Sharing

I wanted to send a quick thanks to all of the church friends who generously shared donations of toothpaste for me to bring down this month.  Here are a few pictures of J.J. and the rest of the kids enjoying your donations!

Together

The primary goal in my coming down to Haiti this summer was to try to encourage and support the teachers at Christian Light School.  I was asked to lead the summer teacher's institute and I have to say that it is one of the greatest blessings and honors I have ever experienced. 

To be able to sit in the same room as these amazing educators is a great treat.  To have them come day after day and participate in our program is extremely rewarding.  To hear their passion for teaching and to observe their love for their students is inspiring.  To listen to their hopes for the future of their country is humbling. To laugh and joke with them is simply delightful.  To worship our Savior together and read the Word together each morning is more edifying than I can relate.  

Just being together with these teachers is very much a heavenly experience for me.  I have come to love these brothers and sisters more than I can express and beyond what I could reason.  So today, at the end of our third week of teacher training, I am thankful for the teachers of Christian Light School, for their patience, acceptance, joy in the midst of sorrow, wisdom, passion, and their Christ-like love.

Thank you for following along on this journey with me! Love in Christ, Jessie 

Smile

Because sometimes a smile is the greatest gift you could ask for...

Youveland drawing with the "big kids."

Miselene playing with the camera.

Rosemarline giving her doll a bath.

Woobens after a great day at the beach.

Kervenson showing off his pearly whites.

J.J. painting a rainbow.

Sorrow

It is a rainy afternoon, the drops fall quickly and harshly onto the dusty road.  You stand beside your husband, struggling to keep the umbrella over your head as you hold your sick baby close in the beating wind.  Your husband looks at you with sorrow in his eyes as you approach the tall, forbidding wall and knock uncertainly on the metal door.  No response.  You wait as the storm gathers around you.  Meanwhile another storm has been brewing in your heart.  You have reached the end of yourself.  You have nowhere else to turn.  You send a prayer of desperation as your child again wheezes and coughs into your shoulder.  Maybe here you will find the help you can't afford, the medical care your small child needs and the comfort that your whole family is seeking.

Last week, as we waited for a tropical storm to hit Haiti (thankfully not doing much damage), we took a trip to The Sisters of Charity, an infant hospital run by Catholic Nuns right down the street in Port Au Prince.  The story I shared above is what we observed as we waited to be admitted into the hospital.  A young couple with a visibly sick infant had clearly come in desperate need of help.  Once the gate was opened and we entered the hospital, I understood that this young family must be one in hundreds or thousands who have come to Sisters of Charity for help.  The hospital has a strict policy against photographs, which is a way of respecting the families and children who are there to be cared for, so I will do my best to paint a picture of the experience with my words...

We were led to the "healthy" ward of infants.  The children here were not suffering from any major sickness, only severe malnourishment.  As the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, the people of Haiti have known starvation and desperation as a common and daily reality.   The hospital was clean, colorful, and light.  There was a sense of peace in the entrance way, despite the echoing calls of crying infants.  The families in the waiting area were very quiet, and in reflecting now, I wonder what they must have been thinking to see a crew of foreigners traipse through the midst of their sorrow and hardship.  As we entered the infant room, we caught sight of dozens of babies in little white cribs arranged in rows up and down the room.  The nuns and nurses were in the middle of feeding the babies, and through broken English, they showed us which babies could be held and which we should feed.  Each of the cribs had a little sign with a number to identify the baby.  Along with this, most of the babies had hand-written slips around their wrists or ankles that identified their name, age, and date of arrival at the hospital.  I stood off to the side for a few minutes, trying to take in the sight.  There were little hands and eyes poking up at me from all directions.  Shy little boys and girls looking at the visitors, while others, more boldly held out their arms waiting for someone to pick them up.  

One of the girls from our group, Kris, was snuggling a very small baby in her arms and called me over to take her.  The nurse handed over a bowl of infant cereal and with one arm I snuggled this sweet little child while trying to get her to eat the food with the other.  I've taken almost a week thinking about how to describe the child I held in my arms that day.  She wasn't a newborn, from the length of her arms and legs and the size of her feet and hands, I'm thinking she may have been about a year old.  She didn't have any identification tag, which the nurse said meant she had been left at the hospital without any information, including her name and age.  When I took the child from Kris, the first thing I noticed was the bump of every vertebrae on her back and the protruding ribs that expanded slightly with each shallow breath.  As I tried awkwardly to hold her up, I felt the limpness of her too thin arms and legs, as well as the weakness in her neck which meant she couldn't hold her head up to eat.  Her eyes were wide open but she avoided eye contact.  She took a few small bites and then closed her lips and refused anymore food.  The nurse gave me a bottle to try, which worked for a few moments, but then was also refused.  After trying all I could think of to help her eat, I just stood and tried to comfort her in my arms.  I held her close and rocked her gently.  I rubbed her cheeks softly and hummed quietly to her.  There was little response from these things, but her eyelids did start to droop and her head slowly turned to lay against me.  I'm not sure how she managed it, but in her near-sleep state, her tiny little fingers wrapped around my thumb.  This small show of energy and connection brought tears to my eyes and I had to take a few moments crying out to God.  

As I held this starving, abandoned, precious little one in my arms, I was again faced with the sorrow that life, and especially life in Haiti, can bring.  I know we serve a God who sees all of these sorrows.  Through all of time, He has watched as people have cried out from pain and frustration and loss and desperation.  He has graciously rescued some, like this little one, and provided for the physical needs which had so clearly been neglected.  More than all this though, I am reminded that He took on this flesh, experienced this sorrow, and did all of this on our behalf.  Although I don't understand the things I saw that day at Sisters of Charity, nor can I say that I can reason away why things are so difficult for so many in Haiti, this one thing I know is true.  There is a perfectly good and loving and gracious and just God who loves His creation, and has provided a way for us to be redeemed.  It is this truth that I cling to, just as tightly as that little hand clung to mine.

Deepest thanks to you all for your patience and understanding with these delayed posts, and for your prayers and support through difficult times. I am truly blessed!  Love in Christ, Jessie