“Now Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.” Hebrews 11:1

That first morning I woke up before my alarm had a chance to go off. I had tossed and turned the whole night whether from anxiety and anticipation for the day or from being overly tired and exhausted. The result being that my body ached for a couple more hours of sleep but my mind wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. Turning off my alarm so as to not wake up Caillie when it was to go off I grabbed my stuff and jumped in the shower accepting that if I wasn’t going to get a few more hours of sleep a nice scalding hot shower should do the trick to jump start my day. As soon as I was done I slipped on the water now flooding the bathroom floor. I hastily tried to mop up as much water as I could and slipped out the door as Caillie started getting ready. 

Not knowing what to do with myself as there was a while before our 7 am breakfast and meeting I found a quiet spot and pulled out my journal. The page stared back at me and completely unsure of where to start, I closed my eyes and prayed. I didn’t know what I was praying for but the need to try and see. To see these people as God wanted me to see them both Haitians and Americans. To see these children and their potential beyond what they’ve learned to expect. To see with my heart and my soul as much as with my eyes. 

By the time my teammates started trickling down to our meeting place for breakfast I made my way to the conversations about what we all thought today was going to be like. By the time we sat for breakfast I was trying to mainline some coffee to clear out the cobwebs that were forming from my current unintended boycott on sleep. Once we were done with breakfast we would break out jars of peanut butter and jelly that we had packed with us and make a few hundred sandwiches to bring along and pass out to those we met. Somewhere between excitement and outright nausea I went back with Caillie to grab everything that our team was going to need for that morning.

When we got back the massive amounts of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches piled up on the tables we were working on. An assembly line of bread slicing, peanut butter spreading, jelly “handling” (if you can really “handle jelly”), and stuffing the sandwiches into bags (with lollipops) had formed and our team was looking like a well-oiled machine. We were going to be making over two hundred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches each day and hand them out to the kids we were working with and any extras would go to whomever we could find.

As I grabbed more bags to stuff into our backpacks that would be filled to the brim with sandwiches two distinctive things happened: one pure joy at the espresso that Christian set in front of me; the second shear panic as Mark came over with a napkin wrapped around his hand that was dripping with blood from cutting the bread slices in two.  Something that most people know about me is I don’t do other people’s blood. I don’t like the sight of it, I don’t like the smell of it, I don’t even like to think about it. Thankfully, Caillie who doesn’t mind blood (a good thing working in the medical field) went to help Mark as the rest of us continued on with our sandwich assembly line.

The nice industrial kitchen knives that we HAD TO PACK had shed the first blood and much to my chagrin would not be the last. Once Mark was bandaged up and the sandwiches were packed into bags, we all made our way outside to wait for Dago. When that distinctive white bus pulled around, we piled in with our bags of equipment for the VBS team and the work team all nervous smiles and anxious conversation. As we took our seats we looked to Christian for some sort of insight or explanation for what we were feeling that I know that I at the time couldn’t have put into words.

Later when I was reflecting that first morning I would remember and identify the metallic taste in my mouth of adrenaline from the sheer panic radiating beneath the surface of my skin. The panic sprang from my insecurity that we weren’t prepared or equipped for what was waiting for us on the other side of the Decameron’s walls. Fourteen sets of eyes landed on Christian waiting for some sort of revelation to make us all feel prepared. I’ll never forget what Christian did that first morning and if he had felt the weight of the team fall on his shoulders in those moments of heavy expectation, he didn’t let it show.

While the bus was idling waiting for Dago’s men to finish loading the rest of the items Pastor Daniel had for us to bring, we prayed. Well Christian got up and prayed; and what he prayed for resonated past that one morning. He prayed for strength, guidance, and most surprisingly he prayed for surrender. Our surrender to the bigger plan. Our surrender to what could happen with God’s strength versus the limited capabilities found in our own. That the language of the Spirit would surpass the language of man. He prayed that we would be able to have the honor of being the hands and feet of God and that we would not only be blessings but be blessed. At the end of the prayer with the bus kicking into gear to take us to the Hope School on that first day he read a Psalm. Psalm 9:18 which would not only become the torch for the week but would become a personal anthem in my life and to all that have traveled with our church to the island of Haiti.

