Letters with Stevenson

It is easy to feel overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of the problems of poverty. I have witnessed the undoing of many well-meaning individuals and organizations who have entered the fray of the developing world with wonderful, but short-sighted or self-centered intentions. I marvel that I have been here nearly one year, and that this life has become so normalized for me. The creature comforts of home still remind me of how I miss them. 

I am currently in Mexico, having had an overnight layover in Miami and running into Target for a few necessities – and no matter how much I try to prepare myself, it is a ceaseless amazement to me that there is such a plethora of items there. But thank goodness for one-stop shopping, a luxury that is not to be found in Haiti. Running errands with Joanne a few weeks ago, as we searched through the various NGO’s serving in Haiti hoping to find a supplier of mosquito nets, we did stop at the most well-stocked supermarket I had seen in my eight months’ assignment, but still we had to travel to at least three more stores to find esoteric items such as staplers and digital memory cards (which, after import taxes, ran at least double the price in the States).

In the midst of a stretch of months where many projects seem to be nearing their completion – well, I am glad you asked! Of course I am glad to share the accomplishments of my team with you – we have completed the admission lab work for all of our children, a huge feat in just a few short months; we have begun keeping regular monthly statistics via computer, we will be completing the third round of supplemental vaccinations next month, 38 of our children who tested positive on their Mantoux TB tests are now on prophylactic medication, we have done basic vision testing on nearly all of the kids, which will also be completed within the month, we finally have mosquito nets for everyone at the home!!!!! (Special thanks go to the NPH German office for their work in securing the donation), and we will be receiving a massive order of medications which should supply us for the next 12 months. (Again, thanks to the German offices for their generosity in covering the cost of these medications). As of this week, all of the children will have had a visit with the dentist - Dental services are offered at St. Damien hospital, free of charge, for which we are very grateful and blessed! We will also soon be moving to a bigger container, which will give us double the clinic space and also will allow a private sleeping space for the nurses, storage, and a more peaceful environment for our patients. 

Perhaps the most encouraging accomplishment was the completion of a nutrition program we implemented in October. We identified 58 children who were significantly underweight and under-height for their ages. Over the next five months, those children received a supplemental meal every day at 10:00 am, the time of their school break. We monitored heights and weights monthly. Some children were able to leave the program, while others were brought in due to weight loss. Just last week, we re-weighed everyone that has ever been in the program, and I am thrilled to report that over five months, we had a total of 65 children receive extra food. As of today, only 9 remain significantly underweight! That is a massive improvement, and was a huge encouragement to the nurses, the directors and myself, as 86% of the children drastically improved and are now back on the growth curve!

And now to the original purpose of this post – and the addition of “teacher” to my resume. As we were commencing with the vision tests of all the kiddos last month, Stevenson came to me and insisted that we had to check his eyes too. A part of me wanted to laugh, as he has a congenital defect which has been diagnosed here in Haiti as Ocular Muscle Atrophy. He is nearly blind and can distinguish some colors, but not all, and most certainly could not read or write. He was at the FWAL school for many months, but understandably was inattentive in class and was deemed a poor student. A side challenge of the educational system here in Haiti is that there is no individual attention given, and instruction is given via memorization the majority of time. After we obtained an appointment with an ophthalmologist and were given the diagnosis mentioned above, it was decided that we would send Stevenson to a school for the blind, starting in January. 

Stevenson (Left) and a friend at Kay St,. Louis

 Stevenson is a wonderfully sweet and attentive child, desperate for attention and often acting out because he is so frustrated with the inability to apply himself to constructive activities. He loves to learn, and was able to dance the Cupid Shuffle with me after only a few lessons! He still asks to dance, and reminds me when I have not brought my music for many weeks. As times, I will admit, his constant presence at my side and his violent actions to keep my attention were an annoyance to me, but at the same time, I wondered how this intelligent little guy might be able to learn.

After he started school, I asked him daily what he had learned. He continuously said, “Nothing,” and “they don’t talk there.” He was still bored, frustrated, anxious and easily irritated. For the next two months, his answers remained the same, and he could not tell me anything he had learned. Was he reading Braille? Could he see enough to read or write? I knew nothing. I was frustrated for him, as it seemed that the venture into special education was proving fruitless. 

