She is forever in me

I fell in love in Haiti.

I fell in love with the city of Port-au-Prince, with its sights and its sounds, so vibrant, intensely colorful, foreign; with the gaudy, intricately painted mobile works of art called tap-taps (street taxis); with the ebb and flow of traffic and pedestrians; with its smells, potent and noxious, of open sewers and burning trash (for there's little infrastructure and no curb-side garbage pick-up in Port-au-Prince).  I fell in love with the outdoor markets, and the dirt, and the grit, and the din, and the constant commotion.  There were three amazing days of riding in the open-bed truck to and from our chicken coop construction.  Standing behind the cab, facing forward literally and figuratively, riding what felt like the city's stream of life, I couldn't process all the stimuli fast enough.  I was always somewhat disappointed on reaching our destination, as I wanted more.  I never thought I would want to be intimately familiar with a city again.  I was wrong.  I fell in love. 

Most of all, though, I fell in love with Haiti's people.  Not just those with whom we worked directly--Alex and Victory, our construction team leaders; Elena at the guest house; Bennes and Moises and Deliris, our drivers and interpreters.  And not just the children at the orphanage, those beautiful youngsters so eager for touch and comfort and interaction and attention with and from adults.  I fell in love with her people on the street, the marketers and the water tanker drivers, the street vendors and shoe-shiners, the school kids in their pristine uniforms on their ways to school, the tap-tap riders with whom my gaze would lock in traffic, who would almost always smile, frequently shyly, and wave or speak in return.

I fell in love with her people

And I know the moment, the exact moment, at which it definitively, irreversibly, irrevocably occurred for me.  We were homeward bound after our last "day on the job," and had just enjoyed a respite at Deliris's apartment high up in the hills overlooking the city--a swim in her complex's pool, which was pure luxury and bliss, and a few of us had even indulged in enjoying a Prestige (Haitian beer, oh now that was a treat!!!).  We were threading through those twisting, winding, narrow streets, stopping and starting, our driver weaving in and out and around other vehicles and pedestrians.  Still I was craning this way and that, to see, to drink in, as much as I possibly could.  I knew we were leaving the next day.  I wasn't ready.  I still wanted more.

As we slowed to a stop I looked to my left at a young woman--15, 25, I don't know, to me the Haitians are ageless and timeless in their beauty.  She was standing at the top of a set of stairs, wearing a dress, dark brown with pale patterns, lovely against her dark skin.  As our eyes connected, the gaze she returned to me was level, unwavering, gently curious.  I nodded, I raised my hand in greeting, and smiled her way. 

In the next moment I was stunned, left breathless.  Her face broke into a smile so brilliant I was filled with an ache I could hardly bear, a gratitude so immense I could hardly hold it.  I saw her, and she saw me, and in that moment we shared what it was to see another, to say beyond and without words, "Ah.  There YOU are.  There YOU are."

I fell in love in Haiti, with her people, with their beauty, with their laughter, with their resiliency, with being "a Blanco"--no slur, instead a statement of fellow-recognition, even a term of almost-friendship.  I fell in love with their tenacity, with their need, with their acceptance, with the difficulties they face--and I know I understand very few of those--with their generosity of spirit.

As we were on the first leg of our trip, Jen and I talked at length about what we might find our encounter, how we might be "cracked open."  In jest she said, "So, Ada, do you think we might become two of 'those people,' you know, people who start going on mission trips and can't stop?"  At the time we laughed about it, tee-heeing in a tentative way at the prospect.  And yet, now I understand why our companion David, having just made his 4th trip into Port-au-Prince, his first being the day of the earthquake three years ago, has said he will return again, and has even shared it is his utmost desire to move to Haiti once his girls graduate from college.

I too will return.  Haiti, her hurts and her anguish, her joys and her scars, her laughter and her amazing faith, are in me and in my heart.  For I fell in love in Haiti.

My decision to sign up for the Haiti mission was totally impetuous.  I have always had a bias that there is so much that needs to be fixed in our own country that my time and my money were better used trying to deal with those problems. That is why I opted to teach in alternative high schools and  why I have worked as a court appointed special advocate for neglected and abused children. I hope my decision to go to Haiti was prompted more by a God Wink than latent adolescent rebellion at hearing the State Department said Americans shouldn’t go to Haiti.

