Let's Get Some Shoes

Unlike Forrest Gump, I don’t remember my first pair of shoes. I do remember the ones from when I was 10: black sneakers with scarlet, orange, and yellow flames that even my teenage cousin thought were cool.

Through the years I’ve had lots of shoes. Some made me proud, like those flaming black sneakers from fifth grade. Some made me shy, like those brown and pink argyle tennis shoes that didn’t match most of my wardrobe.

Some have made me taller, or helped me run faster, wade through snow, squelch through mud, grip rocks, or have slapped against my soles, pinched my toes or nearly wrenched an ankle.

They’ve not all been good shoes. But they’ve always fit; they’ve always been mine.

All that summer barefooting was by choice. I never missed school because I didn’t have shoes. I was never shamed out of church because I didn’t have shoes. I never had frostbite on my toes in winter or burns on my heels in summer because I didn’t have shoes. I was always covered (literally.)

Now I have shoes for all occasions. Sandals for around the house. Sandals for walking uneven roads. Sandals for casual goings-out. Boots for snow and mud. Boots for furry insulation. Boots for church. Sneakers for sport. Old sneakers for muddy sport. Flat tennis shoes for casual goings-out. High heels for church. Closed-toed, arch-supportive, easy-clean black flats for teaching. A special soft pair just for the beach.

As my feet have not changed much in 12 years, some of these shoes are quite old. They all have purpose. Still, there are shoes to spare, I’d say.

And I don’t fear mud, sludge, sewage, or shattered glass when venturing out, because there’s always sturdy shoes on my feet. The right fit, the right size. Mine. My shoes. I trust them, I entrust myself to them.

Careful consideration has served me well for the past several years of shoe-buying, and each new pair carries my weight as I stand, walk, and jump around in the way teachers (and fidgety people) do.

Yes, my feet may be tired at the day’s end, but they are uninjured feet happy to breathe freely another night of rest. My feet are well cared for and well shod.

Those I teach, however, are not so blessed.

They get dressed in the dark and start off to school an hour early. They navigate goat paths, clamber over rocks, edge along ravines, jump over puddles of gray sewage, tiptoe about broken glass, and eat dust along the highway. From the time their wee legs can toddle, these children walk. Mom doesn’t have spare hands to carry the little one. If she’s there at all, she’s balancing a hefty basket on her head filled with market wares. Her arms are busy with another bucket or two.

Thus the children walk themselves to school and back again: The petite eight year old slips down the alley; the cluster of boys treks two miles and up a mountain; the fourth grader holds her kindergarten brother’s hand as they cross the street.

They walk. Even if there were money for taxi, some live in places unreachable by motorbike, down narrow alleys or up slippery crags. There is no passable route except by foot.

They walk. They walk in ill-fitting, second (third, fourth…)-hand shoes.

These days I choose shoes as the wearer and purchaser, approving for myself the fit and look, the practicality and durability.

“Yes, those red pumps are gorgeous. But sadly there’s nowhere to wear them and they’re definitely toe-pinchers.”

“Hmm, these black cushioned flats have a wide toe and prime arch support. They’re frumpy, perhaps, but perfect for teaching!”

Once I shoe-shopped with my mother: me the wearer, she the purchaser. Sometimes we disagreed. Sometimes she rejected my choices. Sometimes I cried. Never did she approve shoes that hurt my feet, pinched too tight or flapped too loose, or were haggard from previous ownership.

Shoes were usually new, always fitted, and always mine exclusively (not shared among siblings or housemates.)

Not so for these dear children I now teach.

There is no Red’s Shoe Barn, no outlet mall, no shoe department with shelves of neatly labeled boxes. There are piles. Piles of used shoes extracted from barrels or boxes of donated apparel  laid out on the street side for easy passers-by viewing.

Our mamas, the mothers of our school children, buy what they can. To fit the uniform, school shoes ought to be black and close-toed. National pride in appearance and educational formality expects shoes that look nice, too. Most of all, they must endure the walk.

As most of these shoes are donated, have sat in the back of a closet or gathered dust on the thrift store shelf, been cramped into a barrel and shipped, they are far from new.

Once purchased by one of our mamas, the shoes are cleaned and given to the child, to be worn every day, probably by feet at least a size too big.

The shoes do not endure. They can’t any longer.

The soles peel off, seams split, and toes tear.

Once at school, uncomfortable children slip (or yank) off these wearing-down shoes to relieve cramped feet still growing. This is not pre-modern China, where petite “lotus” feet were prized, toes and arches deliberately broken to fulfill the “golden lotus” standard of three-inch feet.

