Relentless

All About Liz...

2012-02-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

All about Liz…..

Last week my friend and I were lyingon a beach reading articles from past issues of The Economist when another group of foreigners arrived on the sceneand disrupted our tranquil moment. One member from the party introduced themselfas “Doctor --------“. After they left …I had a rather icky thought and said to my friend “Did you notice how doctor had to be included in the introduction?”My friend chuckled and said “Yeah….like I’m lying on a beach…do I really care?”Perhaps this sentiment comes from a deep place in my resentful nurse’s heartbut whatever…. It was at that moment that I realized that I had never heard myfriend Elizabeth Fleming introduce herself to others as Dr. Elizabeth Fleming. In fact, if I am really to be honest here,there have been times that I have made sure I have introduced her as Dr.Elizabeth Fleming simply because I am so proud of her and could easily livevicariously through her… AND maybeit makes me just a little more important to have her as my personal acquaintance.This blog is dedicated to Liz Fleming (spelled with only 1 m)…a true missionary…a modern day Paul in whom I recognize all the qualities necessary to navigate across cultures with expertise and wisdom.

A pleasure to work with ...

When your outspoken, brutally honest 17year old teen-age daughter walks up to you and says “I miss Liz…when is shecoming to our house again?…I like her…she’s like this grown up teen-ager” youimmediately know that this person mustbe special. We first met Liz in 2010 during the cholera crisis in Haiti. Iimmediately liked this curly haired, smiling, congenial person and felt asemblance of security in her presence during our initiation into what seemed tobe chaos to this Canadian couple. She seemed to be so comfortable walkingthrough the streets of Au Cap…oblivious to the sights and sounds that rockedour world. It calmed us…made us walk a little slower…soothed our rattled nervesand bathed our week in confidence. She herself had only been in Au Cap for afew months having newly arrived from Argentina where she’d spent 3 years. Icouldn’t believe how easily Kreyol was rolling off her tongue. In Liz Irecognize cultural competence, contentment, submission and servant hood.

CulturallyCompetent

Respect and admiration....

Something needs to be said about Liz’s language skills; Italian, Spanish, Kreyol and a recent mastering of French. I am not just talking about speaking these languages… I am talking dissectingthese languages…which has become like an enjoyable hobby for Liz. She reads, shewrites, she does simultaneous translation with pleasure and ease. Paul talkedabout his gift with languages and said “I thank my God I speak with tonguesmore than you all” 1 Corinthians 14:18 and while I recognize this is truly aGod given gift, Liz also works at this and “stirs up this gift” 2 Tim 1:6 by getting intosituations requiring total immersion. She reads the bible or literature indifferent languages and looks for opportunities to practice these skills. Insummary…Liz does not shrink from putting herself out there as many of us do andshe has been rewarded for this. I have seen the admiration in the eyes ofHaitians when she speaks to them easily in their mother tongue. This brings tomind a conversation I had with Dr. Steve James after we had been in Haiti only one month. “When I came to Haiti my mission required meto take French language study. It turned out I rarely used French and the onlytime it really benefited me was when Medecins Sans Frontieres ( MSF) showed upfor cholera. Haiti’s past is one of slavery and the tongue of the slavemasterwas French. French language is associated with past oppression and today withstatus and power. If you really want to speak a love language to the Haitianpeople… it’s by learning Kreyol…that is just my opinion ” .

I have witnessedthis personally. When Liz speaks the Haitian people listen with admiration. Whenshe leads a CHE training lesson, the group hangs on every word. They will betalking to friends on a cell phone and suddenly give the phone to Liz to talkto their friends...wanting them to hear how this blan talks such good Kreyol. Myfriend Elio who works for us as a translator became very quiet while listening to Liztalk to someone else in Kreyol….he mutters to me “ She is Haitian…” this has tobe the ultimate compliment. Liz seems oblivious to this awestruck admiration…butI see how she is accepted into the culture, is included in conversations, ishighly respected by the Haitian people…she has shown them she was interestedenough in them to learn their language…to enter into their world and do it well...unlikeother foreigners who have lived here for years and still live outside thelanguage barrier.

Dr.Elizabeth Fleming...following a Spanish Lesson because she couldn't find this lesson in Kreyol ...reading along in her French bible and speaking to the participants in Kreyol...
Who does that????

But…this is not only about language.Cultural competence requires us to divest ourselves of rigid perspectives. Itis so easy for us as North Americans to form opinions about what we see andhear…filtering them through our values, our upbringing, and our educationalbackground. An old missionary gave me advice years ago which I haven’t alwaysheeded “Believe nothing that you hear and only half of what you see”.

After spending a week with Liz back in January,I said to Rick “I have the perfect description of Liz…she is that person thatconstantly challenges you to check your opinions and conclusions through subtlenon-intimidating ways”. Just what do I mean by that? You will conclude a matterand Liz will say “I’m not sure I can say that because I just haven’t studied itout.” “I haven’t been here long enough to say that…maybe its just a culturalthing”. This happens a lot. It challenges me to examine my own thoughtprocesses, has exposed my prejudices and has made me a better missionary.

Simultaneous translation for Rick and I ....hours and hours of sitting by our side so that we could participate in a TOT1

Contentment, Submission and being a Servant

Paul said “Ihave learned that in whatever state I am, I am content in that state”. Philippians4:11. It can’t be easy to move frequently, to form relationships and say goodbye, to live alone without the affirmations and burden sharing of a mate, to “please all people in all things” (1 Cor.10:33) to the point that you sometimeslose yourself in your work. These are the perils of missions and this is whatLiz does. I’ve seen Liz commit joyfully to sleeping on a ¼ inch yoga mat on acement floor with a smile on her face, to eat whatever, sleep wherever, go whereverby whatever means.

All About Liz....

Does Dr. Liz Fleminghave any weaknesses? You bet she does…but they are completely overshadowed byher love of Jesus Christ and her desire to enlarge the kingdom of God. LizFleming is an example to me of a modern day Paul and God has given me theopportunity to see missions in action by learning all about Liz.

Our TOT1 Training and Lydia

2012-02-15T14:06:00.000-08:00

The Amazing Osse St Juste

The maincharacters in this story are Rick and I, Lydia, Liz, Erick, and Osse.And so our little adventure begins with our flight from Cap Haitian to Port auPrince. I dislike airports…the volleying for our luggage. I am learning topoint these aggressive helpers to my “director” Osse who is Haitian. “I am with my boss and he is in charge”…Imanage to say. My relief at letting Osse deal with the scramble for luggagejust about equals their surprise that this “blan’s” director is Haitian. I amnot sure what Osse thinks of my passing the buck to him…Osse St. Juste is theultimate in coolness…the incarnation of patience. Someone taps me on the back.I turn to find a costumed masked zombie asking for money. Everyone islaughing. I remember it is both a Sunday and its February…a pre-quel toCarnival in Haiti that occurs every Sunday in February eventually explodinginto a huge celebration February 20, 21, and 22^nd. We arrive in Port au Prince and are met byJenny Jenkins from Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. She transports us from thedomestic airport in POP to Grand Goave where we stay in a guest house Sundaynight before leaving early Monday morning for the mountainous third section ofGrand Goave.

Looking from Magandou to Grand Goave

Meanwhile, Rick calls Haiti Arise aChristian organization in Grand Goave and talks to the founders of thisorganization; Marc and Lisa Honorat. Our daughter Lydia will be arriving atHaiti Arise Monday afternoon with a team from Canada; by that time we will be gone to the thirdsection to stay in the mountains until Friday. It is no coincidence that hermission trip and our training has occurred during the same week in the sameplace in Haiti…unreal…but how to get together seems frustrating and difficult.The only option that seems plausible is if Lydia can come up the mountain withJenny Jenkins on Friday…the last day of the TOT1 and then return with us downthe mountain to Grand Goave…Lisa from HaitiArise tells us she has room for us to stay in the same place as Lydia’steam. We pray that this will work out.

The Breezy Mountain Guest House

The Breezy Guesthouse...

Monday morning we make the journey up themountain to the community of Magandou. The Kazek (communityleader) meets us and shows us to our little guest house…which is a small tinroofed slat sided building (one of those temporary homes built by an NGO). Heis very excited to host our team and tells us his family (next door) is doingall the cooking for the participants all week. He is very pleased to bear thisresponsibility, and constantly inquires as to our comfort and our needs. We rollout our thin sleeping mats on the cement. Osse is from Mombin Crochu and knowsall too well how cold it can get at night in mountainous areas…he quietlycomments “It looks cold”. We only have sheets and a few thin blankets.

The little meeting house / church where we will be holding the daily traininglessons is about 15 feet wide x 20 feet long. It has a tin roof and the wallsare sparsley covered with rough sawn local wood of different widths paintedturquoise blue. Giggling children peer in through the many cracks as the team prepares for the first day of classes.

The Meeting House / Church where we do the TOT1

Arriving Late means having to Dance...

First Day Preparations

Training Day Begins...

The first day of training is tough. “Italways is” says Liz. “Everyone is trying to figure out what you areabout…doctrine…some have agendas…people are posturing”. Some think this is aNGO that will be paying them to attend the training. Some think the trainingwill get them a job with the organization that has invited them to attend. Theteam handles these challenges with ease and patience and it is through this process that Ilearn more about Osse ; my respect grows for him as a leader. Osse makes itvery clear that CHE (Community Health Evangelism) is a model of developmentthat is based on citizen led participation; it is all volunteer, it empowersHaitians and puts them in the driver’s seat of development. It gives them thetools to fix their own communities, does not create dependency, and helps themto realize community projects by utilizing and leveraging their own resourcesand assets. Osse made this very clear on the first day with great passion andpatience. This type of talk can seem foreign to individuals accustomed todependency creating NGOs or missionary organizations. One thing that made the day a little easier was the identified punishment listed by the group for anyone the broke the week's ground rules...i.e. cell phone rings, late for class, disrespectful to other participants etc. The group selected the sentinels that would enforce the punishment...you either had to get up in front of the group and dance, or drink a gallon of water...your choice.

Spaghettifor Breakfast…

We break forbreakfast which is oily spaghetti with a small spoonful of some kind of cannedfish…lastly topped with ring of raw onion . You had different topping choiceslined up on the front porch…ketchup, hot sauce, mayonnaise and lastly a cantomato sauce punched open with a can opener. I put on everything but the mayo.I am so hungry by this time that I find this breakfast amazingly delicious. Isay out loud “Who told us we had to eat bacon and eggs for breakfast?” Lizmentions that she saw a sign outside a restaurant in Port au Prince that said“Spaghetti served every morning”.

The Shower Scene…

Bathing Area...and the Jugs of Gas

The firstday of training ends about 4:00 p.m. There are several participants that are Pastors…making thetraining a little more challenging; they are natural leaders and speakers andtend to get off on doctrinal issues. The team manages to dismiss everyone and thepreachers continue their denominational and doctrinal debates outside.

At the end of the day our host comes to tellus that he has prepared a place for us to bathe. It is located behind hishouse. Osse and Erique tell us they are going to the water source which is downthe hill behind the house. Liz and I grab towels and venture to the bathingarea…a blue Samaritan’s purse tarp sagging around four flimsy poles stuck inthe ground. One side is completely open. There is a 5 gallon pail sittingprecariously on the rocks they have placed all over the floor so that you don’thave to stand in mud while bathing (I thought this was quite ingenious). I tellLiz to go first. I will guard the door with a towel which does little to helpwith privacy…not to mention the tarp is sagging so bad that one has to crouchon the rocks to bathe. Just as shebegins, 4 very excited children run up the hill from next door to see the“blans”. I nervously mumble this to Liz who quickly tells me to say somethingin Kreyol…but I can’t. I am laughing uncontollably at Liz scrubbing furiouslywhile mumbling that her thighs are burning from crouching on the rocks. Thechildren are almost beside her now and I say “ Liz…say your thing…they arecoming”. Liz looks over the top of the sagging tarp and says “Ale non!”(...in akindly way which isn’t taken too seriously). Finally our host’s mother runs out,picks up rocks and flings them towards the already scrambling children. Now it’smy turn…I have already determined to get this over with. I rip my clothes offand dump scoops of water all over me. I tell Liz to keep a good eye out forintruders and she faces the direction the children had come from whileentertaining me with Liz type conversation (always very useful information J ). I am almost done now. I am relievedthat I can rinse off and get my clothes on…when a man walks up to the showerand asks Liz for the gasoline he has stored in the shower…????” I find myselfin an odd situation. Not only am I totally lacking privacy and personalpropriety, but I am confused as to why there are gallon jugs of gasoline in theshower. Somehow these conflicting emotions help me to cover body regions that matter, reach for the gas andpass it to Liz who is standing protectively in front of the man. Liz is still looking confused as to where this guy camefrom and as he walks away with the jugs of gas I say “Gee thanks Liz for the great surveillance job”. This whole thing is strangely hilarious…I dress and walk to the slat covered guest house feeling radically liberated and refreshingly clean. Later, Liz and I hear aboutOsse and Erique’s bathing experience. They tell us there is a place to stand where water flows over you. They say there was hardly anyone there. Liz and I aredetermined to try this tomorrow night. It sounds like an oasis with a waterfall….muchmore pleasant than the Samaritan’s purse stall. We make plans to go theretomorrow after training day 2 is over.

