It was my first full day in Haiti with Compassion International. Hours into the day, I found myself actively engaged with a group of girls at the far end of the project’s play yard.

With the help of a translator, I uncovered bits and pieces about the girls. They were all around my son and daughter’s age – eight, nine, ten and eleven-years-old. I was intrigued by their personalities and way of being with one another, and kept thinking how cool it would be if my daughter was there, engaging with the girls, just like me.

Another woman from our group approached and began conversing with the girls, so I decided it was a good opportunity to engage the teenage girls I saw yards away.

The day passed. We spent the rest of the morning with mamas and babies enrolled in Compassion’s Child Survival Program, had lunch with project staff, visited families’ homes, and returned to the project at the end of the day.

After we spent a little more time in the classrooms and play yard, after we used the restroom one last time before we had to leave, I met the boy who stole my heart.

I really didn’t want to say good-bye, but I was on my way back to the van. It was time to go.

Most of my fellow travelers were already on the van. I was one of the last to load.

Just feet before the van, a boy approached. He came alongside me, hung close, tight to my body. I’m still not sure if I’ve ever had anyone step in tandem with me the way that boy did. The only way I can describe it is that his little body was so tight, right alongside me, that we became one walking unit in that moment.

God helped me recognize, immediately, this boy’s strong presence.

I put my arm around his shoulders as we walked. “Hi buddy,” I said quietly, lovingly.

He kept close, never out of step. He snuggled in a bit closer.

And then he looked up at me, as we were walking even slower now, and ever so gently but assuredly said “I want you to be my mommy.”

This was the first child that had spoken a word of English to me all day, and these were the words I was going to hear?

My heart broke. I began crying immediately. “Oh buddy,” I said, as I gave him the biggest, most endearing mama bear hug I could muster.

The world around me disappeared. We were three, maybe five feet from the van at this point, and I’m sure there were an abundance of kids and adults wondering why I was crying and hugging this boy. I’m certain they had no idea what he’d just told me.

I loosened my embrace because we were now even closer to the van. He looked down and pointed to one of two bracelets I had on my wrist, one purple, one cream. (Oddly enough, I’d received those bracelets as gifts of appreciation from Haitians in the market 16+ months ago after I’d presented them with gifts I brought from home.) I couldn’t be his mommy, but I knew as soon as he looked at that purple bracelet that I wanted to give it to him to let him know how much he was loved. A translator was present and helped with the exchange. For a few seconds, all was right with the world. I had a bracelet and the boy had a bracelet. We’d be tied together, in our hearts, and the bracelets would be a tangible reminder. But a little girl approached and saw I had another bracelet to give, so I obliged, even though it meant I’d no longer have a bracelet to keep my heart tangibly tied to this sweet boy.

Still crying, I gave him one last hug, waved good-bye, and got on the van. Tears continued to stream as I made my way to the back of the van, past most of my fellow travelers. I explained to a couple who’d asked, he said “I want you to be my mommy.”

How was I supposed to sit in this van, act like I’d just heard any ‘ol words, and move right on out?

Praise. The. Lord. He wasn’t about to let my time with this boy end, even though all other indications said it was a done deal.

Thankfully, our departure was delayed for one reason or another. I didn’t even care because all my mind could think of was the boy. Kids were swarming around just outside of our van. I looked to my right, and there he was. I caught him just as he was looking down, fiddling with his bracelet. “I’ve got to get a picture of this boy,” I told those around me as I stood up immediately and captured not one, but two pictures. I felt blessed to have, at the very least, seen him again and captured these photos to remember him by.

If I remember correctly, the van moved, turned in the direction of the gates where we’d depart. I thought I’d seen the last of the boy. I was sad, but grateful too, that God had given me the opportunity to see him from afar one more time.

But God knew otherwise. The van stopped. There was another delay.

