Paid in Blessings Abundant

Yesterday and today we went to the hospital.

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

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

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

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

“Wi,” said Michama.

“Wi,” said Mama Louis.

“Kèk,” said I, “Some.”

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

He then continued in good English.

“So what is the problem today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.“Wi.”

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

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

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

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

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

For many of our parents, it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mwen grangou.”

“You’re hungry? You didn’t eat?”

“Wi,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t drink herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boldly going where no blan has gone before.”

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

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

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

The next morning we visited the house.

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

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

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

“Pita. Later.”

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

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

“Wi. Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lucy! Good morning! How are you?”

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

Michama translated.

Lucy murmured some sound.

“She says yes,” Michama interpreted.

“And did Mama put on the cream?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mama updated us about Lucy.

Michama translated.

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

“Oh, praise God!” Beverly responded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodbye! See you on Monday!”

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

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

Beverly nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wi!”

“Vini! Come here!”

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

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

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

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

We were not expecting that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These are blessings I cannot measure.

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

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

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

~Luke 6:38

Moments of the First Week: This is Haiti (TIH)

Speed-walking through the Miami airport, rounding corners and peering round pillars, arriving at the assigned gate, scanning the heads for a distinctive silver-crown. Stopping by a family clump of children and parents, sandwiched in by their luggage, before laughing and throwing my arms around my precious co-worker, boss, and sister (assumed mother) of one year, my dear Beverly. Thinking, "We met here one year ago, strangers about to embark on a journey into the Great Unknown. Why didn't I pack up and go home? Oh, God, make me so brave again." 

Looking out the plane window to the crumpled-paper terrain, sun-browned mountains seamed with zigzag trails, and thinking, “Here is my country.”

Pushing my cart of 130 pounds of luggage close after Beverly’s heels, catching sight of two of my brothers waiting outside the airport, and jumping up and down, 20-pound backpack still on and hands still holding the luggage cart. Thinking, “Here is my homecoming.”

Trying to negotiate sense with the attendant at the National Station, that if 20$ half-fills the gas-tank, then another 20 ought make it full. Losing words in Creole while my shot-gun rider lacks words in English and my burgeoning translator leaning in the window misses the point. The attendant is either truly foolish, truly lost, or truly rascally to foreign [lady] drivers. Thinking, “I need Pastor Levy. Is this worth the fight?”

Sweating while sitting. Sweating while standing. Sweating while lying down. Sweating while unpacking, reaching, organizing. Sweating while cleaning the shower. Sweating while talking. Sweating while hugging. Sweating while walking, eating, relaxing, washing dishes, laughing, breathing. Praying for breezes to move the still air wrapped around us like wet wool, pressing on us like the weight of responsibility. Remembering, “Oh, yes, this is sweat. I’ve hardly felt that all summer.”

Walking the black-sand beach. Reaching the sand and pulling off my sandals, letting storm-churned water wash brownish cool over my feet. Gazing left at mountains piled green and prosperous, gazing out at La Gonave flirting with the horizon, gazing right at the distant north-climbing coast, home to Wahoo Bay and a thousand bittersweet memories. Standing at the wall of By The Sea, hand resting lightly on the inverted conch-shells cemented in place, thinking “Something so beautiful to stand against invasion.” Gazing out at that Northern Shore, counting blue after blue, thinking, “Oh, yes, Ayiti bèl.”

Reaching to click my seatbelt when I slide into the driver’s seat. Driving in the rain through deserted streets. Putting on my signal early and preparing to stop at the end of the road. Remembering, “Oh, yes, this is unnecessary.”

Hugging my co-teacher in church, rocking together as she prays in her mother-tongue while I wait for my voice to return to pray in mine. Heart so full it’s fit to bursting, so the only words I can say to her is the simple truth, “Kè m’ kontan. My heart is happy.” She repeats them back to me with a wide smile. Thinking, “Oh, yes, this is right.”

Singing with our housemates at evening service in the salon. Raising my voice in confidence over unfamiliar words, their profundity ringing in my soul and smile uncontrollable on my lips as I sing with the others, those who know the song, who live it. Praying with our voices overlapping, murmured and entreated, grateful and raw with need. Supplicating again for security, for provision, for diversion of this hurricane. Thinking, “Oh, yes, I’ve needed this.”

