By Monday morning, it felt like we had been on our trip much longer than three days. Not that things were going badly, our days were just so full! Each leg of travel seemed like enough to fill one day. Preaching and teaching Sunday school seemed like enough to fill another day. But we had completed many legs of travel over a 48 period, toured, hung out with orphans, gone to two church services and absorbed so much into our senses. If I am honest, Monday was a tough day for me. It didn't hit me until late in the evening, but I felt overwhelmed by the prospect of staying another 5 days. I'm a little nervous writing that because so much of these trips are romanticized, made out to seem like a never ending mountain top experience. But there are lows, and that, in my opinion, is ok. Don't we go to be "out of our comfort zone" as so many describe what short term trips are about? Should we not experience both the lows and the highs that come along with serving others? More broadly, did not Christ experience highs and lows in his ministry?
That morning at devotions I felt like God had gone quiet on me. Where was his revelation? It should have come easily as I sat on that wall, in this place, watching the waves crash on the shore. Then I remembered a lesson I learned a long time ago and He whispered it in my heart: "Still with you in the silence. Not forsaken." God was still present and from what I read in Luke 10, my calling as a Christian was still the same in the silence too. Luke tells about a lawyer who questions Christ, saying, "How do I get to heaven?" The answer is love God with everything in you! Love Him passionately, personally, expressively and intellectually. AND love other people like you love yourself. And so despite maybe not "feeling it," I was able to stand on God's word knowing I am called to step out in obedience by loving God and loving others.
That day our first task was a Creole lesson, where our team was taught some basic phrases we could use as we went throughout our day. Lex made fun of my rolling "r's" as I spoke Creole (Spanish was the second language I learned and I taught it for a couple years, so I roll my 'r's"; something that is not done in Creole). He did tell me my Spanish was very good. Ha!
Then it was back on the rumbling bus and back to school, where we worked on unpacking the donations of clothes, undies and socks that we brought and creating packages of clothing to hand out. The clothing needed to be packed into outfits based on gender and size (50 of each: 50 men's, 50 women's, 50 children's). We would use the clothes we brought and supplement with clothes from their donation closet. There was A LOT of clothing in this closet and in no particular order aside from males and females. My eyes lit up when I saw it. A organizational project! I have another blog called the maniacal organizer, so it's no surprise I REQUESTED the job of organizing the piles of clothes. I didn't get it all done today; just enough to help make the packages the rest of the team was working on.
Once we had 150 packages made, we went back to the base and took a rest for a while. When we stepped off that bus by the beach, a refreshing breeze hit us. Compared to just a couple miles inland, this respite by the ocean felt air conditioned despite the 98 degree heat. As we rested and waited, a storm rolled in and our team climbed up on the wall and watched it sweep over the water. Across the ocean, in the distance, a water spout formed (basically a tornado on the water). It was both really awesome and kind of terrifying. It dissipated quickly. All this time in Iowa and I see my first tornado in Haiti!
Before long we headed back out into the village. I hopped on the back of a 'haojin' (which I can only describe as a motorcycle with a mini truck bed attached to it) with Turner and the clothing we had packaged earlier. I was hoping for zippy ride, but Peleo (our driver) refused my pleas to go 'faster, faster!' When we stopped, there was instantly a group of little ones around us. Looking at the little girl in a worn out 'tan' (maybe white at one point?) dress with the sleeves torn and the hem coming undone, I was thankful we were bringing them clothing. Then we were given our instructions. Three groups. One this way. One that way. Another down that way. Grab a large bag (that had lots of packages by size inside) and head out. One package per family...if I thought it looked professional to use emoji in my blog, there would be a smiley face with its mouth hanging open here. One. Package. Per. Family. My heart sank a little. I knew that little girl wasn't going to get a new dress today. What's more we had packed the larger bags according to type: all the men's in one, women's in another and kids in another. I knew, as we grabbed the bags that the clothes we gave out would not even necessarily fit any one in the family. This was a moment where I had to trust our missionary. He knew this community better than we did. He knew the purpose of this assignment better. And he knows the big picture of Haiti better. And off we went.
Later, Alexis would explain that the community was just that: a community, and that they share and trade and that some are grateful for whatever they receive and some are just not. That was comforting in some ways, but we resolved as a team later that night that we could do better by organizing our bags differently. More comforting was David, a little boy I met along the way. Though many families did not get an exact match to their needs, my group was able to give a small 1 year old named David a package that worked just fine for him. Even his clothes were a size too big but he loved the knitted doll that came with it and I know he can at least grow into the clothes later. I also chatted with his mom and was able to pray for them. And as I prayed that God would provide for their needs and that David would grow up to be healthy and strong and to know the Lord, I felt a joy in being able to speak that kind of love into their lives. And I made a new friend. David!
Looking back on village ministry, I can say it was tough and took all of us way out of our comfort zone! I mean, it's just not something you do in the states: walking up to someone's door, give a gift and ask them if you can pray for them. I close the door on people like that! But it's different in Haiti. It's not an invasion. It seems welcomed. Still it was exhausting emotionally to see the poverty and feel so helpless.
Along the way, I came across a tiny baby laying in blankets in a Rubbermaid tub. She was crying relentlessly, and I asked the boy who seemed to be caring for her if I could pick her up. He said 'no, she has messed herself.' I now noticed the baby's exploded diaper and contemplated my next move. I looked around for the mother, who wasn't to be found. We were warned about touching bodily fluids, I dared not offer to change her. Every motherly instinct in me wanted to pick her up to comfort her. I turned to our translator (maybe looking for help, an out?), then looked back when the little girl in the torn tan dress (who had been tagging along) swept the baby up (without supporting her head) and held her out to me. I quickly took the baby (to support her head) and cradled her. She stopped crying. Now I was in a messy situation. But I felt nothing but love for that little one. I gave her a smile and then lowered her back into the boys arms. "Is she yours?" I asked him. No, he nodded and layed her back down into the Rubbermaid container. I wondered if they had another diaper to change her into. Maybe the mom had gone for some somewhere. Who knows where?
Later that night in my journal I wrote,
"I am struggling. I miss home. And my kids. I talked to Adelaide tonight and it was really hard..."
Then, I attributed this to just being homesick. Now, I'm realizing that I was not immune to what I saw that day. The little girl with the torn dress, the mama of David, the crying baby. I have seen and worked amidst poverty before and generally have developed a tough exterior for it. But, something about all I saw that day struck me deeply and it made me want to run to my family for comfort. It makes me wonder how God views the poverty of those in the villages. I feel like my lense as an American is so skewed because what I view as a 'need' is usually nothing but a 'want.' I haven't quite unpacked this line of thinking completely in my own mind so I'll put an end to writing about it for now. What I know is that today, God really wasn't silent. I felt a small piece of his aching for those that are truly without; without full shelter, without clothing, without diapers, and possibly without hope in himself. Even now, I feel that aching and I pray...
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