Some moments passed, and then I noticed my boy coming alongside our van. He was looking up, into the windows, and he was now on the side of the van where I was sitting. When he came to the window of the people sitting in front of me, I noticed he was looking at them and pointing to his bracelet. I knew right away, he was looking for me.

“He’s looking for me!” I exclaimed as quietly and as calmly as I could without seeming like a freak to my fellow travelers close by.

I knocked on the window, loud enough so he could hear and notice I was there in the back row. I waved, put my hand on my heart, pointed to his bracelet, and then pointed to my wrist where the bracelet had once been. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and smiled.

We’d found each other, once again.

I began crying, once again.

I opened one hand and put it up flat against the window. He put his hand up too. One panel of glass separated us.

It was clear the bus was about to move towards the gates.

I blew him a kiss. He blew me one, too. I blew another. He blew another.

And as we drove off, I looked back and noticed. He was wearing navy blue Converse, untied. He walked quietly by himself as we drove away, fiddling with his bracelet, yet again.

Call me a blubbery mess. Call me whatever.

In the days following, I wasn’t sure what to do with this experience. In fact, nine days later, I’m still not sure why I met that boy, why he was the only child I engaged with that day that spoke any word of English, or why he felt compelled to say “I want you to be my mommy.”

I’d give anything to know if that little boy has a mommy. I’d give anything for the opportunity to go back and take a Compassion staff and translator with me, visit his home, and know more. If he had a mommy, I’d love on her and tell her how awesome she is and how she’s raising her son with a beautiful heart. I’d tell him what a great mommy he has and how she loves him with all her heart. And if he didn’t have a mommy? Well, I don’t know what I’d do. But reality is, I’ll never get the opportunity to do any of that.

Why is it that my Heavenly Father gave me this gift, this boy to love for just a few moments? I don’t know.

The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be His name, is all I can say.

Perhaps I’ll never know why I met this boy, why he wanted me to be his mommy. Perhaps someday the good Lord will make it clear. For now, I trust, there was a reason.

Five days after meeting the boy, I arrived back home. Photographs of my journey flashed on our television screen as I recounted my days in Haiti with my husband and two oldest children.

And then, the Lord gave me eyes to see what I needed to see in a photograph I hadn’t remembered taking earlier that morning in the play yard.

The boy.

There he was!

I’m not 100% sure because the first two photos I took of the boy were from the side, and this photo was straight on. But my heart knows, my heart feels confident. The Lord gives me eyes to see what He wants me to see, because He’s awesome like that.

That boy in the middle of all those girls?

It’s him.

I recognize his face, he looks familiar. He looks exactly like the boy who told me “I want you to be my mommy.” He looks exactly like the boy who blew me kisses when I was still crying in the van. He looks exactly like the boy who wore navy blue Converse, untied.

And if it’s truly him as my heart thinks it is?

Then God has spoken.

I’m here, orchestrating every bit of your life, whether you know it or not.

I chose you before you chose Me.

You are loved.

Now go love.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

Re-entry, it was all good.

Well, at least for a little while.

The first flight took us from Port-au-Prince to Miami. The plane was nearly silent in those last moments on the ground in Haiti. I’d never seen so many people looking out windows as a plane readied for take-off. Even so, it was all good.

Going through customs, waiting longer than expected for our luggage in Miami, and then waiting another 30 minutes to get into the terminal for our connecting flights? It was all good.

But then, after all that, re-entry wasn’t so good.

I bid farewell to the last members of the group I’d been traveling with for six days, and things went downhill from there.

A man directed me that way, to Concourse H, the place I’d check in for my flight back home. The walk was longer, much longer than I expected. In fact, so long I thought I’d gotten lost. By the time I made it to Concourse H, my anxiety and stress levels had skyrocketed. If there was any way to measure my anxiety in Haiti (nonexistent) vs. my anxiety in that moment (extremely high), I can guarantee the contrast would’ve been striking. I was so anxious and stressed, that by the time I arrived at Concourse H, the only words I could muster to the last two Compassion travelers I ran into from Wisconsin were “I’m really stressed now.” But I’d made my way, so I paid to check my big red suitcase and picked up my boarding pass.

