Haiti Disclaimer

I’ve begun posting about Haiti and theres still more to come. The posts may not make sense though because they appear on the page in reverse order of when they were posted (first to last) which was in order of occurence. I suggest clicking on the tag at the bottom that says Haiti. That will take you to the Haiti archive and from there you can begin with the bottom most post and read up.

There. That should help.

Thanks!
Eve

Tai Chi

Doug lead Tai Chi exercises, one day for the girls, another day for the boys. I sat in on a class one day, the girls class. They were having gobs of fun! They were trying so hard to follow his instructions. Clearly one of their favorite parts of Tai Chi was the noises they were supposed to make. As they got better, the yells got louder and louder. But the best part was watching them run into each other as they tried to maneuver simultaneously in lines across the floor of the church, falling all over themselves again and again and giving up in fits of laughter. Those who made it successfully across the room wore big satisfied grins on their faces and rushed to line up again and again. By the end of the afternoon they were one joyfully sweaty bunch.

Dancing

Maria taught Israeli folk dances two afternoons. Dorina and I helped. Once Doug joined in too. Maria and Gerby yelled over the sound of rain hitting the metal roof and the sound of the students talking to explain the history and Biblical foundation of the dances. Then we stood in a big circle in the front of the church and set the music to play. It was storming outside and the soccer game was rained out so there were some boys who joined in the first afternoon.  Maria showed us multiple times how to move our feet. And then we all joined in. Again and again, we tried the steps of the dances. Holding hands, turning this way and that, all tripping together, all falling together, all sweating together and laughing.  We learned two dances. And the girls loved them both. And I loved them too. Each and every one of them.

Pictures

The students absolutely loved having their pictures taken. We thought it was funny, though, that almost every single one of them refused to smile. Marcy was very sly, however. She discovered that immediately after she’d taken a picture, those in the picture would burst with a beautiful and excited smile. So she took two pictures. One she would count off and they would make their “cool” poses. The second was candid and taken immediately after the first in order to catch a glimmer of delight written on their faces. Later in the week, Marcy printed the pictures and handed them out. Even the translators were thrilled to have their pictures taken. Wakki and Gerby each bringing his wife to a church service so they could have a picture taken with her.  We even took a camp picture, all the students in their t-shirts, the translators alongside them. A real life camp picture. There never was one more beautiful.

Music Camp Logistics

Everyday progressed the same way: devotionals beginning at 8:30, classes running 45 minutes roughly, going in the same order – from music theory to instruments to marching to drama. Monday Jeremy led the devotional on the subject of Discipline. Tuesday I led the devo on attitude. Wednesday, Maria led the devo on perseverance. Thursday Lisa spoke on the subject of growth and Friday Doug talked about hope. Classes began at 9 and ended at 11.

Jeremy and Marcy taught drama/acting and they took a room in the school upstairs with JoJo as their translator. Lisa and Maria taught music theory and they took a downstairs classroom with RoRo (pronounced WoWo) as their translator. Jeff and I taught instruments/band and we took the room next door to Lisa and Maria with Gabriel and Gerby as our translators. Doug taught marching technique and he stayed in the church with Ezekias as his translator.

I have to say, I was thoroughly impressed by Jeff as he taught beginning instruments. I’d never seen him in action, teaching music as his college degree prepared him to do. Jeff jumped right in as though he was a seasoned band teacher who’d taught the same first-day-of-school lesson plan for years. Jeff didn’t just take control, though. He also enabled the translators to teach. The first class of the day, the red team, Jeff would teach the lesson and the translator would … well … translate. Every class thereafter, however, Gabriel and Gerby took over the teaching, because they already knew what instruction Jeff planned to give based on the previous class. It was fantastic how quickly hey would take ownership and how much more work would get done when all three were working together to instruct the students. There were even times when Jeff stood back and let them teach. Ideally, hopefully, they felt empowered and will continue with music lessons for a long time to come.

