Sometimes being a missionary is just impossible

Sometimes being a missionary is the loneliest job in the world. The hardest. The most impractical. The most draining. The most exhausting. The most desperate. The most discouraging. The most absurd.

Sometimes being a missionary is just impossible.

When you return to the first world, the world of pampered convenience, of emergency speed dial, of Walmart, of protests because a TV show or neighbor’s skin tone is offensive, you can’t understand or relate. You can’t fathom the [shallow and petty] happenings of the place you once knew as home. You start crying in Panera Bread after spending 20$ on a haircut, watching the Martha’s Vineyard style housewives eating 12$ salads and 4$ tea, wondering where the money could be spent. You stand dumbfounded in the aisles of the grocery store, counting the jars of mustard and relish, cringe past the frozen foods: hundreds of prepared meals sitting in wait while you can name a hundred hungry mouths. You try to keep your eyes on the pavement, averting your gaze from shopping centers, parking lots, and manicured lawns, for the sight of all that space, so devoid of people, makes you ache with the possibility of a hundred gravel-calloused feet running over soft grass and hundreds of dollars wasted on frivolities. You have no idea what music, movies, or TV shows are popular. You can’t find a reason to care. People hear where you live and wonder why; they say, “that’s depressing.” You look around you and can think of nothing more depressing.

When you’re on the ground in the field, enduring hard work, hunger, and sleepless nights, sometimes you’re just stuck. It seems there are no results, there is no progress, no ground gained. You’re still hungry and sick, and so are they. You’re still an alien and they are still homeless. You’re still stumbling around the language and they’re still illiterate. You’re still afraid, or not allowed, to go out alone, and they’re still endangered. There’s another baby, another plea, another tug at your heart. There’s not enough space. Not enough resources. You need more funds. More partners. People who pledged fall away, lose interest. Internet is slow. Email doesn’t open. Messages don’t send and photos don’t upload. Communication is misplaced. Mislaid. Misunderstood.

Culture crushes you. The language block ties your tongue in knots. You’re tired. Tired. Tired. And hot. You want to close the door. Someone’s knocking. Someone’s needing. Jesus would open it. Open it. Give more. Jesus would.

“Don’t burn out,” they say. “Take care of yourself.” “Are you eating?”

Don’t eat too much. Others are hungrier than you. Paperwork completed. Bills paid (palms greased.) Dead end. More time wasted and resources drained. Finish the email, the power cuts. Start printing, the power cuts. Get in the shower, the water’s out. Hole in the mosquito net. Middle of the night, the power cuts. Fan shuts off. Move to the floor. Swat at mosquitoes. Drop off. Sun’s coming up. Time to rise.

They’re hungry. No more crackers. Pot is empty. Babies are coughing. Syrup is gone. Maladies are spreading. Wash your hands! Every surface is lined with dust. The water’s not been changed since this morning and one hundred dishes ago. Is there Klorox in there? Change the water. Mosquito larvae in the barrel again. It’s hot. We need the rain. It rains hard. Trash washes into the road. Rain pours through the windows, shreds the posters on the wall, floods the floor of the kitchen. Building needs repairs. Call the Boss. He calls his workmen. Fix the ceiling, fix the hole in the wall. Three weeks later there are still blocks, piles of sand and gravel, and cement splattering in through the windows. Brush debris off the babies’ heads. Call at the men to be careful. Call the Boss again to finish up. To hold work until after the children leave. Can’t use the Recreation Room. Can’t use the courtyard. Can’t find the bucket for hand washing. It’s been broken. Call the Boss. Buy us a bucket. Clean up your mess. L’ap vini. He’s coming. It’s always coming.

There are motos loaded with five people. Two people and a goat. Three people and a chicken. Two men and a 55-gallon drum. One man and coffin. One man and a cat wrapped carefully in a plastic bag. Two men dragging iron rebar. Three adults and a baby on the front. At the hospital the doctor has no thermometer. No stethoscope or blood pressure cuff. No gloves, no sink, nothing beyond a desk and fan. X-rays are examined in the dim light of the emergency room. Doctor orders a blood test every time. Come and get results tomorrow. Pick up prescriptions at one of the five nearby pharmacies and take it to the house. Sit at the end of the alley and call the doctor again to explain the dosage, jot notes, then translate for Mama. Tell her the seven year old son has got to wash his hands as you look at the cement latrine spreading its reek through the air. Wonder where he’ll get the soap. Drive into the city. Police officer pulls you over, checking those tinted windows. Sees you have no seatbelt and tries to ticket you, as taptaps and papadaps full of people on top of one another pass by, followed by massive trucks with passengers perched atop overloads of charcoal and bananas. You must put sugar in the milk. You must cook the spaghetti in oil. Mangoes are good off the ground. Unless marked otherwise, any wall is a urinal and any ditch a latrine. Don’t worry about washing your hands after. But always shower before going out anywhere. Go ahead and speak through the bedroom window and open the shut door without permission. Washing dishes and clothes is women’s work, whether the man has work or not. There are no Haitian dollars. But prices are given and currency exchanged in dollars (gourdes multiplied by 5). You must deposit or withdraw from your bank account every month, but cannot deposit dollars. Finish the applications, go to the office, take the paperwork to the other office, sign the papers, get the stamp, the receipt and the assurance it’s all finished. Then wait three more months for confirmation. (Did we ever get those papers?)

Sometimes you’re just down. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be, really. There’s nothing more rewarding, you know, than the children here and now. Cuddling a fevered student. The ones who didn’t speak piping, “Good morning!” The bullies, ones constantly called to the office, hugging you round the middle, gazing up with shining eyes and saying, “I love you and Jesus loves you!” Proud parents filming their children’s praise performance on their cell phones in the noonday heat. Being greeted by those parents smiling at you outside the gate. Everyone at church clean and pressed, hands held high, sweat pouring down as they sing and dance, praising God with the same joy as your eleven-year-old housemate who belts glory songs at dawn while cooking. Hungry bellies fed and gaunt faces filled out. The seven year old with asthma who breathes normally after her inhaler treatment. The angry six year old from the abusive home who smiles and expresses herself, snuggles in and shares. The hard-hearted, money-motivated security guard who falls for the three-year-old class and marches about the room with these children as tall as his knee. Teachers who come by faith. Resonance and harmony sung before school. Stars wheeling overhead, shooting in bursts of glory as you gaze after evening devotion. Plunging in, rooting deep, and profiting from the abundant wellspring of God’s Word. The sound of the surf in the still of dawn. Praying in the cool blue before sunrise, pacing around talking to God on the deserted roof. Coaching English from the timid and rounding syllables with the [once] shackled. Memory verses recited. Tiny hands folded, arms crossed, eyes squinted shut in prayer. Coming back after a day of illness to hear, “I prayed for you!” Preaching Jesus from dawn to midnight. Jesus permeating every discussion. Utter dependence on God, for there is no emergency speed dial, no Walmart, no pampering or convenience, no monthly paychecks or healthcare plan.

Oh, Dear Readers, Supporter, Prayer and Giving Partner, Interested Party, and Accidental Viewer, I can say with all assurance sometimes being a missionary is the loneliest job in the world, the hardest, the most impractical, the most draining, the most exhausting, the most desperate, the most discouraging, the most absurd. Sometimes being a missionary is just impossible.

But I can never say that being a missionary is not rewarding. Not worth all of the trial, all of the inconvenience, hardship, sacrifice, sweat, fatigue, exhaustion, tears, devastation, desperation.