Back at ourlittle slat covered cottage, our host brings supper at about 6:30. It isdark now. The cool evening air blows through the walls…but we are eating a hotpudding like dish that is delicious called Labouyl. It is boiled plantain with milk, sugar, vanilla, star anise and cinnamon. It is delightfully awesome. I dressin extra clothes and climb under a sheet and thin blanket. I look at Liz whojoyfully commits to the floor. She smiles a very content Liz type smile andsays goodnight. It is a cold , restless and painful night for us all. The onlyone who sleeps is Rick. In the morning Erique and Osse are literally shakingfrom the cold.

The TOT1 Training

Osse does his lesson on Dr. Akili...from Expert to Nextpert

    First thing in the morning I walked up tothe top of the mountain to get a good view of Grand Goave. Lydiawill have arrived by now. I can only seewhere my daughter is…somewhere in that city and I am here…on the top of themountain unable to get to her. Such a strange feeling of helpless melancholyoverwhelms me. Rick and I pray together that God will make a way for us to getto her. People don’t always understand travel in Haiti; it is very complicated,exhausting and rarely simple.

Prioritizing Community Needs

TOT means training of Trainers. The AMDH (Ambassadors Medical de Haiti) delivered this training like a well oiled machine. They navigated the questions, the misunderstandings, the challenges as experienced professionals. They didn't only teach this group of 28 participants...they interacted and joined them in their learnings, their laughter and even their concerns for their communities.

Small Group Work

The lessons were fun and interactive. They were practical, personal and participatory. Small group work was presented with pride from a well spoken group identified leader. I was extremely impressed with how quickly these Haitian participants grabbed onto the LePSAS teaching method and led their own lessons after creating their own starters ( role plays, stories, pictures, that introduce a problem their lesson must teach). I literally witnessed participants transformed during this week...I watched shy quiet Haitians transformed into proud articulate presenters and capable facilitators.

Capable Presenters

The Shower Scene Part 2....
Armed with visions of palm trees, waterfalls and crystal clear pools of water, Liz and I decided to walk to the water source for our next bathing experience. We told our host next door of our decision. They were surprised but quickly asked that if we were walking there to bathe " perhaps we could tote some water back with us?" The two girls from the host's family accompanied us and grabbed a 5 gallon pail each. They handed Liz a 2 gallon jug and me a one gallon...the same containers carted by small children. I felt sure that with a little instruction I could try to carry a 5 gallon pail on my head too... but my comments are met with laughter by the older women sitting outside the house and gestures for me to just go with their girls. It soon becomes apparent that this is not a short stroll down over the hill. It is a winding, narrow, steep, descent down a mountain that would challenge any billy goat. I just can't believe it. I ask the girls how many times a day they come here for water. " 2 or 3 times a day" she answers shyly. Suddenly I realize that these girls have been carrying our bathing water up the hill and I feel very small. I am more determined to shower at the bottom of this mountain for the remainder of the week. Liz and I had determined to bathe in our underwear...like everybody else seemed to do publicly here ( some even less than that)..only we would leave our skirts on.

I could see pipes running beside our path. This was no waterfall or crystal clear spring. The water came from a pipe that came from the top of the mountain to a cement wall built beside a dry river bed. This was the community watering hole...and it seemed like it was the communities bathing night, water collection night and watering of the animals night...all at the same time.. This was where all the action was. There were young men washing old men, there were women bathing, children fighting to fill their water jugs, goats, cows and every other animal that needed a drink all in this place. The place was packed...or at least it felt that way to me. A buzz of excitement and chatter met us as soon as we were spotted walking onto the scene. The men started yelling loudly and one of the girls quickly ran over and whispered "They can speak Kreyol !!!". There was immediately a wave of silence. Then they all started buzzing again. Children were laughing and squealing. Liz started translating as one old man said to one of the girls in our group " Why did you bring these foreigners down here to bathe?" I wasn't sure if he was upset that we were invading the community bathing space or if he felt that foreigners should have been treated a little better by the host family.. somehow I felt it was the latter. I looked at the girl he had spoken to and sensed she felt a little ashamed. I was committed now. if I turned and strode up the mountain I would confirm this old man's comments. I turned to Liz and asked " Are you still going to do this?" She takes a big breath, giggles nervously and says " What else can I do Rhonda ?"...and there...with a courage that I found incredibly admirable... Liz takes off her shirt and starts bathing in her bra and skirt. The crowd around the pool watch on with deep interest and curiousity...some sit down to watch. Liz is translating to me what she hears...The old man that stands watching in front of us says " I am watching this because this is the first time I've seen foreigners except on television".... this seems to give him a good justifiable reason to watch.

One of the young girls that accompanied us down the mountain looks at me pleadingly and says "Are you not going to bathe?" I can longer put off the inevitable but Liz has given me courage...you have to know me. I am that girl in high school that could never change in front of other girls in the public locker room...perhaps it was because of self esteem and a poor body image rather than true modesty; but whatever...I am shy...even though a bra is like a bathing suit this is way out of my comfort zone. Liz makes it look so easy.
I think to myself at this moment that Liz is the probably the most culturally competent person I know and I become determined to be like her when I grow up. I slowly take off my shirt and step under a faucet in the cement wall. Liz says " Oh I thought you weren't going to bathe? I say with determination and a sudden sense of freedom " There's no way I'm going to let you do this without me Liz". Liz continues to translate while the girls make quiet comments about my skin " Look at the different colors of her skin and how the sun darkens it!"...so curious about our white bodies. They comment about how we bathe " you need more soap!...you need to use more water!" I am sure they are not happy with the job we do. I notice that the man beside me has been copiously soaped up and scrubbed vigorously ( and I mean vigorously) by his son over a long period of time. They take bathing seriously here.

We finish up and Liz asks me to hold a beach towel in front of her so she can get the wet skirt off and put on dry undies and a dry skirt. The children that have been sitting watching start to laugh. They know what she is trying to do. She jokingly says in Kreyol " You don't have to watch this part!". The old man who made the comment about television earlier turns away slightly and says " Yes those children have never seen foreigners before..yes they are uneducated...impolite".

With the bathing experience over with, we fill our jugs and start up the mountain. Liz and I have to stop 3 times on the way up. The girls with 5 gallon pails on their heads wait patiently behind us with big smiles; they are radient...just so happy to be with us it seems. They are graceful gazelles that move with strong sinewy movements.....Liz and I are huffing hyenas...stopping...sputtering and taking turns alternating our 2 gallon / 1 gallon jugs. By the time we make it back to our cottage I am covered in sweat and wonder at the futility of bathing experience. The girls ask us if we want to do this tomorrow night again. Liz answers in Kreyol " Unnnh...I don't know". They laugh. It is another adventurous end to another good day and I am thankful I had Liz to share it with.

Seeing Lydia...
On Thursday we still had no word from the Canadian team as to whether Lydia could come up the mountain with Jenny Jenkins. The team leader was hesitant to allow her to leave the organization in Grand Goave and travel into a rural area with someone they did not know. While this was a little frustrating to us as parents who hadn't seen their daughter since last year...it really was also very reassuring that she was in good hands. Haiti arise suggested we try to get down to them on Thursday night ( they would put us up) and then possibly the team would feel comfortable allowing Lydia to accompany her parents back up the mountian with Jenny for our last training day on Friday. After Thursdays training we were able to ride down the mountain on a motorcycle...both Rick and I and the driver on a small bike. The incline was so steep on the way down that I felt I was literally laying on the drivers back with Rick on top of mine...what a sight. What a drive! Words cannot describe it. It took 30 minutes to scream down the mountain on motorbike. It had taken us 1 hour to make it up the mountain by truck on Monday morning. Lydia was not expecting us and the look of shock on her face was priceless. We hugged while her team members shed some tears over this reunion. It was so good to spend this time with her...priceless time in the same city, in the same country at the same time. This was a God moment for all of us. Lydia finished the last day of training with us and was able to see a rural region of Haiti. We hated to say good bye.

Heading Home...
I was ready to go home. I was exhausted. This was such a valuable experience to both Rick and I. If it were not for Liz and her simultaneous translation, we would not have benefited. I couldn't imagine how tired she must have been. As Jenny Jenkins drove us to the airport, I listened to her story...so refreshing to hear how God called her to Haiti. She left me with a thought that Dr. Steve James had shared with her when she was praying about moving to Haiti. She said " I think I may still have it" and she looked in her IPhone...."Oh here is is...' The faith to act on the strength of the absurd'- Soren Keirkegaard" Jenny had no idea she had just spoken to my heart and encouraged me deeply. Much of my life has been acting on the absurd. I didn't know this was an act of faith and I am determined to search for more opportunities to act on absurdity...on adventure....on the incredulous.

Just what are you doing in Haiti ?

2012-02-06T08:50:00.000-08:00

So it’s 3:45 a.m. and ourlocal hymn singer is walking the streets of our community singing hymns throughhis megaphone. He knows them all by heart…in fact most Haitians do. He walks upand down the streets and sets the tone for the day. Amazingly enough, thistinny, nasally, irritating sound permeates the quietness of the early morningair with a sense of peace, security and reassurance; such a different feelingthan when the voodoo guy is pounding away through the night on his drum. I decided to get up and write a blog aboutwhat had been going through my mind all night anyway.

This blog entry will takea risk….a risk that you won’t read it to the end because it explains what Rickand I are actually doing in Haiti and sometimes when you talk about communitydevelopment to others… you can see their eyes start to glaze over. It is somuch easier to captivate people with stories of daring disaster relief, medicalteams, orphanages that rescue and feed malnutritioned babies and so on.

I think I need to go backa few years to share with you the story of us…The Hamiltons. Our missionary call has been long standing. Personally,I kneeled by my bed in 1985 and knew God called me into missions. Rick and Iwere married in 1987 and from 1993 to 2000, we slugged away as missionaries inNorthern Canada amongst the Cree First Nation and the Metis. I use the wordslugged because this verb is fitting. Physical conditions were pioneer like, emotionally taxing, andoften lonely. This ministry was a conglomeration of evangelism, agriculturaldevelopment, business development, employment training, emotional counselling,crime prevention and health care. It is no wonder that my health finally gaveout. From that point on, we determined to change the way we did missions. AlthoughI could not put my finger on what exactly caused the burnout at the time, I canlook back now and see that a big part of the problem was focusing on, andtrying to fix community needs.

In 2005, God called meinto Community Health Nursing in the province of New Brunswick. I was handed a35,000 needs assessment and told to look at the needs and build programs basedon community deficits. While I enjoyed some successes…the work I did stillrequired lots of energy. I felt myself slippinginto old habits that would again lead to personal burnout. There had to be abetter way. I was introduced to Asset Based Community DevelopmentABCD quite byaccident…a Google search on “successful community development”. I devoured articles, books, essays, andstudies on this philosophy of development that was essentially simple and wentagainst everything I had ever been taught in both missions and university. Ihad Mike Green (author of When People Care Enough to Act) andAlan Sloan come to my community and do an ABCD workshop. I witnessed the empowermentof the community participants and saw the results of focusing on the gifts and capacitiesof people. Mike mentored me and alsoencouraged me to attend the Toronto Summer Institute at Ryerson University in2010 where I was able to receive further training from John McKnight (co-author of Building Communities from the Inside Out)Building Communities ; one of the foundersof ABCD.

So…why did I have to tellyou all this? I guess because it’s part of my journey with Community HealthEvangelism (CHE). I first met Dr. Bibiana McLeod at Jesus to the NationsJTN in Halifax back in 2008. The words on herdisplay board caught my eye…this was what I did professionally…only this was a holisticmodel of development that empowered community, strengthened Christians, andspread the gospel. Meeting Bibianastayed with me for the next few years. Rick and I read Stan Rowland’s bookMultiplying Light and Truth through Community Health Evangelism but thatwas it…until Nov, 2010 when cholera hit Haiti. Bibiana sent out a plea for help. Knowing that CHE was not a disasterrelief organization, I took the e-mail seriously. We spent a week in Haiti andit left a mark on our lives. We were miserable. We shared this with Bibiana andDr. Steve and Nancy James. An opportunity presented itself. Dr. Steve and his wife Nancy were leaving fora year. Would we like to live in their home while they were gone and see if Godwanted us in Haiti?

