three : resilience

"Port-au-Prince is FINISHED," we have heard so many of our brothers and sisters here in Cap-Haitien say. "DONE."

What a joy to have gone and come home as a bearer of good news...this is just NOT true. One of the many things that we just love about this culture and the Haitian people is the sheer creativity and drive to survive despite circumstances. We have seen cars, fans, TVs, pipes, generators, and all kinds of things that would have absolutely been deemed "scrap metal" in the States, made to work again here using everything from shoe soles to dead batteries.

That same sense of perseverance proved true in Port, even just 10 days after the earthquake.

I had never expected to see signs of life-pushing-on SO soon. But everywhere Wadner and I went, even before we left that soccer stadium, I saw signs of determination, courage, strength, perseverance and resilience.

This portion of the soccer stadium village was blocked off for it's original purpose.

And it wasn't just that women had begun to sell food again, or that men were busily about clearing rubble... it was that the shoe-shine boys were ringing their bells and toting their boxes of polish and black brushes again. I saw a woman, rooting through a pile of Sunday shoes, trying to find a matched pump to try on. I saw little ones, digging through piles of rubble for bicycle rims to whack and chase, bottles to turn into to racing cars, sacks to string into kites. I saw men selling cigarettes, setting up sheet tents as "Barber Shops" and hardware stores, even rummaging through their collapsed stores, trying to find parts of machines and wares that could be repaired.

(These men owned this printing shop until it was destroyed entirely January 12th. A woman and a child were killed inside. Today, they were trying to find some of the expensive pieces of equipment that were buried in hopes of starting again.)

We approached the center of town around noon, and quickly saw reports to be true that the government buildings seemed to be hit the hardest. Many people have blamed the corrupt fashion in which much government is carried out, while others blamed poor construction as that many of those who worked on these buildings supposedly stole much of the cement for themselves and doubled up on sand in exchange (think the Bible says something about building your house upon the sand :)

The Department of Economy...

...and all of their records.

The yard right across from the crumbling palace was again packed out with people who had quickly formed a kind of village for themselves. One area of the central park was clearly designated for bathing and washing, one for cooking and one for sleeping.

Life, as you know, was hard in Haiti before January 12th. And it still is. The word "resilient" just kept coming to my mind. I had expected to find a people dejected, despairing, desperate. Instead, I found a people quite determined.

74 year-old cousins helped each other get to OMS's makeshift medical clinic. They were both grinning and poking fun at each other, until I asked to take their picture :)

None, however, as much as this 18 year-old woman whom I will never forget. The morning before we left, we were trying to find a hospital in need of a surgeon that had come to help. We visited several different make-shift hospitals, and as Dave worked to find translators (based on whatever country we were "in") and work out plans for the guy, I took advantage of the time talk with people. I couldn't take pictures any of these places (yes, please don't tell anyone about this one shot...this was the only one, I promise!) but I was desperate after days of picture taking to actually step inside and spend some time with some of our family there.

At this particular hospital, just teeming with French doctors and nurses and hundreds of patients, most now missing a limb or two, I walked past a tent and Valerie caught my eye. She was sitting on a mattress, one leg gone, another damaged, raw wounds on both arms and hands...but that's not why she grabbed me.

As she sat there, peering out of her tent, it was as if she was looking for someone. And I know I've said this before, but again it was as if I was looking into the face of Jesus. Just immediately. She was Jesus.

"Hi," I said softly, knowing I wasn't really even supposed to be there, not sure if she would want to talk.

"Oh, PLEASE" she said immediately. "Sit here," she patted the spot beside her inside the tiny tent, just big enough for two mats. "Please talk to me. I would like to be your friend."

It was so heart wrenching, the way she said it, and I realized that of the thousands of people over the years that have stopped me, as a foreigner, and asked for something...money, food, help, prayer, a ride, clothing, a job, my earrings, Lily...she was the FIRST person ever to ask just to be my friend.

Praise the Lord, for almost 45 minutes the surgeon was delayed, and Valerie and I just talked. It was fantastic. It wasn't even ministry. It was just talking with a friend, with my sister, encouraging each other.

Her story was horrific. She and her mother went through a shockingly long list of lost loved ones...Neighbors that died, family that died, all their other family in the house that died. Friends that died. Teachers. Pastors. Milk men. The soup lady.

"How did you live?" I finally asked, realizing how minor her seemingly major injuries were considering the fate of almost everyone else in her vicinity.

"We all just ran," she said. "Everyone ran, everyone was screaming. Most didn't make it. Mom got out with just some stair scraping her leg. But a huge part of the house fell on my leg and foot right as I was getting out.

"It all was on my leg, and I couldn't move. We thought the rest of the house was going to fall, but I couldn't go. My mom came back. We waited. We tried to dig myself out, but couldn't. The next day, my mom found someone to help, and he cut off my leg with his machete.

