Patrick's Musings #5

1) I’ve got a bad monkey. Yeah, you read correctly. In the unfolding mystery that is the Creole language I learned today that the word(s) for “hangover” is “mal makak.” This literally translates as “bad monkey.” So if you find yourself waking up with a splitting headache after a night of heavy drinking don’t blame it on those meddling kids and their dog. Blame it on the mischievous monkeys.

2) I feel slightly unappreciated in Haiti at times. Due to my inability to speak Creole and the Haitian inability to pick up on English sarcasm, my sense of humor has been underutilized and unappreciated. However, my fortunes may have begun to change for I landed my first joke in Creole today in church. Pastor Patrick was introducing me before I delivered my sermon when he noted that I am, “Patrick without mustache.” This is the primary way that we are distinguished from each other. While it seems to me that they are more glaring differences that could be referred to, the mustache has been the primary characteristic that has stuck. Anyways, after Pastor Patrick’s mustache comment I promptly stepped up to the microphone and informed the audience, “Mwen pral genyen yon mustache tale” (I will have a mustache soon). The crowd loved it. Perhaps they were merely laughing at the notion of me being able to grow facial hair? Regardless, I’ll take a laugh anyway I can get it.

3) I saw something this week that I never would have imagined possible: a black man wearing a Lynard Skinner t-shirt. While I’m relatively confident that he had no idea what he was wearing, it was unnerving nonetheless.

4) Driving in Haiti is challenging. Now throw into the mix that the word for right is “dwat” and the word for straight is…drum roll please…”dwat.” This has not helped my cause when I am attempting to navigate the Haitian roads and someone blurts out “ale dwat,” (Go right…or is it go straight?).

5) The random t-shirt of the day goes to a man working at the Wall’s Guest House who proudly sported a bright red t-shirt that read, “Welcome to Geezerville: Population: Grumpy.” What made this so wonderful is that the man wearing the shirt was approximately 25 years-old.

6) Today I preached in a church in Delmas. I was asked to talk about family. After giving some initial, practical thoughts on the importance of parents in developing the moral system of their children, as well as demonstrating healthy relationships with their spouse, I moved on to the reading from Matthew 12:46-50. In this text Jesus is told that his mother and brothers would like to speak with him. Jesus responds, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” I don’t believe Jesus was rejecting his biological family. Instead, he was challenging the audience to rethink how they understood the meaning of family. The same question should be posed to us today. Who do we include in our family? Who do we exclude? When Jesus touched lepers, ministered to the disabled, dined with prostitutes and tax collectors, and preached good news to the poor he radically challenged the notions of who was included in God’s family. I believe Jesus answered his own question of what constitutes a family not only through his verbal response (“Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my sister and brother and mother”), but also through his actions. In reaching out to those on the fringes of society Jesus taught us that everyone belongs in God’s family. Our commitments in life should resemble this truth. The quote of the day comes from liberation theologian Javier Torres, “If the hunger of others is not my own, if the anguish of my neighbor in all its form touches me not, if the nakedness of my brother does not torment me, then I have no reason to go to church and to live.”

Friday, November 29, 2008

Today was a day of adventure. We broke the routine of driving to and from work, and took our first road trip outside of Port au Prince into the surrounding countryside. Patrick Villier had invited us to join him on a site visit to Pont Sonde where a new CONASPEH school and clinic is under construction. Anxious to see more of the country, we eagerly accepted.

This morning we sleepily arrived at CONASPEH early sans breakfast or coffee and picked up the group joining us for the road trip. We all piled in the Galloper—our not-so-trusty steed—and headed off on the road leading north. Not to worry. We packed lots of rocks.

I was excited. After starting to feel a little claustrophobic in the city, I was anxious to get out and see the countryside. Even driving to Petionville, it seems the city crawls all along the way, snaking up the mountain; houses and shops lie concentrated along the roadside. But heading north, the city quickly broke away to dusty green hillsides and dry fields. Mountains rose up, shaking the city off its steep slopes. The air cleared.

Our route followed the coastline. The walls of the city fell away and the ocean opened up before us; we are indeed on an island after all. The cool clean blue stretched to meet the horizon; sailboats and fishing canoes bobbed among the waves. The bright turquoise water gave sharp contrast to the dusty brown of the road we traveled. The cool blue seemed to laugh at the hot sun, reflecting its rays off of the crests of waves.


I immediately felt like I could breath again. Mountains, although largely treeless, stood tall and soft, with green brush blanketing their slopes. The ocean offered endless blue space melting into the sky. Clouds lazily floated overhead; a strong breeze rushed in our windows bringing us the earthy smell of the land we traveled. My eyes drank in the open space, both green and blue, glad to leave behind the congestion of the city for a while.

The villages we drove through were simple, yet welcoming. No walls surrounded neighborhoods and houses. Instead, we looked into towns of cinder-block homes painted white and pink and blue. Laundry hung out on lines stretching between the houses, dotting the neighborhood with color. Children ran through alley ways between homes; women cooked over fires, squatting low as they stirred and mashed the hot meal. Markets were filled with fruits, vegetables and live produce; women carried baskets of papaya and mangos atop their heads. Farmers tilled dry fields on foot with hoes and shovels; donkeys hauled heavy loads, lumbering behind men in straw hats.

There is a certain intimacy that comes from driving through the countryside and small towns, looking into the lives of the people living there. Pictures of life passed our window: women busy with household chores, men hauling building supplies or hammering tools, children at play. We passed folks lounging in the shade of coconut trees, kids splashing and playing in the surf, dogs stretched out on a sunny patch of dirt, goats munching roadside vegetation. Screens made of woven palm leaves protected houses from the dust from the road. The barriers seemed softer, tropical, and natural giving the towns a quaint feel. The villages advertised a more tranquil existence. Although poverty pervaded everything, life seemed to proceed more peacefully as evidenced by lack of razor wire and broken bottle-lined walls protecting people from one another.

Our route followed the national Highway north. And what a road it was. Some patches were smooth and well taken-care of, but woe to he who got over-confident in speed, or relaxed too much at the wheel. Crater like pot-holes lurked like booby-traps along the way, some hidden sporadically, others pocked great stretches of road. Often we were forced into driving at a snails pace as we weaved around the shallowest parts of the drop-offs, negotiating with traffic from the other direction. Road crews worked on parts of the road, spreading rock and gravel into cavernous holes. Fine grey dust filled the air, blanketing leaves creating a monotone silvery landscape lining the road. The dust found its way into the car as evidenced by a suddenly dusty watch face and lots of sneezing.

We pulled along side the road for an 8am breakfast from a sidewalk chef. Women stood under lean-tos with big silver pots sitting over hot coals, meat sizzling in oil, plantains frying on pans. Our breakfast was pork and plantains, dressed with a spicy cabbage relish. This was Patrick and my first sidewalk meal, and we knew we gambling with potential gastrointestinal havoc. I assured myself that the pork had likely been well sterilized by the hot oil. The plantains were good and hot as well. The cabbage? Definitely Russian roulette. But the relish was mixed with fire-hot chilies. Eating fried food and flaming hot chilies at 8am is certainly an experience in itself. Each bite set my mouth in flame, and burned all the way down to my newly volcanic stomach. I figured the gastric lava would certainly take care of any bacteria that may have hitched a ride. If not, it was going to be a looooooooooooooooong road trip.

We ate on a little table along the sidewalk; people moved about us as they bought their produce for the day, traffic lumbering by. I felt overwhelmingly happy in that moment. The atmosphere felt alive and exciting, the meal risky but full of fiery flavor. The reality of the adventure we were on seemed to come alive in that moment, and I sat and soaked in the tastes, the smells, the sounds and the activity that rose all around us.

Getting back in the truck, and bouncing along the roads was a bit of a physical challenge. Cold beads of sweat broke out on our foreheads as our stomachs boiled and gurgled; this was the moment of truth. I looked along the roadside and wondered just how awful it would be to get sick along the road. There wasn’t a single tree to hide behind, so my misery would be exposed for all to see. But the GI Gods were in a good mood today. The fire eventually calmed, no fireworks, no urgent dash for the ditch. We’ve cultivated stomachs of steel, and I’ve never been so thankful for them than on a road trip through rural Haiti.


Ponte Sonde was a small village like the rest: houses lay like a puzzle pieces linked neatly together by walkways and roads that twisted in between. Stick fences allowed clear views into yards where women were doing laundry in big buckets, hanging clothes out to dry. Hens and their chicks pecked in the dirt, goats had free range roaming from yard to yard. Half-naked toddlers wandered in the dust, shepherded by their older siblings or neighbors while their mothers worked near by. We watched two blacksmiths hammer out metal hoes, their partner stoking the fires that made the metal malleable.


