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.

Are You My People?

One of my greatest joys here at COTP is watching adoptive parents arrive, join with their kiddos and take them home to become a part of their forever families.  I've witnessed nearly a dozen in the nine months we've been here, and each time I feel such gratitude and joy at seeing precious little ones being cherished as they should.  The good-bye fete the afternoon before the family flies out is especially poignant.

A long-term staff (usually Emily), makes a treat to share, and the Nannies, kids, staff, and the adoptive family gather (typically under the play pavilion) for a final good-bye.  There is parting prayer and blessing, singing, tears, a little anxiety for what's to come, and declarations by the Nannies of "Bondye konnen" (God knows).

Not everyone loves the good-byes in the same way.  I am not the first to wonder what it must feel like to the other kiddos to see the farewell scenario each time.  Once again there is talk of forever families coming soon, the parents come, the friend spends time with them, and then leaves, never to be seen again.  From the perspective of the other kids, it is an unsettling loss, filled with uncertainty, and more than a little sadness.

A few days ago I was walking Natalie home from school.  Her warm, paint-stained hand was in mine as we walked along the gravel path behind the school, on the way home to our house at Manna.  We had just come out of the shaded part of the path into the warming sun when she looked up at me and said, "I want to say good-bye to you and go with my people.  When are my people coming?"

While I cringed with rejection for just a moment, I knew instantly what she meant.  Everyone else has people who come and take them away.  We had come but somehow stayed.  It just didn't make sense to her, so in her mind, her "people" must still be coming!

"We are your people, sweetie!  I am your mommy and dad is your daddy!" I tried to explain.

"No, Mom."  (As if to say, don't be silly.)  "My people who need to take me to United States."

Oh my sweet little girl!  How much you have to think about through all this transition!  My heart welled up into my throat to imagine what she must think and worry about, why she gets moody and mad, and how hard it must be to wrap her mind around what we are supposed to be to her.  We have the right titles, but we aren't doing what the other adoptive parents do.  How is she to make sense of this all?

She was pretty much done with me at this point, as I clearly was not getting it, so she changed the subject to the "getting home from school" routine, saying, "I need to go potty and wash my hands for lunch?"  This, too, used to be a battle with near daily crying and angry removal of clothes, but she has gotten used to this routine as we eat lunch and prepare for our afternoon nap time, and she no longer fights it.  Now she checked to see if she could still expect this routine to hold in her moment of uncertainty.

The next day, she again casually asked, "do my people come today, Mom?"  Once again I explained that we were her people, that we would be taking her on the airplane to visit all the grandpas and grandmas and uncles and aunts and friends that are learning to love her from afar, and that we would be her people forever.

She still wasn't buying it.

This continued on for a few days.  Every so often she'd ask about her people, if we were her people, if other people were still coming to take her, if we were going to visit the United States, if we were going to come back.... all of us, her, and Rose Guerda, and Noah, and Elijah, and Daddy, and Mommy?

"Yes, honey.  All of us.  We are your people, forever."

This morning Kirk scooped her up and as she held his cheeks and pressed a wrinkled nose close to his, she asked, "Daddy, are you my people?".  He responded with the question, "can I be your people?"  She said yes.  I asked her, "can Mommy be your people?"  She said yes.  And we asked if we could take her to the United States some day and come back to Haiti and be her family forever?  And she said yes.

I'm pretty sure it was the real deal; the real moment we adopted her.  Sure we had committed to it and the paperwork will soon make it legal, but right there and then we covenanted to be family.  We will be her parents and she will be our child.  We will guard her and teach her and love her and she will grow in strength and beauty and love for us, too.  We will be her people and she will be ours.

There is precedence for such adoptive arrangements.  In the book of Ruth in the old testament of the Bible, Ruth and Naomi become family to one another despite all other ties of marriage and duty being severed, and it lead to blessing for both of them, including "adopted Ruth" being included in the lineage of Jesus Christ.

How deeply God has rooted our desire to belong and how wonderful that he models this covenantal and adoptive relationship with us!  Some day Natalie will learn, and Rose, and Noah and Elijah, too, that not only are they our people, but God's, too.  While we have much to offer her, God has more, and she will be held in a covenant of grace and promise that can fill her with security and belonging rooted in His boundless love!  

