Soul Battle

Do you ever feel the battle for your soul?

I do.

Frequently have here.

On good days nothing can keep me down. All the need, hunger, and hurt have me relying me on Christ, and I’m confident in Him, singing, praying, speaking Scripture and Life with laughter over tears. Victory reigns on the battlefield of my soul.

Other days, I am prone in bed unable to stand anymore. And I repeat over and over, like Elijah under the tree, “Just let me go home, God. Take me away from this wretched world and no longer inflict it with my wretched presence.”

Those are the hard days.

The tough hours and moments when I’m waving a white flag of surrender, flattened on the bloody battlefield.

The second Monday and second Sunday after my October return were two such days.

That Monday the tears wouldn’t stop. The darkness overwhelmed even the intrepid Caribbean sun and hundreds of little hands happy to meet me.

Knowing the irrationality, the unfairness of my despair only worsened it—added guilt, further awareness to my failure, the way I disappointed everyone.

Three and half months of yearning to get back and after just a week I felt done in.

“I can’t do anything, God. No more. Take me home. Bring someone else.”

Bring someone who can match Beverly for speed, for fortitude, for cheer, for sociability, for affability, garrulousness, loquacity…someone not plagued by depression, someone reliable who can stand under pressure and not be struck down by despair. Someone who doesn’t fall so short.

Many times I’ve asked God why He doesn’t bring that someone else. Why He bothers with me. Why He’s chosen this timid, anxious, depressed introvert to come to this place of noise, chaos, pressing closeness and crowds of strangers.

Why me, God?

Well, I’m still not sure.

But I am sure of two things.

Second, this is where God has called me and although I’ve failed many times, He’s not failed me.

First, although the battle for my soul is constant, sometimes strikes me down to bed-ridden tears, the War is already won, and soul is secure eternally.

The fourth graders are so tall now. Having eaten Feed My Starving Children manna packs for four and half years now they are well-sized. My first Monday back I missed school sacrificially, as Beverly was ill and needed me to replace her at the airport for our visitors.

Rose and the kids still needed a ride to school, so I dropped them off, and for twenty minutes after hung around the courtyard greeting children not seen since June.

As I tore myself through the gate fourth grade Deborah came trotting up. She squealed upon seeing me and ran to my arms. We squeezed.

“I missed you so much,” I said. Tears leaked out. “I have to go.”

That Saturday we visited five children partnered by friends in the States, four by the same couple. The second of theirs we saw was Tchialensky, also in fourth grade. Tchialensky lives with his sister and cousin; both parents are in South America. He wasn’t at home and the house was locked. Fortunately we had a neighboring student with us who didn’t quit. Petite doll-faced second grade Angee marched up the alley calling Tchialensky’s name when the house remained shut. Seeing her flouncy skirt and flip flops round the far corner of a dirt lane I’d not yet set foot in I followed. At the corner was a house bordered by corrugated tin and cactus fencing. There I met Tchialensky’s nineteen year old sister. Her voice joined a neighbor woman’s and Angee’s calling for Tchialensky. Then he appeared.

Seeing me through the gate a brilliant smile broke through his furrowed face.

“Hey, Tchialensky,” I said, holding up my arms. I love surprising our kids at home. It proves over and over again how we love and value them for who they are, regardless of where they come from or their abilities.

“How are you?” I asked the top of his head as Tchialensky wrapped his arms around me. He and his other tall fellow fourth graders are level with my chest now.

“Good,” he answered.

“Were you studying?”

“Yes. Math.”

Gripping each other snugly we headed back down the alley with Angee and Tchialenska, the sister.

“Someone is here to see you,” I said as we reached the bank down to his house. Tchialensky grinned bashfully at seeing Mr. Philip, half of his Virginian partner couple.

I could clearly recall two years previous when Tchialensky had stood with Madame Jaimie, Philip’s wife, their arms around each other as they both cried; they cried the tears of joy of togetherness that only long-distant relationships understand.

And tears leaked out of my eyes.

Tears leaked out as Tchialensky opened his gift bag to reveal a suit, handsome black, surely the nicest garment this boy from a back alley plywood house had ever owned. The thoughtfulness of that gift brought tears.

And as we prayed, Tchialensky holding Philip’s hand, as I recalled how unfair it all is, again the tears leaked out. How unfair that we should leave them here in this insufficient house without water or light or parents; how unfair that loved ones must be separated; how unfair that my arms just can’t envelope all 166 desperate children at once.

That same Tchialensky I had seen the previous Monday, when I spent twenty glorious, painful minutes saying hello and goodbye to as many kids as possible. He was standing in his usual place by the stairs, at the head of the fourth grade line, and smiled shyly at me as I hugged all manner of kids between us.

I met his gaze and smiled.

“Tchialensky,” I called. “I want a hug.”

He came.

We share this phrase specially. It’s something I taught him at the start of third grade, having recognized this bright, frustrating boy with absent parents needed assurance of warm loving arms more than anything else. So I taught him to ask for a hug when he needed one.

Each time I see him he repeats, “Madame Rachelle, I want a hug.”

Tuesday when I returned for real to spend the whole day at school, Tchialensky gave me a note.
“I am in your heart because I love you.

When you say, ‘Give me a hug’ I am so happy.”

With such bliss as this, how could I ever feel discouraged or long for the retreat of my bed over the splendor of such love?

Alas I do.

Still I get stressed. Exhausted. Feel as though I’ve poured myself dry, spread myself thin, borne too much weight. And this time returning home to Haiti I felt that within a week. A week of such intensity, without the usual relative quiet adjustment period in which to settle, organize, rest, adapt. Without the camaraderie and encouragement of Beverly, with the added duties of visitors, the unfamiliarity of new staff and housemates and room--I broke quickly.

TobyMac has a song “Love Feels Like.”

I am tired

I am drained

But the fight in me remains

I am weary

I am worn

Like I’ve never been before

This is harder than I thought

Harder than I thought it’d be

Harder than I thought

Takin’ every part of me

So much harder than I thought it’d be

But empty’s never felt so full

This is what love, this is what love feels like

Poured out, used up, still givin’

Stretching me out to the end of my limits

This is what real love, this is what real love feels like

This is what love feels like

Used up still willin’ to fight for it

This is what love feels like

Not everyone gets to know what real love feels like. I am so very grateful that I do.

That doesn’t mean life here is easy. Life here is extraordinarily difficult. This time I came back a month later than planned, to a remodeled school, twenty-five new children, three extra housemates, a new bedroom, seven visitors, and a sick Beverly. (Don’t forget the usual humidity, heat, sporadic electricity and internet, confinement, lack of books and privacy and hot water…)

So much harder than I thought it’d be…

Each time I come back it seems harder. Fuller, more wonderful, and so much harder than I thought it’d be. God grows me, stretches my limits further each time, lets me know love more real, more deep than ever before, and it’s tough.