Lying back under the stars, concrete beneath and Milky Way above. Heart so full all I can do is sing, letting melody put words to the longing in my soul. Longing to speak to the God who sees, the God who knows, the God who yearns to hear from us and do good for us. The God whom I’m not worthy to address. Thinking, “I never want to stop singing or focus on anything else. None but my God.”

Lying back under the twilight sky and waiting for the stars. Marveling as one by one or two by four or three by five they appear, piercing through the murky mauve and dusky yellow-blue, that they have been there all along, these shining lights. Yet it’s only when the sun recedes that they are visible. It’s only when the distraction is taken away they are noticed. Thinking, “This is Jesus in us—He is there but only when I recede can He shine forth. Oh, Shine, Jesus, Shine.”

Washing my clothes by hand in the shower, lathering each piece, rinsing and soaking them. Bringing them rooftop to dry under the Caribbean sky. Collecting them hours later and putting them away. Now waiting for others, caught in rain after rain, towels still spread on the concrete and clothes still draped over low-slung line. Dependant on a dry spell and my own remembering to dry and be put away once more. Hearing the rain start once more after a dry spell and shrugging. Thinking, “Oh, well. They’ll dry eventually.”

Throwing up my arms wide and high and grinning like a fool, like a blessing, scampering to Mama Jameson and hugging her tight. Cupping her face and asking her how she is. Then turning to Jameson and picking him up, squeezing him to me. Thinking, “He’s too light.” But also, “Oh, yes, I’ve been waiting for this.”

Picking up Ruth in her fluffy pink dress, folding her to me as her head sets down on my shoulder. Swaying back and forth to our own music.

Picking up Jachdiel, wet with sweat and eyes wide with sorrow at our departure, rocking him as his head sets down on my shoulder.

Thinking, “How could anything else matter?”

God Makes Grace for Us: Micah in Brief

End of the Year Newsletter: June 2017

Bonjou and Greetings in Christ!

It is July and our school year has ended. There is irrepressible sunshine in our souls. We have seen so much growth and so much victory in these past ten months. We are excited to continue the adventure in September!

 May and June were extremely busy. Rachelle spent two weeks in New Hampshire and was blessed to attend her brother’s wedding. In her absence, Petit Goave hosted a week-long revival that blessed the whole town, including our Family, Beverly, and Nicole.  

After Rachelle returned there was one full week of uninterrupted school. The final week of May began a series of visitors. Jaimie and Philip Bolt from Virginia blessed us with their company and encouragement. At school Mr. Philip led Recreation and Ms. Jaimie began Abraham, our malnourished student, on his feeding regimen. We visited the homes of three students the Bolts partner with, presenting each with birthday gifts to a neighborhood audience. At first grade K’s home, a circle of on-lookers listened to us sing “Jesus Loves the Little Children” in three languages, after which Beverly and Rose told them of Jesus’ love: an impromptu evangelism opportunity! Another afternoon we took the three out to lunch at the beach. Everyone was delighted to watch the children eat chicken and plantain then splash in the water. Rachelle and Nicole got their clothes drenched playing in the water, too.

Ms. Jaimie with some friends from Second Grade

There were many tears when the Bolts left, sent off in the customary manner of much singing and dancing at Friday afternoon church. However, the same day they departed, Beverly’s grandson Douglas arrived. He began his stay in Haiti drenched in sweat. After a rest he threw himself into work: washing dishes, lifting weights and exercising with the house guys, organizing and aiding at school.

The first week of June was exam week at school. Students sat to take exams in the heat, second grade sweating steadily on the second floor. One morning we made accordion fans, and every so often Madame Rachelle filled a cup with water and “baptized” the class in relief efforts.

On June 10, Beverly, Nicole, and Douglas drove into Port au Prince to collect the San Antonio River of Life team, Beverly’s home church. Rachelle stayed in town to do a Saturday Vacation Bible School program with Donna Edwinson and June Schulte from her home town. Along with two translators the ladies put on a splendid program for kindergarten, first, and second grade. The teachers and students enjoyed themselves immensely, singing and dancing to VBS songs, making tambourines, hearing about God’s great love for us, and playing water games!

