I Am Thankful

Darkness seeps through the screens of the windows as the dim light of the moon filters into the room, settling upon the thin sheet that covers our bodies, exhausted and worn from a tireless afternoon. The melodic hum of the generator vibrates the warm air and muffles the rhythm of the beating drums that haunts the background of the night. Humid nights trail sweltering days, but the subtle breeze offers us relief from the constant heat. However, it provides little comfort for the pain that is festering inside my heart.

On my left is Jony, and on my right is Peterson, the three of us nestled into the contentment of one another’s company. Their soft giggles radiate warmth, lingering above our heads, providing joy and security, and alleviating the bitter truth that we can’t seem to erase from our minds tonight. The days of being together grow few, but we refuse to let this protruding reality ruin our time together. I sense Jony’s increasing fatigue as his body slowly melts into the mattress, the tears of today’s anguish dried upon his fragile face. I listen quietly to the harmony of their sweet voices that bounce back and forth between one another, brothers who deeply and dearly cherish their bond. And tonight, in this moment, I am thankful.

Peter reaches for my hand, interlocking our fingers, and I can see that captivating smile that stretches across his face, the smile that first captured my heart.

And, I am thankful.

As their soft mumbles slowly die, I am enamored by the serenity of the twilight, at peace between two precious boys I so eminently love. Peter squeezes my hand and the words fall from his mouth, “Please don’t leave.” And almost on cue, Jony’s voice arises, pleading, “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with us.”

Oh, my heart. It shatters into a million pieces and I can feel the emotion crawling up through my throat.

I don’t want to leave either are the only words that seem to escape me because words don’t seem adequate. What else can I say? Because this is exactly where I want to be.

“Take us with you,” Jony proclaims. A moment of silence follows in attempts of gathering myself. And just as I open my mouth to reply, Peterson breaks the empty air,

“We love you.”

And simultaneously, I feel Peterson’s other free hand reach for my right as Jony’s little fingers fill the empty gaps of my left.

I am thankful.

Every single day, I am thankful that Jesus filled and continues to fill the void in my life. I am thankful that He continues to stretch and mold and change my heart and its desires. I am thankful that I have the ability and the opportunity to share His love with those that are desperate to know Him. I am thankful He has placed so many children in my life that need Him. For me, before I knew Peterson and Jony, those statistics and numbers were so numbing, and meaningless, and worthless. But when I met them, they became real and I could no longer blame my ignorance. As our friendship continues to grow, I am continuously reminded of the cry of the orphan, the voice of the voiceless, and the hope for the children around the world that cannot be ignored.

David Platt, in Radical, shares, “…orphans are easier to ignore before you know their names. They are easier to ignore before you see their faces. It is easier to pretend they’re not real before you hold them in your arms. But once you do, everything changes.”

Every child deserves and needs to know the Father’s love. We are His hands and feet. I am thankful He chooses us. 

Anne-Marie

 I first met Anne Marie a year ago, one of thirty-something orphans residing in a small house not far from where we live. As I scanned the crowd of children, I couldn't help but notice how emaciated and malnourished their fragile bodies appeared and how sullen and pathetic their facial expressions revealed. This was somewhat ironic as the orphanage was named "Tree of Life," but any sign of life seemed to have abandoned these children in need. But regardless of their demeanor, they immediately greeted us with a song as we filed through the door, and the smell of Pine Sol pierced my nose at the entrance. As they sang, their expressions were vacant and the soft melody seemed to be missing meaning. The room was dimly lit as the light of the sun filtered through the small windows. And as I examined these children, whose bodies hardly held the weight of their oversized clothes, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the older girls were. Of course, all Haitian children are beautiful, but these girls, about eight of nine years old, possessed something the other children did not seem to have. They were stunning. Their faces radiated beauty amidst the lifeless crowd. As they concluded their song, we slowly approached them with open arms, the younger ones less hesitant than the older ones. I hugged their meager bodies and bent to kiss their cheeks, as is custom to the Haitian culture. And as I made my way down the line, there was one who stood out to me. Her stance was protective, her body closed, and her eyebrows tense and distrustful above her piercing eyes. "Koman ou ye?" I asked her before I invited her for a hug. And in that moment, a smile cracked across her face, revealing her beaming white teeth, and her laugh broke the air. Immediately, words ran from her mouth and she struggled to speak through her giggles. And just as I thought, the other kids responded with laughter, and I knew they were laughing at me. This came to no surprise to me as they usually laughed at my butchered attempt to speak to them in their native tongue. But regardless of my ridiculous pronunciation, she laughed, and her stern and serious manner relaxed into that of one that was playful. She embraced me with a hug and took my hands in hers, as her beautiful smile illuminated life. Her name was Anne-Marie.