I ran to the security line which appeared to be a mile long. I had to go to the bathroom and wanted to grab lunch before the flight departed, so I knew I didn’t have a minute to spare. I stood in that security line for 30 minutes, listening to two in front of me talk about $4 million, $22 million budgets, how they hated the fact they had to hear the same speaker two years in a row – how could anyone think that was a good idea? A lady stopped dead in her tracks and sighed. Everyone was harried.

I had to hold myself back from breaking down in tears, sobbing, at this re-entry. It was bad enough bearing this weight, this heaviness inside, the somber feelings anyone would’ve seen if they observed me closely. Tears were welling. I wanted to run, hide.

And then, I looked down and realized – I hadn’t actually checked my bag.

So after 30 minutes in that security line, I had to go back to the airline check-in, stand in line for another 15 minutes, and check my bag.

I got back in the security line, only this time it was much longer than it’d been the first time. I forced myself to breathe deeply. There was nothing I could do to change the circumstances. A woman from Atlanta struck up conversation with a woman from Canada in front of me. “I just got back. All I want to do is go back to the island. It’s too cold here.” And the woman from Canada? She responded, “I just hope my flight gets delayed. I’d be good staying here as long as they need me to.”

And me? I just wanted to catch a flight back to Haiti, and somehow magically transport my family there with me, and magically all four of them would acclimate, and magically they’d all feel called to become missionaries and we’d spend a lifetime waking sleeping giants in Haiti.

A woman nearby had the words Trust Your Journey printed on her shirt.

I knew God had me going back home. My husband’s called to creative corporate life, my kids are established, safe and sound in their school, sports and peer groups. There was no way any of this magical thinking would ever become reality. My life and my loves are in the United States. But I also knew in my heart that God intended, planned for me to return to Haiti. I didn’t understand how it’d all fit, how it’d all unfold, and I didn’t know when. I just knew, I just know.

Trust your journey, I reminded myself.

This second wait in security was another 30 minutes, but I finally got through.

I felt like a foreigner, a robot, just another body as I formally re-entered this nation of mine. Shoes off, laptop in the bin, bag on the belt, liquids in the quart-sized-bag using this 3:1:1 method known intimately to TSA. I didn’t take off my sweatshirt, but the TSA agent called me on it right before I passed through. Apparently, there was something about me that was unusual, alerting. I didn’t pass the test. “Follow me,” said the agent. He asked me to hold out my hands, face up. He swiped a tiny piece of fabric or paper across my hands, stuck it in some machine that read the results, and lo and behold, I checked out ok.

I plopped my shoes, bag, laptop, and all my other stuff on the ground so I could gather myself outside of security. “It’s just not right,” said a man as he passed me and shook his head. “Ridiculous,” I responded as the stranger walked away.

I proceeded to the bathroom. The toilet paper holder fell on the floor. The door didn’t lock.

I grabbed the only food that was close, Nathan’s Famous. Soggy fries and a chicken sandwich were dropped in a paper bag, now mine, for a total of $12-something.

There was nowhere to sit, nowhere to plug in my phone. I sat, then grabbed all my stuff and got back up thinking there must be a better place. But truly, there was nowhere else to sit. So as odd as it seemed, as odd as it felt, I plopped right back down in that same spot a couple minutes later.

It was all a little awkward.

People were on phones everywhere.

I overheard a man, tattooed up and down, “they’re not making money.”

A young guy, “I’ve had scheduling problems.”

And even an old guy, “I’m a little annoyed.” And later to himself, after he ended the call, “It’s starting already. I hate this.”

My straw creaked loudly as I adjusted it in the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs cup of Diet Coke I’d grabbed with my lunch. Everyone turned and stared at me all at the same time.

I scarfed down my soggy fries and chicken sandwich, and plugged in my phone for a few minutes of charge before I boarded the plane.

