M’ Sonje li. I miss her. I really do. My little friend, Shella Felixe. Eleven years old. One of eight children. She lives in our children’s home with Mountain Faith Mission. My wife and I sponsor her. She’s my favorite.
I mean, I love all the kids in the home. I really do. But there’s something about Shella that has just stuck out to me.
After the earthquake, it was six weeks until a group headed into Mountain Faith Mission. My father took some nurses into the mission to set up a medical clinic for the area.
As they arrived on the property, it was nighttime and it was already dark. As they got out of the van, a young girl ran up to my father and simply said, “Ryan?” asking if I had come. That young one was Shella. At the time, I didn’t really know Shella all that well. In fact, I was utterly confused as to who this young girl was.
In September 2010, as I made my fourth trip to Haiti, I noticed Shella a bit more. I’ll never forget that she was always lingering near me, and on my last day there, when I was in need of a translator because of a visit, she was so perceptive that she had already run to get someone when she recognized my awesome Creole skills were lacking. That stuck out to me. As she sat at a distance and realized I wanted help, she jumped from the porch, ran and got Pastor John to translate, and went on her merry little way. Smart kid.
Then my sixth trip had come in. I had thought about that young girl numerous times. The story went that her father had died in the earthquake and mother couldn’t afford the kids. (Father wasn’t dead, but instead running from the law, and now in the Dominican Republic, doesn’t have anything to do with Shella or her siblings…) As I arrived in May 2011, that’s when that special connection happened.
I was leading the trip for our church. The day after we arrived, I led some of the men around our mission property to see some of the different buildings. We walked to the new church building and behind it, the greenhouses. As we looked at the greenhouses, I noticed there was a stalker among us. About 25 yards behind us, there was Shella. She was simply standing, watching at a distance.
We went lower on the property towards the school, and I continued to check over my shoulder. There she was, staying at a distance behind us. I waved for her to come to us, and she quickly ran, grabbed my hand, and we began to walk. That was the beginning of the most beautiful thing in the world to me. I love that child.
For the rest of the week, where I went, she could always be found just a few feet behind. She followed me one day after she got out of school. She stole my hat. This gem was taken shortly after. It sits on my desk in my office. 
The most amazing thing to me was her contentment. Our kids in the home are wonderful. They don’t ask for things as a whole. They’re polite. They’re courteous. They’re wonderful kids. Kids want stuff, but our kids are phenomenal. Shella takes it to the extreme. I’ve asked her numerous times if she needs anything.
My favorite was when she was sitting in my lap behind the girl’s dorm. I asked her that question. I got this answer:
Shella: Tenis. (Tennis shoes)
Ryan: Okay.
Shella: Chosèt. (Socks)
Ryan: Anything else?
Shella: No. (Except she says it in the most precious way. “Na.”)
And that’s it. “I could use some tennis shoes. I don’t have any. I could use some socks. I don’t have any. But that’s it.” And it’s true. She has some sandals, but that’s it. There’s no wishing for more. It’s a need. It’s truth. It’s not her asking me as the American benefactor to all her grandest wishes. I’ve asked every time. She’s even told me “nothing.”
She has followed me. She’s sat still on my lap, just to spend time with me. She’s told me about her family. She’s laughed. She’s picked on me. She even bit my ear once.
I love that child.
The last church service we were in, I couldn’t help but weep over her. Not because she’s a Haitian child who doesn’t have an Xbox. But because she’s a child whose mother cannot afford her. Whose father has abandoned her. That breaks my heart that her dad has left her. And I cried. I prayed to God that He would break Abner’s heart and he would return to be a father. To support his wife. To raise his kids. That’s her need. Not tennis shoes. Not socks. She needs her daddy.
Unfortunately, the last time I saw her, she had her face hidden. As we were loading the van to head to Port-au-Prince, she wouldn’t look at me. She was sad. As was I. I asked her what was wrong, knowing what it was, but she wouldn’t answer. She simply hid her face, turned her back to me, and that’s it.
I grabbed her and pulled her close to me. I had tears in my eyes.
“M’rinmin ou. M’ap sonje ou.”
“I love you. I will miss you.”
And that was it.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that child. My desktop on my computer has this picture:
That’s as she stalked me. Justin grabbed the photo as she was peering over the wall in our school. It pierces me every time I look at it. But that’s my girl.
M’sonje li.
