Hanging on for dear life

I wrote the following post almost two months ago, just after Robbie was involved in a car accident.  At that time, the story was too raw, too fresh, too jarring for me to post.  Though Robbie and I still shudder when we read it and remember, we now feel ready to share it.

Esdras cupped his face in his hands while he prayed. “Thank you, God, for allowing us to wake up this morning. When we went to sleep we didn’t know what would happen. Our life could have ended. But you, Lord, brought us through the night.” I opened one eye and peered across the table at this young man. “Really?” I thought. “This is the prayer for breakfast? What about ‘Thanks for the eggs, Amen’?” Thankfully, he didn’t see my confused glance, or my feeble return to prayer. As single-minded as his Biblical namesake, Ezra, he was much too focused on confessing his utter dependence on God in this uncertain life.

Later that day, I was talking to Mirlande. “Where do your children go to school?” I asked. “Oh, I send them to three different schools,” she replied. I was a little confused. Life with six kids seems complicated enough without three different schools to deal with. I assumed it was for financial reasons, but figured I’d ask for more of an explanation anyway. Before I could form the question, she jumped in. “Do you know why? So that if something happens to one school, we wouldn’t lose all the children.” I didn’t understand at first. She proceeded, in her usual bubbly fashion, to explain that you never know what will happen to a school. A year or so before the earthquake, a school in Port-au-Prince collapsed due to structural problems in the middle of the school day and killed many of the students inside—97 altogether. And then, of course, there was the earthquake itself. “Anything is possible, so we put them in three different schools just in case. I couldn’t bear to lose them all.” I didn’t know what to say.

Now, a few weeks later, I still don’t quite know what to say. From my comfortable American perspective, life doesn’t usually seem all that precarious. I go to sleep fully expecting to wake up the next morning. I kiss Robbie goodnight fully expecting the same for him. I enter a building fully expecting it to remain intact. I take my next step fully expecting the ground to stay put. So far, these expectations have been proven true again and again. And so they quietly turn into unspoken assumptions. Then beliefs. Then facts of life. “I am safe. I am in control. Nothing bad can happen.”

Until it does. Until someone doesn’t wake up. Until the school collapses. Until the earth shakes. Until the most basic facts of life are called into question.

While we were in Port Salut for Thanksgiving weekend, we had a glimpse into such a moment. It was just a glimpse, but enough of one. The truck Robbie was driving was in an accident with a motorcycle. The truck was in front, and Robbie slowed down to turn left.  The bike sped up from behind to pass. The moto clipped the front corner of the truck. Two people were tossed off the bike. They flew through the air. They fell hard on the ground. The passenger, a teenage school girl, landed in a concrete drainage ditch. No helmets. Robbie thought for sure she was dead. But then, there was movement. She stood up. She climbed out. She looked around. The driver, too, stood up. Shaken, but alive. They had a few scrapes and bruises, but nothing more. They walked away with their lives. Thank God a thousand times.  Robbie also walked away, but not the same.

Because after you have this kind of moment, things are different. The so-called “facts of life” are exposed as a weak sham. Those reassuring phrases—“I am safe. I am in control. Nothing bad can happen.”—start to sound like the practiced lines of a conman now caught in the act. And with the curtain drawn back, the reality starts to take shape. “I am vulnerable. I am weak. I will surely die, but I don’t know when.” Yes, that has a truer ring to it.

And it is from this perspective that the words of Esdras and Mirlande start to make more sense. And it is from this perspective that I can just begin to understand what it may mean to be dependent on God. To actually rely on his protection and grace. To refer to him with every mention of the future, saying, si Dye vle, “If God wants.” And to hang on to God for, literally, dear life.

Confessions

I have a confession to make.  There was something I was dreading about coming back to Haiti after our lovely Christmas break in the US.  The thought of dreading it makes me feel ashamed.  Because it’s something that I’m supposed to love.  But it’s also something that, in my selfishness, I end up hiding from sometimes.

Relationships.

Now, let me explain.  I love people.  I love my family.  I love my friends, colleagues, and the students I work with.

But, what I’m painfully discovering about myself is that I often love them on my own terms.  When I’m rested.  When I feel like it.  When it’s convenient.  When it doesn’t demand too much.

But here, “my own terms” is not how relationships seem to work.  Haitian culture is hugely relational.  When you enter a room, you are expected to greet every person, individually, with a handshake or a kiss on the cheek.  Even if you’ve never met before.  Even if you’re just coming in for a second.  Even if the American, “Hey, everyone,” would seem to cover it.  And when you see someone you know, you’re expected to say hello and ask about them.  Maybe about how they are doing.  Or how they slept.  Or how their weekend was.  Or how their family is doing.  Even if you just have a quick question or need to buy laundry soap from them. 

