Heavy

Heavy in my arms the three small bodies I carry into the chapel, nestling one against my elbow while gingerly holding another, still warm, in my hands. I place them alongside each other and cover them with a funeral pall. 

Heavy in my arms the now-healthy two-year-old boy who squirms to run and play, chasing after me and laughing, his face and belly filled out after months of extra nutrition. He is a radical contrast to the fragile, frightened child who rejected affection just a few short months ago.

Heavy in my mind the few short seconds of trembling earth, which jolt us to attention as we dash outside, and the subsequent nervous laughter audible from the hospital corridors as phone calls are frantically made.

Heavy in my heart the knowledge that though my precious little ones slept through the tremor, their bodies and minds still recognized it and caused them to dream vividly about the trauma they survived two short years ago.

Heavy in my arms the boxes of medical supplies, so generously donated, which will allow our newly diagnosed diabetic continued comfort as she adapts to a new routine and set of requirements, and which will provide safe and clean access to care for the children within the walls of the NPFS facilities.

Heavy in my arms the dozens of toys showered upon me by friends stateside, which will add to the Easter festivities for 200 kindergarteners. Heavy in my ears the shrieks of excitement from the director as she opens each bag and marvels at its contents.

Heavy on my lap the sturdy compact person that is Jerry, a newcomer to FWAL. He sits asking me endless questions and reciting observant facts about his new brothers and sisters, his hands grasping my arms and begging me to tickle him. “I won’t laugh,” he says, hardly able to contain his giggles.

Heavy in my eyes and ears the voices and faces of the desperate who reach out to me on the street, begging for assistance, money, food, employment, to be heard.  As I continue to walk and listen, looking into eyes and holding hands for brief moments, I pray that Hope keeps them standing.

Heavy on my roof the sounds of the bittersweet rains, which provide brief respite from the dust and heat, watering the vegetation while drenching the tent cities and flooding the streets with refuse. Heavy on the roads the following morning the trucks from St. Luc, loaded with food and supplies, which travel into the slums to assist those who suffer.

Heavy in the night the thoughts which wrestle with my desire to sleep, the wonderment and the weight of each moment not lost on the endless surfaces of my mind. They mix with the wails of the laboring women, the embodiment of this struggle to give birth to change, the cry of new life protesting the naysayers who claim there is no hope.

Heavy against the darkness the joyful dancing steps of the children, who embrace even the newest stranger with accepting arms too small to contain their excitement. The Light which will not be overcome has been set ablaze and presented to them, and they chase after it and stand in its warmth. Its radiance is infectious, softening my heart and opening my hands as little fingers intertwine around mine, pulling me forward.

The Journey

The rainy season has sent notice of its arrival, with torrential downpours nearly every evening. I hear the thunder approaching as I sit down to write. I am told that the cooler weather will soon cease, though this prompts a smile because the only slight “cool” we have experienced has been a temperature drop of a few degrees at night. The days remain scorchingly hot, with full sun present, although a nice breeze has accompanied it for the last month. I am not at all complaining, mind you – I have gladly traded frigid winter temperatures for the Vitamin-D richness of the tropical sun on a daily basis. Additionally, for the first time, Haiti has joined the United States in the tradition of Daylight Savings Time. There was some concern that this might not be a success, as apparently it was tried during the time of the dictatorship many years ago and no one in the countryside knew of the change. But so far it seems that there was a successful transition. My father, who lives for the two days a year he gets to change the clocks, was overjoyed to hear that we were remaining in the same time zone! It is a treat to have a few more minutes in the morning before the sun rises to greet us. The Jordanian UN camp continues to broadcast the Call to Prayer before dawn, so that is my usual wake-up at approximately 5:00 am. I am fairly convinced that they recently turned up the volume on their speakers, however. I would certainly choose a different type of alarm given the option - The churning of the coffeemaker, for instance, is a much more pleasant alternative.  The sounds which inundate me during the course of a day are now part of a routine which has become the norm, as are the children from the streets who run to me as I leave the gates of the hospital, asking for a dollar in English, or yelling the few phrases they know in my direction.  Thankfully, a few of them know, “You are beautiful!” and “I love you!” which bring a little smile to my face when I wonder if they know what they are saying. The little ones sitting in their mothers’ arms stare intently at me as I walk by the triage tents, breaking into a toothy grin as I greet them in Creole and wave. It is still fun to surprise those I encounter on the street, when I respond to them in Creole. Negotiating the newly formed puddles on the rocky road, declining the motorcycle drivers as they encourage me to take a taxi to work, I relish my morning walk. The security guards call me “zanmi m’,” which means “my friend!” as I walk past the various gates of the NPH complexes and enter the cow fields to negotiate a different type of newly formed hazard. There are several new calves, which are adorably awkward as they stand on their long legs and hold their heads up between two huge ears! Their moms stand protectively over them or very closely by, eyeing me cautiously as I walk by, through the dust bowl which has recently become the practice field for student drivers. 

