Ayiti Toujou Bel (Haiti is Still Beautiful)

In the midst of this chaos and ugliness of violence, of need, of loss, of corruption and unfairness, I want to remind you of all the beauty of Haiti. 

Haiti is a tropical island. A jewel in the necklace of the Antilles, with mountains and ocean, jungles, plains, fruits, flowers, birds, and butterflies. There are conch shells, coral reefs replete with colorful fish, coconut palms, white sand and turquoise surf. Magnificent sunrises and sunsets paint the horizon and the Milky Way sweeps across the sky at night. 

God's Creation is glorious, still impressive through the ravages of time and conquest. 
Haiti's people are the most inspiring of this Creation, but let us also remember and appreciate the beauty of her land.

Part 3: The boy with scabies

Walter has every right to be sad. To be dismayed and withdrawn, unyielding and unresponsive as stone. His short life has already been rife with suffering, discomfort, and injustice.

It’s just not fair.

I’ve no way to answer him. I cannot reason why this three-year-old child must do without proper hygiene, nutrition, and shelter. No way to explain why he is not pampered, doted upon, even spoiled by parents, aunts, grandmothers, and babysitters. I can’t understand why my child cousins in the States have more toys than they remember and more clothes than occasion. Why they have all things soft, clean, and FDA and WHO approved.

On Thursday I swoop Walter up again.

The dirty bandage on his wrist is gone. His hands are still scabbed and oozing. In the office I tuck in his shirt and tie his shoes, petite black moccasins with laces wet from trailing the bathroom floor.

“Are you finished potty?” I ask Walter as one of his hands scratches at his head. His mouth opens and closes like that gasping fish. Like his baby brother trying and trying not to cry.

“Wi,” he vocalizes. I am impressed at how audible the syllable is.

Then his mouth closes. He leans into me. Something steady.

“Okay, let’s go wash your hands. Lave men, lave men w’!” I take his unwashed hand and draw him after me back to the wash basin.

He sticks out those scabbed sore hands. Caramel marred with red, white, and angry pink they cup over the lip of the sink, empty and expectant.

I pour water, set the soap in his palms. Together we lather in between his fingers. Then I rinse and send him on his way, holding back to refill the water bucket.

“Ale klas ou, Walter! Go to class!”

As I fill the big bucket with a smaller one I watch Walter’ progress. He trips down the hall with that toddler gait, headed towards the sunny day beyond, one hand scratching his head.

At the end of the corridor he stands before his classroom door for a moment. Then he trips back up the hall to the office and peers around the doorframe.

“Walter?” I call, still at the sink. “What are you doing?”

The office is empty besides Jonas poring over translation homework on the far bench. No arms reach out or calls welcome. Walter turns away. Shaking water from my hands I swoop down on him, bring him down the hall and nudge him into class. The last classroom before the sunshine of the courtyard.

Madame Eunide, the classroom teacher, nods at me for returning one of her charges. Her hands are overflowing these days as her assistant has started maternity leave. She’s brought another ebony-eyed baby into this world of unanswered questions and unexplained abominations.

Walter trots back to his seat at a low table among his classmates. Toddlers of various shapes and sizes sat in their wicker chairs, coloring in place. They are beautiful children all. The most beautiful in the world. Hope, delight, and a miracle each one. Somehow they are surviving; somehow they are shining still.

Walter hasn’t smiled yet. He hasn’t laughed or formed a complete sentence. But he remembers the warmth and welcome of the office. He didn’t tell me he came back to the office that morning for one more hug or gentle word. I think he did.

We can’t explain why, you or I. We can’t justify Walter’ suffering. We can’t justify the suffering of the man on the ground who prefers dust to a bed. The suffering of a baby without breath and parents without means. We can’t elucidate the disparity of where we are born.

We can confirm that poverty and privilege are not faults but opportunities. Those born in poverty can grow—if those of us in privilege give them the chance.

We can’t fix this world, you and I. Even together we cannot right all these wrongs or win the tragedies to victories. We can’t keep the babies from dying.

We can give food to the hungry and water to the thirsty we meet. We can visit the sick and comfort those who mourn. We can tie shoelaces, fill buckets, and treat wounds. We can love with abandon, in opposition to the dreadful abominations all around us.

It hurts to see all the wretchedness of the world. It helps to love in response. Even if we never learn the names of those we love. God knows, and He’s watching us to see what we will do when we encounter a man on the ground, a baby without breath, or a child with scabies. Will we pass by? Or will we run towards the sorrow with a song in our heart and Band-aids in our pockets, ready to bind up the wounds of the brokenhearted and kiss the tears of the unsmiling?

