Port Salut is perhaps the most beautiful place I’ve visited
in Haiti. Actually it makes the list of top most beautiful places I’ve visited
at all.
We entered into town in the back of a pickup truck—having
flown over the mountains, twisted around winding narrow corners, sheltered
under a blue tarp, spooned rice and beans from Styrofoam trays, watched layers
of green rise and fall and the turquoise ocean advance and retreat. On the
outskirts of Port Salut the mountains are mostly bare, clothed in short soft
green grass the color of springtime and spotted with palm trees straight and
elegant, except where they’ve fallen flat from the hurricane winds.
Here on the southern coast Hurricane Matthew was an
uninvited guest who was not kind to his hosts. The storm hit hard and flattened
trees, telephone poles, houses, and businesses. People and possessions were
crushed under blocks and limbs. The beach front and mountainsides are vastly
altered.
But they are still magnificent.
I am glad to have not seen Port Salut before October, when
Matthew raged in and turned the town upside down, leaving behind wreckage and
despair.
Well, he tried to leave despair in his wake. But like every
disaster and travesty to squeeze Haiti’s abused neck, Matthew was unsuccessful
in this endeavor. The Haitian people have yet to succumb to the blackness of
despair. As the fierce Caribbean sun continues to rise over purple-glazed mountains,
slate blue ocean and finely fringed palm trees, hope continues to rise in the
hearts of the people.
For three days I watched the sun come up over a hummock of
earth, a miniature mountain close to the house. As it rose the sea was colored
more and more blue, cerulean that would further clear into crystal turquoise:
that clear, cheerful, iconic blue-green distinct of the Caribbean. The
mountains would fade from hazy purple to smoky blue to dusky green. The trees
would solidify from silhouettes of lacy black into dimensions of green rustling
in the ever-constant breeze.
And the sky would dance through its scheme of blue, purple,
gold, salmon, tangerine and into the classic Crayola sky-blue hue from which a
forceful sun burns.
It was not hot in Port Salut. The air was much dryer than
our Ti Goave, which is a jungle town, bordered by mountains and a cove,
engulfed by magnificent trees lush and crowded. We have banana, mango, almond,
cherry, breadfruit, and canapé. We have coconut and tamarind and many more
trees I don’t know the names for, tangled harmoniously with bushes and shrubs,
many with gorgeous flowers. Our town is lush. Our town is mostly clean. And our
town is usually very humid.
In Port Salut the breeze is constant. The wind comes in from
the ocean and rolls down from those bare mountains, driving away mosquitoes and
swirling about the fine white sand and ocean salt. That fine white sand is
soft, clean, and exquisite for walking, burying, and photographing. What could
be more iconically Caribbean than turquoise water, white sand, and coconut
palms? Combine those with a mixed drink, rhythmic music, and bright paintings
and you’ve got the ideal setting.
Port Salut has all of those things, including plenty of
tourist and local-friendly stomping grounds. On the beach you can buy cheap
food, authentic Haitian rice and beans and fish. You can sit under a canopy sipping
something sweet or strong and munch on fried akra. You can swing in a hammock
or curl up on a cushioned chaise under the palm trees. You can sway to the live
music on the local stage. You can order over-priced pizza and burgers from a
gorgeous Mediterranean-décor cobblestoned restaurant. You can walk through the
surf or swim out in the shallow waters. You can cruise through the town on a
moto or walk the winding street, the ocean as your faithful companion. You can
watch the sunset in a blaze of glory and think there couldn’t be anything more
beautiful.
You can also trek up the mountain, praying that when the
truck stalls on that next steep ascent it’ll start up again at once and crest
that rutted road. You can shield your eyes against the glare of new corrugated
tin roofs, brilliant silver evidence of reparations. You can listen to the
residents praise God for His provision and plead for more cement and tin sheets
for shelter. You can shake your head at the stories of Matthew, when telephone
poles and trees fell into houses. You can hike up and down narrow mule-paths in
search of a waterfall. You can scramble up hillsides and jump over fallen
trees, bitten by ants and burned by the sun. You can hold hands with someone
you’ve just met and feel unity coursing between you. You can pray with
strangers and sing with children on a mountaintop in two languages. You can
gaze across the valleys and hills and count the trees tumbled like toothpicks.
