12 years
Today marks 12 years of knowing and loving Haiti.
I'm in Florida this week, surrounded by people whose job is to keep Americans safe abroad, to figure out the logistics of getting Americans out of tough situations, to analyze the data and make observations about what the future may bring.
And while I am thankful for the wealth of information my colleagues bring to the discussion, my thoughts and prayers are with the 11.5 million Haitians who have no options, who have no choice, who won't be "getting out." I remember, as I often do, that holding a US passport gives one access and privilege the majority of the world's population will never see or know or even fully understand.
Haiti, you have completely wrecked my life. You have caused me to grieve like none other, and yet I have no regrets about knowing you intimately. The lessons I have learned because of you exceed any I could have learned in the country of my birth.
The joy and the sorrow through the years. I am not the same person I was before we met. How thankful I am for it all.
Bondye konnen.
We know their faces. We know their names.
My greatest joy in the last two years hasn’t been at Kay Timoun or CCS. My great joy has been behind the walls of CERMICOL.
I've watched the video “Working for the Gangs” over and over again.
While the world talks about prison breaks in Haiti, my prayers this week have been with those incarcerated at CERMICOL, those whose names we know, those whose faces I hold dear.
This young man's story is the story of so many.
This teenager was 11 years old when he started working for a gang. He was homeless and hungry, he told CNN, and the gang offered him food.
Now, when other members of the gang kill people, they make him burn the bodies, says the teen, who is now 14.
He would like to get out – but he doesn’t know how. His mother lives outside of Port-au-Prince; he’s not sure how to reach her and couldn’t afford such a trip anyway.
“I wish she could come get me,” he told CNN. “I’d like her to take me out of this place.”
Haiti isn't 11.5 million people. Haiti is individual people with individual stories.
From the comfort of our US existence, it's impossible to comprehend living in conditions where one truly does not see a way out, one does not believe there are choices, one is only looking to survive.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
Where is the hope?
Haiti is real to me.
Not in theory.
No as analysis.
But as the deepst part of my heart.
A week ago today I woke up after spending the night in Miami, wrestling through whether I should continue my trip to Haiti or head back to Wilmington. As I reached out to trusted friends to get their advice, one sent me the following text:
In the moment, I remembered a quote from Chuck Colson I heard over 30 years ago and quickly answered, as I headed out the door to the airport:
But I have continued to ponder these questions all week. Where is the hope? What gives me hope?
When we founded Haiti Awake, we chose three words for our logo:
Relationships. We believe we earn the right to share the Gospel through relationships. We also believe that discipleship happens in relationship.
Hope. The only Hope any of us have for this life or the next is found in the finished work of Christ. The Gospel gives us Hope.
Gospel. That’s in the center, between relationships and hope, because the Gospel is what binds it all together. The Gospel should always remain at the center of all we do at Haiti Awake.
How many times have I repeated the above when asked who we are and what we do at Haiti Awake?
What gives me hope is what has given me hope through the years. We can say “all my hope is in Jesus” but until we’re put to the test, we don’t know if that’s really true.
A faith that hasn’t been tested isn’t a sure faith.
I keep meditating these verses:
Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man, and He will dwell with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the former things have passed away.
He who testifies to these things says, “Yes, I am coming soon.” Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
(Revelation 21:3 - 4 and 22:20)
This is our hope. He is coming. And we pray it will be soon.
The struggles of this life are His way of loosening our hold on this world, giving us a longing for the life that is to come, reminding us that this world is not our home, that we were made for more.
Goodness of God
We sat together on Sunday to fill the void left by the inability of the congregation of EEGC to meet.
Steeve led us. He started singing “Goodness of God.”
These lyrics came fairly easily to my lips:
I love You, Lord
For Your mercy never fails me
All my days, I've been held in Your hands
From the moment that I wake up
Until I lay my head
Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God
And all my life You have been faithful
And all my life You have been so, so good
With every breath that I am able
Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God
Then we moved on to the next stanza.
I love Your voice
You have led me through the fire
In the darkest night
You are close like no other
I've known You as a Father
I've known You as a Friend
And I have lived in the goodness of God
And I couldn’t sing these words. Not because I don’t believe them, but how could I sing them as I sat at the table with six people who are living in the fire, who are living in the darkest night, five of whom have never known a father?
The tears flowed. And I mouthed words my voice couldn’t sing.
It’s often easy to sing words from the comfort of an American church building, fitting them neatly into our #blessed culture. But those same words hit differently when they are put in a setting where they are actually being lived out, where people’s blessings often don’t look the way we as outsiders expect blessings to look.
