The whole month of May always has me thinking about mothers. In the USA, we celebrate Mother's Day on the second Sunday of the month. In Haiti, it is usually the last Sunday of the month. Between planning for my mother and mother-in-law in the USA and then helping our family ministries plan for our huge Mother's Day Celebration, I am pretty much fixated on one thing this month: mothers.
I have a wonderful mother, one who has always embodied sacrifice in a way that I have always been able to identify. She sacrificed sleep, she was always the first one up and the last one to bed. She sacrificed her own wants and needs to make sure we had what we needed, which I realized more as I grew up. She sacrificed so much for us, and I will always be thankful for that.
As my time in Haiti marches on, though, I often think of the sacrifice that is not seen. It is often misunderstood by us, as well. It's the sacrifice of a birth mother, bringing her child to an orphanage or children's home.
Haiti is filled with orphanages. It's a serious problem that has grabbed my heart. As I figure out ways to put more language behind my significant feelings, I will write about it. In May, though, I often think of the birth mothers I have known and those I haven't known in Haiti (and beyond). I think of how they are such unsung heros in a world of total misconception.
On my first day in Montrouis, Haiti, I went to work at an orphanage we fondly called the "Number 7 Orphanage." The blue gate, at that time, had a mere #7 spray painted on the front of it and inside lived about 30 children with a Haitian pastor and his wife. I remember all of the misconceptions I had about this place when I first began working there:
I can't believe all of these children had parents who died in the earthquake!
I can't believe none of these kids have been adopted!
I want to adopt all of them! Right now!
Somehow, without asking a single question, I began thinking about the parents who had died in the earthquake in Port-Au-Prince, a good two hours away from this orphanage. I began wondering, aloud, how many of these children I could adopt (maaaaajor faux paux). I did not stop to ask anything about the children or their histories. I just assumed.
When I tell people I work in Haiti, many tell me about their own experiences. Often times, it is of working alongside an orphanage. They go to "love on the kids," and talk about their important work. I often wonder at these things, but I stop in my tracks when I hear about the "horrible mother who abandoned her child." It visibly changes my face and...let's face it, I usually say something (I mean, I can be quite emotional ;)). The fact is, these perceptions are so one-sided and biased. It places the assumptions of the "best" on us and the "worst" on these mothers we have never met. And, it makes me sad.
I don't know when it was that my assumptions about the #7 Orphanage started being challenged. I wish I could say it was when I realized how ethnocentric I was being and that I started asking all the questions I could ask. However, I really think it was when I could start understanding Creole, the native language of Haiti. I remember hearing my dear sweet Jean Cleline, one of the kids in the orphanage. She had told me about her mother dropping off her and her brother and sister at the orphanage.
I remember my mouth agape, looking at my husband and friends. I loaded up in our blue truck and stared out into the busy road, "I had no idea they had parents..."
From that moment on, my life became about understanding the situations that drive parents to feel their children are better off in an orphanage. As a matter of fact, this is the exact thing I will be writing my Master's degree thesis on starting this summer. It is so interesting to me, in part, I believe, because it is so misunderstood. By me, and by others, too.
I remember moving into our house and people asking when they could drop their children off at the center. We laughed, but after a little while, we started asking "Why would you want to drop your child off here?" The answer was almost always the same: I want my child to have a good life.
What I have realized about the universality of motherhood is this: everyone wants what is best for their child. And, in Haiti, people have far less options for support and help. As a matter of fact, in a recent study, developing world mothers were asked how likely they were to feel equipped to keep their children if they had access to schooling programs and other supplemental programs for their children, and a whopping 90% said they would certainly keep their children in this case(faithtoaction.org). Guys, this is a large number.
If this is true, which the research shows that it is, then we need to start seeing the orphan system as a great sacrifice for parents. We need to make sure we understand just what we are doing when we go to an orphanage on a trip. We need to get the point when people bring up orphanages, especially in the developing world, that we understand just how difficult it must have been for a parent to say their goodbyes to their children and head back up that mountain. We must understand what it means for someone to feel so hopeless and so helpless that the best option for their child is to drop them off at a place like an orphanage.