We did all of these things, Beverly, my brothers Terry,
Danny, Solomon, and I. We were tourists and we were missionaries. We were
visitors, we were strangers, and we were friends. We were family in Christ.
Our family was welcomed by our host family, Emory and Mary
Wilson.
For months Emory has been encouraging us to come down to
Port Salut, to stay with them, see their work, to enjoy the area. I imagined
that a visit to their area would be muddy, full of debris, hungry crowds, and
perpetually damp clothes—as things were after Hurricane Matthew.
I was saddened at the prospect of viewing the once pristine
white beaches of the south coast marred by broken tree limbs and prostrate
boats, dotted with despondent fishermen and homeless families.
Beverly talked fondly of Port Salut. Our Petit Goave family
went there a year before I came. They spent the day in the water, Beverly
admitting she never wanted to get out of that crystal blue tide floored with
soft white sand. I didn’t want her golden memories marred by the current
unfortunate state of the town. Thus I didn’t really merit the idea of going to
Port Salut, of tagging along with Emory and Mary in their ministering efforts.
And as I didn’t know either one of them well, visiting with them wasn’t a great
pull either.
Now I know.
There have been hurricanes before Matthew. Who can name the
number of tropical storms that have flattened the palm trees and reshaped the
banks? Since the Taino Indians reigned on this island there have been countless
hurricanes off the ocean. The natural beauty has yet to be destroyed.
Those palm trees, those white sands, those turquoise waters,
those purple and gold sunsets are still exquisite. Refreshing miracles to
please the eye and ease the soul.
Our hosts Emory and Mary are folk who ease the soul and
raise the spirit.
At first meeting Mary is quiet. She’s a soft-spoken Southern
lady who is more likely to wait in the truck than get out among the action or
run the errands. She’s fair with long light hair, ashy blond and gray,
generally clad in Capri pants, tee top, and earrings. She doesn’t speak much
Creole, and that she does is voiced with a Southern twang. I wondered how this
demure little lady survived in Haiti.
Then I saw her in action.
The morning after arrival we accompanied Mary to what Emory
called
“her” village. She’d been doing work on the mountain helping folk to rebuild their homes, largely independent from Emory. This area was her project.
“her” village. She’d been doing work on the mountain helping folk to rebuild their homes, largely independent from Emory. This area was her project.
So before noon we
were on our way, Mary in the driver’s seat of the full-cab pickup, her large
fashion sunglasses on and monogrammed thermos of water on the console. Beverly
rode shotgun and my brothers and I overlapped in the backseat of the cab.
The first challenge was the speedbumps. Port Salut is a
small town with a well-maintained main street that winds along beside the
ocean. It’s littered with speedbumps. Little bitty ones spaced just so that as
soon as you accelerate to a decent speed, you must slow down again to mount
over the next bump.
“In Ti Goave we have a few speed mountains,” we had told
Emory, referring to the huge speedbumps on our street and the parallel National
Road.
“Hmm,” said Emory. “In Port Salut I think we have about
forty.”
Mary’s management of the speed bumps wasn’t as comfortable
as Emory’s, but she got us over and around the curves, and then stalled for the
first time going up a winding hill.
Beverly voiced her plea for “Help, Jesus,” and Mary ground
gears to get the truck going and up over.
We made it, and shortly thereafter pulled into the
lumberyard. There, Mary ordered sheets of corrugated tin and bags of cement.
She spoke in Creole/English to the Haitian and French Canadian owners. We were
loaded up and she took us out in good humor, laughing about her inability to
back up well, grateful for the owner’s favor in reversing the truck for her.
We began the mountain ascent.
And there the true Mary began to peep through.
The tough mudder Mary. The enjoyment in the midst of
difficulty Mary. The overcomer, the joker, the sasser.
The lady with spunk. The lady who yahooed like a true
redneck on a backroad as we bounced up the mountain, as the truck died on a
steep incline and we had a long way to roll backward. The lady who didn’t back down
when the massive truck loaded to the rafters with hay and topped with shouting
men loomed before us, honking to clear the road. As they finally passed after
she’d backed up the truck into a small yard, she bowed them through with
outstretched arms and I laughed in surprise at her facetiousness.
