In Port Salut, under the shadow of the Cross

Port Salut is perhaps the most beautiful place I’ve visited in Haiti. Actually it makes the list of top most beautiful places I’ve visited at all.

We entered into town in the back of a pickup truck—having flown over the mountains, twisted around winding narrow corners, sheltered under a blue tarp, spooned rice and beans from Styrofoam trays, watched layers of green rise and fall and the turquoise ocean advance and retreat. On the outskirts of Port Salut the mountains are mostly bare, clothed in short soft green grass the color of springtime and spotted with palm trees straight and elegant, except where they’ve fallen flat from the hurricane winds.

Here on the southern coast Hurricane Matthew was an uninvited guest who was not kind to his hosts. The storm hit hard and flattened trees, telephone poles, houses, and businesses. People and possessions were crushed under blocks and limbs. The beach front and mountainsides are vastly altered.

But they are still magnificent.

I am glad to have not seen Port Salut before October, when Matthew raged in and turned the town upside down, leaving behind wreckage and despair.

Well, he tried to leave despair in his wake. But like every disaster and travesty to squeeze Haiti’s abused neck, Matthew was unsuccessful in this endeavor. The Haitian people have yet to succumb to the blackness of despair. As the fierce Caribbean sun continues to rise over purple-glazed mountains, slate blue ocean and finely fringed palm trees, hope continues to rise in the hearts of the people.

For three days I watched the sun come up over a hummock of earth, a miniature mountain close to the house. As it rose the sea was colored more and more blue, cerulean that would further clear into crystal turquoise: that clear, cheerful, iconic blue-green distinct of the Caribbean. The mountains would fade from hazy purple to smoky blue to dusky green. The trees would solidify from silhouettes of lacy black into dimensions of green rustling in the ever-constant breeze.

And the sky would dance through its scheme of blue, purple, gold, salmon, tangerine and into the classic Crayola sky-blue hue from which a forceful sun burns.

It was not hot in Port Salut. The air was much dryer than our Ti Goave, which is a jungle town, bordered by mountains and a cove, engulfed by magnificent trees lush and crowded. We have banana, mango, almond, cherry, breadfruit, and canapé. We have coconut and tamarind and many more trees I don’t know the names for, tangled harmoniously with bushes and shrubs, many with gorgeous flowers. Our town is lush. Our town is mostly clean. And our town is usually very humid.

In Port Salut the breeze is constant. The wind comes in from the ocean and rolls down from those bare mountains, driving away mosquitoes and swirling about the fine white sand and ocean salt. That fine white sand is soft, clean, and exquisite for walking, burying, and photographing. What could be more iconically Caribbean than turquoise water, white sand, and coconut palms? Combine those with a mixed drink, rhythmic music, and bright paintings and you’ve got the ideal setting.

Port Salut has all of those things, including plenty of tourist and local-friendly stomping grounds. On the beach you can buy cheap food, authentic Haitian rice and beans and fish. You can sit under a canopy sipping something sweet or strong and munch on fried akra. You can swing in a hammock or curl up on a cushioned chaise under the palm trees. You can sway to the live music on the local stage. You can order over-priced pizza and burgers from a gorgeous Mediterranean-décor cobblestoned restaurant. You can walk through the surf or swim out in the shallow waters. You can cruise through the town on a moto or walk the winding street, the ocean as your faithful companion. You can watch the sunset in a blaze of glory and think there couldn’t be anything more beautiful.

You can also trek up the mountain, praying that when the truck stalls on that next steep ascent it’ll start up again at once and crest that rutted road. You can shield your eyes against the glare of new corrugated tin roofs, brilliant silver evidence of reparations. You can listen to the residents praise God for His provision and plead for more cement and tin sheets for shelter. You can shake your head at the stories of Matthew, when telephone poles and trees fell into houses. You can hike up and down narrow mule-paths in search of a waterfall. You can scramble up hillsides and jump over fallen trees, bitten by ants and burned by the sun. You can hold hands with someone you’ve just met and feel unity coursing between you. You can pray with strangers and sing with children on a mountaintop in two languages. You can gaze across the valleys and hills and count the trees tumbled like toothpicks.

We did all of these things, Beverly, my brothers Terry, Danny, Solomon, and I. We were tourists and we were missionaries. We were visitors, we were strangers, and we were friends. We were family in Christ.

Our family was welcomed by our host family, Emory and Mary Wilson.

For months Emory has been encouraging us to come down to Port Salut, to stay with them, see their work, to enjoy the area. I imagined that a visit to their area would be muddy, full of debris, hungry crowds, and perpetually damp clothes—as things were after Hurricane Matthew.

I was saddened at the prospect of viewing the once pristine white beaches of the south coast marred by broken tree limbs and prostrate boats, dotted with despondent fishermen and homeless families.

Beverly talked fondly of Port Salut. Our Petit Goave family went there a year before I came. They spent the day in the water, Beverly admitting she never wanted to get out of that crystal blue tide floored with soft white sand. I didn’t want her golden memories marred by the current unfortunate state of the town. Thus I didn’t really merit the idea of going to Port Salut, of tagging along with Emory and Mary in their ministering efforts. And as I didn’t know either one of them well, visiting with them wasn’t a great pull either.

Now I know.

There have been hurricanes before Matthew. Who can name the number of tropical storms that have flattened the palm trees and reshaped the banks? Since the Taino Indians reigned on this island there have been countless hurricanes off the ocean. The natural beauty has yet to be destroyed.

Those palm trees, those white sands, those turquoise waters, those purple and gold sunsets are still exquisite. Refreshing miracles to please the eye and ease the soul.

Our hosts Emory and Mary are folk who ease the soul and raise the spirit.

At first meeting Mary is quiet. She’s a soft-spoken Southern lady who is more likely to wait in the truck than get out among the action or run the errands. She’s fair with long light hair, ashy blond and gray, generally clad in Capri pants, tee top, and earrings. She doesn’t speak much Creole, and that she does is voiced with a Southern twang. I wondered how this demure little lady survived in Haiti.

Then I saw her in action.

The morning after arrival we accompanied Mary to what Emory called
“her” village. She’d been doing work on the mountain helping folk to rebuild their homes, largely independent from Emory. This area was her project.

 So before noon we were on our way, Mary in the driver’s seat of the full-cab pickup, her large fashion sunglasses on and monogrammed thermos of water on the console. Beverly rode shotgun and my brothers and I overlapped in the backseat of the cab.

The first challenge was the speedbumps. Port Salut is a small town with a well-maintained main street that winds along beside the ocean. It’s littered with speedbumps. Little bitty ones spaced just so that as soon as you accelerate to a decent speed, you must slow down again to mount over the next bump.

“In Ti Goave we have a few speed mountains,” we had told Emory, referring to the huge speedbumps on our street and the parallel National Road.

“Hmm,” said Emory. “In Port Salut I think we have about forty.”

Mary’s management of the speed bumps wasn’t as comfortable as Emory’s, but she got us over and around the curves, and then stalled for the first time going up a winding hill.

Beverly voiced her plea for “Help, Jesus,” and Mary ground gears to get the truck going and up over.

We made it, and shortly thereafter pulled into the lumberyard. There, Mary ordered sheets of corrugated tin and bags of cement. She spoke in Creole/English to the Haitian and French Canadian owners. We were loaded up and she took us out in good humor, laughing about her inability to back up well, grateful for the owner’s favor in reversing the truck for her.

