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.