She wraps her finger around mine and whispers, "Kisa ou ap fe?" She smells of charcoal and clothes that have sat in the sun the day before, drying out in that Haiti heat. Her little raspy voice is adorable and I wonder if it comes from her mother's side or her daddy's...and I am struck by that thought because I don't think she'd know either. "Kisa ou ap fe?" she asks again, begging me to answer the question: What are you going to do?
I am sure she means today. Later this afternoon. After I leave her home. She wants to know the way my life moves outside of this little orphanage with tin roofs and a palm frond school. She wants to know what we do in our house down the street. She jokingly asks me if I am going to make rice and bean sauce, because she knows it's my favorite. I laugh because I cannot even come close to making that amazing meal, but appreciate that she thinks I could.
For me, her words hold a little more weight than the immediate future. What I do when I leave the orphanage, her home for the last 6 years of her 9 years of life. When a little girl with the whole world in her heart, full of dreams and stars and goodness, looks at you with her chipped little front tooth and her adorable braids and asks you, "What are you going to do?" You notice your own location reeeaaall fast.
I am an American born girl, with family and friends who simultaneously worry about the work I do in Haiti and tell us how proud they are. I can afford to go back there if I am in need. I can eat the food I choose and not worry about if I can afford it tomorrow. And, lest I think this is some kind of cosmos-God-is-taking-care-of-me-because-He-loves-me-the-most type situation, I am reminded of the fierce (and real) love of the Father when looking at this sweet Haitian girl's face. When I see her deep concentration and her desire to learn, when I see her get along with her friends here, when they offer to pray for us before we leave...oh yes. I am reminded of a time a few years ago when my friend Sara looked at me during one of these prayers and said, "These are God's favorites." Yes, do I agree.
I have been on the bus to Struggletown since arriving back in the US some 7 months ago. And, honestly, I think a lot of it has to do with this question ringing in my head and these memories that linger. What are you going to do? I am struck with the reality of life in the USA as compared to a life more overseas and I am confused at how to walk in my day to day life. Daily, I work for things happening in Haiti, but I am surrounded by extreme luxury and people who do not seem to know how surrounded they are by this same luxury. It's a paradox that I am not used to and it both frightens and excites me to lean into this pressure of both worlds crashing around me.
If I had a dollar for every time people have asked me about how life has been "back in the real world" I would no longer need to do fundraisers for Konbit (maybe). It has been shocking because I want to twist around, my hair flowing around my head in a sassy way, and say "WHO'S real world?" My reality is not the reality of millions around the globe. They are the people that are on the news and make us feel uncomfortable. They are the people you perhaps read about on facebook or instagram. But, for me some of them have shared their tables with us. They have eaten with us, shared with us, loved with us, mourned with us, and prayed with us. These are not just people far away, these are people I have the extreme pleasure of calling "friends."
This real world that I am a part of for this season in my life is a sweet and difficult mix of two totally different worlds: grit under my fingernails and lunch dates; orphans in Haiti and driving a car; skyping with my friends in Haiti and joining my family for drinks. Nothing is bad, it's just a weird way to view my world lately. The fact is, though, that this is my reality.
But, my reality doesn't change anyone else's. For some, the real world is material wealth and roads and running water where you can drink straight from the tap. For others, it is sharing a home with your entire family, working so you can send your oldest daughter to school, and trying to find a job in your tiny little village. Just because its different does not make it less real. Our privilege is not most people's reality, friends.
While there seems to be more awareness than ever about how others are living across the world, it certainly does not seem to come with solidarity. As a matter of fact, a film clip on a facebook feed or a comment made by someone-who-knows-someone-who-has-been-there seems to drive the lines between "us" and "them" even further apart. It's been confusing. But, also, really enlightening.
I keep thinking about how informed we are, knowing everything. All the time. Being scared of everything. All the time. And, then I remember these kids in a small little village off the coast of a town in Haiti I never thought I would know. I think of these kids in mismatched clothes, wearing onesies as t-shirts and shoes with holes in them and praying fervently for their food and their people, and I remember that this is the kind of kingdom I belong to. This is what I want to pursue. In a place where I have been confused where culture ends and real conviction begins, I have found solace in these memories of people I know in Haiti.
"What are you going to do?" she asks. What are you going to do with this heavy reality of people living in different ways all across the globe? How does this change what you pursue in the United States? How does this change you?
For me, it has been the steady reminder that this is my "reality check," (pun intended). The USA is not the "real world" though everyone would like for me to believe that I am back in reality forever. It has been a call to remember that the things worth pursuing in life are a better world for everyone, not just myself. It has been a check in my Spirit to make sure my convictions represent my beliefs and not just what my culture tells me to do "for Jesus." It's remembering that there are so many important conversations worth having, but we've got to fight for them and fight through the discomfort they give us. It has been a fight, most of all, to think about what I am doing- to be intentional and aware of each thing I put my heart into.
I have become kind of comfortable with the fact that I do not have complete answers. And, that's kind of ok. For me, it seems like part of the answering is more questioning, anyway. I do not have the answers, merely a small scratch in my heart that there is more to the "real world" than what people perceive. Even though I know a few other realities, I do not know them all either. I think that's the whole point. Our kingdom is this kind: of orphans and run-aways, of people struggling and questioning, of people who long for heaven come to earth. We are kind of kingdom that does not turn our backs on people because it disturbs us.
