Reaching Out.

I am sickened by the perception of our culture (myself included) that people harbor different emotions because they live with different circumstances. As if they don’t care as much or process as long or hurt as deep.

I am sitting in church, watching families, who get to church with their clothes sticking to their skin because they have walked so long in the sun, and they’re still on time. When they pray it is not because it’s ‘right’, but because it is out of the great anguish in their hearts, and to the truly only option of refuge that they know as “Jezi”.

Have you ever seen a grown man cry? Well it looks the same in Haiti.

One of the teachers at Hope for Haiti was robbed and beaten last week.

The community was shocked because he was drug out of his home, in front of his children, kidnapped, beaten and dropped off on the road.

Two days later he died of internal bleeding.

I watched as Pastor Richard choked back his tears, fidgeted with his keys and paused to try and find the words, delivering the news to Mami Karris that this teacher, his friend, this role model in the village has passed away. He has two young children who attend the school as well and my heart and prayers are going out to this man’s family tonight, who are now forced to learn a life without their dad and their husband.

The community here is without words, no one expected it, the students would even stop by the hospital to see him on their walk home from school. All reactions that are no different than it would be at home, and I am longing for the perception of people to become more clear across cultural lines. That we would see across racial and economic status and look at the hurting heart of people. A heart that will always be hurting as long as a void exists and one that will always be tender, through experience or reaction, as we reach out to one another.

P.S. Speaking of reaching out, I want to throw a HUGE shout-out to Angie Webb (also known as, “Angie from work”… she has worked with my Dad for forever) who reached out with great generosity, simply from the compassion in her heart. Thank You – it means more than you know!

Diaries of the Departed

I had a conversation recently about how I dont really sweat that much. You know, just kind of glisen and glow and wipe the drops of sweat from my brow.

Well I changed my mind.

I am sweating like no bodies business in this place. We won’t even talk about it.

But Charlene, just kidding. I do sweat. A lot.

The last time I was here I was shocked and amazed that what I was shocked and amazed by was not what I expected. It wasn’t the poverty and the way people live and how they practice a way of life that is almost frozen in time. Everyday life in Haiti is 100 years regressed from the states. Practices that I’ve only heard my grandparents talk about. Washing clothes by hand, in a river. Walking with loads of goods on their head. Taking a jug for miles to get clean water from a well.

What I was amazed at was how how graceful the women at Danitas Children are, walking out the fruits of the spirit in a way that I always pray for.

This time I am so amazed at how alike we actually are (we – Haiti and America, not we – me and the graceful ladies).

There isn’t much different about us at all actually.

Families have neighbors, and when they have guests over they pull out their best – whether it’s a chair or a drink or a smile. They love their kids and, just like our culture, don’t know exactly how to love them correctly sometimes, as well. They want the best for them and for their happiness, yet out of frustration sometimes leave them, in hopes of either someone finding them or being put out of their misery.

I am updating the Danita’s Children database today and looking through “Notebooks of the Departed” as I call them. In them holds each child’s story, when they were born, to who, where they were abandoned, why and if they have any living relatives. On each profile is a photo of the child and a photo of who is “responsible” for them (aka who abandoned them… departed from them).

To play with these kids each day has been amazing, to learn their stories has been humbling, one those things that will always keep me grateful.

Some of the kids have been here since the beginning. They know how things work, are loyal to Mami Danita and what she has done for them, and oversee things around the property. Francia is one of them. She is a mother in her spirit. The girl’s house is under her respect. I admire the way she holds such a graceful presence (clearly learning from Mami Brenda, a trait I also admire in her) yet can command a room with her eyes, all while rocking Stanleey to sleep.

A large group of the children came after the Gonaives floods. These kids were found abandoned, stranded or just desperate. The most recent are from the Port-Au-Prince earthquake. This group us still tender. Just a year later and sometimes you can still tell they haven’t quite adjusted to the stability that Danita offers.