This is 21^st century Haiti, which boasts roads comparable to the 19^th century U.S. American West. The terrain is unforgiving. The voyage is unforgiving. The social expectations are unforgiving.

In addition to the rough patches of gravel, rocks, brambles, irritating ivy and thorny brush, there is the trash: rusted metal, shattered glass, waste and refuse, fresh, decayed, or smoldering from the latest trash-burning. There is sewage; human and animal waste carve gray mazes through the streets and alleys. Accompanying all these contaminants are hosts of bacteria and parasites. There are a thousand reasons not to barefoot in this place. The first hundred are simple health concerns from the ground to the sole.

It’s not fair. Not fair that these parents should be so hard pressed to provide food, cannot afford medicine, and can only manage the second-hand, ill-fitting shoes their children need to attend school.

It’s not fair. Life never has been fair and never will be.

However, thanks to the efforts of organizations like Because International, thanks to dreams born on dusty Ugandan roads, there is a chance for something better, something fairer.

Shoes that grow. Shoes that adjust five sizes. Shoes that fit changing feet. Shoes built with love, built to last. Shoes designed over a decade with that unforgiving terrain, unforgiving voyage, and social expectations in mind.

These are shoes that can take the journey, clean easily, and even come in black to fit our uniform.

Next year there will be 191 students at Christian Academy of Petit Gôave, this school in the center of small-town Haiti with unforgiving terrain and stringent expectations. There will be 191 children from third-world poverty, from families struggling to provide food and unable to afford medicine, children in dire need of good, sturdy shoes for school five days a week.

Follow the links to read about this amazing product firsthand from the Because International website, and see our CAP fundraising page.

God-willing, we pray to raise funds to purchase a pair of Shoes That Grow for every student next year. Will you help us?

Will you help put such a pair of shoes—shoes that fit, shoes that grow, shoes that endure—will you help put such a pair of shoes on a child’s feet?

Maybe they won’t be as flashy as my fifth grade black sneakers with the scarlet, orange, and yellow flames, but they will be every bit as appreciated and remembered.

https://fundraise.becauseinternational.org/fundraiser/2130836

https://becauseinternational.org/

Monday Morning: Tired by 9

The generator is still running at 5 when I get up.

It’s cool so I turn off the fan as I tie back the mosquito net. But sit down at the desk to open the Bible and the sweat starts oozing so turn it back on.

The generator cuts off by 6. Begin sweating now.

Sweat while getting dressed. Sweat while pulling hair back into a braid that will be tugged on by children all day. Sweat while sipping coffee to greet the week and perhaps kick the remnants of nite-time cold medicine and dizzying dreams.

Hand off the first money-packet at 7:00: that’s this week’s cooking supplies. The one who takes it will drive the moto-wagon to fill up the 55-gallon drums with water for the day. The source is down the National Road two miles. A natural mountain spring fills a concrete basin, flooded with women washing laundry, children filling jugs, and young men bathing. Our driver will wait his turn and fill up the drums bucket by 5-gallon bucket. Then he’ll drive slowly and carefully those two miles back up through school commuter traffic to park in front of the school. And bucket by 5-gallon bucket that water will be transferred to the counterpart drums inside.

After the water is finished, one drum upstairs in the kitchen, the other under the stairs by the bathrooms, he will drive the moto-wagon into the market area to purchase the cooking supplies. He’ll look for oil, butter, garlic, maybe onions, carrots, and beans. He’ll look, haggle, and then drive the goods back to the house, delivering them to the two ladies ready to start cooking.

They’ll prepare the rice and beans to feed the 200 school members and household hungry.

But this morning the moto won’t start. The water has to wait. Alternative means of transportation get him to the market to deliver cooking supplies. Then he’ll have to look harder for what he needs for he doesn’t have as much money as he should. The cash supply is low. At the house the ladies start to cook.

Meanwhile, school has begun. We arrive rather later than our typical late arrival. The teachers have already gathered to sing and pray. Blow kisses in the air as we’re all grippe with runny noses and coughs and the idea of kissing cheek to cheek makes me wheeze. Unlock the office, tote the speaker and microphone and flags down to the front doors. The children line up, straggly with grippe and Monday confusion, a small bunch. Twice this many will arrive late but many will not come at all—colds and fevers are gripping us, staff and students alike.

