A Death in Lagossette

(photos by Wilson Chery)

Late afternoon today, I slipped on my best black formal dress and my only heels.  From my house I could hear the crowd in the street waiting to leave, and wails rising above the voices as the hearse begins to move slowly down the road. Wilson pulled up in front of the house and beeped the moto horn to let me know he was ready to leave.  With a quick kiss to the kids, I grabbed tissues and my umbrella and hurried out the door.  I hopped on the back of the moto, adjusting my skirt to accommodate as modest a ride as possible.  I am not yet used to skirts on motercycles, and certainly not formal dresses, but I am trying to jump into cultural norms here in Haiti.  Riding a moto to a funeral when no other ride is available is one such occasion to dive in deep.

Wilson maneuvers out the gate, down the driveway and into the heart of Lagossette where a sea of mourners are starting the procession to the the funeral in a neighboring town.  Already the scene is surreal and foreign to me with SUV's, Land Rovers, open trucks, tap-taps, and even a repurposed school bus, spilling over with people going to honor the life of Tante Tata (Aunt Tata).  Nearly everyone, save the local school children in their navy bottoms with red and white checkered shirts, wear black or white and are dressed in their very best.  Men in formal suits, women with freshly styled hair, stockings, hats, jewelry, and handkerchieves in hand, or wiping cheeks, make their way to the waiting vehicles.  The sounds of raw sorrow permeate the scene and something deep and mournful lodges in my chest.  My community grieves.

The news came early on Monday when Magalie arrived late for work with tear-stained cheeks, that Gran Tata (Grandma Tata), her grandmother, had died.  Even those who had no direct relation to her referred to her at Tante (Aunt) Tata because she loved whether you were her own blood or not.  Milouse stood in my kitchen the next morning and paused with hands dripping over the dishpan to say, "she was much loved by many because she loved so many, so much".  And so started the week of mourning and remembrance for one "much loved" from Lagossette.

No expense was spared for the funeral of Gran Tata.  Her body was taken to the morgue, embalmed and placed in an elaborate casket.  Though the family had little to spend they scraped up all that was needed for the proper honor due their matriarch.  Throughout the week everyone in town prepared for today's funeral.  Money was earned or borrowed for funeral-appropriate clothes, tears flowed with remembrance, and last night the wake lasted for hours as the many who loved her paid tribute to her life and celebrated hard.  The music was like a dance party through the night, praising Bondye (God) for her life and comforting those afflicted with sorrow.

The ride to the church is short, but is full of one-way traffic, unlike most days on the rural country road.  Motos race and challenge one another for placement on the smooth outer edge of the road.  We wait for a tractor with 6 wagons loads of sugar cane following behind like a wobbly train.  It takes a wide corner ahead of us and the waiting motos line up to follow and then pass.  They avoid fresh puddles from this afternoon's rain, preserving the sharp dress pants and finely shoed feet and the we arrive at the site of interment.


The crowd is already surging into the church when we get there.  Wilson disappears into the crowd to find his family and  I find friends, Dan and Holly.  Dan and Holly have two Nannies who call Tante Tata "Mom" and they are here to support them as well as the many others we know who are affected by this loss.

The church is made of simple block construction with tin roof but is a larger church than many around.  Varnished boards make up benches for most of the sanctuary and on the platform a plain podium sits with the items typical of a Catholic church sanctuary, all in unadorned form.  Unhindered arched widows, with shutters aside, allow the clouded light into the now packed space.

We squeeze, side by side, onto a bench that had been brought in from the school to accommodate the crowded church.  Lagossette school kids stand in the isles as no more seating is available.  Even with a light breeze from the open door-way, sweat leaves my hairline and slides down my neck, and past my color bone.  My dress feels too clingy, too low, too constricting and I re-adjust uncomfortably.  My sticky palms belie my discomfort.  I do not know how to predict what will happen next and my unfamiliar surroundings draw my shoulder muscles up in tension.

Even before the service starts, the wailing has returned.  Above the din of voices, the calls of sorrow rise and fall in painful cadence.  Woman flail and fall against the bodies of those bearing their weight of grief.  People around us stand up to better see who laments next, and then sit again when satisfied with the information gleaned.

Next the band starts up, bass strings and drums leaning into the tune and the choir rises.  The music is rousing and joyful and stands in odd contrast to the wails and cries of the daughters grieving before their mother's closed casket.

