Author: Cindy Corell

I still catch myself wanting to be a savior.

I know better, of course. I am in Haiti to work with farmer organizations, to share the stories of their work and to help advocate on their behalf. But getting started in the work is slow-going — my journeys out to meet with people from each group are spaced a few weeks apart, and my Creole still prohibits me from doing more of the planning myself.

So I practice my new language by settling into my new life in Port-au-Prince, sharing time and meals with friends here and learning patience. At least try to learn patience. It’s not easy, because as I am just figuring out, I am SO American. I like to set goals and see results. I like to control at least some of the things that will happen in my day. At the very least, I’d like to know what might happen in my day.

And this has not been the case.

So in three months, when I thought I would be well settled into a routine and begin the real work of being here, I’m just becoming acquainted with this new me. And one of the toughest parts of that is realizing that my ego gets in the way of pretty much everything I try to do. I do not like that sinking feeling when I catch myself wanting to save somebody.

I’m not talking about saving as in saving someone’s soul. If anything can show me just how naïve and unsophisticated my own spiritual faith, it’s spending time in a place like Haiti. I’m talking about “helping my neighbor” by giving them things. I’m on the verge of becoming that person I don’t like — you know, the one that when you just want to share your problems they want to “fix” everything. I don’t like that. And I don’t like this urge I have to “fix” stuff here.

For starters, I can’t.

I come from an ordinary town in Virginia. We have pockets of poor and a social system that’s more or less segregated. People with wealth socialize with similar people, and the poor gather in different places. I was fortunate to feel comfortable with people from all walks, and mostly I spent time in the middle. It’s easy to do in America — zoning laws take care of that. Our governments carefully zone neighborhoods by how much money someone has. Big houses with lots of lawn on in one area, and tiny plots of land with small houses fill other areas. We invest many dollars in the streets of some parts of a city, and other areas come last.

But in places like Haiti, though there are “better” neighborhoods and “slums”, you cannot avoid the poverty.

For a place where most people live on less than $2 U.S. a day, a lot of people are selling them things. Markets crowd into the street, and many families make a little extra by buying candy, household items and food to sell to other people.

These merchants are as poor as their customers.

Children, some as young as 7 or 8, walk among the vehicles on busy thoroughfares carrying rags. They will swipe the rag across the windshield and hope the driver will hand them a few gourdes.

I’ve started carrying small bills to hand out when I see them, but that doesn’t concern me. What bothers me is the way I feel when I hear their quiet thank yous.

God didn’t send me here to hand out change. I think he sent me here to help make a change. And I need the patience to wait for that chance.

When left to my own devices for too long, I can let a deep-seated sense of guilt take over. The words of Luke 12: 48 come to mind: “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded.”

But the rest of that verse of Luke gives me the rest of what is required of me. “And from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.”

There’s nothing wrong with handing out a few gourdes to hard working kids. I know myself well enough that I will keep doing that. What I need to change is my motivation for doing so. I cannot respond to the needs of the economically poor to enrich my spiritual poverty. I need to find that place in which I am with my brothers and sisters, sharing with them the good and the bad and together, finding God’s grace. This is a big task to accomplish in the singular glance between a child standing the heat with a dusty cloth and me in the comfort of a shiny vehicle. I want that child to see the face of someone who cares deeply about his circumstances, who wants to work toward a larger change that will mean he’s at him home being a kid, not working the dangerous streets to help feed his family. Only then can I honestly give him a small wage for his work and accept his thanks — not with pleasure at my giving, but with pleasure for our exchange.

I am blessed to live here, and I am more blessed to work here. The work of my assigned mission will come, but until then, my work is in the day-to-day: Nurturing friendships with the people around me, accepting their gifts of openness, advice and companionship, sharing meals that I provide and those of my friends and learning everything I can about this place that God and I so love.

And a part of that work is carefully discerning this new me that is being molded here, watching and listening for clues that I’m going off path.

It’s a beautiful journey, though it’s sometimes hard.

I’m not saving anyone in Haiti, but I can feel the saving grace I’m finding here. It’s beneath my wings.