To perfectly finish the program, each person received a heavily loaded plate of rice and beans and chicken. There was so much food that parents were invited inside to eat. Madame Rose was delighted!

 

June, Stevenson, and Donna at Saturday VBS

Donna and June left for Port au Prince, the house was prepared, and that evening the Texas Team arrived: Brian, Cheyenne, Danielle, Julie, Russell, David, Nico and Randy, along with the Port au Prince Team of translators: Touttoute, Ricardo, Gardy, Benson and Joanne. On Monday Sam and Abby joined us from Alabama. The house was overflowing with laughter, sweat, luggage, and love.

Monday to Friday the Team walked to school and did VBS: Bible story, crafts, dance, games, and music. Russell, Julie, David, and Touttoute introduced the children to puppets to tell of Moses and the Ten Commandments. They were a huge hit! Cheyenne, Danielle, and Benson helped the children make crafts to remember God’s special craftsmanship. Gabby, Nicole, Abby, Sam, and Joanne jumped and danced through the morning heat teaching a dance routine to accompany the worship song “10,000 Reasons” which Nico, Randy, and Gardy taught the painstakingly children through the week. (Some of the children continued to pronounce “worship” as “beship.”) Douglas and Ricardo burned up the kids’ energy in games, teaching them new ways to play and reinforcing lessons of good sportsmanship.

School was packed with people, heat, and delight.

On Friday, students had final rehearsals for the afternoon performance of “10,000 Reasons” in front of their parents. We all gathered for church where the Team blessed all the teachers with words of appreciation. There was singing and thanksgiving.

At 12:30 the gate was opened and parents and guardians stood in the blazing sun to watch and record their children. Second grade stood on the steps and the other four grades formed lines in the courtyard. Every student had a ribbon baton and sang with all their might. The singing shook the street, carried on in joyful praise!

After ten minutes everyone hurried back inside, dripping sweat (June in Haiti is HOT!) Students returned to their classrooms for final words from the teacher and to receive report cards. Then there were goodbyes and school was finished!

River of Life, TX Team 

On Sunday our Port au Prince Team returned to PAP to attend summer school. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were spent in community activity. Beverly and Rachelle took separate groups to visit students’ homes, shop in the market, and distribute rice and beans and Gospel tracts the Team had purchased. Some of the group trekked the mountain to Madame Alice’s home where she danced with joy to greet them. We visited Herold, our afternoon custodian, who was amazed he merited such value as a home visit and gift of food. We sang and danced “10,000 Reasons” once again with Tchialensky and Angee, looked through Salouben’s English homework, and handed sacks of rice and beans through the car window when there was still food leftover!

After days of sharing, growing, instant love, and new friends, the Team departed on Thursday.

Beverly, Rachelle, Nicole, Abby, and Sam returned to a quiet house. We organized, cleaned, and packed. Abby and Sam were an immense blessing in their labor and emotional support, which we will remember as we view their artwork of Scripture on the wall.

Sam, Abby, and Beverly in front of Isaiah 37:30

We left Ti Goave together on June 26.

So much has happened! We have watched students who once never smiled, who withdrew from embraces, break out in smiles and laughter, come forward for rib-squeezing hugs, and say with joy, “I love you and Jesus loves you!”

We have seen a significant decrease in misbehavior, a major rise in compassion and team work. We have seen pride and confidence bloom and heard English spoken more and more! We have felt the love each and every day through all the trials and victories.

On June 27, Beverly and Nicole returned to San Antonio. Rachelle returned to New Hampshire. We are joyous to see our loved ones and share news of this year, but very sad to be away from our Haiti family and students.

We are also concerned for the welfare of our students and their families. We pray for their physical and emotional needs. We mourn for Angelo.

On Sunday, June 25, Angelo Denot, a second-grade student, drowned while swimming. We received the news the night before departure, gathered with our family in Port au Prince. After the tears of shock and horror, we praised God, thanking Him for taking Angelo home. Every student in our school is taught and shown the love of Jesus. We have all confidence Angelo accepted this love and knew God as his personal Father and Savior. Angelo will be sorely missed: his sweet smile, the way he leaned in to accept hugs, the labor he spent on assignments, working carefully and deliberately to completion; his inspirational joy despite a tenuous life, oft empty belly, and mistreatment.