The priest prays, exhorts, preaches.  He reads the passage of the Bible in Matthew 25 about who will enter the kingdom of God.  It talks about those who do and do not attend to Jesus when is hungry, thirsty, a stranger, in need of clothes, sick, or in prison and that when we take care of the needs of "the least of these" with these needs, we are taking care of Jesus.  Taking care of these is a mark of those who belong to God's eternal kingdom, and Tante Tata did those things for many, many people around her in her little village of Lagossette, and beyond.

There is eulogy and more singing, and the wailing continues to rise.  The sounds of sorrow now include men's cries, as well.

Sitting in that simple Catholic church I feel completely bewildered.  The is so much noise and commotion, so much loud proclamation of grief.  The priest's voice carries on through the sighs and cries as if he is preaching a Sunday morning sermon, without pause or distraction. My mind is wildly bent on trying to focus on the meaning of the Creole words methodically continuing over the loudspeaker, the rising and falling of the choir and their voices, and the cries of friends I know, who grieve so gravely, so freely, so fiercely.  My mouth feels stale and I must swallow back the ocean of empathy lest my cry join those climbing up and through the tin roof above.  One moment I feel as if I might giggle at the absurdity and then another wave of sorrow washes up and over my pounding heart.  My village grieves on for one who "loved well and loved many" and the weight is enormous.

The priest is now dispersing incense over the casket and saying final prayers, as the cries reach their final pitch.  Daughters and son, grandchildren, and others now sorrow in earnest, knowing the body of their beloved will soon be laid to rest in the cemetery outside the doors of the church. The spicy smoke of the incense wafts throughout the large room.  It constricts in my throat and catches the lump of sadness more decisively.  Water rims my eyes threatening to flood their lidded banks.  I look up at 2x4's and the constant wave of tin that makes up the roof in order to diffuse my own emotions and attempt to distance my mind from the pressing sorrow around me.  I do not wish to wail and sorrow as those who love Tante Tata.  I do not want to fall and be held and carried away in my grief, I do not want to lose control in the ocean of tears where waves of grief control.  I want to run from this deep place where my own rawness and nakedness threatens to become exposed.

Relief comes as the crowd begins to rise and disperse through the open doorways at the side and back of the sanctuary.  The mass of misery now shuffles past.  For those whose sorrow is too heavy, they move past, half conscious.  They are supported by the arms of loved ones girding up from around the middle and under limp arms.  They are wrapped in the love and support of those who tend to them in their moments of greatest weakness.  .  They are carried along when they are too frail to go on.  The lean on each other  when they cannot stand alone.  They are held with the strength of their community, and I realize that though my culture's way of grieving is not the same, the result is.

In both places there is a time and place for saying good-bye and for great sorrow.  There are expected behaviors and customs.  The house of God and the word of God are places and sources of great comfort and truth and the community is there to hold us in our times of need.

I have now made my way into the courtyard in front of the church.  The marching band is playing as the casket is carried into the graveyard and the guests mill around giving hugs and condolences.  In the vastness of this crowd, I find myself standing next to Milouse.  She has quiet tears in her eyes and I hug her close while she wipes her nose.  "She was much loved by many, because she loved many, so much."  I feel her sadness and it draws us close to one another in a shared experience of grief.

The funeral is ending.  On the ride home I am settled by the steadfastness of the mountains around, the rain in the distance, the palms slender upward reach, the coolness of the breeze against my bare arms -- I thank God for these little gifts.  I realize that I am becoming part of this foreign place and these people I can slowly claim as mine.  I am learning to call Haiti home, and the Lord willing, will continue to learn from her people.

A Birthday Outing to a Palace

For Elijah 8th birthday he requested we go to visit the San Souci Palace at the base of the mountain that houses the more famous Citadel.  The Palace (and Citadel) are part of a World Heritage Site and as expected, are truly remarkable places to visit.

An article from Wikipedia explains a bit more about San Souci and it's history:

"The Sans-Souci Palace was the royal residence of King Henri I (better known as Henri Christophe) of Haiti, Queen Marie-Louise and their two daughters. It was the most important of nine palaces built by the king, as well as fifteen châteaux, numerous forts, and sprawling summer homes on his twenty plantations.^[1] Construction of the palace started in 1810 and was completed in 1813. It is located in the town ofMilot, Nord Department. Its name translated from French means "carefree."