Our New Home

Climbing out of the plane, we were greeted on the strip by a bevy of Haitian men and boys who proved to be our translators for the week, though at the time we didn’t know it. We recognized Gerby who’d visited our church in Fresno earlier that year with Peter and Wakki. Saying hellos, our new friends unpacked the plane of luggage like they were unpacking Mary Poppins’ purse. Then they escorted us to a single truck, similar to Peter’s in Port au Prince and loaded it. “Jeff, you ride the motorcycle.” The entire team grinned recognizing Jeff’s sense of adventure. Jeff hopped on back of Gerby’s skinny bike and held onto the bar on the back of the seat forcing him to sit straight up and see everything around him. The rest of us piled into the car with our new friend who, we soon discovered, runs a radio ministry in the town of Pignon.

Along the five minute drive, we saw many people walking along the roads, women balancing huge baskets and packages on their heads, people riding donkeys, lots of livestock with boys herding them. Car horns honked to warn pedestrians and animals alike to get out of the way. We even stopped so our driver could talk with a friend on a motorcycle whom he recognized from the States. The buildings were small and run down and crammed up against one another. The streets were dirt. The people looked tired and sad. And we in the car smiled and chatted as we took in this new place. It was mostly as I had expected it to be. But expectation does not prepare you for experience. It was a very heavy feeling, like slow, labored breathing. We were in Pignon.

Pulling up to a large and very brightly painted building, we saw some familiar American faces. Dorina and her mother Maria, holding baby Giada, were standing on the front stoop of a little house alongside the aforementioned church building. They were smiling emphatically. Ahhhh… “Welcome! Welcome!” We unloaded from the car and shared greetings and hugs with our friends. Dorina and Ericlee led the first team and then stayed for the two remaining teams to sort of host the entire missions experience. Maria and Doug, Dorina’s parents, were part of the first team and also a part of our second team. Maria and Dorina showed us around the house and introduced us to our new bedrooms and bathrooms and living/dining/community room as our runway greeters unloaded our luggage from the car before heading back to the runway to meet the second airplane with the remainder of our luggage.

“Don’t worry,” said Dorina. “We have nothing planned for you today except sleep.”

The Little Airplane That Could

Story #2

FINALLY, we got our passports back, loaded up our carry-on luggage and walked out onto the tarmac. A few tiny and ancient planes were parked hither and thither. Of course we headed straight for the oldest and tiniest. Seven seats including the pilot. Five Americans, two babies, lots of carry-ons and one pilot named Ramon who didn’t speak a lick of English. Jeff was beyond excited. This was what he’d prayed for; an adventurous airplane ride. Jeff got the honorary spot of sitting in the copilot seat where he could see all the bells and whistles, ANTIQUE bells and whistles, that is, as the plane was old and worn and by my always accurate judgment, coming apart at the seams. I climbed into the middle seat beside Marcy who not only held baby Hannah, but also video-taped and photographed the whole experience. Lisa sat in back alongside Jeremy and two-year-old (almost) Corban sat between them. The noise of the plane was loud. Oh so loud. As we skirted around the runway, Ramon rarely looked up. He fidgeted with doodads and pushed buttons and shifted shifters and turned spinny things. And the plane moved like you’d expect a remote control car would move when controlled by a two-year-old on a sugar high. We had worked our way to the middle of the runway when Ramon took hold of the wheel, made a complete U-turn, and hit the gas. And miraculously, that little pile of scrap metal made it into the sky.

Once in the air, I felt certain we would never see Pignon.  I was smiling in the pictures, but I wasn’t smiling in my heart. I have never been so scared. I thought I was going to die and repeated again and again to my God, “Lord, I believe. Forgive me for my unbelief.” Meanwhile there were only shenanigans taking place in the back seat. “Hey, Eve, look!” said Jeremy laughing and pointing out the window to the propeller shell. There was one little screw, probably the most important little screw on the entire plane, loose and spinning still looser all the while we were in air. Later Lisa said, “there were NO screws on the propeller shell on my side of the plane.” How comforting. Fearless Corban decided to reach for the lever at his dad’s side to see what it did. As he took hold of it, Marcy shouted, “Jeremy, he’s got the door handle.” “Lord, I believe. Forgive me for my unbelief.” I prayed the entire ride while Marcy and Jeremy and Lisa laughed their insecurities away and Jeff beamed from the front seat. The plane gave to every gust of wind, every pressure change, every breath we breathed. Sudden drops. Swaying side to side. This was exactly what Jeff had prayed for.

