Sometimes I feel so used to this culture that I think nothing will catch me off guard again. Saturday was one of those days.
Sitting on the front porch of Jean-Sius's house with Kerline, Shayla and Naomi while Lily played out back with the goats, talking and laughing about life and feeling entirely blessed by these sweet friendships and quite at home, I could forget.
Forget that I'm not Haitian...that we were joking around in Creole...that chickens walking between our ankles wasn't "normal" for me...that the rest of the family taking bucket baths next to us wasn't "how it was when I was a kid" on Saturday nights getting ready for church.
Then a lady I recognized from down the street milled around the yard with her daughter and then approached the house to talk. We all chatted for a while while her daughter and Lily played, and then Lily says to me, "Mommy, what's wrong with her arm?"
I looked at the little girl's arm, and was horrified to see it was all mangled. "What happened to her arm?" I asked the mother.
"Ah, last Sunday she fell in the cook fire. I wanted to wash it, but she won't let me, so...huh." Shrug. Shrugs all around. Back to the conversation.
I called the girl over and got a closer look...chunks of ash and even charcoal seemed to be glued into the open wounds...dirt...infection.
I bit my lips to keep from vomiting. That wasn't infection...her untouched wounds were crawling with maggots.
"Mommy, look!" Lily said at the same time, very interested. "There are wormies in her arm!"
Lily and I were starting to disturb everyone by devoting too much attention to a toddler when adults were trying to talk. But I didn't know what to say. And I didn't know what to do.
The little girl looked at me blankly with a snotty nose, round cheeks and wild braids, all trailing off in a different direction, not even blinking at the painful active travesty that was her little arm.
I was blinking enough for the both of us.
The next morning Lily and I left early for church to visit a different friend, Angeline, who just had a little boy in their wood-woven hut on Thursday. We gushed over the curly-headed little boy, clearly knit together by His hand.
"I'm gonna play with the other baby," Lily said, running off to peek-a-boo at a seemingly random and unattended little girl, not much older than Sof. She grinned huge dark eyes at Lily, and I returned to my conversation with Angeline.
When it was time to go, I walked over to Lily and her wee friend and squatted down with them, fingering her tiny braids.
Just barely old enough to sit up on her own, the little one was wearing a little t-shirt and nothing else. As is probably normal in many third-world cultures, there is no money for finery like diapers, and no one sees any sense in wasting time washing rags (soap = $$$, water = precious) over and over again when the baby is just going to pee again in a few minutes. So, Wide Eyes was sittin' bare-butt in the dirt yard.
I quickly realized that she had been....for a long time. She sat alone in a virtual mud/urine/poopy puddle, and with the worms of yesterday still burned in my mind, I tried to push away thoughts of parasites, worms, disease.
I force-grinned into her brilliant deep chocolate eyes, and tried to push away thoughts of fair Sofie's perfect, plump rump, parked just a few feet away from this little one's (and so many others).
Her derriere is wiped a dozen times a day with dewy baby wipes that I have brought in from the States, swaddled in a fresh Sesame Street imprinted diaper (which I also have brought in from the States) before she is coddled into her clean Bumbo chair or on her bleached play mat, covered with a clean blanket just in case and surrounded by age appropriate toys for her development.
Once again, I'm "walking away" from these situations, and so many others, asking the Lord to form my perspective, begging Him to help me know how to think and how to feel, asking Him how to reconcile the worlds represented in my life, asking Him to tell me what to do...how to live...who to BE...
...in light of Haiti
...in light of Humanity
...in light of Him
note: We gave the first mother money to take her burned daughter to the clinic and to buy any medications needed. I do not know if she did, or if she will.
Forget that I'm not Haitian...that we were joking around in Creole...that chickens walking between our ankles wasn't "normal" for me...that the rest of the family taking bucket baths next to us wasn't "how it was when I was a kid" on Saturday nights getting ready for church.
I looked at the little girl's arm, and was horrified to see it was all mangled. "What happened to her arm?" I asked the mother.
"Ah, last Sunday she fell in the cook fire. I wanted to wash it, but she won't let me, so...huh." Shrug. Shrugs all around. Back to the conversation.
I called the girl over and got a closer look...chunks of ash and even charcoal seemed to be glued into the open wounds...dirt...infection.
I bit my lips to keep from vomiting. That wasn't infection...her untouched wounds were crawling with maggots.
"Mommy, look!" Lily said at the same time, very interested. "There are wormies in her arm!"
Lily and I were starting to disturb everyone by devoting too much attention to a toddler when adults were trying to talk. But I didn't know what to say. And I didn't know what to do.
The little girl looked at me blankly with a snotty nose, round cheeks and wild braids, all trailing off in a different direction, not even blinking at the painful active travesty that was her little arm.
I was blinking enough for the both of us.
The next morning Lily and I left early for church to visit a different friend, Angeline, who just had a little boy in their wood-woven hut on Thursday. We gushed over the curly-headed little boy, clearly knit together by His hand.
"I'm gonna play with the other baby," Lily said, running off to peek-a-boo at a seemingly random and unattended little girl, not much older than Sof. She grinned huge dark eyes at Lily, and I returned to my conversation with Angeline.
When it was time to go, I walked over to Lily and her wee friend and squatted down with them, fingering her tiny braids.
Just barely old enough to sit up on her own, the little one was wearing a little t-shirt and nothing else. As is probably normal in many third-world cultures, there is no money for finery like diapers, and no one sees any sense in wasting time washing rags (soap = $$$, water = precious) over and over again when the baby is just going to pee again in a few minutes. So, Wide Eyes was sittin' bare-butt in the dirt yard.
I quickly realized that she had been....for a long time. She sat alone in a virtual mud/urine/poopy puddle, and with the worms of yesterday still burned in my mind, I tried to push away thoughts of parasites, worms, disease.
I force-grinned into her brilliant deep chocolate eyes, and tried to push away thoughts of fair Sofie's perfect, plump rump, parked just a few feet away from this little one's (and so many others).
Her derriere is wiped a dozen times a day with dewy baby wipes that I have brought in from the States, swaddled in a fresh Sesame Street imprinted diaper (which I also have brought in from the States) before she is coddled into her clean Bumbo chair or on her bleached play mat, covered with a clean blanket just in case and surrounded by age appropriate toys for her development.
...in light of Haiti
...in light of Humanity
...in light of Him
note: We gave the first mother money to take her burned daughter to the clinic and to buy any medications needed. I do not know if she did, or if she will.
Whew! That's a Toughy!!I will pray that same prayer for me...it IS needed!
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