It was then, as I looked down at the rolled-up painting I bought in Haiti, that I realized – we’re all human, we’re all broken. We’re all living in poverty one way or another, all impoverished without Him. He knows our fallen nature and He’s desperate to re-charge us, give us hope. So we plug in to the source, the only source that brings life and true wealth, God.

I looked across, out the window where wings made by men directed our way back home. The sun was setting, the clouds victorious, soft promises.

He’s in control.

He knows what He’s doing.

We hear.

We trust.

He knows the way.

He turns our poverty into wealth-of-a-spiritual-kind if we plug in, let Him lead the way.

Snow covered the ground. I walked out, into the cold with a humble Haitian heart, full of hope regardless of any circumstance I face.

I plug in. And I know, I’m not alone. For my one true source of life, of hope, is with me, now and forevermore.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

“We already have victory against the battle we are fighting.”

“Our beneficiaries are sleeping giants. We feel the reign is coming.”

Program Communications Manager, Compassion International Haiti Country Office

Why can’t we just pass by poverty?

Why can’t we just leave, forget about it, store it away in the recesses of our minds?

Why can’t we just ignore this problem of poverty and hope it’ll go away on its own?

Because human beings live in those tent cities.

Human beings fill and hang off those tap taps.

Human beings wait by loaded buses for desperately needed supplies that might take days to unload.

Human beings walk miles carrying filled-to-the-brim metal pots, sacks and jugs on their heads.

Human beings travel to the market with donkeys and wheelbarrows, waiting on provision. for today.

And here’s the clinker.

Every one of those human beings has a face.

Every face is part of a family.

Their lives are precious and real.

They have hopes and dreams. And they’re working hard, really hard.

The simple truth is this. They don’t have access to resources that would meet their most basic of needs. They don’t have access to resources that could make their hopes and dreams come true.

So it’s up to us.

The Lord has asked us to serve and provide for those in need.

So we must.

Not only is it our duty, it’s our privilege.

It’s a great honor and delight to engage and witness first hand the slow, but sure transformation of a country.

Sleeping giants will rise. One generation of giants will give rise to the next generation of giants.

With God, all things are possible. Of this, I am convinced.

Haiti already has “victory against the battle [they] are fighting.”

Victory seen in the face of a little girl who drove down the mountain six and a half hours on a motorcycle with her mama, walked the markets of Port-au-Prince, and used precious resources to buy barrettes and the most beautiful dress they could find for the day they’d meet the little girl’s sponsor.

Victory seen in the face of a little boy who, because of Compassion International, was able to travel to Port-au-Prince to see doctors about the “problem in his head.” He and his family have hope now, that they will get help. God is working.

Victory seen in the faces of young adult men in Compassion’s Leadership Development Program. They’re enrolled in college, studying education and psychology, and they want to be a part of this waking of the sleeping giants.

“We are working hard to change the destiny of this country.”

“This is my dream, to change my country.”

Why would we ever want to deny the basic needs, the marvelous hopes and dreams of fellow human beings?

Why would we not want to partner, get in on this transformation of a country?

The beauty and hope of the possibility lit me on fire when I realized. Our work? It’s really making a difference.

Let’s rise one sleeping giant at a time. Human potential is limitless. God’s power through us? Unfathomable.

So today, I stand, on behalf of Haiti and its beautiful, humble, gracious and hard-working people.

I am with you. I will support you. I will not forget. And I will be back.

It is my duty, honor, and delight to be an ambassador for you.

Amy

Do you want to help raise up a generation of giants in Haiti? Sponsor a child through Compassion International. It’ll be the best decision of your life. Period. Click here to see children who are waiting for a sponsor.

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

The reason I came on this trip with Compassion International was to meet our two sponsored children, Djino and Bethchaida. And I was so excited to meet them. But I have to admit, when I found out, just six days before my departure, that the “fun day” with our sponsored children was going to be at a hotel, a tentativeness stirred in me.

