Missing a Family

Tonight I've been reflecting on family and how much it means to me on so many different levels, how lucky I am to have the family I was born into, how blessed I am to have the family we are creating now. Today has been an emotional day, and one that makes me aching to be snuggled up on the couch with everyone I cherish in my life, holding them close, thanking them for their presence and loyalty through my life.

Today we accompanied our visiting group to tour two orphanages that CONASPEH partner churches are running. Patrick and I hadn't visited them before. The pastors heading up the efforts were trying to work with minimal resources in order to provide very basic services for abandoned children. They were difficult places to see.

While touring the first building we encountered a beautiful little girl who about 2 years-old. Her hair was in braids, her long eyelashes framed dark and sad eyes. She sat alone in a hallway, flies swarming around her little body; she didn't move in the hour we were there. I tried to play with her, but she didn't acknowledge my touch, so deep was her depression. Near by, a 7-month-old was sleeping on the floor in an empty dormitory on some pee-soaked blankets. The whole room reeked of urine. Most of the children were in "school" and quietly acknowledged us as we walked through and greeted them. Two 2 year-olds were sitting in the "cafeteria" waiting for food; they didn't smile, look scared, or show emotion when I tried to tickle them. They had dried breakfast on their cheeks and gnats swarming on their eyelashes. One of the women in the group cried through the whole tour. I waited until I got home. Haiti has hardened me like that. But I've been haunted all day. The second orphanage had at least all the kids together in a room. They sang a song that lacked the luster of well-fed, energetic childhood. The conditions felt so harsh at both places: cold, hard, muddy. There were no clear places for children to relax, to play, to be kids. Bony arms and legs told of infrequent meals; rashes, protruding bellies, runny noses and coughs reminded me how little basic health care these kids were likely getting. Mattress-less wire bedframes were what the children slept on. Although the pastor assured us that they laid blankets down on the frames before the children went to sleep, the lack of a soft place for a child to lay his head hit us all hard.

I told Silvia about my morning when I got home, and couldn't avoid getting a little tearful when talking about it. Her face got very serious (she is usually a walking smile). She then went into a rant about how it isn't right for people to give their children to orphanages, that they should take responsibility for their children or not have them. This coming from a woman who had 9 children and raised them on her own after her husband died. From what I can tell, her children are really great people, and I'm sure Silvia had to fight through her life to raise them, given her minimal education and lack of resources. She is a wonder woman. And she expects her fellow mothers to be so too. The stories of the children that fill the orphanages are extensive: mothers dead, fathers dead, families starving, parents overwhelmed. The homeless children are not simply a result of a mother and father getting tired and giving up. But I understand Silvia’s protective and responsible point of view.

I also understand that for some families an extra mouth to feed may simply be impossible, some think their children might be better off somewhere else. Depending on how you look at it, some are. I hope Solomon sees it that way someday. Certainly there are orphanages and crèches that are well run full of staff that love on kids, volunteers who help and a system that does its best to feed, protect, educate and tuck its kids in at night. Today we saw people that are trying to do a good thing without the proper resources. For these kids, the pastors assured us, it was here or on the street.

I spent the afternoon at home, using the excuse of a mountain of paperwork and class prep to do to allow time for regrouping. I felt for the group who had already had an intense week meeting Haiti for the first time and having to see such living conditions amidst the fresh exposure. All I wanted to do was to grab Solomon when we got home. I spent the whole afternoon with him, letting him take the ENTIRETY of his 1 1/2 hour afternoon nap on my chest. It was that kind of horrible day and I needed the perfect peace of him, the cuddly warmth of his body, the sweet smell of his neck, his happy smile when he woke in my arms. I needed to delight in the way he giggles, in his simple happiness. I needed to nurture him, this one child in the world whose life I have the power to affect.

I think we need our children sometimes as much as they need us. I know the relationships change as we age--children needing their parents as they grow, parents needing their children more as they age. Sometimes its unbalanced as we cross various milestones in life, yet other times mutual need comes at the exact same time. Although I feed him, cloth him and sooth his tears when he has a tumble, today my little boy saved me from despair.

I can't imagine loving any child of mine more than I love Solomon. We certain didn't bring him into our home to "save" him, but I’m not going to lie... there were children I wanted to rescue today. I'll be haunted by their faces for awhile. And lucky for me teething Solomon was all about cuddling his mommy this afternoon. So we had a lovely time playing, giggling, dancing and napping together.

Haiti is a beautiful country in so many ways and I see hope in a lot of places. The CONASPEH school reminds me of what can happen when interventions fully reach into the lives of children and their families as daily it bustles with children acting the way children should--playing, studying, singing, joking, getting into trouble, giggling, shrieking, running. I know there is hopelessness, sadness in dark corners all over the world as well as in my own country. Regardless of location, looking suffering directly in the face is hard and heartbreaking, especially when that face is so little. So to cope, I focus on that which I can control--the care of my son, the work we’ve been brought here to do, and being a loving presence in the lives of those who suffer. Being simply present in the face of not having solutions for suffering is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Just a hard day. One that I want to grab my son and the entirety of my family and kiss all until they can't stand another. One that I wanted to multiply my family by 5 or more, one that left me feeling helpless in the face of innocent suffering. One that reminds me our work has just begun.