It was my first full day in Haiti with Compassion International. Hours into the day, I found myself actively engaged with a group of girls at the far end of the project’s play yard.

With the help of a translator, I uncovered bits and pieces about the girls. They were all around my son and daughter’s age – eight, nine, ten and eleven-years-old. I was intrigued by their personalities and way of being with one another, and kept thinking how cool it would be if my daughter was there, engaging with the girls, just like me.

Another woman from our group approached and began conversing with the girls, so I decided it was a good opportunity to engage the teenage girls I saw yards away.

The day passed. We spent the rest of the morning with mamas and babies enrolled in Compassion’s Child Survival Program, had lunch with project staff, visited families’ homes, and returned to the project at the end of the day.

After we spent a little more time in the classrooms and play yard, after we used the restroom one last time before we had to leave, I met the boy who stole my heart.

I really didn’t want to say good-bye, but I was on my way back to the van. It was time to go.

Most of my fellow travelers were already on the van. I was one of the last to load.

Just feet before the van, a boy approached. He came alongside me, hung close, tight to my body. I’m still not sure if I’ve ever had anyone step in tandem with me the way that boy did. The only way I can describe it is that his little body was so tight, right alongside me, that we became one walking unit in that moment.

God helped me recognize, immediately, this boy’s strong presence.

I put my arm around his shoulders as we walked. “Hi buddy,” I said quietly, lovingly.

He kept close, never out of step. He snuggled in a bit closer.

And then he looked up at me, as we were walking even slower now, and ever so gently but assuredly said “I want you to be my mommy.”

This was the first child that had spoken a word of English to me all day, and these were the words I was going to hear?

My heart broke. I began crying immediately. “Oh buddy,” I said, as I gave him the biggest, most endearing mama bear hug I could muster.

The world around me disappeared. We were three, maybe five feet from the van at this point, and I’m sure there were an abundance of kids and adults wondering why I was crying and hugging this boy. I’m certain they had no idea what he’d just told me.

I loosened my embrace because we were now even closer to the van. He looked down and pointed to one of two bracelets I had on my wrist, one purple, one cream. (Oddly enough, I’d received those bracelets as gifts of appreciation from Haitians in the market 16+ months ago after I’d presented them with gifts I brought from home.) I couldn’t be his mommy, but I knew as soon as he looked at that purple bracelet that I wanted to give it to him to let him know how much he was loved. A translator was present and helped with the exchange. For a few seconds, all was right with the world. I had a bracelet and the boy had a bracelet. We’d be tied together, in our hearts, and the bracelets would be a tangible reminder. But a little girl approached and saw I had another bracelet to give, so I obliged, even though it meant I’d no longer have a bracelet to keep my heart tangibly tied to this sweet boy.

Still crying, I gave him one last hug, waved good-bye, and got on the van. Tears continued to stream as I made my way to the back of the van, past most of my fellow travelers. I explained to a couple who’d asked, he said “I want you to be my mommy.”

How was I supposed to sit in this van, act like I’d just heard any ‘ol words, and move right on out?

Praise. The. Lord. He wasn’t about to let my time with this boy end, even though all other indications said it was a done deal.

Thankfully, our departure was delayed for one reason or another. I didn’t even care because all my mind could think of was the boy. Kids were swarming around just outside of our van. I looked to my right, and there he was. I caught him just as he was looking down, fiddling with his bracelet. “I’ve got to get a picture of this boy,” I told those around me as I stood up immediately and captured not one, but two pictures. I felt blessed to have, at the very least, seen him again and captured these photos to remember him by.

If I remember correctly, the van moved, turned in the direction of the gates where we’d depart. I thought I’d seen the last of the boy. I was sad, but grateful too, that God had given me the opportunity to see him from afar one more time.

But God knew otherwise. The van stopped. There was another delay.

Some moments passed, and then I noticed my boy coming alongside our van. He was looking up, into the windows, and he was now on the side of the van where I was sitting. When he came to the window of the people sitting in front of me, I noticed he was looking at them and pointing to his bracelet. I knew right away, he was looking for me.

“He’s looking for me!” I exclaimed as quietly and as calmly as I could without seeming like a freak to my fellow travelers close by.

I knocked on the window, loud enough so he could hear and notice I was there in the back row. I waved, put my hand on my heart, pointed to his bracelet, and then pointed to my wrist where the bracelet had once been. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and smiled.

We’d found each other, once again.

I began crying, once again.

I opened one hand and put it up flat against the window. He put his hand up too. One panel of glass separated us.

It was clear the bus was about to move towards the gates.

I blew him a kiss. He blew me one, too. I blew another. He blew another.

And as we drove off, I looked back and noticed. He was wearing navy blue Converse, untied. He walked quietly by himself as we drove away, fiddling with his bracelet, yet again.

Call me a blubbery mess. Call me whatever.

In the days following, I wasn’t sure what to do with this experience. In fact, nine days later, I’m still not sure why I met that boy, why he was the only child I engaged with that day that spoke any word of English, or why he felt compelled to say “I want you to be my mommy.”

I’d give anything to know if that little boy has a mommy. I’d give anything for the opportunity to go back and take a Compassion staff and translator with me, visit his home, and know more. If he had a mommy, I’d love on her and tell her how awesome she is and how she’s raising her son with a beautiful heart. I’d tell him what a great mommy he has and how she loves him with all her heart. And if he didn’t have a mommy? Well, I don’t know what I’d do. But reality is, I’ll never get the opportunity to do any of that.