At about the time I’d made my peace with God, and given him instructions on how to comfort my mother as she dealt with my passing, and thanking him that at least Jeff and I would die together, we spotted the grassy Pignon field where we were to land. What a beautiful sight. Lush and green and beautiful. We circled it and then descended, practically on a cloud.

Hot Blooded, Foreigner

There’s definitely a significant Biblical lesson taught through the experience of third world charter airports. When I put my finger on it, I’ll let you know. I had never in my life truly known the feeling of being a foreigner. I’d only traveled to Mexico and Europe. And at the time, everything struck me as very different and I didn’t know all the time what was being said because of the language differences. But I have never in my life truly known the feeling of being an absolute foreigner until I set foot in the charter airport of Haiti. I didn’t understand this aggressive, vocal, no details, no set schedule culture. Marcy explained the concept of “warm climate cultures” and that became our catch phrase. Haiti is definitely a warm climate culture.

I also didn’t understand the French Creole language at all which truly made me feel powerless. They were in complete control. They could’ve taken advantage of us and we’d have had no means to know, to argue… Our pale skin and clothing made us stand out like beacons. AMERICANS. We may as well have been waving a 20 foot US flag made of money over our heads. We relied entirely on Peter to work with the staff to get us a flight to Pignon. We had too much baggage. A second roundtrip flight was necessary to ensure the transport of all our luggage. OK. We handed over our passports (why did they need our passports?), the money for the trip (they did not have change and so pocketed a $19 tip), and bid adieu to Peter who had to pull the car around to rush our church’s first Haiti team from the charter port to the AA port (they were running behind schedule and had a plane to catch). Just before they rushed off to catch their flight, Team 1 popped over only long enough to scare the bejeebies out of us saying things like, “We KNOW what to pray for you” and “We’re definitely ready to go home” with of worry, relief, exhaustion and hope riddling their expressions. Then we waited anxiously. And prayed.

Red Light, Green Light

Story #1

Peter picked us up from the airport and after we haggled with the guys who’d helped us with our luggage, we crammed all our luggage in the back of Peter’s little truck.  Technically, it fit. Barely. Then we, all 5 + 2 babies, crammed ourselves into the front of the truck. Jeff and I tried to share the front passenger seat but Peter could see that we were not all going to fit.

“Jeff, do you drive manual?”

A very hesitant yes came from Jeff and Peter explained that Jeff should drive while he (Peter) stood on the back bumper holding on with the luggage. We were all very uncertain of this, no one more than Jeff who understood the madness of driving in third world countries only from experiences in Mexico. Looking around it was easy to decipher that Haiti is no Mexico; for as few road laws as there are in Mexico, there are none in Haiti. But we agreed. So Peter, not worried in the slightest and assuring us that he’d tell us where to turn by yelling through the window, climbed into the back of the truck along with the luggage. We drove down the ridiculously bumpy streets of the city, bouncing to-and-fro, coming within inches of other cars also loaded with people jumping in and out of their cars, hoards of people roaming the street between cars, sudden stops with bad breaks, turning two lane roads into three at whim, passing without passing lanes so you’re nose to nose with oncoming traffic, weaving on and off the road to avoid hitting cars that stop suddenly… We reached a stop light at an intersection a long way from where we started and we pulled over. It’d been a while since we heard any instructions from Peter, so Jeremy got out of the car and walked around back to ask where we were going. He got out on the driver’s side. Walked around back. Came up to the passenger side window still looking backwards with a shrug and a bit of a confused look on his face.

“He’s not there.”