Psalm 9:18- “But God will never forget the needy; the hope of the afflicted will never perish.” (NIV)

The noises of everyday life in the village of Montrouis and the bumps of the road quickly drew my attention off of what was coming and back to the daily life and sounds of Haiti. Just outside the bus was a whole world coming to life; colorful carts selling things like fresh fruit, bread, and snacks lined the road as the bus maneuvered its way through incredibly narrow streets filling every passing minute with more people. We suddenly came to a stop in front of a woman with a bread cart. I wasn’t sure if we were going to have to get out at the street corner and walk the rest of the way to the school but before we all made a move to collect our stuff the woman began lugging her cart out of the road revealing what looked to be an alley entranceway.

Somehow, the bus made it down this poor excuse of a road and we drove over the potholes and passed waste littering the path ahead. But it was the people and the houses that caught my attention. Cinder Block walls and metal roofs comprised the homes we saw as we drove down the road. There seemed to be a theme around every house that we passed- the first and most valuable aspect of the home was the wall or barrier set up to mark their territory. In a place like Haiti sometimes that barrier is the only thing you have between your family and the rest of the world. That makeshift wall or fence would be the only form of protection these families had-no security system, no deadbolts, barely any doors.

As we drove further down the road kids were beginning to run out into their yards and wave down this bus of blans. Children with smiling faces started following our bus down the road while slightly cautious eyes from their adult counterparts watched as another group of blans came into their community, whether to bring help or to gawk at their way of life had yet to be determined.

At the end of a bend we pulled up to a rough “grassy” field with a tall chain-link fence. I use grassy lightly as there was more of that Haitian dirt and rocks than grass. “Welcome to your Hope School,” Gil announced over the rumbling of the engine. As we passed the field and a few trees we pulled up in front of a rusty red door leading to a u-shaped compound with a courtyard just beyond the other side of the door. Tears filled Erin’s eyes as she saw what everyone else did- hundreds of kids sitting in the courtyard waiting. Laughter and clapping erupted as they saw that the bus had come to a halt. That this bus was here for them. Those cheers and shouts of glee was for us. As we piled off the bus some people stood around the back with Pastor Daniel’s men and Christian waiting for the supplies to be unloaded. But some of us weren’t born with the virtue of patience.

I followed Erin and Caillie through those red doors and if I thought I was prepared at any point of the trip it went out the window with the first glance to the hundreds of pairs of eyes staring back at me. Doing some quick math, I realized that the small VBS team of twelve and the work team of three were vastly outnumbered. But I couldn’t feel the anxiety and fear as I walked up to that first group of kids. I honestly couldn’t feel anything. Finding a group of kids around four to five I started handing out high-fives and smiled as I fumbled through trying to talk to them. They probably had no idea what I was saying but they obviously didn’t seem to care. I felt a tug on my backpack and as I turned a little girl crawled up into my arms.

Well a quick hard and fast rule in Haiti we learned very quickly-you can never just hold one child. Whether because we were weak to resist or because the sheer number of them would overpower you, Pandora’s box opened as that little girl cuddled into my arms so that I ended up on the ground and dozens of little hands all over me. I easily had eight children on me somehow; on my lap, in my arms, hanging on my back, and more were still trying to find a way in. With their light laughter and tugs to try and get me to pay attention to them and only them I didn’t notice the tears streaming down my face. Laughter filled my throat as I was now covered in dust and dirt. If you ever had to answer on Jeopardy- how many Haitian children can you fit on your lap- the answer is as many as they want because you don’t really get a choice in the matter.

I have no idea when the rest of the team joined us in the compound but eventually Pastor Daniel and Carinar (the school principal) called the kids to attention. I saw little ones who had found themselves spots in the arms of most of my teammates scrambling back to their seats. I looked down and there was still that first little girl holding onto my shirt. I smiled and picked her up. What could it hurt to just hold her a little longer? The principal stepped forward to welcome us to the Hope School and with a nod one of the older children came forward to officially welcome us all in English.

The children all began to sign and as I looked around in awe of the beautiful little voices belting at the top of their lungs little hands reached up and began running her fingers through my hair whose foreign texture to hers was already dripping with sweat. I looked down into the eyes of a little girl named Alicia who while she might have been four or five was just so tiny. Every time I looked at her and said her name she beamed with joy and laughed. It was as if acknowledging who she was as an individual, that I just saw her in the crowd full of children, that brought her great joy.

After their song, the bags of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were brought out to be distributed into all those little hands. Once all of the kids had sandwiches we were able to pass some out to the adults that were there to help with VBS. As the rest of the team handed out the remaining sandwiches I placed little Alicia down and went with Erin and Gammy, to set up the rooms for our first session.

With supplies distributed into different classrooms (our school had eight different rooms to hold all of these kids and our team) we started dividing up our team. I would be stationed with Gammy in a craft room where we would try to communicate how to make different crafts with our roomful of kids. I looked at the ostentatiously colored craft supplies that contrasted the dirty covered cement floor. We had a few small wooden benches in front of us and a badly worn chalk board behind us. Bile started building in my throat thinking about the mass of students filing this small cement block of a room. Looking around the room at the one bar covered window and one rusty metal door there wasn’t much left to do but wait for those few seats to be filled. The paper plates and bags of crayons clutched in Gammy’s and my hands seemed like such meager offerings to the kids we were going to “teach.” I still hadn’t grasped that I was the one ultimately learning the lessons on this trip.

The world seemed to go completely silent as we stood there waiting for the kids to be dismissed. My body felt jittery and on fire from the nerves as I looked out the door at the hundreds of pairs of eyes darting from room to room. With a sudden shout of glee from one of the smaller kids that silence was broken as kids began flooding into the classrooms. From that point on the only way to describe what happened next would be mass hysteria. Once empty dirt floors were now covered with children all laughing and chattering away in Creole. The occasional fight would break out, but over what, I had no idea seeing as I knew (and still know) about 7- 10 words in Creole.

Gammy got up in front of the room and tried to explain to the kids what we were going to try and have them do (draw the outline of Haiti on a paper plate). Pretty quickly it became apparent that we needed to realign our expectations of what these crafts were going to look like. As Gammy had already said as we were unloading our equipment whether for her own benefit or just mine “The craft isn’t the point. No one got saved because of a paper plate covered in crayon. This was just the process or excuse to be here and spend time with these kids before they go learn about Jesus. The paper plates were a symbol of Jesus’ faithfulness and love no matter if they had crayon colored outlines of Haiti or not. Because they symbolized that we cared enough to get on a plane and come here.”

If I’m being honest I usually find more comfort in the process. Years later and countless examples that the process is just the key to get you in the door I still often find myself stuck there. Fixated on perfecting the process and missing the purpose which would be the people. But here we would see no perfect process. No perfect product of our planning and preparation as our instructions were lost on these 7-10 year olds who understand little to no English. What was understood though, was the bag of crayons that Gammy and I held. Eyes fixated on that as hands reached to grab and steal crayons for their paper plates.

Our first day we probably had 35 to 50 kids in our classroom at any given time so in total we probably saw about 200 kids go through our door. We lost or broke a good portion of our stash of crayons and we both saw plenty of crayons make their way into the pockets of our students (and in the mouths of some of the younger ones) but didn’t know how to ask for them to give them back when crayons were easily replaceable in the grand scheme of life. But, the smiles we saw and the proud children displaying their works of art as we shouted out “belle!” (beautiful) because for each one their picture was indeed a masterpiece.

We had our biggest issue with the rooms of older children around 12-15. It was harder to excite them with paper plates and broken crayons. An argument broke out between two of the boys and I didn’t know if Gammy or I were going to be able to break it up, having no clue what it was they were screaming at each other. Thankfully, two teenage girls were in our classroom at the same time. Both spoke decent English and seeing the problem the boys were beginning to cause came over and shut the situation down. With their help for the rest of the day we had little to no more arguments and learned a few Creole words such as- “Chita” meaning sit down, and “Silans” which means silence. By the end of the day we were incredibly thankful for Cassandra and her friends for taking pity on us and our lack of Creole.

When we were done teaching, we played with the kids until it was time for them to file back into classrooms for lunch. Behind the school building there was a small area that had been cleared of bushes and trees. There three women stood over open flames and big pots filled with rice. These few women had been working over these flames the whole day and I hadn’t even noticed. They worked faithfully and almost in secret in the  boiling heat where they labored to feed a few hundred kids. These pots contained large amounts of rice and a sauce that had fish as its base. They spooned piles of rice, a spoonful of sauce, a single sliver of onion and tomato onto paper plates with spoons for us to pass out to the children sitting in their classrooms.

We would be feeding the smallest children to the oldest and they would all wait patiently in their seats for us to arrive. But we could not carry the food from that small courtyard to the classrooms fast enough. The women had piles and piles of plates sitting on a piece of plywood they utilized as a makeshift table, but we couldn’t carry enough plates by ourselves. One of the rooms was empty as it was the site of where some of the men on our trip and workers from the school were building a kitchen for these women so they wouldn’t have to cook over an open flame outside. There was a window here and Mel, Erin, and I stood at this window so that plates of food could be passed up to us. Then our team formed a fire line so we could hand off the food that was now being passed through the window. It was slow working at first but eventually each kid got a plate of food and once that last plate of food was handed to the last kid in the classroom then the room would as one begin eating.

