Suicidal Missionary: The Continuing Story

Please be Advised: What follows is the most personal and vulnerable blog I’ve written. I will be sharing about mental illness, specifically depression and anxiety; suicide risk, and mental health treatment. My intention is not to alarm or frighten anyone, nor to evoke drama or pity; I intend instead to glorify God, who I credit with my survival and continuous healing; to encourage anyone who may be going through similar struggles, and to further the understanding of and lessen the stigma of mental illness. 

I’m going to tell you an upsetting story. But persevere, keep reading through (I know it’s a bit long, forgive me if I wax loquacious) to the happy ending. Let me explain why I suddenly left my job of teaching God’s most beautiful children in the middle of the semester, why I fled the home I love in Haiti, ceased communication with almost everyone I care for, why I went off the radar. Listen to how I fell off the deep end. And then listen to me brag about God. (If you don't believe in God keep reading anyway.) 

In May I left my job teaching English at school in Haiti, cut out midway through the quarter, dropped classes and students to flee back to New Hampshire where I holed up in my childhood bedroom.

I left because I was afraid to stay. In three years of living and working in this volatile third world country harassed by hurricanes, gangs, and violent protests, for the first time I was afraid for my life. Every day, several times a day, my life was threatened.

Threatened as I stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. Threatened as I approached the main street and watched for fast-moving trucks and buses. As I unscrewed the cap of a bleach jug and as I counted pills in my store.

I wanted to die. I was ready to die by my own hand.

I could no longer tolerate the loneliness, the failure, the self-loathing. All the short-comings of curriculum, of English-learning, lack of understanding of lessons or Bible application, rude words, the long line of hungry, desperate neighbors, the constancy of my foot in my mouth, deciding to sleep rather than keep company, eating food that could have gone to another, lack of French or complex Creole, that ridiculously long list of mistakes and wrongs done to others—these piled upon me. Every failure was my failure. Everything was my fault. The certainty of this was weight I couldn’t shake off.

In class I smiled and hugged the kids. I tried to sing and pray with fervor to match the other teachers who praised God through their stories of suffering: sickness, poverty, overcrowding. In between classes and duties I snuck up to the roof and cried.

When I did break down and sob, I tried to do so in secret. If discovered, sometimes others berated me for crying. Always I criticized myself. There was no reason for me to cry. My life was a breeze compared to our kids, who came from shacks without water or electricity, who slept on the floor or piled together with siblings, who had no mosquito nets to prevent bites, who had to trek down the mountain for school. My parents had never beat or neglected me. I wasn’t passed around among hostile relatives. Plenty of people sent me messages and letters assuring me I was loved and special. This crying was pathetic. A waste of time.

So onto the weight of miserable failure piled more guilt, like lead gilding an iron yoke. The yoke was breaking me. The best thing for everybody would be my absence. I was only making things worse. Since I couldn’t prevent my birth, erase my existence, I could end my life now. I’d be free. They’d all be free of me.

There were many ways to commit suicide. I’d heard that the most common method in Haiti is drinking bleach. Easy enough to acquire; I even had bleach in my room for cleaning the floors. The school and our house had flat roofs easy to mount and jump from. All that concrete could be lethal. Probably I could find a gun. We knew a mother who had jumped in front of a speeding bus. A man had been discovered on the beach after drowning himself. I had clothesline rope. In the past I’d slit my wrists lightly for relief. Cut a little deeper…

Such were my thoughts of escape.

And when I wasn’t calculating with disappointment the inadequate height of the roof or reading online warnings of ingesting an excess of Nyquil, I was terrified. Terrified I would follow through and do it: kill myself, and the resultant impact. There was much to consider.

Who would find my body? How would that affect them? How traumatizing! And if I jumped off the school roof or threw myself in front of a speeding truck there on National Road, the kids were sure to see. They had enough post-traumatic stress. What of my house family? They’d have to live here with my death tainting the premises. And what if the cleanup were messy—a literal stain upon their play space in the courtyard or those beautiful white tiles in the guest bedroom?

What of the driver of the truck I chose? The passengers? The witnesses on the road? They would have to live with another death, or the guilt of cause. And again, the kids! I couldn’t put them through such horror.