48 hours in Haiti
I had intended to be in Haiti Thursday through Monday, but from the time I got on the plane in Wilmington Thursday morning, it seemed nothing was going right.
The flight out of Wilmington was delayed. Then there was a problem with the jet bridge in Charlotte. Combining those two things, I missed my connection to Miami, which meant I would miss my connection to Port-au-Prince. American Airlines automatically rebooked me for Friday.
However, once I got to Miami, I found that the PAP flight was delayed, and I was offered a seat on the flight - even though boarding was complete.
As I was processing this information, I looked at my phone and saw two photos - photos showing a bullet hole in a window at the regional airport in PAP and a bullet hole in a seat in the waiting area. I looked at the gate agent and said, “This flight is going to be canceled.” And it was. I never boarded AA 819 on Thursday.
However, on Friday, AA 819 proceeded to PAP on a normal schedule. I got up Friday morning, contacted several people whose opinions I value, and with Steeve’s permission, I went to Haiti.
There was a definite tension in the air at the airport and outside as we departed. Though not empty, the streets weren’t as busy as usual. Though we had been warned about possible threats in proximity to the airport, we did not encounter anything of concern.
When I arrived at the house, it was time for music class, and we spent the rest of the evening unpacking and enjoying time together.
Saturday morning all CCS activities were cancelled due to the condition of the streets. The main road by the community center has been blocked for a week or so. However, one of the English teachers, Job, came to our place and taught the boys. He ended up staying for a good portion of the day, and we enjoyed having his presence as a distraction - in addition to working on (and completing!) a 1000 piece puzzle.
Hudson and I always worked on a few things for Mission Made in the afternoon.
We said goodnight as usual and reminded each other “We will see what tomorrow will bring.”
Sunday morning we woke up to news of a large prison break and increasingly violent, threatening gang activity. Because of the attack on the airport on Thursday, many were speculating (and still are) that a full scale attack on the airport could be imminent. As I talked through it all with a few trusted friends, I came to the realization that if I waited until my flight on Monday, I might not be leaving. For many reasons (including not having enough medication with me), not leaving wasn’t a great option.
I called American Airlines to see about changing my flight from Monday to Sunday, but I was told there were no seats available. (Later that same flight was canceled.) Chatting via Whatsapp with a friend, she told me that she had just found three seats on Spirit for the early afternoon, and those seats weren’t crazy expensive. I thought it was a good idea to book one for myself as “insurance” 1) in case they sold out and 2) in case indicators increased that AA would not fly on Monday.
I called Rick and asked him to help me book it because 1) Steeve and I were wanting to have a prayer time with the boys and 2) the Spirit website wasn’t cooperating with me. By the time we had finished our prayer time, Rick had booked the ticket.
I reached out to a few people whose discernment I trust. Stay? Wait until tomorrow? But the truth is, I knew what I needed to do. It was time to go - as much as I hated to do that, as much as I wanted just a little more time.
I hurriedly packed a few items in my carry-on, then showered while Handy and Davensky played Duolingo on my tablet. Dieusait brought me food. And then it was time to go. It happened so quickly.
I said goodbye to the boys and Dieusait. I didn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye to anyone else - including Vorb.
The streets were eerily quiet and empty. We were stopped just once at a police checkpoint. The trip to the airport was quick and easy.
There I said goodbye to Steeve and Hudson.
Obviously there’s a great deal more to tell, but that will come in time. Thank you to those have reached out in concern. I apologize for not having the emotional bandwidth to be able to answer you each personally. Please do not be offended when I send a link to this blog in response to your kind messages.
The following song has been on repeat since I left Haiti.
The contrasts
Five weeks ago today the property was abuzz with activity as we prepared for the 4th anniversary celebration of EEGC.
Today all activities are cancelled, and we listen to the sound of gunfire around us as we wonder what the day will bring.
Joy and sorrow.
When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul. Psalm 94:19
The Gospel changed me
I was the one who needed to hear the Gospel.
I came here in 2012 mistakenly believing that I was taking Christ to the nations. What I found was that Jesus was already here in Haiti … and I was the one who needed to broaden my understanding of the truth of the Gospel.
How thankful I am for the kindness of the Lord that patiently led me to a fuller understanding of His amazing goodness and the depths of His mercy and grace.
Glwa pou Bondye.
“My task was simply to bear witness to the Christ who was already there. We all do this when we listen for the feelings behind the words, sit with others, offer a touch of the hand or a hug, and love them as Christ loves them.”
The kindness of the Lord
This morning as we prepare to celebrate the 4th anniversary of EEGC, my thoughts are turned toward this quote from Frederick W. Faber:
”Kindness has converted more sinners than zeal, eloquence, or learning.”
