On Monday morning, I told Rob that we may have to reopen the Myel Room because the Papiyon Room was full with five babies and we had three more babies who would soon need a place to sleep on our compound. Now, on Friday, we have plenty of space. The Papiyon room has only four babies, with no one waiting to fill the fifth place.
The same day of that conversation, tiny Adicilia died. I first met her at the beginning of February, when she was just a week old. During a visit to the hospital, the head nurse announced to me that they had an abandoned baby for us. I went in to meet this precious 1.3 kg bundle. I mentioned how small she was and the nurse told me, “No, she is beautiful.” We were so excited for this sweet little girl to join us, but she never made it through our gates. We saw her Monday morning; we were planning on bringing her home that day. By Monday afternoon, she had instead gone to her heavenly home. She would not need one of our cribs.
Next, Annabel passed away. In August, I went to pick her up from the same hospital Adicilia was at. She was small, precious and nameless. As I held her during the truck ride home, I wondered what her name would be. Her story was a hard one, so I knew she needed a great name, one that would indicate her worth. We settled on Annabel, beautiful grace. We thought she would grow up with that name and maybe treasure the story of how two white girls in Haiti lovingly chose it for her. Instead, we ended up spending Wednesday afternoon fighting for her life and Wednesday night grieving the loss of our Beautiful Grace.
The very next morning, Devensly also died. The first day I met him, all I could say to him was, “I’m so sorry, baby.” I’m sorry that you don’t have enough food. I’m sorry your mama is gone. I’m sorry that you are in pain. I’m sorry I don’t know what the best solution is for you. I’m sorry this world is so broken. The next day, Devensly was admitted to COTP, and we thought he would do well because he was eating and drinking. But he soon got much sicker and we took him to the hospital in the middle of the night. He didn’t get better right away and we thought for sure we were going to lose him, but after a few more stable days, our hope was back. Until that early morning announcement that said he was gone.
This morning, our newest baby, Cheslie, passed away. She came to us with her uncle. An uncle who clearly loved her. He explained that he was the only one in the family who was willing to care for her. He kissed her cheeks. He rocked her when she cried. He begged us to help him. After Roseline did a home visit, I found out he even named Cheslie after himself, a tradition many Haitian parents follow. He was her papa. Once she was hospitalized, he visited her. He called our staff to ask how she was. He promised to take her home when she was better. He went to the hospital as soon as we called him with the news that this little girl would not be returning to his care. And after all this, he still thanked us for what we did and promised to continue praying for us.
Not only are our beds emptier than we anticipated, but our arms and our hearts are also feeling emptier tonight as we process this past week. One baby who wasn’t yet here, but was already ours. One baby who spent all but two weeks of her life with us. Two babies we didn’t know for long, but loved desperately. And a million emotions too poignant to be put into words. Emotions so basic and yet so complex. Emotions that I can’t even understand, never mind explain. Emotions that are incredibly painful to experience. And yet, I am thankful. Thankful that God is continuing to break my heart for what breaks his. Thankful that I am angry at the injustice of the brokenness we live in. Thankful that despite it all, I still feel peace. God is sovereign. He is loving. He is carrying us through the heartache. And he is holding his babies; he has wiped away their tears and erased their pain. He has healed them and claimed them as his own. We are broken, but we are thankful.
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