Yes, it’s hard. Right now perhaps I might be discouraged, tired, overwhelmed by the overwhelming need here, the overwhelming business and financial paperwork and communication to maintain, worn out with little sleep, allergies, improper nutrition, and constant knocking on the door. Right now I am truly tired. I am honest. It is not easy. Many days, many moments, I feel like giving up. Many times I dialogue,

Oh, Jesus, let me just go be with you now and leave behind this impossible world and this impossible job.

But once again, God is faithful. He is the only hope. And Jesus reminds me in limitless redundancy that He is the Vine, I am a mere branch, and apart from Him I can do nothing (John 15:5). That’s okay.

He only calls me to preach Him, to glorify Him. So with every bucket I lift, every child I cuddle, every lesson I teach, every sweat drop and sore muscle, I can be thankful to be right here, doing this most lonely, hard, impractical, draining, exhausting, desperate, discouraging, absurd, impossible, uplifting, worthy, marvelous, glorious, invaluable job.

With that thanks to God I thank you for your time, prayers, resources, and funds. Please continue to help me by lifting me up in prayer and giving to me financially, for there is no salary and there are so many expenses. There are so many people to share with, in time, resources, knowledge, and funds. There are so many needs tuggings at my fragile heart. Oh, Dear Reader, there are so many things I hesitate to tell you for fear you will think me too weak, too jaded, too incapable, too extravagant, too irresponsible, too human, to continue here. Yet trust me, verily I tell you, Dear Reader, all these things I myself may be, but over all these is God, and His might wins every time.

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.

I am the vine, you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” ~John 15:1-5 NIV

This is Haiti: October 17

At 7 I sat on the balcony with Bible and journal and coffee. At 7:30 my eleven year old housemate sat beside me poking the Kindle. I handed him the Creole Jesus Storybook Bible. We read of David and Goliath and Zaccheus. He laughed as I laughed like Goliath. We read that we should love like Jesus and not hate those who steal or who are short.

At 8 I called my mom and left a voicemail wishing her Happy Birthday.

We got in the car at 8:45 to depart for the parent meeting. I snapped a banana and handed half to our neighbor who was riding with us. We threw our banana peels out the window. There was little traffic on the road. We parked awkwardly sideways in front of the school as sand piles blocked our usual spot. Inside the courtyard were boards and sand and rocks. Inside the school were more piles of sand and splatters of cement and men standing on scaffolding to smear the ceiling.

The parents filed in after us, stepping over the boards and puddles, diverting through Madame Patricia’s empty classroom to come out on the other side of the sand piles. Six classes of parents crammed into three classrooms, long legs folding down onto children’s chairs and benches, attending the teachers.

We teachers gathered in office and Beverly led us in laughter.

“We have joy. We keep joy. The devil will not win today,” she said. Madame Rose translated. We sang “Sunshine in My Soul” in Creole and English, mostly from memory. We prayed, we invoked God’s blessing, we hugged and we parted in laughter.

The parents waited.

The stairs were littered with workmen’s belongings. We navigated past another sand pile to the second grade classroom. Beverly and Rose spoke their piece. Questions began. Person after person gave his and her life story, then repeated the same question his forerunner had posed. Madame Rose continued to respond.

Beverly’s shirt changed color in her sweat. I ducked out to cough out cement dust in the hall. Beverly and Rose moved on to the other classes. I congratulated the third grade parents on their children’s English and encouraged them to listen to them speak. I assured second grade parents the class was beginning to learn afresh after they’d forgotten much during vacation. I asked for patience with my poor Creole and thanked them for the privilege of teaching their children. Thirty-odd parents and guardians told me they loved me. I ducked out with a bashful wave.

I greeted a four year old student. Her father reminded me of her sickle-cell anemia. I reminded him that this year she smiled and played—she was happy. She came to me and smiled, body light as a feather in my arms.

I greeted a tiny two-year old student and her petite mother, a head shorter than myself. The girl didn’t laugh when I played with her. Her serious face seemed sick. I listened to the Boss of the construction tell me their plans for finishing every classroom, making each floor level and each wall equally smooth. We established there could not be school before Monday.

At 11 we thanked parents for coming and said farewell. We spoke with a mama concerned for her four year old daughter’s lab results and her first grade son’s poor behavior and her own lightheadedness. We took her blood pressure. It was high. We asked her if she’d eaten that day. She had not. We asked if the family of six had eaten yesterday. She said yes. They had eaten plantain.

The Spirit spoke in our hearts. Beverly spoke aloud. “We want to give you a box of food,” she said. “Bondye beni ou,” Mama said.

We got in the car at 11:30 to go home. We picked up a box of food and took Mama home. At her house the children were outside. The two boys wore shirts and no pants. No underwear. The girl wore a dress. All were barefoot in the yard with the chickens, pots, pans, and laundry. We could hear the creek chuckling behind the house. Mama deposited the box of food. I picked up the daughter, our four year old student. She immediately slumped down on my shoulder, as is habit. We explained to the first grade son why we’d brought the food. We reminded him we love him, Mama loves him, Jesus loves us. He and Mama hugged. I put down the girl. She clutched my finger. We said bu-bye. Mama had to go collect the oldest child at church where she’d left him under the eye of church-goers, afraid to leave him at home with his headache. The two boys followed us out of the gate and watched the car pull away with wide eyes.  

The road to the house was beautiful with sunbeams and banana trees. The car mounted over a pile of gravel and brushed past a wire fence.

At home I washed my hands before spreading Laughing Cow cheese and avocado on bread and ate with my fingers. We locked our doors and walked down the lane to The Beach resto-bar. We drank Coke and 7-Up and checked phone numbers and attendance from the meeting. We discussed curriculum standards distributed in French by the Haitian government. We compared the status of our children at school. Beverly noted things to do, people to contact, and we shook our heads. We watched a blan woman and group of children on the wall. Beverly went to say hello. I stared at the blue of the ocean, at the man standing impossibly far out in the water, feet gripping a ridge of coral, the sunshine on the mountain. I went to say hello. The blan woman lives in Carrefour with five children. They were going out on the boat to a beach across the cove to enjoy the holiday. She said their original plan had changed for there was a problem with the vehicle or the driver and no one had ever properly explained what. We agreed on the speed of Papadap drivers.

We watched her group speed away over the water in a small open boat, comparable to a Volkswagon Bug car releasing a group of fifteen or ten persons in a phone booth.

At 3 at the house in front of the windows I worked on Bible pages, typing up French, Creole, and English as my eyes drooped. I leaned back in the chair as my stomach cramped. This was Day 5 of the antibiotic I’m on for the Girardia parasite. I laid down and fell asleep. The family ate.

At 5:00 we got in the car and went to visit a family friend. She’d been working at the house cooking and washing until her new baby was born. A few weeks ago she’d had a C-section and was now at home with her son. Beverly and I were not ready to walk the half-mile distance. We drove the long way, down a lane you might call one-way, or an ATV track, in the States. We turned right at the trash heap and honked continuously at a pig lying in the mud across the lane.

“Please, Bev, I need meat!” Madame Rose called as the pig remained. Then he moved and we were past, without fresh meat. We curved round a big yellow orphanage, passed a big old fashioned bread oven, and turned in to park the car in front of the house.

