hold fast

I’ve read a lot (read: too much) about adoption. And I’ve read from all sides, adoptee, adopter, birth parents. I’ve read international, domestic, foster care. And I’ve heard a lot of different opinions. But this one caught me a little off guard. I was talking to one of the cooks here, a proud Bolivian woman. We were discussing her “hijito”, basically the 9 month old she claims as her own. “Me amo a ese niño, Tia Sarah, le amo mucho.” Translation: “I love him, Tia Sarah, I love him so much.” We chatted a little about his adoption, why she didn’t want to, anyone whose expressed interest, and then she said something I didn’t expect. “I don’t want him to stay here. I want him to go with foreign parents, to go somewhere else. Out of Bolivia.”

I wrote this post a month or so ago, but never posted it. I fear commenting on adoption or orphan care lest I be labeled naive. But, I read it again, and I still think it stands. And I am naive, I’m still fairly sure we can change this world, because God is on our side. I’m just learning to embrace it. (Ps. Since I wrote this I have gathered approximately 200 new poo related stories, including Baby B who pooed on my bed the other night. It’s a good thing he’s cute.) — Yesterday I sat through a sermon with three kids who shouted, cried, huffed, stomped and never sat still. Tonight I have lay for the last hour on a bed in the bedroom of four kids under five who are flat out refusing to sleep, even though everyone of them is exhausted. This weekend I have dealt with two cases of explosive nappy where I have ended up covered in poo. Yesterday I received a message from Daniel after he also dealt with an epic poo incident which I can only assume has forever impacted the smell of...

He crawled into my lap and I pulled him in close and kissed the top of his head, just like I would have with anyone else. But for him, the floodgates opened. “My mum is gone, my mum has left, she forgot to come back.” Tears flooded his eyes and poured down his cheeks as he continued to repeat these phrases. Forgotten. Abandoned. Left behind. That’s how he feels, that’s what he thinks. And he’s only two years old. He was picked up late one night on the corner of a street. Brought to a strange house far from where he knows, and without the siblings he cries for. “We’ll pick him up again in the morning.” But they never came back. Dropped off without a name, without an age. Only the clothes he was wearing. He’s smart, potty-trained, talkative. And you wonder is that because he had no other choice. Three days later and they come back, not to pick him up, but to drop off his life story. 4 pages that would break the heart of even the most callous. And finally he has a nam...

In the past Psalm 139, in my opinion, was a Psalm reserved for reading at dedications and putting in “it’s a [insert gender]” cards when babies were born. I have since seen the error of my ways (different story for a different day) but it still has me thinking, what if no cards arrive? What if there is no celebration? What if it isn’t the happy occasion we’re envisioning? The first night I did night duty with sickbaby I read Psalm 139 over him for exactly the reasons I first set out - it’s a good Psalm for babies. They were literally just in their mothers womb, so it could hardly be more relevant. I really didn’t think about the words as I read them if I’m honest. I’d heard them so many times already. Then, a couple nights later I heard the same Psalm again, sung by Kings Kaleidoscope. And I heard it more clearly. “You heard my first heartbeat before I could breathe, Before my first cry, You knew me. You knit me together when I was conceived, When I was designed, You knew me. ...

(You’re all hearing this before the man himself, because he was gone when I got home this morning.) Let me set the scene with two important pieces of information. 1. A considerable number of the nursing students have declared their love for white skinned men. 2. Yesterday I left Daniel alone at the hospital while I went home to nap. So, last night’s fiasco began with the question, “Do you have a boyfriend/husband?” The assumption in sickbaby’s ward is that he is biologically mine, and therefore my boyfriend is an incredibly dark skinned individual. (I told them he could be whatever colour they wanted since he was also imaginary…) This led into a deep conversation about what colour skin was most attractive, which led to me being asked to ‘present’ some of my palest male friends to the nursing students (applications in the comments please.) At this point then, the mum of the little guy diagonally across from sickbaby said, “she has a brother you know, he was here all d...

A friend of mine is doing a thing called, “flaunt-free Friday”. The premise behind this is that we put all our good stuff on Facebook, but rarely talk about the hard stuff, the bad stuff. In that mind, let me tell you about my week. Rewinding to the start of last week, the gorgeous guy who I had spent the weekend with went back to the baby house. (He is only one.) But rather than leaving empty handed, I returned with the littlest from the baby house, lovingly named sickbaby. He had awful nappy rash, and just generally wasn’t in good form, so it was suggested he might benefit from a little one on one TLC. I happily obliged. Newborns do not sleep. Like at all. Ever. I began to slip on the second day, since I hadn’t slept properly at the weekend either. I was grumpy. I took sickbaby to Spanish class with me, because Dan had the two little big ones. Now Dan was grumpy. We headed out for dinner with Spanish school (and sickbaby), and in the trufi on the way home Dan offered to do a...

As we drove back from the boy’s home yesterday evening, I saw it, emblazoned in 2 foot high letters. Te quiero Cochabamba. I love you Cochabamba. And I heard it, or I felt it. God saying to me, “You know, I’ve had this planned.” —- 6 years ago, just back from Bogotá for the first time. So in love with Latin America and it’s people, I googled furiously for foundations looking after children. And here was one, three homes, in a city in Bolivia. Kids looked cute. Where even is Bolivia? —- 3.5 years ago, planning my trip to Colombia, alone for the first time. I thought about Bolivia, going there too. It wasn’t the time. —- 2.5 years ago, heading to my favourite continent again. I look up flights to Bolivia, from Colombia to Bolivia. Still not the time. —- 2 years ago, Dad mentions a friend of his. He’s moved, from Colombia, down to Bolivia. “Do you know where he is in Bolivia?” “I can’t remember, weird name, sounds made up.” “Cochabamba?” Of course it is...