My peeps:

 

Ransom Money

The price was only $1, but with the transfer of cash, and a triumphant gleam, Noah bought the life of a bird.

With countless interruptions from school each day, I get weary with deciding what is worthy of a break from the books and what is not, but earlier this week, I came home from walking Natalie to preschool to find Noah and some school boys from next door, bartering on the back porch, over the price of a common fledgling pigeon.

Ah, great, just what we need!  I figured it must be wounded or ill or some such thing leading to death and further drama, and I really wanted to shut the transaction down, but Noah pleaded.  Oh I should be saying NO to this, but perhaps there could be some lesson?

Scaly-naped Pigeon fledgling

 One of the boys with red checkered shirt and navy uniform pants had shot it out of a tree with a slingshot, stunning it, before tying a grimy thread to its ankle.  He had hoped to bring it home to eat, but Noah was bartering for it's life.  A dollar is not bad for a few bites of bird, so Noah ran in the house to get the money from his savings.  Next there was the issue that the dollar bill itself was not good enough because of a small tear where it had been creased.  Finally the boy agreed to take the damaged dollar, likely laughing all the way to the bank, or at least to the school yard snack stand.

In situations like this, I am frequently faced with the thought of how hard we should advocate for the life of a simple bird when children die around us with far less care or attention?  Despite my desire for my kids to know and care about the pain of image-bearers around them, this is a burden I dare not lay too heavily on the hearts of my children.  They know others with hunger but do not always make the connection when their hearts become full with tenderness towards the hurt of a creature.  Or perhaps the weight presses so near, creature care becomes the concrete "something" they can do to alleviate the dissonance that follows them into play and sleep.

Whatever it may be, the bird became Noah's new focus of care.  He quickly finished his school work, went over to ask a friend's advice, and she eagerly researched online and helped come up with answers  as to what it was and how to best care for it.  He began a feeding schedule with berries and eye droppers of pureed veggies, made a comfy "nest" in a box, and even setting his alarm to wake him with the sun's rising, so as to care for his new dependent to the best of his ability.

That night when I tucked him in bed, we talked about how Noah's compassion for the bird could teach us of God's love for us.  How when our lives were destined for destruction He ransomed us at far greater cost, and choose to treasure and delight in us, despite our broken, helpless state.  I asked him to think about how the love he was feeling for this small bird gives us just glimpse of how immense God's love for us is.  Just like there is not a single thing the bird can do to earn back the gift, there is nothing we can do to pay for our redeemed lives.  We just get to live in fellowship and gratitude with our amazing Creator!  And as I asked him to think about this truth I realized the whole bird hassle could be God's way of reminding me of my own adoption into his care, how he wants compassion to blaze in me, and how he longs to see his nature of grace flow out of my life...

Ransom money -- God knows all about it and plants just a glint of that grace in our hearts, so boys and their moms can reflect His love to those around them.


As with most life illustrations, they only go so far before falling short of truth or usefullness.  In our case, muddy paw prints on the porch the next morning told the story of the hungry mongrel.  He made a midnight snack of the bird, leaving the carnage of feathers and bloodied bone for the aggrieved caregiver to find and bury the next day!!!

Is the next teaching about God's tender care of the sparrow... and hungry dogs, too?

Come As You Are

This week a child came to our house asking for pants for church.  I know this boy well.  I see him almost every day and my boys like to play with him.  He often asks for things I do not give him but this week he wanted pants for church because Sunday was a "party for Mom" day, and he wanted to go with her and make her proud of him.

It just so happened that in my excitement about possibly visiting the States in a couple of months I had gone through the boys clothing totes (yes, even here we have totes to hold our extra clothing) and had set aside a pair of khakis Noah has not worn since arriving.  They had had a small stain on the back of the leg since I received them as a hand-me-down and I had not made work of removing it, so even though they still smelled of Tide and were neatly folded between dryer sheets, I figured I could just get a different pair when we were home, and we easily parted with them.  I threw in a couple of imperfect t-shirts, a button up Noah hated to wear to church, and some stretched-out shorts.  It's not too hard to make a kid happy here, and the boy was pretty excited about the new clothes as he left.

