Tablet with Tikilene

Picaban

The pastor's list came in, filled with names of the people in his flock, and plans were made to visit a new church called Picaban.  It would be the farthest distribution we've done to the south, but two pastors and two Haitian neighbor kids volunteered to come along, so we made a day of it. 

At the last minute plans changed and we lost our translator, but we knew enough Kreyol to get by. 

We figured it'd be like driving a stick-shift for the first time, you might pop the clutch and kill it a few times but you'll get there in the end, and besides, we had two Haitian pastors.  How equipped do you really need to be, Christian?

It was a little further of a hike than we planned, but well worth it.  The time to walk has a way of solidifying young and old, Haitian and American, Christian brothers and sisters all... 

When we came to the river, the same river I fell into last fall with my moto, Heather showed us all the art of flying with grace as she jumped like a ballerina over the narrow spot.   Then the boys showed us their ninja jumping techniques, something resembling Karate Kid and the Flying-Swan, until they came crashing to the earth.  I decided to call it the Shot-Duck after that.

The girls crossed as ladies, one even on the pastor's back. 

When we got there, the church was so new we found only pillars and a tin roof, with some ribbon and leaves tied around the posts for decoration.  I decided immediately that all churches should be built to these specs, exactly as this one, from now on.  

To sit down on the benches carved out of palm trees and feel the breeze on your face, to smell the apple tree coming into bloom, to watch the cow grazing in the yard and feel the sun beaming down as the farmer in the next field over tills the ground with a pick axe...what a humbling reminder not to think too highly of ourselves, to remember that we are created beings.  What better incentive to GO and share His word.  To plant these seeds in such fertile ground is a privilege. 

The kids helped to haul the Bibles in, and we gave the Gospel.  Both pastors gave a short message, and we began the distribution. We sang some songs together and talked about returning, hopefully before the rains come, because we might not be able to cross the rivers.     

Sometimes people, even missionaries, tell me they don't understand why we give Bibles, when there's so much need.  They think that aid has to be tangible, something you can put your finger on. But then that kind of thinking floats across the water from America like the garbage from one of the many cruise ships that pass by without stopping. It takes the form of Barbie dolls and Skittles, garbage bags filled with old clothes and worn-out shoes of different odd-end sizes, and food long past its expiration date because at the last church food drive we reached into the back of the cupboard and found those beans we didn't mean to buy 5 years ago.

There are countless half-started, half-hearted, abandoned humanitarian aid projects riddling the countryside while we mount our civilized 'we-came we-saw, we got-the-t-shirt' goodwill. But then what is left in the wake is really more barbaric than anything.  We leave a people with a hand-out, dependent, and still as troubled and jobless.  A Haitian boy not even 5-years old will give me a knee-jerk response as I pass him on the road,

"Blanc (white)! Give me money!"

What are we really doing?

I see something different.  I see hope, inspiration, love, and peace. 

 I see a young generation that is more equipped every day through literacy, 

and a Haiti that will be forever changed as a result.

I see God working in there. 

I see the spark that will start the fire, in every young Haitian's eyes.

I don't have the ability to give jobs.  I don't have the funds to buy everyone a cow.  I'm not a doctor.

I don't have the resources to start another school.  I'm not a scientist who can discover clean, fresh water.

I'm a photographer.  I'm a writer.  I love music.

More than anything, I have God's word.  It's filled with a Love so great that He gave His only son.

I know that if I love anyone in this world, I have to love beyond the matter of my self.

When I give Bibles, I see smiles. I see joy.

When I return to that church weeks later, I see the people coming down the criss-crossed Haitian trails carrying His Word as if it were a baby. 

There's a bounce in their step. 

There's hope.

What more can I say to you, except that maybe you need to see it for yourself?

Live, love beyond the matter of your self.

Get out of the 4 walls and breathe.

Don't talk about all the good that should be done, but then 

just fill up on the fast-food lifestyle of the 'I'm-SO-busy!'

Only let us live up to what we've already attained...

Let's start with what we know, and then actually do it, out there, in the world.

The Dezòds

It's the word for "naughty" here in Haiti.  I get called that name so much by the Haitian momma's around here that you if you came for a visit you might think that's my nickname.  My son has inherited the salutation as well, but for the most part, it's light and playful.  It's crossing the line into pa-bon, "not good", that you really want to avoid.  Once you're there, plan on having to earn your way back from the dark side. 


Some of the boys and girls that Kari works with are dezòd.   They are mischievous,  they are on the border of trouble, flirting with crossing over.    The other day they stopped by as usual after school, their little rag-tag band of toughness, but Kari wasn't home.  She was with me, driving across Haiti to pick up Bibles.  But Tikilene was at the house, and when they knocked on the back gate and asked for her, she politely told them that the Madame was not home.  


The next day they came, and told Kari a whopper.  They'd come to the house, innocently of course, looking to have Bible time with Kari.  Tikilene yelled at them angrily, telling them to go away, and then in an effort to mark her solidarity, she proceeded to pick up a large rock and throw it at the poor school children. The rock slammed into the forehead of one of the poor, helpless girls who was already trying to get away, and cut her....
And now, they said, there was going to be trouble.  That girl's mother was going to come down from the mountain and have words with Tikilene, and somehow it was going to be our problem as well.   I mean, how dare she!


The moment I heard that tall-tale, I dismissed it.  Tikilene is an angel.  She wouldn't pick up a rock to throw it at a dog, much less a school girl.  She's not the Troll of Ti Rivier.  She's the Diamond in the Rough!  Besides, the story was full of holes, the biggest being the ABSENCE of the hole in said-girl's forehead.  Not even a mark upon her pretty little face....hmmmmm.  Just a fast healer?