I no longer believe that the work that needs to be done in our own country is more important. The work that is being done in Haiti, in the Dominican Republic and other undeveloped countries is vitally important not only to the quality of life for these people but for life itself. My week in Haiti has been one of the most joyful, thrilling and exhilarating experiences of my life. I hope I can return soon (Maybe in April).

The adventure really started when we landed at the Port-Au-Prince airport not speaking a word of the Creole language. We were instantly surrounded by a throng of men wanting to help with luggage. We were finally able to convince our very persistent helpers that we did not need their assistance. We were met by a group from the Haitian Baptist Convention and were eventually successful in leaving the airport terminal and loaded into vehicles for our ride to the Florida Guest House. This is a guest house run by the Florida Baptist Convention to house missionaries coming from all over the world to Haiti.

Once we left the airport, the real excitement began. That adventure was driving through the streets of Haiti.  I learned to drive in the city of Boston where traffic signals are only a suggestion. Boston cannot begin to compare to Haiti’s driving chaos. There are very few paved roads, no lane markings, huge potholes and very determined drivers. I quickly learned that 2 beeps of the driver’s horn means you better stop because I am not going to stop. Everywhere there were more vehicles, pedestrians, roadside stands selling various things, people living in fallen down cinder block houses and tents, and people and sounds and smells all over.

Our arrival at the Florida Guest House where we would be staying was another total culture shock. It was a walled compound with a locked solid steel gate. The most startling part for me was the guard, armed with a shotgun. That amazement dissipated as we traveled through Port-Au-Prince in the next few days. Walled compounds and armed guards seem to be a way of life in Haiti. Even grocery stores have armed guards.

The single most impressive element of my trip was the people that I met and worked with.

The people of Haiti have a history filled with hardship and deprivation since they were first brought to Haiti as slaves captured from Africa more than 300 years ago.  But!   Despite the hardships they have endured, first from plantation owners, then tyrannical dictators, dreadful economic conditions, and natural disasters, there is a spirit of optimism among the Haitians I came to know.

The first person I would like to mention is my driver, a man named Bennes. He is a middle-aged man with a large family. He has no regular job. He has a lot of faith that God will take care of him and his family. His dream is to come and live in the United States and have a permanent job of some kind. He is trying to learn English to improve his chances of getting work in Haiti and maybe eventually emigrate to the U.S. Through his association with the UCC’s Ways group he is now enrolled in private English lessons.

We also worked closely with a woman named Delarus. She is an American Baptist missionary who works at the orphanage. She grew up in Puerto Rico and trained as an Occupational Therapist. She then moved to Boston for a few years to attend Andover Newton. She has been in Haiti for several years, working with the kids in the Source of Light Orphanage. When we visited the orphanage it was obvious how much the children loved her. The children at this orphanage were also thrilled with the clothes that area churches have sent them and wore them for us to see one night when we visited.  I can’t begin to describe the joy these children shared with us as we played simple games with them, their excitement at blowing and chasing bubbles and their enjoyment of singing and dancing with us despite the language barrier. One of our team members had brought a Polaroid camera and took pictures of each child that they could keep. Delarus and her work are supported by our American Baptist Convention.

Pastor Ronel Mesidor is the pastor of Concorde Baptist Church in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He is also headmaster of the school associated with that church. He turned both his home and church into shelters for those devastated by the earthquake the very day of the earthquake. Recently he and his family have been forced to move because of vandalism and threats from gangs that wander his old neighborhood. We visited his new home for dinner and were graciously entertained by his adolescent daughters singing for us. The normalcy of his family life despite the destruction all around him was inspirational.

The Haitian Baptist Convention, with the help of aid from around the world, built a school that offers an orphanage, a day school, a sewing/tailoring class, a computer class, a class in tiling, and a center providing physical and occupational therapy for physically handicapped children. In addition, a healthcare pilot program has begun in five churches, each headed by a parish nurse. The Monday we were in Haiti was the first day of classes for a brand new nursing school.  The work of the Haitian Baptist Convention is supported by teams American Baptist missionaries.

