What you Need to know about Terrier Rouge

A list of tid bits and thoughts on living in Terrier Rouge.

If its yellow let it mellow.  If its brown flush it down. 

Never.  Never. Never walk through the center of the soccer game. 

If the rind has hair on it, it's pork. 

Don't drink the water,  Prestige will do just fine 

Never fear the flash mob of red polo shirts and flopping red bows, they come in peace

No "sucret" does not mean "cigarette", it means " candy".

"Je t'aime" means "I love you" , not "I like your hat."

No, pedestrians do not have the right of way, but the cows, goats, chickens and pigs do. 

Hot water is for sissies

Don't rise with the rooster, he failed telling time, or the difference between sunrise and sunset, in school 

Pere Bruno's watchdogs are indeed vicious animals, beware of drool and aggressive tail wagging upon arrival

The yellow line in the middle of the road is simply a mere suggestion, not a hard and fast rule.

The car horn is quite simple, it means " I'm coming, get the hell out of my way." 

Living Outside of the Gate

It's easy, in Terrier Rouge, to become jaded by life inside the gate.  Inside, we have running water (sometimes) , we have clean bottled water and fresh fruit at every meal.  We have beds and sheets, pillows and toothpaste, lights and fans and even an occasional cold Coca Cola.  It's easy to get comfortable and know that you have a soft bed and flushing toilet to return to after walking through the dusty streets of north east Haiti.  

But make no mistake, that's not how the Haitians live.  They walk a mile or so to a well that holds all sorts of mysteries from cholera to typhoid, and they carry the water home in 5 gallon buckets balanced tenuously on their head. They have beans and rice at every meal that is accented by whatever meat might be available - goat, dog, chicken, seafood or even the large white worms we dug up in the garden. When food is scarce, a mud cake, shaped to the size of a small patty can trick a young child's body into thinking it's full.  If they are lucky, the have a mattress between them and the dirt floor of their mud packed homes, a twin sized mattress for four or five people in the dank and dreary home with windows covered with the Americans leftover sheets, if there are windows at all. No lights hang from their tin or thatched roofs.  They relieve themselves on the side of the road or in the makeshift lean-to with a hole  in the ground.  Their kitchens consist of tall sticks leaning together and roughly covered with a sheet of discarded metal, a pit of charcoal and one pan in which to cook.  

But some things are no different here than they are at my seemingly enormous home in Warrenton.  As the sun comes up, Luna's family falls out of their mud  packed house and scurries around to get ready for the day.  The children are fussed at as their school uniforms are dirty or they can't find their one pair of shoes.  Breakfast consists of gathering the eggs and quickly eating them before rushing off to school.  The children push and shove as to who gets the bathroom first and Luna yells again to "stop fighting and get ready" all in a universal language mothers understand- regardless of the words that are said. 

Parents gather around the school gate spit shine their children's shoes, some stripping their children naked to put their uniforms on right there in order to keep it clean on the long trek to school.  And in the children run, into this life that is so different inside the gate .  

My first trip to Haiti, in 2008, I had no clue what to expect.  I saw adorable pictures of children in clean uniforms with red bows in their hair and red lacy socks on their feet.  They looked beautiful and healthy and just like any other child you might find anywhere around the world. The world of l'ecole St. Barthelemy is one all the parents of northeast Haiti wish for their children. It is the best of the best. Outside the gate the world is a different place.

Ever since that first trip I struggle with what God is calling me to be.  I thought that in two weeks I would find that answer.

Two  weeks and now I'm headed home. 

Two evenings spent packing food in a silence that hung heavily in the air.  At times no one spoke because no words could convey our solidarity. We passed fish and oil between the team and the Haitians, each caught in our own thoughts and prayers. We each prayed in our own way. Bethann hummed a gently tune.  Mike counted each bag and prayed it would be enough.  As the rice slid through my fingers, I thought of Jesus on the lakeside as he multiplied the loaves and fishes and prayed He could do that once more.

Two food distributions, each wrenching my heart from my body and forcing me to look into eyes deeper than the deepest sea. 

Two visits to an orphanage of beautiful children that clung to my arms and hung from my back.  Children without a mom or a dad but thanks to the Harveys they have hope and life and love.  

Two trips to Cap Haitien, where you can literally smell the suffering and the mass of humanity that fights for a piece of fresh air to breathe or water to quench an everlasting thirst.  A place where there is nowhere to clean the smell of charcoal from your nostrils or the grit from your teeth.

Two long bumpy trips to Minniere, where cholera took 7-8 souls a week for months on end  less than a year ago. