“We must come to see that human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability. It comes through the tireless efforts and persistent work of those willing to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation.”

Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from Birmingham Jail

A man on his way home at day’s end on the road into Port-au-Prince.

It wasn’t long after I understood that a calling, with all its inherent sense of adventure, would take me to Haiti that I chose the name of this blog.

The Long Way Home. One of my favorite pop songs, (thank you Supertramp!) would often inspire me to take the long way home after leaving The News Leader office late at night in the early 1990s. Leaving work, I was due to relieve the woman who cared for my invalid mother. Barbara was a Godsend for sure. She stayed with Mom while I worked the 3 to 11:30 p.m. shift at the Leader. She would tell me to take my time coming home. She would be there.

Those extra moments of calm kept my sanity (mostly) intact.

Those were tough times. Our father had died not long before, and my siblings and I shared time staying with Mom. Those were the months I realize now that I learned that love is enmeshed with duty and that duty is a privilege. No matter how difficult the task, it will be done because, well, because love.

Anyway, when I came up with this blog, I was heading to live in Haiti — actual circumstances unknown (hence adventure) — and I wanted to record chapters of the journey. And Long Way Home meant something more to me than just a title — I was leaving home to make a new home knowing I would return to a former home.

I wasn’t wrong. And surprise! I had no idea how long I’d be in this former and lovely, warm home with my sister and brother-in-law until I (one day) will return to my lovely, hot home in Port-au-Prince.

The root of the word adventure is waiting. I wait.

It’s mid-January. I am working while I wait, and a couple of anniversaries have hold of my heart.

Earthquake

Twelve years ago, today a massive earthquake struck Haiti. I worked at The News Leader, and the early news reports came in about 5:30 p.m.

A powerful quake and weak infrastructure meant hundreds of thousands of people were crushed. Twelve years later, physical rubble is cleared but political and criminal storms still rage. People struggle still to come up for air and hold onto to dwindling hope.

It’s been more than two years since the instability and then pandemic put me back on the road home to Virginia.

Changes were coming

Eleven years ago, I’d fallen hard for the people of Haiti and had been regularly traveling there. I was making friends there, knitting relationships I depend on today for my work and my spiritual life.

Ten years ago, I learned of an opportunity to live and serve in Haiti as a mission co-worker with Presbyterian Church (USA).

Co-worker? Huh?

A week later, I attended a Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Service for Peace and Justice. Young friends from Haiti who live in Staunton accompanied me. Their 5-year-old brother wanted to go along, so we brought him.

The youngster was on my lap so he could hear the Rev. Edward Scott recite King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail (if you’ve not read this letter, read this letter!). And recite it, Scott did. His arms moved about and his voice rose and fell, and he said:

“We must come to see that human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability. It
comes through the tireless efforts and persistent work of those willing to be co-workers with God, …..”

Co-workers? With God?

And at that moment, with a small kid turning around to see what had jolted me so – that my way would take me to places I’d not known before.

Mission co-worker. A co-worker with God.

I’m not in Haiti, a sentence that not so long ago would make me sad. But I am at home. And my long way will take me back to Haiti.

It is a pleasure and an honor to serve the people of Haiti, to serve with Presbyterian Church (USA). I’m still knitting new relationships and networking and fortifying where I can and asking for help when I need it.

I’m on a Long Way. The way has not been easy, but love makes it bearable. And I’m grateful for all those I meet along this road.

Oh, and I’m renewing my efforts to contribute more regularly to this blog.

Thank you for reading!

They matter, too

A dear friend sent me a message the other day. We chatted. And she signed off by telling me that she prays for me daily. 

What a gift. 

Prayers, along with their sisters, Thoughts, are getting a lot grief these days. When something horrible happens, everyone from politicians to social media aficionados will respond with “Thoughts and prayers.”

It’s understandable that these words seem hollow, not enough to answer the enormity of whatever horrible thing just made headlines. Action is what is needed, we exclaim. Not thoughts and prayers!

Perhaps it would be better if we exclaimed, not JUST thoughts and prayers.

I am a pretty big fan of prayers. I’ve felt them, learned of them and heard them.

I’ve mentioned before that at our meals, my Haitian family takes turns saying Grace. This remains one of my favorite moments in any given day. I’m curious what will be shared with God. Sometimes my own prayers take me by delight. 

