Adoption as Sons

This week I had the privilege of attending my friends' court hearing to finalize the adoption of their little boy, Will. Having followed his story over the past 2 1/2 years and having seen the miracles God did just to get Will from Haiti to the US, I entered the courtroom with what felt like an ice cube in my throat and group of moths in my heart.

As the attorney stood up, and began to describe the papers she was handing the judge, I thought back to Mme. Soliet, the orphanage director in Haiti, and the innummerable phone calls and conversations she had had to get signatures from the biological father on those papers.

I thought of the Haitian judge, leaving in the middle of a meeting late on a Saturday night to sign papers that would allow Will to head to the embassy the following day and leave the country on a special post-earthquake visa.




And I thought of our dear friend Magistra Dahame translating those papers while sitting in a dusty classroom where the occassional rat graced the rafters and asking "Teacher, how would you describe the word "duress"?"

The South Carolina judge could never guess how many hours of stressing, running, and praying went in to getting those papers in his hands.

Then the attorney called upon the parents to testify. One by one, Beth and Justin, the parents who had fought 3 years through a forest of red tape for their son, were asked to make public affirmations of that love and commitment.

"Do you understand that this adoption is permanent?"

"Do you agree to take care of this child and meet his every need?"

"Do you understand that health problems could arise in the future?"

And on they went. "This adoption will make this child your legal heir, which means he can inherit from you and you from him, just as if he had been born to you."

Though Will had been living with Beth and Justin for over a year and had been their son even before that time, there was something powerful about this public declaration that this is their son.

And I couldn't help but think back to the bible passages where God sends his Spirit to declare about Jesus, "This is my son, whom I love. With him I am well pleased." How affirming for Jesus, and for Will, to hear their parents publicly affirming their identity as a beloved son.

While I tried to keep the tears pooled in my eyes and tried to swallow the ice-like lump in my throat, Paul's words popped into my head. "The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”" Romans 8:15

Wow! The fact that God has adopted us as his sons and daughters makes so much more sense to me. After watching Beth and Justin and the things they were willing to invest just so they could bring their son home--the finances, the time, the tears--I think maybe I'm begining to get a glimpse of the love Paul was talking about.

When I walked out of the courtroom Wednesday morning, Will was in his Daddy's arms, friends were hugging Beth, and I'm pretty sure God was smiling and saying "Yep, those are my kids, and I love them!"

Grand Tour of America and Haiti Trip

My fiance Matthew and I often joke that when we came home from Haiti for a break, we were coming for a Grand Tour of America. Often driving 10 hours one way to visit each other's families, going to weddings, and squeezing in vacation time I think it was a fairly accurate statement.

Well when I moved back from Haiti, it was no different. From April to July I had slept over night in Indianapolis; IN, Dayton,OH; Lynchburg, VA; Detroit, MI; Central, SC; Stoneboro, PA; and gone back for a visit to Haiti.

Below are a few pictures of my travels:

My Dear Friend Merline

I had a really good time hanging out with Merline tonight. The two of us did a little bit of work in the afternoon then hung out in my house talking life and watching a movie.

While we're together, we switch back and forth between Creole and often blend words between both languages. Example I said tonight You can see my zos (zo creole for bone). To be honest I'm rarely conscious of which language we're speaking. At one point tonight I thought we were speaking Creole and realized she was speaking English, and I was responding in Creole.

We've figured out the perfect movie watching system, French dubbed with English sub-titles, and again, I honestly hardly notice that I'm reading while we watch. It's amazing to think how much the two of us have learned about each other these past two years.

Tonight we went for a walk along the sea. Probably the last of several seaside walks. As we walked we talked about our first walk together. How nervous I was when I read the Creole words on my note card: eske ou vle mache avek mwen (would you like to walk with me?) and how surprised she was that I genuinely wanted to be friends.

We laughed again at our first conversations and reflected on how good God has been to put us together. I can't believe what an amazing friend God has given me here in Haiti and can't believe my time here is almost up. It looks like I may have to find my way back to visit in the near future and in the mean time invest in several Skype minutes.

Peer Evaluation

Last night in English class we were discussing of the meaning of the word peer. Taking my cues from Keith Folse's Great Writing 4, I defined peer as someone who is equal to you and proceeded to give examples. Teachers' peers are other teachers. Parents' peers are other parents. Etc. Then, trying to stretch this definition a bit, I said in church all the attendees are peers.

One of my students quickly posed this question, "But teacher, why are we peers in the church and then when we leave church we aren't all peers?"

Not wanting to let the moment pass, I invited the whole class to respond. The discussion that followed reminded me again of what an incredible opportunity I have to teach English class here in Haiti.

We talked about equality and submission to authority and ended with a bit of theology. "Teacher, I think that church is not a building. Church is in your heart, and wherever you go, you should take church with you."

The mayor chimed in, "The bible says we are supposed to love all people. And even if someone is not our peer we're supposed to love them and give them respect."

I'm sure I had a huge grin on my face the whole time my students were discussing this. I cannot hide how proud I am to hear their hearts and how excited I was that the definition of the word peer could provoke so profound and rich a discussion.

Walking By

Outside the gate of our mission station, there was a man would lay in the dusty road. He lay there sometimes with his back propped against the wall and his oversized right leg sticking out into the street. Othertimes he sprawled out sideways, his head just inches away from the earth where goat poop, trash, and urine wash down in the rains.

Almost every day I walked passed him on my way to class, sometimes greeting him sometimes not. Usually I was in a hurry to get to class, and carrying only what I needed to teach: chalk, books, a flashlight for the walk home, so when he asked for food, I didn't have any with me to give.