And my parents. I knew they loved me, and I loved them. I didn’t them to deal with their child’s suicide. And what if foul play were suspected? This was a U.N. recognized risky area; what if the authorities suspected my housemates or locals of harming me? What if those I loved were arrested for my murder?

And, worst of all, what if I survived? What if I were merely injured, or paralyzed? Wound up brain-dead hooked to machines for months or years to come? Stuck in the limbo between life and death and forever haunted by the shame and failure of what I’d done (or tried to do.) I’d see the betrayal on all their faces when they looked at me. Their pity and disgust.

When my mind was too worn with agony to conjure these horrific possibilities, there was still a hint of reason. I remembered my student-loan debt. If I died Mom and Dad would be saddled with it. The shallow practicality and undeniable truth of this held even when I couldn’t summon energy to empathize with those who would be impacted by my death.

Many days, nights, moments, I knew I’d be doing everyone a favor by dying and had to remind myself of the student-loan debt, the bills piling up for Mom and Dad. It was usually just enough to combat the truth: I’d caused enough problems. I wasn’t worth my keep. They’d all be better off without me.

Such was my thinking the first weeks of May.

Actually such my thinking was on and off over the past few years. But this spring was the worst. The battle had been raging too long and I was losing. It was just a matter of [little] time before I did it, before I tried to kill myself for real.

So I left Haiti, where mental illness has one translation, “fou” (crazy.)

Letting everyone down, breaking my “contract” of teaching through the year, I gave brief notice and fled to my parents’ house in NH.

Once Stateside I got in to see my primary care physician. She upped the meds. Yes, I was already taking daily anti-depressant medication. And I had tried counseling. For over a year I’d been semi-regularly conversing with a counselor over the phone. I hadn’t found her particularly helpful or insightful to the third-world missionary life. But I spoke with her, told her the truth, followed her more practical advice. I’d followed lots of advice. I tried. I exercised, hard and regularly. Sometimes I even played soccer with the kids. I slept, rested, took time for myself with the door closed. I colored and listened to music. I prayed hard in the blue dawn cool. I read my Bible. I meditated in the sunset light. I watched the stars and the palm trees and the surf. I messaged with distant friends. I confided in certain housemates. I sang praise, went to church, attended devotion. I ate as well as I could and drank plenty of water. I took my daily vitamins, brushed my teeth, kept clean, dressed neatly for school and church. I loved hard on the kids, holding back no affection nor energy from them. I studied and prepared for lessons. I took work seriously. I didn’t leave much time to idle or fret. Every morning I took that anti-depressant. Every day I journaled. Every day I prayed. I tried. I tried. I tried hard. It wasn’t enough.

My PCP has soft eyes and a gentle voice. She speaks kindly. When we met in May she said increasing the small dosage of my current anti-depressant medication was Step One. We could fight this. She gave me the number of a nearby Christian counselor. Someone to meet with in-person.

Mom and I went to the counselor’s office. I feared being too emotional to drive home safely, driving while sobbing is most unwise, so Mom drove and waited in the lobby while I went to meet the counselor, Mary. I could hardly look at her, ashamed and hopeless as I was. I knew I wasn’t going to get better. I knew my life was essentially over. But for the sake of the kids to whom I’d committed and long ago lost my heart, I had to try. So I met with Mary the counselor. She assured me there was hope for me, and I’d achieved a major accomplishment in seeking help. We agreed to meet once a week for at least 15 sessions.

So it’s been for the past five months. Each week I meet with Mary, sitting in my place in the corner of the blue couch. We talk. She listens and responds. I listen and sometimes respond. Sometimes I sob. Sometimes I nearly hyperventilate. Sometimes I withdraw so deeply we need a crowbar to prise out words. For so long I held in truth and feelings I often now freeze when encouraged to share. Sometimes we do exercises meant to induce anxiety, and then cope with it. Sometimes we make lists. Always we talk about automatic thoughts. Those thoughts that appear and can knock us flat with terror or despair. We talk about how to let them appear, amble about like a white bear foraging the forests of my mind, and disappear again. Over and over again I must repeat the three outcomes: worst, best, and most realistic. Often those three are not terribly dissimilar. Mary has given me logs to catalogue the thoughts, the emotions, the anxieties, and face them. She’s shared psychological research and tools.

Before I depart from our never-less-than-an-hour sessions she prays over me.