We entered through the open gate and greeted the husband sewing at his machine, surrounded by people. Someone called “blan!” We entered the bedroom, close and carpeted. Mama was reclining on the bed nursing Baby. He had a onesie and white socks. The four year old daughter stood nearby with a neighbor and her toddler, sucking water from a baby bottle.

We asked Mama the baby’s name. She didn’t know. We asked Papa. Papa extracted the birth certificate and read three names. Now we know. Papa thanked us and went back to his sewing. It’s the season for uniforms.

Beverly and Rose sat on the bed while Rose spoke to Mama as mother to daughter. Beverly checked her phone. I played with the four year old. She shrieked with laughter with just a look. She ducked in and out of the door as I snatched my hand in and out to tickle her stomach. Mama said she doesn’t sleep at night because of Baby, or during the day because of the heat. Someone bothered them the night before at 2 AM, frightening her throwing rocks at the house. Rose says it’s not a good place. Pastor wants to help them move to another house in a better neighborhood. We sang “This Little Light of Mine,” in Creole and English. Beverly prayed. Rose told Mama to pray continuously. We thanked God a neighbor has been cooking for the family.

We got in the car and asked someone to move the motos from the road. There were four and a car parked in our path. One of our Papadap driving friends appeared, then one of our crossing guard friends. He said the school that had employed them did not take them back this year. The cost was too high. He was happy to see us. His child’s mother lived on this street. As we continued we passed a group of children and seated adults.

“Madame Beverly?” said a tiny child. One of our four year old students stood there, staring up at the car in disbelief, drowning in a dress made for a much larger person. Her Mama called to me from her chair.

“Allo Rachelle!” We greeted each other and the crowd of on-lookers.

“See you on Monday!” we told the student and continued down that one-way road, ATV track.

At 6:30 back at the house I got food and we retreated to the roof. We sat in the twilight and began our Bible study, reading John as the sun receded and the stars broke through. We continued by flashlight, sang our hearts joyful with “Old Church Choir,” and prayed beneath the glinting stars over all that had happened and what may come.

We descended. I met with the youngest son for English lesson. We labored over enunciation. His mother told him he must read slowly and if he did not he would do it again. We ended with a Shel Silverstein poem to focus on smooth speech. I sat on the floor while Madame Rose played with my hair, texting loved ones not there and no longer there. Rose dropped my hair in my face. We laughed. I met with the youngest house girl for English lesson. She labored over “th” and “years,” and I praised her persistence. She is a quick learner. We learned new words. I remembered some French.

At 10 I went upstairs and studied Creole. I learned new phrases. At 11:30 I showered and tucked in my mosquito net. Sometime around 12 I turned off the light. The electricity was still on so I fell asleep with the fan blowing.

This is Haiti. 

One More Broken Heart

A few weeks ago we came home with two unclaimed students after school. It was the second week so school finished at noon. By 1:00 all had been taken care of save for first grade Soline and four-year old Natasha. Our other neglected student was four-year old Natasha. This was not the first time Natasha had been left. In fact, several times her guardian had been tardy. Just last week we had brought her to the house after school.

Natasha is a highly intelligent, adorable, energetic child. She’s cuddly but not shy. She is beautiful and responsive, cocoa-butter skinned, chunky with well-rounded cheeks. After Soline's Papa claimed her at 2:00, explaining miscommunication with the taxi driver, Natasha descended from her chair and rounded about the room, distracting the house boys from their homework studying.

She came back to me, putting her face in my lap. When I walked into the kitchen she followed me, clinging to my finger. Habitually I go upstairs and rest after school. I quite wanted to do so. But I didn’t want to leave Natasha there as a bother in the salon. I didn’t want to neglect her as she was already neglected. She’s only a baby.

So after a time I brought her upstairs with me to explores some of the newly arrived barrel’s contents. My wonderful teacher mother had bought a lot of fun, stimulating toys and puzzles at Savers. I pulled some of these out.

Natasha let out a delighted giggle as we began building blocks, something every American child has used. I had wooden blocks, Lincoln Logs, Legos, K’nex…Natasha probably has no toys. I was admiring the tilt of her head, the way she tucks her chin down and the dusky charcoal colored curls fall down over her forehead, when I took a drink from my water and she looked at it.

“Eske ou swaf? Ou bezwen dlo? Are you thirsty? Do you need water?” I asked.

She nodded, tucking that chin down and up.

“Okay, m’ap vini,” I said as I rose, shaking out that long skirt.

I trotted down the stairs to get a little cup and heard calls for Natasha.

“Where’s Natasha?” Rose and Michama asked. “Her aunt is here.”

I glanced out to the porch and saw Matante, a thin woman with a round face and very large eyes. She was one of the guardians who came to help clean the school before opening a few weeks ago. She worked very hard. This day she wore a green skirt and orange button top—a shirt that looked like a uniform for our school, but was actually a uniform for the school where she works as a custodian.

She rested against the banister and her round brown eyes filled with tears.

“I’ll get Natasha,” I said and hurried quickly back upstairs. Natasha drank her water and we gathered the blocks. Then I toted her downstairs.

On the porch Natasha swayed in the sunshine, Rose stood in the doorway, Matante clutched the railing and cried, telling us what happened to make her three and half hours late to pick up Natasha.

I stood beside her, shading my eyes against the sun and listening, trying to follow her shaking words.

What it came down to is this: this woman is not Natasha’s mother. She took Natasha in when no one else would. She works every day cleaning a school a few streets down from ours. Today she had to wait until all of the students were picked up before cleaning the school and then departing. Usually someone else comes to get Natasha, but this person is continuously irresponsible and so Natasha is left unclaimed at school.

 “Li fè mwen wont,” she repeated, “it makes me so ashamed.”

Then she turned her face away from us and cried, hand over her mouth.

I put my arms around her, not knowing what to say, afraid to say the wrong thing, but wanting to assure her we were not angry. And we were not ashamed by her.

“E pa fòt ou. It’s not your fault,” I wanted to say. “it’s this country. It’s this broken world.”

After a few minutes Matante was ready to go.

Rose agreed that she should send Natasha with two other students after school from now on. Students who were picked up on time.

I walked her and Natasha out, asking if they would take a taxi. She shook her head.

So I called out to our best moto-driver friend, Jamesly, who had been teaching our housemate Nico to drive the school moto (a work-in-progress moto-taxi with attached trailer to drive students to and from school.) They had returned from driving lesson ten minutes before.

“Jamesly, I need you,” I said, drawing Matante by the hand to where he sat on his moto by the gate. “Will you bring them home please?”

“Mennen yo a lakay yo?” he asked.

“Wi.”

“Pa gen pwoblem. No problem.”

Before they mounted the moto, I drew Matante in by her slim shoulders and assured her.

“We are not angry. I remember you came to the school and cleaned. We saw how hard you worked. God sees.”

She nodded, eyes still full of tears.

“We want to do more for our students, for our families. We do what we can, and we pray.”

“God bless you. Bondye beni ou,” she said.

“Oh, he does,” I answered.

Then I waved them through the gate and they mounted up behind Jamesly.

I walked back from the gate with anger in my heart, combating the gratitude I felt to God for bringing Jamesly at the right time to take this woman home. For Jamesly and his love and care for the children at school and compassion for his neighbors. He drives five of our students to and from school every day at no cost, because he values them and their education. He agreed to Beverly’s request to teach Nico to drive because he values us and the school. I was grateful for this, for our ability to take care of Natasha after hours, our safe house and many hands. But the anger was still there. Anger that our parents have such difficult lives. That they work so hard, expend so much effort, and still struggle so much. Anger that this woman should feel such shame for circumstances beyond her control. Anger that at the end of the day a little girl is neglected. Anger at this broken world. I went upstairs to clean up the toys and rest, the anger still flickering like static.