In Creole class several weeks ago, pairs of students did role-plays in front of the class.  One such role play was about asking for directions from a stranger on the street.  The first person started, “Excuse me, do you know where the hospital is?”  Grammatically, the student was totally right, but after he had finished, the teacher corrected him.  “You cannot just say, ‘Excuse me,’ you must say ‘Hello.’  Maybe also ‘How are you?’  If you don’t say that, it’s rude.  The person may be so offended that they will send you to the wrong place!”

And, at my core, I love that in this culture, relationships matter.  Because it acknowledges human dignity.  It says, “You are a person, and I see you, and you’re important to me.”  And that’s deeply true.  It's what I see in Jesus' interactions with others.  It’s exactly what I want to communicate to people. 

But sometimes, I’m running late to a 7:15am staff meeting and it would be easier to just wave and keep walking past the guards and my friends in the kitchen.  And sometimes I’m really focused on a task and would rather not chat about the weekend.  Sometimes my own busy agenda gets in the way of interactions that can be true gifts if I give them the space to happen.

And so, I confess.  I confess that sometimes my “to do” list seems more important than the individuals that God has brought into my path.  I confess that sometimes I am to preoccupied to honor the people I encounter with even the small gift of an appropriate greeting.  And I confess that as I was preparing to return to Haiti from our visit to the US, the relational component of my live here seemed daunting. 

For all of these things, I pray for God’s forgiveness.  I pray for the forgiveness of people whom I haven’t loved well.  And I pray for the grace to follow Love more closely tomorrow.

Two Years

Today we’re remembering the devastating earthquake that struck Haiti on January 12, 2010.  We’re praying for the country, for those who lost loved ones, and for those who are still suffering physically, emotionally, and spiritually as a result.  We’re taking a look around for signs of progress, healing, and reconstruction.  We’re hoping in God to bring complete restoration to every crack, to every broken place.

This morning, I went to a memorial service at a large Haitian church where a couple friends of ours worship.  Yesterday, as I was thinking about attending the service, I felt like I might if I were to go to a funeral of someone I didn’t know.  Moments of silence, tears, and stories that I could empathize with, but could not truly understand.  After all, I wasn’t there.  I didn’t hear the roaring noise that people later called “goudougoudougoudgou.”  I didn’t feel the earth shake.  I wasn’t trapped for days under rubble.  I didn’t lose a husband or friend to a collapsed building. 

But today, sitting in the upper balcony of the huge sanctuary, spilling over with people, I was surprised to see that the mood was nothing like that of a funeral, though I was still a little mystified by it all.  Thousands of people packed in, filling the main level and the two balconies up above.  (Little did I know that every church in the city was packed, many for all-day services starting at 6 or 7am.)  People sat on benches, plastic chairs, sheets laid out on the floor, and cinder blocks turned on their side.  Many others stood.  As you might expect, they prayed, read scriptures, and sang.  But the tone of the place was anything but somber.  People seemed fully alive.  They danced and clapped and waved their hands in the air.  They screamed out their unison call-and-response of “Thank you, Lord!”  They thanked God for everything they could think of—for their lives, for their families, for God’s grace for those who died two years ago.  The whole place shimmered with enthusiastic thanksgiving and worship. 

As a counselor and as an American, there's a little part of me that wonders if this kind of response is too easy.  Or fake.  Or denial.  I mean, this is the anniversary of the most devastating day that Haiti ever experienced.  Shouldn’t people be crying?  Or at least feel sad?  Or want to process it again?  But, the more I talk to people, the more I realize that maybe my American perspective on mental wellness is limited.  Not totally worthless, but limited by culture, personality, circumstance.  Though I always remind people I work with that it’s okay to cry and feel hard feelings and share, maybe it’s not the only way to cope.

I’m reminded of a conversation I had about a year ago with an American psychologist who had spent many years in Haiti and was also married to a Haitian man.  We were talking about mental health and culture, and she said something like, “After all the years I’ve spent in Haiti, I still don’t think I understand mental wellness in Haiti.  People go through something that’s horrible—they lose a child or a spouse—and they just move on.  They deal with it.  It’s like, if they sat down to talk and feel and cry, a huge dam would burst and they would drown.  It would be too much.  They don’t have that luxury.  Survival comes first.” 

