What a Week

What a week.

The past few weeks, or several, have seemed excessively exhausting.

Then came the last two weeks, which hit with hammer blows, low and hard and fast.

There was heartache of a very old kind and a lesson in letting go.

On a Wednesday afternoon I ate little at the table and told the family I needed time to be sad. By Friday the sadness had decreased, leaving disappointment combating with the necessary belief that God has a better plan.

There was trouble at home in New Hampshire and a reminder that God is in control.

On Saturday I stood in the cool breeze wafting through my bedroom window and listened to my mother, then my brother, as they talked from a snowstorm. Afterwards I wrung my hands telling my Haitian mom, saying there was nothing I could do. I wasn’t there! But even if I were, still I am mostly helpless.

“So we pray!” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Bondye kapab. God can do all things.”

There was sickness and trauma at school.

Our security guard, M, has been suffering from swollen, painful joints. He missed almost two weeks of school, after inconclusive doctor’s visits and tests. He began medication which eased the symptoms some, but still limit him to sitting down while at work.

Our students have been suffering from stomach aches and fevers, and continuously conjunctivitis. With the environment such as it is, we’re unable to squelch maladies completely: they’re shared and shared again among unwashed hands and large households.

One student was kicked out of her home. Her mother and step-father declared, again, they don’t want her and, after a beating each, sent her to an aunt. She is six-years old.

There was not enough food and kids were hungry. Every day there is a group of first and second grade boys who linger in the kitchen in need of second or third helpings. Usually they can at least get a second serving. One day there wasn’t enough. The pot was empty after second grades’ first serving. I brought a small plate of leftover rice and the half-full can of corn up to the classroom and spooned out portions. In no time the meager offerings were gone—and I had to shrug at the entreaties of “More! I need a lot! Mwen bezwen anpil!”

Second grade English class has been stunted. For various reason the time has been cut short and I’ve not had proper time to devote to teaching English, which was, at the call, my primary duty in coming. This left me feeling culpable and frustrated.

So did all of the other aforementioned incidences and circumstances.

Each of them also, however, serves as a reminder that we are helpless.

There is so little we can do in this world. There are so many obstacles we cannot overcome. So much sadness, pain, sickness, unpredictability and brokenness.

Last Sunday Beverly and I spent the afternoon at a nearby mini-resort. Called “LaKay Taina,” it’s a “well-kept secret” of the neighboring town, featuring a charming restaurant with its own beachfront. We arrived, ordered juices from our friendly host, a charming man from Canada, and settled down in lounge chairs on the grass, twenty feet from the water. Later we swam in the turquoise tide, ate fresh coconut, strolled down the beach, and finally ate ice cream and cake before rolling home. It was beautiful, tranquil, and a pristine escape from the habitual noise and chaos of life.

This weekend we were scheduled to depart for Port au Prince Friday after school. Instead, Beverly departed and I stayed bedridden. My stomach awoke me at midnight Friday with discomfort, and proceeded to be disagreeable through Sunday. Beyond enjoying time outside of the house, in Port we have dear friends with whom we treasure the occasional weekend.

I wondered why God didn’t permit me to go, crying that it had already been such a rough week, two weeks.

Mostly this weekend I have slept.

But in the waking I’ve been blessed.

My Haitian parents came in to check on me. They asked what I needed. Pastor listed all the foods he thought might entice me. He searched the tree for the ripest mango then offered it to me, knowing it’s a favorite. When I said only Seven-Up, he bought me two.

Madame wanted one of the girls to sleep on the floor beside me Friday night to keep watch. When they departed for church this morning she said to call if I needed anything.

In the afternoon I joined her visiting a student’s uncle’s home. His wife had just died. When we returned home someone was waiting for me. One of those dear friends from Port au Prince was cached behind a door upstairs. He gave up his Sunday to come see me.

He didn’t come empty-handed, either. Beverly, who had spoken in favor of his coming, had sent him with something special: personalized Thirty-One bags, courtesy of a special sister in Virginia. Upon learning that I never received the intended bag in December when her team gifted all of our teachers with a tote bag from the quality company Thirty-One, she and Beverly coordinated to get me one of my choosing. Today, I ended up with three.

The cinch-sack is monogrammed: “Rachelle.”

I’m still rather sick. My stomach is yet queasy and my attempt to eat rice earlier proves I’m not ready for proper food.

Beverly is still gone: she’s scheduled to fly to Texas on Tuesday and return next Wednesday.

Children are still hungry: tomorrow at school will be the first proper meal some of our students have had since Friday.

There is still sickness and trauma.

There is still trouble and uncertainty and heartbreak.

There are still questions of “Why?” “How?” “When?” and “What do we do?”

But through all of that there is still God.

God who gives us just what we need just when we need it. We don’t always know what we need. We don’t always know when we need it. He knows. And He provides.

Last Sunday Beverly and I needed that retreat to LaKay Taina. Time to rest beneath blue skies, sunshine, almond and coconut trees. Time to treat ourselves, engage with other English-speakers, and laugh together before this week of sickness, trauma, and her departure.

Today I needed that visit and those bags. I needed those special assurances, those reminders, that I am appreciated, missed, and loved, loved, loved.

I’ll say again, as I did in January: it’s not easy to be a missionary.

We miss a lot. We miss our families, our hometowns, our creature comforts, security, freedom, first-world conveniences, English church, and medical care. We regret that we miss your birthdays, parties, walks, dinner dates, movie nights, coffee breaks, and holidays.

We work very hard, sweat a lot, sleep a little, and struggle through three-languages.

We are undeniably blessed.

We thank you, everyone, who supports us in prayer, in finances, in representation, in gifts and donations for the school and the children.

I especially thank those who take the time to be personal. What meant so much today was not merchandise, it was the time and consideration.

Tomorrow is ahead. Certain to be rife with challenge, sickness, sadness, and no Beverly. However, tomorrow is ahead, certain to be filled with God’s guidance, protection, and assurance that in keeping our eyes upon Him, naught else matters. The to-do list, the attempts at reparation and accomplishment, at addressing the many needs: these are not imperative.

What is imperative is focus on God, who has a better plan, who is in control, who can do all things, and who will provide for all our needs.

Amen. 

Stretching out my feet at LaKay Taina -- fresh juice within reach

My new cinch sack, 7-Up, and Jesus Calling