Back in Haiti

As we approached the descent into the Port Au Prince airport I looked over at the elderly Haitian woman sitting next to me. She was staring at the airplane's small TV screen hanging above our seats. The silent screen flashed clips from various NBC TV shows. I wondered what she thought of Americans.  At the same time I felt embarrassed to be one - at least the TV version of one.  Do we really need another vampire show?   The promo of blood sucking romance ends and Jay Leno comes on the small screen, doing his two-bit, phoned in version of comedy. I mock it all my head to try to mentally distance myself from, who the TV depicts us as.  Maybe it was guilt.  We were about to descend into a land of poverty and destruction while the screen, hanging above us, portrays extravagance and useless faux entertainment as a projected lifestyle.  I thought about our culture and I realized that I too have become what I hate.  As I shoved my empty $4 Starbucks cup, into the seat pocket in front of me and tucked away my copy of Bon Appetite magazine into my bag...the irony was not lost on me. We’re leaving a world of comfort and luxury and depression and entering a world of poverty. But joy is what I see at the tiny orphanage in Coix de Boutique, Haiti I’m heading to.  Despite the awful living conditions (and make no mistake these kids need help), there is joy.
 

  Entering the streets of Haiti from the airport is like a scene in a movie where they take you out of the tranquil setting to an era before, when it was the wild west. As we leave the airport we turn into the chaos that is Port au Prince. It's like a self- governed anarchy of trucks, motorcycles and brightly painted tap taps. Everyone is sharing a two lane road like the finale in musical chairs; by pushing each other out of the way. 


When we get to our project I learn my fate for the next few days. It will be tying rebar on a plywood laden roof. Side by side with Haitian men our team of Americans dives in. Right away I feel resistance. I know these Haitian workers are much more interested in the tools we brought than our actual help. But, we jumped in without hesitation. There is a dichotomy on the roof top. There are workers that are being paid to be there and workers that paid to be there. And, I wondered if they see us as a threat to their jobs. They are paid by the day and our contribution is cutting that pay. But this job is about helping. And the task is to help our friends finish their house not further the employment of strangers.The Haitian boy’s laughter makes me smirk as I pick out quick phrases of their Creole, referring to "blahs" and "blancs". Its an expression or slang derived from French for a white person but beyond that, more explicitly in Creole, it means a foreigner.

 

I wondered about my purpose of being there.  It’s something I struggle with on every trip.  Am I invading?  Am I making a difference?  Its strange, when I'm in Haiti, amongst the chaos, I always feel peace.  But, despite the joy and peace I feel the obvious fact is, there is an overwhelming abundance of poverty and destruction.   And I know a week and a pair of work gloves isn’t going to fix that.  So why did I come?  There must be a reason.  I search back to past trips and one memory is still strong.  It was my first time in Haiti.  I was at the orphanage and our supplies didn’t show up so we were filling in where we could. As I walked across the grounds, a small child walked towards me crying.  I scooped him up instinctively.   I held him close and I tried to soothe him like I would my own son.  As I comforted him I realized one thing….I was not there to rebuild walls or dig, I was there to serve. That child needed  parental love at that minute and I happened to be there; walking his way. That boy’s name is Clarence and my wife and I now sponsor him and his twin sister Clara. 

To serve; I remind myself that’s why I am there. That’s why I am tying rebar on a roof under the hot Haitian sun.  Our Haitian friend Shirley, who has given so much to take care of the orphanage, needs a home for her and her husband.  We are there to help build it.  And we are there not as Americans, but as Christians.  And as Christians; we are taught to serve.  (Its something we struggle with in America.)  On the roof, we work hard, we take in the Haitian workers' instructions and stay on the rooftop side by side.  On day two, when we show back up, the dynamic has changed. We’re greeted with handshakes and fist bumps and most importantly smiles from the workers.  We start out again working and this time we work together like friends with a common goal; to finish this roof. The workers are there as their job and we are there to help our friend.  We work together.

There's more than just a house to be built though. We are there to see the kids. These orphaned children, who have touched our lives. On day three I am at the orphanage.  But our work is cut short. The sweltering heat has been softened by low hanging dark gray clouds. They opened up and poured down rain on us. We ran for shelter into a small building used for storage.  We are crammed in a room with excited kids watching the rain. 

The orphanage has an interesting dynamic.  It’s filled not just with kids who live there but neighborhood kids that walk over and the spend the day there.  As the rain pours down the excitement grows.   First, the kids begin to sing.  It grows louder and louder and then they begin to dance.  Someone opens a plastic storage bin and inside there are tons of art and craft supplies.  Within minutes all the kids are donning colorful hats, headbands and masks made from pipe cleaners.   Its chaos and fun and joy while 40 days worth of rain empties from the Caribbean sky above. 

Finally, the rain subsides.  I have been holding a young, scared child for a while.  He is maybe 2 years old.  Throughout the gathering I have been trying to get him to smile.  But I get nothing.  Now the rain has stopped and I walk out to the grounds, holding him, and find a dry seat under the gazebo.  I looked at him again and realize he is asleep in my arms.  So I sat there, held him, and watched the water drip off the edges of the roof.  Suddenly another kid, maybe 7 or 8 walks up and begins to take the child from my arms. I relent and hand over the sleeping baby to who I am guessing is his brother.  He is one of the neighborhood kids and its time to go home.  Maybe it was the break in the rain or dinner time perhaps, as there are no streetlamps signaling a curfew….just instinct.  The rain had become a drizzle.  I got up and watched them walk away.  The young child was sleeping on his brother’s shoulder as they head home before dark.  That is love I think to myself. Every trip I take, I bring home an image engrained in my mind that summarizes my visit.  That is my picture.  This young child as he carried another child down a lonely muddy road in the light rain.  It’s a picture of obedience, of nurturing and of love.

 On the last day at the orphanage we had a feast.  It’s our tradition.  We get chicken or a goat and salad, rice and vegetables and a cake.  Then we feast.  Well, the kids feast and we serve them.  It’s one of my favorite days each trip.  Though, it’s bittersweet.  It always reminds me of how Christ taught us to serve.  How he got down on his knees and washed his friend’s feet.  He taught us the best way we can learn, by example. 

 
And so we serve, we feed and we play.  The kids have huge smiles on their cake stained faces scraping their plates clean.  Of all the work that gets done, the sweat and the tools I think maybe the feast is the most appreciated.  It’s symbiotic and it is relational.  We show these kids they matter and we love them.  Then, the joy they bring us, in return, teaches us so much about God’s love.  It’s a feeling that can get lost in a world back home of Starbucks and bad vampire TV shows.  But we take some home and we are better for it.

DC