A New Kind of Difficult



Borrowed from Miami-Herald.com 
Two children in Tomas floodwaters in
Port-au-Prince



I've been distracted this week.  Yes, by our never-ending wait for the kiddos in Pittsburgh to be released (hopefully) to our family.  Yes, by my winter wardrobe reminding me (naggingly) that I have GOT to get into a regular exercise routine.  Yes, by the uncertainty over the next governor of our politically troubled Illinois.  By headaches.  And heartburn. 

All the other important stuff is still getting done -- students taught, Hunter and Bay cared for and listened to, bills paid, dishes cleaned (okay, sometimes), yadda yadda  .  .  .

But with Hurricane Tomas making it's way toward Haiti this past week, I couldn't not think constantly, also, about Josianna and Wendy, and their parents  .  .  .  in the Jeremie area somewhere -- on the far west end of the southern peninsula. 

News reports sound "good," relatively speaking -- Tomas spared the island, although flooding is causing problems.  "Only" six confirmed deaths.  Only.  On the scale of international news and global trauma, what is six compared to a couple hundred thousand who perished as a result of the January earthquake?  If even one of those six, however, is your friend, your sister, your gran papa, it's everything.

I thought it would be difficult to let go of our previous notion of becoming Josianna and Wendy's parents, and it was.  But we've come to peace with it.  Even though there are still moments of pause when I least expect. 

But with the cholera news.  And the Tomas winds.  I've realized that we will never again not worry about Haiti -- deeply and with tearful hearts -- whenever danger threatens.  Those "babies" -- now eight and six years old -- belong to the mama and papa who birthed them and raised them to school-age, the parents who took them to BRESMA with courageous selflessness to get medicine for Wendy and the opportunity for both children to have futures in the U.S., the mom and dad who retrieved them from the orphanage hours after the quake so they could try for a new life together in a rural community far from the city.  I respect that.  And accept it.

"Once a mother, always a mother," says MY mom whenever she catches herself giving me unnecessary advice, like "Did you preheat the oven?" or "Do you have your receipt with you?"  And now, I realize that in just two visits over five months I had invested my mind, heart, and soul so deeply into my commitment to becoming the new mama for precocious, curious Josianna and vibrant, charming Wendy that they are forever a part of me.  In my heart they are my babies, but not in a way that infringes upon their birth mother, their mom.  The kids called me "Mami" (mah-MEE), which I learned is not only a good step toward how to address an American mom, but in Haiti, apparently it's what children often call caretakers (like nannies).  Tadeline is their mama.  And there is much, much love and nurturing between them.  They are in their mama's arms. 

I pray that God holds the four of them in his.

Once a mami, always a mami.  It's the most beautiful, painful gift.