I worried that the children and families who lived in such extreme poverty would feel great sadness entering into such luxury only to have to leave at the end of the day. God placed a burden on my heart to make this day a great gift. Yvonne, our trip leader and Compassion representative, had reminded us the night before that “this day is about the kids.” So I tried to keep that in mind. I wanted to live the day for the kids. I wanted it to be a very special occasion, a gift for the families and accompanying Compassion country staff.

So after we met and took a tour of the facility, after I discovered that Djino had woken up at 1:00 a.m. and traveled SIX hours to get here and Bethchaida had traveled SIX AND A HALF hours down from the mountains on a motorcycle to get here, all eight of us (me, 1 translator, two Compassion country staff, an auntie, a mama, and 2 sponsored children) played a table game I brought from home. It went swimmingly well, and was a time of laughter and bonding over a singular purpose.

We were going to play another round, but Bethchaida said she was hungry. Mom concurred that Bethchaida hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning because they were in such an unfamiliar place. Djino piped in, he was hungry too. We agreed to go eat.

I had purchased tickets for food from the front desk, so I let the children know they could order what they wanted. Bethchaida chose a ham and cheese sandwich. Djino chose a cheeseburger with bacon. Bethchaida’s mom and Compassion staff agreed they would share with Bethchaida. Five Sprites and 1 Coke later, we’d placed our order for those who wanted to eat. The translator, a lovely man, also Haitian, had already decided on the Coke, but politely asked me when we sat down at the table if he could get a hot dog, too. “Of course, of course,” I said, and left to place the extra order.

They ate.

This eating soon after they arrived wasn’t what I planned or expected to do. But they ate every bite. And I couldn’t help but think about Jesus and His call for us to feed the hungry. And I couldn’t stop thinking about that pyramid we all learned in Psychology 101. Human beings need food first. Then, once that is provided, they’re freed up to focus on higher order needs such as education, socialization, emotional development and spirituality.

So today, I learned firsthand – before anything else – we need to feed the hungry. Hunger is real.

We feed those who are hungry, we nourish souls.

When bodies are fed, souls are nourished.

Little girls emerge with confidence, step out with dignity knowing this bathing suit was chosen especially for them. They’re empowered to try something new, encouraged without anyone having to say it out loud. That dream? That hope you had earlier in the day to swim? Today, that dream will become reality. God has the power to make His dreams reality for you, too. He will help you be grateful and say “I love my life.” No matter what it throws at me.

Boys emerge with courage, stepping out into the great unknown. That fear you had? That not wanting to swim because you didn’t know how and you thought you’d just watch on the sidelines? Today, you overcame your fears. Today, rest assured young boy, that God has the power to release you from all fear. He can and will claim victory over your fears. Go in the deep, young boy, go in the deep.

When bodies are fed, souls are nourished.

Little boys and little girls, aunties and mamas and staff working hard on the ground know – God’s desire is for abundance. He wants you to receive this taste of heaven. This plate filled higher than you’ve ever seen? It doesn’t even come close to the peace and joy and love you’ll receive when you enter the gates of heaven.

Yes, that is the burden we have to feed those who are hungry. We must let them know – you are worthy, He invites you to His table, He prepares a banquet for you, He provides what is needed –  for today. Your worries are not for tomorrow, for He provides for today.

When bodies are fed, souls are nourished.

Men and women reveal bits of God’s dreams for their lives. The dreams, they seem impossible. But they agree, they believe, God can do anything. If God wants to make these dreams reality, He will do it. No matter what. For ALL things are possible with God, through Christ. Though distance and circumstance may separate, God’s dreams unite His people.

When bodies are fed, souls are nourished.

God’s people share what they have with one another.

God says – I’ve blessed you with love, insight, sensitivity, and an abundance of resources – GO GIVE IT AWAY.

God says – I’ve blessed you with love, humility, graciousness, goodness, kindness and faithfulness – GO GIVE IT AWAY.

