abraham

I promised to wait until I had photos to share about screening with you, but I just finished looking through a friend's blog entry, and I have to write.

I had been nervous about yesterday, afraid that I would see things that would be too much for me to bear. Instead, I spent ten hours amidst a delicious cacophony of crayons and balloon animals. Children are children; some are just more broken than others.

... Cynthia, dressed to the nines in a miniature African dress, her twisted face bent low over her paper long after the others had begun to look up and share their wide, perfect smiles.

... The weight of Obadiah's twisted body, pressed against my heart like a prayer, his sweaty head tucked firmly under my chin as he struggled to hold his crayon.

... Abraham. Sweet, small Abraham. Too afraid to leave the line and play with the other kids. His features locked in a hardened mask with eyes that wept constant tears because he could no longer even blink. His scars extended over his head, down his arms and back. His left hand was a ball of scar tissue, his right twisted and small.

Kimberly wrote in her blog:

He didn't cry or complain. He was quite content playing with his blue balloon that one of the staff had given him ... In addition to the balloon, a blue shiny star was firmly attached to the tip of his nose. This was really the only point on his face that still looked somewhat normal.

When I saw those words this morning, I lost it for the first time. Because I know where that star came from. I had gone over to him, armed with a balloon and some stickers, absolutely no idea how I could connect with a child who couldn't move his mouth to smile. As I sat on the ground next to him, offering my own smile in place of his, I felt a small body lean against my back. I turned to look into the perfect eyes of Eric, a little guy I'd been playing with before seeing Abraham. Eric wasn't a patient; he was waiting for his mother to go through the line, and his face was, by this time, covered in stickers. It was obvious that Eric was somewhat disconcerted by the distorted face in front of him. He stared unashamedly at Abraham before turning back to me. He touched his nose, adorned with a purple heart. Then mine, where I had a gold star, placed there by some other eager child. He pointed to Abraham and then chose a blue star for Abraham's nose. So we could all be the same.


Abraham doesn't have an appointment yet, but he will be seen by the plastic surgeons once they arrive. As I sit by the window and the ship buzzes with anticipation while we wait for Her Excellency President Sirleaf to arrive for her visit this afternoon, I'm acutely aware of where my own heart is. Not in politics or glamour or high-profile positions. My heart is in the dirt and in the streets and in the maimed hands of a boy named Abraham.

I can't wait to take care of him when he comes to the ship.