And so….Rick and I are inHaiti doing a 9 month internship with Medical Ambassadors of Canada MACA: the Goals? See the communities where CHE has beenintroduced in Haiti. Learn the methodology. Understand the phases of CHE andlearn Haitian culture and language. So far we are right on schedule. This pastweek we accomplished something we hadn’t anticipated…we both received our Training of Trainers 1 (TOT1) along with 28 other Haitians. We have the certificates to prove it! Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth Fleming (please note there is only one m in Fleming J ) who did simultaneous translation, Osse St. Juste (Director ofAmbassador Medical de Haiti) and Eriquer who made this happen for us. This pastweek was spent in the 3rd section of Grand Goave…a mountainous region where wespent 5 incredible days of adventure….which I’ll talk about in my next blogentry (there’s just too much to talk about).

Just Another Day In Haiti

2012-01-26T18:23:00.000-08:00

Just another Day in Haiti

Sorry forthe late entry everyone…it just seems that there is always too many thoughtsand then when I just can’t settle on what to write about next….I procrastinatebecause ..you know…it has to be perfect…blah blah blah ( same old story).

So it seemed that today just might be a goodday for me to accomplish some writing and Rick needed to go to the bank in Limbe. I would be alone...ahhhhh. Alas my friend Madame Grimmard calls to tell me her husband is inthe Limbe hospital; so suddenly I’m going too. First of all the road to Limbehas gotten extremely bad over the past few months. Not sure why… but man…itsawful…holes so big that you could easily take out your axels, bust your leaf (spell?)springs and whatever else is down there.

First stop was the bank. Several peoplesit outside on chairs hoping to change money for anyone that has US funds. Onceyou navigate past them you go into the bank where loud Haitian kompa musicplays. A large security guard sits on a stool beside the door with a shotgun inone hand and a bible in the other ( Only in Haiti). He reads while watchingover the tellers. I tried to make a joke and said to him “ Mesye…ou gen biblanan yon men y ou gen zam nan lot men. Sa bon ou mete yo ansanm ( Sir, you havea bible in one hand and a shotgun in the other..its good that you have themtogether)” …not knowing if I said this right or not. He smiles and says “ Wimadam”.

While we are banking, wehear band music approaching. It’s a slow march and I whisper to Sarah andPriscilla that it is a funeral procession. They want to sit outside to see itpass. I watch from the door. Haitian funeral processions are amazing. Theschool children complete with colorful uniforms march past, then another groupof uniforms march past..all in unison with the slow funeral style marchingband. The band is impeccably dressed and walks in precise fashion. Right left rightleft…then a little double time swagger…right left right left. Then comes the coffin in a white Chevy vanthat has funeral wreaths with silk flowers attached to the windshield; the reardoors are ajar because the coffin doesn’t quite fit. Finally the family of thedeceased marches last. Mourning and wailing mix with the slow mournful marchplayed by the band. It is a time of deeprespect by every member of the community. Businesses stop, traffic stops,school stops as the procession passes.

We leave the bank and drive to theCatholic hospital to visit Madam Grimmard and her husband. I can hear loudwailing and think to myself “Someone must of died”. People seem to be flockingto the hospital. I find a very thankful Madam Grimmard who bids me to herhusband’s room; a relatively small dim hospital room with 6 people crowded together…andthen all mayhem commences. A deafening roar of wailing ..like a wave of miseryrolls through the hospital. Madam Grimmard whispers to me “A young woman diedjust an hour ago. She had her baby and the placenta ‘pas tombe’ ( didn’t fall).This was her third baby.” We can hardly talk to each other; the wailing is soloud. Priscilla and Sarah stand beside me…very quiet and serious. I wonder whatthey think. I start to explain to Sarah how terrible this death will be for apoor family. She cuts me off and says “ Mom…can we talk about this later?” MadamGrimmard seems accustomed to this display of grief and continues to talk andtell me about her husband’s condition. Then she notices the young man in one ofthe beds motions for her to come. He tells her he speaks English and wants totalk to us. She calls us over to his bed. He is malnourished and looks at mewith jaundiced eyes. He is happy we have come to his bed and tries desperatelyto speak in broken English. I take his hand and I have to put my ear close tohis mouth to hear him… “My name is Fredi. I am a student from San Michelle. Iwas almost finished my studies and I became sick..now I am here…but God is withme…only God…he is all I need ”. I askhim if we can pray for him…he looks surprised “ Now?”. I said “yes…now”. Hesmiles and gratefully answers “yes please do”. We pray close to him…Rick in a loud voice so he can hear us over thewailing. He thanks us and weakly squeezes our hands. I turn around and Sarahand Priscilla are gone. I assume they are with Madam Grimmard. Sure enough theyare outside the room amongst the mourners watching the grief stricken familyand friends. There must be at least 200 people...and more arriving every minute yelling, screaming, wailing,pounding walls, stomping the ground…swaying together in grief. Rick calls toPriscilla and Sarah to come back to the room. They gladly leave…Madam Grimmardhad asked them to go out there to watch. Rick says quietly to me “I don’t think its right thatwe should be standing there as foreigners watching”. I am not so sure. It’s hard for us as Canadians to understandculture…we are a people who do not like for people to see us grieve. We pray and say our good-byes to Madam Grimmard and her husband.

We drive away and there is not muchconversation in the truck. There is no joking and laughter coming from the backseat. Rick tries to make light conversation and I tap his leg motioning him tostop.

We had promised Rosalourdes and her familywe would visit her earlier and so we were committed. A no show would beextremely disappointing. As we leave Sarah mumbles something about being tiredand has had too much to see already today but comes along willingly. They are waiting when we arrive.Again we go through the same thing. Little bodies scream with joy and run tomeet us. Small hands compete for a chance to grab our arms, hands, or legs anddrag us quickly to the pile of rocks. Westay for an hour, we laugh as they dance and sing to us. This absolute wantonexpression of joy sweeps away the dark cloud of grief from earlier in theafternoon and we return in the dark to our house.

As I write this I hear Sarah says to herfather “I’m so tired”…and she heads to bed. Rick says to her “Wow… you’re tiredso early?’ She smiles and answers “Yeah..I know”. I smile knowingly to myself. I know thefeeling. I remember how this huge explosion of sights and sounds sapped myenergy just 3 months ago. Now I feel accustomed to just another day in Haiti….

My Canadian Lens

2011-12-29T07:58:00.000-08:00

I didn’t realize how Canadian I was until I moved to Haiti.And what exactly do I mean by that…I mean that as a Canadian, I can rest in thefact that I, along with everyone else in my vastcountry will be taken care of….frombirth to the grave.

In all honesty,socialism has been a source of comfort to me…my apologies for the shivers upthe spines of my Republican American friends. In some ways, Canadian taxation for freehealth care, social development, and old age pension is a source of pride to meand many Canadians but in some ways can ease personal responsibility or moral obligation tothose in need. Though we may not say it out loud, we think it…” … “There’s noreason for anyone to be sick or hungry in Canada. They have social services, and free health care”.

Canadians are cushioned by social safety nets that can rob us ofdaily faith. In fact…. moving to Haiti has made this reality shamefully evidentto me: my faith is shallow in comparisonto the Haitian Christian sister who pleads with God “Mange nou bezwen an, bannou l jodi a” ( Lord give us this dayour daily bread). Instead, the NorthAmerican prayer life focuses on future potential problems “Lord, give me exponentialreturn on my RRSP’s so that I will be able to retire at 55”.

I can’t help that Isee the world through my Canadian lens. I want Haitian’s to have free healthcare, free schools, opportunities, infrastructure, social justice and crimeprevention and I Know God wants that too…but, I also need to see Haiti throughthe lens of God.

After we’d been here for a month, we went to a beach nearCap Haitian called Cormier Beach. It is a private resort type hotel and beach wheremany foreigners seem to congregate on week-ends. I felt uncomfortable pullinginto the parking lot alongside NGO vehicles. Somehow I’d arrogantly believed Iwas beyond the need for time out from desolation and neediness; but here I was…shamefullyparking beside every other organization in Haiti. In spite of the guilt, we hada fantastic meal, the sun was hot, and as I ran into the water, anuncontrollable bubble of excitement rose up in me and I laughed to myself withincredible joy. I said to God “God…you are so good to me” and a still smallvoice challenged me by answering me back…. “Does that mean that I am not goodto them that are outside of the walls of this place?” God was not trying tomake me feel ashamed or guilty for being where I was. He was challenging myworld view…my Canadian perspective. I lay back into the ocean…floating... and thought about the way I associate the goodness of God with pleasure,comfort or stuff and while those things are true, I had failed to see thebeauty in ashes, the oil of joy in mourning and the praise that comes out ofdeep distress and anguish.

A month back my friend Elio shared a story about beingextremely hungry. Elio’s family is very poor and his father died 6 years ago.His mother makes about 1000 gourds monthly ( $25). He described having verylittle to eat for a few days buthe had 10 ( 25 cents) gourds in hispocket that would buy him somthing to eat on this day. As he walked down the road he saida young girl came to him and said “ Oh Elio…I am so hungry . I haven’t eatenanything today and I had very little yesterday”. Elio said “I gave her the 10 gourds I had andI need to tell you that God took away all my hunger pains and to this day, Ihave never felt hungry again”. I felt tears well up in my eyes as he told hisstory with a beaming smile. He was describing the goodness of God in his lifeand a personal miracle he has experienced. Although I tried to rejoice with him in histestimony, I had a difficult time seeing the miracle…because my lens wasclouded by what I was looking at in front of me….an extremely thin young manthat probably hadn’t eaten yet today.

Before I continue I need to clarify that this blog is in noway attempting to remove church accountability in respondingto the poor. My friend Chris said to me “Itdrives me crazy when short term mission teams go back and give testimonies totheir churches about how happy the poor people are… ‘they don’t have a whole lotbut they are so happy’. There are a couple lessons in this blog for usas North Americans:

1. Richnessis Associated with Faith- Richness is not found in social safety nets,strong infrastructure, security, or stuff. James 2:5 states “Hath not Godchosen the poor of this world rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom which hehath promised to them that love him?” While we may have a well-developed country,we may be under-developed spiritually.

2. As aCanadian, acquiring richness of faith may involve a choice- Many of my ChristianHaitian friends don’t have a choice. Their difficult lives demand true faith.They pray for their next meal, they plead fervently with God when they can’tpay for the school bill for their children. They ask God every night to protectthem from “mikwob” (microbes). I hearthem praying through my glassless windows at 3 and 4 in the morning. There is abook I’ve been hesitant to read titled “Following Jesus through the Eye of theNeedle: Living Fully Loving Dangerously” by Kent Annan (A Canadian by the way…).I think this about sums it all up. Am I willing to make choices in my life thatwill give me true richness… fervent daily faith?

I end this blog with a question to my readers. Are wewilling to make the necessary choices in our lives that will enable us to experiencetrue richness with God? Can I …or will I follow Jesus into a life where I willlive fully and love dangerously?

A nurse named Susan...

2011-12-11T03:57:00.001-08:00

I think my friends and colleagues are beginning to worryabout me. I will not be posing any earth shattering questions this week and hadalready determined to write a more positive blog entry…even before Dr. Mannoshowed up at the house tonight.

But before I talk about what Dr. Manno told me I need todigress from my story to go back to August 2011, before I left for Haiti….whena nurse named Susan asked me if I would like to take someleftover IV medication with me to Haiti; Susan is a very quiet and shy nursethat often works behind the scenes keeping her community health centre runningsmoothly. I took the Pen G with me and at the last minute threw the boxes intomy suitcase. This was the only medicine or medical supplies that I brought with me this time. Shortly after I arrived I walked up to the clinic and dropped themoff at their little pharmacy. I couldn’t speak any Kreyol yet so I just walked up to the window andhanded over the boxes to the worker that was standing behind the counter. Hesmiled and thanked me and went to put them away. I don’t even know if he knewwho I was.

So…back to my meeting with Dr. Manno. Dr. Manno is thephysician that works at the Ebenezer Clinic and also supervises the choleratreatment centre. We were sitting in my living room tonight debriefing aboutthe cholera surge and thanking God for the miraculous way that God intervenedfor the people in the community. Therewere a series of fortunate events that I call miracles…you can call them coincidencesif you like….

A. 200 people went through the treatment centre in1 week and 90 of them were children. The common death rate at other choleratreatment centres is 3.5% and we only had one person die. Dr. Manno stated“statistically we should have lost 7 to 10 people…and the kids were so sick itshould have been higher”.

B. The day before the cholera outbreak, Dr. Mannovisited a clinic a fair distance away in another village. The village hevisited had cholera IV supplies. The leader at the clinic said to him “We don’thave any cholera here; please take these supplies with you”. Dr. Manno said hedidn’t want them and told the leader “We don’t need this stuff”. The leaderwould not be persuaded otherwise and loaded his truck up with the supplies. Assoon as Dr. Manno arrived home with the supplies, someone ran to his house andtold him that the cholera clinic was full of people and they had run out of IVsupplies. Dr Manno said “I told them that the supplies were in the back of mytruck”.

