“Then little children were brought to him so that he could put his hands on them and pray, but the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me; don’t forbid them, because the kingdom of God belongs to ones like this.’ After placing his hands on the children, he left that place.” –the Gospel of Matthew 19:13–15, paraphrased
A knock on the front door in the middle of the night awakens you. You throw on the clothes nearest the foot of the bed, walk slowly to the door, turn on the outside lights, and peer through the keyhole. Movement across the lawn; going away. Moving to the window you see the silhouette of a woman running into the alley across the street. She becomes one with the shadows.
You return to the door and angle your face against the glass pane toward your porch, looking down as if checking on an expected package. Something is there; not a box. Cloth.
You crack the door and see a baby, poorly wrapped in a dirty blanket. There is a stench. Meth-house odor, dirty diaper, lack of a bath, a combination. Disregarding the smell, you open the door, step one leg over, bend down and retrieve the small, thin, sleeping child.
You bring her inside and wonder, “What now?”
At 9:00AM on the dot, you call several government agencies. A social-worker is dispatched to retrieve the child and take a report. They don’t mention what might happen to the mother; you don’t ask.
It’s an odd day to say the least so sleep that night is delayed. But you finally nod off around midnight.
At three o’clock you are rustled from a deep sleep by a loud knock at the door. Wondering what is going on, you lay still for a second. Hearing nothing, you turn over and try to go back to sleep. Sleep doesn’t come.
Then, the slightest sound. A whimper?
Grabbing clothes again you go to the door same as the night before: peep-hole, sidelight, front window, back to sidelight. Again, cloth.
In groggy disbelief you open the door to see two babies, side-by-side, wrapped in different blankets. One is clean, the other dirty. One baby is sleeping, the other looking around wide-eyed. You bring in both, lay them in the middle of the living room floor and call 9-1-1.
In short order, EMTs arrive and, after a few questions, take the babies and disappear into the night. Unlike last night, you saw no meth-addicted mother running into the darkness. You, in fact, saw no one else at all.
That night you hesitate to go to sleep but begin dozing fitfully after the local news. At 2:30 you are jarred awake, legs and arms flailing. Someone is pounding at the door like they are locked in a berth on a sinking ship. When you are halfway to the door you hear a car screeching away from your house, far gone by the time you reach the window. You don’t even see taillights. Foregoing the sidelight peek, you crack the door enough to see if there is another bundle on the porch.
There is. And another, and another, and another, and more. In disbelief you count ten babies wrapped in different color blankets. Some are clean, some are dirty, some you cannot readily tell. There is definitely an odor; strong enough for at least half the diapers to be dirty and the other half of the blankets to be long-unwashed. The kids are crying, cooing, sniffling, and sleeping.
Two at a time you bring them into your living room until they are all inside and safe. You call 9-1-1 and wait for the EMTs to arrive. The incredulous operator is sending four ambulances, a social worker, and a police car. She doesn’t care about the time. They arrive quickly with help, but without answers. No one can determine who is dropping off the children, nor can anyone figure out why your house is the target.
But it continues periodically. Your frustration finally—inevitably—boils over when talking with a social worker: “Why won’t these parents’ take responsibility? These aren’t my kids! What kind of mother just abandons her kid? If I had a child, I wouldn’t abandon him or her; that much I know.”
The social worker pauses for a second, moves a pen around on the desk, then says, “Without a doubt these parents have a responsibility and they have abandoned it for any number of reasons. Some of which we can guess; none of which we can be sure until we find them. Maybe they are on drugs and can’t take care of them. Maybe they are poor and think they can’t support another kid. Maybe they are in danger and want their child to be safe. Can you imagine how hard it must be for a mother to give up a child for its own best interest? What kind of situation makes giving up a child to the unknown better than keeping it, praying the devil you don’t know is better than the devil you do?
“You are not responsible for abandoning these kids. You absolutely are not. But, you are responsible to help every child dropped off on your doorstep. No one expects you personally to adopt them all, but when they enter your life you inherit a level of responsibility you cannot ignore. You cannot write them off because someone else did. If calling a government agency or a non-profit is the best you can do, then do it.
“But, don’t kid yourself that turning your back on an abandoned baby because ‘he isn’t my responsibility’ makes you any better than the irresponsible, unloving people you perceive their parents to be. It doesn’t. If you close the door and go back to bed, you, too, are irresponsible, uncaring and every other disparaging epithet a person can hurl.
“Babies are defenseless. Some adult has to be responsible and that adult can ignore them, abuse them, or help them. It’s that simple.”
But, succumbing to fatigue and futility, you’d already decided to move. The sale was a quick, below market close. You were anxious to find a new place that did not include a front-porch baby-drop. Within a week you were moved, resettled, unboxed, fifteen minutes closer to work, and looking for your first restful night in months.
After dinner, you read a bit before falling effortlessly into a coma-like sleep.
At 2:00, there’s a knock at the door.
You don’t move. Like a rabbit listening for a fox you barely breathe. This cannot be happening, you think. Soon, you hear someone shuffling away from the door and down the steps, then running across the street. A moment later, a slight whimper. It is unmistakable.
You turn over, pull the pillow over your head, and go back to sleep.
Cover photo artwork “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” by Adriaen van Nieulandt