Mary has been wonderful. Not the least for her medicinal advice; she has coordinated with my PCP over medication adjustments. I have been on the fourth regimen for about two months now. It’s effective. My PCP has renewed the prescriptions for a year and cleared me for return to Haiti, pending the approval of the otolaryngologist and my healed sinuses. Mary deems me able to serve, as well, but as our time is beneficial we plan to meet until I depart.

I’ve never skipped a session with Mary. We have a standing appointment on Friday mornings. When my head was splitting from a five-day migraine I went. When I was still trembling from a panicky weekend I went. When I am furious with the world, furious with myself, certain nothing will ever pull me from the pit, the lump in my throat a boulder around which words cannot squeeze—still I go. Still I make that session. And even when I’m headed out, certain this was a waste of time, that I failed again, haven’t made any progress, Mary congratulates me.

“Good job. You came today and that was hard.”

From the beginning she has been confident I could get better, heal enough to go back to Haiti, return to work.

“Depression is like wearing dark lenses,” she says, tapping her glasses with a finger. “When you wear them the whole world is dark. You can’t see hope.”

I nod. I agree. In the pit of despair nothing is visible. All is darkness. It always was dark. It always will be dark. There is nothing good to remember and nothing to look forward to. No redemption. No hope.

“But we’re going to get to the place where you can take off the glasses,” Mary continues.

Since May we’ve been working on pulling off those glasses, or at least clearing the lenses. And getting a handle on the anxiety that apparently has been choking me for years.

These days suicide almost never crosses my mind.

I am so saddened when I hear of a case, of someone who gave in and ended her own life. (I would not call these “successful” suicide cases. There is no such thing.) I understand the complete despair; I understand the shame, the self-loathing so overwhelming you wish you could just peel off your skin, desperate to be anywhere except your own head.

I am so sad, so sorry, that she never got over it, this victim. Yes, victim. No one chooses depression. We don’t get to decide among depression, diabetes, or even cancer. I ache for the victim who never reached the place where it gets better and hope is visible again. Light. Laughter. Love from sympathetic or even empathetic friends. Support from folks who have been in the Pit themselves.

I am sad for the victim first.

Then I grieve for those left behind. For those who loved the victim, and those the victim loved.

All over again I know how important it is to share with the hurting. To pursue those with the shadowed eyes who always answer, “I’m fine.” Who won’t let you see them cry.

All over again, mourning with the victim’s family, considering the victim who couldn’t climb out of the Pit, I know how blessed I am to be alive.

Mental illness doesn’t wear a cast. It doesn’t need crutches or an IV. There are no infusions, bandages, or pacemakers. You cannot see it and maybe you cannot understand it. We are visual creatures, after all.

But mental illness is hideously real and afflicts far more people than you think, and probably many whom you know personally. In the United States alone approximately 16 million people suffer from Major Depression a year (Anxiety and Depression Association of America, 2017). 35% of these people will receive no treatment (National Institute of Mental Health). 47,173 U.S. Americans committed suicide in 2017 (NIMH).

Around the world the World Health Organization estimates that more than one million people commit suicide each year (ADAA); these numbers are particularly difficult to confirm in developing countries like Haiti. Depression is a serious sickness that may be circumstantial, resulting from specific events, or may be chronic and genetic, flaring up and receding without determinable cause. Sometimes we are just sad for no reason. Desperately, achingly sad. We can’t tell you why. So please be patient with us.

Like any illness, depression, anxiety, bi-polar or obsessive-compulsive disorders, or post-traumatic stress, all mental illnesses require attention, treatment, and utmost compassion.

Plenty of people in my life who I love and who love me do not understand depression. They struggle to accept mental illness as a true health concern. When first informed about depression or anxiety they rejected medical evidence and assured me I was simply sad. I needed to pray more, they said. Spend more time with God. Get a little more sleep, eat something, sing some happy songs. It will pass. You’ll be fine, they said. Perhaps they did not intend to be dismissive, I am sure that none intended further harm. However, with those dark glasses, under the shame that accompanies depression and the severe self-loathing, words such as these, light-hearted advice to pray more or to “just cheer up,” can be terribly detrimental. They can be lethal: the last push towards suicide.