We began the mountain ascent.

And there the true Mary began to peep through.

The tough mudder Mary. The enjoyment in the midst of difficulty Mary. The overcomer, the joker, the sasser.

The lady with spunk. The lady who yahooed like a true redneck on a backroad as we bounced up the mountain, as the truck died on a steep incline and we had a long way to roll backward. The lady who didn’t back down when the massive truck loaded to the rafters with hay and topped with shouting men loomed before us, honking to clear the road. As they finally passed after she’d backed up the truck into a small yard, she bowed them through with outstretched arms and I laughed in surprise at her facetiousness.

The lady with endurance. Who stood in the midst of a pressing crowd vying for her attention, under the bare mountain sun, and kept to her task. With patience, with sincerity, with compassion and gentleness, who stopped to listen to each member of that pressing crowd. She worked with her young lady friend to translate and understand the appeals. She responded to each person that she’d write their name, she’d discuss, she’d investigate, that God knows. She valued everyone.

The lady with compassion. That evening Mary cooked for us – a huge pot of Asian stir fry: vegetables in ginger sauce atop spaghetti. (I was thrilled.) She invited to our large party of nine two young ladies, Carrie and Diane, who live in the little house behind Emory and Mary’s in the same yard. Fifteen-year old Diane barely touched her plate, and Mary asked several times if she could fix her a sandwich instead; she didn’t want her to be hungry. She reminded them of how much she loved them both, and arranged a Bingo game afterwards. When Solomon got discouraged at his lack of chips, Mary swapped Bingo boards with him and smiled as he gained Bingo!

This lady of humor, of boldness, of gentleness and hospitality is a lady of many layers.

There was one more layer we would see of Mary before we departed.

On our final morning to close our devotion we shared what the Cross of Christ means to us. Mary was the last to share. In place of the short-winded, elevator-responses the rest of us gave, Mary shared a bit of her story. As she began the tears pricked at my eyes. Terry’s eyebrows rose well above the shades of the glasses he wore, hiding his eyes as he translated for the girls. Carrie and Diane stared at Mary, sitting with her long ash silver hair down over her shoulders, stroking her precious curly-haired Quincy (a poodle-Shi Tzu cross) as she spoke. Their eyes were wide, mouths slightly ajar.

For the tale Mary told was not the American or Debutante Dream. The tale from this oft demure Southern lady was ugly. It was raw. It was full of injustice, suffering and tragedy. It was shameful. Like the Cross.

The Cross is a symbol of humiliation: representative of a low criminal, someone exposed, lifted up to be mocked and reviled in public. It was torture, causing agony of body and spirit. “The emblem of suffering and shame.”

But the Cross is not a symbol of death.

For believers, for Christians, the Cross is the ultimate Sign of Hope. Of redemption. Of salvation, life, belonging, acceptance, love. Mary’s story did not end in tragedy, did not terminate in brokenness, in despair. Her story is still not over. Just as the Cross did not finish in darkness.

As the sun rose on Easter morning and colored that bloodstained cross gold, so Mary rose from bitterness, from the agony of wrath and loss into a woman of Hope.

Her childhood was rife with horrific abuse, betrayal and brokenness. Before puberty her heart was bitter: poisoned by hatred born of this constant abuse, violence, and betrayal. One day she lost her temper, lost control, and knew the destructive power of wrath.

She and those around her could see only darkness in her future. Mary was being consumed by hatred.

So she prayed. For weeks after she prayed for a new heart, for a change to save her from this pending destruction.

Then one day, her sister commented. She could see the change.

The Mary of shame, of injustice, of suffering, the Mary of bitterness and wrath, shrouded in darkness, was gone with the shadows of that Sabbath long ago. She was a new person. A person with hope and a future. A person touched by Light.

This new Mary was not perfect. She still is not. She never will be. She’s got flaws. Her story is on-going. But it’s a tale of victory. Of Good vanquishing Evil. Of Salvation more beautiful than the Port Salut sunset.

“Do not be overcome by evil. But overcome evil by doing good.” ~Romans 12:21 NIV

Mary is continuing to learn, to grow, to becoming more filled with Light. As we accompanied her up the mountain, as we watched her attend to every person pressing in with needs, flipping through her notebook, as we received her food, saw the gentle compassion in her soft eyes addressing Carrie and Diane, the twinkle as she bantered with Solomon and teased Danny and Terry about the beautiful Port Salut women, as we listened to a bit of her story, we saw a Christly woman, a woman who has overcome and is everyday overcoming. She is everyday serving, forwarding the brilliant love of Christ.

Mary and Emory are shining where they are.

Emory said that he feels overwhelmed sometimes. It’s not easy to be a missionary. To give and to give. To give your money, your food, your house, your time and your talents. To relinquish privacy and hobbies and dreams. To sacrifice your family, your network, your church, to dwell as a foreigner, everyday flooded by need and so often gone unappreciated. To face persecution for your nationality, your accent, your skin, your beliefs, your very privilege. But, Emory said, addressing us frankly and clearly, blue eyes the same frank and clear from under his habitual tightly tied bandana, but, he said, his comfort is in the Cross.

“The more I focus on Jesus and what he did on the Cross, the less I consider myself.”

“Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” ~Hebrews 12:2 NIV

The Cross is ugly.

The Cross is shameful. It’s heavy. Hard to bear. To the world.

But to those like our group, thirteen gathered around the table, sun streaming in, beckoning of ocean, mountains, and waterfalls, life free of obligation or service, to us, the Cross is the place to be. We see the Beauty.

We feel the Encouragement. We know freedom. We walk upright.

We finished the last devotional time with the Hymnbook. After she’d told her story, Mary led us singing “Near the Cross,” and we prayed to walk from day to day under the Shadow of that Cross, so despised by the world, from which still drips the red blood of Jesus. A man who gave up all—His home, his treasures, his time, talents, and tears, his sandals and garments off his back, his very repute, to be beaten, scorned, accused and betrayed and abandoned. To be naked, humiliated, before a crowd of those who cheered at his pain and his death. Jesus gave it all. He even gave what we can never know—God’s rejection.

He gave it all for Emory, who’s running the mission race as he runs the streets of broken, beautiful Port Salut. He gave it for Mary, the miracle witness who rose from darkness and betrayal. He gave it all for Carrie, who gave up a Canadian boyfriend and his provision to follow Christ. He gave it for Diane, fifteen and shy with no certain future. For Robbie, who sings for joy through sickness. For Erin and Lauren and Aaron, who can’t keep away from Haiti but follow into the fray. For my three brothers, who know abandonment, loss, humiliation, terror and despair. He gave it for Beverly, who leaves home in Texas to love in Ti Goave. For me, who walks a line of joy and despair, and too often considers the loss over the gain.

Christ gave all he had to follow his Father’s will and save all of us, lost, helpless children. He lost so we could gain. So now, as Emory said, we have all obligation to think of the Gain—the Gain of Christ, of Hope and Life, over all losses in this world.

And as Christ granted us Grace immeasurable by taking up and dying on that ugly, shameful cross, so we must extend grace to each other.

“Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” ~Colossians 3:13 NIV

And, as we swallow that dangerous pride and shelter under the shadow of the Cross, we too will find freedom, will rise like the Sun and visibly shine new.

That newness will radiate, more breathtaking than the twinkling Milky Way of stars over the ocean and more dazzling than the purple and gold glory of the sunset into the ocean. 

