Are you kidding me?

Those were the words I uttered upon hearing of the devastation in Haiti last Tuesday. This is a place that has captured my heart and mind as evidenced by the four previous posts. I was just in Port Au Prince not three weeks ago. My friends were still living there not five days ago. I have been overwhelmed this past week as to what to do.

I have come to realize that all I can do is pray, currently. I cannot physically be there, but the Father is there. I have also found it useful to stay updated in the goings on through friends' first person accounts, emails, and news sources. Hopefully when the time is right and an opportunity arises, I will be able to mobilize quickly and be used in a tangible way.

I do not think it will be useful to recap things that have happened, that can be done by reading Jay and Diana's blog or Jeremy's blog, which are linked on the sidebar to your left. I have also chosen a few articles that have been of interest to me and linked them below.

I urge you to let your heart ache if necessary, pray in abundance, give if you can, and go if you are called.

200,000+

This is not Katrina

Aftermath, Disease, and Water

Future Rebuilding Considerations

Rescue Stories

Haiti, pt. 4: TIH

There is almost too much to say about Haiti. There are ideas huddled beside feelings and concerns piggybacking resolutions spinning around emotions. It is all very overwhelming. The improvement projects needed branch off into a forest of tasks and the root system of all the problems seen in Haiti is no less complex.

From day one, Haiti is impossible. Everything about Haiti seems broken. Everything: government, sanitation, spiritual climate, community, courtesy, patience, agriculture, zoning, education…and the list goes on.

As a rich white intruder I want to clean it all up in a week long volunteer effort to put on my resume. This of course, is impossible. But, even so, I think with enough time and effort, Yes We Can!We can come in and clean up this sin drenched place. I find that this attitude yields so many problems, though. The first question must be asked: do they need to be “rescued”? Well clearly this place is not living in perfection, it is far removed from the Garden. However the next question is what does it need? Does it need “our way?” The American system is also ripe with injustice and sin….it just smells better.

The real hopelessness blooms, when, sitting and talking about all there is to Haiti, one realizes that even the solutions have problems. Progress, as so valued by us, has so many ornate trapdoors.

For instance: dropping shoes from a plane to distribute to the Haitians will protect and cover the children’s feet from the jagged rocks of the landscape (but will it also take jobs from local shoemakers, creating…more poverty?) Surely some initiatives like a nationwide trash collection or sex education are paces to start, but those are far too massive for me to feel like I can even consider! And even if those things were started, the long term effects of what those projects could turn into remain unknown. There are many caveats to progress.

Progress unleashed without a moral barometer can be utterly devastating and create situations worse than were present before. Just look around you, inquire into the food industry, inquire into the clothing industry. The consequences of unbridled advancement in the name of progress are all around us. This was one of the problems that kept coming up in late night ponderings. To improve or help Haiti always was paired with the system being polluted or taken advantage of or done in the wrong way to produce a different, sometimes more complex problem. It all seems so hopeless.

So, what shall we say now?

I was encouraged after reading an article in the latest issue of The Economist*. All these thoughts on what to do about Haiti had been weighing on me since I touched down in Port Au Prince, and this article reinforced the confusion at first: it discussed the fragile balance between progress and destruction. This concept had been debated countless times over the week at the orphanage. We would wax on our ideal visions of Haiti, then others would point out how that wouldn’t work for one reason or another. The term “be realistic” was thrown around a lot, and not angrily, but gently and often with a depressing sigh.

In the Economist article, philosopher Susan Neiman wrote that “every time someone tells you to ‘be realistic’ they are asking you to compromise your ideals.” I found this to be extremely interesting and remarkably accurate. But ideals are hard, and I learned this week they seem too grand to actually be possible. The encouragement lies with what Neiman says next: your ideals will never be met completely, but sometimes, however imperfectly, you can make progress. She writes that often we create a false idea that a choice must be made between Utopia and degeneracy. Neiman argues that this is not true and that moral progress is neither guaranteed nor hopeless.

I think her conclusion was a more eloquent version of what I had been musing towards the end of the trip: We can only try to resolve or nurture what we see set before us today.

Operating with love and compassion we can only take small steps forward on an immediate and daily basis. Of course, we must constantly recheck our motives, goals and hearts to be sure they are consistent with our original intention. Haiti cannot be saved in a day, but small, consistent efforts of love over a long period of time is how it will be done. We may never live to see full healing in our physical condition, but that timing does not matter.