The new school and clinic building were nearly finished, built with the help of U.S. financial support. We toured the empty spacious rooms delighting in the air that moved through and the light filtering in the windows. Soon children will fill the space with voices and laughter, charging the air with the energy of youth. We met the pastors in charge of the construction and congratulated them on a job well done, discussing the finalization of the construction and the dedication ceremony we’d have in February after the completion of the project.


While walking around the school site nestled in a neighborhood, Patrick and I quickly drew the curiosity of children who huddled whispering and flashing us shy smiles. Maybe they’ll be the students of the school; maybe their futures will hold the promise of education. I hoped so.

Now we are home, weary from a long day on the road, but happy with the liberation that came with a venture out into wide-open spaces. We made it through a trip down the national highway, playing “chicken” with Mac trucks and speeding buses overflowing with travelers and their luggage. We survived our first roadside meal, and lived to tell the tale without any GI consequences (so far). We drank in ocean vistas, banana groves and green mountainous landscapes. We observed life at a slower, quieter pace, breathed air not choked with car exhaust. It has been a fun day, a day that reminds us of the journey we are on and the adventure we’ve subscribed to. A change of scenery was due, and now we go to sleep with new pictures to color our dreams.

Thanksgiving

So much to be thankful for. Today we had eggs for breakfast. And 3 cups of coffee. After a quick stop at CONASPEH to visit briefly with Patrick V., we returned to the guesthouse to enjoy our day off since the weekends are packed with duties.

The fact that it is Thanksgiving is harder to ignore than I had hoped. We initially planned to go to the beach, but our very protective guesthouse manager thought we needed an escort for our first trip there, and we’d have to take our car—a car we don’t fully trust. So lounging by the pool with a book was as beach as we got today.

On days off, we’ve often sunk into a routine of hiding, of hibernating ourselves away from the city as a way to heal, to regroup, to let go. Sometimes with enough music or a good enough book, we can forget for a while where we are. We can slip into a vague sense of normalcy, letting go of the harshness, the poverty, the need that never ceases to exit no matter how tight we squeeze our eyes against it.

I’ve had a hard time shaking the blues today, feeling homesick on a day that traditionally allows homecoming, a little claustrophobic in my current location. On a day when family and friends at home are gathering, I yearn to be with them. Homesickness can blur the reasons why decisions have been made, and I try not to allow myself to question too much, but to instead focus on the beautiful people that make my heart ache because of how amazing they are. I dive deeper into my book hoping I’ll gain a little perspective by end of day, blinking back a few self-pitying tears that sneak to the surface.

The claustrophobia I feel is complex. I yearn to be completely alone, to escape into myself a bit and just let quiet settle. I don’t want to interact, don’t want to be needed. But there is really no place to go without people, without sound, without smoke. I've always needed a little alone time, and in the past its never been an issue. The States offers ample opportunity, if needed, for space. But Haiti is a very different animal.

I realize that a sense of my independence is lost here. And independence fueled so much of my life before Haiti, my accomplishments, my joys, my rejuvenation. The fact I can’t go anywhere alone here is confining, although for the sake of safety. My job might eventually offer a little chance for autonomy, but currently is in the slow building stage as I learn the language so as not to be making decisions by guesswork or to be dependent on the rare translator. Functioning in this culture, especially when we work so hard to be sensitive to the desires of our partner, requires so much letting go of the structures we used to function within effectively, and essentially letting go of independence. We are dependent on CONASPEH's abilities to communicate, dependent on information they share with us, and dependent upon their efforts to keep us safe.

I miss the independence to go for a run when I need some time to work things out, to go for a long walk with the dogs who never were bothered by my need for silence. I miss the feeling of going to work, being productive, being self-sufficient, feeling confident that I did the best I could do. I miss running errands, cooking my own meals, managing my own space, doing my own laundry, being able to jump in the car and drive to the mountains or home on a day or two off when lonesome for the faces of family. I miss being someone people depend on, turn to to talk about their day, confide their worries in. I miss feeling strong and sure, capable.

I miss the freedom of a deep inhalation of breath that smells fresh and clean and rejuvenating. I miss complete silence. Even in the darkest of night, Haiti is full of noise: cats screeching, dogs barking, cars honking, the chattering of the night watchman, the incessant Titantic Water truck. I miss the idea that anything is possible. Haiti can rob you of that a little when you dare to take in the country in its entirety instead of focusing on the possibility of your efforts on individual lives. I make that mistake too often.

My heart is heavy today. I imagine my family at Chris and Candy’s house, being entertained by the ever-energetic Conor, patting Candy’s pregnant belly. Chris and Dad are probably shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen, tongues at the corner of their mouths working on one specialty dish or another, teasing each other. I imagine the laughter, the stories, the simple pleasure of togetherness and I want to be there with every part of my being.

When I feel low, I question wheter it’s worth it. I’m not sure I’m the girl for the job, or that what we give up will be counteracted by what we give. I don’t feel at all like the selfless missionary I strive to be.

And my own self-pity disgusts me when I’m surrounded by problems so much greater my whiny needs. If only there was somewhere I could go to get it all out, to scream and stomp, cry and run and re-emerge stronger. Maybe these moments of saddness are not that different, moments of questioning capability the same I had in more famliar settings. I just haven't found the avenue to process, haven't adapted full. Instead I write, hoping to make sense out of raw emotions with words, with reflection, with communication... hoping that putting my ache and frustration on a page will pull them from my head and heart and leave me cleaner, fresher, with a brighter perspective.

So I focus on thankfulness that I have so many people to miss. I meditate that my love for them would fill me up completely, erasing the ache in my heart. I meditate on my belief in working in the areas of greatest need that may tower over feelings of inadequacy and fear. I mediate that my fascination in learning about other cultures will shrink my own longing for all things familiar, for my freedom to move, for my American independence.

Most days I’m better, see hope, see posibility, see the adventure of it all. Today is a hard day. So I turn up the music louder. I pray for a good internet connection tonight that will allow some Skyping with people I wish I were hugging instead. I pray for courage that seems to eb and flo here changing on a dime.

And on a day dedicated to giving thanks, I take tally on my enormous blessings in life. I am thankful for health, for strength, for adaptability. I am thankful for a bed and a soft pillow to sleep on every night. I am thankful for consistent access to food that fuels our bodies, enabling them to go out and fight another day. I am thankful for a day off, the ability to write, the internet connection that connects me to you. I am thankful for being loved, for loving, for having family and friends that I adore beyond measure. I am thankful for physical safety. And I am thankful for this ever evolving quest that takes me through the depths of who I am, forces me to struggle and the opportunity to reach out in love.

I’m so thankful for my husband, who is patient when I can’t muster much strength in a moment. He loved me first as an independent woman, and seems to understand a little of the loss I feel. He continues to be sensitive to my frustrations, my need for quiet time, for some pretend play at being alone. I have no misconceptions that I could be here a day longer without him, which deepens my dependence on him to a level I’m still working on getting comfortable with. But he takes it all in with such sensitivity, with good humor, with complete love. He allows me to work things out, and with him, I know I’ll figure things out for myself eventually… given a little time to mature into our current place of existence.

I don’t share these things to illicit sympathy, or your own frustration at why we don’t just come home. I guess I share because I want you to know how much I love and miss you. How there is a part of me that will never be whole without limitless access to you. And holidays, I suppose, will always be torturous if not spent with you. It’s the very real ramification of our decision to come here, and I never deluded myself to think it would ever be easy. I just want you to know that I love you, and that I miss you so much, you who my dependence upon gives me confidence, wings to fly. I miss laughing together, hugging, sitting in the same space. I’m thankful for having such people to miss, such relationships to yearn for when they aren’t immediately accessible.

So on this day of thanksgiving, I’m focusing on images of your faces, conjuring up images of you moving within familiar traditions, in places I love. I’ll close my eyes and be with you with everything my mind can allow. Thank you for loving me, even when I’m not at my best. I love you.

Wed, November 26, 2008

Finances have never been my favorite part of life. I still dream about a resurrection of the barter system. But living in the real world, we have to TCB (take care of business). Today was a TCB day. Biggest item on the list was to open a Haitian bank account. I was hoping to avoid such craziness, but was told that there were certain bills that could only be paid through a local bank, and that cash was much more easily accessed if done so within the country. Sigh.