My heart is greatly encouraged by this group of believers who have come together to create something beautiful, who truly love God and love people, and who desire to “connect people to people and people to God.”
“Don’t you see how wonderfully kind, tolerant, and patient God is with you? Does this mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that his kindness is intended to turn you from your sin?”
Knowledge is sorrow
I’ve been putting off giving this update because I just don’t know what to say. There’s a lot to say, actually, but much of it is deep and private and feels so intimate, so sacred.
I like to write from a place of authenticity and openness, but trying to express what transpired over the weekend just feels too vulnerable.
It was so, so good.
It was so, so heavy.
To a certain degree, that’s the way it always is in Haiti - balancing the joy and the sorrow. But this time it was even more so as we were dealing with heartbreaking individual situations while celebrating the joy of the season with so many.
Lord Byron once said, “Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest.” And I feel that. The knowledge that Haiti has brought me is often soul-crushing, and yet it is that same knowledge that has freed me to love others well and hope for the best in the midst of overwhelming circumstances.
There is joy, as evidenced by these photos.
I ran into Michael Anello at the airport about an hour before leaving Port-au-Prince. I had never met him face-to-face before, but we talked. I mean, really talked, about the things that matter. In Michael I found a kindred spirit and someone who helped me process some of the thoughts that were swirling in my head.
It was good for my soul to have time to process some things verbally before leaving the country.
The Scriptures say, “Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ.” That’s what Michael did for me. He helped carry a little of the load.
And that’s what I really need most days. People who understand as few can, people who recognize the responsibility that comes with knowledge, and people who know that often we can’t fix a situation, but we can listen with empathy.
Papi
If you know Haiti, you know. A papi is a papi.
I boarded my flight to Haiti expecting to sit next to a business traveler as I had been upgraded to seat 1E. Instead, sitting in seat 1F was a man I immediately addressed as Papi because, well, he’s a papi, and if you know Haiti, you know. A papi is a papi.
He wore a dress shirt that was worn around the collar. In his front pocket were his papers, his passport, his glasses, a mask. He wore dress pants that were a bit too big but held securely by a belt around his waist. On his feet were polished, black loafers with tassels.
Papi told me, “Mwen pa pale angle.” But that proved to not be entirely true as Papi does speak some English, enough English, but he’s not confident in it.
Papi asked me to fill out his customs and immigration forms for him, and that’s when I learned that Papi has a US passort. He then told me he’s been in Washington, DC for years, working at a hotel, doing anything and everything he’s asked to do from collecting trash to cleaning to cooking in the kitchen. He works hard all year long, so that each December he can return to Haiti, the land of his birth.
Papi and I had no idea, but we would spend the next 24 hours together - not simply the next 2 hours. Our flight had multiple problems and was delayed until the next day. A group of us passed the time together - a wealthy man with multiple businesses; a young Haitian immigrant; a philanthropist interested in development; and a man whose family name is well-known in Haiti.
And then there was me and Papi.
When we finally arrived in Haiti, we all exchanged numbers, took selfies, and said goodbye, as we embraced and wished each other the best.
As I left the airport, I saw Papi one more time. He was wearing his hat and sunglasses, and he was sitting in a wheelchair.
”Papi, ou konnen ou ka mache!” I said, laughing. (“Papi, you know you can walk!”) He laughed, too. Yes, Papi can walk just fine, but if you know Haiti, you know that rolling out in that wheelchair as a Papi is about the finest thing you can do.
And that’s what he did. Because Papi is home, gras a Dye.
It's the small things that sometimes matter most
Years ago I learned that many Haitians have never known the joy of a birthday celebration, the happiness of that moment before you cut the cake after your family and friends stand around and sing, acknowledging your importance to the world.
How many birthday cakes have we purchased through the years at Haiti Awake? How often have we sang to someone we know and love? These are always special occasions, but yesterday may have been the most special to me - even though I couldn’t be there.
Yesterday we honored Soiris, a man I first wrote about a little over a year ago, a man whose life has taught me so much.
A Haitian friend told me, “This is a day he will never forget in his life.” And it’s the same for me. I will never forget this day because it’s another example of God’s faithfulness.
Kyle Idleman wrote: “When I’ve thought about people who have met a need of mine, I’ve realized they probably don’t even remember doing it because it didn’t seem like a big deal to them - but it was to me.”
Happy Birthday, Soiris. You are important in this world. You’ve taught me about joy in the midst of difficult circumstances, and you have met a need in my heart. I’m so glad to know you!
It’s all grace
This week has been full of hard conversations on Haiti.
