A Different Birthday

 

I officially hit my “mid”- decade birthday on Wednesday. Even though it does not have the “butterflies in my tummy” feeling of my early years, I still look amazed at my computer or phone or calendar when it actually states the date. I laughed when Facebook so helpfully told me, “today is your birthday.” As if I would forget. This was a different experience than in any of my past years. In Haiti, births and deaths are not recorded. Even the birth certificates we have for a few of the children in our charge have dates on them that may or may not be accurate. A date is chosen, and the children rarely know their ages, let alone their birthdates. So it was strange to experience the difference here. It was a normal workday, but I dressed up a bit and wore my hair down. Imagine the reaction I got – the driver stopping in the middle of the road and yelling his compliments out the window of the truck, the nurses and doctor raving about my appearance. The nurses telling me not to work, but to just sit and relax. Sitting with the children eating their mid-morning extra meal, helping the little ones handle the big spoon and hearing little Samstern say, “Bridget, I love you a lot!” as we sat together. What better gift than this? The pangs of missing home and friends have been searing through my heart. But before bed Tuesday night, I read from a book written by a missionary much younger than me, and was able to identify with every word on the page. It is a contradiction, this life. The agony and dirt and poverty and squalor, the joy and love and relationships and simplicity. Moments hit that I want to disappear, to catch the plane flying overhead, to retreat and sit and babble and process and digest and think away from the intensity of this life. But yet I know I am exactly where I should be, living and loving and serving and learning and teaching and listening and absorbing more than I ever thought possible.

I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. I still consider it a kind of alternate reality, and find it a bit disturbing when people must make things “Facebook official.” I was grateful to receive the many Happy Birthday messages, but still missed the personal interactions of the day. I have realized that for me, my birthday is much more about hearing from those important to me, knowing that I am remembered and loved. No big material gifts were given to me this year, but the entire population of St. Louis sang to me in Creole and Spanish. My supervisor gave me a piece of painted Haitian art. My roommate gave me a great coffee mug and some silly slippers. We went to dinner at a nice restaurant, where I am now known as the one who must have at least three dinner choices, because choice #1 (and #2 and maybe even #3) will not be available that evening. I missed speaking with my American friends and will relish the chance to relax and speak freely when it is given. But the gift of this experience, of over 200 new friends, of re-learning total dependence of God for the completion of each day, of sitting and talking and holding the abandoned babies,watching them explore the grass and admiring my roommate for her dedication to them, of watching Fr. Rick as he annoints a body so reverently, of observing the lines of new mothers and beautiful babies coming for their newborn check-ups, of the little girl from the school program as she races toward me on the street and runs into my arms, chanting my name. My heart grows ever deeper, and the gift of such depth is a painful yet beautiful mystery in which I am honored to participate.