"And then I came here, on the 13th, and we've been here ever since. Let's talk about you! Where are you from?" she asked brightly.

WHAT?!?

Would you believe me if I told you that we talked for another thirty minutes and that she never once complained or grumbled about losing her leg? I mean, she's an 18 year old girl! No boyfriend, almost no family, and now NO leg, and she was so incredibly thankful to be alive that I could honestly see that it did not bother her one bit...not what she looked like, not what it could mean for her, not how hard it could make the rest of her life...nothing.

There is no prosthetic in the future for this girl. No physical therapy. No medical assistance, no elevators. Heavens, not even a house. No home! No NOTHING. Everything they had in the entire world was each other and that tent...and the tent belonged to the hospital.

No complaints.

Later, I asked her what was in store for her.

"Oh, I'm so excited about this!" she told me with all the energy of an 18 year-old girl about to spill a juicy secret. "Listen! I saw so many die all around me, but God spared me! Praise the Lord, He saved me! And I know He makes no mistakes. And I know He allows everything for a reason. And so I know that He saved me for a beautiful reason, and I just can't wait to see what that is!"

AK, my heart! For the first time, it occurred to me that HE SAVED ME, TOO! The earthquake could have been here, instead of there. We're only some 100 miles away. I could have been buried, just as easily as her sisters. Matt could have been killed, just as quickly as her father. Of ALL the things that could happen ANY day, He saved me! Am I searching for the reason? Am I asking Him why? Am I grateful for my breath and unconcerned with my losses and excited to discover and fulfill His daily plan for me?

I grabbed her hand and I prayed for her. I prayed that they would find a house. I prayed that they would find food. I prayed that the Lord would show her His reason, that He would heal all the broken bits of her heart, that He would redeem all the losses, that He would bless her beautiful spirit.

No sooner had I finished that she prayed for me, and I knew as I sat there beside her, sweat pouring down us both in that stifling tent, that this was one of life's rare purely beautiful moments. Just two hours after standing horrified by a river of death, I sat by still waters with joy in my soul.

I took her picture, not for the photograph, but that I might always remember to praise Him, and always remember my sister.

My first exchange of beauty for ashes. More to come...

Women selling fruit and produce and grains of all kinds. Prices are still higher than normal, but but there was an abundance for sale.

***UPDATE

I have some AWESOME stories coming out of Port from our seminary guys that are there now for the next post! The first group is joyful but exhausted and preparing to return home on Tuesday.

Matt, along with 6 fresh students and staff members, head down tomorrow around noon. They'll be staying up on the top of a mountain where Dr. Gavin continues to run a clinic in a Methodist mission. The harvest is SO ripe here that Gavin reported that he would continue the clinic this week, not because of the medical need, but because of the great spiritual need that is being met by the Lord through the seminary guys.

Please be praying for this trip, for the nightly services that are now being held, and for all the evangelism going on during the day...Can't wait to tell you about this!

two : loss

In an effort to 'prepare' myself for this trip to Port, I had tried to imagine the worst possible things in advance. I had not even thought about the fear. But I had thought about the death. I've shared with you before my experiences with death in Haiti and how they have impacted me. So I tried to prepare for that times, well, 200 THOUSAND.

(Several hundred people are still buried under what used to be a university.)

I don't know how you do that.

I received a grace that most of the millions of men, women and children in Port didn't. The Red Cross and other organizations had obvoiusly worked overtime to clear most of the dead bodies from the streets and ditches, and I breathed a small sigh of relief as Wadner and I continued our trek through the city.

As we walked, we became aligned with a large open ditch of sewage and garbage and water to our right. This is quite normal in most parts of Haiti, as it is to see people taking water from this source. First we passed this serious little guy, shoving garbage away with his hand to fill his jugs with water, probably his chore for the family.

Further upstream, I saw this man filling a five gallon Culligan bottle from the same "stream", using his cup to filter out most of the sludge and debris. It troubled my heart, as it always does, to see this, and I never can help but think of the SIX sources of pure endless water in my home alone, not counting spigots outside.

But then we walked further through town, further up the stream of sewage, which turned into this...

...which then turned into the most horrific thing I have ever seen. The floating bottles and bags and sticks began to take shape, began to take the shape of people.

I stopped breathing and looked up, only to realize that the canal was spotted with the forms of men and women. Small forms...children. Outstretched arms tangled with limp papers and clumps of bamboo. Feet poked out from beneath cookie foils and scraps of clothing. Unable to look and unable to turn away, I felt my heart just pounding within me, and Wadner, noticing my ashen face, tried to help by pointing out, "Stacey, those are people DEAD."

Thank you, dear Wadner.

And then we just kept walking.