As for me, I’ll be there, in need of more Band-aids, voice lifted in tearful song.

 “When he finally arrives, blazing in beauty and all his angels with him, the Son of Man will take his place on his glorious throne. Then all the nations will be arranged before him and he will sort the people out, much as a shepherd sorts out sheep and goats, putting sheep to his right and goats to his left.

^34-36 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what’s coming to you in this kingdom. It’s been ready for you since the world’s foundation. And here’s why:

I was hungry and you fed me,
I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
I was homeless and you gave me a room,
I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
I was sick and you stopped to visit,
I was in prison and you came to me.’

^37-40 “Then those ‘sheep’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?’ Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’

^41-43 “Then he will turn to the ‘goats,’ the ones on his left, and say, ‘Get out, worthless goats! You’re good for nothing but the fires of hell. And why? Because—

I was hungry and you gave me no meal,
I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
I was homeless and you gave me no bed,
I was shivering and you gave me no clothes,
Sick and in prison, and you never visited.’

⁴⁴ “Then those ‘goats’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or homeless or shivering or sick or in prison and didn’t help?’

⁴⁵ “He will answer them, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me—you failed to do it to me.’

⁴⁶ “Then those ‘goats’ will be herded to their eternal doom, but the ‘sheep’ to their eternal reward.”

~Matthew 25:31-46 MSG

Part 2: The baby without breath

Walter is the latest scabies victim. He’s three years old. He doesn’t speak.

This week he came to school late with his wrist bandaged. One of the sores coating his tiny toddler hands had burst.

When I hold him on my lap his mouth moves, opening and closing like a fish. Without sound. His face is without expression.

He whispers out a “bonjou, good morning” with forceful encouragement. His short arms reach up to scratch his head. A reaction to nerves and head fungus (which plagues many of our boys.)

Walter doesn’t resist being held. He doesn’t respond either, beyond the slight rest of his butterfly hand on my encircling arm.

In the fall Walter's baby brother was in the hospital. One month old with an oxygen tube strapped to his nose. He lay on a pillow on the lap of a family member or friend come to pass the time. Perhaps he had pneumonia.

It’s Saturday afternoon. We’ve eaten and are preparing to rest through the golden hours until twilight cools us.

A man approaches the kitchen door. Walter’s father. Walter, who started school in September. The father comes with hands lifted in supplication.

“Please, will you help?” he asks.

Pastor explains the situation.

“His baby is in the hospital. He’s on oxygen. They need to pay for the tank or they won’t get another.”

The family doesn’t have the money to pay for the oxygen their child needs to breathe. If they can’t pay, the hospital will not provide more. We’ve seen this before with Adeline, our asthmatic miracle.

Children die every day.

Not today.

“You don’t say no to a sick baby,” Beverly and I agree upstairs. We gather some funds and get in the car. We want to see this baby for ourselves. To pray for him.

We drive to the public hospital, just a kilometer or two down the street. We step up to the pediatric ward, another green and white concrete building like all those on the gated hospital campus.

The first baby is at reception. He’s being weighed. We pass the desk. Pass a room of cries. Enter a room of quiet.

What I see most is the eyes. Eyes. Eyes too big for faces. Eyes like wells. Wells deep with all the suffering and loss of the world.

Bodies are shrunken. The floors and walls are bare. The few cribs are shabby. Some folding chairs support slumped figures of the waiting.

No light. There’s no electricity right now, in this golden time before dark.

In the quiet room is Walter’s baby brother. He is impossibly beautiful. He’s rasping.

His mouth opens and closes, his tongue unfurls and curls back in. His brow puckers. He tries to cry. He tries to wriggle out of this breathing tube. Wriggle out of this place.

There are many babies here. Each ones reads a tragedy. Babies are miracles. They are hope and delight. Sick and suffering babies are an abomination. Visible proof of the wretchedness of this world. Shattered pieces of beautiful intention.

Here we are. Beverly, Pastor, Rose, and I. We are the most prosperous visitors this room has seen all day. And perhaps we are the most horrified.

Soon the baby is on my lap. He has woolly black hair, quarter-round ebony eyes, waving fists, unfurling tongue, and breathing tube. The question of why is far heavier than he and his pillow.

We never get his name. Shadows deepen as dusk falls. There is still no light. No electricity to brighten this place. I hold him on my lap, singing softly.

“Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.” I stare down at him, his brow continuing to crinkle and smooth as he whimpers then nearly smiles. “Jezi renmen tout timoun yo, tout timoun ki sou late….”

The baby’s large green oxygen tank resembles a submarine. A submarine at war with illness as the angels are at war with demons. Here there are demons of despair, of affliction, of death. They take a beating as we sing and pray, the four of us joining hands with the waiting family and friends surrounding the baby on his pillow in my lap.

Then Pastor is at the door although Rose would stay and talk. A woman enters, sweating, bag of food clutched in her hand. This is Mama. She’s been out for supplies.

Beverly says, “Okay, Rachelle. Let go of the baby.” I awkwardly pass him and the pillow to Mama, kiss his minute crinkled forehead one more time.

“Goodbye, Baby.”

Mama takes the baby up, presses him to her shoulder, the oxygen tube snaking around, stuck between them. An unwelcome interference. An abomination.

We leave, trooping out with our privilege. We will return to a place of cleanliness, of food, water, light, and medicine. A place with no sick babies.

We leave the babies with their tragic eyes in the darkened room. Babies, guardians, and congregants remain in uncongenial positions. Perhaps they think if they act like stone long enough they might become like it. Stone doesn’t mourn.

“The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD to display His splendor.” ~ Isaiah 61:1-3 NIV

Part 1: The man on the ground

Latest in the list of grievances is the man at the hospital. Lying on his side in the dirt between the maternity and pediatric wards. Bare feet rest atop each other. He eats the dust.

Everyone passes by.

No one comments. No one assists.

Then we arrive. And Rose stops.

“Hello. How are you?” she asks, bending down to speak to him on the ground. “What’s your name? What’s wrong?”

His mouth moves. I can’t hear the answers. They’re mumbled, jumbled.

A crowd gathers. Those standing on the ramp to Pediatrics lean in. Spectator sporting at its best. Or worst.

Some of the onlookers guffaw. One woman’s face splits with a smile resembling a leer. One man comes alongside Rose, hands behind his back, leaning in and over the man on the ground. Looking down at him.

Beverly and I stand off to the side. Looking on. At a loss in the face of this loss, this lack.

We shake our heads.

“Does he need water?” Beverly asks.

“W’ap bwe dlo? Will you drink water?” one of the onlookers asks.

The man agrees.

She hands him a water sache and he squeezes it empty in a gulp or two. Like dust absorbing moisture.

I want to take him up. Dust him off. Tuck him into a clean bed with crisp sheets. Tuck an IV in his arm and watch the nutrients flow down into his stick-thin legs.

Worse than the dust around him, the emaciation of his limbs, is the solitude. The abandonment. He is alone.

“Who brought you here? Where are you from?” Rose asks. “Where is your family?”

There is no one.

No one to take hold of his hand, assure him. Ease him into bed and care.

We go to the director’s office—the boss of the hospital. He frequently consults for us, prescribes medicine, advises.

He shakes his head and smiles when we speak of the man on the ground.

“We’ve done what we can,” he says.

He tells us the man has been here a few days. The staff tried to take care of him. They put him in bed. He went back to the earth, laid himself back down in the dust. He’s ill. No one knows how to care for him.

“We’re going to get him up, give him clothes, and bring him to the poor house,” the director tells us. He doesn’t know more about mental illness. The only word for that here is “crazy.”

The director’s shoulders shrug under their brown corduroy. His suit jacket fits over a button down, with fitted slacks and polished shoes. His manicured hands lift.

I read the plea for absolution in every gesture.

He smiles with well-rounded cheeks and groomed chin.

The man on the ground is not a concern. Soon he’ll be off the hospital campus.

“I’m glad you have a plan,” Beverly tells the director as we turn to go. “We’ll see you soon. Another student has scabies!”

She and Rose speak briefly of our latest discovered scabies victim; several of our students now are afflicted with the skin parasites.

“So we’ll see you on Friday with Woobins,” Beverly says.

Thank you and goodbye.

As we exit the building we can see between the maternity and pediatric wards. The crowd is dispersed. The man on the ground is gone.

“Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.” ~ Isaiah 58:6-9 NIV

Favor One, Favor All

Most teachers have favorites. It’s inevitable. Unintentional. Such are the fickle faculties of the human heart.

When I started teaching at Christian Academy of Petit Gôave I developed favorites, too. Some because they favored me—like little Ruth in the three year old class who would greet me by falling into me and wrapping her arms around my neck—some because they performed so well, made teaching such a pleasure, like Deborah and Gilberto, with his baby teeth smile and her shy way of hiding her face under my arm.