So we drove up the hill in search of Unibank, one of Haiti’s prominent financial establishments, showing up in almost every neighborhood. Although the general consensus was that everyone in the bank would speak English (so no need to worry), we met a quite different circumstance. French doesn’t at all sound like English.

We waited in line with our little number drawn, dread mounting that we’d be signing over money to a mysterious account we didn’t understand. And I’m not sure in this very moment that we didn’t. We were eventually assisted by a very nice, but very French speaking woman. We begged at least for Creole, and then mustered through one of the most painful sessions of language banging, dictionary shuffling we’ve had thus far. The banker was lovely, though. She spoke slowly, repeated herself as many times as was necessary, pointed and encouraged our feeble attempts at communicating. Papers were filled out, we signed on the line. Apparently she extracted what she needed, although I’m not sure how. We left with a receipt, and a vague idea that we might be able to do most business online as well (oh happy news). Tonight, in addition to two “welcome to the bank” messages in my inbox written completely in French (at least I THINK they were welcoming), there was one gloriously lovely message in English assuring us of our successful attempts at establishing an account and our ability to access it on line. VICTORY! It may seem like a little thing, not worthy of a blog, but when navigating in a foreign culture barely able to understand the language, successfully setting up a checking account is a big deal. ☺ So celebrate with me!

The rest of our TCB day was spent buying office supplies for CONASPEH, a basketball for the school from a street vendor who hustled us out of more money the used ball was worth, and retrieving my now fully functional cell phone. Good day. We also picked up mail that arrived approximately 15-20 days after being sent from the States. Big TCB day for the Bentrotts. This is also a point of celebration because usually you can only squeeze one or two errands in a day in given the pace of the city and the office hours held.

We think of you tonight with smiles, imagining you all gathering together with friends and family, cooking family holiday favorites, and celebrating in an air of thankfulness for all that is good and plentiful in your lives. We’ll miss sitting around the table with you, but send our spirit in fellowship with you. May you use the blessings of your life to make your corner of the world a more beautiful place, may your work be fulfilling. May you be surrounded by people you love, and may you ever remember to be grateful for life, for breath, for friend and family, for food on the table and a time to share. Every day should be a day of thanksgiving. We send our own thanks to you. Happy Holidays.

Tuesday November 25, 2008

Rain slaps the pavement outside our window; leaves rustle while being washed in the evening storm. Patrick sits beside me reading. A fan circulates the humid air around the room allowing the smell of rain to wash over us.

Today we had another meeting with the CONASPEH board to discuss the upcoming National Congress in February, the march for equality planned, and the continued Emergency Relief efforts following the devastation of the hurricanes. CONASPEH has been reaching out to communities and member congregations in Gonieve and Jakmel, two areas hard hit and suffering from lack of food and clean water. A pastor from the southern coast of the country reported that in his community, 30 children have died of starvation since the storms. He personalized this statistic with a story. He spoke of a member of his church, a mother of 6 children with no resources, no education, and no family support. Two of her children have died since the storms. She recently sold two others for 8 Haitian dollars each ($1 U.S.). Unable to feed her four remaining children, she had to take the only hope she had that maybe someone else could.

There is a name for a type of crime that happens in Haiti: Restavec. Some people, usually with more means than their neighbors, buy children under the false promise of taking them to a better place, feeding them, educating them, offering them opportunities that the impoverished families can’t afford. Families, desperate for any thread of hope for their children, are forced to take a chance. Often, however, the best intention of the child is not the true motivation of the “buyer.” Children are often made into domestic workers, thrown out on the street to fend for themselves, or worse, sold into the sex-trade industry. I don’t know what the motivations were behind the buyer of that woman’s children, but I am sickened by the possibilities. I think of her, what state she must be in, what madness must be taking over as she stands in the wake of such incredible loss, such desperate decisions, and such utter hopelessness.

CONASPEH has been sending money and food to the areas struggling to recover from the storms, the areas trying to get through the days as they pick up the pieces of their lives. Their interventions attempt to cushion the ache of desperate hunger after the storms washed away the food supply. Today we discussed a plan to buy and ship not only food for relief, but seeds for planting: rice, beans, and corn. The short-term food relief hopes to buy people a few more weeks, the seeds offer a chance for sustainable nutrition, hope for the future.

Today Patrick had his first theological class in the seminary: old testament. Nervous about how he’d be received, how his relatively liberal biblical training would translate to students used to conservative theology. He had a translator who seemed to enjoy the class as much as he did helping Patrick out. Patrick urged the students to engage, to discuss, to share their thoughts and ideas on some of the teaching points he brought up. As most class structure has the teacher lecturing while writing on the board, and the students taking notes and echoing when prompted, Patrick’s approach shook things up a bit. And the students responded with enthusiasm. Questions were posed, and discussion took off. Patrick came home this evening bursting with relief and pleasure in the interaction. The students liked him so much that they asked him to be their new testament teacher as well.

It is hard to gauge how you’ll be perceived in a new society, a new culture. The Haitian culture is one we find particularly hard to read. And we are biased by our training, our own culture, our experiences. We are humbled to be in a place as teachers, still wondering how qualified we are to lead people we are just barely getting to know. But tonight Patrick was validated, and he enjoyed his first of many theological discussions and lectures to come. We tread gently in foreign territory, desiring to meld our own ideas with ones well rooted in the community. We hope in the mix, something beautiful will happen. Tonight Patrick had a class, a group of colleagues and students excited about discussing theology and the history of one of the world’s great religions. A good day for Patrick.

So tonight as the rain drowns out the sounds of the city, singing its rhythmic songs lulling us to sleep, we think of not only the life but also the death that such waters have brought this country. We pray for the people who are putting their lives back together, pray for those facing absurd decisions and endless grief. We pray that these waters heal where they have hurt, bring life back to the dead land, wash away the dirt and the dust and the trash and allow life to bloom once again. We pray that we all can be fertilizer for the soil of renewal, reaching out our hands and encouraging the struggle towards the sun, so that one day we all may celebrate in a new harvest together.

Monday November 24, 2008

Life continues to evolve and teach. Today I felt like I had a breakthrough, and yet at the end of the day was reminded of all the suffering that happens while we work on projects, sweat over details, hold meetings and carry on about our day terribly bothered by all the things we need to do.

Today, work was refreshing. After clinic started with a patient who reported that she can’t stop eating charcoal, the day gradually got better. We closed clinic early for a meeting with Patrick Villier and the CONASPEH board. I was given the opportunity to discuss feedback from the last 3 weeks of clinic including my concerns, the possibilities of future services, a proposal for public health teaching in a variety of settings and my need for orientation to the various health care providers and community health programs available in the country and in the community. Although my list of things to talk about was long, the board listened patiently. Not only did all seem responsive to my concerns, but excited about my proposals. I was elated. Suddenly I felt like I had a plan, an outline, a systematic approach to addressing the health care needs of our little community. Sharing my hopes and concerns felt wonderful as they were received with understanding. I left work today on a cloud, feeling like after a month of getting thrown in, I was getting a chance to get back on my feet. Happiness.

I also had a lovely meeting with the director of the nursing school who seems like she’ll be wonderful to work with. We came up with a plan to review the curriculum, work learning labs into the schedule, plan clinical site evaluations, and offer teacher in-services utilizing visiting groups.

In short, I plan to take the next month or so visiting local clinics, hospitals, laboratories and pharmacies to do research on services provided, cost of care, and potential for networking and referral. We’ll limit the clinic to urgent cases only while I focus on my language and tropical medicine studies, and prepare lecture topics for the radio show and for a health-education class. I have projects I’m excited to get underway with the school, nursing school and with public health teaching. There is so much to do, but it feels great to have a plan!

Patrick continued his English classes today, and is noticing subtle progress. The board also approved him to have a school basketball team. Not only that, but they want him to organize basketball games amongst the churches. Wow. Big project proposed. Now Patrick has to figure out what to do with the 80 kids who signed up to play B-ball and the ½ court basketball court they have to play on. Hmmm. A coach’s nightmare. ☺

Driving home tonight, we were met by familiar faces on our turn to the guesthouse.
The street children are a part of Haiti that will sneak up on you and make you uncomfortable. At any major street or intersection, children swarm our car, sometimes running along side, polishing it with a rag, pointing to their stomach and then to their mouth saying, “Mwen grangou” (I’m hungry). They are hot and sweaty, dirty, and persistent in their begging; I do not doubt they are hungry. Told early on not to give money, Patrick and I constantly struggle with how to provide a loving presence in our daily interactions with these kids struggling for survival on the streets of Port-au-Prince. The children on our turn homeward have long become accustomed to our car. These days they smile and wave, hollering our names with mischievous grins. The only thing we’ve given them is a smile and occasionally a bit of conversation at an extra long light, asking their names and how they are today: mere blinks of interaction. But they seem amused.