"Near the Cross"

1. Jesus, keep me near the cross,
   There a precious fountain—
   Free to all, a healing stream—
   Flows from Calv’ry’s mountain.
   • Refrain:
     In the cross, in the cross,
     Be my glory ever;
     Till my raptured soul shall find
     Rest beyond the river.
2. Near the cross, a trembling soul,
   Love and Mercy found me;
   There the bright and morning star
   Sheds its beams around me.
3. Near the cross! O Lamb of God,
   Bring its scenes before me;
   Help me walk from day to day,
   With its shadows o’er me.
4. Near the cross I’ll watch and wait
   Hoping, trusting ever,
   Till I reach the golden strand,
   Just beyond the river.

 ~Frances Crosby, 1869

**Please forgive the lack of photos. I did take beautiful photos in Port Salut, but lost all of them with the remaining contents of my phone when damaged parts needed to be replaced. The phone was damaged when it tumbled into the pool of that waterfall we visited, hiking through the mountains of Port Salut. 

Spring Newsletter from CLS Petit Goave

Dear Friends,

Happy Springtime from Christian Light School, Petit Goave! The rains are falling and the mangos are ripening! As always, it’s a beautiful time of year in Haiti.

2017 began with Madame Beverly’s absence. She was in Texas with her ailing husband Wally for the entire month of January. She returned to the family in Petit Goave the evening of February 8 to much rejoicing. Her arrival at school was delayed by a day due to the presidential inauguration. On Feb. 9 she surprised the teachers in the school kitchen where she’d been hiding. There was initial silence, a shock followed by shrieking and hugging and crying.

The teachers then concealed Beverly down the hallway. At the doorway Beverly jumped out from behind the clump to surprise the children. Again, the same reaction! There was silence: everyone was frozen, unmoving and unspeaking. Then one student, then another, then another and then a stream fell upon her. There was shrieking and hugging.

The Family was complete again.

School continues. There is laughter and love. There is singing and dancing and cuddling; there is praying and learning! The children are growing in mind and body! The first and second graders are eating more and more; the same crew of boys returns to the kitchen for second or third helpings every day. They scrape the bottom of the pot for every bit of rice and beans.

On the last trip to collect our allotment from Feed My Starving Children we were blessed with not only the usual 80 boxes of rice, but 45 gallon cans of assorted vegetables and two large sacks of dried beans. The children have been spooning vegetables onto their rice served with generous portions of beans. And they are always drinking water! Water is prescribed for every malady.

There is always illness. In February and March there was an epidemic of conjunctivitis. Then there were fevers and diarrhea (Madame Rachelle had this!) Our security guard/Recreation assistant Michelet has joint swelling and pain. Mesdames Missoule (our cook), Rose (our Haitian Director), and Angenose have their blood pressure checked daily; high blod pressure and diabetes are problematic in Haiti due to poor diet and stress.

We see these maladies as signs of Satan’s displeasure. The students are growing and learning in all ways, including confidence and joy. Every Friday there is church assembly. Last week Madame Patricia put on the [cardboard] Armor of God and taught on Ephesians 6.

We have been blessed with several visitors this spring to help at school and share their love and gifts of teaching, maintenance, and medical treatment. Denise and Danny from Virginia; Rebecca (Rachelle’s mother) from New Hampshire; Leonard, Laura, Sam, Sarah, and Abby from Alabama. And on April 23 we welcomed Madame Nicole from Texas who will be staying through June. She’s here inspired to explore business ventures to make the school self-sustaining and provide jobs for parents. Nicole has a gentle heart especially fueled for women and young girls.

While Madame Rebecca was visiting, we took a trip to Christianville eye clinic in Gressier with Madame Angenose. She is our four-year old teacher and had been complaining of eye trouble. The doctor declared her far-sighted and fitted her a basic pair of reading glasses and some eye drops and sunglasses for protection against the inescapable dust.  What a wonderfully simple solution! We also enjoyed being out with Angenose: on the way back from the clinic we stopped at Haiti Made Café and got freshly made fruit smoothies. They were deliciously refreshing.

Madame Angenose is mother to three children: eight-year old Chaun, six-year old Nosie, and one-year old baby Sarah. The two older ones are polite and gentle, always eager for hugs and kisses and smiling shyly. Nosie is also highly intelligent; she is one of the top first grade students at school. Baby Sarah is petite, beautiful, and serious as can be. She stares but rarely smiles. Angenose’s husband is perpetually unemployed. She is the breadwinner of the family, able to provide because of her school salary and the partnership of an American friend for baby Sarah. At school she singlehandedly manages a classroom of 29 four-year olds, working from 8 to 1 before returning to their one-room home they rent. The family attends church on Sunday morning and Tuesday evening, always cheerful and ready with smiles and kisses.

We are so thankful for Madame Angenose, her iron-strength and dependability. Please pray for her and her family: that God would continue to provide for them: including the funds and land to build their own house, that opportunity would arise for her husband, her children would grow and prosper, and Angenose would be in good health with no further eye-trouble and regulated blood-pressure.

Unbelievably, this school year is almost finished! We have a mere five weeks left of classes. Through the lottery, God has chosen 25 new three-year old students for September. Booklists are compiled. We need a third-grade teacher and a new space for a new classroom! Our current rented building is at capacity—and in poor shape. Part of the ceiling fell in the kitchen; praise God no one was injured! Beverly and Rachelle are still awaiting their Permis de Sejour: permanent residency status. Nicole is settling in to life in Ti Goave. May 8-21 Rachelle will spend some time with family in NH and attend her brother’s wedding. In June students will take exams and the team from Beverly’s home church River of Life in San Antonio should arrive. They will stay for two weeks doing VBS at school and community outreach in town. On June 10 we expect a small group from Rachelle’s home church in NH to do a one-day VBS program. We are delighted!  Beverly, Rachelle, and Nicole are scheduled to depart June 27 for summer in the States.

Thank you so much for your support in prayer, in donations of supplies, time and money. Thank you especially to Kim and her family who gave us beautiful new teal teacher uniform shirts!

Please persist in praying for us. We have many needs, many people dependent on us; by God’s grace we have so far been channelers of education, food, medical care, and God’s Word. We pray that we would continue to be so able.

Remember that your help makes our work here possible. Madame Eunide and Pierre, our friend from the copy shop, both recently commented that Americans give Haiti a lot of help. “I pray that God will bless the United States,” Eunide said.

We responded that no matter how much blessing we may give to Haitian people, we Americans are inexpressibly blessed in return.

We send you warm breezes, the scent of the sea and the taste of mango, along with our love and appreciation.

Mesi e Bondye beni nou! Thank you and God bless you!

Beverly Burton “Madame Beverly”

Rachel Collins “Madame Rachelle”

What a Week

What a week.

The past few weeks, or several, have seemed excessively exhausting.

Then came the last two weeks, which hit with hammer blows, low and hard and fast.

There was heartache of a very old kind and a lesson in letting go.

On a Wednesday afternoon I ate little at the table and told the family I needed time to be sad. By Friday the sadness had decreased, leaving disappointment combating with the necessary belief that God has a better plan.

There was trouble at home in New Hampshire and a reminder that God is in control.

On Saturday I stood in the cool breeze wafting through my bedroom window and listened to my mother, then my brother, as they talked from a snowstorm. Afterwards I wrung my hands telling my Haitian mom, saying there was nothing I could do. I wasn’t there! But even if I were, still I am mostly helpless.

“So we pray!” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Bondye kapab. God can do all things.”