C. Public health arrived with more suppliesimmediately after this supply ran out. Dr. Manno said that pubic health hasnever….EVER…arrived immediately and respond as quickly as they did.

D. There was a pregnant woman who was 6 monthspregnant and did not lose the baby when 90% of the time pregnant woman willmiscarry.

E. Rick and I and Dr. B. and 3 other health careworkers from the U.S. all arrived inSeminaire Limbe at the same time during the same cholera outbreak when thestaff was unable to manage.

F. Dr. B was able to do 3 intra-osseus sites on 3very sick children and they all survived.

Which brings me to the end of this story…Rick spoke upregarding the last point…the point about the intra-osseus sites that were doneby Dr. B. and Dr Manno jumped in again and said:

“ Oh yeah…and that’s not all. One of thechildren with an IO got an infection and became really sick with osteomyelitis.I sent the dad to Cap Haitian to look for the medication and he couldn’t findany anywhere. I went into our pharmacy at the clinic and said ‘I don’t knowwhat we are going to do but we have to try and find this medicine somewhere’. Thenone of the workers spoke up and said to me ‘Dr. Manno..we have some here’. Icouldn’t believe it because we don’t order that stuff…someone must have sent itor dropped it off”.

It was at this moment that I knew….I knew that the littleshy nurse back in New Brunswick was part of God’s intricate provision but I hadto make sure. I had to ask the question. I interrupted Dr. Manno and said “Dr.Manno…what was the name of the medication?” He said “It was Pen G…we neverorder that stuff”. I said “It was me whodropped it off at your pharmacy…it was given to me to bring here by a nurse inCanada”.

So this blog is dedicated to my friend and fellow nurseSusan. Thank you for dropping off the medicine that brought healing to a verysick little boy. Awesome to be part of divine plan…isn’t it?

Protecting the Pie!

2011-12-05T19:28:00.001-08:00

This morning marks the first good night sleep in a longtime…having been sick for almost 2 weeks now, I’ve been in no state to write…movingto Haiti has been a good weight loss program for me; I’ve dropped all theweight I’ve gained over the past 2 years in my sedentary student lifestyle. Iknow that intestinal parasites and viral pneumonia are less attractive thanSimply for Life or LA weight loss, BUT…heck…whatever… I’ll take thebenefits.

We’ve been here 5 weeks today. I am learning so much aboutculture that it can be extremely overwhelming. I think becoming culturallycompetent outweighs learning the language…of course these seem to go hand inhand.

When you make friendships outside the walls of your home,you immediately make yourself vulnerable to relationships with the poor. Maybeif I lived here long enough I would be building walls around my home too…butI’m not sure this is what God intended for missionaries. If anyone understandsculture shock and leaving the comforts of home, it’s Jesus and yet, He didn’tbuild a wall around his compound. He interacted with the poor, the outcasts,the widows, the sick, and the sinner, on a daily basis. He humbled himself andmade himself into a man….the God man. He limited himself. He didn’t fly homewhen things got rough and he didn’t live a bi-cultural life…one life with thosehe came to reach and a separate life from the rough one…one of privilegedentitlement simply because he came from a wealthy kingdom.

Gandhi said “I have told my missionary friends, “Noble asyou are, you have isolated yourselves from the people you want to serve”. Speakingfrom a missionary perspective…it’s our dirty little secret; in North America weare seen as sacrificial saints but in 3^rd world countries we are celebritiesthat carry wealth, status, and affluence…and many of us live like it; “personalincarnations of the gospel of abundance”. Unfortunately, the damage has beendone and today’s crop of modern missionaries will only perpetuate the problemif they continue to go down this road.

Moving to Haiti isn’tenough. Learning the language isn’tenough. It will cost more than this. Itcosts to build relationships with those you’ve come to help. It costs you toopen your home and finally and most surprisingly, entering into relationships with the poor is likeshining a light on your true motives for serving. I have never felt so selfish,so self- serving, or as self-protective as when I sit and interact with thepoor. What will this relationship cost me? Will they continue to need me? Arethey going to keep coming back to my house for more? Do I want them to knowwhere I live? Can I get away to do something fun without them knowing? Willthey ask me for more money? Am I going to catch something from them? Will I getsick if I eat what they are offering me?

Why can’t I justsimply love….love without hesitation, without counting the cost of love?

Which brings me to the story of Floren. Floren has 5 children like me. They arebeautiful. Floren’s husband left her for another woman and Floren has learnedto be helpless. She has no way of making money. She struggles every day to feedher kids. I don’t know where she gets her food but I think that her husbandshows up now and again and gives her some money. We entered into a relationshipwith Floren and try to visit but it’s hard…it’s hard because you are acelebrity…sort of like getting a visit from Angelina Jolie ( I know…thisexample is over the top) and the social and economic disparity is sooooopainfully obvious that any relationship that I try to build with Floren is rifewith underlying agendas; both hers and mine.

Her children came to visit me a few days ago. It was thesame day I made 2 chocolate cream pies…a rare delicacy, here in Haiti. Iinvited friends over and was irritated when Floren’s children came to visit.They sat quietly on the couch…giggling, respectful; eyes big as they watched usall interact. They sat on the couch until it was dark outside and finally Iasked Rick to tell them it was time to go home. Wilflor the 6 year old girlwhispered to her brother, but I could tell that her brother did not want totell us what she said…and they did not leave. Finally, Joseph said hesitantly “Mymother sent us here. We are hungry and we haven’t eaten today.” I rummagedthrough the fridge…my mind was bombarded with questions, selfish reasoning,worries, concerns, bible verses, rationalization, development models etc. It is amazing the conversations we can havewith ourselves when we are faced with moments of challenge. I packed up someleft over rice that had a little bit of meat in it, two sticks of bread andgave it to them and sent them on their way. I was relieved when they left. Ididn’t have to deal with them anymore. I didn’t want to think any more aboutthis family. I wanted to cut my chocolate cream pie and serve all my friendsand for just a brief moment…experience a little slice of decadence.

I didn’t eat any pie.I took a little sliver to make sure I was serving something edible. I couldonly think of the little troop of hungry children making their way home in thedark. The food that I sent home with them was not enough for 6 people. What wasI thinking? They would go to school in the morning without breakfast and whenwould they eat next? I tried not to think about it.

Moving to Haiti was not a sacrifice for me. I was feeding myadventurous nature, getting to do what I loved plus… altruism is in vogue thesedays and there is always a certain amount of Mother Theresa type fanfare. Itwould be so easy to build a wall around me and my chocolate cream pies here inHaiti. The North American church would never be the wiser and I could do lots ofwonderful things for the poor while keeping them at arm’s length. BUT… In my short time here, I have come tothe conclusion that the real sacrifice in missions occurs when we buildrelationships with those living in extreme poverty instead of building walls tokeep them out.

Talent in the ruins

2011-11-24T05:05:00.000-08:00

The tendency to withdraw and seek immediate reprieve from cultural differences that bash one’s cushioned North American brain is called culture shock. Even though I thought I was prepared experientially, professionally, and spiritually, I have to confess a resounding “not”. Poverty has been shamelessly confrontational and I have been running from her whenever I can. My brain tries to deal, juggle, normalize, rationalize, excuse, and understand what my eyes are seeing and it is EXHAUSTING.

A walk down a path in the community can devastate and deplete your entire allotted energy stores for the day. The energy loss is not from the walk or the heat…it’s from the intellectual and emotional battle that wages upon the soul. Personal values like justice, compassion, mercy, fire questions and demand answers from the intellect, from God, and from others. It seems the entire universe is demanding me to provide answers or actions; only I don’t have answers, or capacity, or resources to respond. I find I am facing this daily…and I have to push myself to walk out the door.

Our friend Chris experienced this…he told us that the first few months here were brutal…but everything in his studies told him he had to avoid withdrawing. I asked him when things changed for him and he said after about 3 months “When I became engaged with the people”. The remedy for culture shock is to push yourself through the discomfort, the awkwardness, the frustration, and the fear; this process is EXHAUSTING (there I said it again…notice the caps both times as well). So I do this in faith. I look at Chris with his handle on the language, his ease with which he navigates the culture and his interaction with the people in the community and I long to be in that place myself within 3 or 4 months. I know theoretically that I have to push myself past comfort and confront her….the one that is causing me such discomfort. I have to look at what poverty shoves in my face.

So..Chris has been introducing us to people in the community that helped him engage. Every night he would go sit on the pile of rocks outside his neighbor’s house. In this small ½ cinder block house and ½ mud live a large extended family. I counted roughly 10 to 12 children from a newborn to adolescents. They knew we were coming and met us with sheer unabashed joy. Little hands grabbed Chris, Priscilla, Rick and myself and drew us to the pile of rocks where they asked us to sit. While introductions were made with the parents, the children scrambled for a place to sit next to each of us…tightly holding our hands, entwining arms, or laying their heads on our laps. One young mother asked if I would like to see her new baby. I immediately followed her into a room with this small chubby bundle lay. His name is Peterson. She proudly tells me that he is Chris’s Godson. I scanned this little 3 x 6 room. The walls were plastered with pictures from magazines and the occasional artificial flower. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed sheets were clean and the room was tightly but neatly packed with everything this young mother owned. There were no windows, just a doorway that was covered with a sheer panel curtain. It seemed stifling hot to me …but then everything feels that way to me these days.

While we sat and talked…or tried to, I watched one of the children sit on the outside industriously making little cars out of plastic juice bottles. His name is Steve. His mother tells me he is very creative and that he made a drum set complete with foot pedal out of plastic buckets. She tells me she had to get rid of it because he wouldn’t go to school because he just wanted to play them all the time. Steve continues making his plastic toys with intensity and determination. He loads the little cars with rocks, ties a string to the caravan of plastic cars and hands it to a sister who begins pulling this toy around the yard. He smiles proudly and sits quietly beside me. After several minutes he taps my arm and tells me he wants to show me something. He very carefully and lovingly pulls a women’s pressed powder compact from his pocket. He slowly opens the empty compact to show me an old rusty gillete razor blade. I am confused. I oooo and awe and appear appreciative of what he is showing me but then I ask him what he uses this for. He looks surprised that I would ask and says it’s for making his toys. This is his tool that he proudly and secretly possesses. He carefully places this treasured item back in his pocket.

This was poverty’s brash act tonight…she put Steve in front of me and then poked my chest with her finger. This young child needs a tool kit, or even an exacto knife…not a rusted razor blade. This bothered me for days. Here was a gifted child that in any developed country would have infrastructure or programs to help him succeed but instead, Steve will face innumerable barriers to finish school and reach his full potential. All I could see was Steve pulling one of those clunky handmade carts full of cases of whatever…the child prodigy now a young man…sinewy taut muscles, beaded sweat on glistening black skin…trying to make a buck to support his family.

How do I respond to this? What answer do I give to poverty? I remain the exhausted Canadian who struggles to push herself out into the community every day. So far it’s not getting any easier.

A sister wails...

2011-11-18T18:02:00.000-08:00

I don’t feel like writing anything today. I am dealing with such an incredible bundle of thoughts, emotions, interjected occasionally by the still small voice of God; I think it all came crashing down on me this morning.

Last night the pregnant mother at the cholera clinic died. She lost her baby in the morning and died that evening. Her face is embedded in my mind. A very petite extremely thin young woman with a handkerchief on her head, gaunt cheekbones, flimsy dress, held lovingly on a bucket by her sister as she expelled rice water diarrhea with groans. Rick bent over to assess her and checked her abdomen for tenting and was surprised to realize she was pregnant. “ ahhh…bebe?” he said. She nodded proudly at the time. I thought she looked more like a cancer patient than a robust healthy pregnant mom. I told Rick later….” She’s going to lose that baby”. It’s almost certain with cholera. Throughout that evening I watched the sister wait on her weak sibling…lovingly wait. She didn’t leave her sister’s side. Every time I went back to check on her, the sister was bathing her forehead with a water soaked rag, holding her on the bucket during violent bouts of diarrhea and rubbing her back as she retched and vomited.

I heard the wailing and the dogs howling throughout the night. I didn’t know until the morning that she had passed away. This morning a 3 year old and a 13 year old are motherless. The family is extremely poor and the father barely makes a living farming…probably the most labor intensive work here. Her death will weigh hard on this family.