A couple of days earlier a woman had asked me for food.

She was a plumpish woman, one Beverly and I had seen marching out of her gate a short while previously, toting a woven chair with the seat worn through.

“She’s probably going to throw that in the ditch,” I said to Beverly as we walked, two crazy blans walking up and down under the beating sun in our long skirts and hats.

Instead, the woman set the chair down in the ditch, those wide concrete drainage ditches indispensible during rainstorms, and plopped herself on top.

“Oh, guess not,” I shrugged.

“It must be cooler there than inside the house,” Beverly said. Out here on the street was a consistent breeze from the ocean directly down the way, and at this hour the trees were casting some blessed shade over the ditch. Surely it was cooler there.

We continued our up and down route on the strip of road leading from La Hatte to the resto-bar By the Sea and Louco Night Club where last December we’d celebrated the school’s annual Birthday Party for Jesus. This was the exercise street where clubs gathered in the early hours to fè spo “make sport,” teams met for soccer and basketball in the evening, and novice drivers practiced, lapping up and down.
This woman, in her early forties perhaps, well-rounded, hair loose over her bare shoulders, wearing spaghetti straps and shorts, looked up at me, a skinny white stranger, and asked me for food.

Beverly and I “made sport,” dripping and glistening, while Nico practiced driving the moto under Jamesly’s direction. We passed each other with waves.

I wasn’t tired but hot, and gratefully swung myself into the back of the moto’s trailer as the guys crested the road again. Beverly joined us as Nico stopped for her, and we drove up and down enjoying the breeze. Unable to sit still for long however, I soon swung myself back out and said I’d walk down to meet them at the bottom of the road.

As I reached the woman on her dilapidated chair, now joined by a skinny woman squatting on the sloped ditch side, she called to me, the plump chair woman.

“Vini. Mwen pal’ w. Come here, let me ask you something,” she said.

I looked at her, pretty sure I knew what was coming, but complied, stopping and attending her.

“Give me some food,” she said.

This didn’t quite meet my expectations.

“I don’t have any money. Mwen pa gen kòb, Madame,” I answered, lifting up empty hands.

“Not money, food,” she amended.

This was unusual. Often the request is just for money. Rarely do grown people request food.

It was also a bit odd for there was no food in sight, no venders, no shops, and certainly nothing on my person.

“I don’t have food, Madame.”

She gestured down to the moto where Beverly was with the guys.

“Get me food when she eats. Let me eat, too.”

I looked at Beverly and wondered if this woman thought we would eat at By the Sea, the Resto-Bar where we were indeed planning to go, but only for friendly Cokes and a respite by the sea.

“We are not eating, Madame,” I said, and moved in closer. She needed some clarity. “Do you know who we are, what we do in Ti Goave?”

Some people know us by sight or reputation.

This woman did not. She and her neighbor tuned in while I began, in flailing Creole, asking the Spirit for easy words, to explain our mission in town.

I took her hand, speaking of the school and the gifts given to us to forward to others.

“We have a school with 144 children.”

“Where is the school?” the neighbor woman asked.

I explained the location, the color of our uniforms. They nodded. They didn’t know of it.

“We are a school for Jesus,” I continued. “God gives us money, He gives us food, and we give it to the children. Nou gen ase. We don’t have extra, only enough.”

I held her hand, squatting down and attempting to run my sincerity through our touch.

“I can’t give you money because I don’t have any extra. I have to pay to live.”

Both women were listening. Perhaps they’d never heard a foreigner speak so long. I’d like to think they understood me.

Meanwhile, the moto chugged up and I was called away.

“Are you ready?” Beverly asked from the back.

“I’m talking about school and why I can’t give her money,” I said, not releasing the woman’s hand.

“Oh, yes,” Beverly nodded. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Jamesly, however, was less patient. He approached and called for me, telling the ladies it was time for me to go.

“We’re talking, mesye!” they said.

“You don’t want us to talk to your blan! Oh, this Haitian!”

“It’s not like that,” Jamesly answered, folding his hands before him and looking grave.

There was a bit more of this back and forth. Jamesly perhaps thought the ladies were badgering me. I was badgered, deranje, by their situation.

The ladies then offered me a chair.

“Here, pran ti chita. Sit for a little,” they said.

But I knew my time had come.

“I have to go now, they are calling me,” I said, patting the woman’s hand.

“But I don’t want you to be discouraged. Bondye ka fè tout bagay. God can do anything.”

I started to stand up but halted.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Madame Liline,” she answered.

“Okay, I want to pray for you Madame Liline. You and your family.”

She had told me she had two children. Mayhap she had wanted food for them as much as herself.

“Okay, dako,” she said. I patted her hand, kissed her and her neighbor on the cheek, and waved farewell.

“Oh, Jamesly,” I chided as I reached the idling moto, Jamesly again in place beside Nico in the driver’s position. “Were you being rude?” I knew he didn’t understand my English. It didn’t matter. The lack of understanding better concealed the crack in my voice.

“You guys go ahead,” I waved them on. “I’ll walk down and meet you.”

They drove off, Beverly still seated in the trailer, and I lagged behind, not turning around to see Liline and her friend, to see another person I could not help. Another tragedy.

I needed the walk to let out a few tears.

The walk was very short despite my dragging feet. The stretch of pavement where we’d been is perhaps a quarter mile long, and leads directly to the black iron gate of the entrance to By The Sea. The drive is pitted, gullied dirt, always jarring. I had to watch my reluctant steps. Really what I wanted was peace and quiet, a space away from eyes and voices where I could just cry to God.

Instead, Jamesly met me as I came down that tricky dirt drive.

“Eske ou fache ave m’? Are you mad at me?” he asked, approaching with arms spread out.

“No,” I shook my head.

“Oh, ou fache. You’re angry.”

“No,” I repeated, “I’m not angry. I am sad. Very sad.”

“Tris? Poukisa? Sad? Why?”

As we walked to Beverly and Nico I told him. Told him why I was sad for people I’d just met. People I didn’t know.

“I am sad because…I have Jesus here.” I pointed to my heart. “I have Jesus and what makes Jesus happy makes me happy. What makes Jesus sad makes me sad. That,” I gestured back towards the road and the ditch and the ladies, “that makes Jesus sad. When people are hungry. That breaks Jesus heart. That breaks mine.”

The four of sat at a table. From this vantage, under the tarp under the coconut palms you can see over the cement banisters out to the ocean. From the thatch-roofed bar behind, dilapidated like all of the buildings on the compound, remnants of what was once surely a beautiful, busy spot, got our Cokes, and started a long discussion with lots of slow explanation and rephrasing about what the mission is here in Ti Goave: why Beverly and I are here, and why sometimes we are sad. Why sometimes we cry.

“We want to help everyone,” Beverly said, echoing words I’d said earlier. “We want to help everyone and we can’t.”

The guys listened. They heard from us, and saw in us, the desire to reach people. The desire to help and the sadness at limitation. Jamesely told us then, that he takes the kids to school without pay. Instead of zipping about town earning 25 gourdes per fare, he picks up four children from the same back-alley area, takes them to school and returns to pick them up. Two are dismissed later and he returns again.

“I know they can’t pay,” he shrugged. “But they are kids. Good kids.”