I would like for us to stop demonizing mothers like this, who have their children in orphanages, and instead look at them for who they really are. They are mothers making an immense sacrifice for their children. Additionally, they are making a sacrifice that is perpetuated through our Western desire to volunteer at an orphanage instead of give toward family empowerment programs. We play a part in supporting this system when we go on trips to support these systems, de-humanize the mothers and their own stories of sacrifice, and continue to see ourselves as the heroes of the story.
I am not attempting to dumb down the complex situation of the orphan crisis, nor am I saying that every birth mother is a saint. But, I am saying there is another, more holistic and honest, option out there to be aware of and know. The sacrifice is real. The ways we can help are real. So, let's start there!
Happy Mother's Day to Mothers- all of you who sacrifice in various ways to make sure your children are taken care of and loved.
A covered pot cooks in the corner and the sòs pwa scent rises up. Sitting on a small stool, she sits down and begins poking the ground with a stick. Sweat beads on her brow and her children run around her. She asks one of the children to go fetch some water for her while she laughs at what her friend says as she passes by. She is making dinner for her family, and likely many of her neighbors and friends who might stop by. The rice boils up, and it is not a lot. She is thankful for the some that she has. She shucks the peas as she waves off the flies that have gathered around the cooking food.
She is a Haitian woman.
She gets home after a long day on her feet. She comes home to a messy house, kids shoes thrown on the ground and screaming down the hall. She sits with her tea for a moment, and glances at the crossword puzzle in the paper. She sighs heavily as she gathers herself together to prepare a meal for her children. She checks the fridge to see what ingredients she can scrounge up before asking her teenage son to run out to the store. She laughs at the children down the hall.
She is an American woman.
My life has been a practice in observing strong women so that I might become one. Like the creation of a good meal, I have watched women all over the world work with what they have and make something beautiful out of their lives. I have been inspired by their confidence, their quiet self-assurance, their integrity, and their willingness to get things done.
Today, as it is International Women's Day, I can't help but thank God for the women I have had the privilege to know. To me, these women embody an entirely new perspective on the character of God. While we can call Him our Father, I also believe He is big enough to embody traits of a Mother.
I have seen women create something from nothing. Driven by the love they have for their families or friends or communities, they can't help but bring something together in a tender and caring way. Their imagination is second only to their strength. Through their dreaming, they are able to know their own strength to see their creations through: from meals, to new programs for their communities, to "just" making it work.
I would be lying if I didn't say that it took me a while to notice the women in my life as strong leaders and people to emulate. Growing up with three strong brothers, I often felt out of place and out of touch. I felt like I was supposed to care about things that I simply didn't care about. It was confusing. Until I noticed my mother. Either unaware or just not caring, my mom never put constraints on who she was. She was unapologetically herself, sometimes to my teenage embarrassment. But, she was herself. As I began to know her more as a woman, I began to embrace that part of myself. I grew an affinity for the "funky teachers" who were these unconventional women who dared to be dreamers and schemers. They challenged the status quo and in turn, challenged me.
In my work in Haiti, I was blown away by the charisma of many of the men I met on the island right away. Their loud and boisterous personalities and freedom drew me in from the first time I worked there. I remember telling my friend that I just didn't feel like I understood the women in Haiti, as they were quiet. Incorrectly, I mistook their meekness as weakness.
Though my time growing up in the USA taught me to be unapologetically myself, my time in Haiti has taught me to be myself no matter who thinks otherwise. Haitian women are genuine to the core. They can sense if someone is trying too hard and they are very protective of themselves and their tribe. They give meaning to the word family- and they do in such a way that is humble and sincere.
Through my time watching these two types of women live their lives, I realized that there are more similarities than differences. That fact, really, blows my mind on its own. Because on the surface they look so different, but underneath it's all the same.
We want to be seen. We want to be known. We want to stop being underestimated and start being respected. We want to know that our spouses/significant others respect us and take us seriously. We want to create and dream and be free enough to believe that those dreams aren't just for the boys, but are for us, too. I have seen the dreams that are on the hearts of the beautiful women I know around the world, and I know they are capable.
Strength doesn't always look like gregarious displays. Sometimes it does, though. Today I honor the women that display the heart of God- of caring, of love, of fighting for those they love. I thank them for the ways they press on in spite of difficult and harsh circumstance. And, I continue to want to find ways to connect with them, love them and carry on.