My favorite lately still is the time Garry prayed, after a period of criminal activity along the streets of Haiti, “Bless the police, and bless the bandits. Because, well, (pause)  you know, God.”

We pray for each member of our household, all our families, everyone in hospital or in prison, and their families. We give thanks for what we have. And we always remember to ask God to help understand that not everyone is as fortunate.

Each of us can do something to make the world better for our neighbors. And when we love our neighbors, as Jesus commanded, we must.

But there always is room for thoughts and prayers. When someone says, “I prayed for you,” what I hear is, “I remember you.” Gently, intentionally, kindly remembered.

I cannot think of a more sincere gift.

I remember you.

Trying a new thing. This seems like a good time a new thing.

I’m going to write.

I know. Shocking, right?

Well, it’s not like I haven’t been thinking about writing. That’s why I made this blog years ago. But I never seem to actually write.

The problem — my problem — is that I believe I need to write about the big topics — poverty and injustice and ways we must change the world. And not surprisingly, I don’t write those things. Too big. Too sad. Too much.

A couple of events, tiny events really, clarified this issue for me the other day.

Tiny moments that on their own mean little.

So I’m going to write them, tell the story of them.

So here I am.

It’s Epiphany Sunday. The first weekend of the new year, and the day before life will roar to life. Plans to make. Stuff to do. It’s the season.

I’m thinking a lot about seasons these days. A wonderful aspect of living in Haiti means living in seasons: mango season, rainy season, dry season, kinep season.

Whether fruits or weather, it’s how we measure time. And if you don’t like the season you’re in, you just settle in to wait for it to change. For the new season.

January is the dead of winter here, too. Except that instead to getting blown over by cold winds, you’re subject soft, cool breezes.

The great thing about seasons and having to endure the uncomfortable, there are delights like soft breezes and cool weather and bright sun shining on the woven leaves of the palm plant on the front porch.

These little bits of life are important to me. I just wanted to share.

The other night as I tried to sleep I heard a child crying. On and on. It’s not unusual to hear crying here. It’s a hard land. I imagined all kinds of horrible reasons for the child’s cry, hunger, corporal punishment, abuse. But the worst part was feeling totally helpless.

And understanding that helplessness.

The cool breeze slipped through the window, the crying stopped, and I slept.

The next morning I tried to forget my privilege that I can sleep knowing horrible things might be happening so close to me. It’s part of the life in a place like this. It’s the reality. And the truth is, I have no idea what had happened. I only know that the reasons I imagined are quite possible.

The house next door has two stories. From where I sat drinking coffee that next morning on my porch, I heard a child’s voice. On the outdoor stairs to second floor of the neighbors’ house, a little girl about 10 was reading out of book spread over her knees.

She seemed to be reading from the book and repeating what she’d read.

I said good morning.

“Bonjou!” She responded in the sing-songy way of children.

I asked if she was studying.

“Wi!”

It sounded like “WEEEEEEE.” With enough breath to pierce a balloon.

Are you ready to go back to school?

Again, “WEEEEEE!”

She smiled. I think her mom cleans house for my neighbors. I only see her and her siblings on occasion, when they dance in those stairs or come over to our yard to gather the kineps that fall off the tree here.

Two little ones. Two stories. One possibly terribly sad. One definitely hopeful.

I remember how helpless I’d felt the night before. And I realized that helpless doesn’t mean hopeless.

And I wanted to tell you this.

I want to write again. Regularly. With big stories and little bit no less important moments.

I’m in my Haiti. I’m so grateful. I want to do more, and be more.

And all I know, is that in this season, I will write more.

Let me know what stories you want to hear.

Or, if not, I’m glad to choose.

Yvette Michaud, a member of the executive committee of FONDAMA, an advocacy network in Haiti, walks with Esthelande, 10, in the girl’s community.

A tender bean shoot in a field near Thomazeau a month after heavy rains destroyed much of Haiti’s cropland.

Fabienne Jean, coordinator of FONDAMA, and Yvette Michaud, an officer with the advocacy network, visit with Estheland, 10, in the girl’s community in Haiti.

“He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.”

— Isaiah 53:2 (NIV)

Tumors restricted my father’s capacity to take a deep breath. He could walk only about 10 feet before stopping. Taking a deep breath took too much work. My father who had worked hard every day of his life – building up the family farm he loved so much and watching his kids grow up – struggled.

The cancer didn’t stop him, of course. It only slowed him. Every morning that summer, he walked into the back yard of my parents’ small house to check on his tomato garden.