Our mission was to start a chicken farm. Our first sight of the worksite was daunting. I was very skeptical.  I didn’t believe our eight member team could possibly accomplish this task in only five days. I was wrong. We had to start by clearing the land. We had two Haitian workers, Alex and Victory working with us. We built a chicken coop large enough for 500 chickens, although right now it only holds 100 chickens. The eggs these chickens give will be used to supply more protein in the diet provided to the children in the orphanage. As more hens are acquired some of the eggs will be sold.

I was awed with the work accomplished by the United Church of Christ Workdays for Adult and Youth in Service teams that have been to Haiti and the UCC groups who will continue the work in Haiti and impressed with the work that is being done by our American Baptist Missionaries.  Trinity, being a dually aligned church, has twice the opportunity to demonstrate God’s love to this very impoverished country.

Reflections

Luke 4:14-21
Jan 27, 2013

My trip to Haiti was unexpected, out of the blue, if you will. The week before Christmas, reading my email, I came across Trinity’s newsletter.  In the Tidings was a last minute call to fill last minute vacancies on a mission trip to Haiti in just a few weeks. I don’t recall knowing the details of that trip or that there was to be another trip in April, but instead, I felt a small leap in my heart to pay attention and to pray.  Impulsively, as if someone else took over my hands, I typed an email message to Rev. Jonathan Wright-Gray to find out more about the trip, not sure that I could or would go; but that I was praying about it.

Through prayer and talking with my family, it became clear and apparent to me that I should go….to build a chicken coop for an orphanage. I did not know why. It is still not clear to me why, but that is okay. I don’t need to know why; I just know I was supposed to be there.

What came to mind, for me, was a theological reflection that I had written several years ago.  It was an experience of prayer for me; where my thoughts started in one place and ended in a totally different and unexpected place.  A reflection that, at some point, I was just the writer….not the author.  It was a prayer that led me into images of Jesus sitting in the temple; teaching. It led me to an image of being surrounded by music in the air. It led me to a vision of sitting in a dusty, dry environment surrounded by dark, little faces smiling at me…..and we could speak the same language…understanding one another.

These images and reflections kept rising up in my mind.

Sharing my experience in Haiti runs the risk of seeming like a lengthy slide show presentation of the family vacation through the Grand Canyon of which I subject a group of my closest friends who stare blankly but politely at images that become a blur.  Instead, I feel called to share with you, not so much my experience in Haiti, but rather, my experience with God throughout this Mission.

It is really about turning my will and my life over to God’s care and protection.

There were detours thrown in my path before traveling.  About 12 hours after booking my flights and committing to this trip, I had a little health scare. An episode that, another time may have induced enough fear to deter me from going.  This time, I never faltered; I truly felt a peace and a calm …that it was just an awareness that I needed to take certain steps to protect myself; travel with precautionary medicines that I would not otherwise carry.

Trust and rely on God…it is out of my control. It is in God’s hands.

The week before travel, the State Department put out a warning to US Citizens traveling to Haiti. Half of our group dropped out. But, truly, I never felt I should not go. I knew in my heart I needed to be there; still not knowing why.  And I have no doubt that those who did not go; God was speaking to them as well. For some reason, they were not supposed to be on that trip.

As it turns out, if the whole group had gone, it would have posed a challenge to the organizers of the Haitian Baptist Convention, who were our hosts, as vehicles and ground transportation were limited and often faced with mechanical difficulties. They would have found a way to make it work but it would have been more difficult to have 12 or 13 people in our group instead of 8.

And the project of building the chicken farm, at times, did not have enough tasks to keep everyone working for periods of time.  With more people there to work, it could have posed a potential frustration.

But, it is in God’s hands; out of our control….and it worked out the way it was supposed to.

This morning, as I reflected on today’s reading from Luke, it struck me in a most profound way - emotional. As I studied the text and the preceding verses where the temptation of Jesus takes place in the wilderness, I relate to the temptations that could have allowed me to take my will back, to not trust and rely on God’s protection, to withdraw from the trip.

In this morning’s reading, Jesus is filled with the power of the Holy Spirit and returns to Galilee.  This is the beginning of Jesus’ Galilean ministry…”…to bring good news to the poor; to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.”