The homeless kids run in groups, supporting each other by pooling their resources. Tonight we met a volunteer who works at an orphanage for street children; he spoke of some of the lives of the children he’s met and the horrible situations they have to endure. Often leaders of his relief organization go to cemeteries in the evening, looking for children hiding there. Cemeteries are one of the places where the kids of the street camp at night, away from the public and the street. They sleep on the gravesites, and hide amongst the stone crosses. Other children are rescued from brothels, from abusive homes, from abandonment due to disease. The orphanage serves both as emergency relief, home of nurturing, and avenue for placement. Some of the kids they take in are in their last days of life, their environment robbing them of the rest of their lives. I was struck how close these kids dance with death; sleeping in cemeteries, running from abusers, struggling with starvation and disease. Makes you want to celebrate the ones who find ways to survive despite the mountainous odds.

Listening to the stories the volunteer told, the abuses suffered, the survival tactics of these tuff children, I couldn’t help but think of our acquaintances on the corner. They smile so easily, humoring us even though we do little for them. Their smiles always cheer me up, make me feel happy for the little familiars that are emerging in the community we are becoming accustomed to. But a lot is hidden behind those smiles, more suffering than hunger and homelessness. Even when we are looking them straight in the face, its amazing how quickly we forget what their lives must be like, fail to consider. Tonight I heard, I considered. I allowed the shock of the stories to sink in, but can’t help honoring the fact that the children still smile at us despite it all.

I thought of the kids of CONASPEH, certainly in need of a lot of things, but lucky to have a school to come to, friends to laugh with, at least one meal a day, and from what I can tell, families who love them. Even though food is scarce and their homes barely sufficient, they have a network, hope for the future. And that’s a blessing.

So a mixed-emotion day—typical for Haiti. Little victories in the face of enormous need. I’m thankful for all the different ways people everywhere are working to meet various needs in different pockets of this country. We learn from each other in sharing. We all do the best we can in whatever place we find ourselves. We work with the need of the moment, hoping to find a way to bring hope, change, progress and peace using the skills we have, the opportunities we are blessed with, and faith that somewhere along the journey our presence will make a difference.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Rain slaps the pavement outside our window; leaves rustle while being washed in the evening storm. Patrick sits beside me reading. A fan circulates the humid air around the room allowing the smell of rain to wash over us.

Today we had another meeting with the CONASPEH board to discuss the upcoming National Congress in February, the march for equality planned, and the continued Emergency Relief efforts following the devastation of the hurricanes. CONASPEH has been reaching out to communities and member congregations in Gonieve and Jakmel, two areas hard hit and suffering from lack of food and clean water. A pastor from the southern coast of the country reported that in his community, 30 children have died of starvation since the storms. He personalized this statistic with a story. He spoke of a member of his church, a mother of 6 children with no resources, no education, and no family support. Two of her children have died since the storms. She recently sold two others for 8 Haitian dollars each ($1 U.S.). Unable to feed her four remaining children, she had to take the only hope she had that maybe someone else could.

There is a name for a type of crime that happens in Haiti: Restavec. Some people, usually with more means than their neighbors, buy children under the false promise of taking them to a better place, feeding them, educating them, offering them opportunities that the impoverished families can’t afford. Families, desperate for any thread of hope for their children, are forced to take a chance. Often, however, the best intention of the child is not the true motivation of the “buyer.” Children are often made into domestic workers, thrown out on the street to fend for themselves, or worse, sold into the sex-trade industry. I don’t know what the motivations were behind the buyer of that woman’s children, but I am sickened by the possibilities. I think of her, what state she must be in, what madness must be taking over as she stands in the wake of such incredible loss, such desperate decisions, and such utter hopelessness.

CONASPEH has been sending money and food to the areas struggling to recover from the storms, the areas trying to get through the days as they pick up the pieces of their lives. Their interventions attempt to cushion the ache of desperate hunger after the storms washed away the food supply. Today we discussed a plan to buy and ship not only food for relief, but seeds for planting: rice, beans, and corn. The short-term food relief hopes to buy people a few more weeks, the seeds offer a chance for sustainable nutrition, hope for the future.

Today Patrick had his first theological class in the seminary: old testament. Nervous about how he’d be received, how his relatively liberal biblical training would translate to students used to conservative theology. He had a translator who seemed to enjoy the class as much as he did helping Patrick out. Patrick urged the students to engage, to discuss, to share their thoughts and ideas on some of the teaching points he brought up. As most class structure has the teacher lecturing while writing on the board, and the students taking notes and echoing when prompted, Patrick’s approach shook things up a bit. And the students responded with enthusiasm. Questions were posed, and discussion took off. Patrick came home this evening bursting with relief and pleasure in the interaction. The students liked him so much that they asked him to be their new testament teacher as well.

It is hard to gauge how you’ll be perceived in a new society, a new culture. The Haitian culture is one we find particularly hard to read. And we are biased by our training, our own culture, our experiences. We are humbled to be in a place as teachers, still wondering how qualified we are to lead people we are just barely getting to know. But tonight Patrick was validated, and he enjoyed his first of many theological discussions and lectures to come. We tread gently in foreign territory, desiring to meld our own ideas with ones well rooted in the community. We hope in the mix, something beautiful will happen. Tonight Patrick had a class, a group of colleagues and students excited about discussing theology and the history of one of the world’s great religions. A good day for Patrick.

So tonight as the rain drowns out the sounds of the city, singing its rhythmic songs lulling us to sleep, we think of not only the life but also the death that such waters have brought this country. We pray for the people who are putting their lives back together, pray for those facing absurd decisions and endless grief. We pray that these waters heal where they have hurt, bring life back to the dead land, wash away the dirt and the dust and the trash and allow life to bloom once again. We pray that we all can be fertilizer for the soil of renewal, reaching out our hands and encouraging the struggle towards the sun, so that one day we all may celebrate in a new harvest together.

Patrick's Musings #4

1) Like many things in Haiti, our cell phones don’t work too well. Kim’s phone completely tanked yesterday so we made a trip to Digicel, the telecommunications giant of Hispaniola. After entering the store, Kim masterfully explained in Creole to the woman working behind the desk that her phone didn’t work. “Li pa travay,” Kim told her (It doesn’t work). The woman looked the phone over and then proceeded to remove the battery and lick it like a tootsie pop. She then grabbed two wires coming out of the ground, both of which had exposed endings, and she licked them as well before sticking the wires into the battery. While managing to avoid a premature death, the Digicel woman was not able to resuscitate the phone battery. However, instead of merely having the battery replaced with a new one and riding into the sunset with a problem quickly fixed, we instead were told that we needed some random papers that we had been given at the time of our purchase in order to get a new battery. So Kim and I drove back to our current residence, found the papers, and then quickly returned to the store, which is only two minutes away. In what can only be described as a “Haiti moment” we walked to the Digicel entrance to find that it had closed for the day. Of course it had. It was 3:12pm after all.

2) Currently I am weighing in at 155 lbs. This is 15 lbs less than my pre-Haiti fighting weight of 170 lb due to a drawn-out bout with the Haitian plague. Couple my weight loss with a few hungry mosquitoes that managed to sneak inside my shirt at night, and I am presently looking an awful lot like an 11 year-old with chicken pox. Who said you can’t relive your childhood?

3) Today I saw a tap-tap sporting a “Dole-Kemp” bumper sticker. What a dream team. Many of you are aware of my affinity for Bob Dole. Even though he is a Republican, there is something about him that I’ve always found charming. Perhaps it is because of his courage in advocating for the wonder drug Viagra? Maybe it’s the way he speaks in the third person, “If Bob Dole were President, Bob Dole would cut taxes because that’s what Bob Dole believes in.” Perhaps it is because he is from Kansas, a state that is near and dear to my heart not only because it invented the tooth brush, but also because my wife comes from there. Regardless, thank you tap-tap driver for keeping the dream of a Dole-Kemp White House alive and well in Haiti.

4) While teaching English to a group of teenagers the other day, I was asked the question that has been weighing on the minds of many people around the world: Why did America make Michael Jackson become white? I quickly went into a rant about how no one made the moon walking icon change his appearance, but instead that he had internalized racism to such a degree that he consciously or unconsciously was trying to become white. I explained to the attentive teenagers that believing that one is inferior because of their race is sometimes a product of racism, but that they should be proud to be black and from Haiti. They were very excited about this and they cheered loudly in a moment of Haitian pride. Later I would learn that Michael Jackson has a skin disease and that my diagnosis was probably inaccurate. It was still a good teaching moment.

