Psalm 126:2

Our mouths were filled with laughter, 

our tongues with songs of joy. 

Then it was said among the nations, 

"The Lord has done great things for them."

-Psalm 126:2 

Way To Go Baby S!

Today we threw a party to celebrate a big milestone in a little girl’s life.  It wasn’t a birthday party or a going home celebration, as most of our parties at COTP are.  Instead it was a party to celebrate baby S and her completion of one year of tuberculosis therapy!  

S's first and last dose of TB meds

A year ago today S was so very, very sick.  It had taken me a couple days to get her the medication she needed. When I got home with the pills I immediately began to prepare a suspension, so I could get the medication into her tiny body.  I pushed the red liquid into her NG tube and felt a sense of relief.  She was getting what she needed now, the medicine would fight the infection, and she could start to heal.  Ten minutes later she vomited up the entire dose and I felt completely defeated.  That sort of set the tone for how the next year would go.  Nothing about S's treatment was easy, every step of the way was a fight.  But after a year of struggling to get S what she needed, for the first time in 365 days we woke up today and I didn’t have to squirt that red medicine into her mouth, or a NG tube, or a G-tube, and pray that it would stay down.  Today we woke up and celebrated.  After a year of medications, weeks on and off a ventilator, too many intubations to count, blood transfusions, a surgery, and two cardiac arrests, S has beaten all the odds, and for that we are infinitely grateful to God.

S, I can’t wait to see what God does with your life, because I’m pretty sure He has something big planned.  I hope you know how very loved you are and that you have a whole army of supporters cheering you on.  I'm so grateful for the way they've rallied around you for the past year.

So let me just say thank you...

To Amy, for joining me in the fight for you that first week when you were so very, very sick.  I bet she never thought she’d be placing NG tubes, running feeding pumps, and monitoring oxygen sats when we became roommates, but Amy has always stepped up to do whatever was needed to help take care of you.

To Joel, who probably lost a few years off his life and almost lost a jeep in his determination to get you to Port Au Prince and to the ventilator that would save your life.

To Carla, who would answer my calls or texts at all hours of the day when I needed someone to listen or to join me in prayer for you.

To Tori, who jumped on a plane to come help us when you arrested unexpectedly after your surgery and we just needed an extra set of hands and a friend to help us through that rough patch.

To Sheila, who also joined in to help care for you in those early days when you needed to be monitored 24/7.

To your nannies, Ermanise and Christianese, for spending countless hours at your bedside in the hospital when I couldn’t be there.

To the Doorlag kids, for putting so many smiles on your face by loving you and playing with you.

To the staff and volunteers at Bernard Mevs, who provided you with the best medical care in all of Haiti.

To the COTP family of supporters, for praying for you and for helping to cover your medical expenses.

You did it, S, and we are so very proud of you!

Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site. Photos taken of  the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Six Months of Baby W

Today marks six months since this little guy, baby W, came to live at COTP.  He was so fragile when he first came home.  His jaundiced skin hung off of his thin arms and legs.  He had the tell-tale cough of pertussis, which is scary in any baby, but particularly in a four pound malnourished baby without any reserves.  His treatment regimen consisted of antibiotics, a feeding tube, oxygen to help him through the rough coughing spells, and a whole lot of love.  There were a few rough nights when I didn't know if that would be enough.  But praise God it was, and little W is now not so little any more! He has the most infectious giggle, the cutest dimples, and the way he coos is almost too cute to handle.  This boy brings so much joy to those around him and I am so grateful for the opportunity to take care of him during this season of his life.

Admit day

Today

Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site. Photos taken of  the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Looking back on this past year we’ve seen God come through in some incredible ways with all that has happened at COTP in 2016.  Several kids’ adoptions were finalized and they joined their forever families.  Many kids overcame some serious medical challenges.  We were able to serve so many families through our outpatient formula and Medika Mamba programs.  Each one of those kids has a name and a story, and we’re grateful for the chance to be a part of it.  But I’d like to share the story of just one little boy named Keven.

Keven lived with us at COTP for a little over two years.  He was abandoned at a local hospital and came to live at COTP a little while before his second birthday.  Keven wasn’t your “typical” little boy.  He wasn’t able to walk or talk like the other kids in his home. He had a lot of feeding issues.  He was sick a lot.  He needed a lot of therapy.  While it might have been easy to see all the things Keven couldn’t do, there was plenty that he could do.  He communicated in his own way, through his smiles, through the way he’d wave his hands and feet in the air.  He let us know what he did and did not like.