I am seated on the wooden church pew, Peterson's head resting against my side and his hand clasped in mine. As the children recite back what their Sunday School teacher tells them, I study Anne-Marie's face, just two rows ahead of me. Her eyebrows are buried in her forehead and a look of anger has settled onto her face. A simple pink dress drapes her body, and I realize that this may be the first time I have seen her in something other than a t-shirt and athletic shorts as she tends to sport a tomboy appearance.  But, as I search the ground, I see her tired and worn tennis shoes on her feet, and this is Anne Marie. She has not noticed me yet, but I am thanking God that she is here, and that I may see her one more time.

As of recent, Martine, the woman who takes care of the children at the Tree of Life, cannot support the orphanage anymore with her less than minimum wage. And slowly, one by the, the children are having other arrangements made. There are six left of the thirty something I first met. And every day, I never know whom I will find on the other side of the gate.

As our visitors make their way to the front of the church, Anne Marie's fierce expression fades into gentility, and she grabs my hand, pleading for me to sit with her. With Peterson dozing at my side, I tell her I am coming and they file into their allotted seats. I examine these six little ones that are left, and happiness floods their faces. They are healthy unlike the children I met just a year ago. And for a moment, I think it just might be okay for these orphans.

I make my way to the front and my eyes catch the edge of the bench that is unoccupied next to Anne Marie. Her face lights up and she frantically waves me over, making a little more room for me. She wraps her arms around me for a hug and takes me hand in hers, intertwining our fingers. She dances to the beat of the music and pulls my body in rhythm with her own, moving side to the side. And the words of the song danced from her mouth as she rejoices in the glory of the Lord. She does not let go of my hand, and occasionally her eyes rise to meet mine, smiling back at me, and all this time, she continues to lead us in dancing, however ridiculous I may have looked in my attempt to copy her. She closes her eyes and lifts her other hand in the air as both the chorus and her voice harmoniously meet one another. I am mesmerized by the beauty of this moment and by the faith of this little girl - a girl who is truly orphaned, a girl who has no one to call family as the only one she knew is slipping away, a girl who tries to be tough, who tries to maintain strength, but all she really desires is love. Anne Marie is one of the 163 million orphans that reside across the globe. She is a name, she is a face, and she is a child. She has found joy in anguish and she has found light in darkness. As we take our seats, Anne Marie to my right, she leans against my side and wraps her left arm through mine. She places her other hand on my forearm, holding me, like for the first time in a long time, she feels protected, she feels safe. For the first time, she doesn't have to be the brave one, but that someone can be brave for her.

At the end of the service, as the congregation slowly makes their way toward the rode as a few linger under the building, Anne Marie remains attached to me. I drape my arms over her shoulders and she wraps her tiny arms around them, squeezing them tightly. Even when I slightly move them, she holds on ever tighter, not letting me go. And right now, I realize this may be the last time I will ever see her. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I know her time at the Tree of Life is drawing to the end. Tears begin to fill my eyes and I fight them for I dare not allow her to see my weakness. Thankfully her back is to mine, as I look away, desperate for any strength that remains in me. How do you say goodbye to someone who has forever touched your heart? How do you leave this abandoned child unsure of where she will be next? I want so badly to keep her. I want so badly to give her what she needs and what she deserves. But I can't. And only now can I love her. And only now can I assure her that she is not alone. And only now can I put my faith in her heavenly Father that He will prepare a place for her, on earth and in heaven. I will never forget Anne Marie and what she has taught me. All along, I had the intentions of blessing her life, but I am proven wrong again and again. Because she is blessing mine.