So, when she came to work we told her the story.  
Not only was she shocked, but she made absolutely certain that we knew the truth.


The girls had in fact come to the gate.  
Tikilene politely told them that the Madame wasn't home...
and that's where the departure from reality took place.
In truth, they asked her again, and again, and again. 
She told them repeatedly, "She's not here." and then finally, "You need to go on now."
And then came the reply, 
"What is this, your yard?   You don't @#$%$ tell us what to do!"


With that, Tikilene said she rushed towards the gate, but certainly did NOT hit anyone with the rock that she picked up, because she didn't actually pick up a rock, she pretended to pick up a rock.  The kids ran for all their might, since that actually is a common response to that kind of disrespect here, but the rock never existed, except in their minds.


Along came the schoolkids, unawares. The Dezòds, I've decided to call them. 


"Guess what kids? We've talked with Tikilene."   
Whoops.  Didn't think that far ahead I guess.


So what happened? As their punishment, Tikilene told them all to come in and sit down.  For the next hour they shucked peanuts with us.  They all said they were sorry.  They all apologized for their tall tale. The sun began to set, and because they live so far away we usually give them a ride as a treat.
"Well, normally it would be time to go home in the car.  Who needs a ride?"  I said. 
They all raised their hand.  Getting a ride in a car is a big deal here.
"Ok.  But tell me again, who was dezòd?"


A couple of hands barely raised.  Frowns came upon faces at the thought of making the long walk home.
And after a few seconds of painful silence I asked, 
"Who here knows the meaning of the word 'grace'?"


Yesterday they came to even help us finish the peanuts.  (Yes. It takes that long to shuck peanuts.  I will never take a jar of peanuts for granted again.)
They each brought a piece of fruit from the family tree as a peace offering.  Abriko and a baby mango, just coming into season.
When we finished I told them they could come back on Saturday because Tikilene is making tablet out of the nuts.  It's a very good, very sugary treat made from the syrup of sugar cane.  We gave them bread with peanut butter, and when I told them it was from America, they began to savor each bite, actually licking it instead of eating it.   

They were so content afterward that they danced, they patty-caked with the moms and kids, and even washed up in the basin with soap.  


Yep. Dezòd. Not quite turned.  Just kids. Not rotten through to the core.  Just rough around edges, in need of a good trimming or a sharp spankin', one or the other or both.  And they all need Jesus. 
Just like me.  

Dr. Logan

When someone comes running in bleeding, he's on the job.  Mom walks around with a bad scrape for a couple of days, and then suddenly one morning, there she is with this perfectly dressed bandage.

I don't even have to ask who did that. I can tell by the workmanship.

A Haitian comes to visit with a bad gash on her leg...

"Hmmm, that needs cleaned." Kari says....."Lo-o--ogan!  Calling Dr. Logan!"

Out he comes, carrying the tools of the trade.

And nothing makes him woozy.  If anything I think he finds it fascinating.

He knows better than anyone where to find the proper cure for the proper ailment. 

If we need Neosporin or Iodine wash, gauze, a back rub, aspirin, cough medicine or just a simple Band-Aid with some tender loving care.  It's Dr. Logan to the rescue.

Yep.  That's my boy.  His uncle is a doctor.  A good one too, or so I hear.  I'm thinking about pulling some strings to buy him a good stethoscope.

Sing! Pray! Dance!

My wife had a hard conversation on the phone this morning.  She came in the room and began to cry.
I sat with her on the bed and held her.  That's all she wanted, which was pretty amazing because I told her she could pick from anything in the world.  I could have been doing dishes for a week, which in Haiti isn't so easy, especially when we're hauling the water in 5-gallon buckets.
"Just a hug."  She said.
"Easy enough." I said.
While we were there in that moment, Tikilene walked in the room.
Immediately she reacted.

"No crying!  Don't do that!  You don't let life make you sick!  With everything, you've got to sing!  You've got to pray!  You've got to give it God!"
I realize I'm witnessing the profound, as she's standing there with that gorgeous smile, in her little white hat with her red Raggedy Ann t-shirt, holding a broom in her hand, yet a bounce in her step like she might as well be dancing a waltz in a ball room somewhere.


This woman...this Haitian momma, who's lived a life a hundred times harder than mine, than anyone I know,  has this joy, this hope, this dance in her eyes because of one reason.
She's found the source!
Tikilene can work all day, and never stop singing praises.  Even on days when she's sick, she's still smiling.  The day her husband got hurt on the moto and banged up his leg really bad, she still gave glory to God.
When the owner of the house was here, she worked one morning from sunrise through the sunset, and I took her home in the dark of night.  She was wiped out.  Still, when we talked on the way home, her voice was full of love.  Tired, but not empty.  Not dry.  Not finished.  Because she knew where to find more strength, more peace, more love.   These days I always give her a ride home on my moto.  Most times she tries to sneak out and leave without my noticing.  Not because she likes to walk the 2 miles to home after a days work, and not even because I'm a crazy driver.  It's because she'd rather walk for an hour on tired, worn feet than bother anyone or put anyone out.


I decided we should take her advice.  God put her here in our lives to show us something beautiful.  How to give it all over to Him. No matter the circumstance.


I put on some thumping music. Something with a definite beat. We got up and began to dance.   I made up some moves for Kari.  She laughed and said that this is what really needs to go on Facebook!   Never in a million years. :)


Tikilene saw us dancing and began laughing.  I showed her my moves.  She nodded with a smile, then she began to dance.  Better than all of us!   This Haitian momma's got moves!   Bringing praise to Jesus in the middle of Haiti, and all the other harshness melts away...