Sing with scratchy throat and blocked ears. Rejoice when brother and sister missing for weeks enter, sister with scabies sores oozing on her hands. Hug the kids and greet them with names but again no kisses. Direct a large proportion to the office for medical attention.

Greet the group of tardy arrivals, say we’re not marking names this morning for there are too many sick.

Head to the office. Rooms and hallway are dark because the generator isn’t turned on. It needs gasoline. Gasoline needs to be purchased. The one who buys gas needs to stay and help treat all these sick children. A line of boys needs their heads washed with the blue shampoo to fight the fungus. One needs antibiotic ointment then spread on the scabbing sores.

Classes begin with singing, prayer, then recitation, many kids saying their head aches, their stomach aches, or they are simply hungry, but those are problems reparable with breakfast. Morning peanut butter crackers are coming. Soon.

The same one who buys gas makes crackers each morning. Or I do it. Both of us have our hands full now.

He washes heads. I line up the minute medicine cups and dispense cold syrup. Sniffles abound. The stack of used cups grows and the number of patients decreases. But this one has a spinning head and an obvious fever. This one has a stomach ache and needs his daily meds for his broken arm. This one and that one have wounds that need cleaning.

Madame Rose fixes speedy peanut butter remedies for the two who need medicine and they’re sent off to class.

The head fungus group is hastily towel-dried and the second money packet is handed off. Today we need gasoline and oil. Remember the receipts. Squat down on the floor, fit one hand with a glove and start nudging at the weeks-old wound on the third grader’s foot. It could have been healed by now if it were consistently cared for. But each day he goes home with a bandage and returns without one. After two days of weekend the spot is black-rimmed with dirt and hosting flies.

Start probing at it with antibiotic wash; he winces but doesn’t say a word. Talk to him with that reassuring, rather apologetic tone. Wonder how nurses find that line between compassion and severity, for they must be empathetic but also stern. Sometimes they’ve got to cause pain to bring healing. It’s a discouraging amount of time before the sponges stop coming away brown from his wound. Wrap it up once again, instruct him to bring a sock tomorrow with which to cover over the new bandage. Kiss the white patch on his brown foot and wonder if anyone has valued him yet today.

Put on a new glove. Start probing at the scabies-sprung wound on the first-grade girl. She twitches and hisses. The yellow ooze around the edges is concerning. Don’t really know what to do with this one. She needs more treatment anyway. Wash it, slather it with ointment, cover it, send her off. Hope she can keep the bandaids on until tomorrow.

Stand up from the squat. Clear the table of all the medical wrappings. Accept the change and receipts from the gasoline and send him off to start the morning’s crackers. Lean my head on Rose’s shoulder. “Whew. I’m tired. Let’s be finished.”

She laughs. It’s 9:00 in the morning.

Two more girls need medicine for fever. They need chewables which should be taken with water. They don’t have water bottles. Take them up to the kitchen. Recycled bottles in the kitchen need washing. There’s just water scraping the bottom of the barrel up there because the water hasn’t been filled yet. Problem with the motorcycle, remember? Pour just enough water in with the detergent in the first wash tub, shake out the two bottles and get just enough water to rinse out the bubbles. Hand them off with the chewables to the waiting girls.

“Okay, go to class, girls.”

Start making crackers because the two men are now putting the new gas and oil into the generator. First they have to move the heavy thing from its sleeping place here in the kitchen to the front roof. The wheels have long been broken so they lift it, over thresholds and down some uneven steps. Make two plates of crackers spread with peanut butter at a time and deliver them to classes. Down the stairs, down the hall, over the half-door, turn around and return. Start over.

Get through six plates. Miss teaching 2^nd grade English class entirely as now it’s 9:30 on Monday. Time for church! One more plate of crackers to go.

“Go ahead and start church,” I call to Madame Rose down the hallway. “I’m coming!”

Children start pushing through the doors, flooding the hallway, heading up the stairs front and back. Back upstairs to the kitchen. He’s finished with the generator so I tell him the last plate that needs making. Grab a cracker for myself and trip down the stairs. Wash the peanut butter off to the sounds of stomping feet. Flit into the office, get out phone and notebook. They’re singing “Jesus Loves Me” upstairs. We still don’t have an Old Testament Creole Bible so for this Judges reading we use the Creole Bib La app on my phone. Check the passages in the notebook, find the place, stack notebook and phone atop speaker, clutch the microphone, traipse down the hall out the front door and up the uneven front steps. Enter the Recreation/Assembly space where they are praying: lines of students and dotted teachers. We pledge allegiance to the Bible, recite our school motto and the last weeks’ verses, then switch on the microphone and start speaking with a prayer to the Spirit for help.

