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.

Gate D24 was just ahead. Gate D24, it’s where our plane was parked. Gate D24, it’s where I’d meet 23 strangers for the first time.

I passed Gate D24 and fled to the bathroom which equated to one part actually using the bathroom, and the other part hiding away praying to God, Lord Jesus, that He would be with me every step of the way. He assured me – I’ve prepared the way, I’m here, you’re more than prepared for this trip.

I opened the door to that bathroom intentionally, knowing once I walked out, there was no other choice but to go meet those strangers at Gate D24 and embark on this life-changing trip. I washed my hands, grabbed ahold of my overstuffed carry-on suitcase, and started walking.

It was strangely beautiful, stepping into this risk I’d chosen, this risk He’d chosen for me. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed a little crazy.

She was the only one I could see as I approached. She was engaging others from the group, and she looked warm and welcoming and before I even met her, I knew we’d get along. It was comforting, this knowing, this feeling before I even walked into Gate D24, that there’d be at least one person I’d mesh with instantaneously.

I approached. Tonya, the woman I noted before I entered Gate24, introduced herself immediately. She was just as great as I thought she’d be. Marcia and her daughter Gaelyn were there, and Jenna and Kayla too.

It was strangely beautiful, this meeting of strangers gathered together for a singular purpose, to love on the people of Haiti and specifically, those served and blessed by Compassion International.

A woman approached. “Are you Jillian’s friend,” she said? “Yes!” I exclaimed! The woman introduced herself. Joy was her name. She was friends with Jillian, our family friend who’s adopting two children from an orphanage in Haiti. Ya, the Jillian I told you about a couple weeks ago, the Jillian that got me going on this whole Haiti thing in the first place. And the odd thing was? I knew already Joy’s last name, because I’d seen it pop up through Jillians’ Faceboook feed and on the orphanage Facebook page I’ve follow faithfully since we sent those gifts.

Joy was on her way to visit the two children she’s in the process of adopting from Haiti, a 2-year-old and a 9-year-old. I asked her if she was traveling by herself. She noted casually, “I’ve been to Haiti gazillions of times. When you’ve been here that many times you kind of know your way around.” (or something like that) I shared with Joy that I’m traveling with Compassion, that I’m not exactly sure the name of the city we’re going to first.

Conversation between the two of us was brilliant, so natural. Like I wanted to be Joy’s best friend right now. I shared how I’m already fairly confident this won’t be my last trip to Haiti. “Ya,” she said. “I’ve never met anyone who went to Haiti just once.”

Ya. Perhaps it’s best we don’t even talk about that quite yet.

It was strangely beautiful, this meeting of Joy at Gate D24. And I couldn’t help but think as we parted ways, how equally beautiful it would be to hop on a taxi with Joy to the orphanage, as it’s going to be to spend this week with Compassion. Pretty sure my heart could be pulled a whole host of places in Haiti and find a place.

“I’ve never met anyone who went to Haiti just once,” she said.

Strangely beautiful.

I got on the plane and found myself seated, once again, in-between two grown men my dad and father-in-law’s age. So what’s the deal with me being plopped in-between two men on this trip, God? Yesterday AND today? One thing I knew for sure, my dad and father-in-law would be happy I was in good company. They were gentlemanly Alabama men with long drawled out accents. They spoke of their trip to Haiti where they’ll be building a school and desks. Just men on the trip, 15 to be exact. They even brought nails, because apparently when a group of them came last year, the nails made in Haiti split right in two. So they brought their own “American-made nails” this time around. Our conversation was blessed, natural, filled with the Spirit. We parted ways as the flight landed, saying good-bye three, four, five times to these strangers I’d just met. But they felt like family.

Strangely beautiful.

Groups gathered just outside the gangway in Haiti, as in, the most group travel I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. It seemed everybody was traveling with a group. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like community. It felt purposeful, life-filling, it felt like this is the way all of life is supposed to be.

Strangely, strangely beautiful.

A sea of ebony faces were waiting just outside the airport exit. It nearly took my breath away. I held back tears as I walked forward with my overstuffed carry-on. As I peered to my right, the first vehicle I noticed was open air, “tap tap” they call those vehicles here in Haiti. Painted on the creme canvas was UN. It was all like a movie. Only this time, I was in the movie.

Strangely beautiful. Strangely, strangely beautiful.

We got in the van. Some men threw the extra luggage on top of the van next to us. My red suitcase, filled-up to 48 pounds, was one that landed on the top of the van. And we thought that was crazy until another van piled high with suitcases on top passed on the other side.

And as we drove to our final destination for today, one they said would take an hour and a half but I have no idea how long it took, we saw the real Haiti I’d been called to, the real Haiti I’d been longing to see.

