I was working on one of our newest children’s bios today. In the original bio were these two simple sentences: He was born on June 1, 2006. He was abandoned at the gate of a local medical university on March 7, 2007.
As I typed them into the bio for our website, I thought about the weight of what I was really saying. It sounds so simple, clinical, and matter-of-fact… but for a few minutes, I let myself think about what March 7, 2007 must have been like for this little guy.
The checkup didn't go as they had hoped. The doctor gave them very bad news. As they stood in front of the hospital, someone would have taken a last look, tightened up his jacket, and stoically walked away. I think they probably cried. He must have stood there, confused for a while. Eventually the fear took over, and I’m sure he started crying. Someone else would have found him and taken the time to stop and ask what was wrong. They would have called the police and perhaps gone on their way after they made their statement. (But I wonder if they’ve ever forgotten that moment…)
And so he began a journey that has finally brought him here…
Last night I gave a presentation on the foster home in Beijing. Afterwards someone came up to me and asked how I could bear to work at a place with such sorrow and suffering. I told her, "By the time they get to us, they are on the path to restoration and redemption. When I see them, I primarily see the hope they now have and I do not dwell on the tragedy they have experienced."
But every now and then, reality catches up with me… sometimes in simple sentences like “He was abandoned at the gate of a local medical university on March 7, 2007” that say so very much.