This love is a battlefield. Sometimes I’m losing. Sometimes I can’t stand, can’t stop the tears, can’t help but feel like I’ve reached the end of my limits, like Elijah under the tree I’m spent and just long to stay there and sleep in the anonymous shade.

But, two things I know.

Second, this is where God has called me and although I’ve failed many times, He’s not failed me.

First, although the battle for my soul is constant, sometimes strikes me down to bed-ridden tears, the War is already won, and soul is secure eternally.

Real love is a battlefield. Sometimes I’m losing. But when I’m standing on that field of victory feeling the swelling joy among my Haitian family, our 166 most beautiful children, myself and God our Father, I know that no matter how emptying, how frustrating this life of carbohydrates, hand-wash laundry, cockroaches, traffic, unpurified water, malaria, protests, burning tires, long days, hungry bellies, life and death need—empty has never felt so full.

No Magic Button

The God Ask by Steve Shadrach refers to a Magic Button option, in which all expenses are paid by one great big donor, a winning lottery ticket, or large inheritance, and fund-raising is no longer necessary.

Shadrach says he would not take that Magic Button.

“I refuse to exchange the raising of my own personal support for any amount of salary or so-called ‘security’” (Shadrach The God Ask, 2016).

For the value of the relationships built by fund-raising, these appointments with people perhaps we’ve never known before, the humble exchange, mutual respect and trust, the PRAYERS, are far more valuable than some Magic Button.

I have to agree.

I’ve always hated asking for, even accepting, money. Money should be earned. If I didn’t work for it, I shouldn’t have it. When I started going to Haiti, as a short-termer, writing support letters was a challenge, but preferable to asking for funds in-person. Writing has always been far easier for me.

To my surprise, funds always came in. I believe our first two trips together, my support letters, aided and edited by Mom and sent through her address book, evoked generous enough response to send her and I virtually expense-free.

Praise God!

Despite my immediate love for Haiti, the home-coming feeling, devastation at departure, and assurance I must return, I denied the option of long-term missionary because those brave souls consistently, continuously asked for money. A one-time donation, a gift like for birthday or Christmas, to fund an eight to ten day trip after which I’d return and enthusiastically present about, was [bad] enough.

How could I ever request folks, strangers!, give their hard-earned money to me, so I could live in a place far away, never returning any fruits to their hands? The fruits of such labors wouldn’t benefit these donors. Why should they pay me for work done to others? And consistently! A long-term, full-time missionary, those rarely seen persons, push pins on a map in the far reaches of the world, had no timeline, no end date. When they asked for funds, they asked for a salary—an on-going payment for an indefinite, foreseeable future.

From personal experience with my own very limited resources, I know the struggle to part with money. I love giving gifts, purchasing something plotted and presenting it to the specified loved one with proper occasion and frills; or filling a shoe box for Samaritan’s Purse: packing toys, school supplies, and toiletries for a child’s Christmas.

These are visibly rewarded expenditures.

Since visiting Haiti I can easily imagine little hands eagerly receiving the singular Christmas box, something to brighten hovel or slum; I’ve long known the pleasurable exchange of gifts at home Christmas and come to delight in delighting with a well-planned gift.

But dropping money in the offering plate, pushing bills through plastic lids or freely handing over cash—these are challenging for me. How can I ask someone to do so for me?

So for years I avoided this task.

Like Jonah, or perhaps Moses offering alternatives to God, I shied from “missionary” and sought paid positions. After college graduation, I looked, even applied, but between low confidence and little French, found nothing suitable for full-time employment in Haiti.

After two years of part-time, no leads I went to Korea to teach English as a second language (ESL). While there I completed applications for two internships at large non-profits in Haiti, thinking these entrance positions might lead to jobs. Near the end of my year’s contract a post appeared on Facebook from a woman I’d long eyed as a potential employer. We’d never met but she was well-known and even my mother had visited her school briefly on one of our trips to Port au Prince. The post asked for English-speaking high school teachers. Teaching high school did not appeal to me—those kids were bigger than I was—and their sarcastic sass would be lost on me, for my Creole was childish at best. And, the best part, it was an unpaid, voluntary position. I’d have to pay my way. Depending on costs and my own frugality, I might have to ask for help (the dreaded fundraising.)

But…it was an offer.

It was something.

“Okay, God,” I said, continuing to scroll down the Facebook homepage, “if this is still there in a week, I’ll message her. I’ll do something about it.”

Guess what?

A week later the post was unchanged. The need was unmet. Time to act.

I sent a message, outlining my credentials, and lack there-of. In little way was I qualified to teach chemistry or physics, or probably manage a class of teenagers, but I was an English-speaking, English-teaching, Haiti-loving, willing servant.

The last was the most important qualification.

She responded, this Director of a well-known school in Port au Prince, and sent me a lengthy application. The application included questions of theology and required Biblical research and scriptural analysis. In the end the application was twenty pages (I’ve always been thorough.)

By the end of my contract I’d sent off the application and the Director requested we meet in person. Any considerations of renewing my contract or seeking employment somewhere else in Korea were dropped, and I booked a ticket to Boston and then to Orlando, Florida, where I could meet the Director on one of her trips to the States.

After thirteen months abroad, I spent two weeks in New Hampshire before seeking the next adventure, the adventure for which I’d been waiting ten years. We met in Orlando, the Director and I, in a church that was collecting and packing supplies to ship to her school. She offered me a job, requesting a one-year commitment, I cried, and all but accepted this impossible position.

The position included teaching high school courses such as physics, chemistry, algebra, history, and literature, taking an intensive culture and Creole course, learning to drive stick shift, and possibly living on-campus.

The Director believed I could do it, because she believed that God equips those He calls. No matter my qualifications or lack thereof, I could do this job, because God would provide what I needed. I was less sure, but upon return to New Hampshire, began preparations. From the attic I pulled out high school chemistry and biology notes, college algebra binder, and stacked my math-oriented older brother’s textbooks for study. I typed up notes, oriented myself over again with cell structure and the periodic table, and recommitted to Creole and French practice. I began piling books that would accompany me, classic literature and writer’s handbooks. In his stick-shift red pickup I circled the church with my brother, shifting gears and stalling. At the thrift-store I sought longish skirts and sleeveless dresses. Rereading Kisses From Katie by Katie Davis for encouragement I cried a lot.

Then, the Director said I couldn’t come. It wasn’t going to work out.

Horribly disappointed and incredibly relieved, I stewed on this news. My heart had been in such turmoil. I was so afraid. I didn’t want to act out of fear, and I didn’t want to not act out of fear either.