So, the day of the vision test, to humor Stevenson, I decided to go ahead and test his vision with the basic picture eye chart. To my surprise, he could see the largest line – the equivalent of 20/100 vision, with his right eye! Sadly his left eye could not distinguish the pictures. But after seeing that he could recognize the largest items on the chart, I started thinking – if he can see large pictures, why not large letters? I asked Stevenson, “Do you want to learn how to write?” And you can guess his response! So commenced my latest project. I created large letters, colored with bright colors in permanent marker, on pieces of construction paper. We started at the beginning of the alphabet, and covered one to two letters per day, learning both the capital and lowercase letters. I had to double check many times how to write the lowercase, as here in Haiti cursive writing is still taught as the primary form. This makes me happy, as my friends and anyone who has received anything in written form from me will testify. I still love writing in cursive! And will keep up the protest, as our crazy modern age slowly picks away at penmanship skills. The change in little Stevenson was amazing to observe – he was excited, and happy, and embraced the challenge. It has been difficult for him at times, as he still cannot see well once he has written something on paper – he is doing most of his writing by feel and repetition. But the smile on his face when he was able to start writing people’s names was fabulous. He sings to the letters, laughs at me when I ask how to write a certain letter in Creole versus English, remembers incredibly well when we have our daily quizzes, and can recognize every letter. “Show me the other one,” he says when he cannot quite remember.  The other nurses and even a few of the other children have participated too, patiently waiting while he concentrates and writes each letter. Once the children see how excited Stevenson is, their interest compounds!

 I was close to tears when he wrote my name over and over, trying to get it perfect. He runs up to me every afternoon when I arrive, asking which letters we will practice today, and now that we have gotten to the end of the alphabet, he is anxious to learn his numbers. I am now determined to search for a better diagnosis, so that I know if we have considered every possible option for him. Thankfully, a CT scanner is functional at a neighboring hospital. But it is an absolute highlight of each of my recent days at FWAL, to see him changing and becoming a studious boy, hopeful and optimistic about his improving future. This is why I am here. Each day, more reasons are revealed to me. When I become doubtful or lonely, I can go find a little visually challenged boy and ask him to write his name. And now, after years of waiting, he can.

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.

Don't Pedestalize Me!

A rather awkward and uncomfortable side to this life is the “pedestalization” which we undergo as missionaries. During a refreshing and grounded conversation with two visitors, both volunteers who survived the earthquake and have returned since to work, we spoke of how we have all reacted adversely to the near-idolization we have all experienced. It is a disturbing phenomenon, though understandable, as I have certainly fallen guilty of the same type of thinking, about friends and popular personalities.  During my visit home, I heard many say, “I could never do what you do – I think it is amazing and you are amazing!” or the like. One aspect of that statement is true – the work in which I have the privilege of participating is truly amazing and awe-inducing. But I must disagree with the other two parts of the comment!

To those who think that they could “never” do what I am doing – all I ask is that you respond to the urging that is in your heart to serve in whatever capacity God is calling you to. I am a firm believer that we are given the grace to do exactly what is asked of us in the moment, whether it is working in the orphanages and hospitals of Haiti or caring for the home you live in, cooking dinner for your family; whether it is working long hours at your chosen profession or spending the day in prayer or meditation within the confines of your room, whether creating the best artwork you can or diligently working a difficult job to provide for those you love. The fact is that if you are responding to or pursuing the desire of your heart, if you are doing what you believe is right, and if you are determined to leave the world changed a bit for the better, then you are doing the exact same thing I am doing. The ways that our lives and gifts are used are different, but are no less important if spent within the same few square miles, versus the corners of the world. I remember holding myself to a ridiculous standard, believing that there was no mission or profession as noble as that of international missions, and that any job I might look for in the States would not be enough for God to be satisfied with me. What a lie! I have had the privilege of working in the developing world for many years since my first college graduation 12 years ago, but just as critical was my summer working as a home health care aide, caring for a woman with post-polio syndrome and spending hours each night making her comfortable. Just as important was learning to host at a restaurant, or learning good customer service at a local bread franchise, or cleaning the bathrooms at a medical office.

