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 At first reserved and withdrawn,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.