I emailed the Director, saying I was committed. I would live anywhere that was available. I would do whatever.

She responded that it just wasn’t possible.

The door was shut.

They say when God closes one door He opens another. Rascal Flatts says sometimes it’s a window. My opening was more of a gate, a causeway.

Some woman named Beverly had emailed me during my preparations. She ran a kindergarten in some town west of Port au Prince. She wanted to tell me more. I responded that I was pleased to hear from her but was committed to working at the director’s school: Thanks but no thanks. Once the Director said no, and no again, I emailed Beverly, saying I would hear about her school.

We spoke on the phone for an hour and a half, this Texan and I, and by the end of our conversation I was enquiring about suitable books to bring.

She laughed. “Wait a minute. Does this mean you’re agreeing to come?”

I didn’t laugh. “Yes, I think so,” I said.

I had committed to the Director to come and work for a year, at her request, so naturally I was ready to commit a year to this other director, who I’d never met, living in a town I’d never visited.

We spoke on the phone a few more times. I asked all the questions I’d listed and been advised to ask, about the school, her expectations, the living situation, and what I ought to bring, and each time her joviality set me at ease, although once again, I was agreeing to work for no pay. Eventually my Korea savings would run out and to continue I would need to fundraise.

I looked through photos on the school’s Facebook page and her own profile, compiled different stacks of books to accompany me, and booked a plane ticket.

Three weeks after our initial conversation, I was in the Miami airport with overstuffed backpack and purple roller case, awaiting the flight to Port au Prince. I saw a woman with short gray hair and long skirt filling up her water bottle at the nearby fountain. Beverly.

We met and our adventure together began.

After the first few months I couldn’t imagine leaving “my” kids, and decided even fundraising was worth staying with them.

I’ve worked with Beverly for two years now. When I began in September 2016 the school was Christian Light School of Petit Gôave. Now, we are Christian Academy of Petit Gôave (CAP), and have the most beautiful 169 children in Haiti, in the world. We are not biased.

We live with a local family, we are part of that family, and sing “I’m So Glad I’m a Part of the Family of God,” as our school theme. I speak and translate Creole and un peu de français, plan and teach Bible, administer first aid, fill water buckets, wash dishes and clothes, sing, dance, play, snuggle, laugh abundantly, and yes, teach English.

Relationships are what make CAP successful. Our relationships with God, then with one another: staff, students, parents, families, community, and partners. Our partners in the States enable our continuity.

In August Beverly and I took a two-week road trip from Virginia to Alabama. We were hosted by friends; we did presentations and had meetings organized by partners. Our partners scheduled, invited, opened their homes, provided food and drink, advocated for us and our students.

Denise and Danny shared their retirement retreat with us, that beautiful spacious log cabin perched high in the Smoky Mountains. Bev and David opened their suburban home to a house presentation and our residence. Pastor Bradley gave up his sermon time; then he and Ms. Patricia brought us out for lunch. Jaimie and Philip literally gave up their bed, sent us off with snacks and Thirty-One merchandise. Ricky and Debbie took us on tour and bought us candy. Emily paid the group breakfast bill and Tracey and Morgan gave us an afternoon of restful art. Tracey and Nathan welcomed us as family with a 28” pizza. Cate and Garrett agreed to host us before knowing who we were, welcoming us simply as part of the Body. Jennifer braved public speaking to represent us. Tammy shared her cozy home with us and guests for presentation, and introduced us to the Florida beach. John, Paul, and Jade made us honored guests at dinner. Dr. Reuben and Minnie introduced us to their Sunday school and treated us to lunch. Stefanie, Brian, and Wayne invited us to their party. Leonard and Laura gave us run of their ample house and hosted a twenty-guest dinner. All of these hosts cooked and cleaned for us, drove us, arranged meetings and presentations for us. They did all of this around their normal schedules, some of which include full-time jobs. We were not permitted to pay any restaurant bills and were told sincerely that “our home is your home.” We know many of these wonderful people because of CAP, because of God’s ministry in Ti Gôave. We are now closer to all of them because of CAP.

Relationships. That’s what keeps us going. That’s what enables CAP to continue through all the Haitian struggles and all the exhausting hours. So to all of you who partner with us, in prayer, in supplies, in finances, in labor: our warmest thanks. Thank you for enabling us to keep going. Thank you for your intercession, representation, advocacy. Thank you for your encouragement in word and deed. We cannot do this without you.

I still don’t like fundraising. Standing before a crowd and asking for financial partnerships is still intimidating sometimes. Mingling can still make my toes curl (introvert here). But we, too, believe that God equips those He calls, and for each situation, each crowd, congregation, house party, each deep-pocketed donor and blue-collar laborer, God gives us the words we ought speak, and the Spirit of courage.

And now I understand at least a bit what Steve Shadrach says in The God Ask. I would not push the Magic Button either. If all expenses were paid, fundraising superfluous, how fewer relationships would we have! How fewer friends in places far and near; places of misty mountains, rolling hills, cotton fields, tobacco farms, Spanish moss,  little country meeting houses and sprawling mega churches.  

These dollars given from our friends, new and old, are worth more. They go farther, for they are given with honest love.

Praise God for His provision. Praise Him that He has provided you.

Yes, we love for you to come and work at school. Yes, we appreciate when you bring supplies, or just those snacks we’ve run out of (trail mix.) But we treasure most that you come, that you share time and sweat with us. For your fellowship is far more precious than your luggage. You are far more fantastic than some Magic Button.

See you soon, Friends.

I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His blood!Joint heirs with Jesus as we travel this sod,For I'm part of the family,The Family of God.
You will notice we say "brother and sister" 'round here,It's because we're a family and these folks are so near;When one has a heartache, we all share the tears,And rejoice in each victory in this family so dear. 
From the door of an orphanage to the house of the King,No longer an outcast, a new song I sing;From rags unto riches, from the weak to the strong,I'm not worthy to be here, but praise God I belong! 

I am Not a Good Person : What a Wretched Person Am I!

Some people have called me good. Some people have called me an angel.

Both of these are untrue. I am not good. I am no angel. I am a Christian. When I follow Christ, He can do good things through me. He can mold my wicked heart to be more like His perfect one. When I do not follow Christ, I am a mess. I cannot do any good thing.

“Jesus’ instructions with regard to judging others is very simply put; He says, ‘Don’t.’”

“You must constantly be aware of anything that causes you to think of yourself as a superior person.”

“I have never met a person I could despair of, or lose all hope for, after discerning what lies in me apart from the grace of God.”

“The greatest characteristic of a saint is humility, as evidenced by being able to say honestly and humbly, ‘Yes, all those, as well as other evils, would have been exhibited in me if it were not for the grace of God. Therefore, I have no right to judge.’”

