I didn’t even know his name

It was to be my last trip to Haiti for the foreseeable future, and I felt like it was right to be transparent with certain people - particularly the boys of the English class at CERMICOL.

As I started to share my new reality, many boys looked sad. Some looked shocked, but I noticed one boy in particular drop his head. And then he began to weep.

The more I shared, the more he wept.

When other boys asked to pray for me, I took this boy’s hand and asked him to sit with me. He sat down, I took him in my arms, and he continued to cry.

And I realized - “I do not even know his name.”

After we finished our time together, he told me, “You care about me. Haiti Awake cares about me. No one else cares about me.”

And I didn’t even know his name.

Questions without Answers

How can a place so foreign become so familiar?

How can I have more questions,  fewer answers?

How can the place where I am so completely different become the place where I feel most accepted?  

How can a place so broken be so whole?  

How can a place that is far from home be the truest form of home?

How can these amazing individuals I've known for a few short years be the very people who know me most fully?  

How can there be so much joy mingled with so much heartbreak?

How can one explain something for which there is no explanation?

How does one remain hopefully optimistic?

Haiti and her people have humbled me

I remember the first time I saw him. He was standing in the middle of the busy street with a bucket, leaning on his shovel. 

He had such a broad smile on his face as he waved at vehicles, often taking off his cap anticipating a driver might place something in it.

For years I commented, “He’s not doing anything.  He just stands there day-after-day.”   But then one day I asked my driver to slow down so we could give him a few goude.  I remarked, “He is faithful.  He’s always here.  He seems kind.  I respect his fidelity - even if he’s not doing anything.”

And then, over time I realized, he had become part of our community, one wave, one beep-beep, one interaction at a time.  I anticipated seeing him in the street, having a chance to greet each other, to smile, to share a moment of humanity.

And then a few weeks ago he came to church for the first time.  And according to Pastor Steeve, he’s been faithful each week since.

Yesterday he came to church early and was seated alone, so I went over to try to make small talk.  I was showing him photos of my family on my phone when he interjected (in Haitian Creole), “Things aren’t good in Haiti.   When the streets are blocked, I can not work.  It’s very difficult.”

“I can not work.” 

His words struck me.  All of these years he’s been doing what he could.  His faithfulness?  It was tied to his belief in his work, in how he provides for his family.He went on to tell me with pride where he is “working” now.  He told me if the streets aren’t blocked this week maybe I will see him there.    Of course, if we can go out, we will look for him.

After church, once again my heart was struck deeply as I watched this friend slowly, carefully shuffle his way out of church.  He can barely walk. 

All of these years I never knew this because I have only seen him standing in the street.

And suddenly my understanding of everything shifted.   He has been doing what he could to make a living.  He has pride in what he does.   He hasn’t been looking for a handout.  He has been making a way in the manner that he could.  He could stay home and make excuses for why he can not do anything.  Instead, he is doing what he can.

And once again Haiti and her people have humbled me.