Why is it that my Heavenly Father gave me this gift, this boy to love for just a few moments? I don’t know.

The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be His name, is all I can say.

Perhaps I’ll never know why I met this boy, why he wanted me to be his mommy. Perhaps someday the good Lord will make it clear. For now, I trust, there was a reason.

Five days after meeting the boy, I arrived back home. Photographs of my journey flashed on our television screen as I recounted my days in Haiti with my husband and two oldest children.

And then, the Lord gave me eyes to see what I needed to see in a photograph I hadn’t remembered taking earlier that morning in the play yard.

The boy.

There he was!

I’m not 100% sure because the first two photos I took of the boy were from the side, and this photo was straight on. But my heart knows, my heart feels confident. The Lord gives me eyes to see what He wants me to see, because He’s awesome like that.

That boy in the middle of all those girls?

It’s him.

I recognize his face, he looks familiar. He looks exactly like the boy who told me “I want you to be my mommy.” He looks exactly like the boy who blew me kisses when I was still crying in the van. He looks exactly like the boy who wore navy blue Converse, untied.

And if it’s truly him as my heart thinks it is?

Then God has spoken.

I’m here, orchestrating every bit of your life, whether you know it or not.

I chose you before you chose Me.

You are loved.

Now go love.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

The mamas were giving their testimonies.

One by one, they came to the front with their babies, sharing how much of a difference Compassion’s Child Survival Program made in their lives.

One special mama had two babies, not her own. People didn’t understand why she’d taken them in. She couldn’t afford to care for the babies. She was shunned and found herself all alone crying near the street one day. A Compassion Child Survival Program staff happened to pass by and told her about the program, that she’d be able to get support as she raised those babies. She agreed and the children were enrolled in the program. The translator prayed over her, “even though family might not understand you, God does,” he said.

There was another woman with a baby of her own. But she’d also taken in her deceased cousin’s baby. Mid-way through her story, she broke into song. I had no idea what she was saying because there hadn’t been translation yet, but there was something beautiful and tremendously sad about this song long before I knew the words. She sang with courage, she looked up, towards the back of the church as she poured this heart-song out from her soul. There was hope and promise in her words, but in her eyes, I saw the sadness, the depth of pain. She said the Compassion Child Survival Program staff taught her to sing this song when she was feeling tremendous sadness and despair. They encouraged her, “You need to sing this song whenever you feel sad, and you will feel better.” The song, my heart be happy.

And then there was Archille.

She came to the front, holding her son close, tight in her arms. She spoke quietly and tears came to her eyes the second she started talking. She appeared to be hiding a bit behind her son, as if protecting him from her own pain. He was near and dear to her, you could tell. She felt alone, very alone, and I sensed that the moment she started talking, even before I knew why.

Archille shared with us, her son was born with one leg.

She’d been shunned and teased, disowned and laughed at for having a son with one leg. It was and has been immeasurably painful. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to turn. Her tears, the depth of her pain, visible. If there was a way I could’ve reached out to her in that moment, I would’ve.

Archille then proceeded to do one of the most brave things I’ve ever witnessed. She started taking off her son’s pants.

In that moment, we saw his one leg.

It was holy, intimate. We knew the reality she’d been telling was truth.

Archille was advised, Compassion’s Child Survival Program was the best way to care for her boy. Through her involvement in the Child Survival Program, Archille has developed “good friendships and relationships in [the] center.” Home visitors encourage her. And Compassion’s staff have compassion for Archille. They’ve worked with her and she’s “thankful for all they’ve done to help with [her] boy.”

The translator prayed over Archille and her boy, “If God accepts the boy as he is, as we do, we must love him.”

I recognized Archille’s pain the second I saw her hide behind her son, the second I saw the tears in her eyes and they couldn’t be held back anymore. I’d known that pain myself. When tears are so close to the surface that you cry if you speak even one word, you just need someone to listen to you, care for you, act on your behalf.

Perhaps there’s a purpose for our pain, that we might be able to more readily recognize it in others. And help.

We had an opportunity to ask the questions anyone would ask at that point. How does he get around? How would Compassion help this boy with his leg? Mama answered, indicating her boy is able to stand on one leg, gets around by crawling, and is often carried. Compassion has already sent mama Archille’s and baby to Port-Au-Prince where they’ve seen doctors about baby’s leg. He will get a prosthetic when he’s older, but for now he’s too young, so they have to wait.

Yvonne, our trip co-leader and Compassion representative, held the sweet baby boy as we sang songs and prayed with all the mamas and babies. Safe in Yvonne’s arms, Archille’s boy led our way to the Child Development Center.

We spent the next hour or two meeting children and engaging with teachers in the Child Development Center. (I’ll share more about that later!) But Before we knew it, it was time to visit the Child Survival Program building where mamas and babies meet with Compassion staff. It was a lovely space with boards tracking immunizations and child growth, as well as toys and cribs for the babies. This felt like a safe haven, and it was.