Sometimes just listening is best. Being in the room with someone. Willingness to endure with someone can be lifesaving. Some people in my life who I love and who love me understand depression. They sit, they listen, they check-in. Some suffer, too. When I speak of the dread of leaving bed, of ruining the mood in a room, of being that Debbie Downer, they sigh, too. “Yep, been there.” We reassure one another that the darkness is real, that the doctors have confirmed chemical imbalance necessitating medical treatment, and we try to boost one another up. We take turns in the Pit and take turns lowering a hand, dropping a ladder, or shining a lantern in the darkness. We encourage one another to keep fighting.

We need your help, Friends.

Whether you have depression or not, whether you think it’s a weakness or a true illness, we need your help. Yes, I am far too weak to deal with this on my own. God assures me that is okay. In fact, God assures me that the weak will shame the strong (1 Corinthians 1:27 NIV). God also commands us to love one another (John 15:12 NIV), with love that is patient and kind (1 Corinthians 13:4), and to rejoice with those who rejoice and to mourn with those who mourn (Romans 12:15 NIV). We should not suffer alone but together (1 Corinthians 12:26 NIV).

I am not suffering as I was. I am better now. I am far improved from May, when ascending to the roof or getting in the car was a conflict of interests. These days I don’t want to dive in front of a speeding truck or jump off a bridge. I want to live. I want to enjoy God’s beautiful creation, which here in New Hampshire is bursting with autumn color. I want to love on God’s beautiful Haitian children with whom we’ve been charged.

However, I am not cured. I’m not ever going to be rid of this sickness. It’s chronic; it’s genetic. I know this depression and anxiety will linger always, like my bad skin and weak eyes. The war of worth continues in quieter skirmishes.

But I am here.

Five months ago, three months ago, two months ago, that didn’t seem possible.

That is God. Over and over again, through the conflict, beyond the darkness, the promise sounds: “You are worthy and I love you.”

Many times the only prayer I could whimper was, “It hurts, God.” Over and over again.

God always listened. And He didn’t quit on me. He put the right people in place so I wouldn’t quit either, so that I didn’t go through with suicide. He spoke life through loved ones. “You’re definitely not a lost cause,” one said to me.

God agreed. He set His children in my heart so I always had 166 beautiful reasons to keep fighting. Getting well enough to return to them, now 189 of them, has been my primary motivation for the past five months. The time is near, I think.

Every day I take medication. Each week I meet with Mary the counselor. There are those with whom I can share fully, and those who support me, including my parents. All these gifts are God-arranged.

When I cry that it’s not fair, it’s hard, I’m lonely and misunderstood and tired and sad and just want to go home to Heaven, I hear Jesus answer, “I know.” Jesus knows because He has been there, has lived it. Jesus knows better than any of us injustice, rejection, the weight of sin and despair. He was arrested in secret without warrant, tried, found not guilty but flogged and executed anyway. He was literally spit upon and mocked by those who had called Him friend. His family called Him crazy. His closest friends disowned Him. Jesus was left alone, naked and mutilated. He went willingly into the darkness we fear and goes back over and over again for our sake. Jesus drops into the Pit with us, sits beside us. We just may not see Him.

On this side of healing, I can see. I can see how God saved my life (many times). When I look back over the past five months I can hardly believe how far I have come. How far God has brought me. He continues to replace guilt, fear, and loneliness with worth, joy, and purpose. Without God there is no real hope, even with medication and therapy. For without God, without the prospect of a permanent, perfect Home, a place unimaginably better than this broken world, what is there to hope for? What is there to look forward to?

More than anything, even more than returning to those beautiful, wonderful, loving children I miss so much there is a fist clenching my heart, I want to make God proud. I want to get better, fight the darkness, work hard and live well so one day I die in peace without hastening my time. I want to get to Heaven and hear the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

If this sad life were all there is I would have done it. I’d be dead.

Knowing this life is just the trial run before true life begins keeps me moving forward.

Depression sucks. Depression causes severe impairment in all aspects of life. Depression kills. Life can suck. Life is hard, full of pain and suffering. Man’s days are short and full of trouble (Job 14:1).

But this is not as good as it gets.

God is on my side. Your side. Our side. He knows every hair on our heads. He wants to give us better life, life to the fullest (John 10:10). Full life such as I’ve already started enjoying.