“Who of us would dare to stand before God and say, ‘My God, judge me as I have judged others’?”

My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers

These are difficult words. Chambers’ words often are. But he doesn’t write anything not already found in Scripture, he doesn’t tell us what we ought already know from reading the Bible. However, many of us still consider the Bible some impossible standard from which we are excluded. From which we are superior.

Oh, superiority.

That’s what I have to say today. Far too often I consider myself superior. Far too often I elevate myself and look down on my brothers and sisters. I see their long list of sins, their faults, their lack of fruit or obvious shamefulness, disregarding my own.

Psalm 130:3 cries, “If you, O LORD, kept a record of sins, O Lord, who could stand?” (NIV)

Well, certainly not me. I cannot dare stand before God and ask to be judged by the same harsh standard with which I have judged others. I do not want to be treated as so many times I have treated others.

Yes, I work for Jesus in the mission field, but I do not always emulate Jesus. Not always in action, definitely not always in speech, and even more rarely in thought.

The other day I was reminded heavily of my own wickedness. I was humiliated. Very necessarily so.

When we are tired we are often unguarded, saying and doing things we normally would not. But this liberality reveals our human character. What are we truly like uninhibited?

The other day I arose from a nap groggy and hot (welcome to Haiti in June.) Unintentionally I had fallen asleep in the middle of the day and woken up just in time to join Beverly. Two housemates and one student had follow-up appointments with the doctor and needed medication from the pharmacy.

Toting little bag and empty water bottle I shut my door and headed downstairs to the refrigerator. There should be several pitchers in various stages of freeze always stored inside. Some days there are none, or several pitchers with little or no water set back unfilled. This was one of those days. At the same moment I reached the freezer a guest, relative of Madame Rose, reached it, too. I began filling my large HydroFlask water bottle with one of the near-empty cold-water pitchers. I emptied it and then began filling from the second near-empty cold-water pitcher, noting a third, full pitcher in the freezer that was not yet cold.

The relative said as I poured, “Hey, okay, that’s enough for me.” He meant I should stop so he could have the rest of the cold water.

“Not for you, for me,” I said, continuing to pour.

I took the cold water for myself.

I was selfish. Rude. Mean.

There are some other unpleasant words but you get the idea.

The relative was upset. He said some unkind words to me in return, which I laughed about to myself as I topped off my water bottle with warm water from the bucket and headed out the door (Beverly was already in the car.)

I could justify this situation with grogginess, explaining that I didn’t understand his words until afterwards, thinking he meant I was filling the water bottle for him, that when I said, “for me,” I meant that the water bottle was for me, not him. I don’t share my personal bottle with anyone.

I could also say that this relative is rarely serious and I didn’t consider his feelings were legitimately hurt by my action and that I laughed as a natural reaction to his words.

I could continue to explain my general relationship with this relative, rather one of mutual tolerance than any friendship.

We always try to justify our sins. Explain away our shortcomings.

After a minute or two I became angry at the relative for his unkind words to me. They were completely uncalled for.

He had said, “You are not a good Christian. You just go to church but you are not really a Christian. I am a better Christian than you,” as he walked away from  me, turning his back on my offer of a fraction of cold water.

Chewing these words in my head I got in the car angry. For about ten minutes I was angry, righteously angry, thinking how dare he say such a thing to me. How dare he, a sinner, a person with a visible list of wrongdoings, accuse me of not being a Christian, of being a better Christian than me. He doesn’t go to church at all, he’s done this, he’s done that, what kind of fruit does he show in his life?.....

And then, after these accusations swirled for ten minutes, I deflated, realizing what I had done. I had taken for myself. I had, in front of him, seized for myself. And then made light of it.

Jesus expects us to always put others before ourselves. He expects us to offer our cloak when someone wants our tunic. He expects us to walk two miles when we are asked to walk one. To give to the one who asks of us and not turn away the one who wants to borrow (Matthew 5:40-42). He expects us to love our neighbors as ourselves. He says everyone is our neighbor, even those we dislike. Even those we feel superior to.

Ah. There is the issue. I consider myself superior.

I elevate myself above others. This relative is one whom I struggle to love. Struggle to treat with Jesus’ compassion. One I assure myself is not as good as me.

The clinic and pharmacy took two hours. We returned to the house for a meal, the relative was not there. I told Madame Rose he was angry with me. I continued to make myself out to be not at fault. To make light of it, although my conscience was troubled.

“Okay, God,” I prayed. “I’ve done wrong. I’m sorry. Please give me the opportunity to make it right.”

I was afraid to let this lie.

After eating we left for another two hours delivering food to staff and a few students.

When we returned, sweaty and tired, I saw his car. He was sitting outside visiting with Rose. In the freezer were two pitchers, one with enough cold water to fill a cup for him.

I put down my bag and took a cup of cold water out to him.

“This is for you,” I said.

He wouldn’t even look at me.

He shook his head, “No, thank you.”

Rose looked at him.

“Did you drink water already?” she asked.

He shook his head again. “No. I don’t want it.”

I continued to hold out cup.

“I did wrong, and this is my apology. Will you accept it?”

He shook his head, “No.”

I tried again. “I should have given you water first. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

He shrugged, still not meeting my eyes. “Life continues.”

“Yes, but when I do wrong I want to make it right. I’m sorry.”

There was some exchange while the relative explained to Rose what I had done, why he was angry, and said he did not think I was truly a Christian. Rose did not accept this. And I did not accept his aversion.

This had to be made right.

So I stood there before him, holding out the water, not looking to the right or to the left, not noticing who was standing around to see my apology, my humiliation. Of course, witnesses were surely in my favor. It’s harder to deny someone in front of an audience (and audiences are part of Haitian life.)

He took the water.

“It’s not Christian to not forgive,” I reminded him. “Please look at me.”

He finally did look me in the eye. I don’t know if he was too angry to look at me or felt awkward to be confronted with an apology.

We parted with a handshake. He said we had no problem between us.

“You are a good Christian,” he said. “Anyone can make a mistake but you make it right.”

“I don’t think there are good Christians and bad Christians,” I answered. “There are only Christians. When I follow Jesus, I am okay. When I don’t follow Jesus, I am bad.”

He did not agree or disagree, but went back to his phone.

Is he truly a Christian? Does he follow Christ? I don’t know. That is between himself and God. Like my conscience.

Perhaps spiritual fruit is visible in my life. Perhaps people have no trouble seeing I am Christian. But perhaps they do. How often do I mess up, like I did that day, and blend in with this wicked world? How often do I do good with my hands and even my tongue, but harbor wickedness, jealousy, superiority, in my heart?

Far too often.

Oh, thank you, God, that you do not judge me as I judge others. That you do not keep record of this long list of sins I commit.

