根据短文理解，选择正确答案。 Mail lay scattered across the kitchen table. I couldn't put off sorting through it any longer. I checked the envelopes, putting aside the ones addressed to my husband.
It had been over three years since Bob had died. To friends and family it looked like I had moved past the worst of my sorrow. I took care of my house, socialized and kept up with community. On the outside everything appeared to be normal. But inside I was anything but I worried I would never get better, never be myself again. They say sorrow has no set time limit, but I was so tired of feeling empty and hopeless. My sorrow was sharp and fresh as ever. It was like a wall of pressure in my chest, pressing my heart.
I picked up a piece of Bob's mail and held it out to tear in half, but stopped myself from cutting up the envelope. The letter was from an organization that funded a Haitian orphanage called My Father's House. Its founder, Carol Hawthorne, had given a presentation at our church. Bob and I had donated, and Bob ended up on the mailing list to receive the newsletter (通讯) with updates on the children.
I hadn't read one since Bob died. But just three months before, in January 2012, the country had been hit by a terrible earthquake. In my depressed state, it hadn't even occurred to me to wonder whether the orphanage had survived. I opened the newsletter and was surprised to find out that My Father's House was still standing. Of course now it was more crowded than ever. At the bottom of the page was an announcement about an upcoming trip to visit the orphanage in person. “I should go.” The thought wouldn't leave me. I contacted Carol Hawthorne.“What would I do if I go?” I asked.“Build houses?”
“The Haitian people there are eager to work and they know what they're doing,” said Carol. “What they need are raw materials, and we provide them. We also visit with the children. We go to clinics and schools, pass out supplies. You'll be very busy, I promise!” I reserved a seat but didn't mention it to any of my friends. Just a few weeks later, I was at the airport with seven strangers, waiting to board a plane to Haiti. Even after takeoff I wasn't really sure of what I was doing.
In Haiti we were met by Pastor Ronald Lefranc, the director of My Father's House. We piled into an old school bus and drove over uneven roads full of stones and mud. We passed women shaking under the weight of huge water buckets balanced on their heads. Piles of rubbish scattered across the landscape, and the land was covered with broken tents. Finally we pulled up to the orphanage. A crowd of children—52 in all—rushed up to greet us. I couldn't understand the words of the song they sang in Creole, but with the smiles on their faces I didn't need to. Each child planted a big kiss on my cheek.
Carol and Pastor Ronald led us into the main building. “What are those over there?” I asked, pointing to a collection of thin tents. “Is there not enough room in the building for all the children?”
“We have the room,” said Pastor Ronald. “But many of these children came here after the earthquake. They still don't feel safe sleeping under a roof.”
There was no sign of fear in the playroom inside. I played dolls and other games. Children I'd just met presented me with pictures they'd drawn and letters written in Creole. In the evening the children gathered in the dining room. They took turns reading aloud and then they all joined in song. The words were strange, but the tune sounded familiar.
They'd lost so much, yet were so joyful. In the evening the children gathered in the dining room. One of the older children stood up to speak and then they all joined in song. The words were strange, but the tune sounded familiar. The children settled down. In the silence, a quiet noise began.