Read from Judges, preach with Mesdames Maude and Samanne: Jesus is the only Perfect One, even the powerful Samson fell into temptation. Promise we’ll talk more about that on Friday. Dismiss. Head down to Kindergarten to start 10:00 English class a trifle late. Right on Island Time. So many are sick! Change the typical “How are you today, Class?” response from “I am well” to “I am sick” in honor of the occasion. We continue to practice shapes and colors. Now their phonics include the tricky “C-circle-kkk” and “S-square-sss.”

Kindergarten is finished at 11 and it’s back to the office to get some medicine for some of those heads-down sick ones. A cluster of third graders blocks the doorway, all of them at once babbling to Madame Rose. Two seem to be crying.

“Do you need all these kids?” I ask Rose, suspicious.

“No, I need only two,” she says, and grabs a pencil and paper. “I’m going to write all your names down to call your parents!” she threatens to the busybodies in the doorway. They scatter, leaving us with two sobbing students. The boy won’t stop talking, a stream of excuses blubbering out. The girl mumbles under her breath in the corner. Over and over I tell them to be quiet. A second grader comes in with a stomachache. Says he’s not hungry. Nothing else to do but let him lie down. He takes up one of the three benches. On the second Rose sits, soon joined by Pastor, dropped by to say hello and now another witness to the weeping.

Rose and Levy talk to the kids, I weave around them sharpening pencils, drop a towel over the boy’s head to calm him. It’s time for fourth grade English so I gather things up. The towel has muffled the tirade. The boy would rather Pastor whack him with a ruler here and now than have to call his papa to report himself. Pastor laughs. I twitch the smile off my face.

“You know we don’t hit kids,” I remind everyone in the room.

Across the hall to fourth grade. We practice the song, “I’m Trading my Sorrows,” reviewing the verses and chorus and introducing the bridge. Lots of tricky words in there to challenge these guys. We talk about some antonyms. My brain function is dwindling severely by now, 12:30. The hour is up and it’s back to the office for one more in-between before third grade.

At 12:45 it’s up the stairs, into the room greeted by the usual cheer. Yes, they love me. Yes, I love them. No, they don’t behave better for me. We’ve been practicing past tense. Last week we made Bingo Boards with past tense verbs. I call out words for them to cover, writing the words on the board as we go. They are dreadful listeners. There are several false Bingoes when I compare their covered words to those right there visible on the board and knock off the “chips” (we’re using tiny silly band elastics that tumble about but don’t break nor quickly run out.) Lots of time is wasted on discipline, repeating again and again, “You are not the boss!” to one busybody tattletale to the next. We wrap up the set at 1:55 and they’ve still got to copy their homework. Whoops. I apologize to Madame Marjorie for the tardiness, scoop up my stuff, and nip back downstairs to the office.

Time to wrap up this school day. 2:00 is dismissal for the elementary grades. Kids are buzzing in and out of classrooms. I’m tidying up the office, sharpening pencils, turning away last-minute requests for medicine, saying “goodbye” and “see you tomorrow.”

Gather up stuff to go home, stuff to prepare for tomorrow.  Jot down a few notes for lesson plans and records to remember. The unwritten is probably the forgotten.

By 2:30 all the kids have been picked up or taken themselves home by foot, except two. Put them in the car with Rose, Saintilus, the food pot and our bags. Drive home, through the gate and into our courtyard. Direct the kids out and sit them down under the shade of the trees. The kindergartener has a fever and won’t eat. The third grader accepts the plate of food brought to him. Up to my room where I shower and change clothes, rinsing out my uniform shirt and skirt in the shower to wear again tomorrow. Start sweating through this set of clothes. Grab the attendance book and phone and trip down the stairs. Give Madame Rose the phone numbers to call on the school phone because mine won’t connect. Bring the two boys inside so the sick one can lie on the couch in the salon. Unlock the medicine cabinet in Beverly’s room to pour cold/fever medicine for our little friend. Give him the dose with water, pull off his shoes and watch him curl up on the couch. The third grader sits in the glider and drinks his water. I wash my hands and sit down to eat. The third grader is picked up. The kindergartener is quiet on the couch.

I finish my meal and climb back up the stairs to my room. I fall asleep, too. Thank God for the pleasant breeze coming in through the windows. For perhaps 30 minutes I doze, then get up at 5. The kindergartener is stirring, too, alert from the couch. Medicine is amazing! Outside I gather laundry from the line and tote it up to re-hang on the roof overnight. It’s not dry yet but the dogs will tear down and maybe shred anything left hanging outside.