I was one of the first to enter the building. The seat next to Yvonne and this beautiful boy with one leg was open. So I took it. There was a part of me that thought the seat would better be taken by someone else, all the others who cared about this boy and wanted to be close, too. But there was me. Perhaps it was God who brought me in among the first. Perhaps it was He who left the seat open.

I had an opportunity to talk with Yvonne about this boy as others entered the space, the hope I had to share his story. We talked about the possibility of getting crutches for this sweet boy, as usually, he’d be walking around this age. Yvonne commented how heavy it must be for mama to carry her boy around all day since he’s getting so big. And I asked, did mama have a sling in which she could carry her son?

Before long, we noticed mama standing right behind us, outside. We invited her in to join us in conversation.

Yvonne told mama Archille that she’d like to work with the project director to try to facilitate getting her boy some crutches so he can start moving around and develop muscle tone in his leg. She couldn’t promise it would be done, but she was going to talk to the director and do her best to help. And Yvonne asked mama, “Do you have a sling you carry him in?” Mama Archille said “no.” I asked mama, “Would you feel more comfortable carrying him on your back or on your front?” “I’d prefer to carry him on my back,” mama said, “but he likes me to carry him in the front.” Yvonne reminded mama once again that she couldn’t promise, but that we’d try to get something to help.

An opportunity came for me to ask mama Archille questions that had nothing to do with sweet baby boy’s leg. “How old is he?” I asked. “Two,” mama said. “When will he be three?” asked Yvonne. Mama replied, “December.”

“Same as my baby” I exclaimed! “Three in December!” Mama Archille and I smiled big smiles, huge, like divine appointment huge. We discovered, our babies’ birthdays? Only NINE days apart!

Everyone was elated. It was a moment out of time for the folks that had gathered. Well, a moment out of time, at least for me. I’d barely even noticed the rest of the group had arrived until I looked up and realized, they were there.

Yvonne, still right next to me, stepped in at just the right moment, with just the right words I would’ve never imagined possible – “You know you can sign up to sponsor him even before he’s officially enrolled in the Child Sponsorship Development Program? I don’t want to put you on the spot, though.” Um, ya. There was no putting me on the spot. It was a no brainer, taking the opportunity to sponsor this little guy. Of course, I’d say yes.

After some brief conversation with the translator, Yvonne, and another Compassion staff, it was determined that I’d need to take with me the baby’s name, baby’s date of birth, mama’s name, and the Compassion Child Survival Program in which which he was enrolled. Then, when I get home, I’ll need to contact Compassion and indicate I’d like to sponsor him when he becomes old enough to enroll in the Child Sponsorship Development Program.

We all decided, this was meant to be. I’ll be the boy’s sponsor when he comes of age.

The translator spoke with Archille and wrote down all the information I’ll need when I contact Compassion back home.

Before mama placed her boy on my lap for a picture, I’d noted, her beautiful baby boy’s name was Charles.

Pain, it’s true and real for all of us. Pain, it pulls us down, makes us want to run and hide or grab ahold tight of anything that’s near.

Hope, it comes in any package. Hope, a promise of better days to come.

Would you like to give hope to a child in desperate need of it? Check out the Compassion website to take a closer look at all the children waiting for a sponsor. These are real. live. children. Not just pictures on your computer screen. They’re real children with real families with real lives, and they could use your help. If you’d be here, you’d see. You’d choose to say yes, I guarantee. We have so much, it’s time to give. And hope’s where it’s at.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

Apparently the guy in front of me in the security line at the airport knew the guy behind me. They talked through me, as if I wasn’t even there. And I didn’t even care.

“What’s new?” said the middle-aged man in front of me, his hair bleached blonde, skin tan and wrinkled a bit.

The man behind me responded promptly, “Same old, same old.” His hair was dark, clean cut, his presentation professional, business-like. “Money. Money. Money.” He paused a bit before adding “the recession hit me really hard.”

“I stepped out of the rat race four years ago,” exclaimed the blonde. “It’s kind of fun traveling around and all that.”

“On a golfing trip?” asked the business man.

“Ya, I’m going to Orlando for a tournament.” replied the blonde, smiling with ease.

The business man stated what might be an obvious downfall to the blonde man’s lifestyle. “The only problem with being a ‘professional golfer’ is that you have to pay for it all yourself.”

And with that, an airport official yelled to the crowd. Security line two only had an 8-minute wait, and ours was bound to be a 25-minute wait. The whole lot of us fled the scene, speed walking to line two.

I never did get to hear the end of that story, how the blonde man would respond to this questioning, these challenges about leaving the rat race and “paying for it all yourself.” I wasn’t engaging in that conversation other than to overhear, so I might’ve never learned why the blonde man left the rat race, or how he used to earn a living, or how he earns a living now, or anything else about his old life compared to his new life as a “professional golfer.” Speaking of, was he really a professional golfer? Or was he a “professional golfer?” And I never did get to delve deeper with the business man to determine exactly how the recession hit him hard, how he knew this blonde man in the first place, or what he’d do if he left the rat race. But those guys got me thinking.

An hour later, I boarded the plane.

As we ascended, I noted the ground blanketed in white snow. Squares, rectangles and L-shapes divided most of the land into some sort of box. It was, of course, a sight I’d seen before. But this time, I saw those boxes in a new light.

Perhaps we box ourselves in.

