TheBanyanTree: Leaving China - part 2

[Pat M]

While posing for photos with the children, they had presented me with
pictures they’d drawn and coloured, friendship bracelets and trinkets they
valued such as a button that looked like a crystal and an inch-long plastic
rabbit. Ella gave me a lovely necklace that I suspect had been her mothers.
(Each child has a shoebox where they keep their personal items/treasures.)
One boy, Huang Ge gave me one of his most prized possessions—a tiny plastic
action figure. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for him to
willingly give it away, so refusing it wasn’t an option. I thanked him
profusely. What precious gifts from children who have nothing!  As I packed
them into my suitcase, tears streamed down my cheeks.

When the girls returned to the dorm later that evening, I didn’t open my
door or curtains. I felt too miserable to show myself. I knew that if the
children saw me, soon everyone would be crying.  Every few minutes and well
past bedtime, there was a tap at my window or door as more children brought
me drawings and notes. I couldn’t understand most as they were written in
Chinese but a few said, “I love you” in English.

The children knew I was leaving the following day but they didn’t know
exactly when. On Peter’s advice, I planned to slip away quietly the next
morning when they were in school. “It is better for the Chinese,” he’d told
me. “When Auntie Hu left, she didn’t tell anyone when she was going.”

The next morning I avoided eye contact with the children as I ate breakfast.
My heart ached to think of leaving them, especially since I was unsure
whether I’d be returning. Tears welled up again and I left for my room, not
daring to look at any of them. Several girls sat on stools outside the
dining room eating their breakfast. They spotted my tears and I heard one
after another say something in Chinese that must have been, “Auntie’s
crying.”

The bell rang and the children disappeared into their classrooms across the
playground. It was time to go. I brushed away my tears as Alice, Jessica,
Peter and I wheeled my suitcase outside the gate. I was having a hard time
maintaining control and tried to make light of it.

“In the west, we hold back when we cry. We try not to make noise,” I
muttered. “You’re lucky I’m not Chinese or the whole neighbourhood would
hear me!”

“I think you will come back,” Peter said. “You don’t need to be sad.”

I didn’t respond. The previous day, he’d emailed a letter of apology to me
for his behaviour during my stay, and I hadn’t answered it. I needed time
away from him and the orphanage to clarify my thoughts. Previous to that,
I’d written a long email of complaint about him to Ron, the man in charge of
the China Mission and had saved it as a draft, again wanting to be sure
before I sent it.

We boarded the minibus and it set off for town. There was nothing to say. My
eyes stung with unshed tears as I stared glumly out the window at the lush
rice paddies that lined both sides of the road.  The short brown stubble of
last year’s harvest and bone-dry red earth that had greeted me seven months
earlier had been replaced by flooded fields and brilliant green thigh-high
rice plants.  A few Chinese farmers wearing coolie hats worked in the
fields.

I wondered if this would be the last time I travelled on this road. Would I
see the children again? And if I did, how could I ever leave them? My heart
ached to think of them, each one so precious, each one deserving of a
parents’ love, a love I wished I could provide.

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the bus depot and Alice helped me buy a
ticket to Nanning. I shook hands with Peter and hugged Alice and Jessica
before boarding. As the bus pulled away, we waved to each other. Both
Jessica and Alice knew I might not be coming back.  I was glad there weren’t
many people on the bus and I was afforded some privacy.  I couldn’t seem to
stop crying.

Pat

Pingguo China 2009 photos can be viewed at
http://picasaweb.google.com/Ms.Pat.Martin/Pingguo#