5) The random t-shirt of the day goes to a man who was proudly wearing a Guilford College t-shirt today. Guilford College is a small Quaker liberal arts school located in Greensboro, North Carolina. I once made an overnight trip to Guilford when I was looking at schools to transfer to after my year working with the homeless in Washington, D.C. Ultimately I decided to finish up school in Chicago at Elmhurst College, but I thought very highly of Guilford. So here’s to the Quakers and their commitment to peace and justice. Here’s to Guilford College and our random t-shirt of the day.

6) I gave my first sermon in Haiti this past Sunday. It was difficult to gage how well it was received. There were plenty of “Amens” and a few nods of the head. However, due to my poor Kreyol, I was unable to engage in much post-sermon conversation with the congregation. I preached on Isaiah 49:13-16 and John 10: 7-10. My message from Isaiah was that God is present at all times, including during times of suffering (v 13 “For the Lord has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones.”) God remembers Her children like a mother remembers her nursing child (v. 15) and God has the names of all of Her children “inscribed on the palms of my hands” (v. 16). These passages from Isaiah were written about the Babylonian conquest when Jerusalem had been destroyed and many Israelites had been taken from their homeland and forced to live as slaves in Babylon. It was a time when the people cried out to God and asked if God had forgotten them (v. 14). I tried to very sensitively make comparisons between the questioning, suffering Israelites and the people of Haiti today. I just wanted to affirm that God is present and always loving His children even amidst the hardships and suffering that exist in places like Haiti. From the Gospel of John I focused specifically on John 10:10, “I have come that they may have life and have it in abundance.” I asserted that Jesus came not only for our eternal life, which is the primary message of most Protestant theology in Haiti, including the Pentecostal church I preached in, but also so that we may have a good life on earth. He taught us how to love, to give, and how to be in community. The God Jesus revealed is a God of life that desires fullness of life for all people. The people of Haiti have all too often been denied access to an abundant life and I wanted them to know that I didn’t believe this was God’s will. My guess is that most of them disagreed with this statement because the conservative Christianity of Haiti teaches that everything is God’s will, even the abject poverty that most Haitians live in. Regardless, I told them that I believed that we could make the love of God even more present if we looked out for one another and tried to help those around us like Jesus did in his time. I am not sharing this message because I think it is incredibly brilliant or because I believe that you should all ponder how profound it is. Instead, I want to dialogue not just with the people of Haiti, but with my friends and family back in the States as well. I find the task of doing theology with and to the people of Haiti very humbling and I feel a little overwhelmed at times. So consider this an invitation to comment, critique, and engage in anything theological as pertains to Haiti. With that the quote of the day comes from my personal hero, the martyred Archbishop of El Salvador, Oscar Romero. “Let us not be disheartened, even when the horizon of history grows dim and closes in, as though human realities made impossible the accomplishment of God’s plans. God makes use even of human errors, even of human sins, so as to make rise over the darkness what Isaiah spoke about. One day the prophets will sing not only the return from Babylon but our full liberation. ‘The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. They walk in lands of shadows, but a light has shined forth.’”

Sunday, November 23, 2008

A good weekend has been had. It started with a happy rush of relief when I awoke Saturday morning to find my hand had returned to normal size and color. Earlier in the week I was stung on the finger while trying to remove some sort of monstrous tropical insect from my neck. I don’t know what it looked like, but it was a hand full. And it had the last word. The sting smarted fierce, but I was incredibly brave and just shook my hand like a Polaroid picture. Over the following days, my middle finger puffed up to the size of an Oscar Meyer Wiener. In my best “doctor treat thyself” efforts, I simply observed the ever-enlarging monstrosity. Fairly confident that the disfigurement was due to allergic reaction and not infection, I tried not to worry, swinging my appendage this way and that, knocking over small objects in its path. Patrick thought likely we’d have to amputate and, “then you won’t be able to drive stick shift.” Just when I was beginning to believe I would be elephant finger for the rest of my life, or that some nest of tropical insects babies were brooding in my digit, my finger returned to the ranks of the normal. Yippee! This calls for a celebration. I just might have to hit the swing set!

Yesterday we spent half the day at CONASPEH. On Saturdays, Patrick teaches in the seminary. Currently he is only teaching English, but will eventually add theological classes as well. He enjoys working with the seminary students who are mostly adults, eager to learn, and very affirming. I enjoy sitting in my office, researching something new in tropical medicine and/or sounding out Creole words and listening to Patrick’s voice happily bounce off the cement walls, the class answering back in echo.

Today, after a breakfast of eggs and mangos and a strong-coffee wake-me-up, Patrick and I ventured up the mountain to Petionville where we met a pastor whose church we were visiting.

The church teetered on a hill, rising to the sky. The foundation was relatively new, the walls painted bright white and pink. Silk flowers decorated the windows and the alter; fans stirred the air. We arrived during a bible lesson; a pastor was passionately teaching about a chapter in the Bible to a patient audience who listened quietly. We were provided an excellent translator; Pedro had grown up since an infant with American missionaries—his parents near by--so had learned English from his earliest days. He enlightened us about the words to songs, subject of teaching and preaching, and the church service was illuminated in understanding.

The service meandered through the morning. Our favorite part is always the music. The congregation rose up in song, singing tunes so familiar for them that no sheet music, no hymnal, were necessary. The church band graciously did not attempt to overplay the voices, and instead inspired the rhythm and pace. The music moved to a Caribbean beat, and we had a hard time standing still. I think it was obvious we were enjoying ourselves; I received big grins from several of the women on the front row. Either they were happy we were happy, or they were laughing at two white kids groovin’ to the music.

Today was Patrick’s first sermon. He had fretted about it for most of the week. Although well versed at speaking in front of groups in the States, he has always spoken about the poor to the people of America. This was his first sermon TO the poor. And being a humble soul, he wasn’t sure what he could offer them, for ultimately he is in Haiti to listen. But he delivered a beautiful message.

Patrick stood up with the translator. He introduced himself to the congregation in Creole, describing his and my joy in the opportunity to work with them, to learn from them, to worship with them. I didn’t even know he had those phrases in his brain! I need to study! He is passing me up quickly! He then began his sermon in English with help of translation from our new friend. His message was simple and beautiful. He spoke of God’s presence in all times, in celebration and in suffering. He discussed his understanding of God's desire for justice and abundance for all people. He spoke in short sentences, mostly to accommodate the translator. The congregation listened, they smiled, and he won a lot of “Amens--” a clear statement of approval. I was beaming.

After church, the pastor invited us to his home where his wife of 45 years greeted us, as did his 2 sons, his daughter and his granddaughter. The home was simple, painted a strong pink, and well kept. Sodas and sandwiches were offered to us for lunch. We soon found out that they had lost one of their children only days before, a 31-year-old woman and mother of their granddaughter who lost a struggle to a mysterious illness. The shock of the fact that just days before they had been through a funeral, yet they were extending themselves with cheerful hospitality was staggering. The granddaughter—who days before had lost her mother—shook our hand warmly, and accepted our condolences with a smile.

At the end of an afternoon spent sitting in their living room, sipping soda and eating spicy mayonnaise sandwiches, the family presented us with a gift. We weren’t sure why. I mean Patrick’s sermon was good and all, but gift-worthy? They gave us a large Haitian painting of a rural village scene. We didn’t know what to say. I kept thinking, “they must have confused us with someone really important.” Their hospitality was overwhelming and left us feeling a little uncomfortable.

We ended the day at the radio show, staying distant from the microphone because our translator didn’t show. Of course the ever-challenging Pastor Guy kept asking us questions. Patrick made a brave attempt at an answer to a question he partially understood, but the fatigue of the long day at church got the best of him. So we refrained from any further on-air torture, and just kindly listened, picking up a word or two in each sentence, full comprehension evading us.

Now we collapse into bed, too tired to tackle Creole. We have a busy week ahead and are looking forward to a rejuvenating sleep. The hum of the fan drowns out the noise on the street. Eyelids are heavy and dreams are just around the corner. Sweet dreams my friends. We’ll chat again soon.

Friday, November 21, 2008

We just wandered down from another evening spent on the roof. The night sky was clear, stars winking at us from their perch in the dark sky. The velvety air kissed our skin as we sat and talked about the events of the week. It was a good week, one filled with new faces and fresh experiences, revived perspective and renewed insight. Sharing experiences is a beautiful gift, and one that we revel in. I'm lucky to have a husband who wants to share this experience with me minute by minute, day in and day out. Nighttime is a good time to rehash, to let go, to laugh easily under a blanket of midnight blue sprinkled with points of light.

