She wasn't posing for me.

I was standing among roughly 100 children at a Saturday bible study and lunch program in Entoto, a mountain village in Ethiopia. The young girl wasn't facing my direction—I had zoomed in from a distance, captivated by the vibrant colors of her head covering.

Then something magical happened.

As my camera began to focus, she turned. And a genuine smile radiated from her face. Not posed. Not forced. Entirely natural and undeniably beautiful.

That smile stopped me in my tracks. Because I knew her story. And her story should have stolen any reason to smile.

The Story Behind the Smile

Her name is Enatu. She and her younger brother Aschale live with their grandmother, Enatnesh Zenabu, in Entoto—a mountain village ravaged by poverty and lacking basic governmental resources.

They weren't always here.

The family arrived in Entoto after fleeing their home in Northern Ethiopia. War between tribes had broken out in their province. When the grandmother retold the story, she wept. She had watched her neighbors slaughtered in front of her. Men, women, and children.

She grabbed her grandchildren and ran.

When I met them, they were living in the home accessed through the door you see behind them in the photograph. Their entire house was no larger than six feet by six feet. The mud floor was covered only by a small mat positioned in the corner. Other than a few plastic bottles and a small container, nothing else existed in their home.

Completely and utterly destitute.

And yet, Enatu smiled.

The Family That Broke Me

I was living in Ethiopia during 2023, serving with a ministry called Ordinary Hero. I met hundreds of people during my time there. Heard countless stories of suffering and survival. Witnessed poverty that most Americans can't imagine.

But this family broke me.

Maybe it was the grandmother—Enatnesh. She was so loving toward me. Every time I visited, she would kiss me, hug me, hold onto me like I was her own family. She couldn't get enough of me, and honestly, I couldn't get enough of her either.

Maybe it was the kids. Enatu and Aschale bonded with me quickly. Despite everything they'd been through—fleeing violence, losing their home, living in a space smaller than most American bathrooms—they were full of life. Full of dreams.

Enatu wants to be a doctor. Her little brother wants to be a soldier.

 Or maybe it was the contrast that broke me. The grandmother's tears as she described watching her neighbors die. And then Enatu's radiant, unforced smile captured in my camera.

How does hope survive in the middle of that?

What Happened Next

At the time I first shared this story, the grandmother was struggling to provide for the family. A recent ankle dislocation had made walking difficult. They needed help—not just money, but a better living situation.

Our team went to work.

A generous man named Brent Baxter (who goes by Bink) committed to sponsor the family monthly, providing ongoing support to help them escape extreme poverty.

But we wanted to do more.

We returned to Entoto determined to find them a better home. And we did.

 We found them a place with a little more room. Better located for grandma and her injured ankle. Still a one-room home—this is Entoto, after all—but a significant improvement from the six-by-six mud floor they'd been living on.

And we brought them their first bed.

I wish you could have seen their faces. The grandmother's tears—different tears this time. The kids bouncing around the new space. A bed. Something so simple, so basic, that most of us take for granted every single night.

For this family, it was everything.

Hope in Hopeless Places

I think about Enatu's smile a lot.

She had every reason to be hopeless. Her family fled violence. She lost her home. She was living in extreme poverty with a grandmother who could barely walk. By any measure, her circumstances were devastating.

But she smiled. Not because someone told her to. Not because she was pretending everything was fine. She smiled because somehow, in the middle of all that pain, hope was still alive in her.

That's what I witnessed over and over again in Ethiopia. Not denial of suffering—the grandmother wept openly when she told her story. But hope that coexisted with the pain. Joy that didn't wait for circumstances to improve.

It challenged everything in me.

Because I've had seasons where my circumstances were objectively fine—comfortable, even—and I couldn't find joy anywhere. I've been hopeless with a full refrigerator and a warm bed and people who loved me.

And here was a little girl in a six-by-six mud house, smiling like she knew something I didn't.

Maybe she did.

You Can Be Part of the Story

The work in Ethiopia continues. Families like the Zenabus are everywhere in Entoto and the surrounding regions—grandmothers raising orphaned grandchildren, kids who've witnessed things no child should see, communities devastated by poverty and conflict.

Ordinary Hero is on the ground, doing the work. Finding homes. Providing beds. Running bible studies and lunch programs for children who might not eat otherwise. Giving hope to the hopeless.

You can be part of that.

I'm not going to guilt you into giving. But I will tell you this: I've seen what even small donations accomplish. I've watched a family's entire life change because someone on the other side of the world decided their story mattered.

A bed. A better home. Monthly support that means a grandmother doesn't have to choose between food and medicine.

These aren't abstract statistics. These are real families. Real kids with real dreams of becoming doctors and soldiers. Real grandmothers who will grab you and kiss you and weep with gratitude.

If you want to help, you can donate to Ordinary Hero here: https://interland3.donorperfect.net/weblink/WebLink.aspx?id=6&name=E247624

Your gift will go toward families just like the Zenabus—people who need someone to see them, to care, to help them take one step out of impossible circumstances.

The Smile That Started It All

I still have that photograph of Enatu. The one where she turned unexpectedly, her smile catching the light, completely unaware of how beautiful the moment was.

It reminds me that hope isn't dependent on circumstances. That joy can exist in the darkest places. That sometimes the people with the least to smile about are the ones who teach us the most about what really matters.

Enatu wanted to be a doctor. I don't know if she'll get there. But I know she has a bed now. A better home. People around the world who heard her story and decided to help.

And I know that smile—the one she didn't pose for, didn't force, didn't fake—that smile came from something deeper than her circumstances.

That's hope for the hopeless.

And it's available to all of us, no matter where we live or what we're facing.

If you'd like to support the ongoing work of Ordinary Hero in Ethiopia, visit their donation page: https://interland3.donorperfect.net/weblink/WebLink.aspx?id=6&name=E247624

You can also text me at (303) 435-2630  or email [email protected] if you want to learn more about mission opportunities or how to get involved.

Have you ever encountered hope in a hopeless place? What did it teach you? Share in the comments—your story might inspire someone else to see their circumstances differently.