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

Collision and Diversion

Christmas Eve, Ann Arbor

The view out my window today is much different than it was last Thursday – 90 degrees and blue, sunny skies have been replaced by grey haze and a rain-snow mix. Precisely, I would say, the type of weather that helped cement my decision to fly South! It is difficult to believe, sitting here recovering from the Christmas festivities involving friends and family, that the same sun which barely appears in Michigan these days, fills the landscape with heat and intense light just a few hours' plane ride away. The dust and sweat and clamor and life of Haiti do inhabit the same planet as the cold, bustling shopping centers and carefully planned neighborhoods in Ann Arbor.

The weeks before my visit home were spent focusing intensely on the tasks of the moment, my mind straining to remain present to the children and the duties at hand. I could not let my mind slip into the mode of preparation for home – it would be too easy to lose perspective. Living the life of a missionary, I feel that we all reach a point of saturation – the ability to absorb or take in any more of the experience becomes clouded or even impossible, and the need to be away from the intensity of Haiti presented itself at the beginning of December. So it became a great testing point for me, evaluating the readiness and knowledge of the nurses at the clinic, letting go and trusting their decision-making and clinical skills, and talking through what we have accomplished in the four months I have been with them. We had a staff meeting, at which I was able to list the massive tasks they have completed so far, and where we discussed the status of the clinic and our plans for the coming year. They continue to remain excited about how far we have come, and are fervent in their determination to continue improving their skills and knowledge. I am truly amazed at the blessing they have been to the children and to me, working so patiently and listening attentively to my ideas, laughing as I have learned their language and adjust to their cultural practices. (Black hair is not an option for me, I keep telling them. I think they will keep demanding that I give it a try! And I will also continue to decline their offer of enhancements to my posterior!) Yes, there are many days and moments we find ourselves frustrated with the differences we see in our practice and understanding. But they continue to compliment me in the midst of our discussions. What a joy to know that they now feel empowered and validated, and that they know their opinions and experience are respected!

A huge challenge was presented to us these last few weeks. A newly diagnosed Type 1 diabetic came to live at St. Louis on December 1^st. We had very little time to prepare for her arrival, and we scoured the few resources available to us to find medication and testing supplies for her. She was poorly managed during her months of hospitalization, and we scrambled to find additional resources for planning her care. The nurses have very little experience with diabetes, and to be burdened with this disease in Haiti is a massive blow. One of the American long-term volunteers calls it a terminal disease here. It became a goal of mine to have her well-controlled by the time of my departure, as I wanted her to be stable and for the nurses to gain an understanding of diabetes management before I would leave them! There were many sleepless nights for yours truly, during which my mind churned with questions and anxieties about how this fragile girl would be managed in a difficult enviroment. But, as usually seems to happen, huge amounts of grace and protection were our companions as we negotiated the weeks. An endocrinologist from Akron Children's Hospital became our expert resource, the right kind of insulin was located and purchased, a donated glucometer with matching test strips (a RARE find!!) to last through my return to the country was given, and we were able to establish protocols for her care. With the assistance of Peggy, our fabulous Haitian American volunteer teacher, I translated my first instructions from English to Creole, and was able to teach the nurses the basics of blood glucose management. The most difficult part of the entire adventure has been the fact that our patient is 12 years old and is very good at being her age! But there is great hope for her. She is adjusting to an entirely new way of life, with stability and discipline, consistency and truth in love. She is learning how to trust, a formidable task for a girl who was literally tossed from family to family as a child slave before a kind acquaintance finally brought her to the hospital for care. When I start to become frustrated or feel my patience dissipating, I take a breath and remember that many of the children in my care have faced traumas and abuses beyond description. I study their eyes and feel their heads buried into my waist as they hug me tightly. And I remember the struggle we all face – whether American, Haitian or global citizen – we all long to be loved. What a great honor it is to be able to demonstrate and give tangible access to love, for 200 of my little brothers and sisters, and in turn, I pray, effect even more lives in the process. Not to my gain, but to the glory of the God who has gifted us all with this chance. May we not let it pass us by.

In the midst of the cloudiness of December, as the impressiveness of the Haitian experience threatened to overwhelm me, I was graced with two wonderful visitors who brought refreshment and light at just the right time. Rachel and Erin, both former volunteers who survived the collapse of the hospital in Petionville during the earthquake, came to visit and work for several days. Rachel has almost completed her Physical Therapy training and spent time with the therapists at St. Luc Hospital. Erin is now in Medical School and tacked a trip to Haiti onto the end of a week serving in the Dominican Republic. Dani and I were encouraged by Rachel's energy, laughter, and excitement. Erin's visit came just as Dani left for the States and loneliness threatened to invade, so it was a great gift to spend time with other women my age who share my passion for this work. It is a huge encouragement to be with others who “get” the experience. With other volunteers, there is an unspoken understanding of the challenge and culture which is a massive comfort. It is just plain fun to share our experiences and learn from each other, hearing other perspectives and being reminded that we are not alone. I am blessed to have two new friends who are beacons of humor and hope.