People bathed in streams. Laundry hung from lines. Cows and goats roamed free. Shanty houses salt and peppered the barren mountainside. Men sold big piles of bananas on street corners. And women carried big pots of fruit and supplies in buckets on their heads. There were tent communities and broken down buses right aside palm trees and scenic ocean fronts. I wanted to step right in to it all, the same way I want to step into the wetlands when I take summer runs in the evening back home. I wanted to jump right out, immerse myself, be right in the middle of it.

They say there’s a honeymoon period when you travel to developing countries. So be it. Bring on the honeymoon, God. And let me stay right in the middle of that honeymoon. Because these feel like my people, this feels like my place.

And it’s strangely, strangely beautiful.

Amy

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

It couldn’t be any more official. I’m going to Haiti, and soon.

Before I go, I thought it would be a good time to look back, and also look forward with anticipation.

I spent all of February sharing my journey to Haiti. I shared the heart I had for child sponsorship since I was a child myself. I let you in on the moment when the rubber hit the road, when our family was able to meet some of the physical needs of children living in an orphanage in Haiti. I edited and republished a post that’s near and dear to my heart, the post in which I tell the unforgettable story about my ONE day in Haiti 16+ months ago. And I shared a little insight into my heart’s journey – the crazy feelings, the quiet reflections, and the certainty with which I’ve been called to go.

As I reflect on all that’s happened and make my final preparations, I realize I haven’t shared much about this trip to Haiti. While I can’t share every detail because I wish to maintain a certain level of privacy and ensure safety along the way, I’m excited to share these 10 nitty gritty details about my trip to Haiti!

1) I’m traveling with Compassion International. According to the Compassion website, “Compassion International is a Christian child development organization dedicated to releasing children from poverty. Our ministry is twofold: We work through local churches to provide child development programs to deliver children from economic, physical, social and spiritual poverty, enabling them to become responsible, fulfilled Christian adults. And we speak out for children in poverty – informing, motivating and equipping others to become advocates for children.”

2) I received my first email about Compassion’s sponsor trips last winter. I knew immediately it was an opportunity I wanted to take. On July 1, 2013, I completed the online registration and clicked the button that meant I’d be traveling to Haiti in February 2014.

3) In November 2013, I received a box from Compassion which included some basic supplies I’d need for the trip, as well as an information packet with details about our trip and preparations we’d need to make before leaving. Approximately two weeks ago, we received a final mailing from Compassion, which included our itinerary for the six-day trip, emergency contact information, and list of fellow travelers.

4) My journey will be shared with 22 individuals from across the United States. I don’t know anyone else going on the trip! Does this make me a little nervous? Yes. But remember, I’m the person who has absolutely no problem going to a restaurant or movie theater by myself, so I’m pretty sure I’ll be just fine.

5) While in Haiti, we’ll be visiting two Compassion child development centers. Hundreds of children receive care at each child development center, so it’s bound to be an exciting and moving experience. We’ll observe the staff at work, and will also have plenty of opportunity to engage with the children one-on-one and in small groups. Ya, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be in my element.

6) Two days, we’ll have the opportunity to visit the homes of families and children assisted by Compassion. We’ll visit homes of moms and babies enrolled in Compassion’s Child Survival Program, and we’ll visit homes of children registered in the Child Sponsorship Program. It’s going to be an absolute honor and delight to visit families’ homes in Haiti. I’ll have more to say about these home visits in future posts. Guaranteed.

7) I’ll be spending ONE FULL day with our TWO sponsored children! I just received notice five days ago that each sponsor will have their own translator assigned for that day so our communication with the children will be completely unhindered. I’m pretty sure each child will be accompanied by one significant other, so I’ll be spending that day with 1 sweet boy, 1 sweet girl, and 2 significant adults. As you might imagine, I’m really excited about this day.

8) We’ll be spending one day in Port-au-Prince, where we’ll visit the Compassion Haiti country office and spend some time on the ground perusing the markets and engaging locals. This day will wrap up with a unique opportunity to meet with graduates of Compassion’s Child Development Program who are now enrolled in Compassion’s Leadership Development Program. It’s going to be compelling to hear, first hand, how Compassion has changed the lives of these young adults.

9) Five days ago, I received word that the wi-fi at the location we’ll be staying at in Haiti is great. So if all goes well, wi-fi continues to be great, and time allows, I plan to blog every day I’m in Haiti. If you don’t hear from me one day, know I’ve hand-written something in a journal and will post later as time and/or internet connection allows.

10) And last, but definitely not least, I wanted to introduce you to our Compassion children. Bethchaida, our sponsored child, is 5-years-old and will be turning six in April! We’ve been sponsoring her since August 2012. And Djino, our correspondent child, just turned 12-years-old at the end of January. We’ve been corresponding with him since December 2012. So excited to meet these children and show them just how much they are loved.

