Racist Me

Her wails could be heard from the laundry detergent isle, but as I rounded the corner into the frozen foods section, I could see a little girl, crying and leaning against her mother.  Her mom's face was turned from me but I imagined her frustration as she tried to pull herself away to select a jug of milk, with less-than-cheerful child #2 following behind.
My first thought was not one of kindness.  I hate to admit some of the stereotypes that were in formation before I was even fully aware, but as I looked her way, I first noticed how she was different from me.  In a matter of seconds, I noticed her skin color and how she was dressed, her weight and the number of children with her, and I expected the worst of her response to her misbehaving child.
Racism had snuck out the neat box I keep him in.  It was as if he had been waiting, right there between the DiGiorno pizzas and Uncrustables for this moment to arrive, to gloat at the revelation of my true self.
I don't like to acknowledge that racism is a part of me.  I have all these great "claim to fame" elements that surely exempt me from having to.  Obviously, having black friends counts.  I've got a bunch of them, actually.  I have shopped at the Mexican bakery and grocery store in town.  We check books about "diversity" out at the library for the kids.  I love Ella Fitzgerald and John Legend and who can deny the great talent and good looks of Denzel Washington.  I went on a date with a Mexican guy once.  (Well technically from TX, but sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.)  Oh, I even have lived as a minority in another culture -twice!  And, (oh, this is practically a trump card) ... I have adopted black children AND can do their hair, by myself  (ahem - twists AND cornrows)!!!  That's right.
But the thing is, racism comes from a place of brokenness that we all possess.  Some of us have a sense of self-importance that leads us to think about what we have and who we are as being superior.  Some of us have fear of others and their ways.  Some feel threatened by the differences they see and and worry someone else's culture might force unwanted change. A very few of us may even have experienced things that give us reason for legitimate resentment, if there is such a thing in God's eyes...
but the Creator of the rainbow of the sky and of skin communicates something deeply profound in the Bible.  Imago Dei...means the image of God.  Only human beings, in all of creation, are described as being formed in this way.  What a mystery that is, and what implications for how to understand humanity. 

If I am an image-bearer, I have responsibility to the one whose image I bear.  And if you are an image-bearer, I have responsibility to how I treat you because of the one whose image you bear.

There is all kinds of crazy weight inherent in that belief, but the bottom line is this. 
How I treat you matters, because of who I am, and because of who you are. 
This all seems relevant as we remember the life of Dr. Martin Luther King during January, because at the heart of his preaching was the knowledge that injustice was relevant to the Creator of life because of what it said about those who claimed to love him and what it meant to those who were being offended against.  It mattered because the life of Jesus was about being with those who were under-served, under-loved, under-represented, under-appreciated.  And it mattered because the example of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in relationship to himself, was one of unity, community, and glory!

So we all have moments like this, where Sin looks us square in the eye, and grins at his own success.  At this forked juncture, we always have a choice of whether to proceed further into sin or experience redemption in the immediate.  I think sin is almost always  an issue of both omission and commission.  By this I mean there are things we do that are sinful and the things we leave undone that are sinful.  In racism it is both how we offend and how we do nothing at all.  We can tell a racist joke, have a bigoted thought, etc, but it is actually no less a sin to turn aside when it happens.
I have heard a quote by Ellie Wiesel that says,
"The opposite of love is not hate.  It is indifference."  
There are lots of times I don't chose as well, but this time I simply stepped over indifference and pushed past "omission" with my cart.   I walked right up to the God-mirroring mother, just in time to see her press into her little girl with tenderness and assure her,
"You're gonna make it, honey."
 And before I could stop it, a full blast of redemption rushed through my veins!  As I reached out to touch her arm, and look into her soft face, I heard my own voice say,
"You're going to make it, too!"
She laughed, looking right into my eyes, and smiled back as she thanked me.
And there is was, bursting in a tiny explosion of glory to God - recognition of Him in her, in the middle of our own messiness -- a gift wrapped in a moment of my own sin; wholeness out of my brokenness
.  But that's what redemption is, isn't it? 
And really isn't that all each of us really needs in the frozen food section of the grocery store when our kids are misbehaving, or our bad day (or life) is etched too deeply into our brow; when we're dragging from the weight of illness or pains or habits or our own thoughts... just some redemption?  Just some recognition of the image of God spilling through the cracks of our brokenness?  Just some acceptance for who we are... just some real life Jesus love melting away our sharpness, instead of the love that sings with passion on Sunday mornings and prefers to judge in the market by Thursday afternoon?
I'm looking for love, friends.  I bet you are, too.  Be the love by imaging God and loving those who bear his mark.  Redemption is near.