We arrived in Port au Prince, Haiti on Saturday, January 12 on the third anniversary of the earthquake that opened the eyes of the world on this desolate place. My introduction to Haiti involved a bombardment of men trying to assist with luggage not taking “no" for an answer.


The drive to the guest house was wild - an assault on the eyes, a shock to all senses, a challenge to the soul.  Sights and sounds that overwhelm.  Here to help what appears to be the impossible.  Where is the good?  Where to begin while grappling with the intrusion of fear - fear of safety, fear of potential violence, fear of disease, fear of not being able to make a difference.


FEAR… and yet the words enter my head, “Trust and rely on God.  It is in God’s hands.”

And the words enter my heart, “Trust and rely on God.  It is in God’s hands.”

And the words enter my soul, “Trust and rely on God.  It is in God’s hands.”

I AM IN GOD’S HANDS.

And all shifts into neutral.  I surrender.

Perhaps this is where God steps in to numb the senses, embrace my heart and safeguard my soul.  For here is the place in my being where room is made; to neutralize and to level the person I am; to make room for the person I am about to become.

From the beginning, we began to meet the missionaries who were serving with the Haitian Baptist Convention.  Strangers, our hosts upon arrival; friends sharing tearful farewells by week’s end.  We met Deliris, a woman from Puerto Rico, educated at Andover Newton Theological School, and commissioned by American Baptist Churches to serve in Haiti. We met a couple, Uta and Andy from Europe who met and fell in love on a Mercy Ship; Uta a nurse and Andy a mechanic who are supported through overseas Baptist conventions as well as some support from ABC.  And through connections, resources and prayer Uta and Andy were expecting to meet with Heifer Project this past week to plan a partnership to bring rabbits to 800 families in the mountains.  We met Ann from Scotland, serving in Haiti as a missionary as well.

The Pastor’s family hosted us at their home for dinner toward the end of the week.  We had heard stories of their home being attacked by neighborhood gangs in the month prior to our arrival. They had to move.  But we witnessed an angel at his home, his daughter who sang to us. Here is a reflection Rev. Jonathan Wright-Gray:

Her hands floated gracefully
In the air,
Gently accenting the sweet, floating music of her voice:
“If I were the wind…,
If I were the rain…,
If I were the sun…”
The bright yellow of her blouse
Offset the rich brown of her skin.
She did not face her audience directly,
She turned to the side, eyes closed—
Her song was as much an ethereal prayer
As performance.

This lyrical flower of a girl in what would seem
The harshest of places—
On a bumpy, graveled street of Delmas,
Port-au-Prince, Haiti,
Nurtured by her father/pastor
Who accompanies her song.
 The sweet lightness in her voice is
So different from the clinging neediness one can find
At the orphanage her father oversees a few blocks away.

Why should he not want to protect her,
Give her the gentle nurture of the Spirit
As much as he can?
She is the flower
Growing up from the cracked pavement.

When, how, will she encounter the
Harsh realities of her world?
(Already her family had to move away
From angry neighbors who
Attacked them in their own home
Over some dispute with her father’s church.)

He knows she will see the world’s anger
Soon enough—
Perhaps she has already—
Though this moment of lilting reverie
Makes it seems so far removed.

If he is wise, her father knows he cannot shield her,
Only give her a love that
Can take root in her soul, and
Pray she will choose to face the world with
Love’s inner strength and that
Her song will grow richer,
Deeper, as it encounters the world.

At the orphanage, we were welcomed by the enthusiasm of children clamoring for our affection…some children torn between being held and nurtured; tightly holding on with arms wrapped around our necks vs. playing a game or drawing with crayons and relinquishing that place of comfort.  Among the donated items transported were clothing for the children at the orphanage we served…delivered one day, being proudly worn the next when we came to visit; one little skirt still adorned by the store tags.

I witnessed the coming together of a culture gap and a gender gap at the building of the chicken farm.

What seemed the impossible on Monday...

...became a miracle on Friday.

This is mission.  Culture shock, adjusting and changing as a person.  Beginning to see my surroundings as familiar.  I start off numb, emotional midweek, changed by the time I return home. A transformative experience. Blessed to be here amongst beautiful, Haitian people where God's grace is apparent.