Yeah, I’m bragging. I didn’t kill myself. I didn’t surrender. I kept fighting, like some warrior hero of old, Achilles or Ajax or Odysseus. I’m still fighting, just not by my own might. And I’m on the winning side. My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing that He cannot do. That includes pulling a suicidal missionary away from the ledge and giving her hope again.

Hope, Godly hope, is why I can stop writing here. This is not a tragedy nor is it ending. This is a story to be continued, and even if I’m not always happy to live it, I am not eager to end it.

Please, please, Friend, if you are suffering from depression, if you are thinking of giving up, if you are considering suicide or self-harm of any kind, please let someone know. I am here for you. Send me a message: rachel.allyssa93@gmail.com You are not alone. Please reach out. We are reaching back to you.

If you are in crisis, call the toll-free National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The service is available to anyone. All calls are confidential. http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org 

Major Depression according to the National Institute of Mental Health, USA

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/major-depression.shtml

Facts and Statistics from the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, USA

https://adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics

Suicide Statistics from the NIMH, USA

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/suicide.shtml

Praying and Living Psalm 140: "The LORD secures justice for the poor and upholds the cause of the needy."

Starting February 7 this year, just two weeks after Beverly and I returned to Haiti after an annual Feed My Starving Children conference in Florida, Haiti shut down with political protests, or “manifestations.” Barricades went up. Tires were burned. Rocks were thrown and even shots were fired at vehicles attempting to pass. Crowds swelling from tens to thousands of frustrated citizens marched throughout the country. Streets, businesses, and schools were closed; even some churches shut their doors when threatened. Our town of Ti Goave locked down, too, and the students and staff of Christian Academy of Petit Gôave were cut off from the indispensable resources of food, water, safe space, first aid, and love. 

We couldn’t open the school. We couldn’t drive. We couldn’t go near areas made too “hot” by protesters or police. But not everywhere in town was hot, particularly before 9 AM. (The traditional start time of manifestations is 10:00 in the morning.) So the second week of lock-down, with no end in sight, before breakfast Beverly, Jonas, and I shouldered backpacks filled with Manna Pack Rice and set off for our closest-dwelling school family members on foot. With my spacious hiking backpack gifted me by my brother and sister-in-law I could fit more Manna Packs than the other bags we left behind, and enjoyed a good workout toting that weight up and down the uneven streets. 

Three days in a row we ventured out to deliver food. 

We started small. The first day we brought food next-door, where one of our first-grade girls squats with her mother and uncle. Then we crossed the community garden and went up the lane to a compound shared with extended family of another first grader. The inhabitants here range from his middle-aged aunt to a newborn baby cousin, all of them skinny. We didn't linger but thanked God for safe passage, asked His blessing to stay on the household, and headed home. 

The next day we were bolder: we crossed the main road  immediate to our lane and dived into side-alleys to track down six students. We opened one gate to see second-grade brother and first-grade sister playing cards outside their shack-like home; how their faces lit up to see us! We crossed paths with one of our naughtier third graders in the alley and added his family to our delivery-route. From their gated yard we visited for a while before 9:30 ticked us home again. 

The third day we set out earlier to venture farther still, meeting our security guard and cook along with more students. At each home we passed along the Manna Packs and prayed with the receivers, reminding them God is the true Source. With some of our littler students, like four-year old C, we counted out the packs just for fun, stacking them like blocks upon a table. Sometimes we had escorts to our next stop, by a student or simply some interested neighborhood kids. Most obviously, we had an escort of angels. In all the time we spent outside our locked, dog-guarded gate, not once were we bothered or even questioned. 

We had been hoping for peace, praying Psalm 140 for the country, but when the protests continued and predictions were for the worse, Beverly and I knew we'd be more useful elsewhere. We'd long-finished the projects we could do at the house, sit-down business. We were both scheduled to spend time in the States in March anyway, including attendance at a big fundraiser in New Hampshire. 

So on the ninth day of lock-down, after three food-delivery trips, we left Haiti.

To the amusement of hundreds, Beverly and I joined seven other evacuees aboard a helicopter. The pilot picked us up before 9 AM, having already flown a group to the airport. He was booked all day. Due to the blocked roads air-travel was the only way anywhere. With our "ear protection" yellow plugs, we nine gawked out the windows at beautiful Haiti beneath us, lifting off from the town soccer field in a magnificent cloud of dust. At the fence the hundreds of local spectators watched, some recording the flight on cell phones. After all, it's not every day a helicopter lands on your neighborhood soccer field and takes off with a bunch of foreigners. 