Beverly nodded, smiling her close-lipped smile at Jamesly. “You see the value in them. In their education.”

Nico translated and Jamesly grinned with a half-shake of his head, white teeth flashing in his ebony face. “Wi. Of course.”

When we left By The Sea we got two more Cokes and stopped to give them to Liline and her friend. They were still in the ditch. I kissed them each as I handed them the Coke, wondering if it would have been better to give money, better to go and find food somewhere and bring it back. Better to stay and talk.

I did none of these, but gave the Cokes, kisses, and smiling care, and departed, climbing back into the moto trailer and we chugged away.

It was good, our time at By The Sea, our discussion and our honesty. It was good for Nico and Jamesly, two young men well-versed in the tragic senselessness of much of this country, to hear our foreign desires and our heartache for their people.

It was hard, once again, to be faced with another needy person, a person for whom food is not a guarantee. It was good, in that painful, raw way, to feel broken over what breaks our Father’s heart. But my heart is still broken.

Our hearts break daily for our children in need. For those who come to school so hungry their stomachs hurt. Those who come with colds, fevers, oozing sores, and cavities. Those who are so desperate for love. Those who don’t know how to ask for affection but linger in the doorway, drag their feet as they pass by the office. Those parents who ask again about their other child—couldn’t she come to school too? Isn’t there place for him, the other twin? Why was only one accepted?

Oh, our hearts break for those dirty little boys who come swarming round the car as we leave. Who ask for food, sometimes which we have, leftover from the day’s lunch.

Our hearts break for the Madame Lilines who sit in the drainage ditch and ask strangers for handouts.

God’s heart breaks far deeper and harder than ours. God feels the pain and suffering of all of his children so much more than we do. He feels the hurt of every person in this broken world.

I am so grateful He is God and I am not.

There will always be heart-breaking situations. There will always be another hungry person, another child starved for attention and another mother pleading for her children. (“You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.” ~Matthew 26:11 NIV) Until the day of the New Earth we will encounter this suffering and shame.

Praise God that in the meantime He equips us. Praise God for the purpose He has given us in Ti Goave, and the many we are training up to go forth as lights in their dark communities. Praise God for the sweet moments of fellowship and Coke He tosses in along the way. We can thank God for the unclaimed children we can spend some extra time loving. For the parents and guardians we can comfort as they struggle through this life.

Sometimes words is all that we can give. But our earnest prayers for their well-being carry through. And when they in return ask for God’s blessing on us, tell us we are loved, well, that is balm to the most broken of hearts.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” ~Revelation 21:4 ESV

“As long as there’s one more broken heart / One more crying soul, I’ll go

And I will love them, Jesus. / As long as there’s one more needing you / One more I can show your love / As long as there’s one more broken heart…” “One More Broken Heart”, Point of Grace (1993)

September Newsletter from Christian Academy of Petit Goave (CAP)

September Newsletter 2017

Greetings and Salutations from Christian Academy of Petit Goave!

Yes, we have officially changed our name. We are now “CAP” under Christian Light Ministries of Jacksonville, Florida. Many changes have occurred in this month alone, but our focus remains the same. We still set our eyes on Christ first, focusing upon God, then people, and then education. We greet you in love and thankfulness for your continued support in prayer, finances, and resources. May you be blessed as we have been this unexpected September!

We, Beverly and Rachelle, arrived in Haiti September 4. At the airport we were greeted by Beverly’s adoptive teenage sons Gardy, Ricardo, and Toutoute with whom we spent a wonderful evening. The next day we did errands around Port au Prince, buying material for uniform shirts, teacher gifts, and school supplies. By the late afternoon we were in Petit Goave, greeting some of our family. Our hosts, Pastor Levy and Madame Rose, along with their two sons, were still in the U.S.!

The next day we began preparations for Hurricane Irma. We bought fuel for stove, generator, and cars, extra food stuffs, and gave talk on emergency procedure. We gathered all the house members and prayed hard for Irma’s diversion. God heeded us (and you) and Irma came nowhere near us in Ti Goave. Praise God!

However, the threat of Irma and following hurricanes delayed school opening, by government mandate. So we spent two weeks unpacking and organizing the mountain of supplies in our bedroom/depots and visiting students. The most arduous journey was a forty-minute trek up the mountain to third-grade Wyskendy, Beverly employing her best goat-skills while Rachelle ran ahead with our guides, fellow third-graders Gilberto and Beneche. We were amazed at the daily journey these boys make to arrive at school on time.

On the road to Wyskendy's house with our 3 third grade students

STRAIGHT OUTTA HAITI (t-shirt from Papillon Enterprises)

Pastor Levy arrived home by the end of the week without Madame Rose! That Saturday, Sept. 9, we rode into Port au Prince on Papadap (express van) to pick up our food allotment from Feed My Starving Children. In addition to the Manna Pack Rice we were gifted with 36 cans of vegetables from Hope for Haiti ministries.

The following Saturday Sept. 16 we met many willing parents at the school and cleaned the horrendously impressive layers of dust and cobwebs, and made rearrangements to accommodate another class. We ordered desks and a chalkboard for the empty third grade classroom (formerly the Recreation Room), and awaited applicants for teacher.

Water break

Some of our cleaning moms

Cleaning classrooms

School opened Monday September 18 with a small number of students due to a nationwide transportation strike. We started out to school on foot, but after a stumble took the offer of some friendly moto drivers and rode up to the gate in true Haitian style.

Setting out for the first day of school!

There were less than 50 students the first day, but all of our staff was present. And those 50 precious ones received a deficit of hugs.

On Tuesday more students came, and by the end of the week most of our population was present. We had no desks or chalkboard, or teacher, for third grade, so the small class of 14 used benches. Rachelle covered the class, stumbling through French practice and setting strict expectations of this oldest class. Beverly undertook the duty of directing alone, as Hurricane Irma had stranded Madame Rose in Miami for an extra week. We greeted her with shrieks and long embraces Thursday afternoon, Sept. 21. The Family was complete again!

Saturday Sept. 23 we had English School for first, second, and third grade, taught by the Sons Gardy, Ricardo, and Toutoute, whose English is excellent. After gathering together for greeting and VBS music, Ricardo did musical chairs, Toutoute read a story, and Gardy oversaw book-making. We emphasized that all directions should be in English unless the magic words, “I don’t understand,” were said, and then we could explain in Creole. School finished with a meal and more singing. Saturday English School is planned for the third Saturday of every month for the upper grades.

On Sunday we gave exams and interviews to two potential teachers, and Monday morning the chosen Madame Marjorie stepped in to third grade. There was much rejoicing that Madame Rachelle would no longer have to mispronounce French words. The second week of school began with Madame Rose and Madame Beverly again the Directing Team, going about the school and setting things in order. By Tuesday all of the yet absent students had returned save two, and there were still three-year olds crying at the gate. A few members of this new three-year old class continue to cry through the day after two weeks of school. We admire teachers Madame Eunide and Madame Valerie’s patience with them.

Cuddling an uncertain 3 year old

Welcoming the new desks for 3rd grade

Tuesday afternoon Sept. 26 Beverly lay down sick. Thursday afternoon she still had fever and had started to cough, so we drove to Gressier to Haiti Health Ministries, a clinic managed by American missionaries. Diagnosis: pneumonia! Beverly is still depleted of energy, fatigue exacerbated by little food (no appetite) and heat (always.) The antibiotic Beverly is taking is for five days, but her recovery may take up to two weeks. We plan to start October with her coming to school for brief periods, and pray our staff and students would continue to step up in cooperation and good behavior.