Angelo was a delight to teach and to love. We are so grateful we knew him. Now, we mourn his loss but rejoice at his home in Heaven. And we remember afresh the importance of loving all children in our charge with abandon.

Angelo at his desk in Second Grade, May 2017

We pray also for our teachers. We pray funds would continue to come in so their salaries can be paid, along with the rent for the school building. Now, we also pray provision for Beverly and Rachelle personally. Beverly will be facing surgery for her husband. She is working part-time jobs to fill time and save funds.

Rachelle is working at her church in NH and networking. Starting now she will be fully dependent on partnership, funds provided by the body of Christ. As always, we have many needs.

Now, we need emotional strength for the transition from Haiti to the U.S. We are also transitioning ministry partners; previously we have been a satellite school from Christian Light School in Port au Prince, but we have just been accepted as part of Christian Light Ministries. Please be patient with us as we transition to CLM and learn how to receive funding.

There is much to learn and much to do. The school officially has 153 students on file, from the new three-year old class to the upcoming third grade! We need a third grade Haitian and foreign teacher for French and English curriculum. We need another classroom. God will provide, but following after Him by faith is nonetheless intimidating.

We are thankful beyond measure to serve in Ti Goave, working and sweating and loving abundantly for Jesus. We are so hopeful for the future. Our hearts desire to return, to continue working with these children next year.

Thank you so much for your constant prayer, attention, and generosity. We look forward to sharing news of the upcoming school year but need your help to get there.

With love and blessings,

“Madame Beverly” Beverly Burton

“Madame Rachelle” Rachel Collins

This is Abraham

This is Abraham.

He’s easily noticeable at school for his giant, fringed eyes and his exuberance. He’ll jump on you with his skinny arms stretched and mouth wide, displaying all of his baby teeth.

“Good morning, Abraham!” you’ll say, and he’ll respond with his high-pitched voice.

“Good morning!”

Then he’ll pull your head down to his level, if you don’t pick him up so his skinny monkey legs wrap around you, and tell you he’s hungry.

“Mwen grangrou!” Then you’ll assure him he can go to the kitchen to get a pre-class cracker. He’ll receive another cracker later in the morning with the rest of his class, a simple Haitian bon-bon sel (similar to a Saltine) dolloped with manba (peanut butter.)

Sometimes he’ll accept this with continued foxy grin; sometimes he’ll nod his head sadly, those round quarter eyes heavy with tears. When he gives those eyes you can’t help but cuddle him close, letting him wrap those skinny legs around you and nestle his head on your shoulder, noticing again that you don’t even notice his weight.

Abraham is in the four-year old class. Abraham is six years old. Abraham is thirty-three pounds.

Several weeks ago Abraham missed school. For an entire week.

His chair was empty and the halls devoid of his squeaks. The courtyard missed his mischief and instigating of tag and play.

Madame Beverly and Madame Rose noticed his prolonged absence and wondered where he was. We considered the recent rain, several nights in a row of heavy downpour that would have flooded the lowlands and wash near Abraham’s house. That same wash was a churning brown mass in the hurricane, carrying away the old bridge in its raging froth. These days it’s usually just a trickle of muddy water coursing down the ugly blackened riverbed, safely spanned by the shiny new bridge. Abraham’s home is on the other side of that bridge, around the corner and up a dirt trail.

I knew that already, just as I knew Abraham’s Papa is unwell. The few times I’ve seen him over the past ten months of school he has been unkempt, to say the least. Many of our parents do not have the means to support themselves or their children, and thus we should not expect them to appear well-dressed or perhaps even well-groomed. But the longer you stay in Haiti the more you observe the pride in appearance. This is not an unfounded pride. This is not an extravagant pride. Rather, this is an effort to present oneself well in the only way one can. When you have no control over your circumstances, no guarantee of medical care, of school coverage, of food—the ability to control your appearance becomes much more relevant.

