I just want you to know who you're praying for when I ask you to pray for Wasti. Here he is in all his glory, before and after. I found out today that, on the wooden bench outside the operating rooms, where we stop and pray for every patient that goes through, Wasti's mama almost said no. She was told that there was a chance he could die on the table, and there was a long moment where she almost said no. Her broken baby was precious enough to her that she was almost willing to stay an outcast, to endure the ridicule and spite, just so she could be sure of waking up next to him in the morning.
Now when she wakes up, it's next to a little boy who isn't quite so broken anymore. Which is what's keeping me going in the face of all the other wounds, all the other heartbreak.
That, and the fact that Kossiwa's papa came to collect her today. He took one look at the hole in her lip, gathered her in his arms and kissed her tiny cheeks. He loved her even before we gave them the paper that will allow them through security next year and onto the ship in Togo, where we hope to repair the damage. The small family left, Kossiwa's mama waving at me as she headed down the hall. Edabo! A l'anee prochaine! Until next year!