Mission comes in many ways, shapes, forms whether in places like Haiti and Dominican Republic, or right here in Northborough; through traveling distances or sewing tote bags, collecting donations, sharing the story.

What is your mission?

Where is God calling you to serve?

How do you let go of – release your ideas of common sense, security, fear and let God take over?

When do you sit in silence, take pause and listen – just ---listen.


Who do you hear?

What is God saying?

Where is God leading you?

When is the time to follow?

How will you serve?

To know when to not let fear interfere.

Who You Are Matters

Who You Are Matters

When I was a young girl, probably 14 or 15, I was deeply impacted by commercials showing Sally Struthers amidst the impoverished children in Africa, beseeching us to adopt one of them as our very own, and promising that our 59 cents a day would go directly to the child, providing food and education, security and a future. In return, she described the drawings and letters we’d receive from our adopted child; I imagined it as an actual relationship of sorts, like the pen pals that were so popular at that time.

So, I sent in my babysitting money and adopted a child. It lasted two months. When my mom found out, she made me give back my adopted child. Her reasoning was not clear in my unsophisticated mind. Somehow in the exchange about it, I came away feeling shamed, like a sucker to have fallen for what was clearly some kind of sham. And so when the Christian Children’s Fund commercials came on, I no longer watched, pushing away the idea that I could make a difference to a child so far away.

Spending time with the children at the Orphanage in Haiti was a homecoming for me, though it took the better part of our three visits for me to break open and fully let them in to my heart. I bore witness to the difference one small group of people from New England (including Union Church) made in these children’s lives: eyes lit up at the soccer balls and jump ropes; shrieks of laughter rang out at the effects of sitting on a whoopee cushion; a kind of watchful awe was visible on their faces as they watched their own face emerge on a Polaroid photo; and small shoulders were squared with pride when, on our last night there they showed us through pointing and gestures that they were wearing the clothes we had brought for them. Let me just say -- they were loving those new clothes!

Spending time at the orphanage was a homecoming for me because finally, five years after releasing my CD, “Feed the Tribe”, I felt that I had truly lived into some of the songs I had written, like Enough, What Goes Around, and Feed the Tribe. Throughout that week, I was in relationship with these young children, some of whom had parents who could no longer afford to feed them and some of whom were truly orphans. Though we spoke different languages, no words were necessary when conveying through hugs and games, that: “Who you are matters.”

And they have so little: On our second visit there, I got out some beads and string and sat down to help the children make their very own bracelet – each one would have their name, a cross representing “Jezu” and a few colored beads on each side. In short order I was swamped with children delighted at the prospect of customized jewelry. Even the little boys wanted one. Surprisingly, the first people to commandeer the space to make a bracelet were the workers. As I watched them, I had no judgment. They were as excited as any of the children, and I thought, “They too have so little”. As cheap as these beads were, as small as this gesture was, we were saying, “Who you are matters.”

On our third and last visit there, in the still-searing evening heat, I danced and played twister and gymnastics and drew on the blackboard with the children. Others from our team played games and drew and colored pictures on sketch pads.

One little girl latched on to me and nearly broke my heart. Proudly wearing her “new” black Hanna Montana t-shirt, she drew flowers on the blackboard and did flips by climbing up my pants and over; we danced and when I said "chaud" (hot), she blew gently on my face. At one point with her two small hands, she wiped the sweat off my neck. Toward the end she climbed onto me and just put her head down while I walked around the room. I hummed to her and kept repeating "Tres Belle", tears mingling with the sweat on my face.

On the way out I said, “Me Jenny. Ou nom?” (What is your name?) Her dark eyes smiled into mine a bit shyly it seemed, and she replied: “Daphka”.

 

I left her to climb up to her 3rd floor room. And then, walking out into the courtyard, toward the metal gate and the streets of Port-Au-Prince, I heard "Bon Soir Jenny!"   I turned and there was Daphka, her small frame leaning out over the third floor railing, waving wildly, blowing kisses, and repeating her calls of farewell.  

In that moment, Daphka showed me: Who you are matters.

