The Certificate of a Life

I was handed a very thin plastic baggie, the same kind you can find at the market for buying food.  Inside was a certificate written in French.   In Haiti that meant I was holding something official, something important.
It was fragile.
It had been torn and ripped apart over the years...taped, and then torn, and then taped again, with first-aid adhesive tape.
It had certainly seen better days.

It was the Birth Certificate of a little girl that we love very much.  It had come down off of the mountain, was handed to a close friend, and that close friend brought it to me.

I asked if it meant what I thought it meant.  My friend took his hands, cradled them like a baby, and pretended to give it to me.

It was this family's way of saying, "Take her."  They have no care of the paperwork, the procedure, the proper course of action.  They don't realize that we must make everything legal, cross every t, dot every i.

But it breaks my heart.  The condition a family must be in, to arrive at such a decision.

And how this must make her feel....

When she comes to visit, I see her.
She is something.
Something important.
Fragile.
She's been torn and ripped apart over the years...taped, and then torn, and then taped again...
She's has certainly seen better days.