There was sickness and trauma at school.

Our security guard, M, has been suffering from swollen, painful joints. He missed almost two weeks of school, after inconclusive doctor’s visits and tests. He began medication which eased the symptoms some, but still limit him to sitting down while at work.

Our students have been suffering from stomach aches and fevers, and continuously conjunctivitis. With the environment such as it is, we’re unable to squelch maladies completely: they’re shared and shared again among unwashed hands and large households.

One student was kicked out of her home. Her mother and step-father declared, again, they don’t want her and, after a beating each, sent her to an aunt. She is six-years old.

There was not enough food and kids were hungry. Every day there is a group of first and second grade boys who linger in the kitchen in need of second or third helpings. Usually they can at least get a second serving. One day there wasn’t enough. The pot was empty after second grades’ first serving. I brought a small plate of leftover rice and the half-full can of corn up to the classroom and spooned out portions. In no time the meager offerings were gone—and I had to shrug at the entreaties of “More! I need a lot! Mwen bezwen anpil!”

Second grade English class has been stunted. For various reason the time has been cut short and I’ve not had proper time to devote to teaching English, which was, at the call, my primary duty in coming. This left me feeling culpable and frustrated.

So did all of the other aforementioned incidences and circumstances.

Each of them also, however, serves as a reminder that we are helpless.

There is so little we can do in this world. There are so many obstacles we cannot overcome. So much sadness, pain, sickness, unpredictability and brokenness.

Last Sunday Beverly and I spent the afternoon at a nearby mini-resort. Called “LaKay Taina,” it’s a “well-kept secret” of the neighboring town, featuring a charming restaurant with its own beachfront. We arrived, ordered juices from our friendly host, a charming man from Canada, and settled down in lounge chairs on the grass, twenty feet from the water. Later we swam in the turquoise tide, ate fresh coconut, strolled down the beach, and finally ate ice cream and cake before rolling home. It was beautiful, tranquil, and a pristine escape from the habitual noise and chaos of life.

This weekend we were scheduled to depart for Port au Prince Friday after school. Instead, Beverly departed and I stayed bedridden. My stomach awoke me at midnight Friday with discomfort, and proceeded to be disagreeable through Sunday. Beyond enjoying time outside of the house, in Port we have dear friends with whom we treasure the occasional weekend.

I wondered why God didn’t permit me to go, crying that it had already been such a rough week, two weeks.

Mostly this weekend I have slept.

But in the waking I’ve been blessed.

My Haitian parents came in to check on me. They asked what I needed. Pastor listed all the foods he thought might entice me. He searched the tree for the ripest mango then offered it to me, knowing it’s a favorite. When I said only Seven-Up, he bought me two.

Madame wanted one of the girls to sleep on the floor beside me Friday night to keep watch. When they departed for church this morning she said to call if I needed anything.

In the afternoon I joined her visiting a student’s uncle’s home. His wife had just died. When we returned home someone was waiting for me. One of those dear friends from Port au Prince was cached behind a door upstairs. He gave up his Sunday to come see me.

He didn’t come empty-handed, either. Beverly, who had spoken in favor of his coming, had sent him with something special: personalized Thirty-One bags, courtesy of a special sister in Virginia. Upon learning that I never received the intended bag in December when her team gifted all of our teachers with a tote bag from the quality company Thirty-One, she and Beverly coordinated to get me one of my choosing. Today, I ended up with three.

The cinch-sack is monogrammed: “Rachelle.”

I’m still rather sick. My stomach is yet queasy and my attempt to eat rice earlier proves I’m not ready for proper food.

Beverly is still gone: she’s scheduled to fly to Texas on Tuesday and return next Wednesday.

Children are still hungry: tomorrow at school will be the first proper meal some of our students have had since Friday.

There is still sickness and trauma.

There is still trouble and uncertainty and heartbreak.

There are still questions of “Why?” “How?” “When?” and “What do we do?”

But through all of that there is still God.

God who gives us just what we need just when we need it. We don’t always know what we need. We don’t always know when we need it. He knows. And He provides.

Last Sunday Beverly and I needed that retreat to LaKay Taina. Time to rest beneath blue skies, sunshine, almond and coconut trees. Time to treat ourselves, engage with other English-speakers, and laugh together before this week of sickness, trauma, and her departure.

Today I needed that visit and those bags. I needed those special assurances, those reminders, that I am appreciated, missed, and loved, loved, loved.

I’ll say again, as I did in January: it’s not easy to be a missionary.

We miss a lot. We miss our families, our hometowns, our creature comforts, security, freedom, first-world conveniences, English church, and medical care. We regret that we miss your birthdays, parties, walks, dinner dates, movie nights, coffee breaks, and holidays.

We work very hard, sweat a lot, sleep a little, and struggle through three-languages.

We are undeniably blessed.

We thank you, everyone, who supports us in prayer, in finances, in representation, in gifts and donations for the school and the children.

I especially thank those who take the time to be personal. What meant so much today was not merchandise, it was the time and consideration.

Tomorrow is ahead. Certain to be rife with challenge, sickness, sadness, and no Beverly. However, tomorrow is ahead, certain to be filled with God’s guidance, protection, and assurance that in keeping our eyes upon Him, naught else matters. The to-do list, the attempts at reparation and accomplishment, at addressing the many needs: these are not imperative.

What is imperative is focus on God, who has a better plan, who is in control, who can do all things, and who will provide for all our needs.

Amen. 

Stretching out my feet at LaKay Taina -- fresh juice within reach

My new cinch sack, 7-Up, and Jesus Calling 

Angry: Life's Not Fair

You get angry here.

Angry at the injustice. Angry at the absurdity. Angry at the sheer preventability of the tragedy.

Today a child was left at school. Just before 3:00 we took him home with us, as we are wont to do with the odd left-behind student.

Phone calls went unanswered. The student remained. For three and a half hours.

No one had come looking for him. No one had tried to get word to us. No one, it sounded, had considered the emotional trauma this six-year old would experience being three-hours abandoned.

Beverly granted the parents grace. Tomorrow they should pay 25 Haitian dollars, or 100 gourdes, approximately 80 cents on the U.S. dollar, or else their son cannot attend school. By the 30-minute tardy rate, they ought to pay 50 dollars; by rights they should be on a strike list so if they are tardy again their son loses his place at school. There is always another child to fill a vacancy.

By rights their son ought to make them set around for him for three hours, uncertain of his return time.

Rights are unfulfilled. Justice is unserved. Life’s not fair. We knew that already. I remember hearing those words at a very young age. Probably I’d complained that Mom’s rules were unfair as her instruction disagreed with my own wants, and she replied with the harsh truth: Life’s not fair. It never has been and it never will be.

But for some, life seems more unfair here. Life seems intolerably unfair. Life is outright impossible.

You get angry here. Angry when you see kids desperate for food. Wandering, scavenging, asking strangers for handouts.

As we walked down the road homeward a few weekends ago, a young boy kept stride. He was skinny, tall and wide-eyed and serious.

“Bonswa,” he said, “Good afternoon.”

We returned his greeting.

“Where are you going?” he asked.
“We’re going home.”

“Where do you live?”

“We live here,” we said, gesturing down the street to our gate.

“Can I come home with you?” he asked, fixing those wide eyes on us.

We laughed to prevent our hearts from cracking. “No,” I said. “It’s our home, not yours.”

He asked for gum. We had none. Then he asked for a lollipop. We had none. Then he asked for money.

