The Orphanage

A couple of days ago, we visited an orphanage in a village just a little down the coastline from here. Heather said she wanted us (and the team who is visiting her right now) to see what a “real orphanage” is like here in Haiti before they see the way it is at the crèche, to give us perspective.

It was… heartbreaking.

The pastor gave us a tour. I think he’s also the director of the orphanage, along with his son. He speaks pretty good English and greeted us all very warmly and cheerfully. But it’s… just hard to put it all together.We walked through a little tin gate into the “courtyard” where the children live. A chinsy blue guitar leaned against a concrete trough full of trash and draped with rags. Trash was everywhere. There must have been pigs next door, because the place reeked.    

It’s hard to describe what it was like in there, but you can probably imagine. You’ve heard it described; it is just like the tragically poor orphanage your mind would conjure up. But… it is real. The dirt on your sandals is real. That junky tent to your left, with piles of wet, dirty clothes thrown about and muddy water leaking into its floor, is real. Worse; it’s where real little boys sleep at night.

I know those rows of girls sitting still on wooden benches might not look it, but they’re real, too. So is the little girl lying inside the bedroom—the one bedroom where all 30-some girls sleep on a few bunk beds—with a broken leg. I knelt down beside her and asked her name. Her smile is gorgeous. I asked in my broken Creole if I could pray for her, and she nodded and gave me another smile. I told her I’d have to pray in English, since I don’t speak much Creole, and she just nodded and smiled again.

So here comes the hardest part to truly believe: the little boys, sitting also in rows on wooden benches but under a different patch of roof… they’re real little boys. They are real little boys that God carefully formed and created in His own image, with a specific plan and purpose, boys who were made to laugh and sing and grow into strong men… and here they sit. Looking into their eyes, you almost wonder if anyone is in there. The hopelessness of their broken spirits is stunning.

That breaks my heart. I know it breaks God’s.

And you know the worst thing about this situation? It’s appalling to see their “bedrooms”, their living space, and the emptiness in their eyes. It’s unbelievable to know that they don’t always have enough to eat, that they’re lucky to eat once a day. It’s horrible to see the big locks on their bedroom doors. But it’s worse to know that, at least for some of these places, it doesn’t have to be.

I cannot judge this particular pastor or his son. I don’t know the full situation. But I did find out yesterday that many, many bad orphanages like this in Haiti are like little personal collections of kids; they will not allow adoption. Why? Because if they keep their poor orphans, then people like us can come and see and be horrified and help out. They can get sponsorship money, and gifts.

Doesn’t that just make you mad?

I am not mad at these orphanage directors. Like I said, I don’t know the full story and I don’t think they live very well either; but this situation has to change.

I ended that day on my face before God, pleading with Him for these little lives. I think many of us who saw this sight did the same. We were touched, sobered, broken… and challenged. Like Heather reminded us, that brokenness should lead us to action. It is possible that bringing this to the attention of the government would result in shutting down the orphanage and moving all the precious kids to Heather’s crèche and hopefully to adoption; that would be wonderful. And for right now, and for most of us, what we can do is fight—spiritually. We can pray.

Will you join me?

We eat well here in Haiti.

For breakfast we often get spaghetti with mayonaise and ketchup, or some kind of chicken soup porridge, or a sandwich. Lunch is nothing to sneeze at; several times a week we eat at the buffet here. And then for dinner, there is a variety of things that could show up. Rice with beans and a sauce with vegetables, rice with beans and a sauce with hot dogs, rice with beans and a sauce with fish, rice with beans and a sauce and chicken, rice with beans and a sauce with pork... you get the picture. So just for amusement, I decided to keep a photo journal of a week of dinners. I got a little messed up by a suprise dinner of spaghetti, and then I forgot to take a picture one night (which is too bad because it would have gone with the flow quite nicely: rice with beans and a sauce with fish), but you can kind of see what our daily fair is like.

And then for dinner seven, I'll admit... we went and ate at a little local restaurant. :) We got both ends of the fish. It was delicious. :)

Here are the amazing girls I get to serve alongside, and some of the precious children we get to love on and cuddle and play with. I am a blessed girl.

The other evening, when we went out to eat at that local restaurant, I stopped to take a picture of this little boy as we walked by. He was accross the road and I had the camera zoomed in, so I didn't think he'd notice; but when I went to take the picture, he looked at me, stopped, and waited until I was done before continuing his walk along the road. Adorable.