Blessed to share this journey with you.

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 was just a girl.

I watched shows like Brady Bunch and Little House on the Prairie like they were going out of style. Chips and dip and pink frosted cupcakes were my after-school vices of choice.

But God was at work in my little girl heart, even though I had no history of hearing His still small voice, even though I had no knowledge of what was to come.

Because He knew.

He was molding my heart, making it His. He was placing in me the deepest desire to see, to help, to understand need when I saw it.

So what does any of this have to do with Brady Bunch and Little House on the Prairie? Let me explain.

Marcia Brady was kind and witty, a leader at home and at school, she wasn’t afraid to light the fire in her bones. And Laura Ingalls Wilder captivated my heart like no other – when she battled mean old Nellie on the playground, when she was desperate for Manly to call her Beth, and when she became mama to sweet baby Rose. But it was the moments in-between Marcia and Laura that stole my little girl heart for a lifetime.

Yes, this is what I watched in the in-between.

I was just a girl. No credit cards. No financial means to make a monthly payment. No independence to make that phone call. And didn’t even think to engage my parents about this tug on my heart to sponsor a child.

Those were the earliest days, the earliest recollections of this calling that’s come full circle.

Through the years, time and time again, this commercial and countless others like it, stopped me dead in my tracks. There was something about the children that called out the depths of my little girl heart.

Time passed. Lots of time passed.

Christian Children’s Fund television commercials morphed into Compassion International blog posts from Guatemala, Tanzania, Haiti, and elsewhere.

Blog posts morphed into Facebook posts from my brother’s friend adopting children from an orphanage in Haiti.

Facebook posts morphed into a seemingly random opportunity to impact real children from that orphanage in Haiti.

One random opportunity to impact children in a Haitian orphanage morphed into planning a family vacation which included a one-day stop in Haiti.

Planning a one-day stop in Haiti morphed into sponsorship of a little girl in Haiti.

One day on the ground in Haiti morphed into correspondence with a little boy in Haiti.

And sponsorship of ONE little girl and correspondence with ONE little boy in Haiti morphed into the clicking of ONE little button that meant – yes, it’s time to GO. I’m beyond ready.

I’ve been dying to tell you, jumping out of my skin with excitement since I quietly clicked that button July 1, 2013.

I’m going to Haiti.

The dream, the calling, it never went away. In fact, it only became stronger, clearer with time.

So I’m going, and soon.

I’ll be visiting our little girl and little boy in Haiti on a sponsor trip with Compassion International. And blessings will be sure to flow when I get to meet their families, extended families, friends, and communities they do life with on a daily basis.

I already know what you’re going to ask…this isn’t so much a mission trip as it is a love mission. I won’t be building water wells, houses, schools or bridges. But I will be flying thousands of miles to let people from the poorest country in the western hemisphere know – they are loved, cared for, worthy of absolutely anything and everything. I’m prepared to face the brutal realities of poverty like never before. But I’m also prepared to receive incomprehensible gifts of joy, peace, hope and love like I’ve never known.

Before I go, I’m hoping you’ll join me as I review the steps I’ve already traveled to get to this place. As I get closer to leaving, I’ll share insight into the little and big ways I’ve prepared to go, what I’m excited about, what I’m scared about, what I’m hoping for and believing in. Because retracing the paths God’s had you on, and preparing to walk down them even further – is pretty cool. It makes His plans evident, and gives us hope that He’s ordained every day in advance.

He’s prepared a table, a place for each one of us.

I’m confident he’s set this table for me.

And I’m ready to go. So join me, will you?

As with my #31Days series, I’ll put a graphic for this series on the blog home page. Find the graphic and click to link back here where I’ll include links to every post I write between now and when I return from Haiti. Whether you’re joining me live, in real time, or after the fact when I’m home and settled back into everyday life as I know it, it’s an honor to have you be a part of this life-changing journey.

Amy

Other posts in this month-long series:

When Rubber Hit the Road

Meet Our Brothers and Sisters in Haiti

Crazy

The Quiet Before the Story

10 Nitty Gritty Details About My Trip to Haiti

Will You Stay In Or Step Out of the Box?

Strangely Beautiful

When A Mama’s Beautiful Baby Boy Is Going To Be Your Sponsored Child

How to Empower Girls

Why We First Need to Feed Those Who Are Hungry

Why We Can’t Just Pass by Poverty

Re-Entry

The Boy Who Stole My Heart

With and Without Translation

Journey to Haiti (slideshow with music)

Haiti. Where My Heart Longs to Linger.