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Two steps and a knock from my front door, and I’m in an orphanage.  We don’t call it an orphanage, but a rose by any other name is still a rose.  No matter what we call it, Mommy and Daddy don’t come home at night.

She’s eight.  Sometime in February 2009, she lost everything.  I remember being eight.  I thought my Daddy was Superman, and I wasn’t prepared to face the world on my own.  I’d have nightmares about getting separated from my family.  I’d always wake up to the soft sounds of my Mom’s aquarium gurgling in the living room.  For her the nightmare is real; she never woke up.  When she was eight, she was left in front of an orphanage.

She likes to come over to our apartment.  In the beginning, she came over so that she could get out of the apartment where she lives; at first she wasn’t able to walk down the three flights of stairs to the courtyard.  Still recovering from heart surgery, she probably felt better than she ever had in her whole life, but she wasn’t yet strong enough for stairs.  So she’d come over to our house, where she’d silently walk through our three rooms, peeking into drawers and looking at photographs.

I want to believe that her parents abandoned her because they had no choice.  Her heart problem was quite severe, and many families have no way to pay for the surgeries their children need.  In most cases in this country, if you can’t pay for surgery, you don’t get surgery.  The only hope is to leave your child in the care of the government and hope someone takes pity on your child’s case.

It’s a bit like putting Moses in the basket.  For her, the basket floated our way, and she got the medical care she needed.  For others, it doesn’t, and they die in an orphanage.  For the first time in her whole life, her fingers aren’t blue and walking to the bathroom doesn’t leave her out of breath.  Her heart is healed, but in some ways it must be more broken than ever before.

When she takes the two steps and a knock next door, we bake cookies and pies together, which she enjoys sharing with all her little brothers and sisters and mamas next door.  My husband teaches her how to play with electronic gadgets and how to use the paint program on our computer.  We always manage to sneak a few extra pieces of candy her way.  She’s all smiles, giggles, and laughter, and I wonder why.  We try to be a source of love and hope in her life, but in reality, it’s only been four months since her world turned upside down.  In those four months, she’s lived in an orphanage, the hospital, and our foster home.  In addition to all the transitions, she went through open heart surgery without her mom and dad by her side.  And yet she smiles.

I never would have imagined that I’d someday live next door to an orphanage.  But now that I do, I’m thankful for it.  My little neighbors inspire and motivate me with their strength and joy.  Their resilient spirits amaze me.  I’m sometimes shattered by their pain, but more often than not, I’m surprised by their hope.

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Carrie lives and works with her husband in a foster home outside of Beijing, China.  She also writes at Signs of Hope.