The lady with endurance. Who stood in the midst of a
pressing crowd vying for her attention, under the bare mountain sun, and kept
to her task. With patience, with sincerity, with compassion and gentleness, who
stopped to listen to each member of that pressing crowd. She worked with her
young lady friend to translate and understand the appeals. She responded to
each person that she’d write their name, she’d discuss, she’d investigate, that
God knows. She valued everyone.
The lady with compassion. That evening Mary cooked for us –
a huge pot of Asian stir fry: vegetables in ginger sauce atop spaghetti. (I was
thrilled.) She invited to our large party of nine two young ladies, Carrie and
Diane, who live in the little house behind Emory and Mary’s in the same yard. Fifteen-year
old Diane barely touched her plate, and Mary asked several times if she could
fix her a sandwich instead; she didn’t want her to be hungry. She reminded them
of how much she loved them both, and arranged a Bingo game afterwards. When Solomon
got discouraged at his lack of chips, Mary swapped Bingo boards with him and
smiled as he gained Bingo!
This lady of humor, of boldness, of gentleness and
hospitality is a lady of many layers.
There was one more layer we would see of Mary before we
departed.
On our final morning to close our devotion we shared what
the Cross of Christ means to us. Mary was the last to share. In place of the
short-winded, elevator-responses the rest of us gave, Mary shared a bit of her
story. As she began the tears pricked at my eyes. Terry’s eyebrows rose well
above the shades of the glasses he wore, hiding his eyes as he translated for
the girls. Carrie and Diane stared at Mary, sitting with her long ash silver
hair down over her shoulders, stroking her precious curly-haired Quincy (a
poodle-Shi Tzu cross) as she spoke. Their eyes were wide, mouths slightly ajar.
For the tale Mary told was not the American or Debutante
Dream. The tale from this oft demure Southern lady was ugly. It was raw. It was
full of injustice, suffering and tragedy. It was shameful. Like the Cross.
The Cross is a symbol of humiliation: representative of a
low criminal, someone exposed, lifted up to be mocked and reviled in public. It
was torture, causing agony of body and spirit. “The emblem of suffering and
shame.”
But the Cross is not a symbol of death.
For believers, for Christians, the Cross is the ultimate
Sign of Hope. Of redemption. Of salvation, life, belonging, acceptance, love.
Mary’s story did not end in tragedy, did not terminate in brokenness, in
despair. Her story is still not over. Just as the Cross did not finish in
darkness.
As the sun rose on Easter morning and colored that
bloodstained cross gold, so Mary rose from bitterness, from the agony of wrath
and loss into a woman of Hope.
Her childhood was rife with horrific abuse, betrayal and
brokenness. Before puberty her heart was bitter: poisoned by hatred born of
this constant abuse, violence, and betrayal. One day she lost her temper, lost
control, and knew the destructive power of wrath.
She and those around her could see only darkness in her
future. Mary was being consumed by hatred.
So she prayed. For weeks after she prayed for a new heart,
for a change to save her from this pending destruction.
Then one day, her sister commented. She could see the
change.
The Mary of shame, of injustice, of suffering, the Mary of
bitterness and wrath, shrouded in darkness, was gone with the shadows of that
Sabbath long ago. She was a new person. A person with hope and a future. A
person touched by Light.
This new Mary was not perfect. She still is not. She never
will be. She’s got flaws. Her story is on-going. But it’s a tale of victory. Of
Good vanquishing Evil. Of Salvation more beautiful than the Port Salut sunset.
“Do not be overcome by evil. But overcome evil by doing
good.” ~Romans 12:21 NIV
Mary is continuing to learn, to grow, to becoming more
filled with Light. As we accompanied her up the mountain, as we watched her
attend to every person pressing in with needs, flipping through her notebook,
as we received her food, saw the gentle compassion in her soft eyes addressing
Carrie and Diane, the twinkle as she bantered with Solomon and teased Danny and
Terry about the beautiful Port Salut women, as we listened to a bit of her
story, we saw a Christly woman, a woman who has overcome and is everyday
overcoming. She is everyday serving, forwarding the brilliant love of Christ.