I thank God for humbling me this day. For making me stand and account for my wrongdoing before a person I usually struggle to love. Frequently I pray God would crush my pride, our pride, any pride that makes us own the ministry or take credit for God’s great work here in Ti Gôave, in our own redeemed lives. Well, He answered.

I will continue to pray this prayer because pride is slippery and invasive. Pride rises quickly. And I pray that you will see what a wretched person I am. That there is no good in me apart from Christ, and I am constantly in need of His forgiveness. I am no better than anyone else. I am not good, I am no angel.

God has saved me and every moment saves me again from my own wicked self.

“Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death? Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord” (Romans 7:24-25 NLT). Amen.

The Loneliest Job in the World

*Written on Wednesday and published on Sunday due to illness yet lingering*

For three or four or seven days I woke up lonely. That aching loneliness that really can kill you. For three or four or seven evenings I went to bed with that crushing loneliness, too. At the day’s beginning and the day’s end it clung to me.

Bedtime meant escape through sleep. Morning meant relief through prayer. What got me off the bed, out of the net, remembering with heaviness Beverly’s absence; what got me up were the children’s faces. Their pudgy hands, their quizzical expressions, their accents when reading, their squeezes and snuggles. Those sweet minions gave me courage to put feet on the floor.

And time with God, singing, reading, praising, and supplicating on the roof, that was the perspective realignment needed to shake off the deadly loneliness and press on. Not just press on, endure, or survive, but run forward with eagerness: THRIVE.

It’s still lonely. Being the only foreigner in the house, school, church, on the streets; being the odd one out in culture, language, appearance, experience—it’s lonely. My Creole is quite capable, good perhaps, but I am easily left behind when there’s slang or native rapidity. Whoosh. I’m in the dust straining after that train of dialogue.

Culture is also pretty familiar, having lived for this length of time with American-influenced Haitians. But occasionally it smacks me upside the head and steamrolls my heart. The treatment of children, the class system, trash disposal (or lack there-of?), the lack of medical care and basic necessities, the fascination with illness, death, and everyone else’s business—not sure I ever want to get used to these cultural phenomena.

Appearance. I can go nowhere unnoticed, or uncommented. There is always at least one kind soul reminding me of my color with a call of “blan!” I felt good sitting through three hours of church last week with only some curious stares. Putting up my chair in the fourth hour a little fellow chased me shouting “Blan!” excitedly. Worse than his call was that no one intervened. No one corrected him. *Sigh*

Just when you start to feel you truly belong, that you’re truly at home, someone calls you Blan. The bank teller, the cashier, the machan vender can’t get past your accent, or the sheer incongruity of your color and speech, so your comrade must translate your Creole into Creole (that to you sounds precisely the same.) Your elementary students laugh and correct your pronunciation. (Now that’s humbling.)

You are at once expected to provide medical care and criticized for assuming knowledge only a true doctor would know. You are expected to live sparingly by Americans but are thought to live in luxury by the locals. (And really, to many, you do.)

You shake your head because your public education and childhood taught you to wash with soap and water, to put antibiotic under the bandaid, to brush and floss at least twice a day, to drink water and eat your greens, to sleep eight hours a night. You know to shut the door, flush the toilet, turn off the faucet, knock, use your napkin, wait your turn. You don’t listen at top volume, listen to others speak, learn from your classmates’ answers, take care of your things, turn pages without crumpling them, sound out words phonetically.

You know you always have ten fingers and toes, which direction is right, can distinguish before and after, identify numbers and letters out of sequence. You walk in line, ask for what you need with please and thank you, say excuse me. You don’t stare or yell “Foreigner!” at strangers.

Many of these things you don’t even remember learning. Most of these I teach every day, to children, youth, and adults, who by this age “ought to know.”

But their experience is not yours. It’s not mine.

You and I from 24-hour electricity, customer service, 911-Emergency, stable government, Walmart and grocery stores. Us from standardized public education built on comprehension and critical thinking…

Our experience, my first-world friend, is so unknowable here.

That can be so very isolating. So very lonesome. Unable to explain deep feelings, concepts, to translate thoughts, share what you’re yearning to say. It’s lonely not to have friends with whom you take walks, shop, sip lattes in cafes, see a movie, banter with waiters at a restaurant, cook dinner, attend church in your native tongue….
It’s lonely to be so isolated, literally walled in for your color marks you.

This world can often feel lonely.

And being a missionary in the third world away from family and familiar, sometimes it’s the loneliest job in the world.

So, you ask, is it worth it?

Oh, yes.

How many children did you snuggle today? How many co-workers hugged you and told you they loved you? How many three-year olds clung to you? How many four-year olds jumped up and down at your appearance? How many kindergarteners put their arms around your neck so you could sweep them off their feet? How many first graders said, “Jesus loves you!” in two languages? How many second graders read to you in learner’s English and called out for you to see their block-buildings (a first-time experience for all)? How many third graders came to you and said, “I want a hug,” refusing to work until their request was fulfilled?

Did you eat any mangoes fresh off the tree? Did you watch the sun rise and set beside the ocean?  Laugh so hard you doubled up? Serve as nurse to thirty children? Feel your heart break in love? Preach a lesson in a foreign language in front of a hundred eyes? Drink fresh cherry and lime juice? Help a nine-year old with his English homework? Feel utterly grateful for every breeze, sip of water, a toilet and paper, soap, rice and beans, bug spray?

I did all of this today. And the day is not yet finished. Next to do is work out under the stars in 85% or 110% humidity. How much did you sweat today?

 How full are you?

My cup runneth over, and I’ve got the loneliest job in the world.

I Need Thee Ev'ry MOMENT: Step by Step

You’ll forgive me for not blogging more. You understand we are very busy. You’ll agree that you are, too. Perhaps you’ll agree that life is so fast you seem to blink away the days. And yet, here, at least, the days are so full we seem to live three days in one, all the while blinking it away.

Typically I get up at 6, when the sun is coming up. I fold aside the mosquito net that protects me after fan cuts off, and look out the window to see what colors the sun is painting.

Typically I trot downstairs with flashlight handy to get the coffee going in the stove-top percolator. Then I head up to the roof to spend some quiet time with God while the sun rises and the world stirs.

By 7:30 we’re supposed to be at school or at least on the way. The past week we’ve been departing about 6:45, but in our defense we’ve had guests. And a few days last week there were two nebulizer treatments to give at 7. Oh, and remember, all times are Haitian. Haitian 7:00 runs anywhere from 6:45 to 7:45.

Once at school, which involves the short commute around motos, venders, dogs, chickens, wheelbarrows, papadap vans, floods of students in multi-colored uniforms, half-dressed women toting water, bicycles, and speed bumps, there is the barrage of students. We ooze through the clinging hands and clutching bodies, everyone eager for hugs and greetings. Up the steps, down the hall, unlock the office, set down the day’s supplies, which include daily teaching materials and the rotating assortment of medicine, pencils, toilet paper, crackers, peanut butter, and student gifts. Then grab the flags and song packets and back down the hall for teacher devotion.