I am blessed, and I am glad you are here with me.

Isaiah 41:10

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 Do not be afraid

That’s what they each told me. As we walked down steep, narrow paths, filled with ruts and rocks of all sizes, I would flinch at the thought of slipping and falling.

“Do not be afraid.”

Each one of the Celestin brothers told me that, holding onto me with strong arms. “I will not let you fall.”

And they didn’t. And we walked for miles. And the hills were steep, and rain from the night before would have moved the rocks — both large and small — so I’d never know what was ahead of the next hill. The mud was slick, and piles of gravelly rocks were slippery. But neither Felix nor Herns nor Goursse let me fall.

Do not be afraid.

On August 11, Pe Goursse Celestin preached his last sermon as the officiant at St. Andre’s Episcopal Church, Cazale, before he would be transferred to St. Marc Church at Trouin. It was difficult to follow Pe Goursse’s message in Creole, but his first words resonated with me.

“Ou pa bezwen pe,” he said.

“You do not need to be afraid.”

His sermon was on the story of Abram. Abram’s wife, Sarah, was old, yet they had no children. When God said you will have sons and daughters, they cannot believe that. Sarah is too old to have a child. God asked if they could count the stars in the skies, and they could not. “So shall your descendants be,” God said.

And so it was that Abram believed.

It didn’t take long on those walks in the Haitian countryside for me to believe. Even when I walked without the strong arms of a Celestin, I slowly gained confidence.

Now, let me tell you something about these hills I climbed. Easily traversed by goats, in some places, they are little more than ruts in the hillsides. Rainwater has deepened the ruts into tiny crevices. Large rocks lay in the pathway, while even larger rocks jut out from its banks.

Then when we go “off-path,” our feet sink into deep, muddy soil. Or we find ourselves in dry rock that is always either seemingly straight up or straight down.

Gravity is not my friend.

And let me tell you something else about these paths. Area residents walk them every day. EVERY DAY. Often while carrying heavy loads to and/or from market. Or with a five-gallon bucket of water on their heads. And without a strong arm ready to hold them and a calm voice saying, “Do not be afraid.”

Since coming to Haiti in May, I’ve learned to find a place for my fears. I’ve learned this by trusting in the strength and kindness I’ve found in the people here, and I’ve learned this by learning — again — to trust in my faith.

I will not fall. I am not afraid. And though I do not understand all of what Pe Goursse told his parishioners on Sunday, I believe he said that if we follow the paths laid out for us by our Father in Heaven, we shall not be afraid.

Those strong arms always are with me.

And, I believe, they are with you, too.

A number of my friends have commented on the images of Haiti I show on my blog and Facebook.

The beautiful vistas, rugged mountains that rise out of green valleys, stark trees against the bright horizon, sunrises and sunsets that astound with deep hues and — almost always — set behind a palm tree.

Readers like the bright colors of clothing women wear on their way to and from market, and the images of the ample sacks of goods they carry on their heads.

Or the strikingly beautiful smiles of small children just happy to have their photo taken. These are not the images seen on the news, friends say. These are the truth of Haiti. The rest of the story.

And that is true, but just like the photos of poverty don’t show the whole truth, neither do these photos I capture. Like any other culture, unless you physically spend time among Haitians, you will not see the whole truth. And I know that I risk oversimplifying — or worse, sentimentalizing — the Haiti that I want you to know.

I have a friend in Cherident who is an artist. His name is Felix Celestin. His work is beautiful — brightly colored images of rural life or of flowers or women. But recently, he showed me a new painting, one that made me cringe.

As a piece of art, it’s effective. But its effectiveness conjures the emotions of that other part of Haiti — the part I don’t like to show. The part I’m just realizing I want to shield, even from myself.

The painting is broken into thirds. On the left side, he shows the remnants of the 2010 earthquake, above it all is the fire in the Iron Market and the flowing floodwaters of a hurricane washes through the middle.

I am afraid I upset Felix when I cringed. But it wasn’t only the image that affected me. It was the sudden realization that I am here to face the ugly truths as well. And to do my job, as my brothers and sisters both in Haiti and the U.S., I have to tell these “other” stories.