 

Blog Update

Hello friends -

I haven't written in awhile and have been encouraged to do it, so here I am!  I will be making some updates and changes to the blog and hope to be doing more writing and thinking here.  I hope you continue to be encouraged and challenged  by my writing.

Thank you!

Christina

I Am Lagossette /Je Suis Lagossette

There are seconds that define moments and as *Monia crumpled to the ground against the door of my house in her poorly buttoned nightgown, I knew change had come.  Words tumbled, nearly incoherent,

"Mica is my neighbor!  It is her son.  It is Christian against Christian.  Oh Jesus, oh Jesus..."  she sobbed... "I don't know what to do... I don't know what to do."

A short time earlier, Monia's daughter, around 5 months pregnant, had walked to a neighbor's house to use the toilet.  In the early dark, a young man she knew well, approached her with ill intent, and after she managed to refuse his sexual demands he became enraged.  With a sharp machete, he cut off her ear leaving just the lobe and bare cartilage to bear witness to the double assault she had just endured; a reminder for all of time of his thoughtless rage and her fear-filled attack.

Wails rose in Lagossette.  "Om-way... Omway"

In that moment, in an insignificant village in the rural northern countryside of Haiti, everything changed.  The young attacker ran away into the sugarcane seeking the protection from the same darkness with which he tried to cover his crime, while his brothers, desperate with fear for him and anger at him, searched with flashlights and called his powered-off phone.  Much of the village gathered under the streetlight on the cratered road, stunned and saddened, angry and vindictive, texting and calling friends, trying to understand what had just happened among them.  These were their neighbors, their cousins, their family, their friends.


Monia is my friend.  We have walked through both difficult and joy-filled days.  She has a generous, faith-filled heart and is quick to turn the burdens of life over to the Giver of life.  She has prayed over my children, laughed with me until our tears rolled, struggled with life and death within her own womb, taught me how to tend a passionfruit vine, and fed our dog parts of her meager lunch.  She is a steady beam of light and everyone knows her gentleness.  I am so very sad for this great evil to enter her life.  My tears began as I pulled her from the dusty doormat to a chair, and the groans began shaping the words of the terrible truth that had just occurred.  I held her hand and called her my sister.  I prayed over her and wiped her face with my shirt.

Another mother wept, too.  She did not sleep, instead, she cried through the night because of the pain and shame her son brought to the family; cried because she knew in that moment her son chose to leave the quiet village life for years in prison if he was not first killed by revenge-seeking family.  She cried because Monia is her neighbor.  It is her daughter.  It is Christian against Christian... and what is she to do...

A couple of our men (Kirk and Joel) drove Monia, her daughter, and a few others to the hospital.  There was little they could do besides prevent infection.  Though if there is a bright note, a visiting plastic surgeon arrives today.  A small grace in the midst of pain...

What are we to do with this great sadness!  The heaviness covered all of Lagossette in the night as friends and neighbors, unable to close their eyes in sleep stood in the street.  Together.  Bearing the weight.  Together.  Remained a village.  Together.

This morning the sun rose, with it's usual fanfare of brilliance and strength.  It rose proclaiming a new day in defiance of anything the dark had allowed.  It rose because the God of the great, complicated, beautiful, pained world willed it to.  And today I pray that Lagossette will stand together.  I pray that mother will stand with mother, holding the broken pieces, and allowing God to stitch their lives back together.  I pray that neighbor will be with neighbor and Christian with Christian, because that is all that they can do.

Today I stand with Lagossette.  Today I AM Lagossette because evil can rear it's beastly head any time or place or culture.  But more importantly, Christ has given us power to love even over great evil; power to heal, even in the face of deep tragedy and today I am a part of a community where the peace of Christ is needed and the peace of Christ is near.  Please pray for my community today.

