Mario

I fell in love with a little boy in Nicaragua 18 years ago.  Tonight he’s recovering from surgery in a hospital in North Carolina.  There’s a story here.

I met him when I went to Managua to bring back our newly adopted 6-year old daughter.  That’s her.  The one in the red shirt with bangs and a little pageboy haircut.

Every day for a week, I would go to the orphanage and we would hang out, she and I.  Each of us being monolingual in our own way, we spent a lot of time drawing pictures and practicing writing her name.  Generally, we would sit on the floor of the toddler hut amidst kids in playpens and kids in walkers.

That’s where I met Mario.

He was a little guy – maybe two or two and a half. He buzzed around us in a walker, one of those that have a sling seat surrounded by a little plastic table, four wheels.  He zoomed into us, around us.  And even as he sped around it was obvious that one leg was ok but the other one wasn’t.

What’s wrong with Mario?  I bugged my Spanish-speaking friend to ask the workers.  Ah, his leg is not good.

You can ask questions all you want in Nicaragua.  Doesn’t mean you will get answers.

Mario was beautiful with a round face, big brown eyes, a constant smile.  So friendly and busy and happy.  But I was obviously already committed and the girl I had come to get was herself beautiful, friendly, busy and happy.  I could have no complaints.

Plus that wasn’t the way it worked when we adopted from Nicaragua.  We didn’t get to shop.  Children were chosen for us – actually by a single very remarkable woman who headed the country’s human services department.  At the time, I thought God spoke to her.  Now, I think God spoke to her.

Anyway, when I got back, I tried to start a family campaign to adopt Mario.  It lasted five minutes.  My husband, accurately determining that we were already over our heads, said no.

But because Nicaragua’s focus at the time was on helping kids with disabilities get adopted in countries with first world medicine, like the U.S., the authorities there sought another home for Mario.

And they found one.  A family in Racine that had already adopted a little girl from the same orphanage was ready to adopt Mario.  They did.  They were already part of our little band of Wisconsin Nica adoptive families – about ten of us who had adopted from the same orphanage. And so it happened that the same little boy who zoomed around in his walker in Nicaragua would visit my house in Milwaukee and do the same thing.  For several years, I would see him at least once a year at our annual Three Kings celebration and then his family moved across the country and we lost touch.

Enter Facebook.

Through a friend I connected with Mario’s mother and then I saw the pictures of Mario as a young man.  Mario with his parents and his sister.  Mario now a very handsome guy with the same beautiful eyes and terrific smile.  Wow, he grew up. I am so happy that he grew up.

And then the news of chronic health problems related to the condition of his leg, of his mother searching for solutions, of recurring stays in the hospital, of long, difficult nights, and a lot of reaching out for prayers.  And I sent up my prayers although I am not what one would normally call a prayerful person.

So all of this causes me to think alot about fate and how orphaned kids end up with particular families. When we say an adopted child is chosen, who really is chosen?  Is it the child or the new parents?  I don’t know.

I do know that this child – this Mario who so caught my heart so many years ago – found the mother he needed.  And it wasn’t me.

So in my own not very prayer-oriented way, I pray for her and him tonight.  That he heals quickly and good and she can rest and enjoy her son.

That’s it.  That’s my story tonight.