A plane flew overhead and I wanted to be on it.
Did the people I was with even know what a plane was like? Did they know where that plane was headed?
It was 2011 and I was working in a tent city in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. It was hot, dusty, and all around unpleasant. The mission we were working with made us hand out dried peach pesh and serve them to people out of 5 gallon white buckets. It seemed like a small gift to these people who had been going through hell.
The bathrooms were disgusting. Like, maggots growing in the toilets.
The water was scarce. Like, turbid and flowing through a canal.
The hope was gone. Like that airplane that went by.
I remember several of my experiences working with these displaced people. I remember learning they were displaced in the first place. Many of the people who were living on one side of the city did not have houses near there that crumbled, but were miles away in another part of town. Many of the people who were living in the tent cities had jobs, lives, family members- a typical life- until their house (and world) crumbled.
People claiming to help exploited them. Those who were helping asked them to consider converting to their religion as they tempted clean drinking water in front of them. They turned to one another for survival, but it was rough.
My experience was nearly 7 years ago and I still remember it well. I remember the shock that went through my system when I realized, truly, what these people had gone through. They'd lost real families and real friends and real jobs and real homes. I remember also knowing that I'd never know the pain like this: my entire world changing in an instant and people not understanding my situation. I remember those planes flying overhead.
I have never been to the Middle East. I have great friends who have worked there, I have friends who have worked with refugees in the USA, and I only have a little experience teaching ESL to some immigrants from this area of the world years ago. I cannot even pretend to imagine what it must be like to be fleeing Syria and wondering where I will go. I can't.
But, now, more than ever, I am beginning to understand that plane overhead. For those people in the Haitian refugee camp, that plane was their connection. Connection to the outside world can mean one of two things: hope or despair; life or death. With each influx of people from the US and other countries, Haitian camp dwellers could either be encouraged and inspired or they could have been taken advantage of- made to sell themselves to a UN worker or to have their pictures taken without their consent, made no better than an object.
While my friends and family might not have been thinking about Haiti and those people in the camps back in 2011, they were there. And, while people not be thinking about them now, many of them are still there. In the same light, while we might not all have the Middle East on our hearts and minds, but people in some of these areas are fighting for their lives. Living in camps with really horrible conditions, wondering if that plane passing by is bringing light or darkness.
We are a part of a global community. We don't get to choose this. In a world where we can email anyone in the bush of Tanzania or the mountains of Haiti, the poor and vulnerable are more accessible than ever. People facing horrible situations globally are able to post about it instantly on Facebook. The reason this is important, and the reason it might make us uncomfortable, is because we realize our own position as Americans.
Things like this begin to flit through our minds "The United States and Europe spent nearly ninety times as much on luxury items as the amount of money that would be needed to provide safe drinking water and basic sanitation for those in our global village who do not have these necessities now"- Groody, Globalization, Spirituality and Justice. Through acknowledging the poverty and bondage of others, we reveal our own poverty of heart- and the riches we also have to give. It changes us. And, that's uncomfortable.
Look, I picked an awkward time to relocate to being based out of the USA. The longest stint I have been in the US in 6 years and we have elected a very controversial president and are in the middle of a lot of complex problems in our world. I can get overwhelmed and upset with the rest of them. But, honestly, I keep remembering that plane.
We choose what kind of things we bring to people in crisis and desperation. We choose what kind of message we want to bring. Is it hope and love? Or is it death and meaninglessness? It is my prayer that in these times we remember who God is- the God who is Love, the God who took the part of a refugee and was incredibly impoverished growing up. I pray we remember that He is on His throne, no matter what chaos ensues. I also pray that He would make us brave- to face the injustices of poverty and war- with hope and change.
I walked through the community, weaving in between houses and trying to keep up with my two friends who knew where they were going. Some of the walls we passed were brightly painted pink and caribbean teal, but most of them were that concrete grey. The direct sunlight hit right down on us and there was no shade around. We walked up a small hill, covered in white rocks, and yelled out the Haitian Creole phrase for "You there?"
We'd arrived at Georgette's house. She answered back with the phrase for "Come on in!" and we opened the two sheets blocking her porch.