 

Peterson

Three years ago, a number became a face, a percentage became a name, and a statistic became a child. He is implanted in my mind and forever imprinted on my heart. His smile not only radiates an indescribable beauty, but also illuminates warmth. And his face is not only one that is so perfectly precious, but also one that reveals hope and courage and strength. Words cannot adequately portray how my life has since changed, but he continues to instill in me a desire to love as he loves me. His name is Peterson and he is eight years old.

I hold him in my arms, his burning head rests upon my chest and his meek arms hang around my neck. His body is weak and lifeless and his spirit crushed, as my arms struggle under the weight of his body. His eyes slowly close as he searches for strength and I feel the soft beat of his heart in rhythm with my own. Not a single whimper escapes from his mouth, but he endures his growing pain in silence as we linger amongst the children in the back of the church. I feel a slight grip on my back as his fingers tighten, grasping for comfort and for peace. As I examine his face, lethargic and vacant, a tear falls from the corner of his eye. And in this moment, I begin to understand that his past is burdened with agony that an eight-year-old should never have to carry.

He sits by my side, eager to inspect what Dr. Seuss will tell us on the next page of the ABC book that I brought with me to English class. When I ask him if he would like to read to me, he shyly giggles, indicating that I will be the one reading today. As we make our way through the alphabet, Peterson begins to read aloud with me. At first reserved and withdrawn, he slowly sounds out the syllables just as they are written on the colorful pages. And as I begin to point to the first word on the page, Peterson exclaims with excitement and a smile, “Big J, little J, what begins with J?” His eyes light with enthusiasm, as satisfaction and success flood his spirit. And as he points and laughs at some of the ridiculous pictures, he makes his way through each letter, all the way to Z. When he finishes the story, he closes the book and his eyes rise to meet mine, in search of affirmation and perhaps even a congratulations. “Bon travay!” I tell him over and over, as he reaches to hug me. I could not be more proud of my little buddy, so excited to learn each and every day.

At dinner, I take my usual place by Peterson, as he motions with his hands that he is saving my seat. And as we eat, he flashes me an occasional smile, bold and beautiful, and he retreats as I smile back. Somewhat shy, he lowers his head in embarrassment, perhaps because of his unmistakable laugh, but before long, his ever-present smile occupies his face again. As we finish our meal of Haitian chicken and rice, I slowly rise to slide out from under the bench. And as I reach for my dishes, Peterson quickly snatches them before I lay a finger on my cup. He shuffles our empty plates and silverware, stacking them together and he begins to make his way towards the end of the bench. But as he does, he loses grip on his load, stumbling as everything falls on the table. And again, as I reach to help him up, he gathers everything in his grasp and scurries to the sink. While no one seems to notice amidst the chaos and crowd, I stand in bewilderment and awe that this boy possesses a servant’s heart. And when he returns, he runs into my arms and I lift him up, knowing that my days of holding him are numbered as he is growing up before my eyes. When I tell him I love you in English, he understands perfectly, because I witness in him a happiness that is pure and whole. And as he tells me he loves me, he squeezes my neck and buries his face into my shirt, and I can feel his smile pressed against my shoulder.

I can never truly put into words what Peterson means to me. He is a brother, he is a friend, he is a protector, and he is a guardian. He is humble, selfless, compassionate, and, at times, rather emotional. He is a boy, he is an orphan, and he is a child. But above all, he is my angel. Peterson ignited and instilled in me the desire to adopt and the desire to love the brokenhearted, the abandoned, and the crushed in spirit. He continues to develop my patience, as he encourages and rejuvenates my heart. Peterson is not just a number, he is not just a percentage, and he is not just a statistic. Peterson is a precious child, one so deserving of his Father’s unconditional and unfathomable mercy, grace, and love.  