I belive this concept becomes even more hopeful and beautiful under the grace offered through Christ. The hope of Haiti lies not wth us, and our hope lies not with helping Haiti. Rather, the hope of both parties rests with Christ. We can be vessels of change, but ultimately our efforts will be kinked and skewed with sin. Thankfully, He is the hope of all things. One day He will do more than make progress, He will restore to perfection. And until then, His enduring grace will fill in the cracks when we inevitably take a wrong turn or make a mistake while trying to do His work.

* I dont want to give false impressions of grandeur here, this is not normal reading material for me. That was the first time I had even picked up The Economist. The cover article "Progress and its Perils" caught my eye in the airport.

Haiti, pt. 3: Ki jan ou rele?

There are few things as beautiful as when a little one remembers your name. And comes running.

It is such a surprise that they remember, such a sweet acknowledgement that you have connected with them.

Upon arriving in Haiti, there were children that called out “Luke!” and “Alex!” and “Diana!” I knew they were remembered because they’ve been there before, or because they lived at the orphanage. But I must admit I was jealous. I wanted to walk up to a group of kids and have just one of them remember that I had thrown them in the air the day before, or spun them around, or carried them on my shoulders. Gloriously, this happened with three children while I was in Haiti.

Waldo – He caught my eye because he was wearing a Gators jersey. He was also the only child to list his full name when asked: Waldo Douswali. He loved to be picked up but he didn’t like the insanity of throws, spins and falls like the other boys. Waldo was content with just having his hand held or sitting in your arms. He loved to do the Gator chomp and say “Go Gators!” Or at least he seemed to think it was a fun thing I taught him.

Waldo was a village kid, but he was not a fixture at the compound like other villagers. I only saw him on two days, at Vacation Bible School, then he disappeared into the wilderness of Haiti. But I will always remember him running out on to the playground, amidst a field of wild banshees, headed right at me and saying “Aiiiii Geeee!”

And I picked him up and hugged him.

Gimsley – With goofy teeth too big for his head and an insatiable appetite for spins, Gimsley was quite a character. He is one of the orphans that lives within the walls of the compound, loved and cared for on a daily basis. His smile showed so much more contentment and safety than many of the other kids we saw that week. It is clear that Gimsley’s heart has been softened while at the orphanage.

Unfortunately, he has an iron-tight stomach and demanded to be spun around at all times. Over the course of a week, he singlehandedly made me more nauseous than all the burning garbage on the plains and the sewage flowing in the rivers. When not being twirled about, he demanded to be hoisted up upon my shoulders. Gimsley was a guy who liked the high life.

Walking over to the orphanage one afternoon with Luke and Katie, Gimsley came around the corner. He immediately started running at me. He exclaimed “AY JAY” and, of course, once he was right in front of me he said potem, meaning “hold me.” Soon he was back up on my shoulders as we headed to the makeshift soccer field.

I cannot wait to go back and spin him around until we both collapse.

Nadine - She came up to me one day on our first walk through the village. It was a sneak attack as she ran up behind me and slipped her little hand into mine and looked up, hopeful. This was the beginning of a strained and heartbreaking relationship.

She kept motioning to her throat and saying something in Creole. Over and over again I looked down, unable to respond because I didn’t know what she was saying. Then she patted her stomach, then she patted mine. Then she pointed to her mouth and said that word again. All I could do in response was shrug and put her up on my shoulders.

I learned later that Nadine was a village kid, she did not attend school nor was she an orphan. In fact, her parents are voodoo clergy. I also learned that she was telling me she was hungry, apparently she always says she is hungry, even when in the process of eating.

She has an odd way about her: very touchy, but not in a sweet way, odd and almost inappropriate. Touchy in a way that hints she knows what she’s doing. She can’t be more than 10. I don’t know what she has been taught or what life has shown her to create this behavior. I long for her to discover a more beautiful way.

Nadine became a representation of my hardest reality in Haiti. She was the village at large, the people untouched by the safe walls of the mission, the hopeless ones. She didn’t get the presents handed to the orphans or the snacks given to the school children at the Christmas party. We did, however, acquire a plate of popcorn and cheez puffs for her one afternoon (which she ate half and stuffed half in her pockets) and I gave her a half-liter of lemonade (which she downed in literally 5 seconds). But who will love Nadine after we leave? Who will remember about Nadine?

She remembered me, she called out my name, and it broke my heart.

Haiti, pt. 2: Chita!

I stood with a bowl of cookies on my head surrounded by hungry Haitian children pulling at my shorts, tugging on my shirt and slapping my stomach. The torn paper plates had been abandoned for withered hands, palms up. They begged and shoved, all vying for one more cookie. They promised to be my best friend. Zanmi mwen they said, while grunting and huffing out other words in Creole.

