His name was Mitku. The orphan we’d ultimately decided not to adopt. Though my husband, Michael, and I’d prayed for guidance and believed we’d had no choice, I often found myself thinking about the sick baby who’d been found in the African bush.
Had we done the right thing? Who will care for him?
Michael and I have three biological children and a fourth, the youngest, a daughter we adopted from Guatemala. We certainly had a full house, but recently we felt we’d been blessed enough to give another child a happy home. We heard about Mitku from the adoption agency we use in Oregon.
It was heartbreaking. Mitku had been abandoned after he contracted neonatal tetanus, probably from a rusty instrument used to sever his umbilical cord. Then he had developed pneumonia. Miraculously he’d survived, but not without consequences.
“Mitku may very well have brain damage,” the agency warned us, “and possibly other lifelong disabilities.”
Michael and I spent a lot of time talking it over. Were we really the right ones to give a child with such special needs a home? With four kids already? I wanted so much to hold this baby in my arms, to nurture him, but could I really promise the kind of devoted care Mitku needed?
In the end we decided no. I prayed for Mitku to be adopted by a family who could give him all the love he needed and deserved. When I closed my eyes I saw his picture—gaunt, sickly, sad.
Michael and I had quickly moved ahead with another adoption, a precious boy named Terefe, also from Ethiopia. In two days we would fly over to formally adopt him and bring him back to his new life in America.
Yet I still found myself thinking of Mitku, even now as I stood in a long checkout line at Babies “R” Us. I had two of my daughters with me and needed to get the youngest home soon for her nap. Maybe I should just come back later.
I was about to abandon my cart when my glance fell on the blonde woman in front of me. She had one of the cutest babies I’d ever seen—a chubby, giggling little boy, seemingly of African descent.
Was he adopted? I wondered. I had the overwhelming urge to talk to her. We could have something in common. Maybe she had some advice for me. I leaned over my cart and said, “What a precious baby you have!”
“Oh, thank you,” the woman said, extending her hand. “My name is Mandy and this is my son Silas. My husband and I recently adopted him from Ethiopia.”
“What a small world!” I said. I told Mandy all about Terefe and how excited we were about our trip to bring him home. The line inched forward and we talked some more. We discovered that we had a lot in common—we’d even used the same adoption agency in Oregon.
While we chatted, Silas bounced and cooed. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at him,” Mandy said, “but Silas was actually very sick when he was born. They didn’t think he would make it.”
Once more, my thoughts turned to Mitku. If Silas had found a loving, caring home, maybe he would too.
Mandy continued. “Silas actually had neonatal tetanus, then he came down with pneumonia. It’s a miracle that he’s perfectly healthy now.”
Tetanus? Pneumonia?
“What’s his name?” I asked. “His Ethiopian name?”
“Mitku,” Mandy said. “His name was Mitku.”
Of all the places in the world, Mitku had found a home right here in my town. And before long, he had a best friend too—our son Terefe.
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