Friday, November 17

Why does the chicken cross the road?  I’ll tell you later.

Our final day of clinic is always bittersweet.  Ready for rest yet reluctant to leave my new friends. It makes me think of my concerns of yesterday. The bittersweetness of trusting God and His power when I am feeling utterly powerless. I turn to Matt Redman’s song, “10,000 Reasons”.

“The sun comes up, it’s a new day dawning.  It’s time to sing Your song again.  Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, Let me be singing when the evening comes.”  

The only route through is with an attitude of gratitude…10,000 reasons for my heart to find, singing like never before wherever He takes me.

It is an overcast, dim day, ready for rain as we arrive at clinic. We are greeted by a parade of sorts.  We are  told the proper name is a ‘Manifestation’.  I have a front row look as I wait to pass through to clinic.  Rows of brightly colored. fancily dressed women are marching down the road, each with a straw hat and purse of bows.  They are chanting and excited onlookers surround and follow them.  We see the Voodoo Doctor, with whom we prayed in clinic this week, leading the way. Apparently, this is a Voodoo thing.

Bas is my interpreter and I share my bench with Dr. Vic one last time. We examine our church volunteers first today.  There are 15 or so church members who have volunteered their time this week to assist us in the clinic. They range from young adult to old.  

Jacko comes to me.  He is 20 years old, tall and thin and works as a tailor.  He is my own son’s counterpart and I tell him so.  I anticipate that he will tell me he has the common complaint of fever, cough, “acid reflux” but instead I find that he has high blood pressure.  I take his blood pressure  on each side because I cannot believe this could be true for one so young yet so it is.

Once again, I hear my baby before I see him.  Bowden’s Aunt has brought him back to us and she is smiling.  He is dressed in a bright blue jumper and holds my finger with his tiny grip.  His breathing is less labored and he is more alert.  He is, indeed, better. As I hold him in my arms I rock and sing.  Bas comes over and he and I sing hymns together and our voices calm his fussing.  Bowden’s eyes look toward Bas at the richness of Bas’ deep voice.  Later, I hug Bowden’s mama and aunt and tell them what a faithful fine job they have done with him.  They tell the Pastor that they are grateful for our help.

Sweet 7 year old Nasquadia walks happily beside her mother and brother as they come to me.  She looks fairly well and so I am surprised when I find her tonsils and uvula to be so large there is only a small airway left; something we call kissing tonsils. Mama tells me she won’t eat. What an understatement!  Thankfully, the tonsils do not look infected only enlarged but nevertheless will need surgery.  Bas talks with mom and recommends a nearby hospital while I give her ideas about feeding and safeguarding her child.  

We end clinic early so that we can thank all those who made this week possible.  The rain gently begins on the tin roof of the church as we gather and sing.  It’s refreshing coolness blowing across the open air sanctuary.  As the rain becomes louder and more forceful, so do we, with Paul as our cheerleader.  We cheer and celebrate one another and overpower the sound of the rain.

It is a muddy drive home with laughing children splashing and the irrigation canals rising.  The roads in St. Marc are bustling and traffic is full.  Sue points out a chicken on the sidewalk who appears to be deciding whether he can make it across the busy road in front of us.  We watch to see if the chicken will cross the road. When he takes off suddenly, out of our sight, we all look to the other side to see if he makes but he is nowhere to be found…until he is spotted just outside the windshield on the hood.  He is stares at us as we stare at him and he stays there until we stop at his stop down the road where he hops off.  Even the vendors beside our van are curious and laughing.

So, why did the chicken cross the road?  He didn’t he took a taxi.

We end our daylight with a small clinic for some of the foster kids who live near the guest house and then it is off to ready ourselves for our trip back to Port-au-Prince tomorrow.

Test

Thursday, November 16

It threatens rain again this morning as we drive our now familiar route to clinic.  The protests of yesterday turn out to be no more than a fight between village members.  No police were called and it was over soon after it began.  I am grateful the leadership valued our safety enough to be insure it and yesterday, afterall, was an unexpected delight and blessing.

The verdant hills of the distance are a welcomed distraction from the muddy drabness of the city.  At the foot of the hills are acres of short palm trees ringed by fewer taller ones standing sentinel around them.  It reminds me of Feeding Hope, how the older ones surround and protect the little ones eagerly reaching for their potential.

It appears to be car wash day as we drive along the irrigation canals. We pass motorcycle after motorcycle shining as the light catches the glistening chrome.   

The pink, yellow and red lily pad like flowers flourish at the water’s edge and the goats of all sizes are finding their morning feasts.

Clinic begins with a lovely nine month old sweetie sweeter asleep in her father’s arms. He tells me that young Silvina pees all the time and it has a foul stench.  She is feverish and irritable when she is not asleep.  I take care to not wake her and treat her for what will turn out to be the diagnosis de jour again today.

Next, is two year old Wilvens who would just as soon scratch my eyes out as look at me. As I get close to exam him he reaches for my face with his long fingernails.  It is a complicated relationship but we manage to come to an understanding.  I tell him he is fierce and that quality will serve him well.  His father smiles.

Across the room I recognize the cry before I see the baby.  Bowden, from our first day, is back.  He is breathing more evenly with a more effective suck and is lying contentedly in his aunt’s arms. After much deliberation among the team, it seems evident that this darling has some underlying issues that will not be easy to treat and probably will not be cured.

When 13 year old Yguet (pronounced Egay) comes to me, he tells me he has sores in his mouth that bleed.  He is unable to close his mouth because of them and I see that there are lesions that intertwine with his teeth and tongue.  He had surgery before he could remember and had a tumor removed.  He bears the scars on his face and neck.  I recognize immediately that this is out of my scope and I take him to Dr. Greg.

Cases like these two cause me to dig deep.  They remind me of my struggle with my Mother-in-law Lettie whom I had the privilege to care for at the end of her life.  It is not easy to be powerless in the presence of suffering. It is heart rending.  It is also a time to realize I am not powerless.  The words of a Mercy Me song sum it up:  “I know You are able.  I know that You care.  You can bring me safely through the fire with Your mighty hand… BUT even if You don’t, My hope is in You alone.”  If I cannot trust Him in times like these, why would I bother to trust Him at all?  He is able to accomplish what concerns me today. Well,  Bowden and Yguet are my concern so I lift them up to the only Power that can truly heal what matters most and I continue to do what He has made me to do as I power on.

One of my last patients of the day is a 9 month pregnant Mama, Ylenia.  She is beautiful, tall and thin with her round belly, ready to pop.  I invite her to deliver here and now and she smiles.  She is here because she was due on Nov 9 and wonders why the baby lingers.  She is tolerating pregnancy well and really is the picture of health. I reassure her that babies come when they are ready and not to worry.  She will need all her strength when the day comes.  She allows me to pray for her and her baby as I lay my hand on her belly and take her other hand in mine.  It is a beautiful, life affirming moment to remind me of  Whose hands we are in.

Whose handsWhose hands we are in.

Wednesday, November 15

It is a rainy, drizzly day and the grey coolness descends all around.  It is a joy to watch the school children bounce happily together.  There is a group of four dressed in grey jumpers with yellow blouses and bows, the youngest in all yellow, bright against the muted background of the day. They hold hands in a line as they run and pull each other along, so close to the road’s edge, seemingly unaware of the busy street.

We are just entering St. Marc, not far from the guest house, when we receive word that there is a protest of some kind near the church where we hold clinic.  In favor of safety, the decision is made to turn back and cancel clinic. Our day is now unscripted so we gather for devotions and song.

I choose another Lauren Daigle song:  Salt and Light.  In Matthew 4:33, Jesus calls us salt and light.  Salt has many uses.  It flavors our world, it preserves, it heals.  Light brings clarity and detail and pushes out the fear of the dark, thus revealing our path.  I find it clever that the song calls Jesus the salt and light since Jesus calls us the salt and light.  It is, of course, perfectly right. He is our salt and light first so that we may be salt and light for others.

We sit and talk with our host, Paul.  He is a Haitian man who manages the guest house.  He lives up the hill with his wife and son.  His ministry is called Magic Beans.  He has two homes for foster kids; a school; a soccer boys team; a shoe distribution ministry; a sewing ministry for women who then sell their handiwork; a get a goat give a goat program and a feeding ministry for neighborhood children, to only name those aspects I can remember.