“When I first came,” Beverly remembers, “the parents were timid. Their heads were hung low. The children were dirty and their hair wasn’t done.”

Now, our parents stand with pride.

They greet us at the gate. These mamas and papas are pleased to see us and proud of their children in their orange and navy. Our little girls have well-styled hair. Some are in elaborate braids, some are gathered into thickly bunched pigtails, but they are all styled. The boys are neat with shirts tucked into their wee belts and hair cropped close to their heads. They are pressed and presentable. You cannot tell whether this little girl treks down from her family’s tin and plywood house on the mountain or whether this little boy has come from the eight by ten room he shares with six family members. They are clean and they are pleased. Their guardians have taken the care to send them out well. And when those guardians pick up their charges, they present themselves well, also.

Not Abraham’s Papa.

He shows up to school in jeans so full of holes they present more skin than denim. He’s dirty and unkempt, long hair sticking out in clumps. When he’s signed for Abraham’s report cards he has printed his name in a large unruly hand. Everything about him speaks of carelessness.

We know that Papa has problems. We know that he comes from a broken home.

His mama walks the road in front of our school shoeless. She is scantily clad in a loose dress. Sometimes she carries a bowl or a basket. She mumbles to herself, shuffling back and forth. She’s aimless. She’s mentally ill.

This is the mother of Abraham’s Papa. There is no telling what his childhood was like.

Now, Papa is an alcoholic. Papa hardly ever works. Of course, we know many of our papas are without work. They spend the day seeking jobs and sometimes find paid labor. Sometimes they don’t. Many of our papas are angry, frustrated and humiliated at their lack of ability to provide for their families. However, they continue to try. And we see the care they lavish on their children.

We don’t see that with Abraham.

After he’d missed school for a week, we drove over to Abraham’s house. We parked on the corner of National Road 2 just past the bride, and climbed a narrow dirt path. To the left were the lowlands that had been flooded for weeks. Up the hill the ground was dry and a steady breeze continuously shook the trees shading us. The air was very pleasant.

We passed one concrete house complete with porch and pick-up truck in front, then arrived at Abraham’s house: a plywood and tarp aid-built structure. The door was shut. We continued following the trail beside and then behind the house, coming to the top of an embankment. In the hollow below were two other houses and an open yard space. Seated outside were a woman and a few men, all thin and casually half-dressed. We called for Abraham.

“Abraham! Abraham!”

We heard his answering response, the wee little voice calling “Letil! I’m here!”

Then from the bushes below appeared his little head, foxy grin splitting his face. He trotted forth and came up the hill to us, greeting us with stomach first.

Rose, Beverly, Nicole, Jonas and I showered him with greetings. Beverly scooped him up.

“Abraham! How are you? Kouma ou ye? Where were you? Why did you miss school? Poukisa ou te manke lekol?” we asked.

“Ou te malade? Were you sick?”

Abraham nodded his round head, eyes unfocusing. He stared out from his high place in Beverly’s arms. Abraham was always difficult to follow, logically, and today he was less responsive than usual. He assented to everything we suggested, which seemed suspicious.

We called down to the neighbors sitting below, Rose asking them why Abraham had been absent.

An older neighbor man came up the hill to us with information.

“We had a lot of rain and the river got big,” he explained. “Abraham played in the water and got a cold.”

We could accept that. More troubling was his extremely distended abdomen and twig-like arms and legs. They were more pronounced than ever.

“Has he been eating?” we asked.

At school, Abraham ate not only the peanut butter crackers but a heaping plate of the Feed My Starving Children manna pack rice and beans we serve every day.

The neighbor continued to explain that the young lady down the hill, Madame Junior, had been sharing food with Abraham because he didn’t get any from his own home.

Looking down, it was easy to see that Madame Junior didn’t have much herself. She was a young lady, very thin, and surrounded by men. Surely she was responsible for cooking for all of those who lived here. None of them appeared well-fed.

“Is Papa here?” we asked Abraham.

“Li pati. He went out,” Abraham answered. The neighbor confirmed.

“Abraham,” Beverly said, “you have to come to school on Monday. We have medicine for cold. We have food.”

Madame Rose instructed Abraham in Creole.