A good teacher will guard against favoritism, not let any partiality be expressed, demonstrate equal patience and affection to all pupils.

A great teacher knows no favoritism.

And that is only a gift from God.

Thanks be to God I am en route to being a great teacher by my own definition.

This is not meant to boast or applaud myself, but rather give glory to God who commands we harbor no favoritism (an inevitable, unavoidable human tendency.)

James 2:1, 9 “My brothers, show no partiality as you hold the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory…if you show partiality you are committing sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors.”

Only with God, only with True Love, can we avoid this tendency.

The last week of December term we had visitors from Virginia. They blessed us with a Christmas Vacation Bible School program and brought Christmas gifts for each student and teacher. They helped us host a baby shower for Madame Valerie and bedeck students and staff with Christmas sparkle.

Inevitably, they harbored favorites.

Some of the team was chosen by students: a particular precious babe latched onto them. Other team members just fell for a certain set of cheeks, eyes, or dimpled smile. Attachments formed.

At church each week I stand among the students. Maneuvering through the crowd I turn heads, hold shoulders, and brace agitators with a firm, loving touch.

I rarely brace the same kids.  My route alters and my attention shifts. No matter where I stand there are little hands grasping mine, rubbing my skin, batting at my hair, twisting my watch, pulling my bracelets, leaning into me. All of them are desperate for touch.

With only two hand and two arms, only one back and one chest I reach as many as I can. Not enough. Sometimes I wish I were an octopus.

But even eight limbs couldn’t satisfy the needs of 166 hungry children.

So the rotation continues, and each assembly I make my way to a different place with different agitators. I spread myself as much as possible.

When time allows I greet them all in line after morning assembly.

Just saying their name with a “Good morning,” giving a hug with “Jesus loves you,” is a gift for both of us.

God has blessed us, the staff at CAP, with remembrance of each child’s name. (Don’t be impressed with us—praise God who knows each one of us billions by name and numbers the hairs on our heads.)

Luke 12:6-7 “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

During the average day I spend far more time with the fourth, third, and second grades and kindergarten teaching English, and try to catch the three year olds as they invade the office between classes. I hardly see the four year old or first grade classes, yet every chance we get these kids and I love on one another.

Over the past two months particularly, as we’ve hosted visitors, a dentist, brought kids to the doctor, and trekked to student homes, I’ve noticed that my heart overflows with love for all of these children.  For Miken, who I see as a sweet-heart with puppy eyes and a shy smile rather than the disciplinary issue exiled to his own bench for fighting. For Sorine, who squeezes psoriasis arms around me at every meeting. For Rose Olguine whose eyes sparkle with mischief and giggles escape when my serious voice is on. For Sheinder who hides his face in his arms when called upon. For Deborah who needs to be picked up and swung although she is rock solid heavy. For Ludgie who has the softest round cheeks and ADHD that propels her around the room. For Ismael who would rather draw than listen and rather dance than repeat. For wee Angeline who still recoils from my touch and refuses to return my greeting (I’ve not yet won her over.) For Jesse who mimics his twin brother Jerry, in the school another year and now smiles freely. For Volmar who has blossomed into speech and smiles. For Dieumaelle who frustrates me immensely but then cracks me up with her grin and off-the-bench antics. For the cluster of four-year old girls who repeat like little drones, “Madame Rachelle, ou bel!” My heart overflows for each naughty tattle-tale, each cooperative hard-worker, each chatterbox and stoic.

The sight of one, of all, brings a smile and a fresh desire to seize them in a hug.

Weekends have become a trial for those extra 48 hours away from the children are 49 hours too much.

Now we are wrapping up Christmas vacation; Beverly and I passed nearly three weeks in our states of origin.

We know our American families need us, know we need time to rest, sleep and eat, shop and pamper ourselves just a bit with hot water, television, and fresh fruits and vegetables. We need to refuel with English church and visits folks with whom we can speak fast and use big words. These are nice things. I’m appreciative.

But my heart aches constantly for our babes, as my teeth ache constantly from this irritated nerve. There isn’t one child I long for more than another.

Looking through photos from the Birthday Party for Jesus, the team visits, and simply portraits of the Most Beautiful Kids in the World, I am homesick. Homesick for my heart is with these children.

Someday God may make me a great teacher in every sense of the word. In the meantime I rejoice He is working on me as a great teacher who loves her students equally, without condition and without end. A teacher who loves with just a shadow of the way God loves me. Loves us.

Here’s to no favorites, and the occasional desire to be an octo-ped.

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!