Paul invites us to visit the feeding program: Feeding Hope.  The school children go here after school for a meal before going home.  It is a half block from our guest house.  It is a cinder block building with a large covered porch with rows of tables.  When we turn in from the street, we are at once greeted with the glee of 200 children from 3-17.  I find my place on the empty end of a full bench of darlings.  The children all reach for me and giggle.  We soon start singing and clapping.   Baz, m interpreter stands among us and leads us in animated song.  The room erupts with excitement as we rock and sway, clap and sing.  I make up my own words and join the exuberance.  This what I am made for is the song I sing.

We are given a tour of the kitchen.  There is a shelf lining three walls and filled with plates of rice and beans. In the back, we see boxes of Manna packs from Feed My Starving Children.  Paul receives 121 boxes a month.  I think of the Corona High School Choir and consider how these might be the boxes they packed.

The children follow us back to the guest house for an afternoon impromptu clinic.  Hand in hand, I walk with a tiny three year old fancy girl who happily escorts me.   We set up clinic on the small porch where we have dinner.  It is crowded and noisy but taking care of kids is my passion and I love every minute.

Tuesday, November 13

It is an earlier day today but the sun beats me up nonetheless.   Three of the team, with the driver, take the truck to pick up the Pastor Reggons and his wife, Dr. Mema.  I remember her name because it is the name my granddaughter calls me.  

The sun is just spilling onto the tips of the hills leading to the sea.  It is a lovely light show.  We pass a small house facing east.  It is in a row of four on a small ledge in the hill.  The porch holds a man and a child illuminated by the new sun.  The yellow of the man’s shirt pops and reminds me of the verse in Colossians about how Jesus is the radiance of God the Father.

Stores are opening in town:  The Grand Jehovah, petroleum products; Pharmacy of Life; The Grace of Jehovah Depot.  It is market day though our early hour and alternate route will rob us of its complicating traffic.  Our route appears to be along the back roads and there is luscious greens and yellows and the beauty of rural life wherever I look.  

Though we leave earlier than the team, they arrive before us.  Clinic is set up and soon we are underway.  I break only to test my prowess at the squatty potty with a sore knee; not an easy task let me tell you, but somehow I find success without falling in.

Today, my diagnosis de jour, is hypertension.  I see many older lovelies with tales of weakness and palpitations.  Most stories include having taken some unknown medicine in the past but, having run out, they did not obtain more.  I offer a lot of teaching and instructions to return to a doctor before they run out of medicine again.  It is like music to watch them approach slow and steady.  My 98 year old mother in law would call that “creeping along”.

My Haitian Johnny Cash comes to me with complaints of weakness.  He is a tall drink of water with a black Stetson cowboy hat, black shirt and boots.  I wonder if he can sing but am glad I don’t ask.  My regular cascade of investigative questions become a mire of complication.  Each time I try to ask a question to narrow down his vague trouble, he replies with an additional problem.  After several questions and no helpful answers, I rely on my physical exam.  We eventually came to a consensus and actual treatment does occur, much like a country song.

Magda becomes my interpreter for a time today as my care necessitates a private exam.  She is 21 and drove up here from Port au Prince to interpret for us.  She is studying communications at the University.  She is really quite fiesty.  She does not allow any patient to speak when she is listening to me and tells them so in no uncertain terms.  I don’t understand her words but I catch her mighty drift. Most of the time, however, her contagious smile lights my way.  She laughs at my French and my laugh.  Later, she tells me she “likes my way”.  I like hers too and we end the day together smiling.

It begins to rain as we close up clinic.  It lightly, gently mixes with the dirt becoming mud and puddles.  The hot day gives way to the cooling water’s dimness.  The children, chickens, ducks, goats and turkeys dance about in the rhythm of the drops as others take refuge under wooden and metal roofs to watch the spectacle that we are.

As we drive home, white birds that I have not noticed before, take on an electric glow against the green wetness.  Their brilliance, like a spotlight of color, revealing their graceful presence.  There is something lovely about a soft, gentle rain that refreshes and revives as much as the mud does for the little ones.

I close my eyes this day and rest in the shadow of my Almighty.

I close my eyes this day and rest the shadow of my Almighty.

Monday, November 13

I am awakened by the gentle light and the cool breezes of the morning. On my way to breakfast, I encounter Kenny.  He is five and lives at the Guest House with his dad who is the manager.  He is dressed to perfection in his school uniform and it is clear from his face that Monday is not his favorite day. After a breakfast of avocado and egg it is time to go. As I approach the van, I smile at Zo, our driver.  He shows me his sore knee with a face swallowing grin and I show him mine and we laugh at our shared malady, a word also used in Creole.  I sit by a window in the van and soak in the day.  Mountains rise from the green fields dotted with palm trees; the sun dusting the tops as school kids ironed and starched with bows and backpacks walk together, the youngers hand in hand with the olders. It is such a sweet, Haitian sight.