Before the construction of Sans-Souci, Milot was a French plantation that Christophe managed for a period during the Haitian Revolution.^[2]Many of Henri Christophe's contemporaries noted his ruthlessness, and it is unknown how many laborers died during the palace's construction. Under his reign, the palace was the site of opulent feasts and dances. It had immense gardens, artificial springs, and a system of waterworks. Though Sans-Souci is now an empty ruin, at the time its splendor was noted by many foreign visitors. One American physician remarked that it had "the reputation of having been one of the most magnificent edifices of the West Indies."^[3]

The impressiveness of Sans-Souci was part of Henri Christophe's program to demonstrate to foreigners, particularly Europeans and Americans, the power and capability of the black race. The African pride in the construction of the king's palace was captured by the comment of his advisor, Pompée Valentin Vastey (Baron Valentin de Vastey), who said that the palace and its nearby church, "erected by descendants of Africans, show that we have not lost the architectural taste and genius of our ancestors who covered Ethiopia, Egypt, Carthage, and old Spain with their superb monuments."^[4] However, Christophe's reign drew heavily on European monarchical signs of prestige. He established a hereditary nobility, along with coats of arms and prescribed ceremonial dress.

A severe earthquake in 1842 destroyed a considerable part of the palace and devastated the nearby city of Cap-Haïtien; the palace was never rebuilt. The palace (before its destruction) was acknowledged by many to be the Caribbean equivalent of the Palace of Versailles in France.

UNESCO designated it—and the Citadelle—World Heritage Sites in 1982."

(To visit the full article, go to:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sans-Souci_Palace)







At the base of the palace stands Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Church.

Built in 1804, and one of the oldest churches in Haiti, this Catholic Church is still very much in use.  Despite its dilapidated roof, it holds Sunday Mass each week at 6:00 AM.  It's 75' roof shows obvious signs of decay but is beautiful nonetheless.  The sanctuary space is befit with simple wood benches along more ornate original features.  Statues of icons stand about the knave, as one might expect in a Catholic church.

The dome from below.

Following our tour of the Basilica, we continued on to the palace.  What a wonder this place must have been before it's demise!  Looting and earthquake have mostly ravaged the grandeur of what once was but there are still hints of the colors and architecture that would have made this place so very grand.

The view from the back (which is presently the main entrance) to the palace of the king.

Stairway leading to the main living quarters of the king and his nobles.

A view from the front entrance of the palace.

One of many guard towers along the perimeter with Natalie and Rose keeping careful watch.

A view of the mountainside from within the queen's palace.

Noah and Elijah posing in the queen's palace ruins.

The view of the main palace ruins includes the meeting tree that was original to the grounds.

A view of the basilica dome from the palace grounds.

Should one be interested in seeing some of the spectacular historical sites without doing the full Citadel climb and tour, this visit to the Basilica and palace is well worth your time.

Puppy Love

Last week we were able to make good on a promise we made the boys before moving to Haiti.

We got a dog!  

A puppy, to be exact.

After much work done by the Stoleberg's (who got the female sibling to our pup), and the servitude of some dear volunteers (who would certainly not describe themselves as dog people), our 11 week Boxer-Shepherd mix flew from FL to Haiti.  

And he is adored!

Rose, with some hesitancy, and a few shrill shrieks when the puppy gets too playful…

Natalie will some assertive parenting and caregiving…

Noah, with pride and patience…

...and Elijah,

 with gentleness and delight.

The first day we had a family meeting for the important naming ceremony of the dog.

I wanted something meaningful, like some beautiful word in French or Greek.  Kirk wanted a one-syllable name that would be easy to call from the door.  Natalie wanted "Tori" (her primary pre-school teacher here at Children of the Promise), Rose just wanted to be in whatever action was taking place in the naming ceremony, and Noah and Elijah jostled around Froto and Jack, finally settling on Jack because "Captain Jack Sparrow" seemed a fitting name for a dog in the Carribean.  We'll try to stick with Jack, for short.

The purpose of the dog(s) is to act as both as a family pet, and an additional guard dog for our compound.  So far he shows very little capacity for viscousness as the only thing he has chased is a mother hen who was hunting and pecking with her chicks in the shrubs around our yard.  Needless to say, Jack got schooled.

But "purpose" aside, I love having this little pup in the house because of what it brings out in each of my kids.  While this will come to no surprise to those who love dogs, I really enjoy seeing new parts of the kids' personalities mature.