Perhaps we’ve divided up God’s land so perfectly, pristinely and professionally, we don’t even realize how boxed in our lives have become.

Could it be that we move from our boxed in home, to our boxed in car, to our boxed in workplace, to our boxed in cubicle, and then back to our boxed in home again? In our free time we go to boxed in churches, boxed in restaurants, boxed in coffee shops, boxed in museums, boxed in movie theaters and boxed in hotels. When we’re sick we go to boxed in hospitals, and when it’s time to learn we go to boxed in schools. And just about everything we do happens on some piece of square or rectangular boxed in piece of land, and we don’t even know we’re living that way until we see it from above.

Could I be exaggerating to make a point? Sure.

Of course, there are roads that wind, curve. They’re paved and they’re pretty, but they’re headed to a particular planned out destination. There are cul-de-sacs, cloverleaves, and turn-abouts, baseball diamonds, open-air football stadiums, and rough and rural areas that don’t have shape.

But really, how much of your life is spent in a box? How much of my life has been spent in a box?

Time passed. And before I knew it, I looked down and the blanket of white snow was gone. But the boxes remained. All I could see were boxes. Boxes everywhere. Big boxes, little boxes, boxes within boxes. And now, box-shaped pools.

So it’s true. This boxing in isn’t an isolated phenomenon.

I felt uncomfortable in my window seat as I tried to find the right time to take my camera out of the case and take a picture to remember this realization about our boxed in lives. Body language experts claim you exhibit insecurity when you rest your hand on your neck. Ya. My left hand was all over my neck, my right hand all over the camera as I brought it up just long enough to capture these boxes a little closer.

As I sat eating Chick-Fil-A, waiting for my connecting flight to Miami, I found myself uncomfortable, insecure again. There I sat in my sweatshirt, black jeans, white socks, and old black tennis shoes I haven’t worn for a couple years. A woman sat down next to me. Her outfit sparkled and it was classy and she was put together. I felt like a frump and knew on any other trip than this one to Haiti, I’d be dressed much more like her. And in that moment, I became painfully aware of how much I care about my appearance.

Ya. Appearances. My safe little box. I do care what I look like. And I want it to appear, to you, that I’m doing the right thing, making the right decision, behaving the way I should. I don’t want to appear as if I’m stepping out of my safe little box. If I suddenly disappear and appear outside of my safe little box, what will you say?

But you know what I had to realize? I am stepping out of my safe little box.

This sweatshirt and black jeans (they’re sparkled on the butt, by the way), and the white socks with the black tennis shoes? So horrible. It’s kind of geeky. And I’d never wear this anywhere important in real life.

But this is my real life. And it’s important, really important. And I’m still me. In fact, it’s possible this trip to Haiti might force me to be and become me more than I’ve ever been before.

The seat belts in the shuttle squeaked loudly on the way to the hotel. The woman in front of me grabbed her seatbelt and pulled it tight. I let mine squeak.

It was Saturday afternoon, but Miami traffic was painfully slow. The driver shared with us – there’d been a big accident. Two fatalities.

And I couldn’t help but think about the blonde golfer guy and the dark-haired professional. It hit home for me and all of us, really. If you were to die today, would you die in the box or out of the box? Do you find yourself trapped in the Americanized rat race of ought to, should, totally could? Or do you secretly long to jump out of the box, running wild and free after God’s unique dream for you?

As for me? I choose, in faith, to step out.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

There are some stories I’m simply not willing to water down or skip over details for the sake of a reader-friendly 500-1,000 word blog post. This is one of those stories. This, in honor of our brothers and sisters in Haiti, especially Antonio.

I watched the sun rise over Haiti. It was Tuesday, October 16, 2012.

Our family was cruising on one of Royal Caribbean’s largest ships, Freedom of the Seas, with stops at Haiti, Jamaica, Cayman Islands, and Mexico. Haiti was our first stop. Haiti, a port that especially piqued my interest when we booked the cruise.

I thought we’d spend the day visiting an orphanage where family friends are adopting two children, only to discover the orphanage was across the island, not to be traveled in one short day. I thought we’d sponsor a child and arrange for a special visit, only to discover that Royal Caribbean owns this private peninsula in Haiti known as Labadee, and doesn’t allow passengers to travel beyond the borders of that space for safety concerns.

I’ll be honest. I was a little devastated to realize I was going to be trapped in this little fenced in piece of Haiti when all I really wanted to do was go beyond the borders.

I devoured blogs about Haiti. I’d read nearly every post written by my favorite blogger, Ann Voskamp, including her trip to Haiti with Compassion International in July 2012. And the Help One Now bloggers had been in Haiti the same month we went on our cruise. A little girl referred to Kristen Howerton as “mommy” at an orphanage, a father tried giving his son to Duane Scott, and Jen Hatmaker’s description of a little girl sweeping the dirt floor nearly melted my heart. I knew more than enough to say confidently there was no way I was going to spend my one day in Haiti on a roller coaster or inflatable water toy.

We discussed and decided to forgo all shore excursions that day and instead sponsor a child in Haiti through Compassion International. We planned to spend all of our dollars at the market, directly in the hands of locals.