Perhaps I’m worried that the images will be TOO stark, perhaps more painful that the truth, because even a photograph shows one quick glimpse of the whole story.

More than likely, I’m worried if I snap these photos and show them without the full story I’ll be guilty of impressing only with painful emotions. I’m not sophisticated enough to tell you what I need to tell you with only pictures — or even words and pictures. Every day I realize how much more I need to know about this culture before I will understand it myself, so I’m a long way from explaining it all to you.

If I call these people my brothers and sisters, as I do, I cannot risk diminishing their dignity through careless documentation. And at the same time, I cannot wait to share their stories. They are too important.

So I will do my best here to use my words.

The jagged edge of extreme poverty is all around me. In Port-au-Prince I see it in the faces of children who race from car to car in traffic, rag in hand, to wipe the ever-present dust off windshields. They’re working for handouts. When I first moved here, they were all boys, now I see young girls out there. It’s heartbreaking. But in the countryside, it’s even more apparent.

I spent most of last week in the northern mountains. I went with Mark Hare, a mission co-worker with the Presbyterian Church (USA) who works as an agricultural technician. And as informal trainer for me. Mark has worked in Haiti for years with other ag technicians and local families who are building and maintaining yard gardens so they can produce food year-round. Where we would go, into the mountains above Verrettes, the conditions would be difficult, Mark explained.

As it turns out, he might be the king of the understatement. The mountains were like nothing I’ve ever seen. The roads — or what passes for roads in rural, mountainous Haiti — tormented the Toyota LandCruiser. We made it up winding, gravely pathways on nothing short of a powerful 4-wheel drive system, an ambitious driver and the will of God.

Nothing. Short.

The farther we drove into the mountains, the more apparent was the harshness of life here.

At the edge of the narrow roadways, children peeked out from behind trees to see what was causing the ruckus. Small children, some wearing few clothes, perched on the dusty banks or on clusters of large rocks. Some waved shyly or grinned, but most just stared. The further we got into the mountains, the rarer the sound and sight of a vehicle, so some children laughed to see us.

The most startling image was that of about a dozen men carefully walking down the gravelly road as we climbed one of the steep hills on the way to Decomb. Six men walked behind the other six or eight who carried and old door above their shoulders. All I could see of the woman lying covered up on the door was a quick glimpse of her face and her hands gripping the wooden sides. Mark stopped the truck well away from the group, and we waited while they passed.

Later, someone in our truck said it looked like the woman had cholera. He said he could tell by her face.

And driving slowly along these rural roads, I saw the faces of those walking. I saw fatigue on their sweaty faces and dusty clothes. They have so far to walk. Their load is so heavy. And a strange and unrelenting guilt washes over me as I go by.

At an intersection in Verrettes, a reasonably sized town, several members of a family sat on a concrete porch very close to the road. A toddler played with what looked like a Fisher-Price baby stroller. Except it wasn’t the whole toy stroller — it was one handle, connected to one red and yellow wheel. That was all. The boy grinned as he pushed the broken piece of a toy along the porch.

There are so many other moments that startle me — and I hope they always will.

This is a cruel land. I often catch myself confused by the feelings of joy of being here, of the blessings I find especially in juxtaposition with the cruelties of a developing nation and the vulnerable people trying to make it through another day.

There is hope here. I have no doubt of that. And there is the hope in Christ here.

On any given morning you will see someone carrying a Bible or hear a piece of Scripture in conversation.

“Byen, gras a Dye,” someone will say in response to my greeting. “Very well, by the grace of God.”

Or they will answer that they will be to see my, “Si Dye vle.” “If God is willing.”

Felix told me the reason he painted the photo showing the disasters of Haiti. He is aware the image will take the audience aback. But he has to, he said, to honestly depict his country.

“I want people to think about this,” he said. “I want people to wonder how we can change things here.”

I admire his tenacity to use his God-given talents to tell the story of Haiti. That earthquake — he was here. Those cyclones? He and his family have felt them and feared them. Like all our brothers and sisters here, he is well poised to tell those stories, and all I can do is listen and learn how to help.

