july 4, 2003

I need to write about our 4th of July fun, and I still have more Chasing Pteronarcella to post, but I wanted to take a minute for something else first. The 4th of July is mostly about barbecues, family, summer, and fireworks for me just like it is for you, but during quiet moments I always find my mind wandering back to Romania, thinking about the July 4th of 2003.

I find myself imagining a mother (Maria is her name) giving birth to a baby boy and there are so many questions I want to ask her. I wonder about how old she was, if she gave birth to him in a hospital or at home, and if there was anyone around her to give her support. I wonder if his father was there or if she had been left alone. I wonder if she had other children, if that baby boy had any siblings that he would never meet. I wonder if the mother's heart broke when she first set her eyes on him because she already knew that she would be unable to care for him. I wonder if she thought he was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen, or if it was too painful for her to have those thoughts, knowing what was ahead. I wonder how long she held him before she left, or if she even held him at all. I imagine her facing the impossible task of saying goodbye to her baby boy, her kissing his perfect cheeks one last time, the tears that had to have been streaming down her face, the agony she must have been in. Did she know she wouldn't ever see him again, or did she hold on to hope that maybe one day she would be able to come back for him and raise him? Did she know he'd be going to an orphanage, or did she think that perhaps there would be a foster home and adoption in his future?

I don't know the story of how she left him and he came to be an orphan, but I do know that she was the one who gave him his beautiful name, that she was the first one to call him George. I know that he grew into the most beautiful baby boy, that his eyes were bright blue, that he fell asleep readily in my arms, and that I loved him like he was mine. His mother  couldn't have known that her baby boy would impact my life so deeply, that still, six years after I saw him for the last time, I would sit and cry, wondering about where he was, hoping and praying that he was okay. I imagine her crying for him, too. She couldn't have known that one day I would give birth to a baby boy of my own, that he was due to come on a July 4th, too, and that I would choose the same name for my son as she had chosen for hers. She couldn't have known that a picture of her George would sit in a frame on the bookshelf in my George's room, and that my three-year old George would shed tender tears of sadness as he heard the story of her George not having a family or home.

I daydream about meeting George's mother. I imagine hugging her tight, and I imagine us both embracing her boy that we love so fiercely. I imagine us being so much more alike than we are different, and I imagine asking her to forgive me for once being angry with her, for once, in fits of agony myself, asking (no one in particular) how she could have abandoned her child. I imagine us understanding each other. I imagine the pain of her past being cleansed, her son's grief and loneliness and heartache being swallowed up, and them being able to be a family. I will live next door with my family, and our Georges will be brothers.

On July 4th I celebrated Independence Day, but I also celebrated a little boy turning 8 years old. I said a prayer for him, that wherever he is he feels love, that whatever his life is like he has peace. Oh how I wonder about him. One day I'll know.

These first few photos are of my Romania Georgie that first year that I met and fell in love with him in the hospital.




And these are from the second year I lived in Romania when George miraculously ended up in the orphanage I was working in. I couldn't believe his curly hair. The first picture is from the last time I held him and said goodbye (he's wearing a shirt my mom sent for him), and the second picture is from the last time I saw him, when I happened to catch a glimpse of him outside with the maintenance man painting pesticide on the trees. I miss him.

remembering

Places that changed my mind.

Faces that changed my heart.

It is because of these people that my life will (hopefully) never be the same. Today I needed to be reminded.

(All are worthy of a post of their own, but after getting so wordy on the previous post, tonight you just get pictures. Maybe one day I will tell you their stories. They deserve to be told.) On a walk; Kumasi, Ghana; 2002

Children's hospital; Cape Coast, Ghana; 2002



Boys working to build LDS Chapel; Accra, Ghana; 2002


Burn victims in LUTH; Lagos, Nigeria; 2002

Playing with the kids; Masia Mara village in Kenya; 2002

My official welcome to the village; Masai Mara village in Kenya; 2002

Meeting with the Chief; Samburu village in Kenya; 2002

Loving me some orphans; Iasi, Romania; 2004

Visiting the new orphanage; La Paz, Bolivia; 2004

The orphan who never leaves my mind; Iasi, Romania; 2005

Anyone ready to go back with me?

noapte buna

Tonight this picture came up on my screensaver:

For some reason as soon as I saw it I got emotional and had to fight back tears. Maybe it is because the way sweet Delia is sleeping reminds me of how Baby G sleeps. And maybe it is because I almost cannot stand the thought that Delia has to fall asleep alone. Maybe it is because she is sleeping on dirty sheets. Maybe it is because there isn't anyone to cover her up. Maybe it's because she doesn't have a favorite blankie to hold for comfort. Maybe it is because she doesn't have anyone to come pick her up when she wakes up from her nap. Whatever the reason, my heart is aching and heavy tonight.

