To Hug an Angel

Carol and I knew only the sketchy information about Chile that flashed occasionally in newspaper headlines or was broadcast now and then on the eleven o'clock news. Chile had become a powder keg. A long awaited visit from the Vatican stirred the Chilean people from submission to hope. Even those most poverty stricken began selling their belongings to buy paint in the papal colors to decorate their shambles in the unlikely event the Pope would cross their paths.

Chile was a strange land to Americans. Mountains of awesome majesty rose above a cloak of gloom that covered the occupants below. Soldiers were everywhere, heavily armed as if in the throes of a pending revolution. Tension mounted steadily as talk of widespread human rights violations saturated both city and country areas of the isolated nation. Tortures, beatings and murders replaced the reason of man in matters of government. Curfews were enforced and thousands of Chileans were separated from their loved ones. My wife and I, and the poor children of that troubled land, knew none of this.

Carol and I were in the air anxiously awaiting the first sight of our newest addition to the family. We had spoken all weekend of Dora and made wishful assumptions about her physical and emotional condition. We surmised she was never aware she had been slated to meet her new parents that morning. In high hopes, she was experiencing one of her better weeks, tucked away from harm. Every new dawn was a milepost for the child.

When we had agreed to the adoption, Alex contacted a social worker that arranged to have Dora removed from her surroundings and placed in a local huerfano or orphanage, known to us only as San Miguel. Although we had advanced funds for her temporary support, the availability of nutritional foods in the more remote areas was minimal. Oatmeal gruel, and garlic and onion, mashed together into a softened mush, kept her alive. But she was alive.

As we began our descent into Santiago, Carol was still having second thoughts about leaving Meredith, who was recovering from her injuries. I could not help but feel we would have called the whole adoption off were it not for the persistence of our children. They wanted another sister and were quite excited with the prospect of a foreign child as their new sibling. The older ones had been studying Spanish in their spare time. They practiced at the dinner table as though they planned to entertain the Royal Princess in Madrid. When we landed in Santiago, however, our reception was far from royal.

The Gestapo-like figure urged us to move forward as he guided our exit from the aircraft. One of several bullet-clad soldiers, machine gun in hand, pointed in the direction of the customs line, where still more military personnel dressed like secret police in an old war movie strategically lined the room. But this was no movie. The bleak room was hot and sticky and proved a somber reminder we had ventured far from home.