We got off the ship as early as we could so we’d be among the first on the peninsula. The four of us walked all the way down to the end where we found the market. People were already begging us to come and see the items they had for sale. One hat for me and one for my daughter, bargained to $30 for the two. They were way overpriced (the ship sold similar hats the day before for $10), but not worth further haggling considering what we knew about the need. We bought a handmade sword for our son, and a mini painting, handmade easel and magnet for us. The man next door begged, pleaded for us to visit, pointing out #4 on his tag. I told him we’d be back later.

It was our two oldest kids’ first visit to another country and first time at the ocean. They were behaving like brats when we got to the beach that morning. I told them I was so sick of hearing them complain, I was going to write down what they said. “I hate this zipper.” “This is too rocky.” “This is the dumbest place ever.” “Agh! I want to go to the market.” “All you guys do is sit.” “Wow mom.” With all seriousness, I reminded them that there are people on this island that might not have a thing to eat today, and they’re complaining about rocks and zippers.

My husband and I decided this was not working, so we planned to bring the kids back to the ship so they could partake in the day’s childrens’ activities. First, though, we were going back to the market. I thought the market trip might be rewarding bad behavior, but quickly learned it was just what the kids needed.

This time, we went up on the right, past the colorful display of canvas. When we came to the first row of vendors, Max came out to greet, introduced himself, invited us in, “No obligation,” he said. “Come see. We are family.” We barely got in, plaques were on the right at eye level carved with God Bless This Family and Jesus is My Boss. “You like these? Which one do you want?,” said Max. Sure, we’ll get one of these, I thought. Why not? Although I hadn’t a second to look at anything else. We bought the plaque and met the woman with Max, who I assumed was his mother and whose name I couldn’t understand. But she was warm and inviting, so after buying a small square pot, I gave her a hug.

Next there was Margaret. She showed us dolls she sewed herself, oddly similar to ones we noted at Downtown Disney two days prior, only these black and red and white and so much more authentic, ALL painstakingly hand stitched I noticed days later. We bought a doll and I took Margaret’s name. Her smile was motherly and full of pride and joy over our love for this doll she’d crafted.

It took me a while to realize that a man had taken our bag with plaque, doll, and pot, and was guiding us to his booth down the row. He offered to carve our name on the plaque we’d purchased at Max’s booth. He carved PEDERSON on the back and showed us his wares, asking if we wanted anything else. The kids, likely completely overwhelmed, had not a want for anything. “Sword?” said Derby. Already got one when we first arrived. “Bracelet?” Max had given us one. “Nothing? You don’t want anything?” Derby said. My heart broke. All I could keep thinking was my kids want for nothing, and it’s possible this man might need for everything. To want for nothing, to need for everything, both unimaginable in that moment. I found myself embarrassed for my children, our culture of excess, of everything all around. The look on his face when the kids wanted nothing was seared on my heart forever. My kids wanting nothing might mean him not eating today, tomorrow. He wasn’t just sad, he was disappointed, a devastated kind of disappointment. I could see it in his eyes. A reason for payment came to my mind – I paid him for carving our name on the plaque, thanked him generously, and left. Many others were calling for us. Looking back, I realize this moment was in a complete frenzy, another state. I was barely processing what was happening. We should’ve stayed longer at Derby’s place. The look in his eyes haunts me to this day. And you can see in my daughter’s face, she felt his need too.

Jocelun led us to his place. He said in reference to my son, all wrapped up in his cruise ship towel, “He is my friend. I like him.” Jocelun touched my son gently on the shoulder. Before I knew it, Jocelun had a blue and white necklace on my son. Yes, we would buy. I asked for his name, I couldn’t understand so he wrote. He scratched JOCELUN on my tablet. He said again to my son “I like you. You are my friend.” Tears streamed, I was overwhelmed. Jocelun wanted me to take another look. I told him I’d promised a man down the row we’d come back to visit. Only $2 left, I wanted it to go to this man and keep my promise. Jocelun realized I was serious, so as he led me to the other man’s booth, he said “He’s a nice man. Go.”

Wilfred was his name. Friendly man. Pots 2 for $5, he said. He accepted $2 for one when I told him that’s all we had left. I took his name and shook his hand. He smiled big and was clearly a warm and gentle heart.

Then the floodgates opened. A crowd of Haitian vendors were behind us, all around us. One had somehow gotten my daughter’s small pot and carved her name on it with hearts. “I want you to remember me too. You come back and you see me.” Josias was the name he wrote on my tablet. I snapped a photo.

Another man approached, wanted to write his name on this tablet of mine. Leiys, I believe it was, barely intelligible. At this point, I realized I’d stumbled upon something. These people were not only willing to share their names, they were eager. It meant something to them, more than I could grasp. They saw me writing their names on the little tablet of paper I brought in my bag and they wanted a place on that space. To be recognized, to be known, to be called by name. Isn’t that what we all want?

My husband, family, Royal Caribbean, and cruise-goers will be glad to know it was at this time I realized a security guard was close by, monitoring our interactions with the vendors, although I didn’t feel in danger, not even for a second. If I’d felt in danger, we certainly wouldn’t have been there or stayed.

We went back to the woman with Max to find out her name. Between the two of them, they struggled to know each letter, silent glances to each other before each letter to verify that was truly the right way to spell her name, Almagor.