Inside the first grade classroom the staff gather, minus the security guard and custodian who stay outside to manage children. And we sing. Every day another teacher directs us to a song, English and French or Creole, we pray, we recite a scripture, English and French, and then greet one another with kisses and joy.

Then it’s time for the children.

School runs from 8 to 1 for the three younger grades, and 8 to 2 PM for the elementary grades. My own schedule starts second grade full class English at 9 Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, heading to third grade at 10:30. I have a break from 11:30 to 12:30 which is usually filled with maintenance (filling water buckets or washing dishes), visiting other classes (particularly Preschool 1 with the three year olds), eating, doing office work (organizing, dispensing medicine, stapling torn books), and actually lesson-planning (which is what the break is intended for.) Last week that time included catching up with Beverly, who was in and out to the hospital, and checking in on our teenage visitor.

Today is Wednesday, so there was Bible assembly at 9. As Beverly is not here and Madame Rose arrived late, I directed opening assembly outside, partnered with Madame Alice, our second grade teacher. We sang, prayed, and saluted the Haitian and Christian flags. Then I stood at the doorway to each class to greet each child individually. This is always one of my favorite pastimes, beginning with the three year olds who compete as to who can respond “Good morning!” the loudest in their pipsqueak voices, to the third grade, many of whom are as tall as my chest already. Sandrina in kindergarten likes to say, “I am happy to see you, too!” whether I’ve said this or not, while tiny Marie Fine in first grade says, “Jesus loves you, too, Madame Rachelle!”

Once all students were in class, the troubled group and I prayed in the office. This group of second graders has been struggling with obedience and for the past several days begins the day by praying in the office for Jesus to change their hearts.

“We’re going to have a good day today, yes?” I asked them this morning. “No dezod? No misbehaving?”

They all agreed. We prayed. I hugged each one and told them to have a good day, then sent them on their way.

Two students had “bouton,” infected bumps, that needed antibiotic ointment. Ismael had a suspicious one on his ear that made me nervous. Yuck. Four year old Roodna had several on her scalp. Then our dear little Munley needed his treatment.

Last week Munley came to school with dreadful burns on his calves—a common injury from a moto muffler. Munley is three, extremely intelligent, somewhat stubborn, and irresistibly adorable. Like many Haitian children, he is nearly impervious to pain. He had to go to the hospital to have the burns scraped and treated, along with a burn on his toe. The latter has since become infected, and must be soaked in salt water each morning.

Madame Rose brought him in, put water in the tub, and Munley took off his sandal, scooted to the very edge of the bench and stuck his wee foot in the water. I bustled about organizing papers, sharpening pencils, and writing the week’s Bible vocabulary on a poster for 9:00 assembly. Once as I passed Munley grabbed my arm and pulled it to his face. I remembered just how tiny he is. A mere baby, expected to endure suffering in silence.

After the soak we wrapped his foot in gauze and Rose stuffed it back into his sandal. Munley watched this while continuing to calmly eat his crackers. He made no noise as his nerves surely screamed.

Munley went back to class with Rose and I shaking our heads after him. Assembly began at 9 with singing, the kindergarten to third grade classes filing in and arranging themselves on the floor of the Recreation Room. We sang “I’m in the Lord’s Army” and “Jesus Loves Me,” in English and Creole. Then Rose and I taught the vocabulary and lesson about Samson, who was deceived by someone he loved. In the midst of this our friends Emory, Mary, and Amos dropped by on their way to Port au Prince. Assembly wrapped up, students swarmed back to class, and I gathered up my things to begin second grade English. We are working hard on Stop, Think, Answer, and phonics. Critical thinking is not a regular part of Haitian curriculum, which relies almost solely upon rote memorization.

Class went passably well. I love them dearly, but second grade is a mess.

Third grade is practicing past tense and beginning creative writing. Today we talked about what we did yesterday, a holiday, and reviewed their homework. Their love of learning is obvious in their rapid ability to learn new concepts. Some of us practiced spelling with the game Sparkle while those who’d not done their homework copied sentences off the board. As usual, I dismissed students by name to wash their hands and collect lunch; some stayed to finish up their work. All were done by 11:40 and my “break” arrived.

Today my office duties included stapling torn books, administering fever medicine to a four year old, organizing English class papers for Rose, and neatening up the library, while eating peanut butter crackers. Oh, and of course I popped in to see the three year olds.

At 12:30 I collect a small group of third graders and we go to the library. This week we have been writing and drawing pictures about the books they brought home last week. Once a week these students can “check-out” books from our library by writing name and book title on a highly technical piece of lined paper. They each read to me and answer some questions. I send them back to class at 1 with a new book, and collect a larger, rowdier group of second graders. Last week and this week a day has been missed so I’ve put two groups together…and inevitably sent at least one student back to class for lack of cooperation. Small group is a privilege organized by ability level. Misbehavior revokes the privilege.

At 1:30 my schedule is finished. Usually that means at 1:40 the students are gone and I’m left alone in the library. Sometimes I stay to straighten up. Sometimes I set on the bench and lesson plan. Sometimes I head downstairs at once to do office work or check in with Beverly’s first grade English class, or just play with the kids outside. Those kindergarten and preschool students not yet picked up play outside in the courtyard and love to have company.

Today I went straight to first grade to assist Madame Rose and Madame Samanne who are running English class without Beverly. Beverly is gone to Texas for a bit following her mother’s death. We expect her back soon, but in the meantime do our best without her. Our school is certainly accustomed to doing without. Haiti is, too.

School ends for all at 2:00. There’s always a mad rush initially, and then students left awaiting parents or moto taxis. Today we had a tardy six. The taxi for four arrived at 2:35 and the taxi for two did not arrive. We left school with light rain at 2:50, piling the two leftover students and two intentional students into the backseat, Rose riding shotgun, and stopped for gas one block down. When we reached our street the taxi was waiting.

“Moto gen pwoblem,” the chauffer explained through the window as I stopped the car. “The moto has a problem. That’s why I was late. Exkise m’, sivouple.” Rose and I nodded our acceptance of his apology. We know this driver and he’s not usually a problem. Kingsaida and Marvens scooted out of the car, clambered onto the moto, and they were off.

That left the four of us to roll down the road, all pitted by the daily rain, and pull up to the gate. Saintilus hopped out to open it, as usual, and we got out of the car to the pleasant Ti Gôave afternoon sun and humidity. Always breathtaking.