Rose is getting past hesitancy to bravely pet and command the dog.  She will stop her play to lay her cheek level with Jack's snoot and gently pet the top of his head.  She feels so grown up and loving and gives me a play by play of her actions and Jack's reactions.

Natalie is taking new ownership for caregiving with Jack. She asks to take him for multiple walks a day and wants him to stay with her while she plays.  I think she likes the feeling of companionship and protection.

Elijah gets annoyed by having to pitch in when Jack doesn't cooperate, but his heart swells with greater loving for this animal and he simply cannot get past all the puppy cuteness in that one little package.

Noah, is rising to the occasion of being responsible for the dog.  He takes time to pet and talk to him, and feels critical of anyone whom he perceives as mistreating Jack.

While there are some annoying parts to caregiving, let's just leave this blog post being cute. 

Welcome to the family, Jack.

Feeding the Doctor

"Mesi, Miss" (thank you, Miss) he says, handing back his empty plate and patting his stomach, grinning.  He says it was "enpil manje" (a lot of food), and looks pleased as he heads back out the kitchen door.  I am glad for him to have enough to eat today, because I remember a day Camille did not.

A couple of weeks after he had started working for us, I happened to see Camille as I looked out the window, sometime early afternoon.  Something was off.  He was pushing a wheelbarrow load of rocks down the sidewalk and every few steps he would stop and take a short break.  He seemed to look around to see if anyone had noticed and then continued on a few steps before stopping again.  Kirk was heating up a leftover container of spaghetti in the microwave, and I said to him, "Something is not right.  I don't think he has the strength to work.  He seems weak."  Kirk divided the spaghetti he was going to eat onto two plates, added some bread and stepped out to the front porch to eat.  He invited Camille to join him.

A few minutes into conversation Kirk asked him about what he usually eats in a given week.  He admitted he often eats just a package of crackers for breakfast, and does not have money to eat much, if anything, during the day while  at school.  He hopes for an evening meal, but does not always get one. The plate of spaghetti he was holding was the largest serving he had eaten since Wednesday of that week.

There are days he does not eat.  

There are days he does not know when he will next eat.   

 That day, while we took our time getting up for day, chose and ate breakfast, had morning snacks with the kids, decided among the choices for lunch and ate; that day while the kids munched and spilled Domincan sandwich cookies in the yard as they biked and played … a malnourished teen moved wheelbarrow loads of rock around our yard without complaint.

It is one thing to know there is hunger in the world.  It is another to have hunger taking the vitality of a young man, right before you; to look into his friendly eyes knowing the gnaw of need in his gut.

Camille sometimes goes to school hungry, listens to lectures and lessons, hungry; studies for exams and takes tests, hungry.

Can you imagine being able to sit through class or concentrate on an assignment as your stomach rolls and growls it's need for nourishment?  I don't know if I can even remember a time I have been so famished or desperate.   I certainly never need worry if I will eat again between now and lunch o'clock.  I may grouse about what I might have to eat, but never if.

Camille worries about "if", because he is a malnourished child.

Camille listening to Natalie

At 17, he has already lived a rich and hard life, here in rural Lagossette village.  He is the youngest of many.  His father, an old man for Haiti, died before Christmas of this year, after prolonged heart trouble.  His mother has some work here at the creche but it is little money to pay for food for her family and a young man of 17 may not want to be a burden on his widowed mother.  And so, despite having family who loves him, he is already having to become responsible for himself.  He stays in town during the week so he does not have to pay for travel back and forth to school each day, and comes home on the week-ends.  He is well liked by buddies in the village.  He is proud to say he is a good student, and after some initial trouble after the death of his father, has pulled his marks back up.  He is gentle, respectful, and funny, a spirited soccer player, and applies himself to the tasks given him.  He takes time to let Natalie and Rose tell him important things.

Others have noticed his potential as well. Someone is helping to pay for him to attend high school.  In Haiti, there are very few "public" schools, though some "sponsorship ones" and if you want to go to school, you have to have the money up front.  Many families cannot afford education, especially not past primary school, but Camille is bright and motivated, despite what might seem like insurmountable challenges.  His eyes sparkle when he speaks of his dreams of being a cardiologist.  He is willing to work hard to chase his dream, no matter how elusive it might seem from one observing from the outside.

At the beginning of the school year, my husband Kirk went with him to the school to pay the fees.  Not long afterward, Camille returned and asked Kirk if he could work on Saturdays to pay for food and transportation.  Going to school is great, but not if you can't get there or can't eat.  There are many people in need of work and plenty who ask for it, but somehow Kirk felt compelled to find something for this young man to do.