Returning to our spot on the beach, my husband took the kids so I could process it all. I stood for a while. This was no place to sit on the beach. Finally I sat. I looked down. I’d forgotten the bag I packed at home to give to a local at this market. I looked through the photos I’d taken of the vendors we just met at the market. Was the bag for one of these? Derby. The sadness in his eyes struck me. I processed the disappointment I sensed when the kids wanted for nothing at his booth. The bag was for him and his family.

Venturing back to the market by myself, I entered by Max. Max and Margaret and Almagor approached, others literally swarmed around. I explained I’d forgotten this bag of clothes and was bringing it for Derby, four booths down. A man spoke definitively “I have a baby ma’am.” I had brought two receiving blankets and gave them to him. Margaret and Almagor were hovering, nearly reaching in my bag. One of them said “I need something.” My hands could do nothing but take out each item and give to those who were asking. A dress for one woman, a dress for another, a shirt and skirt for Margaret, two bananas for a man. Margaret gladly took the bag, “I need this.” If I’d only known, I would’ve brought another bag full, or two or three.

Then, more I didn’t anticipate. The others, swarming around to see if they could get just a piece from this bag that had been emptied and now was gone, started to tell me their names, their vendor numbers, what they needed. Too many to count, too many to even be able to notice, to process. I started writing.

Alfred, #22, clothes for a 7-year-old and 10-year-old.

Antonio, clothes for his 2-year-old son. I didn’t get his number. I wish with all my heart I would’ve.

Jackson, #19A, he pulled me aside a bit to ensure I heard his need. Men’s pants, jeans, shirts, “anything.”

Reno, I’d seen him earlier. He approached now again. “Remember me, Reno.” I wrote his name.

And Max. “Remember me. I’m the one that showed you here.”

I was empty handed. I said I’d do my best, but can’t promise. I remembered stories of Americans who promised they’d come back but never did. I didn’t want to be that person.

Before I left, those to whom I’d given lavished me with smiles and gifts and gratitude. Bracelets, a hand painted shell, a small pot, and many “God bless you.”

I returned to the beach. My husband and the kids were still gone. I looked up, looked around. There was still no time to sit. I walked the beach a bit. A mom was rushing on the shore, so mad at her kids. A man’s fat belly protruded as he sunbathed. A buffet was being set. Did they know the need just beyond the arches in the market, beyond the fence that bound us in and them out?

A Haitian man raked a patch of sand back to perfection.

As I thought and moved about, I was especially concerned about this man, Antonio, who needed clothes for his 2-year-old son. I knew I had none. I’d have to leave him empty handed, hopes dashed, or search and make a plea to some random mom. We were at the beach, a distance from the ship. A mom would have to give the clothes off of her son’s back or go all the way back to the ship to suitcases. This was my journey that day, not some other mom’s journey. Or was it? I was confused, torn. Search for a mom with a  2-year-old boy (there weren’t that many) and ask them to surrender part of their day vacationing with family to meet the needs of a man I had met at the market? I couldn’t bring myself to ask even one, but kept thinking of the moms at home and how they’d all give the shirts off their sons’ backs for this toddler in need. I kept thinking of the boxes of clothes I had sitting in our basement. I didn’t even ask one mom. Two worlds collided. The reality I saw on one side, the reality I saw on the other. Could the two connect today? Was I telling myself truth that people wouldn’t want to know or didn’t care or just wanted to enjoy the beach? I think, and believe now, that my beliefs and behaviors in regards to those 2-year-old clothes were flawed that day.

Not asking a mom remains one of my biggest regrets 16 months later. Why was I afraid to open eyes and hearts on that beach? Why not just one? Has a major distrust of humankind grown in my heart? Why do I believe strangers want to sit on the beach in oblivion more than they want to meet someone’s most basic of needs? What does it say about my character that I assume such things about others and I didn’t even ask one mom? Didn’t Jesus say that whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me? Was I only partially fulfilling this command rather than wholly by my unwillingness to ask on behalf of someone in need? 16 months later I have complete clarity – I should’ve rid myself of all pride and asked.

My husband and children returned. I explained what I’d done, listed the needs, and explained my uncertainty about the 2-year-old clothing. My husband supported the kids and I going back to the ship where we had more. It was somewhat close, but not a quick trip when considering tram, lines, security, and a long, hot pier.

I gathered a pile of clothes for Alfred, a men’s outfit for Jackson, and a pile of fruit for Antonio, the very least we could do in lieu of clothes for his son. (I have notable regrets about not getting more from the ship. We should’ve come back all hands loaded, bags and bags overflowing. Again, some of this was mere lack of time to process everything that was happening.) Security noticed all the fruit at the bottom of the bag and made us drop it in a plastic bin before we deboarded. Almost in tears, knowing I would now return empty handed to Antonio, no clothes, no fruit, nothing, I obeyed. A woman standing by said “you never know if you’re doing the right thing, do you?” Little did she know. Even my daughter knew this was bad.

We headed straight for the market. The buffet had been served while we were gone, and my husband was sitting at the beach. Once again, I was feeling a tear between these two worlds. I wanted, needed to help these people, knowing there was much to be done, but was also cognizant of the fact I was on vacation. Our precious hours together as a family were ticking away. There were only a couple hours before we had to be back on the ship.