In April Keven got sick.  He spent time in the hospital.  After coming home he spent countless days in his bed or his chair, being loved and cared for by his foster parent,Tori.  Feeding tubes, oxygen, suction machines, medication after medication, he was a sick little boy.  Keven would get a little better, but then he’d get sick again before his body had any real chance to recover.  In September Keven got really sick.   He was battling an aspiration pneumonia and we really didn’t think he was going to recover.  Tori and I talked about our goals for Keven and more than anything we wanted him to be where he was comfortable and loved.  We didn’t want him to pass away in a hospital bed, away from his home, away from those who cared for him the most.  We agreed that we would keep Keven at COTP.

Somehow Keven managed to prove us wrong again. He showed some baby steps of improvement and Tori put together the most memorable fourth birthday party for him.  What a blessing that was, to get to celebrate this little guy!

Then, about a month ago, Keven took a turn for the worse again.  Though he had proved us wrong many times before, we knew that is was unlikely he’d recover again.  We continued to make Keven’s comfort our number one priority.  Tori did such an amazing job attending to his needs.  One night we were praying for Keven and, through the tears, it was obvious how much he was loved.  There were so many tears and it was so hard to watch him struggle, because we loved this little boy so very much.

Last night Keven passed away in his sleep.  We were able to do something that isn’t often done in Haiti, to give him a peaceful passing.  We were able to treat his symptoms and he wasn’t in pain or struggling to breath.  He was in his home, beside Tori, and was comfortable.  This might seem like an odd story to share with you, when talking about all the big things that have been accomplished this past year, certainly there were many stories with “happier” endings I could have chosen to share.  But when I reflect on all the things God did in 2016, Keven will most certainly be on my mind.  We didn’t know how many days Keven would be with us at COTP, but God did.  Keven was only on this earth for four years, but during that time he was so very loved.  He was well cared for.  He was cherished for exactly who he was.  So while the outcome may not have been what we hoped for, we take great comfort in knowing that Keven was incredibly valued and loved for the time that he was ours at COTP.  We are so grateful for the years we had with him and we are so appreciative of those of you who support us here at COTP, and enable us to provide this level of love and care for Keven and the other kids entrusted into our care.

"Do not let your heart be troubled.  You believe in God; believe also in me.  My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.  You know the way to the place where I am going." -John 14:1-4 


Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site. Photos taken of  the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Two and a half years ago I made my first visit to COTP.  I was finishing up a week of volunteering in Port Au Prince and my friend, Jess, and I wanted to visit another part of the country.  Through the recommendation of a friend, we ended up at COTP.

I fell in love with COTP pretty quickly.  I had read a bit about their mission and vision on their webpage, and could see what excellent care they provided for the kids.  Our first evening here we were in the volunteer house when somebody told us that one of the kids was having a seizure and asked if we could come lend a hand.  That was the first time I met Nikensly, and he became the first kiddo I ever cared for at COTP.

It took multiple doses of medication and quite a bit of time to get his seizure under control.  That evening he spent the night in our bedroom in the volunteer house, so we could monitor him.  I weaned him off his oxygen, medicated him for his fever, and kept a close eye on him for any more seizure activity.  This statement will probably sound weird to most people, but during Nikensly’s seizure was when I first felt God calling me to COTP.  Taking care of Nikensly seemed so natural.  God had been growing my heart for Haiti for quite some time and in this setting I could see how clearly God could use my skill set to care for the kids here.  It was the answer to a prayer I had been praying for many years, God if you want me to serve in Haiti please lead me to the right place.

I had many more opportunities to care for and to love on Nikensly over the next two and a half years.  He was such a cool kid who always had the greatest smile.  He brought so much joy to those of us who loved him.  After many months of illness, Nik passed away in his sleep the other night.

Nik, I am so grateful that I had the chance to know and to love you.  Thank you for the role you played in my story and my journey to COTP.  I am so heartbroken that you are no longer here with us, but also rejoicing that you are healed and whole in the arms of Jesus.  You were loved, you were cherished, and you will be so greatly missed.

"Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." -Psalm 73:23-26

Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site. Photos taken of  the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

How Do You Say...?

