Today is the second day after our world was literally rocked. The people here on Anses-a-Galets have remained mostly safe from the physical harm, though a few reports of injuries and structural damage have been reported. However, no one seems to remain safe from the emotional impact of Tuesday's earthquake.
Families all over the city are still waiting to hear from loved ones. Today I watched about fifteen Haitian men and women load onto a boat to find their missing relatives. One passenger searching for a school aged son, another in search of his wife, and several more searching for 3 college-aged siblings who have yet to be found.
One lost child is enough to make a whole town weep. We do not have enough tears for those who are still missing.
Each moment that passes hangs heavier on the shoulders of those of us in Haiti. And occassional aftershocks make it impossible to pretend that our world could be normal.
Last night was one of the eeriest nights I've yet passed in this country. The usual loud music and yelling from the night clubs was strangely absent. The silence a sickening reminder of the silence so many are experiencing as they still wait for news from their families.
And in the morning, as I rose, I heard roosters yelling all over the town, but my sleepy heart was almost sure it was the sound of my neighbors crying.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Walking in the Dust with Us
For several months now I've been going to youth group at the Wesleyan Church here. It's been a funny experience as I've listened to Creole lessons on the etiquette of hosting or being a guest, and have fumbled through my song book to keep up with their hymns and asking everyone around me which bible passage we're reading.
Most of the time when I go, I don't say anything. I just sit and listen. Every once in a while the pastor will call on me for an answer, to which I almost always respond "M pa konnen." (I don't know). I haven't been what I would consider an avid participant or contributor.
But last month, just before I left for the States, the pastor said something that surprised me. "Thank you Justine for walking in the dust with us." He was referring to the 2 times I've gone to prayer and walked through the dusty streets which I walk through all the time anyway.
I didn't think this was a very big deal until my friend Merline explained it to me. "Sometimes Haitians feel a little bit under everyone else. And it is very rare to have a young missionary who comes to youth group."
(just for the record, Zach attended faithfully while he lived in Anses-a-Galets)
"So when you come and listen and you come and walk in the dust with us, we consider that a great honor."
I'm not sure if I got teary or not, but at the time I was trying to express to my friend what a privilege it was for me to go to youth group. I had seen how accommodating they could be, they'd switch from French to Creole bibles just so I could understand and they'd re-explain things if they knew I was confused. And I honestly felt like more of a burden than a blessing. But apparently God was doing something I couldn't see.
I've been wondering if Jesus felt the same way when he came to walk in the dust with us. I've been thinking a lot about his life and how he literally left heaven to come live amongst us. What an awesome sacrifice!!
Over Christmas, when I was living with all the privileges of the US (hot showers, Starbucks, paved roads, and English worship), I found myself resenting the sacrifices God's been asking me to make in Haiti. If other people can live with this stuff, why can't I?
Then, through the prayer of a friend, God brought my mind back to the truth of his sacrifice. Not just that he died, but that he lived here, among us. He left the golden streets to walk in the dust with us! What an honor. And what a challenge.
Most of the time when I go, I don't say anything. I just sit and listen. Every once in a while the pastor will call on me for an answer, to which I almost always respond "M pa konnen." (I don't know). I haven't been what I would consider an avid participant or contributor.
But last month, just before I left for the States, the pastor said something that surprised me. "Thank you Justine for walking in the dust with us." He was referring to the 2 times I've gone to prayer and walked through the dusty streets which I walk through all the time anyway.
I didn't think this was a very big deal until my friend Merline explained it to me. "Sometimes Haitians feel a little bit under everyone else. And it is very rare to have a young missionary who comes to youth group."
(just for the record, Zach attended faithfully while he lived in Anses-a-Galets)
"So when you come and listen and you come and walk in the dust with us, we consider that a great honor."
I'm not sure if I got teary or not, but at the time I was trying to express to my friend what a privilege it was for me to go to youth group. I had seen how accommodating they could be, they'd switch from French to Creole bibles just so I could understand and they'd re-explain things if they knew I was confused. And I honestly felt like more of a burden than a blessing. But apparently God was doing something I couldn't see.
I've been wondering if Jesus felt the same way when he came to walk in the dust with us. I've been thinking a lot about his life and how he literally left heaven to come live amongst us. What an awesome sacrifice!!
Over Christmas, when I was living with all the privileges of the US (hot showers, Starbucks, paved roads, and English worship), I found myself resenting the sacrifices God's been asking me to make in Haiti. If other people can live with this stuff, why can't I?
Then, through the prayer of a friend, God brought my mind back to the truth of his sacrifice. Not just that he died, but that he lived here, among us. He left the golden streets to walk in the dust with us! What an honor. And what a challenge.
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