I was just finishing my breakfast when I heard the news. It was at the same moment that I heard a screen door slam and 2 giggling school girls raced by my window. They are dressed in bright yellow shirts and hair ribbons, brown plaid pleated skirts and matching yellow ankle socks. I watched as they ran off to school holding hands…two sisters…lovingly caring for each other. I felt tears welling up in my eyes and ran to my bedroom. I could only think of the malnourished pregnant woman and her sister…they were these 2 school girls once…bouncing and skipping in bright colored uniforms. I ask myself….a lonely sister wails this morning…does anyone care? Two sisters grew into adulthood…withstanding deep poverty, sickness and death. A bond of deep love and protective sibling synergy has ended: her sweet little sister that she had nursed and protected lies gaunt, thin and lifeless on a cholera soaked cot.

I have stopped asking God why Haiti suffers and have begun asking myself why I didn’t even know anything about Haiti until after the earthquake. How bad is that? Haiti is the man that was attacked by robbers and lies wounded in the ditch. Who will be the good Samaritan and help them? Who is Haiti’s neighbor?

Our friend Chris said “We ask God why there is loss of life and the suffering in Haiti, when instead we should be asking ourselves why we have allowed…and continue to allow this to happen”. The cause of poverty is complex…years of injustice and oppression; the effect is Haiti…the direct result of greedy nations. Haiti did not fail…it was systematically destroyed by powerful nations.

The questions I have today are for Canada, the US and all other prosperous nations of the world. Where were we when Haiti was shunned for being a rogue slave country?

Where were we when Haiti was stripped of its natural resources to provide France with 2/3’s of its gross national product?

Where were we when Haiti was forced to pay 150,000,000 gold francs (an equivalent to 21 billion US dollars in 2001) to France (the last installment made in 1922) just so that they could be recognized as a nation. This slave nation humiliated France when they fought and won their freedom....now they would be made to pay. The payment to France amounted to up to 70% of the country’s foreign exchange earnings (The Hate and The Quake, 2001).

The questions are too numerous to ask. All I know right now is that today a sister wails and two children have lost their mother…does anyone care?

Cholera....again

2011-11-13T18:01:00.001-08:00

I returned home from Cap only to find out there had been a new surge of cholera patients at the treatment centre...I groaned. We grabbed our scrubs and set out...Priscilla requested to come so Rick came as well. Our new friend Chris Wilson from North Carolina had been recruited earlier so he joined us.

We heard that the local elementary school mixed up drink crystals in what they thought was a bottle of purified water. Turns out the entire class and their teacher shows up at the treatment centre. It was madness...when I arrived, there were 105 patients strewn where ever there was room. This was far worse than I had witnessed last year when cholera made its debut in Haiti. It's especially hard on children that are already thin or malnourished. Gaining IV access is a lesson in patience and requires detachment from the whimpering child...attempts are numerous and painstaking. Cathelons are reused after every attempt...they are a precious commodity. Finally after numerous tries, intra osseous access is inevitable. Dr. B. a visiting American doctor put in 3 that night. I still haven't gotten the nerve to try this and continue to avoid acquiring this skill at all costs. I am a wimp at heart and putting IV's in children is still soooo painful for me. The relief I feel when I see flashback on an IV catheter is incredible.

I wonder if I can describe the scene in the clinic when we arrived. About 20 people crowded the makeshift gate...friends, community members...all trying to catch a glimpse of the chaos. We had to push through the crowd and explain to the guard that we were there to help. Our feet were sprayed with chlorox solution and the security guard motioned for us to wash our hands in chlorox solution as well...he was doing a fantastic job and I told him so. I entered the triage building. There were so many people lying on cots and sitting on benches that I could hardly get to each patient to hang IV's..a single nurse was run off her feet and many IV bags were empty. I quickly gave Priscilla a crash course on IV management...she looked at me with serious wide eyes and changed an IV bag while I watched. We worked together on this room and I showed her how to assess cholera. She listened as I go through my memorized set of assessment questions. Violent vomiting and explosive diarrhea occur all around us...groans and whimpers...family members pull at your arm so that you'll take care of their loved one. This was only the first room...the triage room which can only hold 15 people is packed full of family members. New arrivals sat on buckets while a family members held another container in front of them as they vomited. I stood here for a minute in the midst of complete confusion and felt helpless...the memories of last year came flooding back...my only consolation was the strength I saw in my daughter who was going from person to person like a storm trooper...who was this person and where did she come from? Somehow...the strength of this teenager empowered me for the rest of the evening.

Rick met us as we came out of triage. He appeared flustered and concerned " Rhonda...I've counted 82 people in the other building, the porch and outside...its a mess". It had been raining and the ground was a mixture of slippery cholera infested mud and gravel. Children were scattered on cots ...sometimes 3 to a cot and lie under tarps outside because there was no more room in the building. Numerous IV bags hung from wires attached to poles supporting the tarps and it took me several moments to find the right line to the right child. Some of the children pulled out their IVs. I restarted them.. and am successful on my first try. I breathed a sigh...I am only benefiting from the child being in a more hydrated state; they've had some ringers and I could find the veins. I moved from child to child; parents asked questions and I tried to answer in broken Kreyol...they were so grateful and thanked me over and over.

I entered the building and could hardly get through the door because cots crowded the hallway. Family members held up weak bodies that straddled small pails. Moans and writhing bodies ravaged with cramps and diarrhea were everywhere. It was sweltering hot inside and the floors were covered in mud and slippery fluid. The local cleaner worked feverishly mopping with chlorox water. I patted him on the back and told him he was doing a great job; he nodded with appreciation. Sweat rolled down my face and back inside this stifling building. How could these poor people stand it? I took one patient at a time; Priscilla, Rick and Chris have ventured out on their own now. Each of us took an area and worked towards each other in order to meet in the middle. Once we met, we started from the beginning again and did this over and over until late in the evening. There were no new arrivals and the noise was settling...so we made one final round and told the grateful Haitian nurses we were leaving. They thanked us and ask when we will be coming back....

I was in a daze at this point...I stood outside and looked at Priscilla. I marvelled at her strength. She didn't verbalize complaints, shock, horror, or frustration. She didn't appear overwhelmed or shell shocked. Rick was tired and troubled. Chris is Chris...he had never experienced anything like this but did what he did with deep concern and thought. As we grouped together to walk home it began to rain...a typical tropical rain. The warm drops mixed with my sweat soaked skin and I began to cool off and relax. We walked home in pitch darkness in the rain...and tiredness absorbed my body's adrenalin. The cold shower I took was incredibly satisfying and I climbed into bed feeling thankful while praying over all the faces at the clinic. Beautiful faces of desperate Haitians. I fell asleep remembering the young Haitian man who grabbed my hand and smiled at me...." I love my Jesus...I love my Jesus...He is so good to me" were the words that came from this frail body ravaged with cholera....it was the only thing he knew to say in English. I took his hand, squeezed it and answered " Wi...Bondye Bon tou tan".

The drive home ...in the dark...

2011-11-13T09:44:00.000-08:00

We went to Lagosette today to visit the Moxon’s. It was a good opportunity for Priscilla to visit with their 16 year old daughter and some of the team from Children of the Promise. We had a great visit discussing concepts, and God’s leading on our ministries in Haiti. It is so good to exchange thoughts, personal learnings, past experiences, and a sense of God’s direction for the future.

Before we left this morning, Madam Ducasse wanted to know when we would get home that evening. I said around 5 or 6 and saw the look of surprise on her face. She strongly encouraged us to be home before dark and kept repeating it over and over again until we assured her we would be home before nightfall ( all of this in Kreyol) .

Turns out the conversation with the Moxons was so good that we left about 20 minutes too late and drove home during dusk and eventually nightfall through what I am about to describe…..

The Roads

It takes about 1 hour to travel roughly 15 to 20 miles. How can I explain it other than a maze of holes, patches of cement, jagged rocks, cracked and hole strewn asphalt , ruts 2 and 3 feet deep compounded with a haze of dust similar to that of a desert sand storm.

The Vehicles

Add to this mix a multitude of travellers hustling to multiple destinations: countless tap taps ( Haiti’s transportation system; small Toyota trucks with welded or wooden benches in the box covered with a truck topper ) that are so loaded with people, the back bumpers almost touch the ground.

There are large trucks laden with passive expressionless passengers precariously balancing on tall piles of sacks; buses upon buses ( denominational castaways) spewing black diesel exhaust behind them ,laboring under excessive burdens of passengers; vendors with wheelbarrows carting supplies , and handmade clumsy oversized carts with car tires carrying layered cases of coca cola. If it has wheels, it is used to move something in Haiti. Oh and I can’t forget the motorcycles. Haiti’s taxi service…the economical way to travel. The record I have seen for number of passengers carried at one time has been 5; 4 adults and one child…plus any purchases to take home. These motorbikes whip all over the place sometimes 4 and 5 abreast passing on the right or the left…sometimes you meet them in groups of 15 or 20 at a time carting shower capped school girls dressed in colorful uniforms. There is no age limit for riding a motor bike…from newborn babies to aged grandmas…it is a very normal way to travel.

The People

Tall straight backed women with sober experssions …noses to the air are balancing large tubs of fruit or laundry on their heads with fluid graceful movements. It’s no wonder Haitian women have such beautiful posture. Men pushing oversized carts, thin bodies, straining sinewy flexed muscles with beaded sweat on glistening black skin, clad in faded flimsy shirts and rubber boots. School children with matching hair ribbons skip along the roadside. Everyone is selling something along the roads; everything from charcoal to used clothing to medications and shoes. This daily routine of packing merchandise from home to market is simply a ton of labor intensive effort to make a days wage at a time. Everyone is going somewhere…and the animals are going with them…cows, goats, dogs…It is a flamboyant explosion of color and activity that amazingly works in concert…this is Haiti.

The Drivers

I can’t conclude this blog without describing the drivers. Last week we spoke with a missionary who told us she was a race car driver before she became a missionary and God really used these skills when she arrived here. Rick has joined this transportational frenzy with ease and has easily adapted to the madness. Truly driving in Haiti is a feast to the eyes and a shot of adrenalin to the heart. Anything goes. Passing vehicles sometimes 3 abreast with oncoming traffic and motorcycles whipping past on both sides is a norm. This is all happening in hazy dusty visibility while everyone chooses their own path to avoid the holes and crevices in the road. Passing on hairpin turns is acceptable as long as you blow your horn. Pedestrians have no rights. When there is a good stretch of road, everyone puts the gas pedal to the floor because it makes the trip a little quicker.

The Moral of the Story

So …now you know why you need to get home before dark. I thought the warnings were to do with “Bad people at night”….I was wrong. The frenzy on the roads continues in the dark…only many vehicles do not have head lights, or keep their high beams on ALL THE TIME. Getting in an accident or accidently hitting a pedestrian would be “pa bon”. I was exhausted when I finally got home.

A lesson in patience...and the slobbering kiss.

2011-11-10T17:57:00.000-08:00

Milar ( prounounced Meelair) is the university’s resident mechanic. He is a thin, extremely kind and comical man that I love and respect. He has taken Rick under his wing and tries to teach him and shelter him from being swindled and gouged as we learn to shop and buy. It is common for men to occasionally walk hand in hand in Haiti. I almost took a picture of Milar holding Rick’s hand as he took him across a busy street…but I hesitated knowing the repercussions I would encounter...especially if I uploaded it to the blog...so I didn't even bother.

Milar came by 2 days ago and explained that we needed to go to Cap Haitian to renew the registration for the licence plate. He doesn’t speak a word of English and communicates with Rick through charades. It is a hilarious and exhausting effort. It seems that I have become the resident interpreter…which puts a lot of pressure on me. I seem to be catching on to the language quickly and now Milar turns to me and asks me to tell Rick what he is saying (no pressure at all). We all left for Cap in the morning. It was an incredibly beautiful day. Milar said that if the system was “down” in Cap, we may have to return to the government building several times before the paperwork could be completed for the vehicle registration renewal.

We arrived around 9 a.m. Milar wanted our whole family to accompany him as he felt having us with him may speed up the process. We walked into a room of desks occupied by public servants using archaic typewriters. All of the signage and government forms were in French. The room is stifling hot and I marvel that all the men wear suits and ties. Milar is carrying a file of papers. He grabs Rick’s hand and pulls him to one desk. The occupant at the desk looks over all the paper work, signs a piece of paper and sends them to another desk. At the next desk, another man lazily scans the paperwork, signs another piece of paper and sends them to another room where there are more desks and typewriters. The paperwork is looked over again and stamped and Rick and Miler are sent to another place where the paperwork is shuffled and reviewed. Forms are typed on manual typewriters and this time money is exchanged and Rick adds his signature. They are now sent back to the first original desk where they started and the papers are given one last shuffle and are stamped. The man at this desk sends them back to the desk where they paid the money to do something else and says “Come back to me after you go to them”. It seemed they were finally getting to the end of the whole process but when they finally returned to the original desk…the desk that would be the final and ultimate end to this madness… the man was gone. Milar shakes his head in frustration.