 

Reflection for worship - January 27, 2013
In a country with 90% unemployment, crushing poverty, rampant illiteracy – a city crammed with people – many of them living in pieced together tents – it’s not surprising there is violence…

But what is amazing – even miraculous at times is that there is hope, community, faith and caring to an extent that many of us strive for.
Living and working together – praying and hoping together seems the norm…

In the Haitian sugar cutter communities of the Dominican Republic – if someone didn’t have money for medicine or a trip to the hospital, relatives and neighbors made sure it happened.

In worship on a Sunday morning – sometimes in a grand church like the one we worshiped in 2 Sundays ago and sometimes in a pieced together shack with a tin roof heating up in the sun – they often take an offering to support the work of the church – AND THEN an offering for the poor… I look around me and think – who are the poor if not these???

One of the most moving stories I witnessed this last week (January 2013) was when our sweet extremely hard working Mason – Victo – was riding in the car with me. Victo is a husband and a father of nine children. He is skin and bone and those bones ached from the hard work we helped him with last week. He is wirey and strong and hungry and lovely, and skilled and funny and warm and caring…
Victo earned a salary last week – but probably will not for many weeks to come…
It is said that the average Haitian worker earns about $500 a year.

So we’re riding along through the city traffic with Victo – and an emaciated elderly woman comes to the window of the car and asks for money… We ache for her – but we look the other way – it’s a terrible mistake for us whites to hand coins out the window… we can be mobbed in response… But we sit quite awhile in that spot and I am stunned and gratified as Victo reaches into his pocket and takes out a coin – passing it through the window for the old women… First I am shamed – and then I realize that it is right for Victo to give her that coin. His is a faithful churchman and a hard working man – he lives in community and he cares – he will NOT be mobbed as he hands her the coin… But what has he sacrificed to do that…. 

What does mean for ME to sacrifice – what does it mean in Biddeford and Old Orchard – what does it mean in Haiti – how can I lay who I am in the service of God in such a way???

On Pastor Ronel’s Daughter Singing at Our Friday Dinner

Her hands floated gracefully

In the air,

Gently accenting the sweet, floating music of her voice:

“If I were the wind…,

If I were the rain…,

If I were the sun…”

The bright yellow of her blouse

Offset the rich brown of her skin.

She did not face her audience directly,

She turned to the side, eyes closed—

Her song was as much an ethereal prayer

As performance.

This lyrical flower of a girl in what would seem

The harshest of places—

On a bumpy, graveled street of Delmas,

Port-au-Prince, Haiti,

Nutured by her father/pastor

Who accompanies her song.

 The sweet lightness in her voice is

So different from the clingling neediness one can find

At the orphanage her father oversees a few blocks away.

Why should he not want to protect her,

Give her the gentle nurture of the Spirit

As much as he can?

She is the flower

Growing up from the cracked pavement.

When, how, will she encounter the

Harsh realities of her world?

(Already her family had to move away

From angry neighbors who

Attacked them in their own home

Over some dispute with her father’s church.)

He knows she will see the world’s anger

Soon enough—

Perhaps she has already—

Though this moment of lilting reverie

Makes it seems so far removed.

If he is wise, her father knows he cannot shield her,

Only give her a love that

Can take root in her soul, and

Pray she will choose to face the world with

Love’s inner strength, and that

Her song will grow richer,

Deeper, as it encounters the world.

Jonathan Wright-Gray

Returning Home a Fertile Challenge

Some wise person said that any important experience can be enhanced by how it is "bookened"--the preparation and intention entering into it, and the care and intention with which it is ended.  That certainly applies to mission trips!  Here is my reflection on returning home.

On Returning from a Mission Trip

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        The Seed Cracked Open

It used to be

That when I would wake in the morning,

I could with confidence say,

“What am ‘I’ going to

Do?’

That was before the seed

Cracked open.

Now Hafiz is certain:

There are two of us housed

In this body,

Doing the shopping together in the market and

Tickling each other

While fixing the evening’s food.

Now when I awake

All the internal instruments play the same music:

“God, what love-mischief can ‘We’ do

For the world

Today?”

Hafiz c.1320-1389

Sunday morning, 10:30 AM-

 

I wake in my own bed—where am I?

A hundred thoughts line up in my head,

Patiently waiting their turn here

In the twilight of my consciousness.

I want to hold on to the sights and the smells,

Laughter and pain and memories—

Let the ordinary and familiar

Hold back for a day—

I am not here yet.