*Names have been changed to help protect the privacy of my friends.

Redemption Story - A Knotted Ball of Grace

When he arrived at Children of the Promise, he came with the label "abandoned" because his family of origin had left him for good.  A small, fierce, boy with chocolate skin and eternally brown eyes --left by man; loved by God.  And so another God story of redemption began.  Not the kind of saving we like to think of where a great hero sweeps in and makes everything aright, but an earthy, nuanced one, full of hope and bitterness, joy and loss, all entwined in a knotted ball of grace.  This is *Jean's story... and ours, too.

One of the great joys I get to be a part of in my role as Infant Mental Health Provider at COTP is to help children transition when adoptive parents finally get the go ahead to come pick them up.  That is happening right now, and today our first farewell in over two years is happening!  This is a moment of celebration to be sure, but all week I have been thinking about how adoption is a true reflection of the Biblical narrative and a re-telling of the "already - not yet" paradigm that story tells.  By this, I mean that the entire Bible points to a fullness of God's glory coming, having come, and being not yet completed.  The taste of fullness is on our lips!  This is revealed in the history of man's brokenness with God, Jesus coming for redemption of mankind, and all of creation groaning and waiting for his final return when all will be made new.  It is breathing in the beauty all around us and waiting to be complete. That story is being retold in one life here and now.

Having recognized that families are the best place for raising kids, and moving to a foster-parent style of caregiving at COTP, Jean moved into a family home three years ago.  His foster parents, perfectly imperfect, moved from strangers to caregivers to parents over the course of time.  In the usual style of parenting they changed his diapers, played on the floor, lost their tempers, took his temperature, let him eat too much candy, tucked him in bed with kisses... all the while knowing their job was to love him until it was time to let him go.  This child slept each night under the protection and care of those who understood that in order for this sweet boy to be able to love, he must be loved well.  

This involved risking connection knowing the heartbreak that would come.  This involved laying down their lives for the life of another – a reflection of redemption.  This involved Christ-like love.

Just a few nights ago a Papa leaned in for the last time for a goodnight kiss before bed, unable to hold back the tears pressing in for release.  A Mama mindlessly prepped 7 bowls of rice for lunch before her breath stuck in her throat, realizing it was one bowl too many.  The ache of loss after having loved deeply is oh so real!  They let a child go having offered restoration and renewal, knowing they now enter into a time of a life remembered and mourned.

But that is not the whole story.  Three years ago a family responded to God's call to care for the orphan and began a long process of bringing a child to a forever family.  An imperfect solution in a broken place but a faith-filled response lined with God-light - another small reflection of redemption.  So they came this week, knowing their child is loved and loves others, knowing the transition will involve more pain and loss than joy at the outset, knowing they will make mistakes and knowing it will take time for the emotional reality to match the legal one.   They come having entered a bittersweet love, as well.  They come offering restoration and renewal, knowing there will be a life remembered; a life mourned. 

In foster care a good outcome follows risking connection and permitting relationship to be the healing balm that allows the neural pathways for attachment to even form.  It involves loving well and letting go.

In order to adopt well, initially, one must resolve to parent without what comes more naturally with biological children-- love a stranger in your home and sometimes submit to the smothering need of a child frantic for attachment.  Of course, at the outset, foster parents experience much of this as well, but adoptive parents agree to do this for the long haul.

Jean carries his monkey and backpack everywhere as if those are items that will keep him safe in this transition from one family to another.  They are the only items that tie his two worlds together.  He did not ask to be born to a family unable to care for him.  He did not ask to be brought to strangers for care or turned over to yet others for a lifetime.  He may feel anger and sadness and powerlessness in many areas of his life.  He may not want a good-bye party.

But bit-by-bit, in small doses of trusting relationship, he may feel cherished, held, and secure.  He may come to know, through the example and experience of those reflecting a small piece of a big God, that his life is part of a greater story of redemption that encompasses us all.  And because God has invited Jean, and foster parents, and adoptive parents and vast community before and after them to be a part of this story, a new day will come -- a day that is already dawning in our hearts and lives.  Until then we will choose to walk a nuanced path, tasting all of life with the bitter and sweet entwined.  These are the gray spaces, the blurry edges, the broken Hallelujah we walk until Christ comes again in glorious clarity.  What a great day that will be!