We approached at the market. They swarmed immediately. I don’t even know how many, just swarms. So much, so fast, so overwhelming, so difficult to process it all. Alfred, Antonio, Jackson, Max, Reno and all the others were there. Alfred quietly pulled me aside to his booth. I gave him the bag of kids’ clothes, he smiled, seemed satisfied.

Then Reno was there. I’d seen him twice now. He’d told me his name and said “remember me,” but I became keenly aware at that moment that “remember me” meant something much different to Reno than me. I remembered Reno, I noticed him and would remember him beyond this place, but he wanted me to remember him because he needed to be seen, he needed something and needed that to be remembered, wholly acknowledged, tended to, acted on. I hadn’t brought anything for Reno. All I could do was give him the shirt I brought for Jackson. After all, something would be better than nothing. I gave it to him, apologizing that’s all I had. He took it, thanking profusely with “God bless you.”

Then Antonio – oh Antonio. “You remember me, I need clothes for my son.” I explained we had no clothes small enough and we tried to bring a lot of fruit for him, but security wouldn’t let us bring it off the ship. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

Jackson pulled me aside just as I was still feeling horrible about not meeting Antonio’s needs. He wanted to know what I had for him.  I’d given his shirt to Reno, so all I had was a pair of shorts. They looked big for Jackson. I asked if he had a belt, he did. “It will work,” he said.

And then there was Max. “You have anything for me? I told you to remember me too.” Yes, of course I would always remember him, but I didn’t know he, too, intended me to remember him with something, anything tangible that he needed. “I have a son,” he said. He glanced at my backpack, I took it off and looked in. My husband’s shorts and a belt he was wearing that day, my son’s shorts, and a refillable, leaking bottle of Pepsi were in the bag. When we were on the ship, I’d asked my son if I could give his shorts to the children in need. “No,” he said, “they’re my favorite.” “And the shirt,” I asked?” He was wearing both today, both his favorites. Two worlds collided, again. To honor my son and keep our trust, or take the the clothes off his back and teach him our call to give to those in need? Could my son really process that he was giving up his favorite shirt and shorts, the ones he was wearing today, for a child he couldn’t see? Doubtful, but I was still unsure. Max clearly wanted the shorts and I even began lifting them out of the bag for him, but a man overheard and said to Max “don’t push too far, it’s not good,” clarifying for Max those were the shorts my son was wearing today. This was humbling. It felt so wrong but a little right all at the same time. Right we were honoring my son and not taking the shorts from him, wrong another child’s need was going unmet. I honored the elder figure who urged Max not to push and closed my bag reluctantly. It all seemed so selfish. I could have, should have just handed over the whole bag. We would’ve done without for a couple hours.

People were still swarming all around. We were on our way out of that row, our hands empty except for the backpack. Antonio made his way forward once again. “You don’t have anything for me? I have a 2-year-old. I need clothes for my 2-year-old.” I couldn’t help but think later – Nobody in this world should have to beg a stranger for clothes for their child. What a horrible reality. I had to tell him again we don’t have little ones (pointing to my bigger children), and how we had fruit for him but it was taken away. He clearly needed those clothes so bad. I told Antonio we had to leave soon, “I’m SO sorry.” NO words would suffice. “Good bye,” I said apologetically. “Good bye.” “I’m so sorry.” They wanted to know if I’d be back. I said back to Haiti, probably not Labadee. “God Bless,” “Thank you,” is what I remember as I parted.

We returned to the beach. Cruise-goers were eating the buffet. My husband had been waiting, “perfect timing” he said. We talked about the people, what we gave, Antonio’s need for his son. My husband reminded the children that we can’t possibly help everyone, but we can help some, and that is what we’d done today. We ate. I almost became sick looking at the food, contemplated not even taking any, thinking of all the people so near in so much need. I took a burger, some fruit, an extra hot dog and two extra bananas. I passed the hot dog to a Haitian man in a band playing by the buffet, and later, gave the bananas to a man lingering behind a bar near the pier, waiting in quiet desperation on mere survival.

I took a moment to quiet myself after lunch and enjoyed the remaining moments for what they were. The beach was already clearing.

I kept thinking of Antonio still in need and how I dashed his hopes, Max, Derby too. I wanted to go back, but I was needed here now, and anything but clothes for their children would be patronizing.

My children made a sand castle. A circle of castles, one in the center. I didn’t notice its beauty and symbolism until it was complete. Two clearly imperfect, my son pointed out to my daughter “those are horrible.” My daughter tore them down plus two more. Frustrated she could not fix them and make them perfect, I said quietly “Try. It won’t be perfect. Just try.” She remade all four and the creation was better than it was before. Better, not perfect.

None of this makes perfect sense to me, but as I watched the sun rise on the ship days later, still overwhelmed and tearful about the unmet needs, I realized God is in control, God has a design in mind, a bigger plan. And I want to be part of it. This? This solidified in me the desire to return to Haiti, to do God’s work. I have unfinished business there. I did notice. And I will always remember.

Some day I hope to meet all of these sisters and brothers in heaven. I’ll tell them I wanted to do more that day. We’ll dance. All will be well. And all the injustices of this world will be wiped clear, free, forevermore.

To the critics online that say the vendors in Labadee “virtually attack,” are “aggressive,” “hovering,” and “pushy?” I wish they could experience even an inkling of truth about the people of Haiti so they’d realize that “aggressive” means I desperately need something. “Hovering” means I need you to notice. “Pushy” means I really, really need this one thing for my son, my daughter, my mother, my brother. Please. “Virtually attack” means I just need you to see me, remember me, help me.

