Ana's Day

By Randy Jessen

The world changed on March 8, 1989. Do you remember that date? The 103-mile Berlin Wall fell to the ground after a 28 year saga of struggle and division. As concrete crumbled, the full fragrance of freedom swept from west to east. The former Soviet Union was being crushed under the weight of a failed communist economy. 1989 will forever be known as the year communism fell.

That year, for me, is more personal than world history. My family was eternally changed on March 8, 1989 and we didn’t even know it. None of us realized that an almost anonymous child, born in the poverty of Eastern Europe, would change the course of my family’s life.

It was “Woman’s Day” in Romania. Small white flowers are traditionally bundled with bright red ribbon and bows to be given freely to every woman in sight. On that day of gifting, in a small maternity hospital in Arad, Romania, our future daughter was born. She was named Ana after her birth mother, but the act of naming was the last family connection she would know for the next five years.

Ana was “left behind” and abandoned in the state orphanage system. As an infant, she moved from institution to institution until her toddler years found her settled in at a facility on a street named after the Romanian military hero Tudor Vladimirescu.

On one unknown day in her infant history, Ana was given an injection that was calculated to help her gain weight and become strong. The needle penetrated her skin, the plunger was pushed, and a small amount of contaminated blood product was injected into her frail body. Along with other diseases, that paradoxical injection carried the virus that causes AIDS. From that moment forward, Ana would be HIV-positive and her life would be characterized by fear and misinformation.

Once the diagnosis was made, Ana received the exact opposite of effective treatment. She was isolated. Her contact with other children and staff was severely limited. Even her food supply was restricted because resources were scarce and her life was imperfect. In the legal language of the day, she was labeled “irredeemable” and left to survive if she could.

The vocabulary of Christian faith has never assigned a category for a word like irredeemable. The dictionary of hope does not contain the term or the concept. Best yet, the love language of the heart of God cannot even allow the reality. 

As a result, she survived. Without treatment or care of any kind, she survived. She suffered, but she survived. She was abandoned, but she survived.

Our family met Ana when she was approaching her fourth birthday. We found her in a tiny white crib in a room with sixteen other children. She was small and pale. Her tiny fingers were almost transparent. She was weak, lost, and alone. She had no speech and made no eye contact with the outer world. She was captivated by the light that splintered into shattered beams as her fingers rapidly tried to break the laws of physics. She found joy in watching the light flutter in the air before it fell on her urine-soaked blanket.

We worked hard to get permission to draw a sample of blood so we could confirm something more about her health status. Like a red sky at morning, that blood sample told the tale. HIV and hepatitis were present as scornful partners along with the remnants of several other lingering infections. It was a sad day at our house.

It was September 11, 1994 when Ana touched ground in the United States. Years later, a group of terrorists would hijack airplanes and create incredible destruction on that day. For our family, September 11 could never be hijacked. It remains a day of celebration. Ana had come home and our family grew.

Our church was ready. People welcomed Ana as she arrived with big eyes and wobbly knees. They prayed and wept for her as I choked my way through her baptism. Many of her best friends and strongest supporters are in that church to this day. But we would also discover a sad side to our experience in the congregation. Some protested subtly without saying a word, others expressed their concern directly. How could they keep their children in Sunday school with Ana quietly sitting on the floor rocking in the corner? Would it be safe? Could we guarantee the health of their children? Why would the pastor bring an HIV-positive child into their lives? Thank God those voices were few, but the pain of cultural reality cut deep in our hearts.

Then Ana took on a new role. She became a teacher. She became the face of HIV for the people she encountered. They learned to love her and to be comfortable with her. A little eye contact, the touch of a hand, the hearing of her story, and people were at ease. They learned intuitively that people can and do live with HIV. They discovered that it was okay to hug, kiss, and be an extended family without fear. She helped hundreds of people look at HIV/AIDS with new eyes and open hearts. She is a great mentor. Math and science are not her thing, but the matters of the heart are well within her curriculum.

Her ability to teach soon extended into the area where faith and medicine walk hand in hand as mysterious partners. Physicians, nurses, and therapists of every kind began to meet Ana. At first, the prognosis was difficult to hear. Some thought she might only live another six months even with a fresh and appropriate treatment regime. Others did not want to speak the words, but their eyes revealed everything a parent needs to know about the possibility of a positive response.

I must say, we became engaged with some wonderful medical and therapeutic professionals. They loved her from the start and offered their very best expertise. She did not disappoint them. She began to reward their efforts. Her viral load began to respond to the medication. Her overall health became stable. Her hips, knees, and ankles began to work. She learned the fine art of making infant sounds and ultimately began to speak actual words.

Today, Ana continues her role as a teacher even though it is a task that is invisible to her. She will soon be 19 years old. She just moves through life with a smile. She loves music, dancing, snuggling with her mom, and playing chase games with her sister. She is captivated by the little things of life that pass by the average person without notice or remark. School is the best part of her day and she laments spring break because she misses her teachers and her friends in the classroom.

All in all, life is good. It is a challenge, but it is good. It is good because God is good. HIV still requires her to take medication three times a day. Ana hates it, but she knows it is a regular part of life. In fact, I suppose she thinks all kids take really bad medicine three times each day. Her health is good but the lifetime residual effect of those early days in isolation will never depart from her daily experience. She carries it with her. We were all forever changed on March 8, 1989.

Randy Jessen is the Dean of the Beeson International Center for Biblical Preaching and Church Leadership at Asbury Theological Seminary in Wilmore, Kentucky.