We had electricity, an afternoon privilege courtesy of the soccer broadcast, so I got Adeline started on the nebulizer right away. Adeline is eight years old, diagnosed as severely asthmatic, and lives in an environment conducive to never improving. Generous folks donated nebulizers, and now Adeline can come home with us when she needs treatment, rather than waiting at the hospital.

After about 15 minutes, during which I kept prodding her awake with a stroke on her cheek, the medicine finished and we could eat. Rice and beans and fish. The table was quiet today without our guests, Beverly, or the house sons. Once we’d finished, I got my purse and Adeline her backpack and Alixthon, a cousin of Pastor’s with good English, joined us to go to the copy shop.

We collected our copies, paid the bill at 2 gourdes per sheet (63 gourdes to a U.S. dollar), and then dropped Adeline off at the house where her mama works. Rubbing my forehead for the nasty throbbing there, I drove us home, Alixthon directing me unnecessarily with exaggerated gestures.

At 4:15 we arrived home and I went upstairs. I got out of my beautiful, not incredibly comfortable uniform and fell down on my bed, sunburn itching back and shoulders. The fan was still on when I woke up groggy two hours later.

I don’t always take such luxurious naps after school. But I think I always need them. Now the sun is nearly set at 7:30 and I’ve done no preparation for school. I did collect my laundry off the roof, which I washed by hand yesterday afternoon before going to evening service at church. I do have the copies ready for English homework tomorrow and I am looking forward to hearing the kids’ progress. I refuse to think beyond that, for my heart is sad at Beverly’s absence and our guests’ departure. To consider a whole week without my other half, our amazing American director, her silliness, her joyful singing, her laugh, her hugs, our adventures, early morning and late night visits in her room—that is too much.

And so, as Rose and I agreed this morning, we simply go step by step, moment by moment if we must. The phrase “every hour I need you” falls short—every moment we rely on Jesus, every moment we ask for help. For the three year olds with infected burns and no one competent in basic first aid at home. For the kindergarten student who’s hungry but plagued by cavities and doesn’t want to eat, which may be just as well for Papa can’t afford to buy food. For the undiagnosed maladies, the unpaid debts, for all the mourning parents who don’t find their child’s name on the list of new students. Instead, we focus moment by moment, step by step.

Today is almost finished. I think it’s early to bed for me. So the next step is to fold that laundry and put it away. You’ll forgive me for not writing more. Some days it’s more than I can do to lesson plan and neaten my room. Whatever I do, may it be in love. Step by loving step.

“Lord, I come, I confess
Bowing here I find my rest
Without You I fall apart
You're the One that guides my heart

Chorus:

Lord, I need You, oh, I need You
Every hour I need You
My one defense, my righteousness
Oh God, how I need You

Where sin runs deep Your grace is more
Where grace is found is where You are
Where You are, Lord, I am free
Holiness is Christ in me

Chorus

So teach my song to rise to You
When temptation comes my way
When I cannot stand I'll fall on You
Jesus, You're my hope and stay” – Matt Maher “Lord, I Need You”

“1. I need thee ev’ry hour,

Most gracious Lord.

No tender voice like thine

Can peace afford.

Chorus: I need thee, oh, I need thee;

Ev’ry hour I need thee!

Oh, bless me now, my Savior;

I come to thee!

2. I need thee ev’ry hour;

Stay thou nearby.

Temptations lose their pow’r

When thou art nigh.

3. I need thee ev’ry hour,

In joy or pain.

Come quickly and abide,

Or life is vain.

4. I need thee ev’ry hour,

Most holy One.

Oh, make me thine indeed,

Thou blessed Son!” – Annie S. Hawks “I Need Thee Ev’ry Hour”

Nothing is Guaranteed

Yesterday I watched a little boy denied lunch. His name is Sheinder. He’s Haitian, very petite, and one of our students—three clues he likely doesn’t eat much at home. This midday meal of Feed My Starving Children Manna Pack Rice is probably the biggest, most nutritious meal of his day. He is accustomed to a heaping portion piled on his tin plate: a portion you might find ridiculously oversized for such a little boy. But he consumes it all. I’ve seen him return for second helpings.

Yesterday we ran out of food. Sometimes this happens, and it’s always heart-wrenching. The sound of the spoon scraping the bottom of the pot when there are still children with empty plates makes me cringe. Someone will be going hungry.

This year the second grade class is the last class to eat. The twenty-six come up from Recreation after washing their hands, and oft their sweaty faces, and make an unruly line in the kitchen to receive their lunch. All of our students know to ask for a large “gwo” or small “piti” or “ti kras” portion. Everyone is required to have at least a small helping of the rice and beans because of the nutritional value. Some students lament their minute spoonful as they favor their home-brought, store-bought snacks or treats, but generally everyone is obedient.

Then there are those like Sheinder, who come with tummies ready to be filled to bursting, so that the meal might carry them through the next twenty-four hours or so. Those like Sheinder, who live in shanty-like houses with sagging walls, tarp reinforcements, leaky tin roofs, and underfed family members.

These children are as hungry for food as they are for affection, for their desperate parents work dawn to dusk to provide for those hungry mouths. There is little time for tenderness.

At school we try to give love in all ways: from meeting those desperate felt needs of thirst, hunger, illness, and nakedness, to the more insidious ones of loneliness, doubt, neglect, and ignorance. But with our humble wonderful staff of 13, we cannot lavish enough attention on 144 hungry children.

We at least try to guarantee they are greeted by name, fed, and watered every day.

This week, I watched two of those things go unfulfilled.

Praise God, it was not the former.

This week electricity has been even more sparse than usual. We haven’t received power until at least 8:00 at night and lost it by 2:00 in the morning. These are sparse, dark hours, not hours to do repairs or run water pumps. Water pumps such as the one needed to fill the cistern that fills our school water barrels. Like many buildings, we have neither electricity nor running water at school. Unlike many school buildings, we are blessed with sound walls, floor, and roof. We do not fear the rain. We are blessed with two toilets for the students. We do not have to send our children outside to the latrine and they do not have to squat over drains or ditches. Praise the Lord.

However, these toilets are flushed manually by the waste water we collect from hand-washing. 144 students and 13 staff go through a lot of water every day washing their hands after using the restroom or before eating (which we require.) Thus the school runs through 2 55-gallon barrels of water every day for washing and flushing—and nearly an additional barrel’s worth to fill the 5-gallon drinking buckets in each of the six classrooms.

That’s a lot of water. (Although still significantly less than a school with running water would use for power-flush toilets, sinks, and water fountains.)

This week, the cistern that supplies that water went dry. There was no electricity during the day to run the pump that could fill the cistern. Monday and Tuesday we watched the water levels drop, told we needed to buy water, although we’d already paid the water bill for April.

