Peter

Peter is a confident worker: determined trundler of miniature metal chairs over concrete, deft handler of stray crayons and squashed stickers, clever collector of school supplies and small toys carefully stowed in personal containers. He visibly analyzes his tasks then gets to work with a focus that tolerates interruptions but remains largely uninterested. Sometimes when you're working alongside him, he looks up at you with an unencumbered smile curving up the left side of his face as if to say, "We've got this, haven't we?" He would rather work on something he understands than learn something new, and his open attempts at patience are amusing to watch--the patronizing wince of a sixty-year old in an elementary-age boy. Perhaps it was this combination of innocence and assurance that drew me to him particularly. 

Peter lives in the Home for Special Children, Inc. in the Delmas neighborhood of Port au Prince, Haiti. Abandoned by his birth family because of his Down Syndrome, Peter shares his modest home with about thirty other children who have a wide range of physical and developmental disabilities. Madame Marie, the steadfast founder of the orphanage, provides the children with food, clothing, shelter, and care in partnership with Connect 2 Ministries. Almost every child is hand-fed, changed, and bathed by the staff. Education and therapy are rudimentary due to lack of funds and training. The challenges are many, and outside encouragement is insufficient. Yet, the beauty of the children shines steadily through the heat, noise, and confusion.

By most standards, Peter is not a shining, superlative child. He is not the cutest, smartest, lithest, brightest child in even the small population of the orphanage. He doesn't have the biggest eyes or grin or the most endearing mannerisms. He doesn't even have the most challenging disability. However, Peter has an incredible gift craved by most of the world: contentment. He knows his strengths and desires, and he is good at being Peter. There is no manipulation in either his smiles or his frustrated slaps. There are good days, and there are bad days, and Peter takes life as it comes.

Peter's calm independence in the midst of great need and significant communication barriers is not unheard of in children with Down Syndrome but is no less wondrous considering the condition of the average human. Sure, he gets frustrated when the staff remembers that he is a kleptomaniac and confiscates his latest stash. Sometimes he is hungry and sick. Often he pulls a chair up to the white metal gate of the orphanage enclosure and stares curiously at the unattainable bustle of the street. As you can imagine, his circumstances are less than ideal, but he does not comprehend this. 

With my daily experience of wealth, I wish I could give Peter a private tutor, fresh clothes, salmon and arugula, Disney musicals, and--most of all--a family. I want to expand the limitations of his disability as well as the limitations of his country and culture. I want every good thing for him, and I pray that others come along who will teach, provide, and love in ever increasing doses. Yet as I trudged away after  five days of visiting the orphanage, I could not grieve for Peter. The boundaries of his experience are tight, but God has smiled on him. Peter then turned that sideways smile on me, and I know I'll have a uniquely dear friend in Heaven.

Peter and Me