Our school schedule is still about the same. We gather on Mondays and Fridays for church assembly. On Wednesday the three older grades have an additional Bible assembly. Each class has Recreation and Bible along with the Haitian curriculum. English classes should start in October for first grade, extending the school day until 2 PM. Some students are picked up late so we could depart school at 2:15 or 3:00. Local pastors have requested English classes for church members, house mates need help studying English for class, and the physical needs of students and families is devastating. However, rejoice with us that God is in control, and equips us for every situation to which He calls us.

We have formed a relationship with a local doctor and laboratory techs. We are regular customers at the copy shop, book store, resto-bars, and market; we have friends who drive taxis and vans, own a beach-front restaurant, and know the best local candy-makers. We have gained confidence in driving and exploring, Beverly fully assured of driving into and around Port au Prince, Rachelle unintimidated by slippery mud lanes (which prompts Madame Rose to say she “drives like a man.”) God blesses us with familiarity in Ti Goave, helping us immensely as we go out and shake up education.

Our 147 children are hungry for food and knowledge. They are so happy to be back at school, some of them heaping rice and beans and corn on their plates and asking for seconds, all of them constantly ready for hugs and exchanges of “Jesus loves you!” At our teacher meeting this week, Beverly reminded us that those troublesome students (yes, we have them) are the ones who need more hugs, more assurance of their value. Our students and families do not have easy lives. They struggle for survival in a country with virtually no resources. Praise God that at our school we put Jesus first, and Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me.” Before anything, we love Jesus by loving the children He has charged us with.

 

Visiting a student to give him partner gifts

Abraham at home

Please continue to pray with us for them. At this point the majority of third and second grade are partnered with American sponsors. This money goes to keeping the school open, our school which supplies food, medicine, books and school supplies, education and love. Rent and staff salaries are major expenses. Food stuffs, cleaning supplies, copies, books, new furniture, gasoline, internet and phone bills, doctor’s visits and medicines are some of the costs this month. Consider partnering with one or more of our beautiful children, starting a priceless relationship. This past week Madame Rachelle got to present third grade Loudianna with gifts and a card from her Virginian partner; the smile on Loudianna’s face is not to be compared with the riches of this world.

Pray for healing for Beverly. We desperately miss her at school and in the house. The pneumonia confines her mostly to her bed. Pray for special strength and grace to all the school staff in her absence, particularly Madame Rose in directing and Rachelle in balancing English class with office duties. Pray for Haiti, that the government would care for its people and make adjustments for their benefit. Pray for safety over our school and family, patience for the teachers, and overflowing joy in our hearts through all the sweaty days.

We are so grateful for you and all you do for us. You allow us to live and thrive for Christ here in Haiti. You send gifts for the children’s birthdays, backpacks, pencils, notebooks and chalk, peanut butter, medicine, socks and shoes. You funded three heavy barrels stuffed with school supplies. You lift us up in prayer and keep us encouraged.

Thank you for all that you do. We need you, Body of Christ. We need you to continue to be generous and fund the monthly school costs of $3500, and help us towards purchasing land and building a new school that will properly house our growing number of students.

We love and pray for you.

Blessings from Ti Goave,

Beverly and Rachel

“Madame Beverly” and “Madame Rachelle”

Paid in Blessings Abundant

Yesterday and today we went to the hospital.

If you’ve read previous blogs, or have had the personal pleasure of visiting our green and white in Ti Goave, you know the town hospital is not a savory place.

These two visits brought us in through the back of the hospital to the hallway of consultation rooms, rather than in the front Emergency Room with its counter pressing into the space for five narrow beds. Because of the blessing of our Ti Goave family connections, we got permission to by-pass tedium and flit in quickly to meet with Dr. Gerald, good friend and consulting partner with our dear Dr. Felix, who is now married and living in California.

As we entered, Dr. Gerald greeted us all with a brief grip of our hands.

“Bonjou. Ou pale Kreyol? Hello. Do you speak Creole?” he asked each one of us as he did so, Michama, first, smiling beneath her black  floppy hat, Mama Louis in her pressed red dress, and me, with my foreign red face and cinch sack.

“Wi,” said Michama.

“Wi,” said Mama Louis.

“Kèk,” said I, “Some.”

“Kèk?” Dr. Gerald laughed amicably. “Okay.”

He then continued in good English.

“So what is the problem today?”

I gestured to Mama Louis, “Go ahead, Mama. Alè.”

She stepped forward, this slim woman sweating in her nice dress. This woman too lined by too hard years, too hard-pressed to provide for seven children. This woman always so joyful to see us in church, always polite and sweet, always blessing us.

She stepped forward to her daughter, three-year old Lucy (four in December) and explained the problem.

The day before we’d been reunited with Lucy, her older brother Shawn, and Maman with the next-oldest son. All the children had the Louis eyes: huge, staring, heavily lashed, and the highlight to the serious Louis gaze.

Lucy was one of the first three-year olds who had walked right into my arms and set her head on my shoulder in those days when I began greeting each entering student. Previously I’d only associated with my assigned second-grade, and although they knew my face, most of the other students had not interacted with me much.

Lucy didn’t shy from me: she adopted me. So, I, in turn, adopted her. She became one of my treasured “not favorites,” who I would always seek. This was made easier by the family’s church attendance. They faithfully go to service on Sundays and Tuesday evenings. More than once we’ve been joined on our bench by brother or sister or both.

Lucy, doesn’t speak much. Her voice, when revealed, is tiny, her words rather slurred.

This adds to her sweetness, which is abundant in three-year old size.

“She has this problem,” Mama explained to Dr. Gerald, as she had to us at church the day before,  holding out Lucy’s little hands. The fingers were dotted with sores, some of them open and oozing.

“It started on her head, bouton, and then finished and started on her back. Two weeks ago.” Mama turned Lucy around and pulled down her shirt collar. Only a few scabs remained. The skin was nearly healed, it appeared.

“Let me see her stomach,” Dr. Gerald said, and they looked. But the problem was concentrated on her hands. Ugly, raw sores. Something no baby should have.

Dr. Gerald considered.
“I think it’s some allergy. Or, how do you say, parasites.”

I was expecting the latter. When Jameson and Robertho had shown similar sores on their little fingers, Dr. Felix had diagnosed intestinal parasites. He’d written prescriptions and Levinsky and I filled them at the pharmacy.

Later we’d brought the medicine to the Jolibois house, a familiar place to us, down the alley across the street from our church. A home with seven residents and no indoor toilet. No privacy. Another Mama hard-pressed to provide for her children. Another Papa seeking work not to be found.

Levinsky and I had greeted Mama and a chair was brought for me.

I pulled out the medicines in their red-striped saches, plastic bags, and examined the pharmacist’s difficult scrawl.

“Li te bay mwen direksyon pou chak medikaman,” I said to Mama Jolibois, “He gave me directions for each medicine.”

She nodded.“Wi.”

I was afraid to read her the directions and hand over the medicine with faulty instruction.

Rather than risk it, I called Dr. Felix and had him walk me through the instructions once more. I took notes for myself and then hung up.

“Okay, dako,” I began to explain to Mama.

She stood there with her hands folded before her as I pulled out each package and told her what it was for and how to administer. There were creams and pills. There were restrictions.