Here I walk by people every day wearing tattered shirts or shoes two sizes too big. The kids, all of them, have learned 2 or 3 English phrases including "I am hungry," and "Give me one dolla(r)." And adults who see you in the street will ask you for the shoes off your feet, and those who see you in the store ask you to pay for the items in their hands. So I've learned to ignore, grown accustomed to turning my head and walking away.

But this man, lying in the street alone, was obviously not a child playing a game and testing his English or an adult looking for a laugh or some free phone cards. This man was dying in front of me every day.

Several times I thought, I should take some food to that man today, but don't remember doing that even once. I didn't give him any money or even a cup of cold water. I walked by him. So his face has haunted me. I see it sometimes when I read stories in the bible like the good Samaritan or of Jesus healing a beggar.

In April of 2010, I headed back to the States for a few months, and while I was there, this man's face never left my mind. I decided, when I get back to Haiti, I must give this man some food or something. I looked for him when I returned in August, but he was not here.

I asked about him and discovered he had passed away sometime while I was gone. I don't even know his name. Never had a real conversation with him. Yet the face of this man will forever be my companion.

Things Here that I Just Like

There are some things in Haiti that are really tough and stink, but there is a lot of stuff here that is just really good and fun. Here's a list of a few of my favorite things here.

- Each of my students greets me with a handshake when they come in, and gives me another handshake when they go out.

- If you are with someone who has something you do not, they will almost always share what they have with you. (for example snacks) :)

- Everytime someone walks into class, even if they are late and class is going on, they say "Good afternoon, Teacher."

- Conversations with people you know well almost always involve a pat on the back, or putting a hand on their shoulder or maybe even a hug.

- My students call me Teacher.

- Everyone always asks about how my family is and sends their greetings to my mother, father, and sisters even though none of them have ever met one of my family members.

- When you're in, you're in. Once people here accept you, they take such good care of you. (When I was sick, 1 man offered to take my trash out every day, 2 ladies volunteered to do laundry, another woman cooked for me one day and sent V8, and everyone prayed.)

- Good friends hold hands sometimes while talking or walking down the road.

- Also, when you're sick everyone tells you to drink delicious fresh citrus juice...to which I have no objections.

I'm not sure what I'll do when I go back to the States. I really am going to miss some of these little bits of Haitian culture, and might have to try to transport some of these things with me without being too socially awkward.

Reflections In the Tension of Two Realities

It's 8:30 in the evening, and it is still about 80 degrees out. My ceiling fan is on and the windows, as always, are opened. It's hard to believe that at the same time many people back in the States are huddled under blankets or sitting beside heaters as snow blows around outside.

But it's not only climate that separates these two realities. It's political structures, economic struggles, infrastructures, and a history of prosperity or poverty. While I'm in the States, showering in hot, drinkable water, I often think of the Haitians bathing at the public fountains or privately in their homes using a gallon jug of cold, untreated water. Or when I hop in the car and head down the highway to the grocery store, I think of the unpaved rocky paths in parts of Port Au Prince, packed with cars creeping up the road within inches of each other.

How is it that the realities of a five dollar a day cup of coffee and a nine dollar a day pay check can exist simultaneously? How can I walk down a trash covered ally past beggars and barefooted kids in tattered t-shirts one day and the very next day climb into a $30,000 dollar car and speed past multi-million dollar shopping centers or church campuses where any given person can be wearing an outfit easily worth over 100 dollars?

And yet I do. One day I am here in Haiti, handing out a bag of rice or an extra pair of shoes, and the next day I drop 60 bucks at Wal-Mart and tell the cashier no, I don't want to donate my change to the children's hospital. What do I do with that?

On other days I decide not to give the man in the 4-sizes-too-big corduroys money for medicine for fear I'm enabling an unhealthy dependency and instead send my money to an American church trusting they'll choose to use it better than I will.

One day I feel like the richest woman in town because I live with electricity, a refrigerator, and a flushable toilet, and the next day I’m laughing with my friends about being poor because I’ve never owned a car and can’t afford good health care. I don’t know how to respond to this reality or interact with these realities.

Obviously I can’t only care about the poor when I’m living among the poor and then deny their need with a simple perspective shift that places me in the position of poverty rather than power. But how can I maintain a sense of responsibility for the well being of my brothers and sisters who have been oppressed and in need since before my birth, while I have been born into an abundance that was established and bestowed upon me based on nothing other than my birth into privilege?

Almost a Year Later

In front of the Bicentennial Monument January 2011.

Last week I traveled to down town Port Au Prince for the first time since the earthquake. Even though I have been here since the quake, I had not yet had an opportunity to travel down by the palace or through some of the most heavily damaged areas.

So, almost a year after the earthquake changed our lives, I saw the damaged palace for the first time. By now the dust has settled, and the chaos that filled that square last year has settled along with it. The palace is surrounded by a chain link fence and cars are parked in what used to be the beautifully kept green lawn.

Across the street, where a larg park used to be, tents and makeshift homes hide the space and the sidewalk. In another direction, more tents, tarps, and tin homes crowd around the statue of Henri Christophe on his horse. Where students once lounged in the lawn to study, mothers wash clothes in metal basins and children wait in line for water provided my NGOs.

Photo of Bicentennial Monument yard before the Quake. This travel blog photo's source is TravelPod page: Port-au-Prince

The beauty of that well kept place is gone, the need of the people pressed right up against the walls of the fragile government structures.

But what bothered me most wasn't just the raw reality of need, but the permanance of it. Almost a year later, people seem to be settling in to their new homes. Porta potties have been brought in to line the edges of the cities and water stations have sprung up amidst the tents.

A boy in the doorway of one of the tent sat polishing his shoes as we drove by. Meanwhile I listened to one of the missionaries tell me about reports of an increase in rape in the tent cities and answer back the news I had heard about AIDS being on the rise in these settlements, too.