Whatever we have, He wants us to give it away.

This is what it means to give it away.

Feed those who are hungry.

Nourish their souls.

Reach out, and tell a mama – who rode 6 1/2 hours on a motorcycle with her baby girl, who bought the most beautiful dress at the market in Port-Au-Prince just because her baby girl was meeting her sponsor – you are so worthy of this abundance. It’s God’s abundant love for you. He wants you to have it. He wants you to receive it. He wants you to know, this is His special taste of heaven. Just for you.

If you’d love to feed those who are hungry and sponsor a child through Compassion, please click here to see the photographs of beautiful children waiting for a sponsor. I promise you, your sponsorship would be a gift.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

The mamas were giving their testimonies.

One by one, they came to the front with their babies, sharing how much of a difference Compassion’s Child Survival Program made in their lives.

One special mama had two babies, not her own. People didn’t understand why she’d taken them in. She couldn’t afford to care for the babies. She was shunned and found herself all alone crying near the street one day. A Compassion Child Survival Program staff happened to pass by and told her about the program, that she’d be able to get support as she raised those babies. She agreed and the children were enrolled in the program. The translator prayed over her, “even though family might not understand you, God does,” he said.

There was another woman with a baby of her own. But she’d also taken in her deceased cousin’s baby. Mid-way through her story, she broke into song. I had no idea what she was saying because there hadn’t been translation yet, but there was something beautiful and tremendously sad about this song long before I knew the words. She sang with courage, she looked up, towards the back of the church as she poured this heart-song out from her soul. There was hope and promise in her words, but in her eyes, I saw the sadness, the depth of pain. She said the Compassion Child Survival Program staff taught her to sing this song when she was feeling tremendous sadness and despair. They encouraged her, “You need to sing this song whenever you feel sad, and you will feel better.” The song, my heart be happy.

And then there was Archille.

She came to the front, holding her son close, tight in her arms. She spoke quietly and tears came to her eyes the second she started talking. She appeared to be hiding a bit behind her son, as if protecting him from her own pain. He was near and dear to her, you could tell. She felt alone, very alone, and I sensed that the moment she started talking, even before I knew why.

Archille shared with us, her son was born with one leg.

She’d been shunned and teased, disowned and laughed at for having a son with one leg. It was and has been immeasurably painful. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to turn. Her tears, the depth of her pain, visible. If there was a way I could’ve reached out to her in that moment, I would’ve.

Archille then proceeded to do one of the most brave things I’ve ever witnessed. She started taking off her son’s pants.

In that moment, we saw his one leg.

It was holy, intimate. We knew the reality she’d been telling was truth.

Archille was advised, Compassion’s Child Survival Program was the best way to care for her boy. Through her involvement in the Child Survival Program, Archille has developed “good friendships and relationships in [the] center.” Home visitors encourage her. And Compassion’s staff have compassion for Archille. They’ve worked with her and she’s “thankful for all they’ve done to help with [her] boy.”

The translator prayed over Archille and her boy, “If God accepts the boy as he is, as we do, we must love him.”

I recognized Archille’s pain the second I saw her hide behind her son, the second I saw the tears in her eyes and they couldn’t be held back anymore. I’d known that pain myself. When tears are so close to the surface that you cry if you speak even one word, you just need someone to listen to you, care for you, act on your behalf.

Perhaps there’s a purpose for our pain, that we might be able to more readily recognize it in others. And help.

We had an opportunity to ask the questions anyone would ask at that point. How does he get around? How would Compassion help this boy with his leg? Mama answered, indicating her boy is able to stand on one leg, gets around by crawling, and is often carried. Compassion has already sent mama Archille’s and baby to Port-Au-Prince where they’ve seen doctors about baby’s leg. He will get a prosthetic when he’s older, but for now he’s too young, so they have to wait.