The grass had grown tall that August. When my brother David brought his lawn tractor over to mow it, Dad had a strict warning for him:
“Watch out for that little tree. Don’t cut it down.”

David later said he could barely see the tiny sapling for the grass. He carefully mowed around it, and he continued to watch out for it in the months that followed, after Dad died and before Mom moved in with another brother.

Twenty-six years later, if you drive past, you will see the tall maple tree looming over the small brick house.

Dad taught us always to look out for the tender shoot.

Fabienne Jean, Yvette Michaud and I visited with members of a women’s organization in Thomazeau on Wednesday. Stepping out of the Landcruiser, I saw a handful of students in beige school uniforms heading back to class. They waved shyly, expectantly, paying little attention to Fabienne, our network coordinator, and Yvette, a coordinator with another Haitian farmer organization.

I’m the blan, the foreigner.

The students went on their way, but one little girl remained. She wasn’t wearing a uniform, signaling that she doesn’t attend school. Her family might not have the money. She might not be able to learn as quickly as the others. She motioned to me that she was hungry, then she smiled.

Her name is Esthelande. She’s 10 years old. She walked with me to the meeting, holding my hand, speaking quietly. She waited for me when the meeting was done.

I introduced Esthelande to Fabienne and Yvette, and immediately Yvette greeted her, asked her questions. She realized she knows Esthelande’s mother, and she instructed the girl to tell her mother that she needed to be in school. That if she needed help, to ask.

Like my father, Yvette looks out for the tender shoots.

Driving home to Port-au-Prince, the three of us along with our driver, Louko, talked about the crops in the field.

Thomazeau is located on flat land alongside Goat Mountain, between Port-au-Prince and the border with the Dominican Republic. Like the rest of Haiti, the crops are subject to severe weather. Years of drought followed in cycles by heavy rains.

We passed fields of just-planted beans. The tiny plants are a few inches tall, in healthy looking soil now. Soft rains between sunny days will promote a solid bean crop, but that hasn’t been the case recently.

These tender shoots are at the mercy of a changing climate.

Fabienne is the coordinator of our advocacy network here. Fondasyon Ayiti Men Ansanm translates as the Haiti Foundation with Hands Together. It is an initiative of the Presbyterian Hunger Program. Eleven grassroots organizations make up the network, and an executive committee governs it. Though FONDAMA was chartered in 2009, we’ve only begun the true work of advocacy campaigns in the past year, learning together the root causes of Haiti’s poverty (threatened land tenure, climate change and food imports are among them) and working with others to make positive changes.

It is challenging work. And in many ways, FONDAMA is a tender shoot.

I believe in tender shoots. I believe that we all are fragile and are made to look out for one another.

People often asked me what hope I find in Haiti.

My answer, always, is the people of Haiti I am humbled to accompany.

When I watched Yvette, who I had only until that moment seen in a board room, embrace 10-year-old Estherlande and encourage her, my heart filled with that same hope.

I pray for steady rains interspersed with sunny days so the tiny bean sprout will burst into goodness.

I pray for Estherlande to find encouragement and a healthy future.

I pray for the growth and continued partnerships of FONDAMA.

But I know that tender shoots, when recognized and care for, can grow tall and healthy.

My father taught me that a long time ago.

I’ll be heading home soon

Their lives are built on poorly constructed roads. Or dust and rocks. Their lives are shaky, just like their homes made of blocks with too much sand, too little cement.

They work so hard, but are not employed. Not in the way we imagine. With job sites and time cards. Their work begins before the sun peeks above the horizon. In cities or villages or in clusters of homes far away in remote mountains.

Cleaning. Searching out food. Cooking what little they have. Sending children to school.

If they’re lucky.

The lives of the Haitian people are tender and unstable most days, but they are not unrooted.

No. The people of Haiti rise each morning, stretching sore muscles into another long day, anchored in the history and tradition of a people who won freedom from slavery while they still were in chains.

I am grateful to have been “home” in the U.S. for all these months. I still have a few presentations to make, even a sermon I am writing for my own home church.

But as September winds into October, I am preparing to head back to my other home.

Where people struggle daily with poverty and hunger and political and social instability.

And once again, I will join forces with them as they work together to make their lives better.

The fight for Haiti’s independence from slavery began 225 years ago, but the spirit of revolution still lights in their eyes.

Please keep all of us in prayers, friends.