At first I couldn’t find it. I scanned three bookshelves to no avail. Did I leave it packed in one of the boxes under my bed? Was it buried in the closest somewhere? Then I remembered.  It was in a drawer with my photo albums and high school yearbooks. When I found it, I smiled. “The First Three Years”. There it was with its puffy white cover and the drawing of a rosy-cheeked baby.  The orange and blue flowers reminded me that I just barely squeezed into the ‘70’s.

Opening the cover reveals page after page of my mother’s memories of me – her hospital wristband; my one-day-old photo with scrunched face betraying that I wasn’t used to breathing oxygen with my own lungs yet; congratulatory cards; the Valley General Hospital birth certificate; a few sprigs of hair from the first haircut. The pages tell me how much I was, and am, loved.

Lying open on my bed is another memento to compliment my baby book. My mom crafted it for my 24th birthday. It holds copies of childhood pictures with her loving captions. I flip through the photos – a proud father holds his little girl; a beaming mother with her arms wrapped around the bundle; first birthday pony ride as tiny fingers cling for dear life to the saddle horn with momma’s hand supporting; a little girl wearing Mr. Potato Head glasses as her older brother looks on with a grin. The journal holds enough loose pages that I can add a new entry every year until I die. For nine years I have listed God’s faithfulness throughout each of the twelve-month journeys.

But what if this blessing of family, love and celebration of life is not yours? What if it is but the resources are lacking and the parents are not able to care for your most basic needs? What if you don’t even know your age because you have no idea when you were born? What if you are a momma who lives in destitute poverty and you have two sweet little girls? You have very few ways to earn a living as an illegal in Thailand. You think you only have two options – watch them grow with malnourishment and possibly die…or sell them to a trafficker.

I had just arrived to the Thai-Burma border to start my internship with Compasio Relief and Development, a Christian NGO. The jetlag was wearing off and I was eager to change the world. My heart felt full but was soon to burst into a million pieces. This was the first full day of “work”. It will forever be imprinted in my mind as one of the most difficult days I was to experience throughout the whole year.

Our NGO had a Safe House for seven kids rescued from abuse and the streets. Another NGO in town had a similar home. World Vision partners with these sorts of homes once they intervene and rescue. This day I was to see the Human Trafficking Intervention office of World Vision in the border town. My ears ached as I heard the story interpreted – single mom; two little girls; Kalah from Burma; shack in the shantytown on the edge of fields; her temptation to sell her daughters in hopes of saving their physical lives.

The old Land Rover rumbled along the rain-rutted dirt road. My eyes scanned the canal that ran parallel – people bathing, gathering cooking water, scrubbing laundry and relieving themselves. The “homes” were a jumble of plywood, tin, bamboo, cardboard, blankets and plastic. Half-naked kids with snot running down their faces stood watching us with suspicion as we exited the vehicles. The World Vision worker was known in this area but the rest of us were sorely out of place. I felt nauseous as if we were coming to watch a show that was not meant to be seen.

As we come to her shack, the worker spoke to her in Burmese. In English, we were asked to step away and give her some privacy. My new co-worker explained the scene. This momma agreed to give her daughters to the other Safe Home. The stipulation? She could not come see them or even know the location as she had already attempted to sell them to the traffickers. They would be fed, clothed, and educated without having to turn tricks for foreign men who pay to rape little girls.

The picture is there of love: cross-legged and dressed in their only nice clothes, two bowls of roughly cooked rice sat before them. This is their last meal with mom but they don’t know that. They dip their little hands from rice to mouth as momma holds back the tears. They smile up at her. She was finally letting them go to school. They did not understand the full impact of her decision. Someday they would thank her.

They eagerly hopped up to grasp the hand of the worker, school-bound. Momma kissed their precious dark cheeks and I wondered what was going through her head. Though she did no have a “first three years” book for each daughter, she had one in her mind – the first step; the first word; the touch of baby-soft skin; the bond that only a mother can know with her baby.

I climbed in the beat-up Land Rover and sat stunned. The girls had already gotten into the truck in front of us. Mom was strong. She waved and faked a smile. How could she not breakdown? And then the floodgate broke. As we pulled away, I saw her silent wailing and tormented face. With an out-stretched hand, she ran after that truck until she couldn’t keep up anymore. I twisted in my seat to see her crumple to the dirt. Her huddled brokenness was the last I was to see of her.

Throughout the year I saw these darling girls at Sunday school and church. At first they were withdrawn, solemn. Wouldn’t you if you were “stolen” from your momma? As the weeks and months flew by, the joy burst out with their chattered laughs. They are growing healthy and strong and, most importantly, free from slavery.

I close both books with overwhelming thankfulness. My memories are safe on paper pages and in the mind of my momma. I am loved. But most importantly, I am free. The gift of life. Thank you, God, for a mother’s love.

Written by Angie Kutz