What have I learned?

The facts from my new experience jostle

Around in my head,

New questions bubble to the surface,

I note a dozen things I want to ask and learn.

I want to tell my familiar world of

The new world I have discovered:

Will they care?  Will they understand?

Is that possible,

Not having been there?

What I most want is

To hold on to some of the change that has

Cracked open within me,

So hard-won, this newness—

What will sustain it?

I know in the end I must settle for

Pieces of my desires,

Let the familiar will nibble away

At the newness.

No matter—I will hold on to

What I can,

Make what mischief I can

Here and now, and

Ponder these things in my heart.

Beyond These Shadows

There's not a comfortable chair in all of Port-Au-Prince it seems. I smile as I write this because -- bien sur! -- of course -- it makes sense. Haiti is a country that does not sit still. She flows!

Traffic pulses and one feels carried here and there, in and out of incoming traffic like a twig in a river; chickens climb atop piles of garbage endlessly scratching for food; stray dogs roam, ribs visible and mouths open, panting in the dust and heat; slender, high-cheeked women sway as they move through the masses, huge woven baskets of fruit, laundry, or bread balanced on their heads; men scramble between water tankers and SUVs hawking Cokes or attempting to wash your windows before you can stop them -- your obligation suddenly all too clear. Children in pristine and colorful school uniforms move in bunches, carefree and smiling or stone-eyed and robotic, nonetheless oblivious to what feels like sensory overload.

The smells -- of burning garbage, open sewers, and (rarely) cooking food; the grit -- from unfiltered exhausts an factory smokestacks sticking to my lips and coating my skin as I stand, legs wide apart for stability and hands gripping the welded crossbar behind the cab of an open-bed truck; the noises -- of horns honking, music blaring out of open-air bars, of clutches grinding, and the rattle of Nissan or Toyota trucks lumbering over the roughest city roads one can imagine.

No, there is not much stillness in Haiti.

In twilight women bathe their protesting children in metal tubs outside or collect their clothes from drying lines while men tinker or stroll the streets or restlessly lean on first one crumbling block wall, then another. The night air is filled with calls of "bon soir!", hums of generators, strains of dogs barking and roosters crowing, as well as chants from voodoo temples and Halleluiahs from Christian revivals.

In my experience of Haiti, I did not find rest in comfortable Lazy-Boys or hammocks. Comfort is incongruent with existence there, as is abundance and plenty. Instead there exists an extravagence of shadows: Hunger, pollution, joblessness, and disease darken the doorways of tents and huts, orphanages and schools and cast their pall on Haiti's spirit.

But friends, know this: Haiti is alive! Like a wildflower persisting in the most desolate landscape, hers is an exquisite madness, born of staggering poverty and earth's fury, nurtured by a negligent government and non-existent infrastructure, and abandoned by many who say, "We mustn't be enablers of their present need-based reality."

And beyond these shadows -- beyond these shadows -- Haiti squares her shoulders, rises up, and dances the dance of resilience with dignity and grace.

One Brick Left

I wasn't able to writ last night because, well, last night was just different. The first difference was that a new group came into the guest house so my room went from a single to a full house. The second difference was that for dinner we went to Pastor Renol's house, more on that later. The last difference was that when we got back to the guest house after dinner my roomies had the lights out and had gone to sleep as they had an early start. They also must have figured that I wasn't coming home as they covered my bunk with someone's stuff and took my pillow. I got my bunk back by carefully moving the stuff, with permission, and then finding a pillow on the one empty bunk.


The good news is that we completed the chicken coop on Friday. It has been renamed the "Lay All You Can" chicken coop which when translated to Creole becomes something like "push down more you can" chicken coop. While there is a sign with the name in both English and Creole I don't think it matters much to the illiterate chickens. And after all the work we ended up with only a single unused cinder block, so the estimates were pretty much right on.


As we finished a bit early we were able to head up to the apartment of the missionary with which we have been working. She lives high up in the hills which gave us a beautiful view if the city. It was a nice time to sit and relax a bit.

Dinner at the Pastor's house was great and we had some traditional Haitian food including an eggplant appetizer followed by chicken is very good sauce mixed with peas, all over rice. I suppose the dessert of pudding was not pudding cups was not traditional, but still good.