So he comes.  Saturday mornings he arrives at 8:00 AM and cheerfully does whatever jobs are assigned -- raking leaves, washing a vehicle, planting seeds, hauling bricks, picking up stones… a day's work and he earns enough to buy a fast food meal in the States with a little change to spare -- that has to last him for a week of transportation and whatever else he may need or want.  One serving of street food will cost him 1/5 of his earnings.  He is grateful.  He believes the job is a privilege and he works hard.

I could say it a million times, "there are no easy answers".  I wish I could know what the right thing is for helping Camille and so many like him, but all I can think to do is be his friend.  While I can't (and shouldn't) ensure he eat enough every day, I can when he's here.  I make him try out my cooking, eat the extra eggs or toast that have been made for breakfast, compare Haitian and American mamba (peanut butter) or sample a protein shake.  He is too proud to ask, but he is grateful when something is given to him.  When we sit down for lunch I somehow always have a spare portion and have him come on in to try it out.

He might be on to me, but for whatever reason God is onto him.  In his wisdom and goodness, God has willed our paths to meet, even if it is only to feed the doctor for today.  And some day, when Camille becomes a Cardiologist and is serving people who struggle with heart issues like his father did, I will take joy in knowing God used us in this small way in Camille's life journey and blessed us along the way.




(Camille did give permission for me to use his photos and tell his story.)

Jesus In a Minivan (And Other Unlikely Places to find a King)

I ran to the window and peered through the lace curtains to watch Jesus drive away in his minivan, "TX" license plates fading from view.

Only moments before he had stood at the end of the neighbor's driveway as his wife sorted through piles of pink and lavender baby clothes.  In just a flash of time, a caramel-skinned child, ran past him, her arms flung back in the delight of her dash down the driveway towards the freedom of the street.  He turned to follow her.

Fright lodged in my throat as I noticed the speeding car coming down the road.  Parked along the curb, the man's minivan blocked his view of the on-coming vehicle, but at the last minute he spotted it, turned, sprinted, and snatched his daughter from the street.

His face beamed.

He scooped her up high, laughing, tossing her, delighting in his prize, and she returned his joy with her own giggles and a toss of her black hair, unaware of the failed snatch of death just beyond her next footstep.  Her daddy did not scold or shame, but carried her in his proud arms, eyes twinkling with triumph.  He buckled her into her car seat and they were gone, but my heart was full of gratitude for what God had allowed me to witness.  Just like the Daddy, Jesus snatched us from peril and rejoiced in having done so!  I can imagine how his eyes twinkle and dance in the triumph of moment.

Jesus shows up in the most unexpected places, such as as the neighbor's garage sale last summer.  And tonight as the clock nears midnight, I am awaiting the celebration of Christmas Day when we commemorate the birth of our Savior in an unlikely time and place.

Living here in Haiti I have a great imagination for what it could have been like for Jesus to have been born to poor, common, rural folks.  No fanfare, no royal clothes or decrees, perhaps just a simple stick shelter off the side of the house with a laboring woman and a common birth.  I can imagine the cows and goats had been walked home for the evening and were standing nearby lending warmth and scent to the scene.  And here the Savior of the world quietly enters into humanity; Emanuel - God With Us.  He identifies with folks who are nobody to the world, from an unimportant tribe, and who exist in the lower strata of society, in order to let us know what is most important to him and that his values are going to look different than what we might expect.

I am pierced with the realization that I am frequently looking in the wrong places for the Christ.  I am more comfortable thinking about the bright star and angel chorus than the feeding trough and strips of cloth.  I think I would have checked out the palace first, just as the wise men from the East did in their search for the one prophesied about.  I am more comfortable thanking God for the extensive "blessings" in my life rather than thinking about how I might change my list of "needs" to better appropriate resources to those who live "without".

It might be a week early for resolutions but during this next year, I want to be on the watch for Jesus.  Where will I see and experience his moving in and around my life?  Will Jesus show up in an outdated minivan?  On the back of a ragged horse or a road-weary moto?  And in which ways will I grow in being able to anticipate where he might be found?

If you'd be willing to pray for me, please pray that God would unsettle my clinging to what is comfortable and set me free to see him and follow him wherever he leads in this Haiti adventure.