We left him with lollipop stuck in his mouth, a treasure from Nicole’s bag. He unwrapped it with his dirty fingernails in ecstasy, eyes brilliant.

On Monday Abraham came to school. We weighed him. He was thirty pounds. His records dictated he was actually six years old, despite his placement in the four-year old class, and in March had weighed 32.4 pounds. Beverly promptly messaged a doctor friend with this information.

The doctor responded Abraham was suffering acute malnutrition and needed immediate intervention. He must gain 5 pounds before vacation or the malnutrition would progress and he would die.

Fortunately the same doctor presented aid.

She made arrangements to get us a dietary supplement called “Plumpy Nut”: a special peanut butter packed with extra nutrients, protein and sugar that should plump up our little Abraham.

We got the peanut butter (manba) and began the regimen. The first week we were blessed with our guests Jaimie and Phillip Bolt from Virginia. Jaimie, whose heart is as big as the Blue Ridge mountain range, made Abraham’s feeding her mission.

Every morning she scooped him up in the courtyard and held him on her hip through our teacher devotion. Then she set him down on her lap in the office and fed him his crackers and peanut butter.

Because of his severe malnutrition and prolonged lack of food, Abraham’s stomach had shrunk. After a few bites he slowed down considerably. Eating was an effort.

But Jaimie persisted.

“We built towers with the crackers,” she said.

She and Abraham played with the food, and she cuddled him like a baby in her lap, talking to him with words he couldn’t understand, with all the love he could absolutely understand, and kept with him until all the food, two packets of peanut butter and several crackers, had been  consumed.

She repeated this in the afternoon. Every day that week. The doctor had ordered Abraham eat two packets of manba in the morning and two in the afternoon, along with his usual heaping portion of rice.

The first attempt to send the manba home did not succeed.

The manba was consumed, but not by Abraham. By Papa.

Beverly and Rose made another home visit. They met with Papa. And Rose, in her authoritative, fear-of-God voice, explained to Papa Abraham must eat.

“If he does not eat,” she said, “he will die.”

How much more blunt can one be? What other words need you say to convince a papa he must care for his child?

School is finished for the summer. All of our children have now lost the dependable daily meal. They have lost the constant access to clean drinking water, to medicine, to affection, to a safe place. We pray in faith that God will provide for each one of His precious lambs during this summer, providing them with a safe place, with attention and affection, with clean water and nourishing food.

We pray for Abraham. We pray for his Papa.

Last week we visited again.

While the team from Beverly’s home River of Life San Antonio church was here, I took a group to Abraham’s house. He is to be weighed every Monday, and given the next week’s installment of two daily Plumpy Nut packets. So we took the scale along with the manba, parked the car and climbed the hill. We called for Abraham at the crest of the hill, Madame Rose, Douglas, Nicole, Nico, Gabby, and myself.

I chuckled as the bushes down below shook and a wee little voice responded.

Then Abraham came out from those bushes with his foxy smile and trotted up the hill to us.

“Abraham! Bonjou, hello! How are you?” we all greeted him.

“Abraham, did you eat all the manba? You ate it? Not Papa?” I asked him. He said yes.

Today, Papa could confirm.

He appeared out of the house down below, grinning up at us with a wobbly expression and a matching gait.

Madame Rose ordered him to join us.

“You see we’re standing here,” she said. “You see Abraham! Come up!”

Papa harbors a fear of Madame Rose, and summoned the fortitude to climb the hill in a rollicking fashion.

He managed to crest the hill, to my relief and surprise; I was half-expecting him to overbalance and crash back down the bank. He was clearly intoxicated.

Instead, Papa seated himself down on an overturned bicycle lying nearby. He carried a shirt but was not wearing one. His hair was uncombed and stuck up as usual. Around his neck was a Rastafarian necklace. He looked like a bum: unemployed, unengaged, unkempt, unwashed, and drunk.

But he sat down and responded to Rose’s questions. He confirmed that Abraham had been eating his manba. However, to our chagrin, when Abraham mounted the scale, he weighed 32 pounds. The week previous he’d weighed in at 34—almost meeting the doctor’s summer requirement.