The fam, Christmas Eve 2011

Since my arrival home, there has been very little “down time!” First task of the first day was a much-needed haircut! Then the parade of friendly visits began, and the hustle and bustle of Christmas was upon me. I was glad to arrive home when I did, missing the ridiculous commercialization and marketing season. (We turned on Christmas music in Haiti and had a Christmas movie marathon to remind ourselves that it was coming. We made snowflakes and hung Christmas lights, but it still doesn't hit you when the temperature is in the 90's and there is no snow to be found). I attended Christmas Eve mass with the new English words, my sisters joined the choir for the evening, we had mimosas and mom's fabulous Christmas quiche, and we played Killer Uno with the cousins. I have ventured out to the stores twice so far, both times returning home overheated and near-panic stricken at the sheer amount of STUFF we have – and have seen many friends. It is hard not to compartmentalize my life just a bit, because the world of Haiti seems so far away from my parents' comfortable living room, and it is easy to just hop in the car and go grab take-out or meet friends for drinks at the restaurant down the street. I struggle to sleep in my own comfortable bed with layers of warm blankets, because the room is so quiet! A hot shower in the morning is standard procedure, and grabbing clean laundry from the dryer is done without a thought. Large, multi-room houses with indoor plumbing populate quiet, residential streets, and the highways an busy roads are governed by clearly marked lanes and strictly-enforced regulations. Wearing socks and shoes/boots is trying and uncomfortable. Having ready-made food and a huge refrigerator accessible, and knowing that whatever is on the menu at the restaurant is most definitely available, are things too easily taken for granted. It seems that too quickly I will be back in a world where all of this is foreign, where a car is a massive luxury, where every day's mass is a funeral, where dessert is not a regular part of the meal, where one can never presume that water from the tap is safe to drink, where a hair dryer is completely unnecessary, where Starbucks and McDonald's do not exist, where electricity is likely to be had for only a few hours a day, where television does not rule the schedule, where one-on-one conversation is the regular mode of communication, where people are more important than things, where a cold glass of water is treasured by its recipient for hours. Somehow these two worlds are part of the same one. Somehow it is possible to exist in both.

Beautiful People

Beautiful, as defined by www.dictionary.com:

“Having qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about; delighting the senses or mind. Excellent of its kind. Wonderful.”

I just missed seeing Kim Kardashian today. Yes, seriously. The reality star and a group of other Hollywood-considered "beautiful people" were at our volunteer tents this morning, about to embark on their whirlwind tour of the projects of Artists for Peace and Justice. APJ was started by Paul Haggis, famous for writing and directing Crash, among other accomplishments. The organization has funded and built a school which is currently located right next to the Angels of Light program and is run by St. Luc. (St. Luc is another organization directed by Fr. Rick here in Haiti). APJ has worked closely with Fr. Rick, and Paul was here last month with a contingent of Canadian celebrities to officially open the school. I was impressed to see that a Hollywood personality has returned to Haiti and demonstrates a commitment to the country. More on this later. It is a crazy collision of worlds, to see someone whose name is credited with moving the movie industry, just sitting in the tent where I eat every day, friendly and “normal.”

This morning, as I slowly woke up after an extremely draining 11-day stretch at work, my roommate Dani came running into the house telling me excitedly that a number of “beautiful men are outside!” I hurriedly dressed and washed up, feeling even less attractive knowing what I was apparently walking into, then listened to her footsteps rushing back into the house, as she started trembling and said, “Forget the men – Kim Kardashian is out there! She is about to go use our porta-potty bathroom!” As we looked in disbelief at the People magazine with her on the cover, we talked of the strange intersection of such an elite and superficial world with the reality of Haiti. Unfortunately, by the time I walked out to the volunteer area, the group was long-gone and I was left to wonder if it had really happened.

I have lamented of late that since Haiti is hardly in the current headlines now, those who are not living the life here are easily swayed by the media and are engrossed in the newest subject. Initial excitement and pledges are deserted, and the lack of evidence of big change is off-putting to the culture of immediate gratification from which we come. We were visited by Friends of the Orphans employees last week, and in an impromptu interview I had the chance to describe the changes I have seen, the opportunities that are being offered to so many children (800 at current count, through the Angels of Light Program) and the countless lives that these outreaches will affect. And, economies and challenges being as they are, the question of funding and the long-term existence of programs like this comes up often in conversation and planning. Sadly, bringing about significant change after 200 years of corruption and bloodshed will not happen overnight. I am happy to report that in the year and a half between my visits to Haiti, I was amazed upon my return at the amount of reconstruction and development that has occurred. The sheer number of programs and outreaches commenced at NPH and its sister organizations is just one example. I wish that the reports transmitted from here would reach the airwaves in the States. Instead of chaos and violence, I would love to see the cause of change and hope broadcast.