“Why do you want money?” we asked in return.

“I want to buy food,” he said, nodding towards the end of the road, to the Beach restaurant-bar. He was heading that way in hopes of getting food.

That’s when we told him about where we lived, asked if he knew who lived in that big house by the ocean, if he knew of Madame Rose. He didn’t. So we got permission and invited him inside, brought him back to the kitchen. Beverly went inside and dished him out a large portion of rice and beans and sauce.

He was invited to come back every Sunday afternoon to eat.

Later we found out he lives in another neighborhood. He’d just been wandering, scavenging.

The next week we were befriended by some other bold young boys at our quiet place. We were seated on the ledge over the ocean, soaking in sunshine and wind, when two boys accosted us, clambering up the wall in a very monkey-like fashion. They asked for money, for food, then begun asking for everything they could see: our sandals, our watches, Beverly’s wedding ring, my phone. We said no to all these entreaties, and rather than becoming angry, they took it in good humor. Soon we were on comfortable terms, laughing, singing, playing, and steadily joined by more boys from the beach.

Before departure there were seven boys on the ledge with us, teaching us how to make a flattened bottle cap spin on a string, practicing English phrases, and singing “Deep and Wide” in Creole (Fon e Laj.)

We prayed together in a tight circle.

As three of them walked us out, Beverly offered a drink from her water bottle. The boy carrying it, lanky and long-haired, perhaps twelve years old, who’d greeted us earlier with “Hey, you, you, you!”, refused to drink. Only after pressing him did he gulp down some water, passing the bottle to his two younger companions. Flipping the pages of my Bible he saw a few gourdes left there, and alerted me before closing it back up.

His original companion was a delightful nine year old with a round head crowned with blotches of head fungus and a smile illuminated by dimples. He couldn’t remember my name, and shook his snapping fingers in frustration as he tried, putting back his head and squinting. When we repeated his name he became embarrassed—sure these blans couldn’t care enough to recall his name.

To these three Beverly gave some gourdes she’d tucked away, and we parted ways outside the gate of the Weslyan compound, our quiet place, Beverly and I headed homeward as the sun set, and these boys, one of them a petite seven-year old without shoes, headed off in the other direction.

“Cheche pou nou. Look for us,” I told them, squeezing their hands in farewell.

We wondered how long our friend had been plagued by that head fungus, when we might see them again to give him some medicine, and how many people would share in those few gourdes.

They’d crowded in for photos earlier, competing to hold our hands and set on our laps. They’d asked for nothing after the initial demands. They’d laughed and chatted and come close for cuddles.

“They’re still unsullied by the world,” I said as we walked home beneath a salmon, gold and mauve sky.

“In a few years,” Beverly responded, “they’re going to have the choice to follow Jesus, or not.”

We both sighed.

“We can only pray that they’ll do the right thing.”

You get angry here. Angry when children suffer from maladies all but eradicated in the First World through vaccinations and basic hygiene. Angry when babies are unsupervised. Angry when tears are condemned and trauma is ignored.

A few weeks ago one of our five year old students came into school with his Maman. He was smiling shyly, hiding his face in her skirt as they entered the office. Maman explained Richard was sick. He lifted his shirt and we saw an angry series of bumps curling around from above his bellybutton to his back. Madame Rose looked at it and deemed it zona.

I Googled “Zona Haiti” and was rewarded with a gruesome series of photos and a keyword: Shingles.

Our visiting Pharmacist agreed with the prognosis and we discussed steps. We never stopped shaking our heads that a kindergarten student was struck with an immensely painful ailment that rarely attacks these days—and is confined to adults.

Richard never stopped smiling his bashful smile although he confessed to pain and burning.

It’s been two weeks and he’s not returned to school. The shingles must still be inflamed.

That same week a three year old came to the office every morning for burn cream. The inside of his calf was open and raw, burned from the motorcycle taxi he took every day to and from school. (Moto taxi is the most common mode of transportation in Petit Goave. These calf-burns are a common resulting problem.)

 When it was my turn to dab cream on the oozing flesh, I flinched, watching Anderson’s little face for cringing and screaming. Instead, he sat expressionless as I covered the burn and then deemed him finished. He toddled off to class.

I took off the glove I’d used to administer the cream and turned to Madame Rose.

“Li pa’t kriye. Li pa’t fe anyen.” I shook my head. “He didn’t cry. He didn’t do anything. Usually kids will scream when they have pain. He has pain! Li gen doule anpil!”

Madame Rose nodded, her eyebrows raised. She shrugged. “Yeah! I don’t know.”

Later I’d reflect on this with another American.

“Probably he thought someone would scold him if he cried,” I said.

She nodded. “Yes. He’s been told so many times to be quiet, he just thinks now, ‘What’s the point?’”

You get angry. Angry that a three year old has already been scolded for crying so often that when severely burned he sits in silence rather than shed tears for his pain.

You get angry when you talk to the young adults. The ones with a trauma record longer than your resume of part-time jobs. The ones who’ve been burned, beaten, lost, abandoned, ignored, starved and humiliated so often they don’t remember what it is to cry. Their feelings have never been recognized. Their turmoil never discussed. So now they carry everything inside, until the moments when something bursts.

You get angry when you discover how deep this pain runs. You get angry with every new bit of the story. Every tidbit of abuse, neglect, and needless suffering.

You get angry often here.

Angry at the ignorance. At the lack. At the rudeness.

You get so angry you can’t see the joy anymore. Sometimes. So angry you think there’s no point in trying any longer. So angry you think you’d better leave before you collapse under the anger, before you lose your mind to the frustration, when you can’t accept the injustice. The unfairness of life. The head fungus marring the head of a boy with brilliant dimples. The shingles advancing around the torso of a five year old hiding his face in Maman’s skirt. The stoic wide eyes of a severely burned three year old. The shaking shoulders of an eighteen year old who’s about to be left behind again.

That’s when God comes in.

That’s when it’s time to step back. To retreat. To seek sanctuary in a quiet place.

That’s when you cry. Shed all the tears that those children don’t. That those young adults can’t remember how to release. That those parents scold.

You cry and you rage. Sometimes you beat your fists on the mattress.

After a while you start praying, asking God why.

After a while you open the Bible and start flipping pages, telling God He’s got to speak to you.

After a while you actually start listening.

You hear that God is angry, too. You hear that God weeps for His children. You hear that God hates the poverty. Hates the suffering. Hates the ignorance. Hates the disparity. Hates that in a world He created beautiful and diverse and flawless, in a world rich with resources, many of His most beloved Creation go hungry, sleep under tarps, squat in ditches, scratch mosquito bites with dirty fingernails and birth infantigo.

You hear that God has already won the war and one day He will return. One day He will wipe away all the tears, shed and unshed, and welcome His faithful into a place without tears, without hunger, without pain or sadness or suffering. Without fear. Without anger.

To this hope we cling, through all the anger.

And we don’t have to accept those injustices. We don’t have to like the words “Life’s not fair.”

We do have to keep going. We do have to seek the Joy amidst the pain, focus upon the dimples, the smiles, the laughter, the hugs, the games and the jokes. We treasure the moments of sweetness and innocence yet unsullied by this broken world.

In this broken and unjust world we will always be angry. God will always be angry, too, and will always weep at the brokenness.

But He will always remind us of hope, and always give us grace to endure. He will fight for us. He has won the war, and while we wait for His return, He expects us to shake out the anger and do the work set before us. 