It is very sobering to see the "real Haiti" out there in the little town we live near. It is such a dark, hopeless world that most of these people live in. Even having seen a lot of poverty and "third-world-culture" in other places, the quality of life here--or lack of it--amazes me. Walking by tiny little shacks and big abandoned-looking buildings and piles of trash, I waved at little children and mothers and grandmothers and fathers and uncles who sat, some under a tree braiding someone's hair, some talking, some waiting for a bus, some just sitting and waiting for the day to be over. Most people smile and wave back, probably amused by the sight of these funny white girls and their strollers and glad to have something to smile at.

Oh, Jesus... what can I do?

What are You wanting to do here?

What do You want to say to this little boy? What do You want to give to this older woman?

Show me... and use me. You're all I have, and You're all they need.

You have me here for a reason, so

here I am. ..

Rewind a few weeks... recap on the Mexico trip

In case anyone was wondering how it went in Mexico and wanted to know a few more details... here's a little report. It was an amazing trip--thank You, Jesus!!

https://www.dropbox.com/s/7lvt8k925z80ee9/Mexico%205-12%20Trip.pdf

I have more sympathy, now, for people in foreign countries who can’t speak the language. It’s frustrating, let me tell you. And I realize that I don’t know the half of it; I still usually have an English-speaker within range. But it’s a very pathetic, awful feeling to just have to sit there and smile and look stupidly at someone, having so many things you’d like to say but not being able to come up with a single one that they could understand.

“Hi! How are you?” They gush sweetly at you.

“Good! And you?”

“Good!”

You search your brain for another conversation topic, then whip out, “What’s your name?” They tell you, and you tell yours, and there it ends. No “nice to meet you!” or “have a nice day!” or any such nicety. Just another smile, a nod, and possibly an out-of-place “good morning” if you can remember that.

That’s the kind of relationship I have with the cleaning ladies here. Silienne and Nonaise are precious ladies who come bubbling into our room in the mornings to sweep and mop, clean the bathroom, and make the beds. (Don’t worry; we do make our beds. But the cleaning ladies do it too, all perfect-like.) They come in wearing their cleaning uniforms, charming cotton dresses with white aprons and headscarves, and they always greet us with such warmth and excitement that you’d think we were old friends. Truth be told, the total of all the conversations we’ve had over the last two weeks is probably quite a bit shorter than this paragraph. They speak no English.

Nonaise is older, perhaps in her 40’s, rather short and heavy set; she wears a light mint-colored dress. She has four pitit, or children, from what we can gather. Silienne’s dress is orange, and she looks just beautiful in it, with her wide, beaming smile and sparkling dark eyes. She is younger and thinner than Nonaise, and is the oldest of several children. I think she might also have a child of her own. She has agreed to help in learning Creole, so we usually have a short little conversation when we see each other, sometimes centering on the question of whether she can help me learn (one of the only questions I know how to ask) and ending with her repeating a smiling statement several times to a helpless, shrugging me but probably thinking that these crazy Americans must not be too bright, after all.

I’m getting a little taste of what it feels like to want to talk to someone, want to show interest in their world, and tell them about Jesus, and be unable to. Definitely gives some motivational push to the idea of language learning. And a fresh gratitude for what language I can speak. It’s nice to be able to communicate.

Speaking of language, I think about my friends at the deaf school in Mexico, and the process of translating into sign language. In pondering this the other day, I gained a fresh wonder and appreciation for what Jesus did when He came down to earth. You see, translating into sign is so much more than just transferring words in a dictionary from one language to another; you have to actually take a thought and make it understandable to a person from, in many ways, another world. Kind of like converting energy: you can’t just plug your toaster into a waterfall and expect it to toast your bread, no matter how much energy might be present. First you have to convert it into a format it can understand: electricity.

That’s what Jesus did; He was the Master Translator. He not only gave us His Words in the language that we speak, but He showed it to us, lived it in our world. He translated the mind-blowing idea of God into something we could see and, at least partially, understand. Amazing.

But then there’s another layer to this. We, those who have received the translated message and have that very God living within us, are now translators to those around us. If all goes according to plan, the people in our little worlds—our family, our work, our schools—they should be

reading the message in their own language

when they look at our lives.

My tiny little friend

So here is Daniel. One year old, all of eight pounds, battling Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and who knows what else... but so precious you just can't help but love the tiny guy. Just look at that smile!