Georgette has stood out to me since the day I met her. She has a look about her, you can just tell she has been through so much in her life. Her community surrounding her call her "Ti Fanm" affectionately, meaning "Little Girl," due to her short stature. Though she is little, she has so much life behind her eyes. I learned a lot, even that day on her porch.
She was upset. Her daughter, one of the kids in our children's program, was pregnant. The man was older. Her daughter couldn't attend school any longer. She'd just sold her bed to help send her daughter to school. She was without a job, without choices.
I remember how much admiration I had for my friend, Clelie, who was with me. She so calmly assured Georgette that her life would be ok, yet also spoke sternly to her, with love like a mother. I listened on, mostly understanding their fast paced Creole conversation and vacillating between wanting to burst into tears and just bottle it up. What a world this woman faced every day.
We left her house with a hug and a smile. We had a plan of how to help her and her daughter work through the 9 months that would follow. But, even more than that, we had a connection with her.
Georgette began coming to our ministry house randomly. She'd stop by for a little food, offer to wash some of our clothes, hang out with us, and share about her life. She'd shared about her old hopes and dreams. She'd bring her other, younger daughter by when she was visiting. The way she spoke was as if she was a 75 year old woman, looking back at her life. But, it wasn't until I started to know her more that I realized she'd lived all that life in a mere 32 years.
Heartache, disappointment, being taken advantage of, being told she was worth nothing without a husband, struggling to find something to eat, taking care of her children...feeling alone and desperate and in need of help all at the same time.
Georgette represents a large majority of women in Haiti, and really many women in the developing world. She has more rights than some, far less rights than others around the world.
As I got to know Georgette more, I liked her more. She became this hilarious light in my life and shared her broken and hard story with me. Even though there were times I was not in Haiti, she'd still write me (and writes me still) updating me with pictures of her new grandson, her life, and her work. Becoming friends with Georgette has unpeeled a layer of definitions that I always held close to my heart, being in this line of work. I had clung to words like "empowerment," "freedom," and "opportunity," but I had such conceptual and American views on what those words meant. Not that American women do not know struggle, but knowing Haitian women opened up an additional world to me.
I have always been passionate about the rights of the marginalized. Women's freedoms are (obviously) very personal to me. However, meeting Georgette and the women in her community showed me that being passionate about women's rights means more than caring about myself. It means so much more- sisterhood transcends cultural and linguistic barriers. It is about knowing that somehow, as Lilla Watson once said, "my liberty is bound up in yours."
I have realized, through my friendships with women in Haiti (and the DR, and around the world), that my life is different through knowing the struggles of the international community. My freedom has truly been bound up with theirs- and the staggering differences between my freedoms and theirs shocks me consistently.
This has been an inspirational cornerstone for me these days. Today, as the Women's March on Washington happened and I proudly (metaphorically) stood with my sisters as they brought attention to some issues that certainly warrant it, I also received a text from Ryan.
It was a picture of Georgette. Working on her bags with our small business, Fanm Konbit.
When I met her just over a year or so ago, she was angry and sad. She was hopeless and wanting out. She had given up.
Through the love of a community, through the efforts of many realizing their liberation being bound up with up hers, through the empowering and fearless and ferocious love of God, she has begun to come up out of her heaviness of hopelessness and into a light of liberation.
Let's not just throw around these catch phrases of empowerment and freedom, without realizing what painstaking work this is. Giving someone else freedom might mean losing your own privilege or what you believe you deserve. But, its worth it.
Because what happens when we aim to empower and help free those we see in shackles, something interesting happens: they free us from the chains we don't realize we wear.
The Love of God is such that He gives us this fellowship- this love and devotion- that we would set folks free and in the same breath become more free ourselves.
I thank God for Georgette and the work she is doing in Haiti. For the life she is living now. For the ways she has taught me to be more real and truer to myself; for the ways she's shown me beauty in weakness and defeat. I am most thankful for this sisterhood of wonderful women, all over the world, but especially in Haiti. What a family to have.
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. :)
My Christmas Eve growing up looked like going to mass, eating a ham and dressing up. It looked like lasagna, or some other Italian food, on the side because we were DeLucas. It looked like getting an ornament and Christmas pajamas and trying to go to bed early to wait for Santa to fill the bottom of my tree with gifts from the North Pole.