At the memorial service this morning, I’m sure that this cultural reality played a role.  But it wasn’t the only thing.  The thanksgiving, the worship, the dancing—they weren’t at all a clamped-down tight upper lip repression of feelings.  They were genuine.  And alive.  And as I looked around, I wondered if maybe they expressed a reality that was somehow even more real than our feelings.  More real than our grief.  More real than our loss.  Just maybe.

It reminded me of a story I read in “After Shock: Searching for Honest Faith When Your World is Shaken,” by Kent Annan.  He shares a conversation with his friend, Enel, about the night of the earthquake, after Enel survived the collapse of a university building just up the street from where we live now:

“In the dark there were aftershocks and fear.  What was it like spending the night lying in that square with hundreds of people, unable to move?  What sounds mingled with the dust in the air? Cries of agony?  Silence in the face of such disaster?  Moans of those in pain?  Hushed conversations as people who were able tried to comfort each other?

‘No,’ Enel says.  ‘All night long we were singing and praying to God.’

They sang church hymns together.  Other times people improvised their own hymns in response to what they’d just survived.  And they prayed.

Angry prayers? Questioning prayers?

No, mostly prayers of gratitude because we were spared, Enel tells me, and prayers for those who weren’t.  All night long” (p. 23).

Today, those prayers continue.  Prayers of gratitude to a God who saves.  Prayers of praise for a God who extends grace to the undeserving.  Prayers of worship to a God who will wipe away every tear and restore all things.  

May it be so.

Fourth Sunday: Too Excited

I’ve been putting off sitting down to write this week’s post for several days now.  For a while, I had some legitimate excuses—writing recommendations for seniors, Creole lessons in the evenings, talking to family on Skype, studying for the big Creole test on Friday, hanging out with Robbie, just plain old being tired, the list goes on.  Now, there’s no excuse.  Sunday afternoon—the work is done, the Creole can wait, no one is on Skype, Robbie is busy grading finals.  But still, my muse seems to elude me.

It’s not for lack of ideas.  I’ve been reflecting on Gabriel’s message to Mary.  The utter shock of it.  Can you imagine?  A 13 year old girl, probably doing what most young girls do around the world—chores.  Helping Mama, maybe making dinner, cleaning up after a younger sibling, or carrying in a bucket of water.  Daydreaming along the way, she was probably in the middle of one of those little jobs that she had slowly accumulated, year after year.  Just like every day.

And then, an angel appeared.  “Greetings you who are highly favored, the Lord is with you.”  The scriptures tell us she “was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be.”  Talk about an understatement.  Reading this passage this week, the absolute surprise of this angel’s burst into Mary’s reality struck me like it never had before.  Because, unlike Mary, I’ve heard the story a thousand times.  I knew the angel was coming.  I knew what he would say.  And I knew that Mary’s response will be “yes.”  But Mary hadn’t heard the story yet.  It hadn’t entered her mind.  It wasn’t even a possibility.  She was just helping Mama.

As I thought about writing the blog, I had these plans to tie this passage into my own life, our own lives.  The utter surprise of God’s invitation to us.  The shock that he would invite us, even us, into his work, and somehow depend on our “yes.”  And that it’s only when the story has been told a thousand times that it starts to make sense.  It becomes familiar.  And then, we see how it’s part of a larger story that had started much earlier than we realized.  It had been foretold.  We see intonations of it in our memories, our childhood dreams, the blessings that have been spoken over us by others.  We see it just like Mary started to see the fulfillment of the words of the prophets, just as the angel had spoken—that God will send a son, who will establish his kingdom and reign forever.  Only after we turn in over and over and the surprise wears off, does it become a part of the bigger story, the best story.

Photo taken by Adele Collins, my amazing sister, back when we left in the summer.

But I can’t write that blog now.  I can’t get myself to slow down or focus long enough for it to flow and make sense.  It doesn’t all come together quite like I want it to.  And I know why.  It’s that I am just so excited.  Because on Thursday (si Dye vle), we get to go home.  We get to get on a plane and fly towards a whole family that will be waiting at the airport, and other dear friends we'll get to see a day or two later.  And we’ll get to embrace them and feel their embrace.  And see the precious faces of our nieces and baby nephew who’ve all grown so much and let them see ours.  And spend time eating together and talking and laughing and sharing stories.  And get to hear all of what the other person is saying without the snags and cut-offs of Skype.  We’ll get to be present to one another.  We’ll get to inhabit the same time and space and fill it with love.  We’ll get to soak in the wonder of being incarnate to one another.

