It begins as just another
ordinary day. Well, as ordinary as a day
can be in a Third World country. The feral
dogs roaming the streets had been barking most of the night, the sounds of
their yelps and snarls freely entering the screenless windows, which are always
open in hopes of catching the slightest breeze.
My eyes and throat feel scratchy from the smoke that lay heavy in the
sticky humid air, smoke from the debris burning in the surrounding area. What other options are there when there are
piles of trash lining the streets, and no other way of disposing of it?
I carefully crawl out from
underneath the net covering my bed, thankful for the protection it has provided
during the night. One of my strongest
fears is becoming sick in a foreign country, so I protect myself as best as I
can against mosquitos whose bites could infect me with malaria or Zika or other
strange tropical diseases.
Before joining the rest of
our mission team for the day, I brush my teeth, remembering to use clean bottled
water. Although the guest house where we are
staying does have running water, we have to be careful not to ingest it,
knowing it could be contaminated with bacteria that would surely make us
ill. After being in Haiti for only a few
days, and seeing the level of poverty all around me, I am thankful for running
water at all. And a bed. And electricity. In this country, those things I normally take
for granted are pure luxuries!
We all pile into the back of
the large truck, and venture out into the bustling city of Port-au-Prince. Despite the early hour, the streets are already
filled with vendors selling their bananas and water packets and suspicious-looking
pharmaceuticals; goats and pigs and dogs rummaging through the debris; mothers
lined up at the well, waiting to pump water into their buckets to use for cooking
and bathing their children; adults and children carrying their belongings in
large bins balanced perfectly on top of their heads; mounds of rubble and
broken down buildings that remain, even though it’s been 6 years since the devastating
earthquake that destroyed their city; and unbelievable traffic, cars and trucks
and motorcycles and bicycles and colorful “tap-taps” erratically zipping in and
out of imaginary lanes at dangerously high speeds, miraculously avoiding the brave
pedestrians.
At home in the U.S., if I need
something, or even if I don’t, I simply drive my air-conditioned SUV through my
tree-lined suburban neighborhood to the local super center. A quiet, predictable journey there and
back. And if I use the self-checkout
while I’m there, I may not ever speak to a single person.
So here in Haiti my mind has
trouble processing all of the sights and sounds and smells that are simultaneously
assaulting my uninitiated senses. It’s
shocking and slightly traumatizing. It’s
almost impossible to imagine that for the people who live here, this mass of
humanity is normal. For them, this is
another ordinary day. A day of trying to
survive. Of trying to eek out a living
and feed their families. (1) Of living in
constant danger of disease, crime, and exposure to the elements.
A few miles outside of the
city we turn into a large gated property overlooking the gorgeous blue-green waters
of the Caribbean Sea. We are here to
meet and serve alongside an amazing ministry
that uses soccer as a tool to reach children and their families in the
community.
It makes sense, really . . .
a few days ago we had interviewed over 150 children for a sponsorship
program. One of the questions we asked each
child was, “What is your favorite activity?”
Every boy, without exception, had exactly the same answer: Foutbòl!
I freely admit that I am not
a sports fan. As I often say, “I may
have many talents, but athletic ability is not one of them.” Fortunately, however, there are other ways to
be involved today than just playing soccer.
In partnership with a world food organization,
every child who participates in this sports ministry – all 1,300 of them! - is
served a meal when they arrive.
Equipped
with a tiny “kitchen”, which is really just a free-standing building the size
of a closet with no electricity or running water, a large pot, a serving spoon, and an open fire, the cook
prepares rice and beans for the children.
What a joy to serve bowls of
food to these hungry children! I’m sure
their coaches reminded them as they stood in line, but almost every child, as I
passed them their bowls said sincerely, Mèsi! Thank you!
When they were finished, they handed their
bowls to the clean-up crew, who scraped, washed and rinsed the bowls in their
basins of hand-pumped cold water. The
guys who scraped the remains had an easy job . . . most of those bowls were licked
clean, with not one grain of rice remaining!
One teeny little guy with
arms like twigs, had been brought via public transportation from a nearby
orphanage. The director there had
practically begged this ministry to allow their children to participate,
knowing that it would mean some nutritious food, exercise, and social
interaction. Earlier in the week our
team had visited an orphanage, and saw first-hand that the only place to play
outside was a small concrete courtyard, barely large enough for all of the children
to stand, much less play. Absolutely
these orphaned children needed fresh air and room to run! They were so small and under-nourished,
however, that it would have been impossible to pair them with children their
own age. So the 8-10 year olds from the
orphanage played on the team with the 4-6 year olds . . . and sadly, they fit
right in!
So here is this little 9-year-old-the-size-of-a-4-year
old, obviously one of the puny kids from the orphanage, standing in front of me
asking for a bowl of food. I know that
his team has already come through the line, and I had been given strict
instructions not to hand out second servings.
So I ask him, as gently as possible if he had eaten already. T'ou manje deja? He looks at me with total
innocence and shakes his head no.
Unfortunately, the Haitian women serving alongside me notice the tell-tale
pieces of rice still sticking to his lips, and begin to reprimand him – whether
for coming through the line again or for lying, I don’t know. I barely understand a word of Creole, but their
tone is clear, and this little boy is in trouble.
He starts to cry, deep guttural
sobs, and my daughter instinctively reaches to pick him up and comfort him,
ignoring the tears and snot that are running down his face and onto her
arm. Shhhh, she whispers to him, rocking
him and attempting to comfort him. He
just keeps crying, over and over again, Mwen grangou! I’m hungry!
