Finding Chika: A Little Girl, an Earthquake, and the Making of a Family: Summary & Key Insights

After the massive earthquake of 2010 reduced much of Port-au-Prince to rubble, I felt a deep, almost helpless pull toward Haiti. I had been running charities in Detroit for years, but standing amid the wreckage in Haiti was different. The suffering there was raw and endless, especially for children who had lost everything. I founded the Have Faith Haiti Mission not out of saviorhood, but because something in me whispered that compassion demands permanence. You cannot simply fly in, help for a week, and disappear. These children needed a home.

In those early years, the orphanage became a place of order amid chaos. We sang songs, played games, and created rules—a rhythm of daily life to remind the kids that security still existed. Every child carried a story etched with loss, yet their laughter was astonishingly resilient. When I met little Chika, I recognized that resilience immediately. She strode into any room as if it were hers. The other children listened when she spoke, not because she demanded attention, but because she radiated confidence, the kind earned through surviving more than most adults ever will.

The orphanage wasn’t only a refuge for the children—it became one for me. Their faith, their joy, their grace in hardship reminded me that love isn’t a transaction; it’s a living connection that breathes through service. This was the soil from which my bond with Chika would grow.

Chika Jeune was born in Haiti under the shadow of devastation. Her mother died giving birth to her, leaving behind a world that already demanded strength from the moment her eyes opened. For a time, she lived with her extended family, but poverty has its own cruel mathematics—one mouth too many to feed, one bed too few. Eventually, she arrived at the Have Faith Haiti Mission, small but fierce, ready to claim space.

What made Chika unforgettable wasn’t simply her spirit, but her leadership. She was the kind of child who corrected others on the rules of the orphanage with both authority and humor. She scolded boys twice her size and comforted younger children with gestures that seemed instinctive. I remember watching her adjust ribbons on another girl’s hair—half mother, half sister, all care. She had this ability to turn routine moments into miniature acts of love.

As I got to know her, I learned that Chika carried an incredible curiosity. She loved stories, asked endless questions, and had a laugh that filled the entire room. Even then, before illness touched her, there was something extraordinary in her presence—a brightness that seemed to testify to the resilience of children who survive the unimaginable. She taught me that joy could coexist with pain, that light could bloom even in the cracks left by loss.