During the four years I spent working at an elite hospital, caring for critically ill children and their families, I still had yearnings for international work, but thank goodness I was able to begin learning from my little patients and their absolutely heroic parents. Their mission was to love their little children through perilous surgery and recovery, with potentially years of chronic illness. For some it became sharing their grief publicly and reaching others with an excruciating legacy. Over and over and over again in my mind and heart, I could observe how personal each individual's mission is meant to be. And just as important to one family member as the nurse caring for their child, might be the cleanliness of the room or the quality of the food or the freshness of clean blankets or sheets, or the availability of a particular toy or movie, or the heat or cold in the room, or the smile on the face of the person transporting them to surgery. These aspects of patient care had nothing to do with how good of a nurse I was – they were provided by people perhaps seen as behind the scenes or brushed off without a second thought.

And to the third part of the statement – the “you are amazing” part – it could not be more untrue! As my fellow volunteers and I will gladly attest and willingly admit, we are sorely human, the weakest of the weak. I have negative thoughts, I have experienced depression and given in to despair, I complain, I doubt my abilities, I am sure I annoy my roommate, (though she is too kind to say anything), I miss the creature comforts of home, I obsess over what I will wear to work (yes, even here!), and I could go on indefinitely about my negative attributes. We are all usually good at doing so. The underlying wonderful gift in this situation we must be willing to recognize is that we are inherently weak and imperfect, but we are given a remarkable opportunity. We are entrusted with the formidable task and responsibility of living this life in the service of others. This much may go against the popular grain of “looking out for Number One,” which seems to be the trend. But I can assure you that when, in spite of (or even because of) my weakness and acknowledged ineptness, I step forward in solidarity and choose to humbly walk in acceptance of my imperfection, a perfect love can be demonstrated through me. That is the amazing part – the Power that works through imperfect, fragile people and affects transformation in minds, hearts and lives. The Power that changes the world.

Home to a Foreign Land

"The people I have met are the wonders of my world." - Adele

Ti Erline, happier and so healthy now!

A few of my entourage

The girls patiently wait for their Christmas gifts

New outfits!

Wilner and Antoine, adorable big and little brother

I sit here recovering from the whirlwind that has been the past three weeks... the journey to the States for a visit, the return “home” to a foreign land, the re-immersion into this culture, the massive influx of visitors for the anniversary of the earthquake, the emotion of loss and remembrance, the completion of the first statistical report for the FWAL clinic... Phew. I have commented before that countless moments fill each day, and it makes it difficult to capture all of them.

The visit with family and friends was packed with activity, much more than I anticipated. The “down time” I thought I might have never actually occurred – but it was wonderful to see faces and look into the eyes of precious loved ones, to relate just a bit of my experience when time and interest allowed. It is a truly strange spectrum of emotions as I re-entered the American culture while carrying so much of Haiti within my mind and heart. Much of the visit felt surreal, much like my first few weeks here in Haiti did. And even more surreal was the packing up and returning here after a few short days. Friends and family were extremely generous with donations of supplies, vitamins and toys...due to the holiday constraints on checked baggage, not all of them made it here yet, but they are coming! Kudos to my former co-workers and two cherished patient families – the kids got new underwear, and the girls got some awesomely cool hair accessories, as part of their Christmas pile of presents. The look on their faces was priceless as they opened their bags.

My view from the clinic, first day back - the kids couldn't get enough of me!

The children have embraced me just a little more tightly since I came back. We actually made a stop at St. Louis on the way back from the airport, just to say hello. Oh, the love I experience from them! Their eyes lit up, and my smile did as well. “You came back?” they asked as they hugged me. Then, “Did you bring candy?” (Of course, the obvious follow-up question!) The power of the return is strong. And yes, I did bring candy. As we participated in the events of this week, from the joy of Christmas gift distribution to the bittersweet morning of Visitors' Day, to the mass at Titanyen, the site of the thousands of mass graves after the earthquake, to the noon mass yesterday just outside the chapel at the hospital, I have studied their faces, fallen even more in love with them, and have been extremely proud of them as they have behaved so well! These kids are the epitome of living in the moment and dancing, no matter the circumstances. I am blessed to care for these little heroes.

