Kijan sante w ye?

I have just returned from Haiti, and over and over I was asked this question, “Kijan sante w ye?” (“How is your health?”)

And each time I answered, “For today, I am well. I can not speak of tomorrow or next year, but, for today, I feel I am well. Although I was told the medication I take would cause many problems, for now, I do not have them, by God’s grace.”

Can any of us really ask for anything more than to know that, for today, all is well?

The Fueled by Faith Podcast

I recently had the opportunity to talk to my friend, Emily, on her podcast - Fueled by Faith. Though the conversation was not what we had planned, we believe it is exactly what God intended for us both on a morning when we were both clinging to the promise of Psalm 73:26:

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever.

By God’s grace

I left Haiti on March 20, unsure of when I would be able to return. At that point, surgery followed by chemotherapy was scheduled for April.

After changing practitioners, I had surgery May 2, facing a whole range of possibilities and scenarios.

But, by God’s grace, on July 20, I returned to the place that has captured my heart like none other. And what a joyous reunion it has been.

I will cherish these precious, fleeting moments with those who have the deepest part of my heart.

GCT is part of my story, but it will not keep me from living my life.

The gift of my Haitian family

Recently the staff of Haiti Awake shared the following:

Sè Becky,

Your family from your second home, Haiti, want you to know how much we love you and pray for you. You are a gift to us from God.

Knowing you is a privilege. For the past eleven years, we have learned so much from you. Your love for Haiti, especially for Haiti Awake, is obvious.

Thank you for walking with us in every trial that we have known in Haiti, even in the midst of your own trials. Now we can walk with you.

You are in our hearts and prayers.

We love you very much.

Get healed soon!

Your family at Haiti Awake

God is in the details

A few minutes ago, a lady from Duke Hospital called to let me know my surgery time is 7:10 a.m. and that I should arrive at 5:10 a.m.

She gave me a series of clear instructions and concluded with “Do you have any questions?”

I replied, “May I ask you a personal question? What is the country of your birth?”

Her reply, “Haiti.”

We chatted back and forth in Haitian Creole, and I told her she was part of my story now - a story only God could write.

She went silent. I was afraid I had offended her until she said, “Ou fè m kriye.” (You made me cry.)

I had tears in my eyes, too.

It’s time to go public

March 20, 2023

Haitians know how to grieve.  And they know how to laugh.  And they know how to suffer.  And they know how to hold onto hope in the face of impossible odds.

And they are my people.  So what better place to spend the last few days than in this country of contrasts, of joy and of sorrow, as I prepare to fight the toughest battle I’ve yet to face in my 52 years. 

As I shared with the church yesterday, I will fight this with everything I am.  I will fight this because of the boys at CERMICOL, I will fight this for the children of CCS, I will fight this for the community we have built at Haiti Awake, but most importantly, I will fight this for the six boys who have become the sons of my heart, if not the sons of my flesh.

It’s hard to look into the faces of those you love and break their hearts with the news you bear.  It’s hard to say, “I have every intention of coming back, but I cannot say for certain I will.”   But as I told the boys on Saturday night, “I have always told you the truth, and I always will.” 

We talked about the fact that I will lose my hair, that I won’t look the same.   Wesly and I broke the tension of it when I told them not to call me “Tèt Kale” when they see me, and Wesly told me he has plenty of caps I can borrow.  Goodness.  I love being able to laugh when it seems we should cry.

As you can see from these photos Hudson, Steeve, and I took, we laughed - so much, we cried - a little, we hugged, we hoped, and we faced reality - together.

In the days ahead I pray I can continue to step forward with the same courage, determination, hope and strength I have learned from these beautiful people who have become my extended family.

There was a song we sang at church when I was a child, and in recent days these lyrics have played in my head:

“I know God makes no mistakes.  He leads in every path I take along the way that’s leading me to Home.  Though at times my heart would break, there’s a purpose in every change He makes.  That others would see my life and know that God makes no mistakes.”

Glwa pou Bondye.

Sunday morning in Haiti

March 19, 2023

My time here in Haiti is running short, and I feel it this morning.   I am struggling to breathe, to calm my heart, to fight out the anxiety threatening to engulf me.

The last few days have been pure joy.  Pure joy.  Heart-filling, life-giving joy.  But reality is coming.

At moments I feel I am ready to tackle the challenges ahead.   At other moments I feel like I am drowning.

I want to cry, but I can’t.  I’m afraid the tears will come at the most inconvenient moment today.

I believe I will see the goodness of the Lord.

The boys

March 23, 2023

The letters.

When I left Haiti each of the boys gave me a letter.  I held them and didn’t try to read them as they felt like sacred writings in my hand, something to be saved for a time when they could be read with great care and given the attention they deserve.

When I read them, my heart was overwhelmed by the words of teenage boys - boys I know do not share their emotions freely.  I was most amazed to read what Stanley wrote:

“It is the grace of God with you who removed me from under the hand of Fedrick.”

The hand of Fedrick.  Sometimes I forget the hand of Fedrick.  Sometimes I forget the children’s stories as they have a new life.

But the children?  The children will never forget.  They lived that nightmare.  And it will, in some way, always be with them - that darkness - no matter how much light floods their lives these days.

When did these six go from being kids we were caring for to kids that I knew were my own? When did they become my sons? As I told them on Monday morning, “We do not have papers, but we all know the truth. You are adopted.” And they are.

And they are loved. So deeply. I do not want to be another loss in their lives.