I took one photo, and we kept walking. Walking with thousands of people slipping around us, buses roaring by. My mind was racing, my mind is racing still, but I didn't know what to do. I couldn't cry, I couldn't stay, I couldn't breathe. We just kept walking, and I thought about the vibrant life around me, ALL of whom had seen things far more horrific than this for days on end. I thought about the stern little boy filling his jugs. From that water. Thought of the little girls washing clothes and themselves at the same time, standing in that stream.

I thought about the mothers who had rocked those dead bodies as children. The families who knew who those unrecognizable bodies were. The men who had promised to love and cherish those women, floating with styrofoam trays and coke bottles. I thought of my sister, of my father, of those sisters, of those fathers.

I thought of our Jesus, who died for them, and thought of their Spirits (oh, please Lord, might they have known you, might they be with you) and dreamt as we worked our way through the market day crowd of them joyful and whole and radiant and singing strong praises before His throne.

I began to cry, but there was no time. "Soccer!" Wadner said, and we ducked off the street into a huge fenced off area.

I don't want to see soccer, I thought sourly, realizing we had entered Port's soccer stadium. My tears and thoughts of His people in the canal quickly faded, however as we entered the playing field only to face hundreds of tents and thousands of people...another 'village' had emerged. A tiny naked-butt girl about Lily's age was before me, trying with all her might to step over a little ditch without falling, hesitating just in the exact same fashion that Lily does before stepping down and out our front door.

Habitually, I grabbed her little hand and she used my support to step confidently over the small ravine. Her mother sat a few feet away, scrubbing clothes against each other, and our eyes met and she smiled a genuine thanks. A connection was made. I could be her. Her daughter could be Lily. I could live in a soccer stadium in a sheet.

This father pulled his one month old daughter and three year old son out of their home as it was collapsing around them.

Their mother, his girlfriend, was crushed behind them.

Life moved on, and for about an hour we cut our way through the maze of sheet homes, talking with people, playing with children, asking families for their stories. Every single person we spoke to had lost family members, dear friends. Every one. Emotionally and physically exhausted, we climbed the seats on one side so I could take this picture, and then sat for a while so I could rest.

Wadner shared with me a happier day he had spent in this same stadium, playing a soccer match whenever he was fifteen, and he met the president. We talked about the day and I smiled as he recounted each detail of what must have been bliss in the mind of a 15 year-old boy.

"Two thousand people can sit here at one time!" he told me energetically, and the release was gone...I started thinking numbers again. I looked around at each happy colored seat...cheerful yellow and vivacious red...too happy. I placed a person in each chair, filling the stadium. I made them dead, in my mind. Two thousand. All dead. Then I tried to do that ONE HUNDRED times. Tears well up in my eyes again as I thought, unable to turn off my mind.

If I could have, in that moment, KNOWN that these people were with my Jesus, standing alongside my mum, and Ben, and Lucy and so many others, praising His name with joyful hands held high, I could have stood up right then with a huge smile on my face and released an exuberant "Hallelujah!"

But I could not.

Does heaven feel the loss, I wonder, of those that might have been there? Does He? Does our Lord feel the loss of every single one of His children who never choose Him...for all eternity?

What I couldn't SEE that day was the loss. There were still millions of people milling about. The roads were still packed with traffic, the streets still crowded. All I could see was who remained. I don't know ONE PERSON who died in those 200,000. But millions of people DO. And so does He.

Already, Port is moving on, cleaning up, rebuilding. But the loss of each mother, each brother, each child, is a PART of the Haitian people now. The loss of 100 soccer stadiums of people in one day will forever be a part of Haiti.

A four story building near the CSI guesthouse.
The Palace of Justice was ENTIRELY destroyed, with dozens of judges and lawyers still buried.
This house was literally split in half, with the bathtub and shower exposed.

I know I promised you "beautiful things." They are coming! This entry describes the lowest point, but He didn't leave me, or Haiti, there...hang in there with us.

I was so surprised by how one building could be completely obliterated, and the one standing right next to it could be completely in perfect shape.

one: fear

Due to several set-backs and complications, we turned our dump truck off the long road south and headed into Port right at sunset Saturday night. I was caught off guard by how peaceful the broken city looked. It sat at the base of deep purple mountains, as it always has, smoke rising from its center and floating towards the heavens, as it always is. Jagged cracks in the blacktop and the churning of my heart were the only signs of trouble.

By the time we were deep in the city, it was inky black, and the city that is usually brightly lit at night was black but for small piles of burning tires, burning this time for no reason other than for the clarity and comfort that light brings.

What an eerie feeling, knowing that there was disaster and death all around me, but being able to see none of it, though I was right at its center. My camera sat expectantly in my lap as it had for 8 hours, but there were no pictures to take.