My whole life, I have heard
of “all those starving children in the world,” but today I saw him. I touched him and held him and saw his
tears. I saw his scrawny limbs and felt
his bony ribs. It was devastating! Even if I could speak his language, however, what
could I possibly say to this hungry little boy in front of me? God loves you?
What does that even mean to a starving child? Is it even true?
I thought I was coming on this
mission trip to share the love of God with the people of Haiti. I even told my friends and family that’s why
we were going! But now, I realize the naiveté
of that goal. Even if I could speak the
language, how do I tell the woman with the black eye, most likely the result of
domestic violence, All things work together for good? What do I say to the young man who wants to
be a doctor, but instead of going to school, he is practically illiterate
because he spends his days helping his father care for their goats and tend
their meager plot of land?(2) Delight
yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart?
I hear a kid’s deep wracking
cough that is most likely tuberculosis, but what can I do? The hospitals are all closed because the
doctors and nurses are on strike. And
even if medical care was available, the family can’t possibly afford the
treatment. And how would they get there
anyway? On their donkey? Can I really judge his parents for taking their
son to the witch doctor, who uses voodoo to “beat the illness from his body?” What would I say them? God is good and has a
wonderful plan for your life?
When we visited the orphanage
a few days ago, I held an infant whose mother had died in childbirth, and whose
father brought her to the orphanage with her umbilical cord still
attached. Utterly unwanted and abandoned. As I held that sweet baby, I never even considered malaria or Zika or typhoid or HIV. All I could do was kiss her as tenderly as I would have my own child,
and sing over and over into her tiny ear, Jezi renmen ou. Jesus loves you. I want
her to know it and remember it and feel it.
Unfortunately, I know the reality of her situation.
She will most likely spend years, if not her entire childhood, right
there in that cold, impersonal orphanage. (3)
Without a family. Without anyone
to love her. Without the security and
attachment and hope that comes from having a mother and father who are fully committed
to her. Even if she remembers the words,
how can she possibly understand Jezi renmen ou? What does it mean to her?
In spite of the desperate, unimaginable
hardships and the daily struggle for survival, God’s Word is still true. I know it is!
His love is still real. His
promises are every bit as applicable for the destitute people in Haiti as they
are for the affluent people in the United States.
If I could speak their Creole,
or if these precious people of Haiti could understand my English, here is what
I would say:
We are all broken, my
friends. It’s just that sometimes our
brokenness looks different. Your brokenness
is visible and obvious and heartbreakingly transparent. My brokenness, though I have perfected the
art of hiding it, is every bit as tragic and painful. I won’t pretend to understand what it is like
to live in poverty, every day a struggle for survival. But my life of privilege does not make me
immune to brokenness. I understand all
too well what it means to live in darkness, paralyzed by fear and anxiety and
guilt. Trapped in my sin.
God is the Healer. He is the One who can restore and renew and
rebuild what the enemy seeks to destroy.
He is the One who sacrificed His own son in our place, so that we might
find joy and hope and purpose. Those can
only be found in Him! The abundance of
my possessions and financial security can never give me joy, just as the
desperation of your poverty can never steal your joy. Our God is the author and source of our hope,
and once we have found true hope in Him, nothing and no one and no
circumstances can ever take that away.
We are brothers and sisters
in Christ, you and I. When I see you standing in your little rural church, both
arms raised in praise to God, my heart soars right alongside yours! I may not understand your words, but God
does!
When you weep, my heart
mourns with you. When your child is
starving or suffering from a preventable disease; when your family is broken
and when babies are abandoned; when your dreams for the future are crushed
under the weight of reality . . . I see your tears. And more importantly, God sees your
tears! He counts them. Not one of them is wasted.
Absolutely, I can say to you,
with full confidence and assurance and conviction, Bondye renmen ou. God
loves you. And you can remind me, when I
am so prone to forget, that God loves me too.
Oh, how we need to encourage one another with frequent reminders of that
beautiful truth.
Long after my visit to Haiti
is over and I have returned to the familiar world I know, I can continue to pray
for you. I can pray that, even in your dire
circumstances and sparse resources, your faith would be strengthened. That He would dwell richly in your hearts,
and that you would be able to comprehend the riches of His love for you. (4)
And guess what? That’s exactly the same prayer that I need
from you! That my faith would be
strengthened! Not complacent in my
comfortable and convenient life, but fully dependent upon Him. Trusting fully in His sufficiency.
Once we truly understand the
joy and hope and freedom that can be found in Christ; once we experience abundant
life that can only be found in Him – a life that has nothing to do with our
physical circumstances; once our hearts are alive and fully surrendered to Him
. . . we will never be the same.
When Christ opens our eyes,
we will never see the same. When He breathes
life into our hearts, we will never feel the same. His love and His truth and His promises –
they change everything. In Christ, our
lives have new meaning and purpose. True
joy and hope and peace and freedom.
Once we comprehend God’s incredible
love for us and all that He has given us in Christ, never again will we be the
same. Never again will we have “another
ordinary day.”
1.
The
unemployment rate in Haiti is more than 70%.
The average annual income is a mere $400 per year (compared with $33,000
in the United States). It is the poorest
country in the Western Hemisphere.
2.
Over
50% of the population in Haiti is illiterate.
3.
Due
to violence, AIDS, and maternal mortality rate, 15% of all children are orphaned
or abandoned – the highest percentage of orphans in the Western Hemisphere. Of the estimated 750,000 orphans in Haiti,
less than 150 were adopted last year.
4.
For
this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven
and on earth derives its name, that He would grant you, according to the riches
of His glory, to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner
man, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; and that you, being
rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what
is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ
which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fullness of
God. – Ephesians 3:14 - 19