I learned about Jesus, about the stable and the donkey ride into Bethlehem. But, it wasn't until I traveled to Haiti that my eyes began to see the true story of Christmas and why it mattered that I did not understand it more.
There have been a few Christmases that I don't experience culture shock when coming back into the US to celebrate with friends and family. My first year in Haiti, back in 2010, I experienced Christmas on the island. It wasn't until last year that I repeated that, spending Christmas on Hispaniola once again. In the times in between, though, I bundled up and flew to southern Alabama to be bombarded with love from family, along with consumerism and lots of events. While it has always been special, it has also been a struggle at times.
Last year, I brought Christmas gifts down to Haiti for our Fet Noel- or Christmas Day Party- with our kids program. It was so nice to be back on the island- the warm air, the ocean breeze and the friends who are like family- it was so nice. As I unpacked the gifts, I felt excited to give these little ones gifts and also kind of weird bringing the consumerist part of Christmas to Haiti. The staff and kiddos were excited, though, and that meant so much to me.
The day before we were set to celebrate, I cuddled up with one of our staff's kids and grabbed a book from the pile I'd brought from the states. "The Christmas Story," it read on the cover as a white Mary, Joseph and Jesus graced the front of the book. Written in English, I attempted to translate the children's story to make sense to sweet Laira, paying such close attention to my words. At one point though, I had to admit, the story did not translate well. Why? Because it was so inaccurate.
I'm not talking about Jesus or his incarnate birth. I'm talking about the way in which we Americans think he entered the world. We can't grasp it because we don't live it. We don't know what it's like to have to travel far, no matter what your circumstances, because a government needs something from you. We don't get how people can be transported to and fro on barn yard animals. We can't imagine not having an Air B and B or a friend in the city we need to be in. We can't imagine a lot of things.
As I was reading to Laira, one of the things that stood out to me the most was the scene of after the baby was born. Sweet baby Jesus, clean and white and surrounded by two clean donkeys. His angelic and clean parents, there holding him. Peace. This is what we have come to imagine as peace: quiet, surrounded by loved ones. However, this is not what I imagine now.
As the only live birth I have ever fully witnessed was in a Haitian tent city, I can tell you this is not how a baby enters this world. There's placenta and blood and screaming. There is crying and heaving and prayers. There are people, especially those who belong to a communal culture, who gather around simply to watch and be a part of this story. There are animals who do not merely lie there. The chickens come in and out of the scene, often being chased off by a midwife or townsmen. There are goats who are eating everything in sight. There are sheep, disgusting, unsheered sheep who bahh off in the distance. There are stinky cows who get in the way and you have to just figure out a way to move them. This is what I imagine this story to be in reality.
And, because of her own country, Laira did, too. She looked at the pictures and literally laughed. She knew, Jesus doesn't come like that.
Because of her, and my time and interactions with people in Haiti, I know this, too. I don't believe Jesus did or does come like that. He doesn't wait for us to be cleaned up. He doesn't wait for the perfect circumstances or the perfect government. He just comes.
Emmanuel: God with us. This name meaning is why it is so important for us to understand the difference between our western story and the realistic one. He comes to be with us, and at what cost? At what discomfort? He just comes. And, He proved to us on his birthday so many years ago that He comes to us in the middle of our literal crap. He comes to us when barnyard animals are running in and out of the stable. He comes to us when we are confused at circumstances. He comes to us when we are in pain and in the dark.
I believe this is one of the most important lessons Haiti continues to teach me. As I go to my events, get dressed up and enjoy myself, I must remember that God is with me when I get offended by a comment, when I feel depressed and angry and when I am struggling. He's not just with me in my picture perfect moments, no, that's just not how Jesus comes. Peace, that true peace, comes from Him entering these circumstances and simply being with us. It does not come from the way we look, the pictures we are in, or the gifts we give. It looks like a perfect God in an incredibly dirty and imperfect world, coming to be with us.