I wasn’t even sure Mama could read. Perhaps it’s wrong, but I feel odd asking that question of a parent. I don’t want to cause them shame if the answer is no.

For many of our parents, it is.

It struck me, while sitting in that white plastic lawn chair at the end of the alley, in front of the Jolibois house, meaning the room that they rented, sharing a structure with another family, how absurd it all was. How wrong.

Who was I, some 25 year old foreigner, to sit here and dictate to the Madame of the house, the mother of the children, how to care for them, while she stood before me, so humble and resigned. Resigned. That’s how she seemed. Resigned that she couldn’t do this without me, this wealthy, connected blan. Resigned that she would never be able to provide sufficiently for her children. Resigned that she had no power.

Mama Louis did not strike me as resigned. Not this day. She was humble but she was not idle. She did not stand by. When Dr. Gerald asked what was wrong he addressed me first. But Mama was there, and I gestured her forward. She came forward and spoke.

Dr. Gerald sent us to the Laboratoire for blood and stool tests. We crossed the street to avoid the mob at the hospital laboratory, finding a much less-crowded atmosphere at one Michama recommended. (Another blessed connection of our Ti Goave family!)

While waiting Mama Louis asked Lucy if she would eat after Lucy yawned. (Haitians say you yawn when you are hungry.) Lucy said yes.

Mama pulled out the pâté I’d sent Jonas to buy. Before we’d gotten in to see Dr. Gerald I’d held Lucy on my lap, singing school songs and trying to tempt a smile from that serious Louis stare.

“What song do you like?” I finally asked. She said something in her tiny voice.

“What? Huh?” I put my ear beside her mouth.

“Mwen grangou.”

“You’re hungry? You didn’t eat?”

“Wi,” she said.

Fortunately there was still a granola bar in my bag. I fished it out and unwrapped the top for this hungry little girl. It was 11:00 in the morning. Who knows how long she’d been awake. Hungry.

After she started eating I excused myself, “M’ap vini,” and went to Beverly where she stood with Michama and Jonas in the doorway, tempting a breeze.

“Lucy was hungry. Said she hadn’t eaten. That makes me think Mama hasn’t eaten either. Jonas,” I said, turning to him, “can you go buy…something?”

Michama said pâté, because it was too early for other food.

I returned inside and Lucy finished the granola bar. Mama took a water bottle from her purse and gave Lucy water.

She didn’t drink herself.

Jonas returned with the pâté while we were in Dr. Gerald’s office. Mama put in her purse with a “mesi.”

Later as we sat in the laboratory, I nudged Mama that she should eat. She didn’t. Lucy ate a few bites and drank more water. Mama didn’t drink, either.

I suspected she was saving that pâté to bring home to her other children.

“That’s what I know about her,” Beverly said, as we discussed this later in the car. “She sacrifices.”

Mama Louis doesn’t have the grave Louis expression her children do. Her face is lined softly. It’s a heavy face, as though she is weary under the weight of this broken world. Which I’m sure she is. But it is a kind face, one that rests in a tired smile. I’ve not seen her severe.

Her most common words to us are “Bondye beni ou. God bless you.”

In the past three days I’ve heard her say those words many more times.

Papa said them too, as he ran to the car.

After the laboratory, when Lucy cried as her finger was pricked for blood, Mama holding her on her lap, and they’d gone off to a toilet for the stool sample, we took the Louiss home. We drove down a new road, a narrow dirt lane bordered on sides and over with banana trees. We squeezed between a parked car and a wire and vine fence.

I popped the passenger mirror back out, having folded it in to decrease our width, and Beverly chuckled, breathing easier. She wasn’t much for back roads or narrow spaces.

“Boldly going where no blan has gone before.”

We rounded a curve, swerved a gravel pile, and pulled up at a dead end closed in with houses and a barbed fence. There we stopped, and Mama Louis directed us how to turn easily.

We waved goodbye, leaving them with good wishes, uneaten pâté, and medicine (topical cream for the sores, Vitamin C, and a worm pill.)

“It’s a long way to walk,” Beverly commented as we pulled out of the dirt lane onto National Road. “When Papa picks them up from school, he’s always walking. They never take moto. Those little legs walk a long way.”

The next morning we visited the house.

Beverly had backpacks for Shawn, who is entering first grade, and Lucy, entering the four-year old class. Each backpack had socks and undershirts inside. We parked the car and inquired of the Louis house.

“Yo pa la. They’re not there,” said the boy at the corner in front of a little food stand. “Tout moun pati. They’ve all gone out.”

“Uh, oh,” I said. “Kile yo ap retournen? When will they come back?” I asked.

“Pita. Later.”

I turned to Bevelry. “They’re not here. They’ve gone out.”

MIchama asked then. “Gen timoun la? Are the children there?”

“Wi. Yes.”

Oh, so not everybody is gone, I thought. How challenging to get a clear answer….

“Oh, well we’re here to visit the children,” Beverly said, and we proceeded down the path to the Louiss’ green gate.

The Louis house is located inside a small dirt yard, uneven ground with scrubs of this and that, bordered by a hodge-podge fence. As we entered I re-secured the gate, about five feet high and three feet wide, behind me with an iron hook wedged over some nails. The house is plywood, raised off the ground. From inside we heard giggling.

Four young Louiss were at home, being silly, darting glances from the open doorway where a curtain blew in a timid breeze. Behind the house, visible through spaces in the plastic/metal wire fence was a yellowish tan brook, gurgling fresh and beautiful in a way that belied its opaque color.

“Lucy? Shawn? Vini! Come out!” We called.

Lucy appeared beside the house, standing in her typical fashion of eyes gazing up under her lashes, chin tucked down toward her chest, one foot dominating while the other was held more to the delicate tip-toe.

I scooped her up at once. She didn’t resist.

“Lucy! Good morning! How are you?”

“Did Mama give you medicine?” Beverly asked. “Michama, ask her if Mama gave her medicine?”

Michama translated.

Lucy murmured some sound.

“She says yes,” Michama interpreted.

“And did Mama put on the cream?”

Michama translated again, posing the question to Lucy, still in my arms, and affirming that Lucy’s little murmur was “yes.”

We presented Shawn and Lucy with backpacks, Shawn eventually coming out reluctantly with low-slung pants and no shirt to greet us.

The oldest brother didn’t come out of the house at all, but continued to poke his head from the doorway and giggle. The middle brother was more serious, staring with the Louis eyes but a slight smile broke the severity of his face.

Shawn went back inside to don a shirt, so we presented Lucy with her backpack first. Her brother instructed her to say thank you. She turned her head on the way to deposit the backpack inside, enormous on her tiny back, and nearly hit the ground as Shawn came barreling back out of the house with his shirt in place. We all gasped. Michama shrieked. But Lucy stumbled a few steps and then righted herself and stepped into the house. I wondered how often she was knocked over, the littlest of all these boys.

For Shawn Beverly took a video of him saying “Thank you,” to his American partner for the backpack with choset (socks) and chemizet (undershirts.)

He donned a shirt for this occasion and even smiled for the photo, wearing the backpack.

We prayed together, all of us save the silly brother who wouldn’t come forth, hiding behind one of the beds visible through the swaying curtain. The house was perhaps a ten by fifteen feet room space, home to four children and two parents.

After prayer, holding hands in a circle as was our fashion, we departed with final hugs. As we filed out of the gate I called back to secure it behind us. The serious middle brother ran up to do so, watching us with those Louis eyes through a space in the fence.