That first day as the bus pulled up it was bittersweet as we collected all of our belongings that would be coming back with us so we could prep for the next day. Bags and people loaded the bus and we perhaps begrudgingly found seats. As the last person loaded the bus Dago took off to bring us back to the hotel so we could eat lunch. Our lunch would look much different than what we had just served. We wouldn’t have to sparingly take only one onion or tomato. If we didn’t like something it would just be pushed aside for something else. My stomach turned at the idea as I saw a little boy no more than six or seven lovingly carrying a paper plate with his leftovers down the road to no doubt share with his family.

One plate of food- possibly the only food that they are going to get for the day and these children take that to share with their family. Now thirty minutes later we are walking into an all you can eat buffet for lunch where the biggest issue was if we had to wait in line. It was hard to stomach as we now had finally faced what desperate need looked like and it was accompanied with laughter and smiles. Giggles and hugs while little ones hid stolen sandwiches and hoarded leftovers. But, we made our way into lines and ate while swapping stories of failed crafts and translated VBS skits with the men who shared tales of teaching Haitians how to use a ruler and table saw.

Once lunch was over, we loaded back onto the bus to go back to the Hope School. We were going to be doing some painting while some of the guys went back to work on their kitchen project. While the men carted off their gear back into a far corner room I took a look around the school courtyard and this time really saw the school for what it was. Without the hundreds of little ones running around and voices filling the air you could concentrate on more than what was just in front of you. The school was well plotted out in its large U shape design. One end of the U was the school library and the other end the principal’s office. In between were classrooms that would range from the smallest kindergarten class to high school.

Today we were going to be doing some painting to give the complex a “facelift.” The top of the walls was going to be a bright blue and the bottom would be a dark navy. We took stock of the supplies that we had- not enough for everyone so people would need to take turns as there wasn’t any Home Depot or Lowes for a quick trip. As supplies were passed out, I took a step back as painting was not my best skill and there were some who were much more excited at the prospect of painting than I was. I walked over to see what was going on in the “kitchen.” The corner room was filled with scraps of wood that littered the ground and more makeshift tables.

Power tools that we had brought were spread throughout the team as the team was assembling what looked to be a counter in the making. The women would be able to have counter space with running water as well as two camping stove tops to cook over rather than the fire pits that were outside. When we were done we hoped to give them ample space to work and to minister to these kids through food. As I was neither blessed with the spiritual gift of painting or power tools I enjoyed sitting with one of the workers kids in my lap and just listening to my teammates stories from the morning.

That morning Erin had taught the kids on Faith. She wanted to teach them that sometimes faith is having to make a constant choice. That it’s a daily action rather than just a one-time decision, and how just because you have faith doesn’t mean you won’t face obstacles. These kids definitely understood obstacles and other hardships in a way that kids back home would God-willing not need to experience first-hand.

By the time everything was packed back up for the day I felt in a daze either from dehydration, exhaustion, or the fact that I’d barely gotten any sleep these past few days. Whatever the reason the rest of the night from my scalding hot shower, to dinner with my team, and our team meeting I felt as if I was in a haze watching from above. Lying in bed that night I grabbed my journal and finally tried to put some of these feelings to paper. My brain couldn’t comprehend that this was everyday life for these kids. That these women I met raised their children in an environment that was not only dangerous but without hope. They prayed every day that they would be able to beat the odds and have a better life. They lived out their faith much more boldly than we did back home, well much more boldly than I did.

Trying to empty my brain of all these thoughts and feelings I hoped that by the time I put my pen down my mind would be as tired as my body and I’d finally get some rest. My thoughts turned to what faith was looking like from our perspective rather than the Haitian perspective. It took faith for me to sign up for a mission trip but it took a step further to actually get on the plane and go. I now needed to have faith in a team that I barely knew. I had to have faith that God would provide a way through the language barrier for us to reach these kids. But what was probably the hardest for me was I needed to have faith that I had a purpose here. That there had to be some reason why I was here over someone else. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I had to have faith that if I was here God had a plan. Putting my journal away and feeling a bit more settled Caillie turned off the lights and we said goodnight to Day One.