Patrick took a mysterious leave from work in the afternoon. Tonight he surprised me with our first piece of Haitian art work, a design created out of pounded metal, some of my favorite art here. He picked a piece that brought me instantly to tears. If Haiti can remind me of home, this artist did so. Patrick picked a scene of a sunflower field... sunflowers as tall as the humans... birds flying among the plants. A couple is walking towards each other between the sunflowers, the woman's braids blowing in the wind.. a wind strong enough that it could be from Kansas. The whole pictures is a reflection of what I love about home: the sunflowers, the wind, the meadowlarks. As tears streamed down my face, I recognized how homesick I've become, missing the familiar, the safe, the easy of being in a place that every molecule of your body and soul knows.

It is good to go away from home, because you love home more than you thought possible. No matter how long we stay in Haiti, I'll be a Kansas country girl through and through. I"ll love nature, green earth, the night sky and fresh breezes that stir my soul and bring me closer to the Spirit that pervades every place.

We leave not to turn our backs on the place we come from, but to understand the world better. We leave and fall in love with our beginnings in new ways. We seek new lands to expand our horizons, but always, we are rooted in the place we were born, made strong by the nurturing of our youth, grounded in ever-reaching image of home.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

I hate that nightmares linger long after the alarm clock goes off. I don’t remember my dream; I only remember my heart pounding in fear that accompanied my waking from sleep.

A morning cup of hot coffee did little to calm my nerves. Today was our day to head to Karfou, to work in the clinic while a group taught in a seminary nearby. My last experience there had left me completely exasperated, feeling like I had just taken part in an exercise in futility. Instead of health, I felt I had delivered false hope to people who had lined up outside the clinic waiting for hours for the doctor of the day who could offer little else than a hand on the shoulder and a smile. Communication had been painful; the translator spoke about as much English as I spoke Creole. Yet the need was great. I was expecting to walk into another powerless situation, and my morning mantra of “love first” was not breaking through the dread.

Most of the group piled into the van for Karfou. Some stayed back to teach at CONASPEH. Nestled in the back of the van, we took the bumpy, curvy, traffic-filled ride to Karfou. The route took us by some of the poorest, most desperate places in Port-Au-Prince. The cinder block neighborhood that surrounds CONASPEH looks rich in the face of the tin lean-tos and trash of the villages we passed. Waterways were clogged with garbage, the air stunk of rotting fish and smoke. People bustled about through it all, living amidst conditions that left me feeling tired and incredibly sad. Sad for the earth, heartbroken for the suffering, helpless in the vastness of need. Suddenly it all became too much. The line of patients I was about to see without any medicines or diagnostics to give them for free, the desperate situation they lived in rose up around me and choked my hope. Tears fell. Maybe it was the presence of a new little community that allowed my barriers to fall, but the pain found its way to the surface. And as arms wrapped around me in comfort, in shared witness of such conditions of life, I wept.

On some level I was embarrassed. I was supposed to be a leader in the trip, inspiring courage and hope in the face of such devastation. Instead, visitors, new friends were reaching out to comfort me. Why isn’t my courage more substantial? The injustice should empower me, should motivate me instead of making me feel weak. But its hard to look the inhumanity of some life situations in the face; its hard to see suffering spelled out in black and white. And sometimes you have to let the pain out in order to allow the courage in.

The clinic day at Karfou turned out to be a gratifying experience. My translator was a gem; he spoke beautiful English and handled the sensitivity of the questions I posed with maturity well beyond his years. His easy smile and warm spirit made all in the room feel at ease. My first patient of the day I had seen on my last visit. She came back to tell me the medicines had curried her diarrhea and stomach cramps, and that she hoped I could give her more wonderful medicines so that she could feel even stronger. I smiled. My first follow-up. I wanted to hug her.

The rest of the day chugged along smoothly. The gift of clear communication made all the difference in the world. I still couldn’t give the patients all the services they needed, but I was able to educate, to explain my thoughts, to teach about prevention and to let them understand I cared about their well being. Through a superb translator, I was able to convince a very sick pregnant woman accompanied by her husband to go directly to the hospital for diagnoses of the infection that was leaving her staggering in pain. And they went. I was able to point out the list of priorities on suggestions for work-up and treatment so that if the patient had money, they could spend it on the resource that would help them the most.

A woman came to me complaining of gas. She had a huge abdominal mass concerning for ovarian cancer. A man came complaining of a shock in his leg that started the day he got married. Headaches were explained by high blood pressures, and I felt confident enough in my ability to teach to prescribe some medications. Although I’m not sure I saved any more lives than before, at least I was able to communicate, able to love. I was able to care for people, validate their complaints, show my interest in their welfare. Even in the states, we battle with hopeless situations—having to look patients in the eye that can’t afford interventions needed to better their health. But we could be there with them, hold their hand, let them know that they weren’t alone. Today, I felt like I could be that presence. And today eyes met mine in understanding. It was a great day.

There is no substitute for good communication. Sometimes body language is all its takes. But the longer I’m here, the more I am thankful for the gift of communication. It allows us to be heard, to listen, to reach out and make connections.

We all left Karfou feeling tired. I nurtured the little butterfly of hope that I could be a loving presence in this place, even if I couldn’t change its situation.

Tonight the group came together one last time. Feedback was given on the experience. Some tears were shed, thoughts revealed, laughter shared. Members of the group reflected on meaningful moments over the last few days. One spoke of watching the children eat lunch in the school. He was surprised at how slowly the children ate each bite, as if savoring each swallow. Knowing that it could certainly be their only meal, he was taken by their restraint, their appreciation of the valuable food. Another spoke of a connection she made with a stranger without language or shared experience. She was moved by the recognition of humanity in each other. Another shared her experience during teaching. She had shared a personal story of a struggle. And the students got it, they responded, they understood. A connection happened in the classroom.

Looking around the faces of our new friends, admiring their motivation to do what they could, their willingness to open their hearts moved me. Toward the end of our sharing, Patrick and Kelly offered a prayer and a communion. Patrick offered an interpretation of communion fitting for our little gathering. He said that communion was a reminder that Jesus died because of who he chose to eat with. His death came about as a political retribution for his preaching against powers of force and oppression, discrimination and greed. He ate with tax collectors and prostitutes, lepers and foreigners in order to challenge the establishment, love unconditionally, give hope to all people. And in our communion tonight, we were reminded of Jesus’ challenge to break bread with all people, both loved and scorned, both liberated and oppressed, both rich and poor. I appreciated my husbands’ interpretation. His theology is steeped in justice, and is so pertinent when living in a place like Haiti.

The rest of the night, we toasted to hope, told jokes, and shared stores. I crawl in bed happy for this much needed fellowship with new friends that has brought renewed perspective and a fresh sense of community to our days. I’ll miss them when they leave, but am glad for the friendships we trust in, that sustain us and allow us to do our work in the spirit of love.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Morning came early today, thoughts ushering me into consciousness. The voice of a woman who works here danced in our window as she sung to herself during her early morning chores. A water truck from the street added its own ice-cream-truck-like music to her singing; today a second tune drifted through the morning air. “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” sounded out of place while I lay on the bed in the early morning heat. I thought Halmark was the only one to get Christmas going before Thanksgiving. Not so. Not only have the water trucks picked up the holiday forewarning, but a few wooden Christmas trees and plastic Santas can now be found peddled by street vendors.

Today is a Haitian holiday celebrating the Battle of Vertieres, the last major battle fought in the second war for Haitian independence. The day is celebrated as the Day of Army and Victory for Haiti. We found out it was a holiday after an announcement that no school was to be held today. Hmmm. Change of plans. Se la vi. No big fireworks, no parades. Just a vacation day for students and a few shop keepers. Other than that, it was business as usually on the busy Port-Au-Prince streets.

With a suddenly free morning before us, the group commissioned the guest house to take us on a drive outside of the city to see some different landscapes of Haiti. The guest house van, not suited for the rough riding planned, was replaced by a green four-wheel drive pick up truck as the mode of travel. The truck bed was wrapped with a tall iron cage and benches that ran along each side. Not too different from a tap-tap, the green machine inspired a little trepidation in all of us who filed into the back. Not entirely convinced that we wouldn't be bounced right out of the back of the truck, we braced ourselves for an adventure ahead.