Then we met Mama on the path back to the car. She came hurrying toward us, a large white sack on her shoulders. She began speaking, sweat dripping from her brow, sweat stains under her thin arms.

“She say she went to the market,” Jonas explained. He gestured to the little food stand at the corner where the boys had directed us to the house, now again staring our way. “This place for her. She sell food and she went to buy more.”

“Oh, very good,” Beverly nodded, smiling. “She has business.”

Mama updated us about Lucy.

Michama translated.

“She says Lucy slept better last night. She didn’t make noise or wake up. She didn’t say her stomach hurt today.”

“Oh, praise God!” Beverly responded.

Mama Louis squeezed our hands and told us again, “Bondye beni ou.”

I told her again, kissing her wet cheek, “Bondye te beni nou. Nou beni déjà. God has blessed us. We are already blessed.”

I wished the squeeze of my hands and the warmth in my eyes would carry the meaning of my words, which I wasn’t sure were well-formed or grammatically sound.

We continued towards the car, loaded in, Beverly driving, me riding shotgun, Michama, Jonas, and Yvelande in the backseat. This had been 11-year old Yvelande’s turn at the hospital, and she’d accompanied us here afterwards, silent in her typical way.

As we started the car, a man came down the alley between the houses in front of us. A man with a face too-lined by too-hard years, hair shaved down to nothing and many teeth missing visibly at the front of his mouth. He had big hands with thick, sausage like fingers that didn’t match the rest of his too-thin, sinewy body. His pants were baggy and shirt loose. Sweat was slickening his face under his round-brimmed canvas hat. He dropped the parcel he was carrying and ran toward the car, smile lighting his caramel brown face.

“Papa,” I said to Beverly as he reached my lowered window and reached in with his large hands, smile splitting his face in two glowing pieces.

“Bonjou! Oh, Bondye beni nou! Mwen kontan wè nou!” he repeated, clasping our outstretched hands and waving into the backseat. He gushed his thanks.

“Mesi, thank you! Thank you for Lucy! Thank you for medicine! Oh, God bless you! I’m so happy to see you!”

“Nou menm, tou! We are so happy to see you too!” we answered. Beverly and I respond in the same sincere manner. How could we not be happy to see someone who greets us this way? But truly, each reunion with student, parent, staff, and friend is a gift. A blessing.

Papa then instructed us again how best to back out from the space. He went behind the car to direct how far to reverse and how to turn the wheel.

We called our thanks through the window and waved to the Louis clan, parents now joined by the four children in the lane.

“Goodbye! See you on Monday!”

“Wow,” I said to Beverly, as we drove down the lane, beneath banana fronds green and gold against blue sky, past the yellowish tan brook curving along with the path, beside houses and shanties of plywood and tin behind wire and vine fences.

“Wow. That is the second time a parent has come running to see us!”

Beverly nodded.

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Yesterday, Mama Anaika…and today Papa Louis. They are so happy.”

We pulled out onto National Road, remembering the evening before as we’d walked back from our cook Madame Missoule’s home, passing by a shanty house planted in the yard behind a large concrete house in-progress. We hadn’t meant to stop for the light was fading golden and we as blans melt after dark.

But a boy in orange cried out with excitement behind the wire and vine fence.

“Oh, they’ve seen us!” Beverly said as we stopped, the sweat dripping down our reddened faces and oozing from every pore.

“ooh, now I’m sweating more because we’ve stopped,” I commented, bending down to wipe my face with the trail of my long dress. That was one of the advantages to its length. The disadvantage was, of course, more fabric covering more skin.

“Anaika!” I called out. And a wee dark form appeared.

“Wi!”

“Vini! Come here!”

I stepped over the mess of rocks and scrub and met partway tiny Anaika, six but petite like a four-year old, highly intelligent and extremely sassy.

I scooped her up and swung her around, then released her for Beverly.

And then Mama appeared, squealing, barreling from the house towards us, smile flashing her impressive white teeth in her smooth, seal-brown face.

She was laughing and calling, spreading her arms wide to embrace us.

We were not expecting that.

Just as we did not expect Papa Louis to drop what he carried and run to us.

We have no right to expect this enthusiasm. Not towards ourselves. For we, we weak, sweating, blundering vessels, we can do nothing. We are helpless and worthless without our Father.

[Jesus said:] “I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; but apart from me you can do nothing.” ~John 15:5

God is the One from Whom all blessings flow. God is the One who enabled us to bring Lucy to the doctor. Who arranged that appointment with Dr. Gerald. Who provided backpacks with socks and undershirts, produced from the depot of goods in Beverly’s room, collected through His generous servants who give.

God is the One who brought us here, with connections and resources, with education and vision to connect, provide, educate, and give vision.

God is the One who pours His love into us, His grace over us, His courage through us, so we can love, give, and go boldly into the places no blan may have gone before.

“You, O LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light. With your help I can advance against a troop; with your help I can scale any wall.” ~ Psalm 18:29

God has called us to Petit Goave. God has called us to love the people here, to provide hope for the children we serve, and ignite them as lights for their neighborhoods. We cannot educate every child. We cannot take each afflicted one to the hospital or give each one a backpack. But we can do the very best possible with the 150 with whom God has blessed us.

I explained to a hopeful Papa last night that we couldn’t accept every child. In elementary Creole, praying my words would be understood, I told him what we could do.

“We educate our children, children like Elizabeth,” I waved my hand across the street where his seven-year old daughter still stood on the steps where we’d left her and the family. “We give them the capacity so that they can educate others.”

Papa nodded. He was still disappointed that we didn’t promise to take in his four-year old whose school was “not good,” but he seemed reassured.

We must hold onto this reassurance. This is our Hope. God’s purpose for us is this school, Christian Academy of Petit Goave. Our students are educated, firstly to the love of Christ. They are valued for who they are, loved on and embraced and listened to. Then under this pure love they are educated in academics, in hygiene, in Bible. With this learning and assurance of their own worth in Christ, they go forth and spread what they’ve learned. They help educate their younger siblings, their cousins, their neighbors. They are Lights to their communities.

And we are so blessed to witness the spreading of this Light, the igniting of candles, of hope in souls.

We are blessed to be here, sweating for Jesus. Walking the streets, sidestepping potholes, over gutters, around goats and motos, greeting our students and their families on their own ground. We might melt after dark, but during the day we only drip.

What could be more of a blessing than to share conversation and hugs with our students and their families? These people who may at one time have had no sense of worth, no pride, no hope for the future. These parents who didn’t see the value in their children, too preoccupied with providing food and shelter to another mouth.

What could be more of a blessing than meeting a parent in the street? A mama who once lowered her eyes, held her head down, and now comes eagerly to meet with us, eyes sparkling and arms hungry for hugs, knowing she will be received, loved as she is.

A child who prays boldly before his God, our God, his voice bigger than his body as he asks God’s blessing on us, grace for us all.

A papa who was an alcoholic nearly too drunk to stand, alarmed but helpless at his son’s malnutrition, without job or direction, now showing us the books he’s purchased for the coming school year, sober and proud.

A student who runs toward us as fast as she can, throwing her arms about our middles and squeezing, rocking in sheer bliss with arms locked.

These are blessings I cannot measure.

Blessings that set my heart to bursting and my voice to song. That set my fingers to typing, trying to tell you, dear Reader, dear Supporter, Partner, fellow Servant, fellow Broken One, that we are blessed.

God bless us? Oh, He has. Over and over again.

“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”

~Luke 6:38