People are struggling in ways that are impossible to articulate. I’ve been asked questions I couldn’t have imagined being asked in another lifetime. But desperation leads people to ask questions they themselves never thought they’d ask. Desperation leads people down roads they never thought they would travel. I’ve learned that I can not fully understand another’s perspective because I can not walk in his shoes, and I have also learned that perhaps, at times, all people need is someone to listen and remind them they are not alone.
My heart hurts. My heart hurts for the brokenness of this world, not just Haiti, but the world at large.
But each morning as I walk, time and time again, I am reminded of the grace of God that somehow carries people through their darkest times.
Simone Weil once wrote, “Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is a void to receive it, and it is grace itself which makes this void.”
That’s what I am thinking on this morning. The grace that fills empty spaces, and the blessing of the voids - even if comprehending it all is beyond my mortal understanding.
But as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives, and he will stand upon the earth at last.
And after my body has decayed, yet in my body I will see God! I will see him for myself.
Yes, I will see him with my own eyes. I am overwhelmed at the thought!
Job 19:25-27
Knowing what I know
"Why do we care? Because we see ourselves in relationship, 'obligated by the very fact of our existence.' And now knowing what we know, we are responsible, for love’s sake, for the people and places that are ours—if we have eyes that see."
Steven Garber
Sometimes that responsibility feels so heavy. And sometimes that responsibility brings great joy.
But always I know that responsibility is there. I can not forget what I know. I can not walk away from living, breathing people who are more than statistics to me.
Individual faces and stories
There are roughly 12 million people in Haiti, and many of them have significant needs.
Idleman writes, “There are so many people God loves out there. They have a lot of needs. You’re not responsible to meet all of them, but you are responsible for some. Every now and then, God’s answer to a need is you.”
Sometimes it’s good to remind myself that not every need is my responsibility. Some needs are. Many are not. As we’ve grown and better defined our ministry at Haiti Awake through the years, we’ve come to realize that the people and places that are our responsibility are easy to identify most of the time - if we’re quietly listening for the Spirit’s voice to point us in the right direction.
Hudson took some great photos last week of individuals - faces - to whom we have responsibility. Responsibility towards so many used to frighten me, overwhelm me. But now I can say with confidence that being responsible for people and places is a privilege, an honor. And knowing their individual stories feels like something sacred.
Thankfulness
As I prepare for church here in Haiti this morning, my heart is full of thankfulness to the God of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
His provision has carried us through many storms over the years. His goodness will be enough for tomorrow even as we face an uncertain future.
Glwa pou Bondye.
I give hugs.
And for now, that is enough.
This week we’ll celebrate our 9th birthday at Haiti Awake, and I’m feeling rather nostalgic as I look back at old photos and think of all the highs and lows we’ve experienced since 2014.
When the ministry started, a great deal of the responsibility and work fell on me. I laugh now when I think of some of the things I did back then because I either believed I had to do it all to be a good leader or I didn’t feel empowered to ask others to help.
Beyond that, in the early days there was a lot of training going on, so yes, I “did it all” - posting to social media, building the website, writing the blog, budgeting and payroll, managing finances, writing endless schedules and checklists, and on and on and on.
Today, Hudson, Steeve, or Vorb (along with the rest of the staff), plus our team of volunteers here in the US do all of those things - and so much more.
Earlier this year I asked Steeve and Vorb, “Do you really need me in Haiti? What is my purpose these days?”
We spent weeks discussing these questions. And I spent weeks in prayer and personal reflection.
And then I realized. I was still holding onto one job that I needed to relinquish to Steeve and Vorb - setting my schedule while I am in Haiti.
And guess what? My visits to Haiti have became so much more purposeful now that Steeve and Vorb (together with input from others on staff) write my schedule (and tell me where to be and when!)
The other day, someone I didn’t know asked me, “So, what exactly do you do in Haiti?” and I paused. There were a number of things I could have said, but I settled on sharing a story.
On my most recent trip to Haiti, after English class was finished at CERMICOL, I told the boys to 1) get a snack, 2) give me a hug, and 3) go back to your cells. And one by one they did just that. But then one of the prison officials, one who’s been there for years but one I’ve rarely interacted with, 1) got a snack, 2) gave me a hug, 3) laughed, and 4) sat down to eat. And I realized, “We’ve come a long way here in developing genuine relationships.”
So that’s what I do in Haiti. I give hugs to the juvenile inmates - and sometimes I give hugs to the guards, as well.
I’ve been sitting with that answer for a few days now, and I think that’s going to be my answer going forward for the time being.
I give hugs. And for now, that is enough.