Rescue and Renew

 And you came to my rescue…

As I stand before these beautiful children, chalk in one hand, eraser in the other, tears begin to well in my eyes. I am hot. I am sweating. I am dirty. I am frustrated. I am inadequate. And I am breaking. I fight the flood of emotions that begin to overwhelm me, but I am at a loss. I am inferior. While I am crouched down, eye-level with Robinson, I attempt to pry out of him an answer to the simple question I asked him. But I break our gaze, ashamed of revealing my vulnerability and my pain. I turn away, concealing the distressed expression that lingers across my face, hidden in embarrassment and humiliation. In my susceptible state, my weakness begins to bind my crushed and devastated spirit. I frantically search for any strength that still remains, but I find I am quickly losing this battle as I can no longer fight back the tears that begin to fall down my face. These children carry burdens far greater than my own, and yet I cannot even compose myself in this moment. Bony and Kimberly, orphaned by the earthquake, have only one another to call family now. Peterson and Jony, rejected and neglected by their mother who disgraces their existence, will never know the comfort of a biological parent. I desire to fulfill their hearts, but in my discouraging demeanor, I only feel I am letting them down. Why me? Who am I? Where is my strength?

We pull into the mission as shrieks of laughter fill the air from boys and girls clad in white and red-checkered uniforms. Beaming smiles sweep their faces as they gather to welcome our arrival. They huddle around the truck as it slowly comes to a halt, just avoiding the wheels that stand as tall as several of the smaller ones. As my feet hit the ground, I already feel the pull of my shirt from multiple pairs of hands, and as my eyes scan the crowd, they stop. Through the crowd, I meet Lele’s precious face and I can already hear his high-pitched giggle as he fights through his clustered classmates. I extend open arms and he runs and jumps into them, wrapping his meager arms around my neck. As we attract an array of children, I am comforted and warmed by the presence of little friends, eager to feel the touch of someone who loves them. And throughout the course of the afternoon, Lele follows me around, sitting on my lap and holding my hand in his. Even when he alerts me his need to use the “toilette,” he drags me with him and I patiently wait outside the door that he requests remain open. Perhaps there is no beauty in accompanying a little boy to the restroom, but there is beauty in my rescue. 

Today, he renews my strength. He reminds me that I am never forsaken or abandoned. He reminds me that I am loved. He reminds me that no, not every day will be easy. In fact, every day brings forth new struggles, new challenges, and new hardships. But, he reminds me that every day is worth it. And he reminds me, today, that I am surrounded by angels who have come to my rescue.  

  

His Perfect Patience

It’s Friday and we are gathered in the living room, piled onto three, worn couches, anxiously awaiting Poppy’s arrival, as we will recite to him all that we have now learned at the end of the first week of English class. Twelve-year-old Bony rests confidently on the arm to my right, while anxiety seems to settle on Peterson’s timid face. But even so, we continue to stumble through the alphabet, numbers and colors, repeating monotonously as we prepare. It is day five and I feel I have managed to poorly familiarize these children with the very minimal basics. As I study their somewhat bored and quite overwhelmed faces, I can’t help but feel discouraged, because how often will they actually use the individual letters of the English alphabet in an everyday conversation? And as we struggle through the teens, I feel almost defeated as a teacher because I have absolutely no idea how to help them understand that eighteen does not come after thirteen, but after seventeen, which does not come after fourteen, but sixteen. At this point, my demeanor probably better resembles that of Peterson’s rather than Bony’s. And I begin to wonder if this is really where I am meant to be, if I am equipped with the skills and means to teach these children.  And now, my patience is tested.