After a mere 25 fascinating minutes, the helicopter touched down on the tarmac of the Port au Prince airport--a trip that usually takes 3 hours by car.  Even on the last road into the airport we had seen barricades and billowing black smoke through the chopper windows. Waving thanks to the pilot, who was off again, we crossed the tarmac following an airport employee who escorted us inside.   Beverly and I both had flights in the late afternoon, so we had plenty of time to spare; it was just 9:30 when we arrived at the check-in counter. 

We remembered that at this time the day before we were coming home from food-delivery visits, wondering where the marchers would go today. So we were out of the running--Stateside we couldn't fill backpacks and walk them to students. 

However, our faithful teenage custodian/translator/errand runner/jack of all trades, Jonas, continued the delivery. He could go places we couldn't have anyway. Jonas sent us pictures of our beloved children. In good news, some families who lived close by were then able to transfer Manna Packs to families farther out. How the ripples spread!

To our dismay, the lock-down in Haiti stretched from February 7 to February 25, 26, or 27, depending on the boldness of proprietors. CAP opened again on Monday the 25 with a handful of students. By the following day almost the entire student population was present. God’s continued grace to our school and His Spirit of fearlessness has accustomed us to open our doors whenever possible. Our school family knows that and parents faithfully brought their children even though the majority of schools were still closed. For many of the 162 children and fifteen staff of Christian Academy, plus the families sometimes brought leftover Manna Pack Rice from the day’s meal, the school is their best source of food, water, safe space, first aid, and love. Praise God that even when we couldn't get to school, we could get out to some of them in need. 

As always, we are grateful to God for His protection, for the angels covering us as we walked, and for Feed My Starving Children in their ceaseless fight against hunger of spirit and body around this broken world. Now, in June, there are rumors of protests again, potential for the country to be locked-down as it was in February. We pray against this, for everyone's benefit. Adults need to work, students need to attend school, and roads need to be open for the passage of citizens and visitors. Tourism and even mission teams have decreased this year as Haiti continues to be ranked unsafe by the U.S. Embassy. Although we do not encourage recklessness, ourselves always practicing prudence and heeding counsel, Beverly and I agree that there is no place safer than God's will. If God calls you to Haiti, He will keep you. He kept us in February, He kept me during Hurricane Matthew, He's continuing to keep Beverly now. 

Haiti may never be considered a "safe place" by the world's standards. Yet we feel no fear there. 

God is in control; He sets His angels around us. He imparts His Spirit of boldness, sound mind, and overwhelming love to us, before, behind, over, under, and all around. And whether we are there to deliver Manna Pack Rice or antibiotic and bandages, God takes care of His children in Haiti. 

Please join us in praying Psalm 140 for Haiti, and interceding on behalf of President Moise. 

[You may substitute the first person "I" and "me" for "Haiti" or "your children in Haiti," or the first person pluarl ""we" and "us," as we are all collectively the Body of Christ.]

Psalm 140[a]

For the director of music. A psalm of David.

1 Rescue me, Lord, from evildoers;
    protect me from the violent,
2 who devise evil plans in their hearts
    and stir up war every day.
3 They make their tongues as sharp as a serpent’s;
    the poison of vipers is on their lips.[b]

4 Keep me safe, Lord, from the hands of the wicked;
    protect me from the violent,
    who devise ways to trip my feet.
5 The arrogant have hidden a snare for me;
    they have spread out the cords of their net
    and have set traps for me along my path.

6 I say to the Lord, “You are my God.”
    Hear, Lord, my cry for mercy.
7 Sovereign Lord, my strong deliverer,
    you shield my head in the day of battle.
8 Do not grant the wicked their desires, Lord;
    do not let their plans succeed.

9 Those who surround me proudly rear their heads;
    may the mischief of their lips engulf them.
10 May burning coals fall on them;
    may they be thrown into the fire,
    into miry pits, never to rise.
11 May slanderers not be established in the land;
    may disaster hunt down the violent.

12 I know that the Lord secures justice for the poor
    and upholds the cause of the needy.
13 Surely the righteous will praise your name,
    and the upright will live in your presence.

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.