Yvonne, our trip co-leader and Compassion representative, held the sweet baby boy as we sang songs and prayed with all the mamas and babies. Safe in Yvonne’s arms, Archille’s boy led our way to the Child Development Center.

We spent the next hour or two meeting children and engaging with teachers in the Child Development Center. (I’ll share more about that later!) But Before we knew it, it was time to visit the Child Survival Program building where mamas and babies meet with Compassion staff. It was a lovely space with boards tracking immunizations and child growth, as well as toys and cribs for the babies. This felt like a safe haven, and it was.

I was one of the first to enter the building. The seat next to Yvonne and this beautiful boy with one leg was open. So I took it. There was a part of me that thought the seat would better be taken by someone else, all the others who cared about this boy and wanted to be close, too. But there was me. Perhaps it was God who brought me in among the first. Perhaps it was He who left the seat open.

I had an opportunity to talk with Yvonne about this boy as others entered the space, the hope I had to share his story. We talked about the possibility of getting crutches for this sweet boy, as usually, he’d be walking around this age. Yvonne commented how heavy it must be for mama to carry her boy around all day since he’s getting so big. And I asked, did mama have a sling in which she could carry her son?

Before long, we noticed mama standing right behind us, outside. We invited her in to join us in conversation.

Yvonne told mama Archille that she’d like to work with the project director to try to facilitate getting her boy some crutches so he can start moving around and develop muscle tone in his leg. She couldn’t promise it would be done, but she was going to talk to the director and do her best to help. And Yvonne asked mama, “Do you have a sling you carry him in?” Mama Archille said “no.” I asked mama, “Would you feel more comfortable carrying him on your back or on your front?” “I’d prefer to carry him on my back,” mama said, “but he likes me to carry him in the front.” Yvonne reminded mama once again that she couldn’t promise, but that we’d try to get something to help.

An opportunity came for me to ask mama Archille questions that had nothing to do with sweet baby boy’s leg. “How old is he?” I asked. “Two,” mama said. “When will he be three?” asked Yvonne. Mama replied, “December.”

“Same as my baby” I exclaimed! “Three in December!” Mama Archille and I smiled big smiles, huge, like divine appointment huge. We discovered, our babies’ birthdays? Only NINE days apart!

Everyone was elated. It was a moment out of time for the folks that had gathered. Well, a moment out of time, at least for me. I’d barely even noticed the rest of the group had arrived until I looked up and realized, they were there.

Yvonne, still right next to me, stepped in at just the right moment, with just the right words I would’ve never imagined possible – “You know you can sign up to sponsor him even before he’s officially enrolled in the Child Sponsorship Development Program? I don’t want to put you on the spot, though.” Um, ya. There was no putting me on the spot. It was a no brainer, taking the opportunity to sponsor this little guy. Of course, I’d say yes.

After some brief conversation with the translator, Yvonne, and another Compassion staff, it was determined that I’d need to take with me the baby’s name, baby’s date of birth, mama’s name, and the Compassion Child Survival Program in which which he was enrolled. Then, when I get home, I’ll need to contact Compassion and indicate I’d like to sponsor him when he becomes old enough to enroll in the Child Sponsorship Development Program.

We all decided, this was meant to be. I’ll be the boy’s sponsor when he comes of age.

The translator spoke with Archille and wrote down all the information I’ll need when I contact Compassion back home.

Before mama placed her boy on my lap for a picture, I’d noted, her beautiful baby boy’s name was Charles.

Pain, it’s true and real for all of us. Pain, it pulls us down, makes us want to run and hide or grab ahold tight of anything that’s near.

Hope, it comes in any package. Hope, a promise of better days to come.

Would you like to give hope to a child in desperate need of it? Check out the Compassion website to take a closer look at all the children waiting for a sponsor. These are real. live. children. Not just pictures on your computer screen. They’re real children with real families with real lives, and they could use your help. If you’d be here, you’d see. You’d choose to say yes, I guarantee. We have so much, it’s time to give. And hope’s where it’s at.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.