I was invited to go with Kristi on a Port run. Kristi will soon be working for another orphanage in Montrouis where there are children with physical needs and disabilities. Here I was with Kristi, Eddy, and three boys in the back seat of a large truck on our way to the hospital. Eddy is this tall, strong Haitian man who has a powerful story of being lost and redeemed by the blood of Christ. He directed Kristi through Cite Soleil. A name that means Sun City, but all I saw around me was a city of darkness. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at Eddy’s semi-absurd comments as we passed through the dangerous neighborhoods. Eddy kept saying to us, “don’t come here alone, but since you are with me we’ll be okay. White and wealthy Haitians don’t come through here.” I realized quickly if someone wanted to take down the white people (Kristi and myself) they could. One Haitian couldn’t stop that. In the midst of this feasible danger, I found that I had no fear.
The devastation of humanity was consuming and before me. The river of white Styrofoam garbage that made me question whether or not there was even water underneath it all. The mounds of dirty cloth that may have once resembled a shirt or pair of pants spilling over the edges into the Styrofoam white river. Trash. Dirt. People. Slums. Shanties. Poverty. Gangs. Prostitutes. Emptiness. A place that needs Christ.
I found myself chuckling again as we passed the market that Eddy told us was also too dangerous for a white person. I saw piles of clothes that comprised one side of the market. I learned these were clothes from donations after the earthquake or even before. What entrepreneurs! Gather up donated clothing and sell it to generate revenue. I don’t blame them for this, and in a strange way commend their initiative of creating a market to produce income for needs to be met.
Reality sets in when your babies are hungry or even if you only care for yourself and your basic needs aren’t being met. I found this of TOMS shoes as well. You can buy them in markets in Haiti even though they have writing, in English mind you, that clearly states that they are not to be resold. I would break the “rules” too if my baby was hungry (and I didn’t speak English because it wouldn’t be my native tongue, so of course I can’t read the “rules”) and there was a choice between rice and a pair of shoes. So goodbye, TOMS. Hello rice. And not that there aren’t children who are actually using those shoes and getting use out of them, but sometimes our help doesn’t exactly accomplish what we think it will.
It’s 8 a.m. and the national anthem comes on the radio. I find that the anthem plays at the same time every day. I guess there’s some national pride but when I asked the boys if they could sing their anthem, they kind of laughed and ignored me. So I sang the only song I know in Creole and their faces light up and they can’t help but to sing with me. I find this song to be a constant bridge to the people because it appears all the Haitians know it. I did not meet a Haitian who didn’t know this Christian melody. My heart lifted to see how the tune moved these boys, and I knew that somehow a barrier was down between us.
After weaving through the city, we finally arrive at the hospital to wait in a long line where they are putting people in order to see the doctors for checkups. I look down at Bijoey, one of the boys who had surgery because he has club feet. He’s 7 years old. He’s in a wheelchair. He’s a beautiful boy who makes God smile. He’s been through a lot of pain in his short life. He’s doesn’t have a mommy or a daddy to sit by him at the hospital. And it hits me. It hits me hard. I look at him and see him as he is. A little boy. A baby really. So I put out my hand and he takes it, and we spend the majority of the hospital visit like that. Hand in hand. Because he truly is only a baby. And babies need to know that they are not alone.
They take Bijoey back to cut off his casts and then take him in again to recasts his legs. I have never in my short 26 years heard a child yell like he did. Eddy and I did our best to hold him down and he would yell to Eddy in Creole that he wanted me to hold his hand tighter. After having personally experienced bilateral leg injuries, I can only imagine the pain he felt. The casting heats up and is an uncomfortable sensation. It’s scary. Once you’ve already been through so much pain, even the least amount of discomfort is too much to bear. So he did what scared children do best. He screamed. Then it was finally over. The tears ran down his sweet little brown face. I held back my own. We kept holding hands.
As we waited some more, one of the 17 year old boys, Larry, and I practiced my numbers in Creole. A crowd was attracted to the scene immediately. Before I knew it several people were correcting my Creole and laughing. What a funny white person I must have been with my pitiful attempt at saying these foreign words with sounds that are not included in English! I was amazed at how few white people I saw overall, but in the hospital there were by far more white people than anywhere else in the city. A sea of black and brown faces met you everywhere. I like that.
Something weird always happens in these situations. I may have said it before, but I basically thought I was black and I was certain that my Creole was almost perfect. I find that if my communication is lacking verbally, smiles, hugs, hand holds, funny faces to solicit smiles, pats on the back, or even whistling or the singing of any song is enough to close any gap.
Praise the Lord that these boys are not left alone or are not abandoned. They have an American mother who lives in Haiti and runs the orphanage where they live. She just wasn’t there because she was back in the States raising funds for her work. Because I know someone is already there engaging in the struggle, I could leave my precious little 7 year old knowing that he is loved, fed, and more importantly told about Christ. Bijoey will walk again because of the surgery, but with anything it will take time.
We leave to go back after the boys finish up. It’s been a full day, and my heart is tired, but full of joy. I can’t believe that God allowed me to spend my day serving this little guy by just being there for him and letting him know that someone loves him. All it took was a hand hold.
My God loves those who are left behind by the world. He is so good.
Taryn