Revelation 21:4

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." 

Safe in God's Will

There is no safe place.

Many would say Haiti is one of the least safe places in the world.

There are myriad risks here, from traffic to unclean water to manifestations: protests when citizens create roadblocks and throw rocks, to be discouraged by police forces with tear gas and rifles.

One Tuesday last month the National Road in front of our school hosted such a manifestation.

By noon students were leaving in droves, anxious parents and caregivers leading their charges away to avoid the risks of rocks and gas.

Ti Goave has been troubled by riots like this in the past month. Students from the lycee, the public high school, are protesting for the lack of teachers. The teachers are striking for they have not been paid for a questionably long time. Town’s folk demand electricity after a week of no power. Thus far the manifestations have not succeeded in reopening the lycee or paying salaries, but they have disrupted school for everyone, and turn on some switches.

On this particular Tuesday our second-grade class went down to Recreation as scheduled at 11:30, but was called into the kitchen after just ten minutes so students could eat something before departure. (Usually they are dismissed at 2:00.) Once in the kitchen excitement matured into minor frenzy which would increase to chaos with the afternoon.

In the five minutes preceding, I had been attempting to direct exercise when we were interrupted by our sixteen year old custodian Jonas.

 “We have gas there! Get away from the windows!”

He swung his arm toward the far wall where rows of open-window blocks let in feeble light and air. On that side of the school building there is nothing but an empty lot riddled with banana trees and various stubby growth. The street is perhaps a couple hundred feet away, for the Recreation room, kitchen, office, and bathrooms are set at the back of the building, after all of the classrooms.

I looked out the windows and neither saw nor smelled any foreboding vapors, and shook my head.

“Thank you, for inciting a panic,” I said to myself, and called the students to order, arranging them on the other side of the room and continuing to lead exercises. Our security guard and substitute Recreation teacher Michelet had disappeared to the almost immediately after our entry, so I had stepped in.

“Make two lines,” I said, spacing out students so they could move without hitting one another. We were just getting into twists to practice counting by three, when the group began to flow away from me, pushing each other out of the doorway.

“Go to eat!” someone said, I think it was Madame Rose, sticking her head round the door.

I sighed but followed the surge and called again for order.

There was an attempt to storm the kitchen and be served, but I called for return to the hallway to wash hands. We always wash our hands before we eat.

A passable line was formed and the class began to wash, but those waiting kept turning to look down the hall and out the front doors. This caused backups as the line wouldn’t move forward.

“Turn around, be calm,” I kept repeating. (I would speak less and less Creole as the afternoon progressed.)

The words were not as important as the tone of voice, as the hands that turned around writhing bodies and directed them forward, one by one, to wash their hands and enter the kitchen as usual. “Let’s keep routine,” I told myself, paying little attention to what kerfuffle was occurring at the end of the hallway.

With some compliance the children washed their hands, filed into the kitchen, received their food, and then marched up the stairs.

In the classroom everyone ate at their place, most wearing their backpacks, knowing they might be called to go at any moment. I knew that, too, but didn’t acknowledge it.

“Don’t eat too fast,” I said from my station at the front. “Pa mange two rapide. Mange normal.”

As students finished I collected their plates at the front. Then we gathered our bags and headed downstairs, the children combining in Madame Patricia’s five-year old classroom.

The low point of the day was when I was left in charge of thirty-odd children crammed into the office.

I had been surveying Madame Samanne’s classroom, wishing to engage the wild and leaderless students but not knowing how to go about it. So I continued to stand, half inside the classroom and half out, watching the hallway.

Suddenly there were several loud pops, and staff began to sprint down the hall. Madame Samanne lunged inside, Madame Valerie bolted from the doorway she’d been guarding, Madame Rose and Jonas burst inside from their outside post. There were cries of “Gas! Gas!”

A flood commenced from classrooms and courtyard to office.

I recognized that I was still standing, that no noxious fumes had knocked me over or assaulted my eyes. There were no masked police or sign-carrying protesters surging through the doors from the street.

Thus I left my own post and began my almost leisurely way down the hall after the crowd. The teachers had shunted students into the office, deeming it the most secure place in the school, although even there the windows are open blocks that permit constant outdoor air and sunshine to enter. If there were truly gas spoiling the area, the office would be as hazardous as any other room. There was no safe place.

As I walked, I pulled up the collar of my teacher’s polo to cover my nose.

“Cover your mouth, cover your nose,” I began to repeat, approaching the office. “Kouvri bouch, kouvri nè.”

Madame Patricia saw me from her stance in the doorway. Her troubled face smoothed a bit at this practical action. She began to repeat my direction, pulling up her own collar.

The word spread inside and soon all the teachers were instructing the mingled students to cover their faces, tugging orange tee shirts from waistbands and lifting them up over noses and mouths.

Our office is perhaps 8 by 12 feet, comfortable enough for the bookshelves, cabinetry, desk and benches, and various boxes and articles, along with a few staff and odd students. It was not designed as a shelter for 30 persons.

And there we were.

The teachers at first huddled near the door, which remained open, continuing to usher in the odd student, Samanne and Valerie herding the three-year olds into the adjoining bathroom.

The students were mixed, ages four to seven crowded together on benches, the desk chair, standing or leaning on the walls. Only half of them had their backpacks.

The three-year olds were then sitting on the edge of the tiled shower stall, or jumping around on the tiled floor, as vivacious or silent as they always were.

After a few minutes, teachers began trickling away. We’d been united in our flight from potential harm, but as the time passed without those noxious fumes, the teachers became bold enough to leave. All of them have families. All our teachers save Valerie have children of their own. And most take moto taxis home. I understood their desire to leave—the advisability of their leaving.

That didn’t leave me happy about their departure.

For there I stood, the sole adult in a room packed with young children, some of them only three years old, attending for sounds of sirens, horns, gas canisters popping, or Michelet calling someone’s name to signal a guardian’s arrival.

As the minutes passed the noise inside increased. Most children were talking, chatting, laughing, pushing, whining, searching for amusement in that stuffy room.

I called for silence. It was predictably ineffectual.

I picked up the Bible, what I’d done earlier in Madame Patricia’s classroom where second grade mingled with her kindergarten class. I’d commenced the story of Noah, projecting my already tired voice to stumble through the Creole as I half-regarded the book and half-regarded the students.

In the classroom the story had been mostly well-received, and the noise level and frenzied frolicking had decreased.

There, in the office, my attempt at entertainment was unsuccessful. I thought of The Book Thief, and wished I could comfort a roomful by the sound of my voice telling a tale.

The three-year olds kept jumping. Kids kept pushing and talking and elbowing one another.

After perhaps 15 minutes, a first grader spoke up.

“M’ap chante, Madame Rachelle,” she whispered to my ear. “I’m going to sing.”

“Ok, go ahead,” I nodded, putting the Bible back down on the desk.

I had refrained from singing earlier because I’d guessed the noise level in response would be even higher than before, as children who love to sing and dance would commence singing at the top of their lungs. Or shouting the lyrics.

The first grader began to sing one of the most popular songs at school: He’s got the whole world in his hands. Il tient le monde entier dans ses mains.

Her voice was immediately joined by several others, and a rousing chorus began. We pounded through one verse before word came in that the greatest risk had passed and we ought to relocate across the hall in the Recreation room to give the kids some more space.

Thirty minutes later we’d be back in the office, although this time only myself and a handful of students remained. All other students had been collected by guardians who took firm hold of the children’s hands and rapidly retreated back through the gate.