“Why has he lost weight?” we asked, Rose addressing Papa in her continued boss-tone. “He’s lost two pounds!”

Papa’s eyebrows shot up, the goofy expression erased. He looked the fool who’s been struck with harsh consequence, the student disciplined by the teacher, the catcaller slapped with a harassment charge. But he looked sincere. Abraham’s weight loss was an unpleasant surprise.

Papa didn’t have an answer for the missing two pounds.

So Rose again repeated the importance of Abraham eating the manba, of the precariousness of his health. His stomach was still distended so his little tshirt couldn’t cover his torso, and his arms and legs were still twig-like.

We then asked about church, because all conversation turns back to God. Did Papa attend church? Was he converted? Papa said yes, he attended, and yes, he was converted.

It was time to go. Before departure we always pray.

We gathered into a circle, and I gestured for Papa to join us. “N’ap priye,” I said, with hand extended toward this gangly, dirty man on the bicycle.

He giggled, shaking his head.

“Oh!” I said, “You don’t pray?”

Papa mumbled something unintelligible.

Madame Rose entreated him as well. Enough that Papa shook his head and put on his shirt.

He joined us in the circle, and Nico prayed for us.

Then we hugged Abraham goodbye, gave him the bag of manba to give to Madame Junior, his caregiver, encouraged Papa to go to church, and reminded them we’d be back next Monday with more peanut butter, and the scale.

As we walked away, Abraham sucked the lollipop Nicole had given him, and turned away to undo his zipper so he could pee on the ground where we’d been standing. Papa was still sitting on the bicycle.

Nico and Douglas were angry. Perhaps furious is a better description.

They were furious with Papa.

I understood their anger. But Beverly and I agreed later we could not harbor anger for this man.

“I’m angry at the situation,” Beverly said.

We are angry for the circumstances that this man has faced, for the life he’s known that led him to be drunk at 11 o’clock in the morning. That led him to watch his six year old son losing the few precious pounds he’d gained.

Nico shared at the team devotion that night. “We need to make it a point to pray, diligently, for Abraham and his Papa.”

He faced Douglas, who was still bristling, “Bro, I’ll get down on my knees with you every day to pray for him.”

So as we closed the devotion in group prayer, Nico did pray for Abraham and for his father. We pray hope for him. We pray that deep-rooted fear of God that prompted him to don his shirt before prayer would rise up. That he would attend church. That he would be led to men strong in the faith, wise and encouraging, who can guide him. We pray he can find honest labor and provide for his son. We pray he would appreciate the severity of Abraham’s condition and take care of him.

We pray Abraham will continue to eat and gain weight.

This last prayer we know is already being answered.

On Wednesday Beverly and a group distributed rice and beans to the community. They gifted ten bags to Madame Junior, setting her face alight with smiles, with joy and gratitude that she is valued and remembered.

She will help Abraham. Praise God that we could help her.

Please join us in praying for Abraham and his Papa.

His story is so common in Haiti—a child simply wasting away due to lack of food. A child with parents incapable or unwilling to care for him.

Thank God that this is one more child not forgotten, but valued and remembered and fought for.

I don’t know what the future holds for Abraham. I don’t know what God has planned for his father. I don’t know how many more children we may yet encounter with malnutrition.

I do know that we cannot lose hope. I do know that wrath has no benefits. I do know that God loves and cares for each one of His precious lambs. He knows them by name and knows their histories and their futures. His plan is so much greater than any of ours. Any of mine.

His plan connected us with a doctor, with Plumpy Nut, with two compassionate ladies to feed Abraham, with many arms to cuddle him, with a heart full of joy and vivacity despite his devastating circumstances.

May God fill us with the same joy that lights Abraham’s round eyes and fuels his foxy grin. May we return to Petit Goave in September and greet an Abraham running on strong legs who may not break the scale but will tip forty pounds.

I so look forward to that day.

Isaiah 40:11

He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.

Ezayi 40:11

Tankou yon gadò, l'ap okipe mouton l' yo. Se li menm k'ap sanble yo. L'ap pote ti mouton yo sou bra l'. Tou dousman l'ap mennen manman mouton ki gen pitit dèyè yo.

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.