Countless moments occur every day, and I realized this past few weeks that I was holding many of them at arms’ length, because the amount of emotion that my heart and head experience is sometimes too overwhelming to face. As we joined the children at Kay Ste. Helene up in Kenscoff for the 25^th Anniversary celebration of NPH’s work in Haiti, it was remarkable to see the group of former residents who have become active professionals, many of whom now work for NPH. They stood and were an active witness to the care and security and hope that NPH offers to the children in our charge. We listened to Fr. Rick share about the beginnings of NPH in Haiti and how God has blessed the organization with wonderful friends and servants. Many of the Angels of Light kids accompanied us – always an adventure in motion sickness for at least one of them! – and were able to join hundreds of their cohorts in song and worship. There are few things more beautiful than hearing a chorus of children singing together! And they sing with all their might. It is an instant lift to the soul.

 A more difficult emotional experience is the slow unveiling of the horrific histories of some of our children in the Angels of Light program. I will forever stand by my assessment that Haitian children are the most resilient of human beings, smiling and living with determined hope through unspeakable and unimaginable pain. I try to put myself into the mind of a 12-year old girl who has been passed from house to house as a restavec, or child slave, forced to sleep on the street and rise in the middle of the night to cook food which she is not allowed to eat. As symptoms of a chronic illness began to present themselves, she would be cast off again, until an acquaintance brought her to the hospital for care. Imagine facing life believing that you will be thrown to the street with the next mistake you make, your own mother having given you away when you were a young child. I look at the healed scars where whips once penetrated the skin of another young girl, who still shrinks away when I place my hand around her shoulders, her instinct still telling her that a touch cannot possibly be a gesture of comfort, but only of pain. I listen as a coworker recounts the story of two young sisters whose family simply stopped feeding them because their mother was no longer present in the home to watch over them. I look at the pictures of their starving bodies after NPH staff rescued them from their home, and I watch them now as they laugh and play happily, snuggling into the laps of the staff which nurtures, feeds and loves them. I accompany Dani to the abandoned chidrens' room at the hospital, where we meet children who have been left by their parents, whether out of desperation or other motive we cannot know. They stand, fight for toys and run for the exits when we ask if they want to tour the hospital. They greet us with smiles and laughter, and they wail in sorrow when we have to say goodbye for the evening. Such daily encounters are excruciating to negotiate, and I have not been terribly successful of late. But healing and joy comes in the full-body hug of a child who simply wants to be held, or in the myriad of languages and phrases accompanying the “thank you” of another little guy cherishing his glass of cold water, or the shrieking of a house full of babies who have just received a new pair of sunglasses, or the tiny voice of a little girl who says my name quietly as she gently runs her fingers through my hair. It is in the hands of the ones who caress mine, who ask again and again to dance the Cupid Shuffle, who yell my name when they see me approaching and break into a full-on run to greet me. It is in the slow walk through the yard of the baby house, with one child grasping each of my legs, another in my arms, and yet another pushing me from behind. It is in the smile of a nurse when I compliment her on a job well done, and the laugh of a shared joke. It is in the recitation of the universal prayers offered at mass every Sunday, in the embrace of peace given and received with sincerity. It is in the words of a little boy who says, “I am going to pray here, with you.” 

Sunglasses!!!!

Antoine, comedian.

Absence Makes the Stories Pile Up!

Hello from Haiti! My apologies for the long absence from the world of blogging. I have had an extraordinarily busy and eventful several weeks, hosting many visitors, celebrating NPFS milestones, taking a little vacation, at which I was admittedly unsuccessful, and finding my way back to a routine. I will gladly catch you up on the multiple events and happenings here over the next few blog entries. Here is a little glimpse into my heart for now...



Ti Erline

As we pull into the driveway of Saint Anne, the little faces emerge onto the porch and the voices grow louder. I step out of the car and look intently for the little girl with hair finally long enough to twist and braid. I meet her eyes as she toddles out to the porch in her cotton sundress, and waves as I sing her name. Her eyes grow bright and her smile grows wide as I kneel down to greet her. I gingerly lift her and she settles immediately into my arms, hers encircling my neck as she continues to smile and talk quietly. She laughs as I talk, and nods her head in reply to my questions. As I hold her close and examine her now-healthy physique, my mind travels back to our first encounter on my first day in-country  six short months ago. 

The tiny girl I met in August had very little hair, and a smile was a rare find. She was, in my best description, like a cat – she could not be approached, but had to do the approaching. She did not like being held, and she screamed in discomfort.  She could not tolerate food, often vomiting minutes after eating and suffering from watery diarrhea. Traumatized by sudden separation from her mother and family, she cried and was not active in playing with the other children. My heart broke as I racked my brain for causes of her misery, and over the next several weeks we ran a battery of tests, frightened by the implications of the potential results. I was dissatisfied with the hospital doctor’s diagnosis of psychological trauma, but we commenced with giving her extra nutrition, treating her parasites and instructing the women looking after her to give her extra love and care. And, as time did reveal, this precious little one was suffering the effects of a broken heart. The extra calories and parasite medication did their job of filling her tummy and energizing her physically, and the showers of love and attention provided by her caregivers transformed her emotionally.

Ti Erline is among my favorite little ones here. In reaching out to her, I have been changed. I have long believed that one of the greatest diseases of our time is the poverty of the unloved.  To witness the metamorphosis of a child who is carried by love is an extraordinary experience.  She now runs, plays, talks and sings in her tiny voice, saying my name delicately and hugging me fiercely. She trusts the children and staff who love and encourage her, and does not hesitate to be paraded around by the older girls when she visits them on Parent Day, or to give me a kiss. She laughs when I tickle her and give her raspberry kisses, and offers to share her lollipop with me.  She is what this life is about, why I am here.