Ithad been a long summer. The sun scoured down on all of us, as we worked tirelessly to complete water projects in that beautiful Caribbean island. In our little red truck, nicknamed El Tigre Rojo, we drove from San Pedro in the Dominican Republic to our current place in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. We'd just spent the last 3 weeks working in a steamy, grimy city and we were ready to head back to our next location.
We'd dropped off a few people at the airport that morning. At that time, we were all trying to spend some time at home over the summer for seasonal work. After that, it was only me, Ryan, and our friends Zach and Philipson. Ryan had procured a broken leg just a few weeks before then and his leg was bound up in a make-shift cast. I laughed as he brushed up against me, all of us trying to squish into the truck out of Port-Au-Prince.
There's this stretch of road as you drive out of Port that is filled with potholes and bumpy video game like stretches. It is full of beauty, though, too. There are little villages scattered about, banana trees, hills of red dirt and people all around. For me, it is like taking a deep breath of fresh(er) air. During this particular drive out, as I was filling up my proverbial lungs with that fresh air, a large thud brought me back to reality. Our truck had stopped. In the middle of the road.
Did I mention my husband was in a leg cast with crutches?
Quickly, the situation was resolved enough to push the truck, with Ryan steering the large truck, close enough to a gas station to coast in there.
Though it would seem like we'd run out of gas, this was not the problem. It was the issue of no water in the radiator! While this is an easy enough fix, I don't think I will ever forget what happened for the next 15 minutes. It went like this: asking where we could park our car and trying to coast there. Being told to move our car. Getting out of the car and looking for water. Finding out there was a well on property. Looking for a bucket. Finding rope to tie to the bucket. Dropping the bucket into the well. Pulling up a very small amount of water. Pouring that into another bucket for someone else to pour into the car. And then repeat.
About 45 minutes later, we were all back in the car, laughing at the what we had to do to fix this problem. We carried on and crossed the border back into the Dominican Republic and the rest is history.
This story is good for me. This season has been one of extreme ups and downs for me- adjusting to life in a new way and feeling like there is supposed to be a "quick fix" button for me to push in order for me to coast my way through these issues. However, it just hasn't been like that. With each obstacle I have faced, there are 100 little nuances that need to be taken care of, as well.
I am the car in this story today. I need some seemingly easy care, but I can't seem to get it together to get up the hill. I need help from my people. I need a quick fix, but what I get is a bucket to drop down into that deep part of myself that I don't want to think about at the moment. For deep healing, though, I've gotta do it. I am wrestling with giving up, attempting to drive my car and keep moving forward without the necessary items I need just so I don't have to deal with digging into that well of mine. That's not going to happen though-- because, you know, the truck is broken down. My heart and my body are screaming out the same thing, too. Take care of me! So, I have been trying to do this. To hone in and focus.
To be honest, I just didn't think it would take so much work.
That's the thing about getting well. We have to want it bad enough to truly seek those deep places that aren't really open in our hearts. We have to be willing to do the difficult work, even though we think there could be an easier way to do these things. Easy and efficent does not always equal whole and healing.
Today, I am in need of a little water. And, for the first time in a while I am willing to do whatever it takes to make sure I get it.
When I went to Tanzania so long ago, I remember logging everything in the journal I had purchased before I went on my 3 month trip. With each entry, I gained perspective and hope. That summer I learned and observed so much, and I was able to process it because of my own dedication to making time to write.
Fast forward to now, the end of the year 2016. Since that summer in Tanzania, so much has changed. I am married to that same adventureous man I made the initial trek with, and together we have been working in Haiti and the Dominican Republic since late 2010. I stopped journaling around 2013.
Things got really hard and messy and complicated. When I went to write, I could no longer eek out what I was witnessing or what I was learning. That stretch lasted until about...oh, November 2016. I am back in the USA for a season and in this time, I have learned a lot about myself and had so much time to think about what I have learned in these years backlogged.
So, I have decided to start a different kind of journal. This one is messy, confusing at times and full of adventure. It is not really chronological, nor is it neat and tidy. This journal will, however, hold the stories so dear to my heart and the lessons I have taken away from them (along with the questions I have from these experiences). Feel free to tag along with me, or not- because these stories are coming out one way or another :).
overthinker and under-planned; development worker, believer, friend, wife, sister, daughter; learning a lot every day.