There had been another call of close proximity gas, and the air was indeed a bit foul. My eyes were pricking, so I lowered sunglasses onto my face and pulled up the little ones’ tee shirts to mask their mouths and noses again.

Outside the office windows is a beaten path alley where there are perpetually parked and broken cars rusting in the sun. Sometimes it seems a mechanic is there, and there’s light foot traffic, but the route is small and unimportant. Crowds and gas had no place down that way.

I looked around the small office space, noting the heavy iron doors that could slam into the concrete walls and lock us in here or the bathroom. In the U.S. that bathroom would probably be the allotted lockdown space, or the tornado shelter: the most enclosed space in the building where we could hunker down and bar the door. But even there the open window blocks break up the thick wall and ventilated between the bathroom’s interior and the hallway. There is no safe place.

That Tuesday school day finally finished as the last child was collected and we drove home, weary with tension and dust. The car we use is a new model, barely two years old with smooth gears, electric tinted windows and locking doors. Inside we are sealed from dust, scents, and exposure. It’s almost a safe place.

But car accidents are fast. Motos zip up and down the streets on whichever side they please. Pedestrians, dogs and goats crisscross the way. Potholes and speed bumps disrupt the pavement and huge loaded trucks and speeding Papadap vans roar along National Road on their way to Port au Prince. Venders’ stalls stretch from the road side. Driving involves intense concentration: one palm ready on the horn, eyes darting from side mirror to rearview to far side and back again, squinting through the sun and swerving around whatever dog, goat, van, wheelbarrow or trash pile is blocking the road.

No, the car is not a safe place. Beverly and I prefer walking when we can rather than deal with the swerving, honking, avoiding, dust-rousing and street parking that driving entails. On our own two feet there are narrow paths to walk, sunshine and trees to enjoy, and community members to greet. We choose the pace and worry only for ourselves, not an expensive machin or another’s livelihood—or life.

No one would say that the roads are safe.

Petit Goave is a safe town. It’s well maintained and quite impressively clean. There are the blessed drainage ditches that aided so much during the hurricane. There are waste baskets posted on some corners and certain fields unofficially designated as dump zones. Lush green and brilliant flowers border and adorn us here.

Many people in the community know us, from church, school, or frequent sightings. We walk paths, sidewalks, and main roads. We buy local and always greet with a smile. To many we are no longer an anomaly but an amusing pair of friendly local faces.

Most times we are quite comfortable in our excursions, our purposeful forays to our ocean-side retreat, the copy shop, or home from school.

While Beverly was gone, at home with her ailing husband from mid December until early February, I walked little. Most of my housemates don’t care much for walking, and it’s inadvisable for me to go alone. In our pair there is security; on my own there is invitation.

So two afternoons in a row I asked Jonas to accompany me on the walk to the copy shop. This little back-alley shop is directly across from our church, perhaps a half-mile from the house, easily accessible by main roads.

“You want to go this way? You want to see house Ann?” Jonas asked as we turned up the perpendicular street that should lead us straight to the copy-shop street. It is paved and interrupted on both sides by little stalls, driveways, and unexplained holes.

He gestured to a narrow beaten path veering down from the road on the right side, traversing through a bank of trash and winding out of sight among the trees.

I’d seen people using it but never thought to take that route.

“Yes, okay, but I don’t know the way,” I said.

So I tailed after Jonas down this footpath, stepping over the litter of bottles, cans, water saches and wires. We twisted down to walk beneath sunbeams and tree-limbs, the path widening, passing half-finished walls and many contented pigs. Then the path forked, the right side diverging to a cluster of houses and possibly abandoned structures. On the left it hugged a wall, turning a corner out of sight. But in the open space I could see a distant high wall and the mountainous horizon. As we turned that corner the view opened and it was lovely: sunlight and shade and green foliage.

I liked taking this new way with Jonas, merging from footpath to dirt road, passing beneath tree limbs, immersed in the thick of local terrain.

Jonas showed me his school and introduced me to the director seated at the office door. I shook my head at the expected cries of “Blan! Blan!” from children. At the end of the road we emerged onto the copy-shop street, stepping back onto cobbles, and went about our business.

The next day we walked that way again, but diverged to stop at Ann’s house.

At a corner before the house a cluster of young boys lounged, and were particular amused to spot a blan. Jonas summoned me inside the house after him as their calls continued.

I was glad to duck through the hanging clothes, pass the ladies and children sitting there, and turn out of sight in the next room where Jonas met Ann’s tailor husband.

But as I stood there, shadowed, one of the young ones approached the house and tried to enter.

The ladies shooed him off. I wondered whether his manman had ever taught him manners. I wondered if he had a manman.

When we emerged from the house the clump called louder and louder.

In response, Jonas swung his legs in his usual swagger and cranked up the volume on the speaker he was carrying. The degrading voices were drowned under Alicia Keys passionate “This Girl is on Fire.”

Jonas and I laughed and continued, the prickling discomfort in my palms and heart lessening every step we took away from that corner. I thanked God for Jonas, thanked Jonas for being security for me, and wondered if I’d ever be able to go out on my own. Just when it seems the community is acceptant and affable—there’s another someone, usually group of someones, who crush the budding sense of comfort.

The streets are not safe.

So we are usually grateful to get off the streets, returning to Pastor’s house, our house. This large concrete house firmly enclosed by high wall topped with wire, gated, and patrolled by dogs. Inside the windows are barred and screened and lights brighten the darkness.

The house has always felt a safe place.

But even here, even from my favorite rooftop post, threats are possible.

I first had this inkling during the hurricane, when Matthew knocked on every door and window, huffed and puffed in rage when we wouldn’t admit him. The bars on the windows prevented broken branches entering, and the lack of glass sheltered us from broken glass. However leaves and water blew through those screened and barred windows. In my bedroom the bed sets between two windows, and usually I fight to feel the entering breeze. While Matthew blew outside, I wrapped myself in two sheets topped with a towel and curled my feet away from trespassing rain.

There was no total refuge from wind, water, or darkness inside the house.

Last week I sat on the roof with three visitors and Madame Beverly just before dusk. The family was all at Tuesday night church service, leaving us five at the house. The gate was closed save for a few inches where it was sticking: we had given up trying to seal it and just shrugged for the best.

A knock came at the gate. Beverly and I called out.

“Bonswa—ki es? Who’s there?”

Beverly heard an answering male name and thought he was delivering bread. She set off to collect the bread while the rest of us remained on the roof.

I perched on my usual concrete slab and waited for her to appear in the courtyard below. In the crack of the gate I could see a figure.

Beverly began crossing the cement yard when suddenly Blackie, the long-legged dog named for his color came bounding out and cut off her step.

“Oh, Blackie!” she called. “Wait! There’s a dog out—chyen!”

The figure hastily backed out through the gate, echoing her warning of chyen dog.

I watched from above as Beverly turned her step, calling after Blackie to get back.

A few minutes later she returned to the roof, shaking her head.

“I don’t know who that is,” she said, looking down at the almost-shut gate. “I didn’t like that he started to let himself in.”

Down in the courtyard, now dusky and rife with shadows, Blackie was trotting about and sniffing contentedly.

“That man, he started to come in before I got to the gate. And then Blackie came out right in front of me!”

We all stopped to listen to the man on the other side of the gate. There was an exchange. He entreated entry to leave something for Pastor. We told him he had to wait, that Pastor was coming.