Let us not forget we belong to a kingdom bigger than ourselves and the measure of one's faith in that place is not built on money and health- but on the endurance to run. Let's not forget to take our questions and dig deep and search. Let's not forget to learn from others realities.
In my last post, I casually mentioned that I was in Haiti for a live birth a few years back. While those of you who are close to me know the gory details, there are a lot of people with whom I have never shared this story. I find that around Christmas time, especially, I have this desire to share the story of how little Shelisa came into the world.
This was our first trip to Haiti, with the largest team I have ever been associated with. While it was so nice to get to know everyone on the team, I don't really reccomend traveling to Haiti with that many people.... annyway...there we were, all 16 of us plus our country hosts in the middle of a tent city in Port-Au-Prince called Soupis. Earlier that morning, we had helped the pastor we were working with set up his make-shift church. We spent most of our time building a "fence," seriously a couple of large sticks sticking into the rocky dirt, which surrounded the tent church. So many folks showed up, praising God while waving their hands. It amazed me then, and still amazes me now, to see clean, pressed dresses and suits emerge from make-shift homes. There was no exception at this church service and it was so neat to witness.
The pastor's (recent) wife, Shelly, was pregnant. None of us knew exactly how far along she was. She was a tiny little thing, none of us really knowing she was pregnant from behind. So, it was a little interesting when she let out a scream into the afternoon, letting us know the baby was getting ready to come. Hospitals in Haiti, or at least in Port-Au-Prince during the year of the earthquake, do not take walk ins. They do not have ambulences to come and get you where you are. When they were called, the hospital staff told us that Shelly's appointment was at 8 that night, and they would see her then.
Returning to Shelly, with our dear friend Asha attached to her side, it became pretty obvious that she was not going to last until 8pm. By 5, her contractions were already 2 minutes apart.
This was a time in my life where I didn't fill in those gaps. You know the ones? We have them about other cultures. Many of you reading this might have the same gaps I had as you read this story. There was no doctor, there were no nurses. So, logically, our instict was to use our hour long health care training and set up to have the baby. Looking back, I do wonder if one of the many, experienced Haitian mommas and friends there would have been more helpful in this situation. Nonetheless, we set up and prepared for this baby to enter the world.
Everyone has their own perspective of the events that traspired after that. Setting up a plywood pallet with our backpacks as pillows, Shelly laid down on the pallet as we bleached every utensil we could find. People gathered around as we hooked up electricity and the sun set. The generator hummed in the distance, the smell of gasoline from said generator filled the air and the breeze from the ocean a few miles away hit our sweaty faces. Some people took pictures and video. Others gathered in the corner to pray. Some, like me, were timing contractions, updating people, and sanitizing everything.
Expecting a little boy, we were all shocked when a pale little girl popped out and was placed on Shelly's chest. It honestly was the most beautiful and horrible thing I have ever seen, being in the middle of that tent city on that night in December. Watching as the baby crowned and finding floss to tie off the ambilicul cord, it was all incredibly surreal. Its an experince I will never forget...and I will never ever forget how it felt to catch the placenta in a plastic bowl in the middle of that chaos and beauty.
The reason I think about this, on the month of Shelisa's 6th birthday, is because it does bear so much resembelnce to the Christmas story. I think about Shelly's face when she knew she was having that baby then and there. I think about the women, those amazing Haitian women, who gather together and just know the right things to say, the ways to joke, the prayers to mutter. The way they gathered and supported Shelly so lovingly was such a learning moment for me. I think back to our western team, our good hearts to help and our total dramatazation of the whole thing, too. As if women in Haiti don't see this situation all the time! I think of how much we wanted to help and how in that moment so many of us felt the call to be midwives. I think about ol' Pastor George, a man who had created a scandal within the church itself by getting pregnant before getting married. I think about how much he cared for his wife, staying by her side. What a beautiful, imperfect, perfect story.
What a lucky and wonderful thing for me to see them regularly in Haiti now, to be invited into their home and speak their native language with them. What a treat it is for me to see how Shelisa is growing up to be strong and kind- just like the rest of her family. How amazing it is to see her parent's marriage and the testimony it is to their community. Just like Jesus, Shelisa's crazy birth story was only the beginning.
All I can say about this story is that it was holy. It was dirty, but it was holy. It was in the poorest slum in the western hemisphere, but it was holy. It was an ambilicul cord tied with floss and placenta in a bowl, but it was holy. There were chickens running around and people waving their hands around praising God very loudly, but it was so holy. That moment they held Shelisa was so peaceful. She was here. Their little girl was here.
I can only imagine the way that Christmas night felt so many years ago. Maybe Mary was expecting to have her baby surrounded by her parents and not in a stable in Bethlehem. Perhaps they were expecting some kind of God-baby to be born that looked differently than a helpless infant. Maybe there were animals running around or strangers watching.
But, all I can imagine is that it was holy. Holy doesn't have to look prestine and put together. Holy doesn't have to involve your predetermined expectations. Holy seems to look a lot like something beautiful coming into something messy. I, for one, am certainly glad for the holy birth of Jesus...and Shelisa. :)
overthinker and under-planned; development worker, believer, friend, wife, sister, daughter; learning a lot every day.