The dinner was proceeded by a few beautiful songs from the Pastor's daughters and after dinner those of us with musical talent repaid with songs of our own. It was a fun evening, but it was clear the evening was over when one of our guides ad-libbed the last line of one of the songs with the words "it's late, it's late, it's time to go home."

It was another long but worth while day. And while we were not able to see a chicken take up residency in the coop, they soon will. A lot was accomplished and it laid the ground work for other mission teams to extend the work either through financial support (more chickens) or by extending the working area or capabilities of the chicken farm.

Location:Port-au-Prince Airport

Last day on the job

Quick update: chicken coop is coming along nicely. Started the week clearing land, mixing  cement, carried lots of buckets of cement, hung chicken wire around structure. Chicken coop is almost done; just needs a couple more rows of cinder blocks and a door. It is looking pretty good.

Yesterday, I took an adventurous ride home from the work site in the back of a pick up truck through the streets of Port au Prince which  was a fun and wild ride. Glad I did it!

After dinner we went back to the orphanage. Gets emotional the way some of the little ones just want to be held.  One little girl fell asleep in my lap while I was rocking her.

Culture shock, adjusting and changing as a person. Beginning to see my surroundings as familiar. Same thing happened to me in LaRomana, DR. I start off numb, emotional midweek, changed by the time I return home. Transformative experience. Blessed to be here amongst beautiful, Haitian people where God's grace is apparent.

Floored

The floor is complete and we had just enough cement to finish it. We also covered the frame with chicken wire to keep the unfriendly critters out. The chickens themselves will go it pre-built cages that will be installed tomorrow and the hope is that the chickens we purchased will be ready to take up residence before we leave the worksite.

It has been a week of fun and a lot of hard work, but seeing the project come together has been quite satisfying.

After dinner tonight we went and visited the orphanage again. It was good to see the kids again and a bit sad because it might be the last time we see them this trip. We drew pictures, played games, and I think I saw some dancing happening. They are really great kids and I wish more could be done for them. While their place in Haiti is much better than others, no child should have to live without the constant love of a parent.


As the week winds down it is also important to remember and thanks those local workers with whom none of this would have happened. We had two primary workers Alex and Victo (short for Victory). Alex managed the framing and roof while Victo managed the block work. Victo, in particular was a non-stop working machine. So much so that his back started to hurt today form mixing and lifting all the cement and concrete. In the pictures Alex is in the blue shirt, Victo is in the red, and the third helper was Tally, who was with us just today.


Thanks guys, couldn't have done it with out you.

Location:Ruelle P. Savain,Port-au-Prince,Haiti

Bridging the Culture Gap

When you move between cultures as different  as the USA and Haiti, it's not just language that creates a hurdle to overcome, but so many aspects of life--economic, religious, climate, habits of life of all kinds.
The Haitian people are surprisingly reserved--quite different from the Latin cultures with which I am more familiar.  Perhaps their long history of struggle, poverty, oppression and lack of recognition for who they are has contributed to that, I'm not sure.  But whatever the factors, it has produced a people who often posses a quiet dignity, with a sense of spontaneity and joy, laughter, and a sense of humor.
Our driver and translator, Moises, is an example of this.  A single man in his 40's, he owns some property which provides income, but like many Haitians does not have any kind of regular full time employment.  When groups like us come to visit, he has work.  But  behind his reserved exterior, he is a man with amazing life experience and an incredible sense of humor.

Victo and Jonathan

 Our two construction workers for the week, Alex and Victo, have been a surprise as well.  On the ride home  one day we learned that Vito has 8 children,  and  Alex, who barely  looks old enough to be married, has  two teenagers.  Tonight I wondered: we are providing their income this week with our building project.  What will they be doing next week?  Life goes on in Haiti whether you have work or not, and there's no unemployment....  Our other driver, Bennes, has 6 children,  and would like to take English classes to improve his rudimentary language skills and maybe get a job.  Again, we gave him a little income  for a week.
I have never experienced a culture where the gap felt so wide.
I hope by our  continued presence here  a sense  of trust may grow with some we see on each visit.  We can do small things here in a material way, but a sense of presence, and some  small steps of trust and understanding feel equally of value.