On March 9th, my heart sank. I received a call from the pastor in charge of the children's home I help with. The father of one of the toddler boys had come to take him back.

I first met this little boy in May 2012. He had been living at the children's home for less than two months. He had just turned one year old in April of that year. He was sick and malnourished. Every time I would go to the children's home he would just be sitting there, very little energy, very little interaction with anyone. That summer we would all take turns feeding him, holding him, loving on him. By the next year he had chubby cheeks and was developing his own unique personality.

At the end of last year I remember reflecting on how much he had changed and grown. I remember the first time he said my name in the fall of last year. My heart leapt and I couldn't wait until he'd say it again! After that, anytime I showed up at the children's home, he would join in the "Ana" chant the kids would do to announce my arrival and welcome me to their home. In the months that followed, he was really thriving. He was talking up a storm, and constantly laughing and being mischievous. He certainly was not shy as he'd be the first to start dancing to the music. 

Everyone who visited the children's home loved him, including my own family and friends who've come to visit. You'd often find him napping on someone's lap. The majority of Sunday mornings at church last year were spent with him sitting, and then napping, in mine.

All of this was rushing through my head that Sunday afternoon in March when I got the call that his father was at the children's home, ready to take him back. All of that and many more questions. 

Does the son even know his father? Why does the father all of a sudden want him back? Can his father really care for him and give him a good, healthy home?

I also realized that there wasn't much we could do to prevent the father from taking his son. He still had all the rights to do so. It's a long story how many children's home operate in Haiti, but the short story is that most children's homes are not technically registered with the government as that can be a difficult and expensive process, especially with many that are still recovering after the earthquake. This is a goal we have for the children's home, but it may still be several months before it's fully realized. All that to say, there was little we could do to keep the little boy with us, even though it broke our hearts to see him go. 

When I arrived at the children's home, the father was sitting there with the pastor. I tried to ask some questions, but I quickly realized that my biggest objective for that moment was going to be not completely losing it in front of everyone. I could hardly get words out as my voice was trembling and tears were on the verge of pouring out. I called the little boy over to me, but he walked like a zombie. Wide-eyed, not really looking at anyone, not saying a word, not changing his expression in the least. I pulled him on my lap. I tried to get him to interact with me--nothing. After about 30 minutes, he did what he's done countless times before and fell asleep in the comfort of my lap. 

About that time, the "Mama" of the children's home arrived. She typically attends her own church on Sunday. The pastor called her to come when the father arrived. She was obviously upset and started talking to the father... talking which quickly turned into a rapid fire of questions and accusations. At this, I turned my head away from everyone and let the tears come. I realized that even though everyone had been sitting there pretty civilized, this was something that was going to greatly affect everyone and I wasn't alone in my overflowing river of emotions. 

The father said his mother, the child's grandmother, had sent him to get the boy and bring him back to their home so they could raise him. The boy's mother had been and still was completely out of the picture. But it seemed like the grandmother wanted the family to be together and could help take care of him even though the father admitted to only having sporadic work. The father supposedly had visited the children's home three times in the almost two years the little boy had lived there. But the boy didn't respond to him any more than he responded to me or the pastor. 

"Mama" eventually woke the boy up and got him bathed, clothed, fed, and ready to go. She was crying the whole time. I stepped around the corner to find some tissue and found the oldest girl, now 18, crying into a towel. I shared a spot on that towel and we cried together. I went back out and sat with "Mama" as she finished everything up. Shortly after, the boy and his father were on their way. I passed them as I rode by on a motorcycle. They were walking back to the main road so they could get a taptap to their town, about 40 minutes away. The little boy just stared at me as I waved and said, "Bye bye!"

Weeks went by and I was resolved to visit the family so I could see for myself how he was doing. I needed to see with my own two eyes whether or not he was thriving there. And I figured that I would be able to tell. I knew this little boy. And I knew how much he had been progressing, and I was hoping that I would see that spark of life in his eyes again, hear his laughter, and know that he was going to be ok.