So, tell me the truth…
Recently I spent extended time with a man I greatly respect and whose counsel I readily accept. We were having a great conversation, when suddenly he got serious and asked, “So, tell me the truth, are you dying?”
Aren’t we all?
I consider this man a mentor. He is a security professional with intimate knowledge of all that's happening in Haiti. He's not the least bit naive to the realities as he's lived them with people. I value his counsel.
We continued talking through all the "Haiti stuff" in a way I can't talk about such things with too many people, and I was fully prepared for him to say, "I think you need to stop going to Haiti. The trip wires are gone."
Instead he said, "I think you need to keep going to Haiti. It's what will keep you alive." Wow. The irony of that statement.
For it, it was a powerful word from a man who knows Jesus - and knows risk management - and knows me.
And he’s only 8 years old
How does one who has never lived a life of extreme poverty even begin to comprehend all of the moments that together brought him to this place?
I wish you could see his face. He is the cutest little boy. He has the sweetest smile and the brightest eyes. Whenever Steeve is around, this little boy is right by his side, wanting to show him something, wanting to tell him something, just wanting his time and attention.
And he’s a prisoner at CERMICOL.
He is not in the Friday English class, but he wandered in recently, watching from the back, a bit shy.
And I asked him if he wanted to participate, to do a Find A Word puzzle like the big boys were doing. And he timidly nodded yes.
Watching him do that puzzle, I saw that he’s not only a handsome little man, he’s also a very bright one. The Find A Word was in English, but he had no problem finding the words and marking them.
And he wanted me to look - he needed me to look - each time he found another word. He smiled broadly, proud of his effort. I let him know I was proud of him, too.
How does an 8-year-old child end up in prison? How does one who has never lived a life of extreme poverty even begin to comprehend all of the moments that together brought him to this place?
And how do we explain that perhaps being a prisoner is possibly a better life than this child would find on the streets?
We at Haiti Awake know him by name, and so does Jesus, even if we’re not free to share his name with the rest of the world.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus
“Will he see even a glimpse of the country of his childhood before he meets Jesus?”
I scan news sources every morning looking for any new information on Haiti. These days the headlines read of the proposed UN deployment of troops to help the country fight the numerous gangs which now control the capital and beyond.
Here in Haiti there is much conversation about what's transpiring and what the future will bring. People are afraid of what will happen if no "help" comes. People are afraid of what the "help" will bring.
Driving by another refugee camp yesterday - one that has grown over the weekend - I was reminded that simply having breath in one's lungs does not mean they are alive.
Watching hundreds of people stand in line at the bank yesterday hoping they might withdraw a little cash - perhaps the bank will be generous today and allow the equivalent of $20 US to be withdrawn? - I found myself with tears in my eyes that I thought I was no longer capable of shedding.
I realized yesterday automatic gunfire has become background noise, like the sound of the roosters or the barking of dogs through the night. It no longer disturbs us. We only turn our heads to a pop-pop-pop that sounds closer than usual.
We can speak of Haiti in theory. We can speak of Haiti in analytical terms. The world can speak of Haiti from a distance.
But this morning, as I prepare for church here in Port au Prince, I'm praying over the individual faces, the individual stories, the individual lives that are struggling to find hope day-by-day. And all I can pray is, "Even so, come, Lord Jesus."
This is my friend, Anora. I had the privilege to sit with him for a few minutes yesterday. He is now past 80 years of age, a milestone very few Haitians see. Anora knows a different Haiti, a Haiti that today’s generation has never seen.
But I know he remembers that Haiti of long ago.
And I ask myself this question: “Will he see even a glimpse of the country of his childhood before he meets Jesus?”
But what He really wants is my heart
I woke up on the morning of September 17, 2014, wondering what my future relationship with Haiti would be. The day before, everything that I had believed would be the future had been taken away with one phone call, and the shock of it all was still fresh. I was no longer part of the work I thought I would be investing in for the rest of my life.
Those were hard days, but they taught me so much about waiting, not settling for the easy thing, about dreaming for something more, about believing that God has a plan even if we can’t see it.
Today I believe that often we can’t see the road ahead, not because it’s dark, but because it’s so bright we aren’t yet ready to see its brilliance.
Yesterday Hudson sent me some photos he took of English class. (The photos are phenomenal, and I know he’ll share them on Haiti Awake’s social media next week.) It’s in these ordinary moments that I am reminded God’s plans are bigger than our plans and sometimes God closes a door because He has something much more beautiful in mind for us.
The work taking place at Haiti Awake is significant as day-by-day, in the ordinary moments, lives are being impacted in profound, lasting ways.
Glwa pou Bondye.