He offered to leave the something with us and be on his way. I stood up to go down to collect it. Beverly said no.

“I don’t know who he is. I don’t let people in that I don’t know.”

I called down again to this figure at the gate, who was now afraid to enter and face a possibly hostile dog.

“Ou bezwen tale pou Paste! You have to wait for Pastor ! »

He was not pleased but Beverly stood her ground.

“I bolted all the doors downstairs,” she said. “He’s not getting in.” After a few minutes the figure turned away and walked up the street with what sounded to be words of discontent.

By then the courtyard was all but black, and the roof deeply shadowed.

“I believe God brought out Blackie at just the right time,” Beverly said from her seat on the concrete.

Blackie had been tied up behind the house with the other two dogs. They are only released at night when the house is shut up or when everyone is gone. That night he slipped out of his collar and loped happily free. His loping cut off Beverly’s stride to the gate, the uncloseable gate through which a stranger was entering.

We continued talking on the roof of other things, watching stars appear in their twinkling glory. But from my regular perch I continued to survey the gate and courtyard below, and noted the sinister obscurity of the night shadows in which I normally reveled. The soft, restful darkness could be hiding anyone.

We took comfort in our high walls topped with wire. In our watchdog-patrolled courtyard. In our barred iron doors. In our placement on the top of the house. In our position of respect in the community.

Mostly we took comfort from Jesus. From the All Mighty. From His angels who we knew stood on those razor wired walls. Who patrolled the courtyard and the street and the skies. Who crossed swords over doorways and sat beside us under the stars.

When the family came back from church we told them about the gate not closing and our mysterious visitor. We shared his name, and Pastor appeared to recognize it. He considered it possible such a person, an acquaintance from the mountain, did indeed come looking for him. He also understood Beverly’s decision to refuse entry to a stranger.

With their arrival the gate was closed firmly, with guidance on how it could be fitted (stubbornly) in place and padlocked; the generator was cranked and lights blazed forth from the windows. The house was full of voices, laughter, and light once again.

I went to bed without fear of the shadows.

Today there were manifestations again. Beverly marks this as her first manifestation experience at school. It was certainly up close and personal: directly in front of our building there were roadblocks, rocks and angry protestors.

There was police retaliation. There were gas and firearms.

Parents began to arrive with the restless crowds around 11:30 and pulled students hurriedly through the gate.

Like the last time, I was not afraid. I was frustrated this was happening again, but more determined than ever to not let this time be wasted. With Beverly there, surveying and organizing, responding as a long-time emergency-trained United States teacher would, with reason and calm and clear directions, the entire school was less frenzied.

(And perhaps the experience of having been through all this before…)

After Recreation ended for our class at noon, students lined up to wash hands, collected their food, and returned to class. I entered the room to quiet eating, everyone seated in place, some already wearing their backpacks for the inevitable dismissal.

But I didn’t accept the wide-eyed fear on some faces.

I set down my own plate of food and addressed those nineteen second graders, and my co-teacher.

“Class, don’t be afraid. We don’t have to be afraid. God is with us. He is for us.”

I picked up one of our new Bibles, a Creole New Testament that each child will be responsible for and practice reading.  I turned to Matthew 6:25 and started reading, stumbling over the first few verses.

“Look at the birds of the air; gade zwazo k’ap vole nan syel la they do no sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Eske nou pa vo pi plis pase zwazo yo?”

My co-teacher, Madame Alice, sat on the back desk and clucked along with the reading. At verse 34 I closed the Bible.

“Do not worry about tomorrow, pa chaje tèt nou pou denmen…”

“Class, God does not want us to be afraid. Satan wants us to be afraid. He wants us to be discouraged, to stop learning. Do we want to make Satan happy? Nou vle bay Satan plezi?”

“No,” everyone agreed.

“Okay, so we will not be scared. We will continue. We will keep learning.”

There were then a few loud pops from outside. I recognized the sound of gas being thrown—again.

Beverly called up and then appeared in the doorway.

“Get your stuff and go downstairs. And pray,” she said in the perfect Director voice: authoritative and rational.

Students gathered their bags and plates and filed down the stairs to the Recreation room. Madame Alice and I took a few extra minutes to gather up our own things and the materials intended for the afternoon lesson.

When I arrived down in the Recreation room students were milling. Some were sitting, some standing, some wandering slowly, some kneeling. I was giving directions to sit down in silence when one told me, “Shh. We’re praying.”

Beverly had gone from class to class instructing teachers and students to pray. Everyone had heeded, and in that open space with balls piled in a corner, our seven-year old students were talking to God on their knees, asking safety for our school.

Every morning we pray protection for our school, for the building and all the members. We pray for blessing on the food preparation and consumption, for clean water, for guard against malady and contagion, for encouragement and overflowing love and joy.

Every evening in family service we pray protection for the house, for the courtyard and all the members. We pray for angels on the walls, peaceful rest, and God’s guidance. We pray safe travels on these unsafe roads. We pray encouragement for easily overwhelming circumstances.

And everywhere we go we know we face uncertainty. We know there is no assurance of preservation. There is no safe place. Nowhere the evil or harm of the world cannot touch us.

But we know with all certainty, with all assurance, with all faith, that we are preserved in God’s love.

Last week we were blessed to attend seminars featuring American guests: three godly men who work to provide Christian literature to Haitian people in their native language.

One of the speakers, gifted with great wisdom, knowledge of history and tradition and clearly explained theology, shared this thought.

“I believe the only safe place to be in the world is in the middle of God’s will.”

There is no safe place in this world. From the quiet tree-lined streets of small-town New Hampshire where we don’t lock our doors, to Daejeon, Korea, where at any time of day or night I walked alone without fear, to Ti Goave, Haiti, where we are continuously more respected in the small community—in all of these places there are risks. There are reckless drivers, foul minds, freak accidents, and illnesses.

There is no safe place.

But we have this blessed assurance that Jesus is ours, that God goes before us and sets His angels around us, from the time we rise in the morning to the time we lay down our heads at night. He watches out for us and has a Master Plan.

We are safe in God’s will, knowing that while we are doing His work He will preserve us, on unpredictable streets and through all rock-throwing manifestations.

Maybe there is no safe place. But we need not fear. Nou pa bezwen pè. Nou p’ap janm bezwen pè. He is with us.

Psaume 23 : Cantique de David.

L’Eternel est mon berger: je ne manquerai de rien.
² Il me fait reposer dans de verts pâturages,
Il me dirige près des eaux paisibles.
³ Il restaure mon âme,
Il me conduit dans les sentiers de la justice,
A cause de son nom.
⁴ Quand je marche dans la vallée de l’ombre de la mort,
Je ne crains aucun mal, car tu es avec moi:
Ta houlette et ton bâton me rassurent.
⁵ Tu dresses devant moi une table,
En face de mes adversaires;
Tu oins d’huile ma tête,
Et ma coupe déborde.
⁶ Oui, le bonheur et la grâce m’accompagneront
Tous les jours de ma vie,
Et j’habiterai dans la maison de l’Eternel
Jusqu’à la fin de mes jours.

~La Bible : Nouvelle Edition de Genève

Psalm 23: A Psalm of David.

23 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
²     He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.

³     He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
    for his name's sake.

⁴ Even though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

⁵ You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
⁶ Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    forever.

~The Bible: English Standard Version

"Whom Shall I Fear?" Chris Tomlin, Burning Lights, 2013.