"...and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the LORD
for the display of his splendor."
-Isaiah 61:3
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the LORD
for the display of his splendor."
-Isaiah 61:3
Driving from the Dominican to Haiti, the terrain drastically changes. From lush rice fields and green mountain scapes to dirt roads and thorny bushes. In fact, the main road leading into the border-town of Dajabon looks much like what I imagine the desolate journey to hell would be. You pass by miles and miles of plant-life that has no green leaves or flowering buds but rather scratchy branches and prickles. You pass by dead animals and scavenger birds and what would appear to be unmarked graves only detectable by the handmade crosses placed as remembrance. There is one feeling that comes over me as I have driven that road many times.
Hopelessness.
left: typical housing right: drying the day's catch
As we entered the village of Phaeton, Haiti, we were not greeted by running children, jumping into our arms or familiar faces reaching out to shake our hands. We were just being watched. Very intensely. It made me uncomfortable knowing I couldn't offer a kind hello or even ask the children their ages to break the ice. Five years of learning Spanish was worthless here. I was kicking myself wishing I had learned some Creole.
Hopelessness.
We were then welcomed by Pastor Lucner and his wife, Marie. Familiar Faces. Loving hearts. Gracious hosts. "If I could just lock myself in their yard," I thought, "I'll make it through the next five days." I know. Great thing for a "seasoned" missionary to say. But you see, I like my comfortable little world where things hurt just a little. I don't really want to be changed. I don't want the floodgates of pain to come crashing down when I realize just how hopeless things can really get.
fishermen making their own nets
We settled in and decided to go for a walk. We were followed by a trail of curious kids. They kept their distance at first but it appeared that every step we took into their world, they took one more step into ours. I began asking Wilby (one of our staff's husband who is Haitian) how to say the "token" phrases in Creole and of course the most important one, the one I had to learn the second I stepped on the island five years ago..."Can I take your picture?" One of the fishermen overheard my inquiries and said something to Wilby. I asked Wilby if it would be alright if I took the fisherman's picture. The man replied, "Only if she asks me in Creole." So there I was, in the same place as I was the first time I had to use my Spanish words, scared to death I'd screw it up, except this time in Creole. I spit it out, the man smiled, I took his picture. My hopelessness began to lift a little.
The children stole my heart. I was cautious though. I was on a mission to just work hard and go home. If I made any connections, I knew it would change me. And like I said, I wasn't sure I wanted to be changed. But there was something so incredible about them. So tentative at first. We actually made the smaller ones cry at the very sight of us. But little by little I could feel the exchange between us and them. Our hearts beat and said, "We're here to love you," their hearts beat and said, "I've heard that before."
Wilby explained to us that a lot of people have come to Haiti, taking pictures of the starving children and harsh living conditions with the promises that they will use the photos to bring them help. Only to never return. We had a lot of barriers to overcome. The mistakes of others before us. Just hoping we can restore trust between the Haitian people and ourselves.
Hopefulness.
left: watering hole right: what most of the homes are made of
fish drying out in the sun
left: ruins left from the rope-making factory right: flower among thorns
This village is really indescribable. Wood and mud shacks banked up against vast oceans and mountain ranges. You can't explain it in words. It just doesn't do it justice.
sun rising over the ocean, about 6:05 am
fishermen out at dawn
sunrise, 6:15 am
We took a trip to the Citadel Laferrière. It's a stone building together with Fort Jacques Alexandre that was built as a part of a fortification during the slave uprising in Haiti. The fortress was built by the leader of the Haitian uprising, Mr. Henri Christophe (Henry I.) between 1805-1820. More than 20,000 Haitians and slaves worked on the fortification system. There is even legend that when they ran out of water while mixing the mortar, Christophe had slaves killed and their blood drained and used to continue their work. Just to give you a little insight of the treatment of the Haitian people for centuries.
citadel, looking up from the path...
left: orange and green mold growing on the walls right: corridor leading to the Christophe's wife's bedroom
the armory...four different sized cannon balls
cannons
By the end of our trip in Phaeton, I could feel the tugging at my heart that you only feel when you're about to lose it. When you're about to give a piece of it away to someone, a people, a village. Luckily, when I lost it, I wasn't alone. Thank goodness my friend, Jen, was there when the blubbering began. When I went through all five stages of grief in a matter of minutes. Just not understanding why people are so oppressed. Why children go hungry and a whole village is forgotten by the world. Why Satan and his dominions have such power over a country. But as quickly as it came, it left just the same. My tears were gone and peace overcame me. God reminded me that they are his people too. The forgotten ones. Only not forgotten by him.
Hopefulness.
me and willy