Bondye is in all of this, and I will do my best to tell the stories of when and where and how I see Him.

But until I can do without diminishing the dignity of those I see and meet, I will not show you the images of where, at any given time, He is most needed.

I knew I would see hardship when I came to Haiti. If you’ve been here before you’ve seen the desperate poverty, the pain and you’ve heard people tell you bluntly that they are hungry.

When I moved here — and especially when I was able to spend a month in a mountain village with a family — I was prepared for the tough times I would witness up close and personal.

What surprised me was the tenderness. It was everywhere, tucked into ordinary moments on what to me were extraordinary days.

From the start, I’ve been embraced in Haiti. From my first weeks staying at Trinity Lodge to my time in my apartment on Delmas 75, my friends both old and new have taken me in, advised me, fed me, shared time and jokes with me.

One glance, one “bonjou!” and I receive huge smiles and greetings. The patience with my faltering Kreyol alone is enough to earn them great praise from me, but the Haitians go so much further.

They assure me that I am at home.

It was most quickly and thoroughly evident in Cherident, though. In my last post, I shared with you how naturally and immediately I was brought into the Celestin family. And throughout four weeks, I was given a front-row seat to life in rural Haiti — not all of it perfect, of course, but with moments of grace tucked into the most ordinary occasions.

A few of my favorites:

Herns cutting his father’s hair.

Herns is the second born in the family of eight children. He is 32, and he and his wife, Jennifer and their 2-year-old son, Barns, live in Port-au-Prince. He is trained as an electrician, and in addition to other work when he can find it, he teaches in a technical school. He is a natural teacher — patient but demanding. I know that he looks for the best in others because he often tells me he finds it in me. And this is on the days when my best was not always apparent.

As you know, each of Papa Luc’s children traveled up the unforgiving road to Cherident during my month there — just to spend time with me. It was expected. I would have called it an obligation had the tables been turned — in the grace that is Haitian hospitality, they called it a pleasure. And Herns was there with me from the beginning and occasionally throughout my time there. Kreyol lessons sometimes were more formal, but much of it consisted of me listening and watching daily life.

One evening shortly before dusk, as neighbors dropped by to visit, Papa Luc pulled a wooden chair out into the courtyard, and Herns stood behind him combing and cutting his hair. He used a blue plastic brush, then carefully trimmed Papa Luc’s hair short with a comb that had a razor blade tucked into the teeth of the comb.

Slowly, carefully, tilting his father’s head this way and that, Herns shaped and trimmed and straightened his father’s hair. All the while, the neighbors and Papa Luc and Herns told stories and laughed and enjoyed the natural rhythm of conversation. As dark approached and the job was done, Herns brushed off his father’s shoulders, and Papa Luc replaced his ball cap.

It was an ordinary moment in an extraordinary place.

The teenager and the sick little boy.

Barns was sick with a bad cold. Every day and night, his parents gave the boy medicine, which must not have tasted too bad because he didn’t fight the spoon full of syrup. But the cough continued. One morning when I realized he wasn’t running hither and fro, I asked where he’d gone. His big cousin, Son-Son had taken him to the clinic, his mom told me.

About two hours later, Son-Son, 18, walked back home with a handful of medicines and the boy on his shoulders. That afternoon, I sat on the porch with Son-Son beside me, having one of our many conversations about Scripture, Kreyol, subjects we like to study or music. On his lap, sat a grumpy toddler.

Folding the little boy’s arms and legs into a comfortable position, Son-Son murmured to him. Barns’ crankiness subsided, and when I looked again, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

“Excuse me,” Son-Son said to me in Kreyol, standing carefully and taking the child into the house.

Another very ordinary moment — but my heart melted just a little.

One morning, Herns came home from Papa Luc’s shop where he’d sanded and drilled holes in a wide board. With a huge smile on his face, he set to work building a swing for the children.

Another tender moment.