Sometimes I feel like Alma when he wishes to be an angel to cry repentance (Alma 29), but this would be my cry instead: "O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth to the corners of the earth where babies are lonely and pick them up, give them kisses, hold them close, and rock them to sleep. O that I were an angel and could take away their suffering, could ease their sorrows, and could bring them peace. O that I were an angel."

I remember feeling so sad at times when I was in the thick of all of the suffering in Romania. But I expected that. I knew I would see tragedy and I knew I would feel heartache. I also was IN Romania and I felt like I was doing something about it, which lifted my burden a little. I also believe that we were blessed with an endowment of peace in order to go about our work while we were there. What I didn't know was that the sorrow I felt there would never leave me-- that it, in fact, would be stronger at times after returning home. Even three years later (almost to the day) the heartache I feel every once in awhile catches me completely off guard. It can hit when there is a big snow storm, or when I am playing with my baby, or when I see a picture on my computer screen. The hardest part for me now is that there isn't much I can do about it.

Of course I can be rational about it, and I know that there are seasons in life. My two seasons in Romania have come and gone, and that was the Lord's plan for me. The season of my life now is to be a wife and mother. And I adore this season. I wouldn't trade being a wife to my dear husband or a mama to my sweet baby for anything else in the world, not even to be back in Romania. But that doesn't mean that I don't still ache to be able to do more to help. If anything, being in this new season and having my own family has only intensified my knowledge that I need to do more, that each of us has a sacred obligation to reach out in our own capacities and spheres of influence. And I guess that is the key, isn't it?

Sometimes I need a wake-up call like a picture of a sleeping orphan to remind me that, though I cannot be in Romania right now, I can and should be doing more right here in my own backyard. That is the way I can do my part right now, and that service is every bit as needed and valuable and life-changing as any other service I've ever done or will ever do. I'll do better if you'll do better, okay? Let's make a difference where we can. I think that would make Delia very happy.

Sweet dreams, baby girl.

all orphans go to heaven

Costica (1999-2008)

(his Bartman sweater makes me smile every time I look at this picture)
(he was always going around asking everyone if they wanted a massage and then he would dutifully give your shoulders a few squeezes followed by his signature karate chopping action)

Now you can rest, sweet boy.
Now you have family.

prayer of the children

To me there is something almost sacred about rocking a baby to sleep. Holding all that innocence, all the trust in their eyes, feeling their body relax, watching their eyelids get heavier and heavier until they finally stay shut. That is heaven to me.

Why do Romanian orphans never get that?

Having a baby of my own has made my heart ache in ways that it never has before. I now am beginning to realize really how very much babies need a mommy and daddy.

Baby G is an angel, and truly is hardly ever just fussy. But still, he is a baby. And sometimes babies just need a little extra--

A few nights ago it was a little tricky to get Baby G to latch on and eat because he was both so tired and hungry that he couldn't quite figure it out.

Who takes that extra time for orphans?

When I went to lay Baby G down last night he woke up and immediately started to cry (which he normally doesn't do). I picked him up and he quickly buried his little face in my neck and fell fast asleep. He just needed an extra cuddle.

Who does that for orphans?

All the middle of the night feedings-- do orphans go hungry until morning?

Baby G gets uncomfortable and spits up if i don't burp him good enough. I can't remember ever once seeing anyone burp those orphan babies. Who does it? No one?

Why?

Why did my Baby G come to parents who adore him, who love him so much it hurts, who take care of his every need and want almost to a fault? And why was the Baby G in Romania born there, to parents who, for whatever reason, couldn't or wouldn't take care of him?

I have no answers. I don't think I'll ever come to terms with this horrific injustice in this lifetime.
But what I do know is that I'll keep holding my Baby G when he cries, I'll keep picking him up when he whimpers, I'll keep burping him long enough even in the middle of the night, and I'll keep loving him so much it hurts.

And I'll keep praying that somehow, by some miracle, someone is doing those same things for Baby G in Romania, too.

Va iubesc, copii fara mama.

Can you hear the prayer of the children on bended knee, in the shadow of an unknown room? Empty eyes with no more tears to cry turning heavenward toward the light.

Crying Jesus help me to see the mornin' light of one more day, but if I should die before I wake, I pray my soul to take.

Can you feel the hearts of the children aching for home, for something of their very own. Reaching hands with nothing to hold onto but hope for a better day, a better day.

Crying Jesus help me to feel the love again in my own land, but if unknown roads lead away from home, give me loving arms, away from harm.

Can you hear the voice of the children softly pleading for silence in their shattered world? Angry guns preach a gospel full of hate, blood of the innocent on their hands.

Crying Jesus, help me to feel the sun again upon my face? For when darkness clears, I know you're near, bringing peace again.

Can you hear the prayer of the children?
Lyrics written by Kurt Bestor