As I sat with the children last Saturday, during Fet Paran, (the visitors' day at FWAL), I thought about how truly beautiful they are. It has struck me many times that the joy emanating from faces I see cause the lights of Hollywood and the huge movie premieres to pale in comparison. The spectrum of emotions I witness and experience each day are beyond the ability of any director or cast to capture. Because they are real. The tears that descend the face of our newest resident, orphaned and just two days out of the hospital where she has lived for the past several months – these are evidence of pain no camera can possibly convey. The change which enters her face at the gentle caress of the nurse who holds her tightly – and the continued swelling of her eyes as they fill again and again. The permanent grasp of my hands by the children with no one to visit them – the stroking of my arms and the placing of my hands over their shoulders. The stirring of my heart as I sit with them and have the privilege of being their family for the few months I am here – the love I feel when I am asked for by name, when I am trusted by these precious souls and pulled back to the table to sit for just a few more minutes. The laughter that erupts as the girls see me mouthing the same words they sing to Justin Beiber's anthem. The smile that refuses to leave a little face, even as the tears threaten to return. The children look past my eyes and seem to read my thoughts, and we sit just holding each other with no words needed. I am so honored to experience this radiance. This is true beauty.

The superficial world of American media and the actors who attach themselves to the cause of the hour, the gossip magazines and sites dedicated to drowning the public in the pool of unnecessary information – these are not real. The men who travel to the general hospital morgue every week, sort through the pile of bodies and offer a final act of service by burying them with dignified ceremony. My roommate Dani, who manages a massive warehouse of donations and purchases, organizing materials day in and day out, and who generously reaches out to the abandoned children every evening. Madame Rose, who enthusiastically directs 200 youngsters as they attend our Kindergarten program and greets me with gusto every morning. Sr. Judy, who has been here in Haiti for nearly 10 years and serves the poorest of the poor with a firm but compassionate hand. Fr. Rick, who works tirelessly (seriously – I don't know when the guy sleeps) and has a huge heart for those with no hope. The intense planning Joanne has undertaken, to ensure that Christmas will be festive for the 183 children in her charge.The former residents of the NPH orphanages, who have returned to live with, mentor and nurture their younger brothers and sisters, speaking from experience which no others can possibly understand. The artists who see through the fog of their elite world and travel to the culture where we all stand equally. The children who ask when I will return to be with them, who thank me with responses like, “God bless you, Brigitte.” The little toddlers who run to me and try to pronounce my name so carefully. The bright eyes that sear through artificiality and beg for honesty. The boys and girls who place their heads under my hands and hold my waist. The sound of the newborn babies as they emerge into the world from the shelter of their mothers' wombs. The sound of my name as I am recognized. These are real. These are tangible. These impressions last. Lives are changed. These are beautiful.

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.

Maxuel

 

He is a tall, thin, gangly boy, all arms and legs, easily distracted and clumsy. His legs dance as he stands in line for school. He loves to yell and laugh, but when upset or confused, he retreats within himself and becomes dissociated, entering a separate world where he stares at untold memories. He has a massive smile which shows all of the painful cavities in his mouth. When his eyes meet mine each day, he leaps toward me and runs to embrace me, calling my name, burying his head into my chest when we meet. He holds tightly to me as I caress his head and ask about his day, then ever-so-sweetly asks for a glass of cold water after stumbling through his answers to my questions. His thoughts come too quickly for his words to express. After he finishes his drink, he takes my hand and we sit together outside watching the other children as they spend their precious few minutes between class and chores, chasing each other through the courtyard and attacking any round object they find. Soccer can be played with empty soft drink bottles, half-flat destroyed rubber balls, tennis balls, so long as they are able to be kicked and are lightweight. He yelps as his friends rush by, enthusiastically cheering the action. Yet, at the splitting of a second, his face changes and his eyes grow dark, telling of trauma he cannot voice. He starts to whine and cry quietly if the sounds of the game increase too quickly, if a mob scene develops or if there is a sudden loud noise. He shrinks into my chest as I hold him, wrapping my arms around his small frame and holding them there. He tucks his head under my chin as he endures the pain of sorting through his emotions. He is unable to speak, but looks away as I hold him tightly, and slowly relaxes into me, finding my hands with his. We sit together, my mind filling with questions that will never be answered, as I wonder at the resilience of such a little boy in the face of terrors which I will never know. He starts to return to the present as he looks up at me and intertwines his fingers with mine, tracing my veins and studying the palms of my hands, still quiet but smiling just the tiniest bit as I tickle his underarms and neck. We stand together and he requests another glass of water, relishing every sip. When I take my backpack and start to say goodbye, his face falls again and he grabs my hand, motioning back to the bench where we sat for so many minutes. So we sit again as I tell him I will return tomorrow, praying that this will reassure him enough to keep him from crying. His thirst for love is excruciating, and he reluctantly leaves me to begin his daily chores and dinner preparations. As I walk out the gate, there is once again a hand in mine as he runs back to me for a final hug before retreating into the evening.