Yesterday I finished a report detailing the operations of the Angels of Light clinic over the past four months, and as I have compiled information and added numbers, I began to feel like a proud mother – the three nurses I work with have been diligent and purposeful in their work since I have arrived. They have allowed me into their lives and their practice, and have responded positively to the changes we have begun to make. They have completed basic blood and other admission examinations on nearly all the chidren, begun a new way of documentation, learned Excel, (two of them had never touched a computer before!), organized the charts with completely new paperwork, entered daily and monthly statistics, managed supplies and medications more efficiently, given two rounds of vaccinations to all 183 children, all while managing a workload of approximately 500 visits to the clinic each month! They are faith-filled, have fabulous senses of humor, and very much want to learn more. They stated that their number one need for the coming year was more education, so yours truly has a long list of subjects to condense and teach. What a blessing to work with women who want to improve their practice and care more holistically for the children in their charge.

In talking to a former volunteer and some dear friends, I have adopted the word “heavy” as one of the best descriptors of this experience. I had a huge amount of anxiety as I packed the night before my return, and I could feel the weight of Haiti reintroducing itself. This is neither good nor bad – just fact. This is a hard life, a challenging culture, a massive amount of emotion requiring constant effort at the maintenance of composure, countless numbers of suffering people, blazing sunlight as it illuminates a broken country, the crisis of the moment dictating the order of the day. It is also genuine laughter, the comfort of touch and truth in conversation, the raw experience of love in its truest form, the joy of children whose spirits will not be stifled. It is the weight of poverty compounded with the challenge of promoting change for people so used to years of failure and disappointment. “If God wills,” is how every goodbye is ended. God willing we are still alive tomorrow, I will see you again. Ugh -how sobering! It is a constant in my mind to want to respond, “Well, yes, of course – that is an understood with me – but let's actively hope for the promise of tomorrow!” The fragility of hope presents itself to me on a regular basis. So I say, “Always.” That is how we must live – in hope, the expectation of good, of another day, while living the present to the fullest we can, willing to accept that tomorrow may not come, but not allowing that possibility to be cause for fear. Let it simply motivate us to be truly present to those in front of us, aware and responsive to how we may best be used to love and care for them in the time we are given with them.

Marching On

"Where pain, loss and suffering are present, the grace of God is present even more." Fr. Rick Frechette

It has been a quiet day here, as the country pauses to reflect on the horrible losses of this day two years ago. Yesterday we journeyed out to the site of the mass graves in Titanyen, where thousands of people were buried out of necessity. We stood over their graves and celebrated mass, where Fr. Rick spoke of the humiliation poverty brings and the absolute imperative that we must dig into the deepest core of ourselves, never forgetting the compassion which is a critical part of this life, for the living, for the dead, and for each moment between birth and death. Today at midday, the bell at the chapel rang as the names of the dead from the NPH family were read. These names include two American volunteers who gave their lives in service to the Haitians. Three more foreign volunteers were pulled from the rubble of the hospital and survived, and have since returned to Haiti to work with the people they love.

My life was changed two years ago today, in ways which I had yet to know. Having never given Haiti a second thought, I watched the coverage of the earthquake and my heart was absolutely compelled to be here. Through the work of providence, I was on a flight 11 days later, and was privileged to work alongside some true American and Haitian heroes caring for the injured and suffering. We witnessed births and deaths, miracles and tragedies. And my heart was deepened more than I thought possible. Over the subsequent months, as you know, I listened and waited for the right time to make a career change, as God continued to work on my heart. And I can tell you that I would be nowhere else but here today. Haiti does not reach the headlines much anymore, with the exception of days like today, when the worldwide media outlets write the progress of the country since the earthquake in a negative light. What is not reported are the massive changes and improvements that HAVE occurred here, and how organizations are diligently working to repair the damage the country has endured and sustained over the last 200 years, before the devastation of the earthquake was even present. I am honored to care for 200 of Haiti's littlest heroes, children who embrace life, love with their entire selves and are the embodiment of hope. Haiti marches on, Haiti will not die, and Haiti cannot die.

If living and working here has taught me anything, it is to be present to those important to you, to truly give them your attention, to validate them, love them, listen to them and dignify them. Cherish those whose lives have influenced yours, and do not rule out new opportunities or possibilities. Relish the moments you are given with the ones you love, and for goodness's sake, tell those in your life how you feel about them! We are all desperate to know we are loved and important, and in the age of crazy, instant technology and material overload, the basics of relationships are often forgotten. Yet they are the most important.

As an aside, and appropriate for today, the following article gives some perspective in response to the numerous outcries about how money is not being spent in Haiti....
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dave-mudcat-saunders/haiti-usaid-reconstruction_b_1199254.html