It’s Saturday and we have just concluded an unplanned but much requested lesson with our new classroom and chalkboard. Peterson takes my hand in his and leads me to the soccer ball lying in the yard, as this has become quite the routine in the afternoons. Immediately upon hearing the ball against the pavement, Jony races to our side, eager to participate in our game, his face lit with a smile. Even though my soccer skills are at best inadequate, I appoint Jony to his brother’s team. But, Peterson’s enthusiasm quickly fades and the excitement disappears from his face, and he retreats behind the truck, sulking in his sadness. I attempt to understand his sudden mood change, but he buries his face in his hands and pushes me away. Adriano and Robinson approach us in hopes of joining in, but Peterson scatters and, of course, I follow. With the other boys waiting, I try to pry out of Peterson what has so upset him, and I eventually discover that he wants to play soccer with me, and only me.  I try to explain to him that there is only one of me and ten of them, but he turns his back to me, and is sent to his room in tears. I am frustrated. I am confused. And again, my patience is tested.

It’s Sunday and we arrive at the mission for church. As we approach the building, I can already see the children gathering to welcome us with open arms. And, just as I had anticipated, they race to our sides, crowding our presence. We begin to sit on the bench, when at least ten tiny faces surround mine, as their hands grab at my clothes, my arms, my legs, my face, and my hair. One lays across my lap, another nestles against my side, three outline the features of my face with their fingers, and another is pulling my hair. I am already sweating, as the sun is rather demanding this morning and the shower I took earlier might as well be disregarded because a layer of dust is settling onto my skin. Lele’s sticky fingers trace and dissemble the remains of his lollipop and he begins to touch my nose and pinch my mouth. I am tired and I am hot, so I close my eyes and desperately search for peace in this chaos that will continue over the next two hours. And in this moment, my patience is tested. 

I step back and allow the frustration and impatience that occupy my mind to be lifted. I realize that no, I am not the best teacher, but I will be the best teacher that I can be. No, I can’t please everyone all of the time, but I can provide the love and affirmation these children desire. And no, I cannot cater to the needs of ten, eleven, twelve children all at once, but I can hold their hands, I can hug them, and I can cherish their company. If this requires counting to twenty, a thousand times, so be it. Because the Lord’s patience never falters, and if we are to be his hands and feet, then we must love as he loves us. And even in my impatience, he develops it for good as I continue to witness his undeniable grace. Yes, there are challenges and yes, there are struggles, but when I close my eyes at the end of the day, I rest in the peace of knowing that he is constantly developing my patience because he maintains perfected patience for me. 

Thankful for Jay

“Cook,” he monotonously mumbles, forced to answer my question as to what had been the best part of his day. He is fourth in line to entertain my attempt at engaging everyone in conversation as ten of us gather around the dinner table for Taco Tuesday. However, my idea results in much reluctance. This comes as no surprise to me, as speaking English becomes more of a chore when the Americans are vastly outnumbered. So, why not speak Creole when you can? But, his one word answer, in his somewhat dreaded expression, was the best part of my day.

Five years ago, a scrawny, twelve-year-old boy stole my heart, marking the beginning of an unexpected and undeserving friendship. At the time, he quickly assumed the role of my little brother, perhaps because I was away from my own for the week, or maybe because I was new, someone he had never met and was close in age. As the week progressed, he clung to my side, the top of his head just shy of my shoulder. And over the years, I have watched him grow up, no longer the little boy I once befriended, but now a teenager. Today, Jay is seventeen and he never fails to surprise me.

Upon my arrival last Tuesday, Jay reacted just as I expected: he shot me an occasional glare, not one of anger but of annoyance, and presented me with a cold shoulder. Before, I would coax and tease him, most likely smothering him to the point of exasperation. Now, I allow him his distance, ignoring the hardened demeanor that covers his face. Of course, I want to run and hug him and tell him how much I have missed him! But, personal feelings aside, I remain emotionless as if his solemn attitude fails to phase me. This continues for several days, and although I am anxious, I dare not allow him to perceive this because his wall is slowly crumbling. The barrier he has placed before me begins to fade and he flashes a smile in my direction. His eyes are no longer piercing but welcome me with kindness, my signal that I may now approach his direction. And just like that, he greets me with a hug and remains near my side for the duration of the day, as if this is the first time he has seen me since I have arrived.  