To be honest, this kind of charity is very easy and gratifying in Haiti.  Maybe it is everywhere.  The boy gets new pants and is grateful; I get a shiny new ego bump for my act of benevolence.  It's almost as easy as writing a big check at a fund-raiser or clicking "like" for a compelling cause.  He gets what he needs and I go back to checking facebook.  Win-win, right?

He came back this morning.  Kirk was still lying in bed, I was sitting on the bed in my nightgown and the boy came up to the bedroom window and called out my name.  Incidentally, in a place with few windows on buildings, it is not uncommon for someone to greet you in this way.  You don't go up to house and knock on the door, rather, you walk up and holler for who you want, so that's what he did.  I really wanted to ignore him and pretend not to be there, I really did, but I got up and peeked around the door at him.  He was very proud of how handsome he looked with his new shirt and pants, all clean and ready, and wanted me to approve of how nice he looked.  But he wanted something else.  He wanted money for the offering at church and didn't have any.  He was worried about what others would think of him if he didn't put anything in the offering plate.

Even if our Creole was great, how do we explain to this child that God doesn't need him to bring him money to be welcome at church.  Kirk told him, "God has a lot of money.  It's ok for you to go without giving an offering."  He looked ashamed at having to go without, so I gave him 25 gourdes (60 cents) and we agreed that we would talk more about it later.

He left happy to have the correct presentation for church to honor his mother on Mother's Day, and Kirk and I sat there feeling very sad for this boy.  At age 12 he already knows what is needed for him to be acceptable to even go to church.  A child who lives in such poverty that he sleeps on the ground of his family's stick home each night and literally eats the table scraps of others, has to suffer the further indignity of begging for the correct attire and presentation to enter his community's church.  I would like to believe it is the fear and not the reality of the judgement of others, but unfortunately it is true.  In Haiti it is not considered respectable to go to church if you are not dressed properly, so if you are too poor for "correctly", you do not go.  So at 12, this boy already believes he does not belong among believers of Jesus on a Sunday morning.  I could about cry, thinking about this reality.

But as I consider this sadness, I wonder how different is that than in our home churches in North America?  I will admit to having snotty thoughts about a visitor's skirt being too short, or a shirt too shabby, tattoos too prominent, make-up too garish, diamonds too big or too small, hair too wet or too unkempt, sitting to close to the front or too far to the back, kids too loud etc, etc, etc.    Oh Lord, have mercy on me if I have been the cause of anyone not feeling FULLY welcomed into the house of the Lord, especially if it has been a child!

Are the poor welcome in our churches?  Do they dare approach the front door?  Is there anything about our buildings, attitudes, practices, or behaviors that discourage them from sharing in Christian fellowship.  If so, we have a lot to think about as far is what it means to be the body of Christ.  If the poor can't fit in with us, then we likely don't fit in with God since Jesus made it clear in his ministry that among the poor was where he was at and who he most identified with.  With the poor he loved lavishly, forgave generously, fed heartily, advocated vociferously, lived simply, and died selflessly.

Just this week I had been reflecting a bit on how my life can be fairly distant from the extreme poverty all around us because of the compound walls.  I have to intentionally leave the safety of the enclosure to encounter much overt poverty, and even then, I have begun getting used to the sight of poor and their constant plight.  I would like to believe part of that is because I am learning to see past outward appearances of Haitians and beginning to see hearts, but I know another part is my attempts to insulate against the constant press of need.  But this week I began to pray that God would allow me to feel the reality once again and be moved by what moves Him; to once again experience compassion even when it is uncomfortable.

His discomfort cost Him his son's life, mine only disrupts moments of my time...

So friends, I am going to pray for you.  What insulates you from those Jesus calls his followers to minister to?  Is your distance a physical barrier of some sort, or something in your heart?  I am praying that you and I will be shaken to not only know but be moved by God's heart for those in need.  Oh yes, I am praying for your discontent, that you may unsettled in your life enough to move closer to Christ and his Kingdom.  I need that, too.  And maybe, just maybe, God will give us opportunities to reflect his perfect love in such a way that even a "least of these" kind of kid, will know he belongs in the family of God.