It is while Rick and Milar are running to and fro between rooms and desks that a man who has had too much to drink enters the government office where Priscilla and I are waiting. He is jovial and loud and the Haitian workers are rolling their eyes and giggling nervously. The man suddenly spies the two white women in the room and makes a staggering beeline over to Priscilla. He takes her hand and kisses it while attempting to converse in French. The Haitian women that work in the office are holding their hands over their mouths now and are laughing nervously. The men in suits and ties appear irritated and perturbed. A man behind a desk calls for someone to come deal with this situation but not before the inebriated gentleman comes to me to introduce himself in broken English. He takes my hand and kisses it with a big slobbering kiss. I thank him for his kind words as he tries to thank me for coming to his country to help Haiti. Finally a female police officer arrives with smiles and patience and assists the gentleman from the room.

We finally regroup and Rick whispers to me “I will never complain about Service New Brunswick again!” We had been sitting here for almost 2 hours. Milar shakes his head in frustration and says we should go and come back after shopping to complete the registration. Shopping in Cap is exhausting and requires a whole other blog entry. It really is a fantastic adventure.

After finishing up our purchases we return to the government building. We sit for another 45 minutes in the crowded office but Milar shakes his head and tells us the system is now down and our information can’t be entered into the system. Milar asks if we mind waiting a little longer outside in the truck. He tells us that he usually has a nap and keeps trying to see if the system is up every hour. He mentions that last week when he registered a vehicle, he had to return to Cap Haitian 4 times that week until he was successful. We wait for another hour in the truck and Milar checks one last time. When he returns to the truck he is shaking his head and tells us we will not be getting this done today. It looks like we will be going to the government office again this week. I still really enjoyed the day. I think Milar was more frustrated on our account...he needn't have worried. There were good lessons, sights, interactions and purchases today. Everyday just teaches us more, and thankfully we get to go again and maybe again and again and again for more of the same.

Bread Fruit Smoothies and a Full Moon

2011-11-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

Thankfully every day is a new one. I strolled up to the Cholera treatment centre and was encouraged that there were only 25 to 30 patients this morning. I spoke with a well-educated young man who was violently ill with cholera. I watched him have non stop diarrhea and vomiting for 4 hours. It’s these young strong men that worry me. They look strong and healthy but can go downhill so fast….as we witnessed last year. He spoke 4 languages; Spanish, English, French and Kreyol. The same thing happened to me again today…he wanted to speak in Spanish but even though I tried to speak Spanish, all that came out of my mouth was Kreyol this time. My brain is so confused lately. Zunga…a missionary from the Congo next door said to me tonight “ I know what you are going through…just slap yourself in the head when this happens and then all you’ll be able to speak is Kreyol”. We laughed together but I digress. Back to the cholera patient that could speak 4 languages. I asked him where he thought he got the cholera. He said that he had been drinking what he thought was purified water from Cap Haitian. He was as puzzled as I was because we’ve been buying our water from a purification place in Cap Haitian as well….yikes.

I put an IV in a young boy…he was so good and looked at me with wide eyes but did not even flinch. I said to him “ gason bon anpil!!!!” His mother smiled proudly and patted her son on the head. The Haitians are doing a fantastic job at managing cholera this time. I didn’t bother to stay long today because everything was under control. I left early and went back to the house.

The trail home is a rock and rut strewn trail with puddles and mud. The sun beat down on me as I walked home veering motorcycle taxis, barefoot men with machetes, chattering school children with brightly colored uniforms and matching hair ribbons, and woman balancing huge tubs of laundry on their heads. Every once in a while a young child would shout Blan! Blan! Blan! ( White woman!) to get my attention and then smile and giggle while waving furiously at me from their house. I would hear the parents chuckle when I would wave back. The chaotic concert of community activity is a rhythmic explosion of sound and color that is pleasing to all the senses. I love it. These people know how to live. You do not pass anyone without saying “ Bonjou”. I must say it at least 60 times as I leave the clinic and walk to the house. It is a musical bonjou with a whimsical sound. You’ll just have to come and hear it yourself.

Guy took us for a walk this evening away from the seminary up into the hills where poverty becomes more evident. We meet all the cows and goats returning from the mountains with their owners. Everyone sits in the narrow lane as people return to their homes. Everyone seems to live outside in the evenings. There is so much activity. Neighbors talk to neighbors. Guy shouts at a house behind a hedge for his friend and his mother shouts back that he is not at home. Homes have absolutely no privacy. There is no glass on the windows, only flimsy curtains. We walk a little further and see groups of children playing in a small creek that runs beside the road. Totally unconscious of their nakedness they jump and splash in the water and say “ Good Morning how are you”. They laugh at their attempt to speak English and blurt out something in Kreyol. I ask Guy what they said and he translates “They asked for you to take them home with you”.

When we arrived home Guy said he wanted to make us a bread fruit smoothie. He cooks up a large bread fruit (about the size of a cantaloupe) and then mixes it with banana, canned milk, real vanilla, and cane sugar. He walks proudly into the living room with a tray full of glasses of a very thick creamy white drink. He has put ice cubes in the glasses. It does not even float. My first taste was incredibly delightful….it really tasted like a vanilla milkshake with a hint of coconut. I drank the whole thing slowly and was amazed that I felt stuffed when I was finished. Amazing.

After Guy left Rick turned out the lights and called me outside. I stood on the pathway to the house and he said “Look up”. A bright full moon is gently framed by palm branches swaying in the warm evening breeze. Rick asks “What do you think of?” I continue looking up while leaning back on him and I say a prayer for Hillsborough Baptist Church. It is a good way to end another day.

Cholera Treatment Centre and Culture Shock

2011-11-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

I went to the cholera treatment centre today. They had almost 70 patients last night but this morning had discharged several and I counted around 35. I am so impressed with the Haitian team that is doing a great job of managing the cholera. There were 2 Haitian nurses in the clinic and one in the triage with the B’s and C’s . Most of the A’s are moved to the other building…although, I did see severely sick people ( some C’s) in the other building. Cholera is classified by severity. "A" being the best case scenario and "C" being the worst. I found things orderly and well managed. I sat in triage and felt so frustrated. I wanted to communicate so badly with the nurses. All the words that I had been learning seemed to fly from my brain under pressure when you are on the spot without an interpreter. I need to explain to you all the mental fatigue and exhaustion the body and mind experiences from culture shock. The tendency is to withdraw into a protective environment where you can feel some semblance of normality. It would be very easy to hide in the safety of ones house or behind a compound wall. It is extremely necessary to push yourself into uncomfortable situations if you are going to learn the culture and the language. I have to be honest. I am extremely frustrated and exhausted today.

I came home from the treatment centre, ate a meal and went to bed for the afternoon. I noticed Priscilla slept all afternoon as well and didn't talk much today. I hate feeling like a wimp. Its a disaster sitting with people you cannot communicate with and hearing them giggle when you struggle for words. Your brain is shouting out "People!!! really..I'm not really this stupid. I am an intelligent person...Really i am!!!!" Instead...you just sit there like an idiot and try extremely hard to listen and do what you can...while crowds of people look on.

Patricia Benner wrote a book called " From Novice to Expert". She talks about the discomfort of moving from Expert back to Novice. One day I may be an expert again...but for now I am a novice .....AND I DON'T LIKE IT.....

We had an awesome visit from Chris this evening. An English teacher from North Carolina who encouraged us with his experience of being here for 5 months. He described his experience of culture shock and it was extremely encouraging to me. I need patience...m'priye mwen aprann Kreyol rapide. Not sure if thats right or not but I am praying that I can learn Creole fast. Its not fast enough for me.

Haitian Church and our first driving experience....

2011-11-06T15:02:00.000-08:00

Liglez ( Church) in Haiti- Sunday 0900 November 6/2011

Thankfully it rained this morning and it cooled off. It has been 80 to 85 degrees F (sorry my metric friends…I’m going by the thermometer on the wall) and 82 to 90 % humidity. The locals are even complaining. I don’t know why I bought face moisturizer before I left…waste of money. I’ve been washing my face 3 to 4 times a day. I’m sure I’ll return to Canada a younger looking woman. We have a friend Guy that has been sticking close to us and helping us with the language. He is 23 years old and became a Christian when he was 18. He likes to hang out here with Rick and asks questions about theology and life in Canada. He came with us to church today and showed us where to sit. It is an incredible feeling to be a visible minority…extremely visible. All eyes are on you when you walk in the church entrance. People scatter from pews to give you their seat and they quickly scramble somewhere else. I feel so out of place …3 white people in a Haitian church; yet, we are very welcome in their midst. They do not rush to welcome us or even talk to us they simply gaze at us with shy smiles and then look at the floor. There is a constant hum of quiet voices during the Sunday school lesson which is read by a woman from the pulpit. She reads the lesson with a loud voice but it seems that people are really talking quietly and fidgeting while she finishes.

Announcements are made and I can understand that he mentions the visitors from Canada. He has us come forward to bring greeting to the church from Canada. Priscilla and I follow Rick to the front amidst smiles and awestruck stares from the young children. Rick speaks into the microphone and the Pastor interprets for him. He thanks the people for the opportunity to be here with them. He asks them to be patient as we learn Kreyol ( there is laughter and chuckles). He tells them we look forward to living in Haiti and learning from them. There is a loud unified amen and we return to our bench directly in front of the pulpit. The band plays beside us and breaks into a familiar worship tune but it has a Caribbean rhythm so I am having difficulty placing it. Three women and one man stand on the platform and lead the singing. They sway back and forth in unison and the entire church falls into a crescendo of voices that blend into beautiful worship. I watch this gentle people begin to worship our God with a tenderness and gentleness that is beautiful. The music and the voices grow louder…they worship with a gentle gladness…I don’t know how else to describe it. Its loud but not boisterous. The only word that comes to mind is a gentle humble beauty that is loud yet sweetly loud. Does that make sense?

We sit and the choir stands. They sing “He’s everything to me” in Kreyol. I sit with tears rolling down my cheeks and am embarrassed. My friend Guy gives me a Kleenex. The little Haitian children sitting in front of me are turned around in the seats staring at us in awe. I dab my eyes and they watch me. Then….we sing “ Down from his Glory” in Kreyol …a hymn sung to the tune of “ O solo mio” a tune made popular by Luciano Pavorotti. I can’t believe it. It is simply beautiful. The music is beautiful….I love the Reggae type sound of the hymns. Amazing.

We leave before they serve the Lords supper. Guy explains that communion can only be partaken by baptized members who “have a card “ …so I assume this is closed communion. We leave before this portion of the meeting starts along with many others and make our way back to the campus. Our friend Guy spends some time with us over lunch discussing the message and explaining what the preacher spoke so that we can enjoy the message as well. After lunch we prepare to leave for an English service halfway to Cap Haitian at the 4VEH radio station.

This was our first drive anywhere on our own. Guy came with us and sat in the front with Rick. I sat in the back with Priscilla. What can I say about the drive to Cap. It can only be seen to be believed. You are exhausted from physically holding your body in an upright position. At least Priscilla seemed to be over her homesickness because all she could do was laugh at me and Guy as we were thrown around the seats. Rick hit the brakes once and I bounced off the back of Guys seat. I am so glad that God used me being smashed around just so that Pris could have 5 minutes of hysterical laughter. It doesn’t stop there though…poor Guy is trying to talk to me. He’s turned around in his seat and his head is bouncing off the head rest. Priscilla is laughing so hard she has her hand over her mouth trying to stop herself from laughing at other people’s misfortunes.

We finally arrive at the 4VEH.This is where we can enjoy an English message with other missionaries. I enjoyed the message from a Pastor from New York State that was actually visiting the Van Slykes who run an orphanage in Limbe. He was a gentle tender hearted man whose eyes welled up with tears many times while he was preaching. He preached on “What to do when you don’t feel you can go on anymore”. I sensed I was in a room with discouraged people…I don’t know how to say it any other way but I felt like I was sitting amongst worn out missionaries. I probably have a sixth sense for this having been there myself. It was good to meet all of these people but I really felt that there were needs in the lives represented here that were not being met…a need for spiritual refreshing and encouragement.

The drive home is just as bad as the drive in only its dusk so you can’t see the holes and crevices in road. I look forward to going in the house and having a Coke. Just to let everyone know that I have never drank coke but have taken up this luxury since I arrived. Its like the old fashioned Coke in glass bottles. It just tastes so good…and after a hot dusty ride it’s the ultimate decadence. Ummmmm….

Madame Ducasse.....ummmmmm...

2011-11-05T18:18:00.000-07:00

Madame Ducasse is a culinary artist. She has worked for Dr. Steve and Nancy James during their time here in Haiti. She continues in her role while we are here. She has offered to go with me to the market and teach me how to buy when I am ready and can speak better Kreyol. I have only had 6 days with this woman but I have much to learn from her. She is always smiling and has a sweet gentle nature that I admire.