He lives in an apartment a few doors down from ours, and whenever we can, we go and "steal" him for a walk or just a little cuddling and attention. I don't think he gets much of that; at least, not enough.

What a privilege to be able to reach out and actually wash the feet of the Jesus we love through ministering to His little ones. "...to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me." (Matthew 25:40) I know, we hear that all the time.

But think about it! Really?

How are you going to treat Jesus today?

First observation:

God is God, regardless of where I am and what I am doing.

Isn't that just exhilerating to know?!

Second observation:

I am not a good swimmer. Out of shape entirely; although I'm not sure I was ever in it. Swimming out to that little "rope with floaties on it" today was quite the workout! And the experience of being out in the ocean alone... in deeper water... was interesting. Still, I love the ocean. Especially this corner of it. (Do oceans have corners?)

My life right now is very interesting. It involves changing diapers, making bottles, rocking restless babies to sleep when they wake up at night, taking them on little walks, playing with them, laughing at their antics and expressions, taking them swimming... motherly things, I guess. Don't get too jealous, girls. I know, it sounds like a dream. I have it good.

And yet, it has been so evident to me this week, again, that it is not the place or the circumstances or my opinion or emotional status that makes life good; it is Him. Jesus. The Author of life and beauty and music and laughter and truth...

There are challenges to life here, too. Things like getting up in the night, having an adorable little bumkin share some of their lunch by spitting it up on your clothes, and having to do treatments and house-purging to get rid of scabies. Being so far away from everything I know and love is an interesting experience, too; though of course I am well taken care of and have excellent company in Gerda and Annie and the babies. But in all of this, Jesus keeps drawing me back to what has seemed to become a major theme in my life:

It's all about Him.

Really, truly, seriously. He is the one who gives life, and the one who sustains it. He is my joy and the lifter of my head. He is my song, my food, my drink, my friend, my Father. When I get tangled up and turned around, it's because I have taken my eyes off of that fact. But if I keep my eyes on Him, abide in Him and He in me, then I cannot be shaken. By anything.

1 Peter 2:6 says it well: "...he who believes in Him will not be disappointed."

Thursday - Arrival in Port au Prince, Haiti

They're talking about me. I think. Every once in a while I catch a word, a glance; but since I can't understand most of it, I just mind my own business. All the 'busboys' sitting on the concrete wall on either side of me can just carry on their own conversation, I guess. Occasional honks or squeaky tires from the street on the other side of the chain link fence make up the background music.

As soon as we started coming in for a landing this morning, my heart began to open wide to this big, beautiful, hurting land. At first, I saw only the sea out my airplane window. I followed it out as the plane tipped and I saw no division line where the sea turned into sky. But before long, faint mountains emerged, and on the other side of the plane, I could see the city. The closer we got, the more clearly I saw the trees and houses and little shacks, the more I knew...

Haiti. I would come to love this land.

"Welcome," I whispered, "to my heart."

So here I am. I got to meet Heather, and her Stateside director, Michelle. I met some precious babies at a hospital. I went to an amazing hotel for lunch. I bumped through the crowded streets of Port au Prince in a rickety little van with Annie, Heather, Michelle, and a few others. I hauled my stuff into the sweet little apartment that I will share with Gerda and Annie and the babies for this next chapter, and heard the ocean from the balcony. I met the sleepy little ones, and then went with Annie to see the crèche (where the kids live) and meet several adorable babies. Among them was Mercy. Mercy is a precious creation of God, but she doesn’t have much time left. No one would be surprised if she got to see Jesus today.

How do you deal with things like that?

I’ve heard about it all my life, but being here is different. Holding a tiny little fist in your hand and whispering pleasant things to a dying baby is something you read about… right? Oh, Jesus...

It's been a full day; I think I fit about as much into a 24-hour period as you possibly could. Even after we visited the crèche around midnight, the craziness was not over. Our car broke down. We had to rent a ‘tap-tap’ and ride home in the back with stuff piled all around and on top! Quite an adventure.

I think again of little Danilo in Mexico, and I smile. I feel like a little Danilo, holding tightly to a strong hand as I walk into this unknown. I might hide behind my Father’s leg a little, glad that at least Someone knows where we are going and what we’ll do when we’re there. I look up to Him eagerly, openly. What should I do with what I’ve seen, Daddy? How should I react? What do You want me to do? And I’m so full of joy, so at peace, because I know He will never, NEVER let me down. He can’t—He is good, He is a Rock, and He never changes, never lies.

I’ll bank my life on that.