NO PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED, declared the sign on the gate.

My heart sank.

For years I had wanted to visit an orphanage, and last fall I finally got my chance. Not just any orphanage, mind you, but the Mother Teresa AIDS Orphanage in Addis Ababa. Four hundred HIV-positive Ethiopian children achieve an otherwise unattainable quality of life here, and I wouldn't be able to share this my way, with pictures.

Discouraged, but not defeated, I took to journal and pen, and tried to paint a picture with words - the opposite of what I'd been doing while riding through the streets of Addis Ababa.

I wish I could show you this serene oasis amidst the city squalor - the neat, new buildings on lush green slopes of manicured lawns dotted with brilliant flowerbeds; the carefully tended vegetable garden that nourishes the orphans; the row upon row of aloe vera that, mixed with honey, is fed to the children as a health supplement; the haven of cleanliness and order that contrasts so sharply with the dust and disarray on the other side of the fence.

I'd like to show you the modern dining hall and movie room; the building of gleaming, white tiles where the children enjoy flush toilets and hot baths, a luxury that most countrymen don't have; the school building en par with the best boarding schools in Ethiopia; the soccer field and playground with swings, slide, and monkey bars; the tailor shop where a local man mends blankets and mattresses; and the three tikuls - round, thatch-covered buildings where the staff rest and eat.

I wanted you to see the steam rising from the meter-wide pots that the cooks stir in the spacious kitchen as they prepare good, hot meals of chicken and rice, fruits and vegetables, and traditional injera bread - meals far more nutritious and lavish than the average Ethiopian eats, meals to restore and fortify the children's weakened bodies.

How I wanted to capture the scene of two toddlers gleefully chasing an orange cat, which trotted just ahead of them, then stopped briefly to allow itself to be petted, and finally strolled calmly under a bed, still pursued by the delighted youngsters, now crawling energetically on all fours.

I wanted to share the way the sunlight lit up the sparsely occupied infirmary with its bright cribs and bunk beds of yellow, blue, and red frames, and mattresses covered with the vivid blankets; to show you the large Mickey Mouse, Winnie the Pooh, and other stuffed animals that hang prominently above the beds of the ill with a cheeriness that belies the tragedy that the transmission of AIDS to these children was preventable - if only their mothers had the right medication. I wanted to capture the emaciated infant with huge, brown eyes sucking formula from a propped-up bottle while a visitor went from bed to bed praying over the sick.

I'd like to show you how the toddlers reached up their hands to be lifted and held, the way they giggled and wrapped their tiny, dark hands around my neck when I picked them up, how they stroked my hair, the joy in their faces when I held their hands. I'd like to share the poignant scene before me when a visitor not only had a child's hand in each of his, but a toddler wrapped around each leg. I wish you could see a child's dark eyes looking into the faces of the visitors, pleading for attention, rejoicing when singled out. I'd like to show you how I played ring-around-the-rosy and clapping games with these children, how we communicated across cultural and language barriers, sharing laughter and love.

I wish you could see the orderly dorm rooms filled with rows of tidy bunk beds, and the girl who broke from the crowd and pointed out to me the one thing on this earth that is hers alone: her bed.

I wanted to show you the agile fingers of the teenage girls as they wove baskets, which they sell to raise money for the orphanage. Since I bought some, I can at least show you the baskets:

I wish I could convey the kindness of the staff and the nuns from Nigeria, Kenya, Bangladesh, Slovakia, and India, the way they work tirelessly to meet the needs of the children who, thanks to them and to modern medicines, are surprisingly energetic, as children should be. I wish I could portray the servant heart of the red-headed Israeli who hand laundered children's clothing when he wasn't working as a physical therapist or teacher, and show you the hundreds of tiny socks hanging up to dry.

I wanted to share how God blessed this place, that although children used to die here every week, now the deaths have been reduced to about one every four months. "We have some as old as 19, and we don't know what to do with them," said Sister Maria, who was dressed in a habit like Mother Teresa's. "This was not the case in the past."

But it's not a bad problem to have, you see.

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