(*Jean is not the child's real name, in order to protect the privacy of the child and his family.  Permission is given by COTP and those involved in this adoption to write about Jean's story.)

Brother Beaurel's Wedding

It seemed like a bad sign when we arrived in Pont Gracia and the groom was standing in the road wearing a worn, short-sleeved, polo shirt with basketball shorts.  He greeted us warmly but shook his head with concern.  There was a problem.

The pastor hadn't arrived.

And besides that...

the bride was having trouble after going into early labor that morning.

Months ago, I was on my back porch hanging the Wednesday morning bedsheets when Beaurel leaned on his palm frond broom to talk across the fence.

"Sister Christina, I have done wrong.  My fiancé is pregnant and I need to marry her to make it right before her and God."

His confession was straightforward.  His plan direct. He loved her and wanted to do right by her, God, and the church, so he was going to save up the money to marry her.  Beaurel said that to get married in Haiti you must have a house, table, chairs, and hutch, and a bed.  If you can't provide those basic things for your wife it would be shameful to marry.  Beaurel had the house and was now setting about to earn the money for the important furniture items.  But there was a deadline since his fiancé was pregnant and they wished to marry before the baby arrived.

The wedding was scheduled for Saturday, June 27.  The bride was to get ready in Cap Haitien and be chauffeured to the wedding by the best man.  The women of the family had the menu planned and beans and rice, plantain, salads, pikliz, and pate were being cooked.  The church had given it's blessing on the marriage and the pastor was going to marry them.  Everything was set.

But Saturday morning, the bride was not feeling so well and told Beaurel to call the midwife.  Before she could arrive a tiny baby girl was born -- and then another.  Twin girls, tiny and perfect!

Beaurel was a proud papa and was excited to get on with the wedding.  Since the babies had been born that very day, they moved the wedding time from 5 to 6 to give the bride some time to recover.  After all, she had just had two babies.

After further assessment the wedding got moved to the family home so Mama wouldn't have to travel anywhere.  But as the wedding time got closer it became clear that the bride was not doing so well.  The placenta had failed to deliver and the family realized she might need to go to the hospital.

This was the discussion when our party arrived at 6 PM.  Seth and Melissa Johnson, Joel Doorlag and I had donned our wedding best -- suitcoats and ties, heels and pearls.  After preliminary discussion about the setbacks, we were invited in to see the new babies.  We took turns cooing at and cuddling the 4 lb delights and then decided to leave.  Beaurel told us he would call when his fiancè returned from the hospital and they would continue with the wedding.  We piled back into the van to return to COTP.

As we were about to drive away, Beaurel came running after us.  He asked if we would be willing to drive his fiancé to the hospital.  We turned around and stopped at the house where a sister, Beaurel's sister-in-law, and Beaurel all got in with the fiancé laying across their laps.  The bride lay in a bejeweled-collared, fuchsia gown.  Her nails were manicured and her hair once straightened and styled, crumpled with the stress of the day as she breathed with the strain of pain.  Then the babies were carried out.

Someone asked, "Who can hold the babies?"

Someone else responded with, "the foreign ladies can do that".  So the babies, wrapped in bath towels for warmth in the 90 degree heat, were passed to us.  A tiny, precious, baby girl lay on my lap. A little cotton green gown with careful embroidery, stitched in darker green, dressed her little frame, and a handkerchief, pinned at the center served as a diaper.  The other twin had a matching dress in yellow, and was laid in Melissa's arms for the ride to the hospital.

I have not visited Milot hospital in formal wear before, and I can tell you that being a foreigner in this land is enough to garner attention all by itself.  So walking in with the twin babies in our wedding best created a spectacle (and privilege) wherever we went.

Well, after some hours of baby cuddling and waiting, and the news that the Bride-to-be would be admitted for care, Beaurel conceded that the wedding would no longer take place that day.  It was 10:00 PM after all, and it might be hard to get the pastor to the hospital yet that night.

The rest of us drove home though the moonlit Haitian countryside, jostling and bumping over the rough gravel roads to the comfort of our homes.  I lay in bed, some time after midnight, smiling about the evening that had just passed, knowing that little goes according to plan in Haiti, but that I am sure to find adventure here should I be willing to follow it.