Photo by Adele Collins

And I just can’t wait.  I’m bubbling around the house packing up our carry-ons with presents and the few pieces of winter-appropriate clothing I can find.  I’m filled with daydreams and anticipation to the point of occasional tears.  Robbie just looked up from his grading—“you’re pretty excited, aren’t you?”  Talk about another understatement.  So, please forgive me that I can’t write much of an Advent blog.  I’m just too excited about Christmas. 

Photo above by Adele Collins

Third Sunday: Rejoice

On Saturday, I met Melanie.  If I had to guess, I’d say she’s probably in her forties, but her meager frame makes her look about 10 years old from the back.  She likes oranges and listening to the music from the church across the street.  She grew up in a village by the sea and her eyes become a little wild when she talks about wanting to win the lottery.  She doesn’t notice when her too-big dress slips off her knobby shoulder, leaving it and part of her chest exposed.  She usually sits slumped over wherever she can find a bit of shade on the busy Route Delmas.  Sometimes she can be found behind a billboard, but she’s usually in a heap of trash behind a dumpster—a spot that doubles as a public toilet for passersby.  Her skin is dry and chalky, and her clothes are full of dust.  In Haiti, where looking good is a high cultural value, even the poorest person wears meticulously washed, bleached, and ironed clothes every time he steps out of his tent.  When someone is too plagued by mental illness to understand this basic norm, the contrast is obvious.

Usually, people just ignore Melanie.  She doesn’t seem to mind or notice.  The twisted workings of her brain make her focus inwardly—the conversations, jokes or nightmares that unfold hidden within her own mind.  The only clue she gives to the content of this internal dialogue is her quiet muttering and laughter, or screamed pleas for protection against an unseen assailant.  It’s only at those times, when Melanie’s internal world bursts into the world of her neighbors, that people take note.  Their response is rarely compassionate.  People laugh.  They stare.  They gather in groups and whisper to each other.  When she throws handfuls of trash into the street, drivers lay on the horn.  When she throws them into the walkway instead, people scream in her face.  She’s scorned.  She’s mocked.  She’s feared.  Perhaps worst of all, she’s cast out. 

The whole week leading up to when I met Melanie, I had the Magnificat rolling around my head.  The words are Mary’s song of joy when she sees Elizabeth while they’re awaiting the births of their respective sons (Luke 1:46-55).  Mary’s heart overflows into her famous exclamation of praise—“My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior” (v. 46-47).  She goes on to proclaim the work of this God in whom her spirit rejoices.  He scatters the proud.  He brings down rulers from their thrones.  He lifts the humble.  He fills the hungry with good things.  He sends the rich away empty.  He remembers his promises of mercy.  From generation to generation.  Even while Jesus grows in Mary’s womb, his message of Good News pours forth from his mother’s lips.

After all, he is the God who “did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!” (Phil 2:6-8).  He is the God who by his very coming to his people as a person ushered in a topsy-turvy kingdom.  It’s the kingdom where God becomes a slave, and slaves are freed.  Where the first are last and the last are first.  Where the rich are sent away and the poor are blessed.  Where whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will save it.  Where valleys are raised up and mountains made low.  Where, “Believers in humble circumstances ought to take pride in their high position. But the rich should take pride in their humiliation—since they will pass away like a wild flower” (James 1:9-10—to listen to a great sermon by Tim Keller about this last verse, click here).

On Saturday, talking to Melanie, all of this struck me as such Good News—the best, most beautiful, most delightful and magnificent news I’ve ever heard.  Because Jesus, “the kingdom of God taking sandals and walking” (Jones, 1995), holds out his hand to Melanie.  He embraces her.  He fills her hungry belly with good things.  He looks her in the eye and delights in her.  And in Jesus, in this new kingdom that is being birthed even now, Melanie is exulted.  She’s lifted up.  She’s loved.  For Melanie, that’s Good News.

For me, too, the ushering in of this upside down kingdom is Good News.  Because Jesus is also holding out a hand to me.  With an invitation to descend with him into a new understanding of who I am.  This new identity is no longer a sum of my accomplishments, talents, desires—all of which fall woefully short of the glory of God.  Instead, the invitation is to be emptied, “having the same mindset as Christ” (Phil 2:5), transformed into a vessel ready to be filled with love.  As Miroslav Volf (1996) wrote, our identity must change in order to make space for the other.  Emptying is a prerequisite for incarnation.  This is the path that Mary foretold in the song that poured forth from her heart.  This is the path that Jesus walked, being made in human likeness.  And this is the path to which, for no merit of our own, Jesus is beckoning us.  He’s beckoning Melanie to go up with him.  He’s beckoning me to go down with him.  And that is all such Good News. 

So, deeply, fully, from the top and bottom of my heart, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.