And there are others. Every day. With every connection I make here, there is a neverending thread. My friends and family call me, text, visit me. They ask if I am eating, if I am sleeping well. My favorite question is one first posed by Goursse, an Episcopal deacon responsible for several churches in and near Cazale.

“Did you dream?” he asked me one morning. “What did you dream?” I would end each good night with “Make good dreams,” and the sentiment was returned.

They still ask, and I tell them about my dreams and ask about theirs.

Haiti is a land of many challenges, but do not — even for a moment — believe that dreams are forsaken here.

Whether the nocturnal wanderings of the mind or the ever-present hopes and plans for tomorrow, dreams are essential here.

And like the strong hands I often found ready and waiting for me on many long walks on narrow, rocky paths across the hills of rural Haiti, we will count on the power of dreams.

And the power of tenderness among our brothers and sisters here. And wherever you are, friends.

Dream — and make good dreams. And notice the tenderness in your days as well.

The beauty of growing is that each morning is a new day of lessons. This morning I realize that if I stay in one place for too many days in a row, a longing sets in. Today, I’m longing for mountains.

This is my 11^th day of waking up in Haiti. And in the same room, no less. A personal best after a series of weeklong trips to Haiti. But a drop in the bucket compared to my near future.

I’m here for the long haul this time. It is one thing to understand this intellectually. It’s a slow burn as it sets in. And it’s good, all good, but an adjustment every day.

I’m fortunate to stay in a beautiful, comfortable and reasonably priced hotel. Trinity Lodge is on Delmas 75, a very nice neighborhood. And only three days into my stay here, I found the apartment where I want to live — in the same neighborhood! Amazing! But as things go in a place like Haiti, it’s sloooooow going. The real estate agent had to travel out of town and progress halted for a week.

And I’ve spent that week here in the lodge, walking about the neighborhood, meeting new and wonderful people, getting to know other lodge-dwellers, visiting two different churches and — well, a lot of time to look out over the city from the lodge balcony.

I hope we will make progress on the rental this afternoon, and this morning I’m reflecting of what I’ve learned so far in the city of Port-au-Prince.

All five of your senses are overwhelmed here. The sounds of barking dogs, crowing roosters, crying children, little boys calling for their Poppi — over and over again calling for Poppi! Poppi! Poppi!

The sights of work. Not far from here one morning, I watched at least 20 workers spent one day pouring concrete on the roof of a long building. While the spinning concrete truck poured it out, workers filled gallon buckets and handed them, one at a time, to more workers up a tall ladder. On the roof, more workers carried a bucket from the roof’s edge over to where it was needed, and empty buckets were brought back to the edge and lowered by sliding down a rope. Then the process started all over again.

The sight of school children rushing back and forth to school in bright navy blue uniforms, then changing quickly into their other clothes to play in the streets. It’s often soccer if they have a ball, or a kickball game but with a rock.

The constant feel of rolling sweat in the high heat and humidity or a treasured breeze.

The smell of burning garbage or the stinging odor of black smoke rolling from a vehicle’s exhaust is tempered by the light scent of perfumed blossoms and meals prepared either in kitchens or along the road by merchants selling “fast food” like roasted corn on the cob.

And the layered taste of slow cooked foods — roasted chicken, goat stew, rice and beans — and sliced melon, mango, banana or, my favorite, fresh avocado. How ironic that in a nation of so many hungry people those with resources eat so well. Each bite reminds me of the reason so many of us are here, and why so many of you support us in our work.

Yes, the city life has its perks, but my longing? It’s for mountains. I’m drawn to them like to water. In the Shenandoah Valley and in Haiti. And once I get the apartment deal settled, that’s where I’ll head here. I’m going to spend about a month in Cherident, the place where I’ve often visited with Tinkling Spring Church. I will live with a family and work hard on my Creole. Prayers are welcomed for this project, by the way!

A scene from the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia

A scene from a road in southern Haiti.

And even when I return to the city, this will be my base. I hope that my work with FONDAMA, an association of agricultural groups, will find me often in the countryside, enjoying the mountains and valleys of this beautiful country. For now, though, I dream of mountains, both here and far away in my native land.