The other day I got a call from one of my nurses, Gabi, that a mother had showed up at our gate with three children.  Not strange, we often get families that show up with multiple children, seeking assistance through one of our programs.  Then Gabi said, "I don't know the word when there are three babies.  You know how we call them jimo (the Creole word for twins) when there are two babies?  I do not know the word for when there are three babies."  "Triplets?!" I said.  "I'll be right there."  There are many factors in Haiti that make a healthy pregnancy difficult.  Preterm delivery and low birthweight babies are common for women carrying a single baby, let alone triplets. The infant mortality rate is high.

So Gabi and I worked with the babies' mom and enrolled them in our formula program.  We came up with a feeding schedule for them.  Though they were very tiny, they all had strong sucks and vigorous cries, and they had a mom who was very motivated to meet their needs.  We told her things to look out for and gave her a follow up appointment for two days later, to reweigh the babies and to see how things were going.

Baby J #1 (1.46 kg), Baby J #2 (2.35 kg), and Baby J #3 (2.6 kg)

I was expecting the babies to return this morning for their follow-up appointment.  So when Joel told me, there were triplets here to see me, I didn't think anything of it.  Then he told me that, no, these were not the triplets I was expecting, this was another set of triplets.  I've been working with kids in our formula program for a year and a half now and have never seen a set of triplets.  Surely there must have been some miscommunication, because what were the odds that we were getting another set of triplets in the same week?

When I walked into the pharmacy Gabi just laughed when I asked him if this was really a different set of triplets.  "Yes," he said, "these are three new babies."  There was another set of two month old triplets.  So once again we got to work assessing the babies, checking some bloodwork, coming up with a nutrition plan for them, and helping their mom learn how to care for them.  As we were working with her, our other set of triplets showed up (who all gained weight!).  I think the two moms got a kick out of meeting each other, and seeing another mom with triplets.  That doesn't happen every day in Haiti!

Baby Y #1 (2.55 kg), Baby Y #2 (3.06 kg), and Baby Y #3 (1.83 kg)

So those are our six newest kiddos in the formula program, ranging from just over three pounds to six and a half pounds.  We look forward to helping these moms to care for their kiddos.  So Gabi has definitely learned the word "triplets" now and today I also taught him the world "quadruplets", though hopefully we won't have any of those showing up at our gate any time soon!

Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site.  Photos taken of  the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Happy Birthday Baby S!

Baby S,

Today we celebrate your first birthday.  A milestone that I wasn’t certain we’d get to celebrate.  Your first year hasn’t been an easy one, to say the least.  But sitting here today, watching you play, babble, and laugh, is nothing short of a miracle.

We first met you when you were about five weeks old.  I still remember the day you showed up at our gate, and I never could have imagined the journey the two of us would go on over the next year.  You were tiny and frail and weren’t even able to drink out of a bottle.  We fed you milk via a syringe, you soon learned how to drink from a bottle, and we hoped you had gotten over the hump with your medical difficulties.

About a month later I was on vacation in Florida.  You’d had a few more issues pop up.  Your heart rate and respiratory rate were too fast.  I was away and the visiting nurse decided to take you to the hospital, it seemed like the right thing to do.  I returned home to Haiti and visited you in the hospital several times.  There were never any answers.  You were loosing a significant amount of weight, now running a persistent fever, and developed a cough.  I felt certain that if we left you there, you would surely die.  Hospitals in Haiti aren’t the same as in the States.  There were too many sick kids and not enough staff to meet their needs.  So I took you out of the hospital and brought you back to COTP, where I thought we could give you a fighting chance.

We quickly discovered that nobody had ever looked at your chest x-ray from the hospital. You had tuberculosis.  You were really, really sick.  I got you started on TB treatment right away.  I placed a feeding tube because you were too weak and breathing too fast to drink anything by mouth.  I put you on oxygen to support your breathing, but you were still working much, much too hard.  My roommate Amy and I took turns with you.  Somebody had to be beside you 24/7.  I’ve heard parents talk about how they’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and have to check on their baby to make sure he’s still breathing.  That fear was very real to Amy and I.  Anytime I’d find myself starting to fall asleep I’d pray, just keep her breathing, please keep her breathing, Lord.

After about ten days of this, it was clear that oxygen alone wasn’t going to be enough to support your breathing.  Your breathing was becoming progressively more labored and you were getting weaker.  You were going to need a ventilator to give you more time for your little body to fight the infection, but there aren’t any in Northern Haiti.  So I reached out to my friends at Bernard Mevs Hospital down in Port Au Prince, and then began the task of figuring out how to get you there.  Haiti Air Ambulance made three attempts to send their helicopter to fly you down to Port Au Prince, but each time the cloud cover was too much and they had to turn around.  We were running out of time, so we decided to take you by ground and quickly put a plan together.  Joel and I threw some supplies in the Jeep, including our only tank of oxygen, and began the trek over the mountains to get you to the hospital that could help you.