The thing is, I had the cookies. After giving them all the allotted two, we had nearly half a bowl left. And this was a big bowl. A quick guesstimate ensured that I had enough for at least one more per child. But in the mele there was no way to know who had gotten the extra one and who had not. Flashes of white eyes, crooked teeth and clawing hands dissolved into a sea of ebony. Some smiled and asked sweetly, some pounded my body with tiny fists to get their story told. Sometimes they all seemed to form one huge organism with one hundred hands reaching out for a Tempo coconut flavored cookie.

In the madness, Kyle came up to me with a handful of cookies, followed by a mob trying to pry them from his hands. "This is crazy, we gotta get out," he said.* Partly brokenhearted and partly relived that he too thought it had gotten out of control, I nodded. He dropped the loot in the bowl upon my head and we made our way out of the church, children following behind. The older boys called out to me as I left. Either laughing at my failure to deliver a simple snack or possibly pleading for another cookie themselves.

It had started innocently enough, after snack time the 5 or 6 kids nearest to me asked for more. Their little paper plates were creased and crumpled and I knew they probably hadn't eaten since VBS the day before. I could not look at them and then look at all the cookies and say no. Asking another inexperienced friend, we agreed that this was a good plan to quietly, systematically give out some more.

I erred on many accounts:

1) That I could explain they get one more each, and that would be it (but I dont speak Creole)

2) That I could reason with them if they still wanted more (but they were ages 4-10 mostly)

3) That they would assemble and politely take one more each (but...yea. nope.)

So after handing out a few precious cakes of flour and sugar, eyes began to dart to the corner of the room where I was standing. Things grew exponentially more chaotic, like when the critical Jenga piece is pulled from the tower. It was soon clear there would be no rules, no instructions and no rationale. It killed me that I could not continue to give. It was hard to know how much to endure before withdrawing mercy.

My heart longed to give them what they needed, to give out all the cookies in the world to them. The children made it impossible to love them fully. I wanted to make sure everyone got more, but I had no way to do so without multiple people stepping on others and squeezing out the less capable. At some point, we had to shut down the operation.

I wonder if God views us in this way sometimes...wanting to give out mercy and grace in abundance but in some spiritual fashion, similar or not, we make it so difficult for that to happen.

*In order to not taint Kyle's good name, I wanted to clarify that he is a broguy with much more toughness and steadfastness than I. He would be the last one in the world to retreat in a situaion like that. Those that know Kyle can appreciate just how out-of-control it must have been for him to think it was crazy. This is why I was somewhat relieved when he admitted the level of insanity...just so I knew I wasnt overreacting to the chaos. Kyle, love you bud.

Haiti, pt. 1: Dont blink...

Haiti hits you like a wave, baptizing you in a world far removed from what is normal. The sliding glass doors of the airport open to unleash hundreds of locals bustling about like fireants once thier hill is disrupted. They are calling, pointing, running, grabbing, motioning, and desperate for your attention.

Haiti smells like burning. Port Au Prince is saturated in smoke and dust. It is hard to distinguish garbage from belongings. Honestly, it just looks like a war zone. Everything is dirt and rocks and yelling. There is a fire somewhere, I cant see it but it must be all around me. Trucks not fit for American junkyards motor by, often with Haitians standing in the bed pointing and yelling in Creole.

My 97 pounds of luggage is not moving easily over the Haitian terrain, it is used to paved walkways and bellhops with a gentle touch. As a man in white maneuvers us around vehicles and honking horns, I notice one of my comrades is lagging behind. We trade bags since at least mine has wheels, and then its back to the comotion. Everything is frantic, every moment crucial.

Seeing Jeremy and Kyle's faces amongst the crowd was a most welcome sight, but there was no time for reunions. A quick fist bump with Jeremy, hand one bag over to Kyle and keep moving. Thirty-something people had to be herded to safety so their eyes remained locked past me to the group members in tow.

Finally we were congregated at an old school bus, hugs were accepted and arms rested on shoulders. Money was doled out to the man in white who valiantly stopped traffic for us. His chivalry gone, he now demanded more money. Jeremy stood his ground though, and he got no more than the predetermined amount. This would be a characteristic very important in Haiti: firmness.

As the bus pulled off into the haze, Haitians were running alongside asking for something, anything. We drove by makeshift street vendors, abandoned buildings, and one giant sculpture of the world with Haiti at its center. Jeremy stood up and welcomed us to Haiti, his voice tired and shaky from sickness and 3 months of living in this madness.