Today, Jay revealed to me a side of himself I have never before witnessed. Today, Jay not only willingly, but also happily volunteered to translate for not only one, but two English lessons. To those that don’t know him, this is quite shocking and somewhat bewildering, because he is often the last on the list of translators as he pretends he does not understand, but truthfully hopes to avoid such a bother. And because teaching English is a tedious task, few jump at the opportunity to help me through this experiment. But I wrongfully underestimated his ability and his patience, as Jay became a leader in the eyes of these children. And even after two hours, his obedience never faltered, as he laughed and celebrated in our company. We successfully concluded the lesson and I prepared to help make dinner. While Matthew was designated to aid in preparation, he was hardly enthused at the thought of cooking ground beef. So, I relieved him of his assignment and sought out the only other person who I thought might enjoy accompanying me in the kitchen: Steven. But, at the mention of the idea, Jay quickly took initiative, grabbing the pan, the spatulas, unwrapping the meat, and lighting the burner. Not once did he leave my side, as he intently observed the process of cooking beef on the stove, mimicking my actions and following my instructions. And together we cooked and together we laughed.

So, when Jay responds with a simple cook, it is more than just its contextual definition. Although in front of his older peers he remains quite emotionless, he slides me a smile, and in this moment, I could not be more proud to know Jay. How quick I am to judge and how at fault I am in this. As I slowly unfold the layers of his past, I begin to see and experience his tender heart, filled with love and compassion. Below his tough exterior, lies a sensitively empathetic interior that is nothing short of commendable. Today, like every day, I am thankful for the opportunity to love the people of Haiti. But today, I am especially thankful for Jay.         

Jony

Recently, I attended the Summit, a conference held every year by the Christian Alliance to raise awareness for the orphan. This year, it was held at Rick Warren’s Saddleback church in Orange County, California; and what an absolutely incredible experience it was! We were given several statistics regarding orphaned, adopted, and fostered children, and, as you know, statistics can be overwhelming and somewhat discouraging. However, there was one number that grabbed my attention: in about the next ten years, Haiti’s orphan population will double to a staggering one million, one million of the roughly one hundred sixty million orphans that currently reside across the globe. In a country about the size of Maryland, this number is overwhelming. In Haiti, the odds of a child growing up without a parent or guardian are increasingly likely. And as the population continues to multiply, the more difficult the conditions of living will become.

I was born into a very privileged, affluent family, and for that I am eternally grateful. But as I begin to develop an understanding of the world outside my own comfort zone, I am stripped of my pride, I am stripped of my ignorance, and I am stripped of the selfish desires that once occupied my heart. I am by no means perfect; I make mistakes and I still have my many “me” moments. But as I step out into the darkness of reality, the wants I thought I needed for my life slowly begin to change. Because when you peer into the eyes of an abandoned child, as tears stream down his helplessly worn face, hiding in shame for revealing his hurt and his pain, you begin to understand that his heart may never fully mend. And as you cradle a blind boy in your arms, his body meek and fragile, begging to feel loved, you know there are some things that time cannot heal.

As Jony interlocks his tiny fingers in mine, he rests his head on my lap, gazing at our hands for several minutes as the other boys are transfixed by the movie playing in the background. His eyes do not stray as he squeezes my hand in his, differentiating the colors of our skin, turning our hands back and forth. But then, his eyes slowly rise to meet mine and the corners of his mouth lift upward into a small smile. No words are exchanged but his expression reveals that no words are needed, because in this moment he is not alone. Although the faint smile remains painted across his loveable face, sadness lingers in his eyes for reasons that I will never fully comprehend. I see his past, but I do not know it. I know he is orphaned, but I don’t know why. This beautiful boy is wonderfully made in the eyes of the Lord whose heart breaks for the fatherless. And, as Jony’s eyes shy from mine, he carefully releases his grip on my hand. But he remains by my side, resting upon my lap for a couple of hours. I can only imagine the thoughts that race through his mind, but I hope he may rest in the comfort of knowing that he is not just a statistic, that he is not just a number, but that he is a precious child of God, and that is something that can never be taken from him.