“It’s not our problem,” Beverly said to Rose, director to director, as Rose relayed the news from our afternoon custodian in charge of filling the water barrels. “We paid for this month.”

“Yes,” Rose said, “but not their problem, too. No EDH, no pump. No water.” She wrung her hands emphatically in that Haitian way, as though absolving herself from guilt as Pilate tried to do.

No, it wasn’t the water business’ fault. The city had not given us power. It wasn’t really their fault, either. EDH is the national electric company Electricité d’Haïti, controlled from the capital. Everything came back to the government and their lack of organization, lack of infrastructure, lack of ability. Ayiti pwoblem. Haiti is a broken country tangled with problems; follow one thread of an issued and you will find yourself back to the Gordian knot at the center.

“So what do we do?” Beverly asked, as I relayed to her again the necessity of doing something. There was no extra water left in the school. There had again been no electricity. The cistern was still bare. The water we did have was swarming with mosquito larvae. We dumped bleach in the barrels in hopes of killing some off.

Rose shrugged. “Buy water,” Rose said. “Arold says he needs 100 gourdes.”

So we paid. Through the morning, and through this week, Arold toted in 5-gallon buckets of water from another source. He carried one on his head and another in his hand. This morning he came through with three in a wheelbarrow. The first time I refilled the hand washing bucket I thanked God to see water brimming the top of the barrel.

But two days ago the kids were thirsty. They are supposed to bring a water bottle to school, whether it be a thermos, canteen, or recycled Coke bottle; so they can drink water through the day. For every malady we tell the kids, and staff, to drink water. Haitians are dubious of water’s merits, but we are insistent.

Two days ago some of those kids who had faithfully brought their water bottles came to me. “Madame Rachelle, I want some water,” said some third and second graders.

Grimacing, I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I answered. I didn’t know where there was any water.

Sometimes when one class has emptied their bucket we send the kids in groups to another class to refill bottles—that day I was sure every class was dry.

And so we had to tell the kids our constant remedy of “drink water” was impossible: there is no water.

That morning my voice was nearly inaudible. I’d gone to bed with a stuffy head and awoken with a sore throat. As Beverly stood in the office, sweat running down her face (that’s normal for us), looking down at attendance to see which boys needed fungal cream for the irrepressible head fungus, and spooning cold medicine to runny-nosed kids, thinking about report cards on Friday, inscriptions of the incoming class, picking up our food allotment for the previous month, dwindling peanut butter and cracker supplies, teaching first grade English, returning to the house to file finances, contact partners, and return messages about her ailing mother and husband—as she stood there in her tight uniform with barely a breeze stirring the stuffy room (at approximately 80% humidity), Beverly was, as Rose, said, “not happy.”

I went to her and hugged her, pressing my own sweaty face close to hers, so she could hear my faint voice.

“It’s just there’s no water! Water is so basic! It should be guaranteed!” she said. Blessedly, usually it is for us.

“But this is Haiti,” I reminded her. “Nothing is guaranteed except Jesus.”

She managed a weak laugh. Me, too.

Better to laugh than cry.

And how true are those words. In Haiti perhaps they are more obvious, more visible in this broken place of pwoblem, pwoblem, pwoblem, of hungry children, parasites, sagging houses, sewage, unemployment, and instability. But in this whole world there is nothing to be sure of. Everything collapses.

This winter in New Hampshire we lost power for a time. A blessedly brief time, but for a while there was no electricity. That meant there was no running water, no light, no internet. For my parents, it did not signify no heat or cooking for they have a gas stove and wood stove. We stow water for emergencies and can set refrigerated food outside to keep in the frigid air.

But how inconvenient! Oh, how we love our electricity!

Another nor’easter dumped snow on us the morning my father suffered atrial fibrillation (AFib)—cardiac irregularity. He couldn’t snow-blow the driveway to clear out the 18 inches of snowfall so we could drive to the hospital. Oh, such helplessness!

This kind of desperation is how life in Haiti is much of the time for most of the people.

Beverly and I are not so deprived at the house where we stay, although many of you first-worlders are surprised at what we do without.

Life is undeniably sparse here.

This week, that sparse desperation touched us at school. In the lack of water so children were left thirsty in the high heat and humidity. In the lack of food as we ran out at the end of the second grade line so four boys were left with a fraction of their usual heaping portions. In the parents and guardians pushing for inscription forms to enroll their three-year old charge in the lottery for next year’s class: In one afternoon we received 86. The class can only take 25 students.

Such desperation, such suffering, can be overwhelming.

Sometimes it has knocked me down just to witness it.

This week, it did not.

Because I remembered what we are guaranteed: Jesus is with us. Through trial, temptation, through storm, through starvation, through persecution, imprisonment, through heat, humidity, and hunger. Through parasites, manifestations, darkness, and thirst. He is there with us.

He helped me to be strong for Sheinder.

So when Sheinder, this petite second grader, was denied his proper serving of lunch, I did not cry with him. He turned to the wall with a wail of objection, outcry at the injustice of seeing his twenty-two classmates walk away with their desired amount of food, small or large. He left his diminished plate untouched on the serving table.

Not only was his portion already undersized as our server, Madame Dada, scraped the bottom of the pot for rice to set on the three remaining plates, but it was then further reduced as she halved his portion to give some rice to the last student who had none.

The other boys accepted their plates and the crackers I pulled from the cabinet to supplement. They began to eat with gusto.

Sheinder turned to the wall, resting his forehead on the cement and looking at the floor.

He didn’t want crackers. He didn’t want to eat at all.

“W’ap manje?” I asked him. He shook his head.

His classmates reached for his plate to divide it among themselves. I shook my head.

“No. Leave it for Sheinder.”

Then I picked up the plate myself and led him from the room. I took us down to the office and sat Sheinder on the bench beside me.

For the next five minutes I just held him.

I didn’t have words for him, but that didn’t matter. I held him and rocked him, kissed his forehead and let the love flow into him.

Then I straightened up.

“Ou pral manje?” I asked. He nodded. He would eat.

From my backpack I took a granola bar and added it to his plate. From the table I took a lollipop another student had given me and put it in his pocket for later.

Then I handed him the plate and let him eat.

Sheinder was solemn the rest of the day. But he ate. And he felt love.

Love conquers that desperation. That sparseness.

This afternoon, as I worked in the office, Sheinder trooped in with an enormous heaping portion of rice and beans on his tin plate.

“Wow, Sheinder! Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, beaming.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes,” he said again, nodding.

“Hooray!” I said, hugging him. We went up to the kitchen together, and four other boys held up their own heaping plates for me to see. Madame Dada grinned at me.

“We have food!” I said. “Thank you, Jesus!”

And that Name is the only guarantee we have in this life.  

 "Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." - Jesus (Matthew 28:20 NIV)