I consider the words of our hostess, Suzette.  She introduced the notion of primacy and recency.  In America, the newcomer to a group expects that those already there will greet them=recency.  In Haiti, the newcomer is expected to greet those already present, starting with the oldest and working down=primacy.  So what happens when an American enters a group of Haitians?  Each side waits for the other to begin the greeting and often there are hurt feelings simply because of unspoken cultural differences. I love the simplicity of this concept and it reinforces my desire to greet each patient and speak their names.

First clinic days are typically slow starters as everyone acclimates to the new place and so it is for me.  My day begins much as one of my devotions might.  The focus is on me and my challenges until I focus on another and am freed.

Bas is my interpreter.  He is a tall, handsome 29 year old who works at our Guest House.  He lives in a house he inherited from his mama nearby.  It is a varied day of clinic for all sizes and shapes.  I take each patient’s hand in mine and greet them by name.  I also take each parent’s hand and do the same.  The parents invariably do not anticipate this.  When I ask their names, they begin telling us about their child. I stop them and again ask their name.  Every time their faces are transformed from concern to delight.  There is power in the speaking of a name.  It delights me as much as it delights each of them.

St. Elaine brings her elderly husband to me.  She is aptly named as she takes care of him and the foley bag he carries with him.  Her smile of unexpectant blessing brightens the room when I greet her by name.  Her husband and she live in a one room dwelling with dirt floors and wooden roof.  They wash, both their bodies and their clothes, with the muddy irrigation water with which they cook and drink, yet, this man does not complain of bladder pain as I most assuredly would have thought.  He comes with a headache and dry eyes.  The foley seems to be  simply an extension of himself and is hardly noticed.  They go to a clinic every month to have it changed and they are due there next week.  St. Elaine  must take very good care of him, I think, as they walk arm in arm to the Pharmacy.

My attention is captured by a distant wailing of a tiny new one.  I leave my post to see what is distressing him so.  Tiny, two month old Bowden is being held by his mama while Deanna is working skillfully to give him some fluids.  He is pale and limp yet trying to be fierce in his continued battle to breathe. I come alongside and squeeze the mama’s shoulder and talk softly to this precious little one, stroking his chest and head.  Getting fluids into him proves to be no easy task though we call upon every resource we can muster.  We treat him today and ask that he returns tomorrow, and will pray him and his mama through the night.

I see Francesca from across the room.  She is an elegant, 87 year old lady who wears a grand, black, Derby worthy hat.  She and her daughter, Mylene, smile when I fuss over it. They are lovely together on many levels.  Their love for each other shines from their eyes.

The bus ride home finds me in the way back of the van, eavesdropping on the young male translators in front of me.  They are all in their 20’s and they are full to the brim with laughter and friendship.  I smile as I listen, understanding no words but awash in their connection.  It makes me wonder if my own sons would laugh and connect over the same things.

It has been a full day of stories, lives and challenges.  I will sleep well in the embrace of His blessings.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

The Port au Prince mountains of my heart rise in welcome as we softly land with an almost imperceptible bounce.  This marks my eighth visit to Haiti and yet visions of my post earthquake arrival crowd my mind; that landing was a bone chilling abrupt eyeopener.  It is a different welcome today, save for the mountains.  We are greeted by the lively music of the caribbean accordion and drums.  If Philip were here we would be dancing.  My toes start tapping as we negotiate customs and glide through the modernized terminal, unhindered.

Soon we are out into the humid warm air, walking the gauntlet of the usual Haitian welcome wagon lining each side of our path to the van.

Our journey takes us north two hours and we pass Mission of Hope and the towns where we served last year.  The silver grey ocean is to our left as fingers of pale color stretch across it giving the sun permission to descend to its rest.  Two hours later, the lush greenness of our mountain hideaway guest house near St. Marc rises from the dusty street of Route One.  It is a beautiful white washed set of buildings with pointed turrets and balconies overlooking the palms and bougainvillea.  I am enfolded in its sweetness and find my own rest.