WHAT?!?!  “He’s not there, guys” he repeatedly calmly. After the brief silence, we freaked out a little and then we laughed… awkwardly. PASTOR PETER FELL OUT OF THE BACK OF THE CAR. Figuring out how to turn completely around was mostly a series of left turns and risky maneuvers on side streets. Finally, we headed back down the main road from which we came. Getting pretty close to the original airport, someone shouted from the back seat, “there he is!” Peter had gotten into another car belonging to a perfect stranger (that’s how they do in Haiti) and was headed north chasing after us. Of course we were heading south, catching his eye as we passed. Another mad skills U-turn was completed. Now heading north and knowing what to look for, someone shouted again from the back seat, “there he is!” and again we passed him. Like a circus act. The laughter in the car was beautiful. Jeff, now an ace at Haitian U-turns, flipped us around and we met Peter and his new friend who’d wisely stopped following us. They were instead stopped in the middle of traffic, hanging out of the car, pointing wildly in the direction of a side street. We followed their instructions, trusting that Peter would follow and pulled up to a tiny charter airport, seriously James Bond in a foreign land status, where we were swamped by men and boys desperate to help with luggage so that we’d pay them for their services. Jeff and Jeremy jumped out to help Peter with the bags and the women and children stayed in the car until instructed and escorted out and into the airport.

Wind Moments or What It Was

I’m in one of my moods. One of my deep moods.

When will I be content? I was not raised to value contentedness. Content was as unnatural a concept as submit. I knew the word and I loathed it. Content, though, was hardly even on the radar screen.  What does that mean? If you’re not reaching for the stars, you’ve given up and will never be anything. Loser. Lame-o. Typical. Content? I don’t get it.

It always strikes me when we have a high school small group meeting that teaches me so much that I’m floored for a few days following. I love leading a small group because of how much I get out of it. There. I said it. The Bible mostly, but also the discussion, the satisfaction of reaching young girls in a meaningful way. We’re going through Colossians. And The Message – no we don’t teach out of the message but I like to throw out different translations for the sake of exploration – lists in chapter 3: v 13 (ish) “Be even tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense.”

Content with second place. What is the best time of life? Someone tell me so I can be ready to embrace it. In junior high, I knew the answer. In junior high, junior high was the best time of life. And I loved it. LOVED it. So much so that I sobbed the last day of school before going into high school because I knew everything was going to change. That the best part of life was going to change. OK, everyone sobbed. In high school, I figured out pretty quickly that high school was the best part of life. And I was right. The friends, the activities, the dances and dating. High school was the best part… mostly.

I don’t think I really got it in college. There were times, walking through campus to my favorite classes with my favorite professors. Or hanging out in the dorms, eating in the dining hall. Moments. In my memory, theres always a wind blowing through my hair. haha. That was the feeling I wanted out of college, wind blowing through my hair, and those wind moments are the ones I remember. But only moments. I missed a lot of it because I came face to face with the concept of being the only one like me. I didn’t identify with anyone, I thought, and the heartbreak of high school friendships left me wary of really trying. I remember the last week of college though. I got it then. Decorating mortar board hats. Cramming mattresses into one stinking small room so we could all sleep together. Midnight Bibleopoly. I didn’t get it until it was too late.

Content with second place. I find time and again that I’m trying to convince myself that this IS the best time of my life. That I’d better slow down or I’ll miss it. Like I missed college. I miss it when I get consumed with accomplishment. With moving ahead. With positions and titles, salaries and perks, cars and restaurants, furniture and clothes, being on trend or ahead of trend, when can I buy a house, when can we have a baby, when can I stop working. I become obsessed with first place. But maybe first place isn’t what I think it is. Maybe first place sucks. Really. Because you don’t even realize it once you’re there. Maybe being content with second place is when you feel the wind. Junior high was when and it wasn’t high school. High school was when and it wasn’t college. College was when but it wasn’t the beginning of the rest of my life. And it didn’t matter what it wasn’t. What mattered was what it was.

Does that even make sense?