5/22/13
The plane had just landed in Port
au Prince, Haiti. There was a deep
anticipation in us all. We all had
expectations; expectations of how we would serve, and how we would make a
difference in the lives of Haitians…but none of us knew the lifelong impact it
would have on us.
The journey
began as we drove along the seemingly endless, bumpy road, looking out to a
world that seemed surreal. The things we
saw were heart-breaking. The destruction
seemed beyond repair, but what truly hurt was to see the hunger in the eyes of
those walking the streets. This hunger,
however, was one that could not be fulfilled by food alone. Their eyes
looked like lamps blaring up just before the oil is gone (As I Lay Dying.) An overwhelming sense of hopelessness
enveloped my being, and I began to wonder how Haiti arrived at this point of
devastation.
It’s
been said before that however
long the moon disappears, someday it must shine again (Little Bee.) I
believe this glimmer of hope began to arise as we arrived at our destination;
Les Cayes Beach. Without a single word
spoken, the atmosphere was evidently different in this particular area. The physical devastation was still present,
but as we exited the car we were greeted immediately with eager, young, smiling
faces. These strangers were clearly
impacted by something; something greater than the devastation of torn down
shacks they called homes; something greater than the pain they’ve faced. God had clearly impacted their lives through
the ministry on that beach, and I couldn’t wait to see what more He would do in
the week we would be spending there.
We
began our first day with a service the missionary’s hold weekly, called “Kids
Kabob,” or “Kids Club.” I watched from a
bench, kids on each side of me, as the faces of each child began to light up with
joy. This presence of sheer joy began to
shake me. I started to question. If they have happiness in the midst of the
seemingly unbearable struggles they must face every single day, how is it that
I feel justified to complain about the most insignificant things? It’s simply not right. Living in such a superficial part of the
world, it’s natural to be one who is always “hurrying to catch up, missing the point of things that
everyone else grasps at once,” (Teenage Wasteland.) In other words, it’s
easy to make the mistake of keeping up with trends and fads, complaining about
miniscule things, and ultimately missing the important things in life. Seeing
the joy in the children of Haiti was a wake-up call out of this empty lifestyle. As the service continued on, hands of little
children fell into my own, and my heart began to shift. My mindset that week was to impact the lives
of Haitians, yet in the first night they had already changed me.
The
week went by, and we spent much of our time building, painting, and
serving. We completed an extension to
their main service building, we built, sanded, and painted dozens of benches,
and we spent time loving, and playing with the children. Each activity was something I had an
expectation for. What I didn’t know,
however, was that the most life-changing experience was yet to come.
It was the final
evening of our time in Haiti when a little girl grabbed hold of me and did not
let go the entire night. She looked like a statue that
had been rescued from the sea…smooth where I had angles and soft where I was
bone,” (Saving Sourdi.) She
had a type of innocence about her yet, like many in her country, had endured
much pain. Naturally, I am not a
touchy-feely person, but this girl needed me to hold on to her. We couldn’t speak the same language, and we
didn’t come from the same background. We
had never met before, and I was to be leaving in a day. Nonetheless, we understood each other. Saying nothing sometimes says the most
(Emily Dickinson.) Her eyes told her
story, and I answered with a smile. I
began to see the love she and many other children craved. Although I didn’t know what she had been
through, I knew that in that moment, I could comfort her. She sat close by my side the entire evening,
and I wondered how I would ever say goodbye.
The uniqueness of moment, though, is that I will always hold this little
girl close to me. I may not physically
be there with her in Haiti, but I carry her heart with me—I carry it in my heart (e e Cummings.)
As
the night ended and the kids began to return to their homes, I knew I would not
be seeing them for a very long time, if ever again. The truth is, I hope God used me to make a
difference in their lives, but I know He used them to make a difference in
mine. Not only have they given me a
deeper appreciation for the blessings in my life, but they have taught me how
to have joy, even in the midst of disaster.
I look back at the memories spent in Haiti, and remember. You see, the thing about remembering is that you don’t forget
(The Things They Carried.) I remember the physical devastation. I remember the shacks. I remember the people walking the
streets. I remember the joy. I remember the pain. I remember the hope. As Robert Frost once stated, “Hope is not found in a way out
but a way through.” Although tragic,
the struggles many Haitians faced led them to rely on hope in a Savior that has
the power to change any circumstance. No skill in the world, nothing human
can penetrate the [bright] future of Haiti (Oedipus.) I can only imagine what great things
may become of Haiti as a result of a small group of people on a beach in Les
Cayes, but I know it will forever have a place in my heart. I may never return to Haiti, but perhaps one
day, when we all reach our eternal home, we may meet again. To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream…for in this sleep of
death what dreams may come (Hamlet.)