We have lost the art of cooking a meal with love and expertise in Canada. Two days ago Mdm. Ducasse bought some shrimp. She showed them to me with great pride and tried to explain to us what she was going to do with them. We are not shrimp lovers and as I looked at the bowl of pale gray crustaceans I acted as excited as she was in showing this valuable purchase to me. I did not tell Priscilla about the shrimp...the pale vein laden grayish heap of eyes.

Mdm. Ducasse had 4 coconuts and said she would use 2 for this meal. I still didn’t know what she was going to make but when I returned from Cap Haitian she had this amazing dish on the table that was to be scooped over the rice. I still didn’t know what I was eating but …OH MY GOODNESS….a burst of flavour of coconut, curry sauce and an explosion of other spices permeated an incredibly tasting meat. I didn’t know till later that this was the shrimp she had purchased and peeled. I have never tasted shrimp prepared like that in my life. What can I say about this meal? A line from the movie “ Kate and Leopold “ comes to my mind. Leopold says “Where I come from , the meal is the result of reflection and study. Menus are prepared in advance for perfection. It is said that without the culinary arts, the crudeness of reality would be unbearable”.

Madam Ducasse is a master culinary artist. She cooks with deep love , skill and reflection and takes great pleasure in seeing the look on your face after your first bite. Truly the crudeness of reality does not exist in Madame Ducasse's kitchen......

Meeting Children of the Promise

2011-11-05T18:04:00.000-07:00

Meeting Children of the Promise

It has been abnormally hot since we arrived. Even the local Haitians are saying “mwen cho ampil ”. An arduous dusty trek down a rural road found us at the home of Bill and Darla Moxon and their daughter Emily. It was a brief visit with promises of a future get together. They have a sad yet healing testimony that left me wanting to hear more….I did not want to hear this story on the run but wanted to savor all the details when we could properly meet. She began to tell me about a home invasion in Haiti by terrorists on their first missionary experience in Haiti several years ago. They returned to the US broken and crushed….yet God did a work in their hearts and restored a call to Haiti. They’ve been back roughly 6 months. I listened in awe. My first impression of Darla was that of a deeply spiritual woman with much wisdom and experiential healing from God. I felt as though she has the gift of comfort…not sure I can describe it any other way than with this word. It was a brief encounter but a significant one.

They took us next door to their neighbors…Children of the Promise.
I met the director and thought to myself….” They are sending missionaries out at 12 years old now” and I suddenly felt extremely old. This dynamic couple Nick and Nicky emanated tireless energy and leadership skills that were amazing. Supported by a team of expats who volunteer and a staff of roughly 60 people, this small community is doing a fantastic job of nourishing children, teaching prenatal , and facilitating family reconciliation in Haiti. I stood in awe and felt honored to be welcomed to the site and was gladly taken on a small tour. They take babies and small children 0 to 4 with the goal of nourishing and emotionally stabilizing children in order to reunite these children to their families. They made it clear that they are not an orphanage but will do adoptions if there is complete and utter abandonment with no hope of reconciliation.

We left this innovative operation that is run with much love and expertise BUT not before Rick encouraged this young leader to ensure that he takes the necessary time out with his young wife. They work tirelessly and speaking from personal experience, Rick cautioned him about burnout. Oh the joy of youth…so much energy to give to God. I admire it. I certainly feel a little older after this visit.

The first 6 days in....

2011-11-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

The first 6 days in….

How do you summarize in a few paragraphs the incredible synaptic neuron explosion that occurs in the brain when one is transplanted into a new culture. I’m sure this short blog will never describe the the tumult of emotions we have felt as a family. Helplessness, overwhelmed, joy, fear, caution, openness, transparency, wisdom, sadness, exaltation, peace, frustration, irritability, weakness, vulnerability, strength….and so much more flash in rapid successions; like a 4 lane traffic light with no certain or predictable order.

Nothings feels familiar…everything is an experience in newness; language, culture, smells, food, plants, weather, people, roads, vehicles, ….your world is turned upside down and you are left feeling extremely vulnerable. I am glad that I am being forced to use the language and that there is not someone around me that is always translating ; my kreyol / English dictionary is already falling apart from rapid page turning.

On my second drive into Cap Haitian, a wave of panic washed over me….” What have I done?....why did I come here?....have I totally lost my mind?...I am of no use to these people….I can’t speak the language, I can’t do any good for anyone!” Rick said he has asked himself the same questions. I think that no one feels this more keenly than Priscilla. I am concerned as I watch her experiencing a huge dose of culture shock. She is severely homesick. As a parent you want to shelter and fix these things for your children but God has reminded me that he has called her here as well and that this can only be fixed by heavy doses of parental love and trusting that Jesus will carry her through.

These first 6 days have been extremely exhausting and I am glad it is Saturday. I’ve driven to Cap Haitian twice now and La Goset (spell?) yesterday ; so today I am so glad that I am staying home to reflect. There has been a steady stream of people at our door to meet us, look for employment or sell us anything from cell phone minutes to fish. Every knock at the door requires a constant effort for my brain to work on kreyol.

Yesterday a university instructor came to speak Spanish with me. I thought in English, translated in my brain into kreyol but when I spoke , it came out French. Weird..... I couldn’t even stop myself from doing it. I feel soooo mixed up that I am speaking whatever language decides to spring forth at the time. One thing is certain….I had no idea that I knew so much French. I guess it was laying dorment…not that its helping me here. In fact, if anything…French seems to be hindering my Kreyol pronunciation. Whatever…it’s just weird. My Spanish seems to be helping though, especially with reading the language. I am happy with my progression with language over the past 6 days. I love the Kreyol language. It’s easy to learn. I love the pronouns and the verbs….it’s just a cool funky language that is filled with shortened and abbreviated phrases. It seems that the more creative you become at abbreviating and shortening sentences the greater the admiration you receive for your skill at speaking. The Haitian people love that you try to speak their language. They laugh and act out charades and go to great lengths to teach you whatever they can if they see you are trying. Many times I’ve spoken French words and they say “ Ohhh…yes that is French…but if you want to speak Kreyol you say it this way”. Dr. Steve James spoke to us on the phone and said “ It is a gift of love to the Haitian people when you want to learn Kreyol…they will appreciate it and you will make your way faster into their hearts”.

Diane with the Curly Hair and finally arriving in Cap Haitian - October 31

2011-11-04T15:23:00.000-07:00

I didn’t know an airport could be so entertaining…at least it is in Turks and Caicos. It’s a good thing too because our plane was late and we waited there for 6 hours. BUT…I am grateful that happened because then I wouldn’t have met Diane. Diane with the curly hair. Diane Wiebe – an incredible boisterous and strikingly honest woman with curly / frizzy tresses from Vancouver …now doing the hardest thing of her life; caring for her alzeimhers affected mother. The daughter of a Mennonite pastor shared her story of going full circle with Christianity and is now finding some semblance of peace with a group called Imago Dei; a solitude, contemplative seeking group of beleivers that I found most interesting. She was reading a book called Soul Talk by Larry Crabb. She shared some disappointments with the “church” and expressed how the teachings and life of Jesus don’t jive with the lives of Christians. She enthralled us with her candid, honest and transparent reflections and I felt I had found a true believer who saw things in an objective fashion. I also felt I’d met a friend. She mentioned her uncle Rudy Wiebe- a prolific author from Edmonton that holds notoriety with Canadians having received awards and the order of Canada a couple of times. I felt embarrassed not knowing who he was and am determined to look up his work.

We finally boarded our flight with Tortugair: a 20 seater twin prop that was jam packed. I was asked to move to make way for a mom and baby. I moved but was caught in the middle of a fight between the grandmother of the baby and the pilot. There was not enough room for one of her pieces of luggage and they kept it in Turks and Caicos while promising to bring it to her on the next flight. She was not going to back down and held up the flight for another 15 minutes.

We arrived in Cap Haitian to a rhythmic chaotic concert of sounds smells and smiles. I take a breath and sigh. I feel strangely at home and I can’t understand it. Mdm. Grimmard and Osse meet us at the airport. Many hands try to help but we kindly refuse. I keep my head down and keep walking. I hate this part….so many people simply wanting a chance to make a dollar so they can put food on the table…. driven by desperation. Rick rides on the back of the truck with Mdm. Grimmard. We meet the MAH team for dinner. We get to see Enoch again with his new wife Dina. They are very sweet and in love. Mdm has made all the arrangements to get us to Seminaire Limbe after dinner but first drives us to the market and says “you pick up some food…I buy”. I have no idea what to get and I immediately started to stress about spending too much. They watch me buy some items and I wonder what they are thinking. I love Haitian coffee and I get 2 packages. It is a low acid coffee that is delicious.
We leave Cap and make out way to our new home for the next 9 months.

Priscilla sits in the front with me and sits quietly contemplating the scenes that flash by...its overwhelming really....I wonder how she is managing with all the sights and sounds. It takes 45 minutes to drive 12 miles. We arrive amidst hearty welcomes from the campus community. Mdm. Ducasse has left us a tradtional Haitian meal on our table....rice , beans and fried chicken. Life is good and I feel like I am home.

Something stinks in Paradise

2011-11-04T15:15:00.000-07:00

Something Stinks in Paradise - October 30, 2011

Turks and Caicos is beautiful but I cannot help but feel that it lacks soul. I don’t know how the local community can afford to live here. It is a series of large flat islands with scrub brush, pure white sands and turquoise blue water. I do not feel at home here. I make myself jump in the water just so that I can say I did it. I have better things to do and I am finding it very difficult to enjoy this little slice of paradise. I realize I enjoy people much more than beaches. Money flows like water here and it is a nesting ground for the wealthy who are served by locals that feel a love hate relationship towards those they serve.

I meet a Newfoundlander and his business partner from Cape Town who are building a bar and grill on the marina. They are severely bronzed and look like they are deficient on their BMI. I am interested in their story; how they came to be here. The Newfoundlander is a chef who worked at a resort and is now striking out on his own. The young man from Cape Town tells me in a thick accent that he has worked all over the world for the wealthy and now finds himself in the most expensive place he has ever lived in. They ask why we are only staying in this paradise for 1 day. We tell them about our work we will be doing in Haiti and how we fell in love with the people when we visited last year during the cholera crisis. They agree with us when we talk about the Haitian's kindness and hardworking character...but... continue to express their thoughts on Haitians…mostly because of their interactions they’ve experienced in Turks and Caicos. The Newfoundlander shakes his head as he talks “ I know they work hard…and its really bad that they are treated like slave labour here…I know their lives are hard when they come here but... they are so uneducated and when I’ve hired them its created twice the work for me!”. I ask him to explain what he means. “If they are hard workers then what is the problem?” I ask. “They have no critical thinking skills…no logical thinking…I don’t know…ummm” he stammers. I can tell he doesn’t really like to explain, but he continues… “Like one guy was asked to paint and he painted a wall with barbeque sauce…stuff like that….they get over here and don’t know how to do anything and I end up doing twice the amount of work because I’m constantly trying to teach them. He sounds frustrated now with this conversation and wants to defend himself... “Hey...one of my best friends is Haitian…and I agree they are beautiful people…but...ummm I don’t know...” he mutters. I can tell the conversation is not really welcome at this point so I wish him much success in his new endeavor and Rick and I return to our hotel room still reflecting on this conversation. I only feel pain for the beautiful people that have become enslaved in poorly paid jobs to people that count them as the lowest of humanity. We pack our bags and walk past the young men who are still industriously constructing their bar and grill. Rick makes a passing comment to the Newfie, “Nice air nailer you got there”! The newfie chuckles and answers “Yea man…it’s cheaper than a Haitian”.

Captain Jack and the taxi ride.

2011-11-04T15:05:00.000-07:00

Captain Jack and the Taxi Ride

It’s 0420 a.m. Rush rush rush. Rain and sleet. Rick is heaving luggage to the mini van and thinks to himself “ Great…our taxi driver has dreads and eye makeup”. I jump in and exclaim “ Captain Jack Sparrow!....awesome costume! Rick finally realizes it’s a Halloween costume. Christian music is playing and I hum along. The driver is surprised “You know this song?” “Yes” I answer. “This is the Christian station I listen to” he explains. “ So you are a Christian?” I ask. He hesitates. I say “ What a great memory…God has given me a taxi with this song playing as I catch a plane for Haiti…God is so good”. Captain Jack tells me his story now…he was a Baptist, then a Wesleyan and now has decided to study with “the witnesses”. I listen with interest but my expression must have betrayed itself because as Captain Jack looked in the rear view mirror at my face he says “ I can see that look on your face…do you have any feedback for me?” “ 0430 in the a.m. is not a good time to get into a doctrinal discussion” I laugh. He probes more earnestly wanting to debate. He carefully annihilates and dissects the the Godhead in a rather careful and politically correct way. I say “Its all about Jesus” I say. He quickly states “ So Jesus is your Jehovah?” He takes off again and had a cool kind of way of making what I just said sound as though this jives with JW doctrine; definitely a new approach by the watchtower. But…this was my morning and I am on my way to the airport. Nothing can dim my excitement. God has filled our little group with his presence and I am not taking the bait. I have made it this far and I feel only love and compassion for my Jehovahs Witness Captain Jack. “You sound to me like you are searching and I wish you all the best”. As he pulls up to the departure gate to drop me off he says “ You know the witnesses…they don’t like me dressing up for Halloween…its pagan you know…but I’ve won this competition 3 years in a row…its such an awesome costume”. I come to realize that during this entire conversation Captain Jack has never once called himself a witness but always refers to his relationship with pronouns like they or them. “He’ll figure it out” I think to myself and leave the Captain in God's hands.