The truck took us up the mountain towards Petionville, the open air ride offering a unique perspective of the mountainous surroundings. Although initially each bump and quick stop allowed a few screeches to escape from clenched jaws, slowly the riders began to collectively relax as the air cooled and freshened, the landscape blossomed in green. The truck took us bouncing up the hill, past Petionville and though tiny towns. We passed women carrying heavy loads atop their heads, men shouldering large loads as they pulled wheelbarrows filled with building material. Vendors lined the street selling art work, soda, furniture and food. We drove by many a car pulled over to the side of the road, steam pouring out of the hood, many Haitian heads bent over the steam working to diagnose the problem. The mountains climbed up around us, more clearly visible as we left the pollution below.

The driver turned off the main road onto a bumpy, curvy rock and dirt road that wound around the edge of the mountain, up and down steep inclines reviving shrieks from the peanut gallery. Despite fearing for our lives, the venture off the road opened up a more rural landscape. Terraced plots of lands climbed up the steep sides of the mountains, the peaks cloaked in clouds. Flowering vines crawled along walls, along the hillside ornamenting the rough ground. Our first destination was a tiny village orphanage, run by some well-meaning church members from Port-Au-Prince. The little home housed about 25 children, most with families in the near-by village who could no longer support a basic life for their child. Kids ages 2 through 12 gathered together on the concrete floor; we had interrupted a school lesson. They all were bent over sheets of paper coloring pictures of houses. Some had two stories and elaborate rooms. Others had airplanes parked inside. In the pictures families filled the rooms, smiles curved up on round faces. Stick hands waved from the stick bodies. We sat with the children for a while, letting them goggle at us, touch our skin, laugh at our reactions to their pictures.


I left wondering what kind of future was in store for those children. Where the leaders of the orphanage good people? Did they have the children's best interest at heart? Did they work hard to protect the children from people who would abuse them? Were their families still involved in their lives, allowed to visit and hug and give words of encouragement? What did our visit there mean? Was it just one more unclear picture of Haiti the driver wanted us to see? I felt conflicted. The visit there offered a brief but lovely interaction with the children there, but the reality of their situation tore at my heart. Haiti always seems to inspire more questions than answers, and the orphanage did not break such a pattern.

The rest of our morning tour took us to the Baptist Mission where we wandered through the grounds and perused the gift shop filled with Haitian art. I briefly considered a long-sought-after milkshake, but thought better of it when weighing in a bumpy ride back down the mountain. We drove to a high overlook where we leaned against a wall and peered over at Port-Au-Prince sprawling below. From the look-out, we could see the coast line curving into the city, the national palace sitting like a monopoly piece in the middle of a pile of grey bricks, the national cathedral sending two grand spires into the air high above the buildings crawling around it. The city looked like one big canvas, and I felt strangely removed from it, glad to be high above and not winding through the polluted streets.

The trip down the mountain seemed to happen to quick. Joke-telling broke out, and the comic relief was enjoyed by all. I was reminded how seriously Patrick and I can take ourselves, and it took the presence of new friends to remind us to laugh more often, to release built up tension with a good, knee-slapping guffaw.



In the afternoon, the group took up their classes once more to the seminary and nursing students. We arrived back at the guesthouse in time for Mdm Rosalina's delicious meal of chicken, potatoes, salad and rice pudding.

Patrick and Francois Villier came to the guesthouse after dinner for a meeting to discuss the projects underway and the vision of CONASPEH. We talked about the land that CONASPEH is raising money to purchase. The tree-filled lot sits next to the school. Patrick shared his vision of the use of the land: a building built around the circumference to function partly as a guest house and partly as a official building for the college. In the center, a green place for the children to play with trees for shade and space to run, a meeting place for a great assembly of people. He discussed the recent union of 5 large protestant organizations and their common goal to be recognized by the government and benefit from the relationship through aid funneled down to fund their many projects afoot. The central organization has plans for a meeting with President Preval on December 26th to discuss such issues. He discussed the National Assembly planned for February and the peace march demonstration that will take place, a march for equality and unity of the protestant churches, demonstrating a unified voice for the people. Listening to Patrick's vision of not only CONASPEH but of the future for Haiti made us all proud to be apart of these grassroots efforts, a part of the Villiers's tireless crusade to inspire big change in the lives of the people.

Listening to the business of the moment inspired ideas from the Massachusetts group: demonstrations in the states, fund drives, letters to Congress. The vision of one so quickly inspires the vision of many. The sharing of ideas, the excitement in mobilization of effort, the problem solving that was underway was refreshing to see unfold. In a place where the mountains of problems seem insurmountable, where help can't come fast enough, witnessing the energy of people inspired, people made aware of their own power to spark change fanned the flame of hope within me. We are a powerful people. And we become a force to be reckoned with when unified. A good night. A happy night. A night of action. A night of hope.

Monday, November 17, 2008

The school is a beautiful place to share, to welcome visitors to Haiti. The voices of children, the collective energy vibrating in the air, the laughter and smiles all counterbalance the harsh world outside the school's walls. Today the group from Massachusetts spent the day among the children, in classes buzzing with curiosity. They hauled in suitcases full of school supplies, clinic tools and graduation gifts they had brought from their respective churches. Christmas came early this year.



Two of the women from North Hamden spent time with a primary school class. They worked on an art exchange, sharing pictures and drawings from a class in the States. They brought markers and paper and encouraged the children to create their own masterpiece to share with their new far-away friends. Children share a unique vision of their world that comes alive with a plank page and a box of crayons. A child psychologist spent time with a class in the secondary school discussing depression and PTSD--a pertinent subject given Haiti's string of tragedies this fall. A team of health professionals lectured to nursing school classes about dehydration, first aid and dislocations bringing in props and pictures that illuminated their lesson. A woman specializing in work with the disabled spoke to another nursing class about the care of a disabled patient, and the challenges one with a disability faces when navigating this world. In Haiti, the disabled are hidden, are ignored. They are not embraced readily into the community. Many false myths set up misconceptions; this was made evident by the repeated questions to the teacher of whether disability was infectious, could be caught like a cold. A lawyer gave a lecture to the seminarians about conflict resolution. She encouraged group involvement and discussion, and was interested to hear that the types of conflict most readily cited were marital difficulties. Each member of the group offered their skills, their knowledge, their energy to the students, and I was happy by the unique opportunity the children in the CONASPEH school had that day.

The school clinic was up and running early in the morning. Today the secondary school students were invited in for consultation. My bench was quickly filled with teen-aged girls sans parents who waited patiently for their evaluation. The clinic ran smoothly; Madam Fano and I operating in our usual rhythm. Maybe it was the weekend's rest, the older, less fragile age of the students or the healing influence of our guests who had brought support and understanding, but I worked today with a renewed perspective. I was not so quickly overwhelmed, not so easily defeated. The teens brought in teenage problems. The differentials weren't as foreign. I counseled the best I could about sex and protection, about normal female body changes and the importance on nutrition. Not yet set up to do any labs or female exams, I referred many to a women's clinic for sensitive exams. I quickly learned how to distinguish a girl who had experimented with sex, their voices barely audible while reporting their concerns. I wondered how much they new, how much they were afraid of, or if their incredible shyness was fear of judgement. But universally the young girls who'd had adult experiences talked in whispers.

One lone boy showed up who bravely discussed a hernia he had had for 4 years. He had never seen a doctor. His swollen privates would have caused an immediate trip to the ER by any American family; but he had struggled for years without consultation. I wonder if he'll ever get the help he needs.

Daniel worked hard during the day as translator. I was able to utilize his presence to have a much needed conversation with Francois, discussing my concerns about the children, my ideas for the clinic, and my hopes for development. The conversation was freeing. I knew the language barrier was frustrating, but the relief that came after clarifying my thoughts and ideas, after getting feedback in return, with true communication was liberating.



After the last clinic patient had been seen, I wandered around the school feeling deeply content. My American friends were tirelessly teaching and hands were being raised, children engaging. I wandered into the tiny cement-lined playground in back of the school. Children swung wildly on the swings, laughing, delighting in their pictures being taken, shouting out "bonjour" with breathless giggles. Patrick had started up a pick-up backetball game in front of the school with a few students just finished with classes and some neighborhood kids. The big, lanky neighborhood kids divided up teams, and Patrick suddenly was on a team with tiny 1 and tinnier 2. But don't judge a kid by his size. His teammates turned out to be killer on the basketball court.