Back down those two flights of stairs I look for Madame Rose outside, wondering what we should do with this student who’s now four hours overdue. He should have been picked up from school at 1:00. Rose says she’s sent someone by the house to inform them in-person their charge is still with us. They’ve not answered the phone. Okay. Well, that’s something. At least he’s feeling better.

I ask him again if he’ll eat. He says no but I’m determined.

“You need to eat a little,” I say, and we troop back into the house and get his hands washed in the bathroom. Ah, to have soap and running water over a sink, even a towel! Such luxury.

“Mwen p’ap manje anpil,” he says, so I spoon him a small portion. It’s rice and bean sauce, easy eating.  He eats, drinks his water, and puts up his plate where I tell him.

“Okay, now you can sit down inside or you can go out to play.”

He opts to play outside with my young housemates. They are soon kicking the soccer ball while I head upstairs to start mopping and cleaning bathrooms. Mine was left undone this weekend as I was too ill, and Beverly should arrive tomorrow so hers needs doing. While I’m scrubbing the shower they call me.

“His parent is here!” In the courtyard a very young man is standing with our friend. He’s already talked to Madame Rose so I simply say goodbye. This is his uncle sent by the grandmother who was in charge today. She forgot. The two walk out. It’s not far. My, he’s looking better after medicine, food, and rest!

Back upstairs to continue with the mopping and cleaning. I finish Beverly’s room and rapidly do mine. I’m now so covered in sweat I can’t tell where the shower splashes begin and my own sweat ends. So I might as well exercise. Get my laptop, towel, water, and head up to the roof to work out with Jillian. (Jillian Michaels: Yoga Inferno.) I watch sweat drip to the concrete as I fold into crescent pose. Whew, feel those muscles forgotten over the past week of illness! We finish up, the DVD crew and I, feeling good. Shake off some sweat then stare amazed at the colors of the sunsetting sky, mountains, ocean, trees, those ever-astounding elegant coconut fronds.

Sit down in that fading light with the computer muted. Open a Word document and start to type about the morning, while it’s fresh and believable. At 7:30 I stop although I’m in the groove. I want to shower before devotion at 8:00. We all gather in the salon to sing, pray, and study the Bible every night. Before I quit the roof I breathe in the sky: gold, salmon, mauve, slate blue—those colors exclusive to sunset. Down to my room I shower and change (again) into blessed [momentarily] sweat-free clothes for devotion. But at 8:00 Pastor leaves to get gasoline for the night’s generator. We’ve not had city power since maybe Thursday. He’s been granting us generator from 10ish to 6ish, chance to charge all those devices and sleep with fans. In the meantime, I want to enjoy being clean for a bit. I’ve only been sweating in these clothes for a few minutes. So I join Madame Rose in her dark room where we just lie quietly and chat until Pastor returns. 8:40 and we’re right on Island Time for devotion.

I set the rechargeable lantern in the middle of the floor; everyone’s got cell phones for further light. We sing and pray, all of us, with heavy eyes. Pastor speaks about John 15, which is appropriate as we’ll start learning verses one and two in school tomorrow. After the final prayer and benediction we hug and say goodnight. Some of them set off to study, some to wash dishes, some to prepare for sleeping.

Alone upstairs again I make Beverly’s bed with clean sheets and put down the rugs taken up for mopping. Everything looks set for her arrival. I lock the door behind me and get back to my room (one of the hottest in the house.) I gather stuff for the trip to Port au Prince tomorrow: Pastor and I will leave here late morning to pick Beverly up at the airport. You never know how long the trip will take. I want to blog, get out about today, but think about the exhaustion and the much-needed rest to be capable tomorrow and continue to shake off this cold. Rose calls up to my open door if I’ve remembered the mattress cover. With a sigh I unmake Beverly’s bed to yank off that cover so it can be washed. Ah, well.

Shut my door this time, finish up the organizing and packing for tomorrow. Keep the laptop closed on the desk. Brush teeth and spread mosquito net. The generator comes on. It’s after 10:00. Ah, there’s the fan. I might stop sweating now. Change clothes one last time into pajamas, plug in all the devices, switch off the light. It’s about 10:30 when I climb into bed, tucked in by mosquito net, sweat cooling under the fan.

Tomorrow is another day. But it’s not Monday.

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