Mary and Emory are shining where they are.
Emory said that he feels overwhelmed sometimes. It’s not
easy to be a missionary. To give and to give. To give your money, your food,
your house, your time and your talents. To relinquish privacy and hobbies and
dreams. To sacrifice your family, your network, your church, to dwell as a
foreigner, everyday flooded by need and so often gone unappreciated. To face
persecution for your nationality, your accent, your skin, your beliefs, your
very privilege. But, Emory said, addressing us frankly and clearly, blue eyes the
same frank and clear from under his habitual tightly tied bandana, but, he
said, his comfort is in the Cross.
“The more I focus on Jesus and what he did on the Cross, the
less I consider myself.”
“Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of
our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its
shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” ~Hebrews 12:2 NIV
The Cross is ugly.
The Cross is shameful. It’s heavy. Hard to bear. To the
world.
But to those like our group, thirteen gathered around the
table, sun streaming in, beckoning of ocean, mountains, and waterfalls, life
free of obligation or service, to us, the Cross is the place to be. We see the
Beauty.
We feel the Encouragement. We know freedom. We walk upright.
We finished the last devotional time with the Hymnbook. After
she’d told her story, Mary led us singing “Near the Cross,” and we prayed to
walk from day to day under the Shadow of that Cross, so despised by the world,
from which still drips the red blood of Jesus. A man who gave up all—His home,
his treasures, his time, talents, and tears, his sandals and garments off his
back, his very repute, to be beaten, scorned, accused and betrayed and
abandoned. To be naked, humiliated, before a crowd of those who cheered at his
pain and his death. Jesus gave it all. He even gave what we can never
know—God’s rejection.
He gave it all for Emory, who’s running the mission race as
he runs the streets of broken, beautiful Port Salut. He gave it for Mary, the
miracle witness who rose from darkness and betrayal. He gave it all for Carrie,
who gave up a Canadian boyfriend and his provision to follow Christ. He gave it
for Diane, fifteen and shy with no certain future. For Robbie, who sings for
joy through sickness. For Erin and Lauren and Aaron, who can’t keep away from
Haiti but follow into the fray. For my three brothers, who know abandonment,
loss, humiliation, terror and despair. He gave it for Beverly, who leaves home
in Texas to love in Ti Goave. For me, who walks a line of joy and despair, and
too often considers the loss over the gain.
Christ gave all he had to follow his Father’s will and save
all of us, lost, helpless children. He lost so we could gain. So now, as Emory
said, we have all obligation to think of the Gain—the Gain of Christ, of Hope
and Life, over all losses in this world.
And as Christ granted us Grace immeasurable by taking up and
dying on that ugly, shameful cross, so we must extend grace to each other.
“Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you
may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” ~Colossians
3:13 NIV
And, as we swallow that dangerous pride and shelter under
the shadow of the Cross, we too will find freedom, will rise like the Sun and
visibly shine new.
That newness will radiate, more breathtaking than the
twinkling Milky Way of stars over the ocean and more dazzling than the purple
and gold glory of the sunset into the ocean.
"Near the Cross"
~Frances Crosby, 1869
"Near the Cross"
- Jesus, keep me near the cross,
There a precious fountain—
Free to all, a healing stream—
Flows from Calv’ry’s mountain.- Refrain:
In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.
- Refrain:
- Near the cross, a trembling soul,
Love and Mercy found me;
There the bright and morning star
Sheds its beams around me. - Near the cross! O Lamb of God,
Bring its scenes before me;
Help me walk from day to day,
With its shadows o’er me. - Near the cross I’ll watch and wait
Hoping, trusting ever,
Till I reach the golden strand,
Just beyond the river.
**Please forgive the lack of photos. I did take beautiful photos in Port Salut, but lost all of them with the remaining contents of my phone when damaged parts needed to be replaced. The phone was damaged when it tumbled into the pool of that waterfall we visited, hiking through the mountains of Port Salut.