In the peace after we left Port Au Prince, mountains rose up against a quickly darkening sky as the old bus motor droned along. Fires sprinked the countryside, glowing with warning and Jeremy's words echoed in my head: Haiti is crazy. Haiti is unpredictable. Haiti is crunpredictable.

Creole for dummies...

Im going to Haiti in December.

This excites me to no end. In three weeks I will need to get some shots, get a case of Malarone, and more importantly, prepare my heart to be taken away. To be attached to a great sail caught by a wind of compassion and carried to some far off place. A place where my desires and my goals are put to death and all control is sacrificed on the great stone table.

Control.

I have come to realize that control is the greatest hinderance to my ability to do the things i feel in my heart. Things I think I want to do...

I have long been in favor of going overseas, for a long period of time, removing my comfortable upper middle class cushions, and helping the least of these. Like, actually living in a place...not just a trip.

I am not scared about sleeping in uncomfortable spots (Ive slept on couches for months at a time), I am not afraid of being dirty or not having regular hygiene luxuries (I shower once a day, but its more to wake up than to get clean), I am slightly fearful of violence...however that is minor (I could be assaulted in my neighborhood on any given night).

My biggest fear is losing control of my own life. Control to have a good job. Control to find a wife. Control to make and enjoy friends. Control of my future.

How will I meet my dream girl if I just move to Haiti? What kind of job will be available if/when I ever come back? What if I dont like the people I am bunking with? How can I find a good organization, with "cool" people I will enjoy? These are all the areas of control I fear losing.

The funny thing is, I do not have any control now. Ive never had control, but I do enjoy a nice little illusion of control. So essentially, I am fearful of giving up my illusion of control in life. That is the biggest hurdle for me to chase my passions. Pretty ridiculous huh?

Back to Haiti.

I have been reading the blogs of my friends, who are in Haiti. The people already living there and the group I will be going with is truly a collection of bright and beautiful people whom I love. I have daydreamed about going down there and staying there. I probably wont do that.

However, my heart is certainly in a transitional place right now. I pray that my eyes would be wide open and willing to see what God sees. Willing to see the broken places and that my soul would burn for love of the people I see there. And I would feel a need to act on my emotions and feelings while I am there.

Who knows what coals and embers this upcoming trip will stir up in my heart? But my main desire is that I will not let my desires and my plans come in the way of a call that I may feel.

Because I am a terrible leader for my own life. I shouldnt be in control anyway.

Oh, wait...Im not. I just think I am.

Scribbles and dots...

Art is freedom.

I used to feel that art was constraining.

If I was to draw a picture it had to look like the real thing. If I was to take a photo, it had to be perfectly framed and make sense. This must have stemmed from my elementary art classes where paste had to be conserved and paints should not be mixed.

Someone once told me that if you're going to create art, you cant be afraid to make mistakes.

I love this idea.

Sure, perhaps that picture is fuzzy, but it captures the feel of the moment. That story doesnt come to a conclusion...yes but it may just be a small snapshot of life, and sometimes in life conclusions are not made. It is the ultimate frustration, but oftentimes conclusions are miles and miles away: soaking in some rays on some tropical beach, sipping martinis while we are freezing in the rain, huddled up in some alley.

2009 has been a year where I have felt a bubbling of creativity, spouting up from places I knew it might be residing and from some places I had no idea it was there. There have been some key participants in my life that have seemingly unlocked this discipline in me. And it has been exhilarating.

But the most freeing thing is that I have come to love art and expression as a place with no rules: it can make perfect sense and come together or it can be completely nonsensical and just be.

I am so grateful for an outlet to just create something planned and poignant or perhaps to just throw some abstract concept that may have been floating around in my head down on paper. That is the beauty, it is ultimate freedom to just do. Do something that makes you satisfied.

Create for the sake of creativity.

I just really appreciate that. I love that you don't have to be good or smart or calculated to create something. Just go for it. Don't be afraid to make no sense. Everything can have its place and should be appreciated for what it is. I actually think we go wrong when we actually try hard to make it too good.

When trying too hard comes off in art I think it leaves a bad taste in the observer's mouth. The artist shouldn't have anything to prove to people. Therefore, don't try to. Just go, go, go.

Its as if we need to take off the parking brake and just let our minds roll down the hill, gaining speed and not stopping for anything.

I want to encourage creativity because it has been a huge outlet and a place to enter into worship for me. I am thankful for a creative God who literally speaks and creates. And I am thankful that he allows us to jump in there and make our own creations.

However grand or slight they may be.