Reading these stories of the kids and the departed who left them puts many pieces together as to why their personalities are the way they are. Why they cry. Are timid. Are outspoken. Or somewhere in between.

May these Departed Diaries always be a reminder that God takes care of His children. In the mists of fear over nuclear wars and crisis in Sudan among other things, He saw where they were and rescued them. Each one. On purpose. Even more so, I am grateful that He hears their cries even now. When they miss their families or pray gratefully for their lunch, remembering a time when they weren’t promised a next meal, He hears them.

Even beyond that, He hears those who have yet to be saved. Who are desperate right now. When they go to bed hungry, lonely or sad. He hears them and He knows them by name. He is positioning them and caring for them and loving them. Until the day that they are saved, either to their new home with Mami Danita or their new home in heaven.

And to image that only $29 a month could be just the life vest they God is looking for. He will save them regardless, but is calling His children to be a part of their story.

How Loud Is Your Voice?

Every time i glanced behind me there she was. Her dirty Gap shirt and unkept hair couldn’t hide the huge but sheepish, gap toothed grin in response to my eye contact. Like she had never seen such a thing. Blonde hair is a comodity in Haiti, I have learned.

We were in the market. Work study day. Every Thursday the kids at Hope for Haiti give back to their community. A servalution, if you will. Whether delivering food to a family in the village or cleaning, they are in groups that rotate each week.

Today I was tagging along to the market to buy Some necessities for a women and her son (one of Danita’s students) who are both HIV positive and because of the poor immune system and bad living conditions, have both contracted tuberculosis. By being admitted into the hospital, the woman’s other children are left at home. With themselves. Brittany (one of the missionaries) stops by her home daily to ensure food is being prepared by the oldest and then crosses into Dajabone, Dominican Republic to update the woman on her children.

This in itself is a luxury.

The two girls who are with us are responsible for picking out the items on a budget and then delivering the gifts and visiting with the boy and his mom. As we walk, the street child isn’t far behind. When we stop, she’s just behind the closest hanging, playing “smile back and forth” with me.

After a moment I glanced over to play and a shop keeper began slapping the girl with a cloth of some sort. My heart in my stomach, I didn’t even know how to react, and the girl just turned her back to him with shame and embarrassment, stone cold expression on her face, taking it.

A million thoughts flying through my head, not know which one to respond to first, i just stood there. In my American nature I immediately began looking for her parents, thinking “this is ridiculous!”. No where. Then trying to figure out what to say that he would understand.

Nothing.

As he continued to hit her, my friend Brittany heard the commotion as she was making her purchase and started yelling, “hey! HEY!” and then embraced the girl by the shoulders to step in between her and the man and in Creole began yelling at him, “What is your problem? She’s just a kid, she didn’t do anything.” The man told her that she had been staring and stormed away.

Staring? Really? Brittany turned to the girl to console her and the little girl immediately broke. Se turned away from us and began to weep. Wiping her tears with her shirt, she didn’t want to expose her vulnerable heart in a world where she is desperate to survive. A tender heart is not an option.

No one had ever spoken up for her. She just knew to “take it”.

We are their voice. You and I. We are their option.

For about 100 kids, Danita became their option. Supporters like you and I became their option.

Brittany became the little girls option today. She filled the gap.

How many are there who have no voice? No option? Who just, take it?

For as much as we spend on lunch a day, we could give a child the chance at a choice. An option. An option to smile, to hope, to dream.

Whether they are poor, white, sick or hurting, they have the same little soul and innocent spirit as your child does. As you do. It’s our job to allow it to shine.

Brittany pulled the little girl over to us that afternoon and told her to pick out anything from the table of hygiene goods – soaps, perfume, lotion (not what your thinking.. you’re thinking Dillards.. think garage sale) – and she pointed to the back, to a single pair of girls panties. And smiled ear to ear as she ran away, with her first and only undergarment.

Read Stories About Those Who Gained a Voice