I loved watching Patrick--his face a glow with sweat and smiles. He felt good--finally. He was ministering to the community in the way he most loves. He was engaging kids in a healthy activity that encouraged teamwork and offered a sweaty release of the tensions of the day. Patrick passed the ball often to his little teammates, and cheered when they made a shot from the outside. Soon a crowd was forming around the rag-tag game, and cheers went up with every blocked shot, every steel, every defensive maneuver and every hoop scored. It was impossible to pick favorites. Universal cheers for all.

Tonight we've given in to relaxation after a hot day of good work. We all cooled off in the pool, shared reflections in observations made, thoughts inspired by the day's activities. I reveled in the therapeutic presence of the Americans who see the world the same way I do, who are perplexed by parts of the culture and delighted in others. Patrick and I are inspired by this amazing group of people who give without hesitancy, and love without reservation. They are doing the best that they can to share their relative wealth, their talents, and to open their hearts to new and life-changing experiences. Their long-time dedication to CONASPEH, their unique insight gained over years of an evolving friendship was both helpful and soothing to Patrick and I. Their mission to Haiti not only brought an atmosphere of love and solidarity to the people of CONASPEH, but it also brought a healing atmosphere of friendship to us.

Patrick and I are reminded of the power of community, of fellowship. The brave group who visits us now inspires such reminding as they leave their families and jobs and life to listen and to see the lives in a country that has had little voice.

Community does not have to be defined by the houses on our blocks, the faces in our churches, or the allegiance to a flag. True community has no prerequisites or code to follow. Community is an ever-evolving entity that can grow depending on the expansiveness of its members. We grow when we dare to open ourselves to each other, no matter background or creed, no matter theology or patriotism. Community dares to stand in a scary place and say "we see you, we hear you, we walk with you, we empower you and you empower us." Community shares, it holds hands, it listens. With true community, change can happen. Peace can settle. Understanding can be achieved. I thank all of you who dare to be apart of the community of Haiti, by your interest, by your prayers, by your visits, by your advocacy. I thank you all for bringing us into your own supportive, loving communities and lifting us up. We lift you up in your own struggles, in your own work, wherever it takes you. We pledge our friendship and listening ear if you feel a desire to send a note. Thank you for your presence in our lives.

Good Night.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Today, Patrick woke in a fog, and his day was shot before it began. No roses graced his cheeks. Exhaustion anchored him in bed. Worry twisted my stomach into knots. Although I was reassured by lack of fever, by a slow steady pulse, by clear lungs and an otherwise unremarkable exam, I hadn’t seen Patrick so taken by illness. Was I missing something? Why this incredible fatigue? Was this some island bug masked by sinus symptoms? I re-dosed him with antibiotics, antihistamines and Tylenol, forced him to eat some breakfast, and tucked him in hoping that with rest he would recover. I felt pulled; the job asked me to be a hostess, to escort the group through their day. My heart told me to stay close to Patrick to make sure that he rested, that he ate, that he took his meds on time and got better instead of worse. Ultimately, I had to trust that he was in a good place, and could rest here. But the familiar sense of helplessness here poisoned my mood.

Patrick’s presence is quickly missed around the guesthouse. The cooks and the staff asked how Patrick was doing with concern in their eyes. Vaniel, the house manager, offered his own homemade remedy: a concoction of lime juice, honey and rum. Patrick drank it down, honored by the care shown. Vaniel assured him he’d be better by tomorrow.

Patrick and Francois Villier met us at the guesthouse after breakfast to take us to church. Worried that Patrick was too ill to get up, they wanted to see him. So, without any warning for my dear husband, I opened the door to our bedroom and allowed Patrick V, Francois and Daniel to come see my husband who had been deep asleep. They did what they know how to do, what they believe in. They prayed. Patrick arose out of a deep antihistamine fog to three Haitian hands on his head, a murmuring of prayers filling the air. I imagine it was a little surreal for him; he probably wondered what I slipped him with his morning meds to induce such hallucinations. ☺ So Patrick’s treatment regimen included western pharmaceutical intervention, a Haitian home remedy, and the laying on of hands. If this combo didn’t work, it was to another doctor in the morning. I had to trust.



The church we visited today was tucked away on a side street that hosted a small local market. The neighborhood was alive with activity, smells, sounds, and people painting a colorful collage for the senses. We squeezed the van between the stalls, over rivets and potholes, driving upstream through the crowd. It was hard not to cringe as wheels came precariously close to vendors' trays of fruits or to children's' toes. We filed out of the van and followed Francois through the milieu, up a worn concrete staircase to a balcony overlooking the market below. A cavernous church opened up behind us, the pews packed, the balcony overflowing. Like every Sunday, we inched our way to the very front of the church, the group walking single file between the pews. There was no chance we could come in inconspicuously. Aside from a few curious stares, most of the congregants were deep in prayer, eyes closed, hands raised, swaying to the music like an aspen forest in the wind.

We spent the next 2 hours drenched in song, deep voices echoing around the concrete walls. The minister charged the air with his passionate proclamations that were met enthusiastically with “Meci Senyor” (Thank you Lord) and “Hallaluhia.” Francois was asked to preach and her words were met with cries, with applause, with loud “Meci Senyor.” One woman in the 2nd row, possessed by the energy of the moment would randomly shout out “Praise God, Hallaluiah.” She did so in a way that startled me every time. I watched the faces of the members of the group; each seemed to reflect an emotion I, too, had experienced. Some were overcome with emotion, their spirit clearly stirred by the worship. Others looked a little uncomfortable, not wanting to cause a scene or be a spectacle. Most seemed to absorb the mood, the energy of the church and were revelling in it.

Eventually we were asked to come up and greet the congregation. As Daniel translated, each American face introduced himself, thanking the Haitian community for their hospitality. When it was my turn, Daniel rattled on before I could speak and then turned to me and said, “Say something in Creole.” Neat. Thanks Daniel. I didn’t feel ready to shout my fledgling language into a microphone. But like a 2-year-old spelling out phonetics for the first time, I chopped out “I’m happy to know you.” This was an easy audience. Instead of suspicion, I looked into a sea of smiles. Applause and laughter rose up after my feeble attempt as if encouraging me to keep trying. Wise Daniel knew what would please the crowd. ☺

Kelly Gallagher was asked to preach; a minister in the group, she whispered to me a little fear at not being able to meet the fervor of the audience. But she spoke passionately and the members of the church embraced her. She preached of the importance of community, of walking together through this life with its celebration and turmoil. She commissioned us to be present in community, to learn from each other, to lift each other up. I needed that sermon, and by the attention of the members of the church, they seemed to appreciate the message as well. And maybe it helped explain a blan present in their electric church.

Leaving, we were ushered out by handshakes, bright smiles from little children.

We had a beautiful Creole lunch in a restaurant near by. While waiting for the driver, we sat under a thatched canopy that offered shade from the hot sun. Little bags of water swung from under the canopy. The guard of the restaurant, toting a large rifle, told us that the bags of water were used to keep away flies and mosquitoes. We questioned if the water was poison, or how the bugs get access to it. He laughed and said no, they are frightened by their reflection and fly away. The explanation seemed too easy. But there were no mosquitoes or flies about to validate our skepticism.


The last event of the day was the infamous radio show. Pastor Guy met us at the radio station and welcomed the group one by one. He intended to interview each, with attention to their profession, for the listening audience. In typical Guy style, he did not waste time with questions that might have eased the visitors into conversation such as “how has your trip been, where are you from?” Instead he launched into the subject of the school collapse, and kicked off the session by asking the lawyer her opinion on whether the head master of the school should be held responsible. Wow. Big pitch by Guy. The batter considers her ball. Frowns of stern concentration fell upon my dear friends. I remembered being in the hot seat all too well, and the responsibility weighs heavy; the responsibility to represent yourself and your countrymen fairly, to reach out to the Haitian people and to reign in your own opinions as diplomatically as one can. Guy continued the barrage to each, asking medical advice for the community in dealing with PTSD, depression, and the lingering effects of recent tragedies on the Haitian public. The group gave careful, thoughtful answers to each question, offering their perspective and careful not to assume to have all the answers. They acted as beautiful ambassadors to Haiti, and used their gifts of education and experience to engage in conversation about a country in need.

By the time we emerged from the radio station, night had fallen. I was happy to share the streets at night with our new friends. Candles winked to life, offering a soft light ushering us home.

Patrick greeted the group upon our tired arrival. He wore a smile, laughed easily. Clearly he had turned the corner. Relief flooded my mind, a weight slipped off my shoulders. The interventions of many caretakers had finally brought color and life back. Patrick’s gentle teasing spoke volumes for his recovery. Tonight I’ll sleep well, happy with the change in the air: new faces, a healthier husband, a revival in attitude. Gratitude fills my heart.