And so it begins

2011-10-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

We received a call from our director Dr. Bibiana MacLeod last night. The cholera treatment centre in Seminaire Limbe has been experiencing more cases of cholera and and then this past week jumped to 60 cases. They need help. They need chlorox and they need more staff.

I laid awake after the phone call...mostly because a flood of memories blindsided me; groans in the dark, pleading sunken eyes, lolling heads with blank malnourished faces of babies, desperate hands grasping my pant leg as I pass their cot.

I am returning to a similar situation that I had left almost a year ago only this time I don't feel prepared for battle. Cholera....I didn't expect to be encountering you so soon. I thought the danger was past...but it seems you've returned with the rain in October and I will fight you again.
Today I am scrambling for scrubs at second hand stores and stocking up on hand sanitizer. I can hardly concentrate on the immediate list in front of me...things I still have to do before I leave; instead I find my mind wandering the halls of the cholera treatment centre.

In prayer this morning God reminded me that he is paying my wages now. I have my work orders and its go time.

The Persistent Salesman

2011-10-24T18:20:00.000-07:00

We had to run to Bangor to open a US bank account. Accessing money in Haiti as a Canadian can be a challenge. My colleagues tell me that a Canadian based bank account in US funds is useless. It is necessary to take a US cheque to the local money changers and they will in turn give you Haitian gourds.

Soooo....we entered Bank of America in Bangor who told us it would be impossible to do this...open a US Bank account without an address in the US that we actually lived at part time. I tried to explain the process to the blonde financial wizard behind the desk and she looked at me puzzled. After a few moments she spoke up and said "gourds...oh like at first I thought you meant they gave you gourds...like vegetables or something..you mean their money is called gourds?" and then she laughed. I smiled and chuckled with her...hoping to hide the awkward embarrassment I felt for her. After being refused at one more bank we finally opened an account with good old TD ( Americas most convenient bank...the logo under the cheque). We were so thankful and hopefully this will be sufficient in Haiti.

We decided to run to the mall and try and make some needful last minute purchases...specifically for Priscilla. As usual I was talked into a nail manicure demo by a very passionate salesman who tried his hardest to coax this skeptical woman into buying a manicure set that made your nails miraculously shiny. I asked about his accent and he proceeded to tell me he was from Argentina...and that he is Jewish. I was so excited to practice my Spanish with him but he intent on selling me his product did not want to let the conversation get off track...so he kept Rick and Priscilla and I enthralled with his persuasive and expert sales skills. It was awesome....seeing someone so in their element. I kept trying to tell him I wasn't interested and he kept bringing back me back into the demo with a skill that was incredible. I told him I could not justify spending 50.00 on my fingernails when I was going to Haiti where children were malnourished and people lived in poverty. He stops...pauses and takes a different approach. He tells me that people like me need to take care of themselves and treat ourselves. He suggests that people like me pour out to others so much that we neglect ourselves and suggests that God wants us to treat ourselves once in awhile. He pulls out a damaged box from under the counter for 25.00 . I finally relent...only because of him. I couldn't put him off any longer. After the transaction, I pull out my prayer card and tell him about our ministry in Haiti. He asks what we will be doing and I share with him the philosophy of CHE and the mission of MACA. He pauses and asks me simply "but why do you go?". I tell him " because of Jesus". He smiles and takes my hand and says " then you and me ...we are friends..yes?. "Yes..we are friends" I answer. So in the end..my Jewish friend from Argentina got what he wanted...and I got what I wanted. It was an awesome moment. Sooo...after I finish this blog I am going to polish my nails and enjoy my purchase with enthusiam. God is so good.
Rhonda

Countdown to departure...

2011-10-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

As of today there are 18 days left to do everything we need to complete before we leave. We have a huge amount of work to do over the next couple of weeks.

October 13 ( yeah...my birthday) - This week is dedicated to our daughter Sarah's home in Moncton. It needs a new roof , and 7 new windows installed. We've managed to finish the paint job and the windows arrived today. Rick will be replacing 7 windows and the roof shingles over the next week.
October 19- I write the Canadian National Nurse Practitioner Exam...needless to say I am trying to study in the midst of all this action.
October 23- Church special commissioning service in the a.m. and special send off service in the evening.
October 24 - 25th- Moving days. All of our belongings are being moved into storage.
October 26 - Our daughter Sarah is having her tonsillectomy ( finally!!!! and God timed it so we can be with her).
October 30th - Leave Moncton at 0545 flight to Turks and Caicos. Stay the night and fly to Cap Haitian in the a.m.
October 31st settle into our new home for the next 9 months in Seminaire Limbe.
November 1st- Sigh.....

Our home is still on the market and has not sold yet, but we are packing up everything and moving anyway. We believe God has taken care of this. Financial support is springing up but we still have no idea as to what our level of support is at present. We just committed to go in obedience and trust God to take care of all these details. This all happened so quickly but all so clearly...

Please pray for Rick as he finishes up all this construction and moving. Most of this grunt work falls on his capable shoulders. He is putting in long hours of hard physical labour.

Please pray for me as I finish up my NP exam. I just want to pass and get this out of the way.

Finally, please pray for us to find more partners that will commit to pray for us. We need the presence and power of God in our lives. We need to walk close to Him and see his leading in all aspects of our lives.

Thank you all for caring for us and partnering with us as God sends us to Haiti.

A week end of renewal

2011-09-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

"Are you tired of working yet?"

This was the question posed by God to my husband after a week-end marathon of deep, thirst quenching, lectures from Gerhardt Du Toit of Life Action Ministries. Rick showed me his hands. He had blisters under his calluses…it was ridiculous. God’s question came 11 years after Rick’s frustrated conversation with God when he said “God…I just want to go to work!”.

God had been dealing with me in similar ways. A memory came from the past…a bad negative one where a large plop of drywall mud landed on my head. It hit me in the forehead and slowly ran down my face into my eyes. I was 8 months pregnant with Priscilla and standing on a ladder slathering copious amounts of drywall mud onto negligent gaps I blamed on the drywall hanger (my husband)…I had just hung up the phone from the provincial nurses association in Manitoba, “I’m sorry dear but your nurses registration is no longer valid”. I was tired and pregnant with 4 small children in the wilderness of northern Manitoba. I hadn’t had a bath in days. There was no running water or sewer. We were out of funds. Winter was coming upon us fast and we had no wood. The final straw was my nursing registration. I felt like a woman without an identity…with drywall mud running down her face…burning her eyes. I'd had enough.

Just when this desire for security and a normal life began is a question I can’t answer…but I think it was a series of misfortunate events that led to my own spiritual planning. Don’t get me wrong. God called us away from missions for a time and God called us to further our education. That is undeniable. Yet, somewhere along the way, I decided that my professional education, my public reputation and my financial preparation would safeguard me from any future humiliations associated with being a missionary.

This week end (Sept 16 to 18, 2011) is the culmination of a work God started in my heart after our trip to

Haiti

in November 2010. The presence of God this past week end washed across my life like a wave… taking with it the castles I had built in the sand. The bad memories I had hung onto were overshadowed by memories of former intimacies with God, passionate moments in prayer, frontline action with the Holy Spirit where I'd personally witnessed lives changed. Dear God how I’ve missed that life…

This discontent has been brewing in me for several months but the words to explain it have only come this week-end. I feel refreshed, renewed, revived. God in his mercy has called me again…and I feel so privileged….soooo privileged. I am back in the race…

Although this week-end has left me exhausted, I see everything so clearly now. I left Sunday night emotionally exhausted and I said to my friend Barb Morrisey “I feel like I’ve been run over by a train”. Barb in her never ending wit quickly replied “Yes… but you’re being picked up by a Jetliner”. Friends..Its go time….

Blast from the Past

2011-09-16T11:12:00.000-07:00

It seems right to begin this blog with some articles from the past. Since blogging is new to me and I am new to many of you this may help us both. This story is true...written out of an experience not uncommon to nurses who often encounter challenges to their values. It was written back in 2002. I titled it God Waits....

God Waits

"Why is he breathing like this?” Her voice hinged on hysteria. I stared at her husband, thrashing wildly in the hospital bed; a shell of a man that hinted former distinction; writhing frantically like a captured animal.
I was lost in thought, computing signs and symptoms; he tore violently at his IV and oxygen tubing; gasping for breath…gulping, clenching, terrified…respirations were 50 per minute. Earlier the nurses had told me they had never seen such a low hemoglobin; one of those rare low lab results that you mark down in the lab result hall of fame…the lowest hemoglobin ever! ...to be talked about and touted in future nursing stories. I remember when we had a patient with hemoglobin of 25…
I chose my answer carefully; knowing they were of a religious denomination that refused blood transfusions. "Well…it’s because his red blood cell count is so low. These blood cells carry the oxygen in the body and because it’s so low, the body compensates by increasing his respirations." I had to explain to her what was happening; maybe that was callous: maybe subconsciously, even though I took pride in being impartial in my nursing care, I really wanted to punish her for her religious convictions.
I caught her grimace of irritation, "Well, can’t you do something for him…to calm him down…I mean I just can’t continue to hold him in the bed like this?" Though she tried to compose herself it wasn’t difficult to see that she was frightened and on the verge of tears. I had heard that earlier efforts with tranquilizers had failed to calm him. His desperation and struggle made me feel nauseous and it was a welcome relief to have to make a dash for the doctor on call to beg for a stronger drug. She was still wrestling with him in the bed when I returned with an injection, but even the most powerful medication could not calm this patient; like a drowning man, he fought for his life.
For two hours I sat; a helpless spectator watching a man whose religious convictions were sucking the very life out of his body, knowing all the while that if I hung a unit of blood I would see his skin begin to grow pink, his respirations become slow and easy, and his body quickly calm as life flowed through his veins.
Breaths came in gasps now, the effort was futile and he simply stopped struggling. His wife looked at me in a sort of trance and robotically muttered “He’s dying now…isn’t he?" I struggled to answer her. "I…think so." Respirations that were once 50 now came in short grunts every 15 seconds. The whole process was horrific for me; somehow the slowing rhythmic respirations resembled the bent wheel on a crashed bicycle; continuing to spin but making a dull sound every time it hits the fender until finally it comes to a stop.
The room was silent except for the buzz of the IV pump and the rush of oxygen through the tubing. "Is he gone?" she whispered. "I…think…so" I stammered. Throwing herself onto his chest in uncontrollable sobs was sort of anticlimactic because at that moment that motionless body took one last huge gasp of breath causing the wife to scream and sending my heart into my throat; classic mourning was replaced temporarily by momentary terror and we stood in shock as he released his last breath…a forever breath…an exhale that was endless culminating in a rattle like sound.
I walked around the room in a daze disconnecting tubes and shutting off noisy machines. I put my hand on her shoulders that shook with grief and said, "I’m so sorry," but she gave no answer, just quiet sobs. I stood there for a few moments then left her alone to grieve.
The whole thing had been too much for me. I was numb and walked to the nurse’s station in a fog. What had happened…I tried to cry, to feel upset…what was I feeling? I was empty of all emotion and knew I couldn’t go back into that room and offer any sympathy. That was when the tears came… tears because of my inability to offer comfort, “O God…O God…I find this so hard."
The memories of that night haunted me for three days. I couldn’t seem to push the horrific images from my mind, the bent bicycle tire spinning…scraping the fender, the gasps, the futility, it haunted me. I thought about this man’s religious conviction and how refusing the life giving blood resulted in the death of his body.
God seemed silent…letting me stew, leaving me to meditate. The lesson came ever so quietly. I think everything has a message if we will hear it. Both tragedy and beauty speaks even if we don’t catch the meaning; it will still speak to those who choose to listen. Eventually the meaning…the illustration came softly…quietly, with marvel that his voice came so sweetly…so empathetically. He stands helplessly…watching when our religious convictions suck the life from our bodies. How horrific for God to watch us refuse His life, refuse the power of His blood that gives strength and power. What desperation He feels when we compensate within our body by an increase in activity, service and surrender that in the end results in spiritual and physical exhaustion.
All the while God sits and waits to hang the blood that gives life…and that more abundantly.