Bondye Konnen (God Knows)

It was not a happy announcement.
Though we were completely alone in the house, she beaconed me close, as if to tell me a secret.

"I am pregnant", she said.

Her eyes locked mine and spoke the words of disappointment and worry her lips did not utter, before she looked away.

"Men Bondye Konnen (But God knows)".  She added.

"God knows", spoken out of discipline and prayer, hope and trust.

Often when Haitians speak of something they have no control over, something that is difficult or painful, they will add, "Bondye konnen (God knows)".  I have struggled to know how much of this is fatalism and how much is dogged trust in a God so omniscient that to put their trust in him is the final logical solution to any pain or problem, but whichever it is, it is a common Haitian response to difficulty.

The story is old, though the circumstances often different.  A women faces an unwanted pregnancy due to hardship of one kind or another, and fears for what having that baby will mean.  Milouse was already over 40 years of age, had numerous "female problems" and just months earlier had carried another challenging pregnancy for a number or months, before losing the baby to miscarriage.  Afterward, the doctor had told her and her husband that she should not get pregnant again, as her body could not handle pregnancy and it would not be safe for her to have another baby.  In fact, Milouse believed she could no longer get pregnant, so she was all the more surprised and dismayed when she found herself, very much so…

Milouse has been an important part of Children of the Promise (COTP) for many years.  Though some might find her job unimportant, she does much more than clean houses.  She blesses households.  She prays for and delights over the inhabitants of the homes she cleans, not to mention works with diligence at mopping floors, clearing cobwebs, and washing dishes.  She considers children a gift from God and prays for families to have many of them.  She invites her boss to church, prays for her employers, and sometimes lays her needs before them.

The day she told me she was pregnant, she asked me to pray for her.  She asked me to remember her needs before God and I could feel the weight of burden she carried for herself and her unborn child.

"Bondye konnen"  -- God knows.

Months passed and her pregnancy progressed.  Her feet swelled, her hands became sore, but the baby seemed healthy and she neared full term.  She seemed bulky and uncomfortable as women often do as the end of pregnancy looms, but she continued on with her work, with her patient way, her gentle smile, and her trust in God.  Bondye konnen -- God knows.

And then the day after Christmas, a child was born.  A beautiful baby girl like a ray of light with solid black hair, and delicious carmel skin.  A baby perfect and plump, and hungry and good… a baby whose coming brought unexpected joy like a gift at Christmas time.  It was as if God knew she was needed.  It was as if God were telling Milouse that his care for her included this precious blessing even though she did not realize she wanted or needed it.  And Milouse was filled with delight.

 Baby Danisha is a child to celebrate!  Not all children come when they are wanted or chosen or expected, but God knows.  God knows and allows and plans for moments like this.  I know it will not always be easy for Milouse to parent her or provide for her, but Milouse has trust in a God who has seen her through difficult places and will see her through more.

And I pray for Milouse and Danisha, for her teenage sister Ketley and her father Fritzner, too:

“‘“The Lord bless you
    and keep you;
the Lord make his face shine on you
    and be gracious to you;
 the Lord turn his face toward you
    and give you peace.”’

Numbers 6:24-26 NIV

Talking Turkey

There are mornings sounds of the rural countryside around Children of the Promise irritate me.  The roosters crow long before sunrise, a tethered cow bawls outside the gate, or a crow creates a cacophony that sounds like it must be reporting something important to another in a nearby branch.  But this morning I smile as I hear a turkey from behind the chicken wire in the back yard.  I am quite sure his gobbling is a hallelujah of sorts, and the smile on my face is a reflection of the little leap of joy in my heart.

It may not be readily apparent why that unintelligent gobbling would help joy well up in my core, but the turkey is much more than a turkey.  It is a gift that reminds me that my heart has much more room to grow and that giving from a deep place is a joy-producing thing, even if, especially if, it has required much sacrifice.

A few weeks ago our friend, Camille came up the path riding his bike and grinning, with a large turkey under one arm.

"This is for you, Miss", he said, offering to hand me the turkey.  

What does one do when being gifted a a live turkey?  I tried to offer to pay for it, to which his smile fell away, and he insisted it was a gift.