Joyful Waiting

When I was little, we lived in southern Ontario, far from grandparents in MN.  Every other year my Grandpa and Grandma Breems would come to visit at Christmas.  There was so much excitement for their arrival.  We knew when they came there would hugs through thick, cold, winter coats, kisses and smiles, Christmas presents handed in to place under the tree and a big box of groceries to treat the family with exotic items like Bugles, orange jell-o, and Honeycomb cereal -- things out of budget for my parent's income at the time.

I would know ahead of time they were coming and as the weeks of advent passed and the Christmas tree was placed in it's stand and brightly strung, Christmas carols were sung in church and at programs, snow piled high, and the frost grew on the windows, I waited.  I waited in eager anticipation for their coming.  Every day I would ask how many more days before they arrived, and time seemed so slow.  I don't think I ever doubted they would come.  My parents said they were coming and I believed that, but the waiting felt like long-suffering in child time.

And then the day would arrive.  My mom would say, "they'll be here in the morning" and then, "in four hours, and then "2" and then "any time now", and then I would flop across the arm chair near the living room windows or sit by the heat register in front of the lower panes and press my nose into the frost, perhaps scrape a patch free to see through or clear it with my warm breath before watching the crystals re-form around the open circle.  "How much longer…."
"Any time now…."

A car would come to the corner and look as if they might proceed down our dead end block, and then turn, or proceed and turn too early in a neighbors driveway.  A sparrow would land in the bare bushes in front of the house hopping from branch to branch looking for berries and then dash away looking elsewhere.  A dog might lope across the yard leaving light tracks in the deepening snow and then a sudden lightness would ignite the top of my stomach, a thrill to shorten my breath and someone would yell out, "they're here! Grandpa and Grandma are here!!!"  And the rush to the entry to be the first to open the door, the first to yell out in pure joy, the first to hug tight and see Grandma's blue eyes glisten with happy tears and Grandpa's gentle smile.  All the waiting gone in a flash and only joy and delight in seeing one so longed for.  My stomach tightens with the remembrance of all of those feelings so long ago!

"Presentation of Jesus" by Ron DiCianni

In church this morning Pastor Dan preached about Simeon and Anna and how they waited to meet the promised Messiah.  In Luke Chapter 2 the Bible tells us that Simeon was a pretty great guy, and he had been told by the Holy Spirit that he would not die until he had seen the Christ.  We don't know how long he waited or how many times a day he dropped by the temple to check, but we do know he had been waiting a long time and could very well have been an old man.  So the chapter goes on to say that moved by the Spirit he goes into the temple courts and there he sees Jesus being presented by his parents.  He literally runs over there, takes the baby in his arms, shouts out a praise to God and prophesies blessing over his parents.  Jesus' parents "marveled"!

Can you imagine being told by God that you are waiting for the Messiah to come.  Unlike my grandparents visits, Simeon didn't even know when that time would be, but he waited, eagerly, nonetheless.  Imagine the day when he feels that stirring inside, he rushes to the temple searching past robed men and animals and there he catches a glimpse of the baby.  His heart confirms what his eyes are seeing and in a great dash he bursts out into joy, thanking God right out loud, runs over to the new family like he has known them forever, and snatches up the prize he has so waited for.  (How great would that moment have been!  (How freaked out would Jesus' parents have been?  But there was going to be more "out-of-the-ordinary being Jesus' parents…)

"Saint Simeon Nunc Dimittis" by André Durand

I think all of us who have longed or waited for something good can also can imagine the sweetness of that instant joy.  And so each year we practice that ritual of waiting and joy, waiting to celebrate Jesus' birth all over again.  At least I hope we do.  I hope it does not get squashed out by all the extra frivolity we have attached to his simple arrival.  I hope there is some space left for the simple expression of the heart where there is excitement and marveling at his gentle coming, a place where it feels our heart might not be able to take one more moment of anticipation and then the overwhelming JOY of his having come can overwhelm us.

We get to experience this kind of wait and joy cycle in many areas of our life.  Sometimes, the waiting part seems so very long.  There are days in our work here in Haiti, I wonder if the joy will ever follow the waiting.  When will the ache of hunger be released?  When will the grind of poverty be lightened?  So I wait with anticipation with all of creation and the people around me; I wait for joy.  And then I catch just a glimpse, as if through the crowd I see joy in the hearts of those who long for justice, I see praise in those who are bent low… and I wait for the moment of fullness, for ALL the joy to be released.

