could even think of getting up there were four foreign women by Habtamwa’s side. Two of us were there with cars and moral support, but the other two—God did a great thing! One of those ladies was a pediatrician who lived up the street and the other was a doctor who lived close by. We went back to my house where both the baby and Habtamwa were examined and given postnatal care.

The water had come back on so while the women cared for Habtamwa and the baby inside, Alabachew and several male family members were outside up to their elbows in suds washing clothes, towels, and blankets. In a couple of hours clean laundry was dripping in the sunshine and Habtamwa and Alabachew were getting their picture taken with their new, beautiful, healthy baby girl. They were thrilled and so grateful. We all were.

But over the next several days I reflected upon how life for so many is so hard—difficult in a way that my life would never be. And as I protested to God about how hard it was for them, it struck me that not once during, or since, did Habtamwa complain. As she lay there propped up, looking at me, waiting for help to arrive she didn’t say, “Why is this happening here?! Why can’t I be in a hospital where there isn’t a crowd gathered to watch? Why can’t I be in a birthing suite in some beautiful, clean hospital?!” She never said any of that.

Instead, she smiled. Life is difficult, and she was grateful. In her time of need, while she was still waiting, smiling on the road, God responded ... and provided just what she needed.