This is the second time I have had the honor of receiving fowl as an act of gratitude, so I really should come up with a plan or at least an appropriate response to being handed a large bird, but as before, I faltered a bit, not really knowing how to hold this monstrosity of feathers.  I asked Camille to hold the bird while I went to check if it could be kept in the chicken coop until it's life would be ended.  So to the coop it went and I said my thank you's to a sweet teenage boy, obviously so pleased with his "cado" to me.

I did not realize until later that day the turkey gift was no small thing.  A turkey costs around 300 Haitian dollars to purchase.  300 Haitian dollars is equivalent to around $30 US dollars.  This may not sound like a great deal of money to those of us from Western economies, but here, where a grown man sometimes earns $5.00 (US) a day, a turkey is  luxury item.  A family may buy (or raise) a turkey for eating once a year at Christmas or New Year's but many families in our community would think of this as an unrealistic dream.

When Camille works on Saturdays, he is paid well.  He receives 60 HT which he then needs to pay for moto transportation to and from school in Cap Haitian, where he stays during the week, and to pay for noon or supper meals at 10 HT a meal. Without supplemental income, he may not get three meals a day.

What I know then, is that for some time, instead of eating, he saved his earnings to buy me a turkey.  Me.  A woman who has more food available in her pantry than he can imagine eating in 3 months.  Me.  A women who struggles with being overweight because of excess consumption and the inability to use disciple to change my eating habits.  Me.  A woman who carelessly throws away the whole tomato if part of it is bad.  Me, who could actually pay for his entire life's needs with very little sacrifice, with very little adjustment, with very little effort at all.  Me.

I hid away in my room as I felt the warmth of tears filling my eyes; tears from mixed emotions of gratitude for what the gift meant, tears of shame for my own selfishness, tears of realization.

The boys and I have been reading through the gospels in our morning school time, and we recently read the account of the rich young man who comes to Jesus asking what he needs to do to have eternal life.  He's doing so many things right, he breaks no major commands, but he goes away sad, because when it comes down to it, he is so tied to his stuff, he can't do what Jesus tells him to.  Jesus says to him, "sell all you own, give it away to the poor, and follow me."  He doesn't, and he walks away in the knowledge that he is choosing his wealth over God.

How wretched am I to be that man!  I want to believe he is someone else; someone who has much more wealth than I, but I am looking face to face with the reality that I am he.  

I have heard many times that those of us in the western world are among the wealthiest in the entire world.  According to www.richlist.com, if you earn $25,000 a year you are in the top 2% of the wealthiest people in the world.  If you earn $50,000 a year, you are in the top .31 percent richest in the world.  And if you earn $100,000 a year, you are in the top .08 richest people in. the. world.

  This thought remained very distant to me before moving to Haiti.  The reality is that the face of poverty remained an intangible, and so unimportant construct in my life.  It's not that I did not care at all, but I lived as if that knowledge bore no consequence on my choices.  I bought what I wanted, ate what I wanted, gave what I wanted because I had earned it and had the right to decide what to do with my own money, all the while ignoring the fact that I am the one Jesus is confronting about my wealth.  

What would it be like for me to give with such abandon that I would take the absolute very last money I have and buy something extraordinary for someone I needed to show gratitude toward?  And what if that action brought such immense joy that it spilled out all over my face and and made my eyes sparkle with delight… what beauty might be in that place that I may never know or experience because my wealth keeps me from it?  What if…

What if for Christmas this year, instead of asking for the ________ I give towards putting a roof on the house of a friend who has lived with sewn-together table clothes trying to keep out the tropical rains?  What sweetness and fellowship might be there that can't be found in a beautiful package under the tree?  

What if instead of spending hours in lines waiting for great deals, I find a way to serve in my community or build relationships with those who are hurting from the burden and brokenness of poverty in their lives.

What if…

The turkey is now in the fridge awaiting it's rub-down.  Tomorrow I will bake it lovingly, eat it with great joy, and share it with great satisfaction because that turkey is more than a turkey.  It is a reminder that gifts and lessons come in places we do not expect them and that I have much more room for growth if I only accept Jesus' invitation to join him in a place of deep generosity.

Elijah and "Camille"

"Camille" reading with Natalie and Rose