Weeks ago, a small, frail form snuggled in my arms on the same day I met those volunteers. A too-small girl child in need of sufficient food to allow her to grow strong took captive a piece of my heart that I don't really want back. Today the squawking and, "Oooo! Look at Aron! There's Batisia and Rodrigo! Chelma and Ursula... aren't they beautiful?" went on and on as I scrolled through the images. Fortunately, my mister is an indulgent sort who willingly listened to the chorus of ooh's and ahh's over total strangers to him. Then she was there. A single image of a baby girl with a wild tuft of jet hair and large liquid eyes taking in the photographer from her grandmother's arms. A chubby-cheeked doll baby who is unlikely to ever be held in my arms again, but whose growth has been in my prayers.
Tonight I pulled up the photo again. Savoring it. Considering the absence of weight in my arms and the image of a little one who would be no lightweight now. And I cried. (The cat was afraid. Then she gave up and yowled along with me.) I cried for a child who was hungry. And for the precious unexpected gift of seeing her as she is now after having simply accepted that her future was not mine to know. And when the tears were exhausted, a smile bloomed in simple thanksgiving for having unexpectedly seen Alba Rosa again.