(Not able to upload pics yet so insert imagination below)
So right now I am sitting in a hammock on our back porch in Haiti under the shade of a giant palm tree, and I am staring up at six pairs of dirty ashen feet. Our neighborhood kids come and check on us every day but not in the traditional way of ringing the bell, they come by way of roof. They are roof hoppers and at random moments during the day they will appear on our concrete shed of our house and declare bonjour! The first time I almost fell out of my hammock they caught me so off guard. My favorite conversation today has been on Michael Jackson. I am planning on dropping his name in every nation I travel to and see what the reaction is. So far he is famous in the DR and Haiti. Right now my roof friend Sammi is rocking out, “Beat ittt, beat iiittt, jo jo baba do ba dee dat!” How they can get so into it when they do not understand a single word I will never understand.
Haiti is so different from the Dominican Republic. We could feel the atmosphere change as we approached the boarder. The edges were still swarming with US Aid trucks stacked with boxes. They looked abandoned and though lacking a white skinned driver, had become wonderful makeshift homes for boarder natives.
My first encounter with Haiti as I stepped off the bus into the dusty dry heat to get my passport stamped was with a little boy. He was an average thirteen year old boy in every way except one; he only had one arm. But he smiled big at me, said bonjour, and offered his free hand in a friendly fist bump. There have been many times where we have passed by or spoken with people that were mangled in certain ways; missing legs, collapsed eye sockets, one arm that healed dramatically shorter than the other. The body has found ways to move on, function within the loss. But the reminder of trauma is still there, marked on the flesh just like the remaining collapsed buildings and lingering aid trucks.
I have never been to Haiti before so I have no comparison of pre or post quake. But in total honesty I need to tell you that the first few days of ministry here have been hard. It is hot, dry, wickedly dusty and at times I think the fumes are going to choke me. Yesterday we went for a run and we decided to run till we hit the ocean. When we got there what we found was a coast so littered with debris that we couldn’t think about actually reaching the shore without the threat of stepping on hypodermic needles. And the view was lovely, minus the naked black man peeing in the water. Epic.
But the biggest struggle has been how often people have asked me for things. Now, I know how bratty that sounds. Hello, I come from one of the top nations in the world and have lived my life on a fluffy white cloud eating marshmallow peeps (the yellow ones, just cause). How can I begin to deny others what has been so freely given to me? But I feel like man, I gave up so much do this Race for a year, and I don’t want to feel guilty about not giving you the only pair of sunglasses I own that only cost $3 to begin with. But even as a missionary, I am privileged. I cannot deny the color of my skin here or the passport I carry.
But I think the root of my struggle is not so much in the asking but in the delivery of the question. It has looked something like this, “You prayed for me, now give me your sunglasses…” “You are white, give me money. No? Then I am not interested white lady go away.” “You have three bracelets, I have three children, you give me…” “You want to send my children to a free school where they can get an education? What about you pay money to send me to university instead?”
We walk down the street and hands instantly go out. I get to the end of the day and just want to scream, “bah, my whole life can fit into one backpack so please stop asking for my stuff!” But the truth is they don’t even have stuff. I have stuff. I may be able to fit it all on my back and in 4 boxes back home, but I have stuff. And like my bestest big sister reminds me all the time, “it is all going to burn anyways.”
Nonetheless, I found myself walking around hurt and annoyed.
“Lord, every time someone walks up to me with their baby to hold or joy in their faces at the sight of me, it kills me to find out that they just want something from me. I want to be their friend but they don’t want anything from me that has any true value. Why can’t they love me for who I am and not the color of my skin or what country I come from and what I may be able to give them? I just want to be loved for who I am…”
And in this moment the Lord spoke to me, and shut me up.
“Beloved, how many times have you come to me just asking, asking, asking? Coming to me for what I can give and not for who I AM? Don’t you know that I just want to be loved too? With no payment or reward in mind. I want to see joy in your face just because you see me.”
Dang Jesus, sorry. You’re so right. This is what I have done most of the time for nearly 24 years. You deserve like a lifetime of me worshipping you on my face with nothing but praises of how awesome you are. But no, you spend your time telling me how awesome I am and giving me what I ask for and lighting up when I talk to you. It does not make sense. You are too good. Thank you for correcting your child.
We are all kids. Making mistakes, getting dirty, hurting and calling each other names. But I am so glad that my Daddy is strong and soft and that He corrects me and shows me the right way to see things and the right way to love my brothers and sisters and to see their pain.
Haiti is filled with children, young and old. Children who have been hurt, neglected, undisciplined and abused. Children that just need to know that they are loved and learn to love in return. Children just like me and you if we are honest. The Lord is showing me more and more how He is working here and all of the beauty that is hidden amoungst the dust and scars.
More stories to come. Love and miss you all. Rebecca Rose