I thought about those first nights after the quake, of all the people below the ruble spending the dark night alone, unable to be seen and unable to see. I prayed through days that had already come and gone that He had met them those nights.

We arrived at the Villa Ormiso, OMS’s guest house, after about an hour only to find dozens of people speaking several different languages, all medical people from around the globe. Dr. Gavin, his wife Julie, Dave Shafferly and a few other familiar faces were already there, and knowing not what the next day would hold, I ate as much cold rice as I could and asked if there was a room.

I was quite surprised and relieved to be led to a large open room, all to myself, on the bottom floor of a three story building. Despite the fact that there were dozens of people milling about, the room was unoccupied, as were all the other rooms around it. I had just stepped in the door, thankful for my beautiful room, when someone behind me said, “I’d sleep with your door open, if I was you.”

I turned to find a large man with a flashlight peering at a crack on the side of the building.

“Why?” I asked, clearly ‘new’.

“They’re calling for a 6.4 in the next 24-48 hours,” he said, still ignoring me and staring intently at the crack. “Why you think you have no neighbors? Sleep with your door open so you can get out when you need to.”

Just a few days before, I had griped to Matt about our student’s unwillingness to sleep in their brand-new dorm, due to the fact that it was a two-story building. And yet suddenly, it didn’t matter if I didn’t think “they” could predict another earthquake, or if many of the guests said the man was crazy, or if I was exhausted. I trust the Lord implicitly, but I could barely brush my teeth in that room.

An hour later some exhausted saints tied down the last stake of a large tent with flashlights strapped to their foreheads, and I slept the deep and weary sleep of one who knew they were safe. I slept in middle of the yard in the middle of Port, my beautiful room abandoned, Psalm 46 on my lips…

You are my refuge and strength,

A very present help in trouble.

Therefore, I will not fear,

Though the earth should tremble

Though the mountains will slip into the heart of the sea.

The Lord had already answered a prayer Matt and I had lifted for someone to come alongside me and make it possible for me to travel throughout the city safely and thoroughly. A man 3 weeks my elder had ridden down with me the day before to be a translator for a medical clinic, but was free until Monday morning. He quickly agreed to be my companion for the day, and together we set out at 6:30 Sunday morning, feeling the first slight tremor of the day, only for a few seconds, even as we shut the gate behind us.

All that I had been blinded to the night before fell upon me at once.

I turned the corner coming out of the Villa only to see a gas station, just like the ones we have in the States, completely void of cars but packed with dozens of faded sheet tents, teeming with dozens of families beginning their days. Small piles of charcoal boiled pots of black-sludge coffee, and I walked past the sleeping frames of tiny ones, huddled against each other on the oil-spotted concrete slab, oblivious to their ring-eyed parents starting the day around them.

"Family of Tony is Alive with Jesus!" this house says. Many broken homes are marked with the status and whereabouts of families so that loved ones will know how and where they are.

In just a moment, they were everywhere, tents of cardboard, shoestrings, plywood, sheets, scraps of clothing, tape. Lining the main street, cramming the median, spilling over the park, replacing the sidewalks, thousands of tents. All around me, Haiti was waking up and stretching its stiff backs from a long night on cold cement, wondering how to face the day.

At first, I thought everyone was homeless. But after a few moments, I realized that while many of them were, most were just like me, sleeping in less-than-desirable places…SAFE places. As I looked deep into the sleepy dark eyes around me, I realized that these eyes had SEEN. They had seen their children crushed beneath homes they had built with their own hands. They had seen strong fortresses crumble, had seen the impossible take place in 35 seconds.

The median, lined by streams of sewage and smack in the middle of four lanes of blaring traffic, was entirely safe from falling ANYTHING, and so there I found thousands sleeping. I would have slept there, too, the night before had it been my only choice other than that first story spacious room, and I hadn’t just barely survived anything, hadn’t seen anything.

I tried not to stare as we walked past thousands of huts, catching glimpses of drooling babies and little ones sucking on pieces of bread, men lying awake, staring at nothing, women smoothing down wild braids and sending children clutching coins out for an egg, for water…catching glimpses of life. Poor people, rich people, young people, old people, Christian, non-Christian…everyone was living in the same filthy tents and everyone was the same. Everyone was afraid.

I gasped and grabbed a woman’s arm as another tremor shook the earth and the tent-village filled with short screams…

I don’t know when the fear will fade.

UPDATE: Right now there are 6 students, staff members and graduates from Emmaus Seminary in Port, working alongside of OMS's makeshift clinic there to evangelize the hundreds of people coming to seek medical attention. Please be praying for Lucner, Ben, Jasmine, Junior, Blaise and Janiel as they are overwhelmed by the extreme physical and spiritual need. Yesterday, 51 people came to know the Lord as these 6 shared Him...