  All this, in turn, is jut a small practice of the greater wait we have for Jesus' return to reclaim all of creation!  In the Bible we are told we don't know the exact time he will return, only that he will and that it will be "soon".  And as I strain for just a glimpse because I know he is just a few steps away…

 So I'm putting my tree up, going to programs, celebrating his return, and waiting very near the window.  I might even scratch in the frost and feel the deep excitement in my breath as a wait for his return during this season of advent waiting… Maranatha (Christ come quickly)!

Jesus in the Pharmacy

I saw Jesus today.  I was on my way over to the main campus to bring back some meds we didn't use.  I walked into the pharmacy and there, kneeling on the floor washing and bandaging a man’s fungal feet, was Rachel.  I tried to look away before seeing any nastiness, but realized quickly the washing and dirty work had already been done.  If Rachel held distaste for her task her face did not belie it.  Instead, she calmly wound gauze between toes filled with healing cream and went on with conversation as if being knee-bent on a gritty tile floor holding a stranger’s rotting toes was nothing out of the ordinary.

A few weeks ago it might have been different.  A few weeks ago during a conversation about nursing at COTP the same young woman had worried eyes as she admitted feeling inadequate and unsure about how to be useful with a limited skill set.  Rachel graduated from nursing school just months ago, and instead of settling into a predictable 3-11 shift in OB or serving up tidy med cups at the nursing home, she said yes to an adventure outside her comfort zone.  Before any nurse friends out there get too upset, I know there are more difficult aspects of nursing care than "predictable shifts" and "med cups", but those things fall within the expected course after graduation.  Starting a volunteer position in a 3rd world country with no real job description, and an expectation to work outside your skill set, is not.  Few nurses in the States ever have the expectation of having to diagnose and treat Typhoid, be the only help for a woman laboring to birth a baby in the back of a speeding pick-up, stitch up a motorcycle accident victim brought to the front gate, or tell a woman and her children she is likely dying of cancer and there is nothing we can do to help.  Our nurses do these kinds of things because they are there and are the only hope in those moments, but those are not moments they were trained for.

It was not really what she had come for -- this foot care thing.  She had come with more experienced nurses, with more experienced supervision, with hopes of structured med routines and baby care, and safety, but as often happens in life, plans did not go as expected and she found herself with more responsibility than she was up for.  She didn’t know if she could handle it.

And then Jesus stopped by.  He scooped up a big ‘ole ladle of grace with an extra pinch of peace and slopped it all over her soul – spirit food if ever there was any!  And she gobbled it up, because in this land of poverty -- of hungry eyes and too thin arms, where the rawness of the poor presses in so closely, she was hungry.  

I talked with her a few days ago when she was overseeing blood draws and setting up meds for our baby house kids and asked how she was doing.  The more experienced nurse she had come with had to leave unexpectedly to be bedside of someone she loved who was nearing death, and the supervisor she had hoped to work under was gone on a visit stateside.  Plan A had slipped away like a piece of paper, snatched by the wind and tossed just out of reach.  

She said she was surprisingly calm.  She thought it was grace.  And I think so, too.  The kind of grace that covers you when you don’t know much about babies and are not even sure you adore them, but have to care for a crying one all night.  Its the kind of grace that allows you to float over personal inadequacies when in reality you should be drowning.  The grace that carries a heavy special need boy all over Milot Hospital in search of x-rays and answers, long after your arms ache from fatigue and your back tightens with the strain.  Or the kind of grace that fills a heart with joy for service even with a stranger’s stinky feet.

Rachel Peterson - short- term volunteer nurse

Rachel is reminding me again about allowing God to work when we don’t have it all together.  Don’t get me wrong; she’s a competent nurse and her confidence adds to her beauty, but we don’t always feel like we have it all together and God doesn’t need us to.  I am trying to remember he chooses to use us in our brokenness because that is where his glory shines.  He doesn’t need me to be prepped and polished; he needs me to be teachable.  He might even use me if I’m not, by his grace.  

As I leave the pharmacy, I know Rachel has no idea how God has used her moment of service to teach me how to be used.  She just joyfully serving in the moment he has given her.  And as I walk back out into the bright Haitian sun I pray,

"God, thank you for bringing me to this place, with these people, to help teach my heart to trust yours!  Ready me to be used even when I don't think I have what it takes, keep my spirit soft, and let me see service in simple moments of caring for those you love."  Amen.