As for my children…they were transformed after that second visit to the market. We never brought them back to the ship for childrens’ activities. They stayed with us all day and were delightful, never again complaining. Maybe it’s service that heals selfishness? After the market visit, my daughter said “Mommy, Haiti’s a nice place.” Then later, she had another realization “Mom, after this we turned good. It feels good when you’re nice to others.” And hours later, “This is going to be a big remembery for us, isn’t it?” Yes it is. Yes it is.

Our family took the path less traveled back to the ship. A little platform overlooked the ocean. The ship, man-made beauty. The ocean, God’s beauty. A small boat filled with Haitian market vendors and employees on their way back to the village placed it all in perfect perspective. My husband noted, the boat was named “Thank God.”

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’  Matthew 25:35-40

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

edited post from archives

I’m the one that manages Christmas cards in our house. My standard operating procedure for 15 years has been as follows:

1. Open the card.

2. Look at the pictures.

3. Read the card and/or letter.

4. Show the kids.

5. Put the card in back in today’s mail pile on the counter, or if I’m feeling really efficient, put it in the Christmas card box.

Sounds a little routine, right? But it’s enjoyable, and I truly love receiving Christmas cards from family and friends. It’s a tradition I’d hate to see go by the wayside.

Since my husband’s usually not home when we open the mail, we have an agreement that he can find all the cards in the mail pile or look in the Christmas box at his leisure. I strive to be his wife, not his mom, so I figure he’ll take initiative to look at the cards as he’s led.

After all the Christmas cards have come in, I bring the full box down to the basement where it’s stored until the following Thanksgiving when we take the seasonal decor out again.

Just this week, I took out the Christmas card box. I opened the box and began going through last year’s cards one last time, something I do at the beginning of every season. I admired each card, verified addresses, added new babies to the master list, removed individuals who passed away, and ripped address labels off to shred (yes, I’m a little OCD like that).

But as I reviewed last year’s cards, I was particularly struck by how some seemed so novel, as if I’d barely seen them, as if I was looking at them for the first time. Beautiful families in the prime of life, retired couples at golf courses and on the beach with grandkids, newlyweds who hand wrote each card, and wise folks who placed focus on the the real meaning of Christmas. Cards from old friends, new friends, colleagues, bosses, immediate family, extended family, and neighbors – an assortment of people we see every day and people we haven’t seen in years.

I pulled some favorites for later viewing – stunning photography, faces exuding joy, beautiful designs, letters that captured my attention with their authenticity and depth, cards brimming with personality, and pictures of dear ones I hadn’t seen for way too long.

But mid-way through the pile, I came across a stack of four or five Christmas cards that had never been opened.

And then I remembered.

I was in such a rush.

I was way too busy.

(And clearly, my husband was too busy, too.)

In my haste, I’d thrown these unopened cards in the Christmas card box to get them out of the mail pile. I can’t stand clutter and excess visual stimuli, so I just wanted to get them “where they belonged.” I assumed I’d sit down to enjoy them after the hustle and bustle of Christmas settled down.

But I never did.

So I found myself sitting in front of the Christmas card box, a full year later, with the cold realization that I never did open those cards. I never took time to sit down and enjoy them like I thought I would.

I sat in silence, ashamed, embarrassed.

I couldn’t help but wonder…

What does this say about me?

Who do I say I am?

Who am I, really?

Do I really love and care for people like I claim? Or am I just filled up with a bunch of words and good intentions?

And why am I so busy? Why have I allowed my life to get so big, so filled up?

What makes me so special to have left peoples’ Christmas cards unopened for a whole year?

There was nothing unusual or unlovable about those four or five unopened Christmas cards that made me throw them in the box and forget about them for a whole year. In fact, they were just like the others – families with littles, marriages thriving in a culture that values otherwise, blended families, and families impacted by disabilities. But that’s what embarrassed me most. I wouldn’t ever want ANYONE to feel as if they’ve been discarded, no matter how busy I am, no matter how preoccupied I am.

I opened each unopened card carefully, examined them respectfully and as lovingly as possible, and then I sat in the quiet, in embarrassment and shame, again. For I had not been who I say I am.

Jesus says clearly, “My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you.” (John 15:12) And just a few verses later, “This is my command: Love each other.” (John 15:17)

In our rushing, in our hustling and bustling, in our worrying about what’s in front of us and all that needs to be done, we forget to still ourselves and really LOVE the ones in front of us. Let’s be realistic, sometimes we don’t even have TIME for the ones right in front of us.

When I threw those unopened cards in the Christmas card box and forgot about them for a whole year, I wasn’t remembering that those cards represented human beings, created in the image of God. I wasn’t remembering that those cards represented OTHERS, worthy of love and care, respect, dignity, a moment of my attention, EVEN IF I was “too crazed, too busy” with life.

So this year, regardless of my mood, regardless of my circumstances, I’m going to still myself longer, sit in the quiet a little more. Because I want to open every card and ponder the significance of each life that’s blessed mine. I want to love as He loves.

And maybe next Christmas, the cards will look a lot more familiar than they did this year.

Amy