About a month after he left, we finally made the trip up to see him. The town is easy enough to get to, but we didn't realize he lived up on the mountain, up some crazy steep and terrible roads. We eventually made it and arrived at basically what I'd call a tent community. The houses are makeshift homes made out of tents and tarps. And there among them was the little boy. They had said on the phone he had been sick, but he looked pretty much like he had the last time we'd seen him. He didn't appear to have lost any weight. He didn't seem phased that we were there. I suppose I had been hoping to hear my name or a glimpse of recognition. Nothing. We all went inside a tent to sit and talk. I put him on my lap. I had brought a 20oz bottle of gatorade for him. He tilted it back and didn't stop until the entire thing was empty. 

His home on the mountain

Inside the tent was like a sauna. We were all dripping with sweat. I didn't care. I was just glad to finally be here, seeing the little boy, and trying to piece together how things are going for him. He would be turning three next week. And I realize that you can't completely judge a situation by the mood of a three year old child. But I did know him. And I was hoping that I'd have a clearer sign of how he was feeling and how he'd been treated. He was mostly unresponsive and didn't even smile until Melanie started tickling him for a photo.

As we sat there we began to learn several things. Perhaps the most startling was that the dad's story on the day that he took the boy from the children's home was not true. He had told us the grandmother wanted the child to come live with them. But the grandmother begins telling us that the moment he returned with the child, she was upset and told him to take him back immediately. She never asked for him. (She says this to us while holding a lethargic toddler, implying that she did not need one more mouth to feed!) My heart sank. I wanted the child to thrive. I had been aching to see him. But I had been praying that we would find him thriving. That we would be convinced in our minds and hearts that he would be ok. And that particular prayer did not seem to be answered. We asked hard questions of all the family members and friends present. They asked if we would take him back. Some begged us to. The father stayed quiet at this point. I went around the room and asked for everyone's opinion. Everyone said to take the child back. I asked the father last to which he replied, "Whatever you want to do, I'm fine with it." I told him that response was unacceptable and that I wanted his actual opinion. Others in the room pressured him to provide his thoughts. He eventually said that he did think it would be good for us to take back the child. 

We told him that we could not make a decision now. And furthermore, I let them all know that I, personally, would not be making the decision at all. It would be up to the pastor. We told them that we would be in touch and we said our goodbyes. On the way out, we patted the heads and fist bumped the other kids around. They were curiously following our every move and had the biggest smiles on their faces! I left, watching them, and thinking... these kids seem happy. Who's to say what living situation is good, bad, joyful, depressing—the list could go on and on. My heart was once again broken, and even more confused than ever. We waved our goodbyes and headed back to Leogane.

Some of the kids in the village

The ride home was filled with discussion. I wanted to hear the pastor's thoughts and opinions. As we were finally turning back on the road to the children's home, the end of our conversation got to the question, "What is best for the child?" And we both tried to answer it. 

Who can answer a question like that? So many unknowns. So many factors. So many complicated details. What's best for him educationally? What's best for him psychologically? What's best for him medically? What's best for him socially? What's best... ??? I don't feel comfortable holding the power to choose the fate of a child in that way. That's a HUGE thing. No, I do not think that orphanages are the best option for children, especially children who have living parents. But I also don't think children should suffer within families who can barely afford to feed them. Though is even "suffering" a relative term?
After more discussion on all sides over the next few weeks, the decision was made to bring the child back to the children's home. My friend Melanie saw him a day before I did. "It was as if he never left," she said, "He was running and laughing and playing with all the kids!" And indeed, when I saw him the next day, I found him full of life and all smiles! He seemed to be talking even more. I soaked in every word. Every little movement. Aside from having to treat him for his big belly filled with worms, he was his happy, chubby-cheeked self.

Living in Haiti, I really struggle to have all the answers. I realize that I don't have to have them all, but the questions come nonetheless and decisions—big ones—have to be made. And unfortunately, these issues are often not clearly black or white. There are so many factors and considerations. And a decision made today can change the life of a child forever. The weight of that is terrifying! So much prayer and discernment is needed. And I'm thankful for both Haitian and expat friends who I can discuss these issues with and continue to learn how to help these children and families. As I always say, it's complicated. And I just pray that God will fill in the gaps when we don't know the best thing to do. I take comfort in the fact that God loves these children even more than I do. And He is working out His plan for their lives. In the meantime, I'll continue to do all I can to provide them with love and security and help make these difficult decisions with God's help for as long as He has me serving here.

Thank you for praying for this child and for all the kids at Hope For Life Children's Home. And for all the children and families here in Haiti who need to know that someone loves them and is committed to fighting for them.