jil

Sometimes, it is just too much. Today was one of those times.
Most days, the poverty of Haiti is a part of life. Some days, something so extreme or painful will cross our path that the poverty consumes us. Today was one of those days.

We met Jil a long time ago. From the first times we began coming to Sakenville, we noticed him in the road, not because his appearance or work stood out, but because of his spirit. Laden with a shovel and wheelbarrow, Jil works daily in the hot sun at self-created work.

He gets dirt and gravel, and fills large potholes in the road. No one asked him to do this, and I'm sure many days he doesn't make a penny. But sometimes, a tap-tap gives him a few cents, or a bus might give him a dollar, and this is his work. It isn't much, but in a country where there IS no work, Jil works.

Each time we pass, we stop and chat for a moment, sometimes giving him a few dollars and sometimes just talking. He wears a worn blue t-shirt that says "Does it look like I work here?" across the chest 100% of the time, and has a trim beard, crows feet and clear eyes.


But until last week, we didn't really know much about him. We were driving to OMS for a meeting with 7 people packed in the cab, and he hailed us down. We chatted for a moment and asked how he was, and the normally chipper Jil grabbed Matt's hand and said, "Not good. Things are not good."

"What's up?" Matt asked, and with increasing sadness we listened to his broken story. A few months ago, his wife had been gang-raped by four men from Sakenville in their home. The good news was that all four are now in jail. The difficult news was that she is now pregnant with their 6th child.



"Things are desperate," Jil said. "We are suffering. Please pray."

While it is sadly quite common to hear such horrible stories, and to hear that people are suffering, his plea resounded in my heart, and for the rest of the day I couldn't stop thinking about him. The next time we saw him, we promised to come to his house, today, and pray with he and his wife.

So, around three, Matt, Lily, Rachelle, Josephine and I headed down the road, much further than I have ever gone in Sakenville. As we walked away from the Seminary and church, it was as if the world was getting darker. I felt a sense of despair, of discouragement, of sadness the further we went. Though people smiled and greeted us, though little children chased around us in laughter, there was no light behind the eyes, no peace within the still yards.

We finally arrived at what Jil had pointed out as the landmark for his house, and my initial thought was, "OK, this isn't too bad." There were literally dozens of people in the yard, sitting about, talking. The house was small, but made of block, and I was thankful that he was able to have a dry place for his kids.


He greeted us excitedly, and was wearing dress pants and a dress shirt and shined shoes, and we soon realized he had dressed up for our visit. I expected that we would go inside, but instead, he led us around the house...behind it was a second home. A bit smaller, but still in not terrible shape.

...but he led us past that house too, then another, now wood and tin...then finally stopped in the doorway of a fourth house: his.


I have been many awful places. I've been to some very poor poor homes. I've stayed in stick- thatch huts and leaky dark rooms. But I have never, never been in such an unspeakable place.

Jil's house was nothing more than split palm tree wood, spaciously woven together and pegged to sticks stuck in the ground. Scraps of literal garbage covered it...patches of rusty tin, garbage bags, cracked plastic buckets, dirty scraps of cloth.



He immediately invited us in, and we ducked through the opening and paused while our eyes adjusted to the darkness. We stood in wet sticky black mud, and there was nothing inside the little hut. A woman, his wife, lay on a bed in the corner. Anywhere you go in Haiti, you are immediately offered chairs. Sitting together is an important part of this relationship-oriented culture. However, we quickly realized that Jil had NO chairs, not one.

So I kissed his wife and she begged us to sit on the bed with her. I sat, and realized that it was no bed at all, but several long branches woven together into a lumpy, pokey bench. A smudged sheet had been tucked over it to make "a bed."

Overwhelmed, I focused on her eyes. Mimose carried the same light that her husband did. Her soft smile was deeply genuine and held nothing back. She looked into my eyes as we spoke, held my hand as she introduced me to her five children. Lily promptly squirmed off my lap, but after being immediately snatched up and passed stranger to stranger, she quickly came running back.

They were joyful yet tiny children, the youngest 2 years old. The entire time we were there, he chewed seriously, steadily and hungrily on the claw of a crab, slowly chipping off small pieces of shell and sucking at the inside. His scalp had been shaved, revealing seeping rings the size of baseballs. I immediately thought, "I'll bring antifungal cream for his ringworm," but as we talked and I looked about the room, I knew that his head would never heal as long as he was living as he was, no matter how much medication.

Their daughter wore a faded Cinderella nightgown and was bones, her arms and legs the size of Lily's, despite her four years. Mimose kept one hand pressed to her obvious belly, and I realized that she, too, was far too dressed up for a day at home. They had been waiting all day for us.

More and more people, anxious to see what the foreigners and "small foreigner" were doing, pressed into the little shanty, and for the sake of the dozens of children, the violent crime Mimose had survived and the bittersweet precious result churning in her belly remained unspoken. Instead, we chatted about family, about church, about school, and about prayer.


Together we all prayed, and the Holy Spirit gave Matt the words to pray for these dear new friends.

As he prayed, my mind and heart spun, and I fought tears in front of this beaming family. I felt sick to think that the children around me slept in the mud at my feet. I felt sick to realize that any pennies Jil made filling the road barely fed his family, and couldn't touch education, medical care, true shelter, even a mat to sleep on.

I couldn't even think of my home. I couldn't even hardly compare where I sat with many of the homes I frequent in Sakenville. Then I thought of the 6th baby on her way. And what this would mean for Jil and Mimose.


As we walked home, promises to visit again soon extended, I tried to shove all the pieces of my heart into my "process later" compartment, but am finding it quiet impossible. All I can think of this evening as I sit on our couch with my porcelain baby sleeping soundly in her crib with a fan and Matt snoozes in his lazy-boy is that family.

All I can think about is the 7 of them sleeping, living ... there. All I can think about is Jil, and the weight that must crush him almost every moment, the weight of caring for his family, the weight of what has happened to his love, the weight of another mouth to feed. All I can think about is what to do, how to help, how to pray.

It's not just that Jil and Mimose have no electricity, no running water...No one else in Sakenville, aside from the seminary, have those. It is that there is not one grain of rice in that house. Can we imagine? Can I imagine having not ONE potato chip, not ONE box of cereal, not ONE can of soup in my house, or even within my grasp? Can I imagine what it would be if tomorrow morning when Matt and Lily arose, I had not ONE thing to give them?

It's not just that Jil and Mimose can't send their kids to school. We see hundreds of school-age kids playing in the road every day that will never attend school one day of their lives. It is that their children, if the Lord waits, will spend every day of their lives in this dark and despairing zone of mud and hunger and ringworm. I cannot imagine, peering in on Lily, what it would be to know that she would NEVER have soup in the cupboard, the hope of a future, the opportunity to study, even a chance at good health.

Ah, the complaints of my days shame me. The groaning of my 'sacrifices' and hardships pain me. I have known NOTHING but riches and beauty and protection, provision, cleanness, full stomachs, promises for days ahead. I long for the day, long for it, that we are before the Lord, and Jil and Mimose know no suffering, worry not for their next meal, weep not for their children.

I have said and believed with my whole heart that He is enough. And I could see in the light that shone in Jil and Mimose's eyes that He IS.

And I know their hearts bring Him joy. And I know their sickness, their hunger, their suffering breaks His heart, and tonight, it breaks mine.

He raises the poor from the dust
and lifts the needy from the ash heap
Praise the Lord.
Psalm 113

Photos taken by Elisa T. around northern Haiti.