So began what would become a very memorable jeep ride.  Somewhere around the top of the mountain range, the jeep overheated and did a lot of other mechanical things I didn’t fully understand, but knew were very bad.  We weren’t sure how long it would keep moving or if we’d make it to Port Au Prince.  With your oxygen supply dwindling, we kept limping along, until on the outskirts of Port Au Prince, just as my tank of oxygen ran out, we were met by an ambulance that drove you and I the rest of the way to the hospital.  It was one of the many times God intervened in a miraculous way to provide just what you needed, when you needed it most.

This began a six week hospital stay that was a roller coaster of ups and downs.  You were placed on CPAP, but quickly tired out and needed to be placed on a ventilator.  So began the cycle, they’d put you on the ventilator and you’d be stable for a day or two, then the breathing tube would accidentally come out, you’d be on CPAP for a day or so, and then you’d tire out and need the ventilator to help you breath again.  I lost count of how many times I stood beside your bed as the team worked to intubate you (put in your breathing tube) as your numbers were falling.  I’d stand at the foot of your bed, or when I could get close enough, hold onto your hand or foot while they worked on you.  It was gut wrenching to watch. Sometimes over the course of that six weeks, I’d be home at COTP and I’d get a phone call in the middle of the night that this was what was going on.  One time the phone call was that you had arrested and they had to do CPR, but had gotten you back.  “We’re doing everything we can,” they said, “but you should come.”  At the time I wasn’t sure which was worse, standing by your beside wondering if I was about to watch you die, or being on the other side of the country, waiting for the text or phone call to tell me if the intubation had been successful and you were still alive.  I ended up deciding it was the latter, because I think really my greatest fear, even more than you dying, was you dying alone in a hospital on the other side of the country, without your grandmother or I being there to hold you.  That thought was unbearable.

There was so little I could do for you while you were on the ventilator.  You were bound to the bed by all the tubes and wires.  A little lotion or a clean blanket was about all I could do.  I’d also play music for you from my phone.  I had a short playlist of worship songs and Good Good Father and It Is Well always seemed to calm you when you were agitated, and to slow your heart rate.

That was such a trying time.  I didn’t understand why you had to be so sick or why you had to struggle so much.  I had been fighting so hard to keep you alive.  That’s when God brought me a verse that He had given me time and time again since moving to Haiti, “The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still”, Exodus 14:14.  I cried out to God and prayed that night and told Him that I trusted Him.  Even if the outcome wasn’t what *I* wanted it to be, I trusted Him, and His plan for your life.  That didn’t instantly make things better.  It was still terribly hard watching how sick you were.  But there was a new peace in my heart that things were somehow going to be ok.  I knew I could trust God for that.

Medically, things didn’t seem to be improving.  Multiple times you came off the ventilator, only to have to be put back on it, when your lungs were too weak to keep breathing on their own.  In a country with such limited resources, we had to start asking some difficult questions.  With a very limited number of ventilators available, how long should we keep you on one, if it didn’t appear that you were getting better? Perhaps your lungs had been too damaged to overcome the infection.  It was time to have some tough conversations.  The doctors asked me to come back to Port Au Prince so we could discuss our goals in your care.  As much as I wanted you to get better, I also didn’t want to see you suffering and in pain.  So I prepared to head back to Port Au Prince but all the while I, along with countless others, continued to pray for your health and your healing.

By the time I got back to the hospital you had self extubated again (the breathing tube had come out again).  But this time was different.  You were still working to breath, but not struggling nearly as much as you had in the past.  You were holding your own on CPAP, and soon you were downgraded to just a regular oxygen cannula in your nose.  You started drinking bottles.  You were making incredible progress!  All the doctors and nurses kept saying, “this baby is very strong!”

So against all the odds, you continued to get better and were discharged from the hospital.  I flew you back to Cap Haitien and you returned to your home at COTP.  All of our prayers had been answered.  Yet, we still had some work to do.  At five months old, you weighed just over five pounds.  It had taken everything within you to battle the tuberculosis, and we still had a lot of work to do to get you healthier and stronger.  I wish I could say it was smooth sailing from there.  But the past seven months haven’t been easy either.  It took awhile for your breathing to improve, you needed frequent breathing treatments and we've juggled fifteen medications a day to keep you healthy.  Your nutrition has been a constant struggle.  I tried everything and anything to get enough calories into you by mouth, but it just wasn’t enough.  You needed a feeding tube.  It was a struggle to get every ounce of weight onto you.  After four months of NG tubes (a temporary feeding tube inserted through your nose into your stomach) it was clear that you needed a better solution.

So a few weeks ago you, me, a nanny, and another child, P, from COTP flew down to Port Au Prince and then headed to a surgical center out in a town called Croix de Boquets.  I had been in touch with them and they had agreed to place a G-tube for you and the other little boy.  This was a simple outpatient procedure.  Honestly what I was most worried about was how you were going to be able to sleep after surgery, since you only liked to sleep on your belly.  In my mind that was the biggest challenge that was ahead of us.

Due to some travel delays the team didn’t arrive until later than expected.  P went into surgery first.  After he was finished and in the recovery room it was your turn.  Around midnight I walked you back to the operating room, gave you a kiss, and handed you over to the surgery team.  I went right around the corner to the recovery room to sit with P.  They were preparing your bed right beside him.  It was a quick procedure and you should be done in no time.  P was getting sick and throwing up, so we were trying to get him some medication and to get him situated, so honestly your actual surgery flew by.  Before I knew it you were done and they were carrying you into the recovery room.  They said you had done great and I was so relieved that you and P were both done.  But just moments later, all hell broke loose.

You weren’t breathing.  Someone checked for a pulse and someone else started chest compressions.  They yelled for an ambu bag and for epi.  My heart was racing.  This could not be happening!  After everything you had been through in the past eleven months, how could this be happening?  This was a simple procedure.  It was not supposed to end like this.  I couldn’t loose you now.  I called one of our other staff members, Carla, and asked her to pray.  

I’m still not sure how long that lasted, because to me it felt like an eternity.  But they reassured me that your heart was beating again.  You were breathing, though they still had to give you some added support for awhile.  It was 1:30 in the morning and I wanted nothing more than for you to wake up, so I could know you were ok, that there hadn’t been any neurologic damage.  But of course after the events of the day, anesthesia, and your resuscitation, you weren’t going to wake up anytime soon.

Since I couldn’t sleep, I prayed.  I sat at the foot of your bed and prayed that you’d wake up and scream to open up your lungs.  I prayed and I waited.  Around 5:30 in the morning you started to wake up.  You were in pain and you were screaming.  You were still connected to the monitor and had a lot of tubes and wires, so there was no way for me to hold you.  I laid as close as I could to you and pulled out my phone to see if some music would help to calm you.  I held it beside your ear as once again Good Good Father played.  You instantly stopped crying, looked at me, gave me a little grin, and I knew you were ok.  “Oh, I’ve heard a thousand stories of what they think you’re like, but I’ve heard the tender whispers of love in the dead of night, and you tell me that you’re pleased, and that I’m never alone.”  Those words were true that night, as they had been so many other nights before.

We had several more bumps in the road with little P and some post-op complications that he had.  But five days later, I was able to bring both of you home to COTP.  We continued the recovery process here.  You’re doing great and you’d never know how close we came to loosing you once again that night.

You have certainly had a lot of medical difficulties and obstacles to overcome in your first year of life, but that is by no means your whole story.  There are so many sweet memories from the first year of your life.  When you smiled for the first time after months of being sick, and how you now giggle with your whole body when you’re tickled.  Taking your first trip to the beach and how much you love the water.  How much you love books and music, especially your bedtime story each night, you stare at the pictures so intently.  I know you don't think it's so funny, but we also can't help but laugh when you make your pout face.  You are so overly dramatic when you stick out that lower lip that we really have a hard time taking you seriously.

You are also the most strong willed baby I have ever met.  Sometimes your stubbornness can feel exasperating.  But I know that tenacious spirit is also part of the reason you kept fighting and are still here today.

Seeing you through this past year has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but also the most rewarding.  There have been many tears, many sleepless nights, and many struggles, but you, S, are worth it all.  Today on your first birthday, I pray for you as I do every day.  I pray for your health and your future, for your forever family, and that you would learn to trust and to rest in God, just as He taught me to do through you.  You have been loved and prayed for by so many people this past year.  I'm pretty sure there’s a lot more to your story and can’t wait to see what God does through your little life. 

Happy first birthday, baby girl! Here’s to many, many more!

Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site.  Photos taken of  the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.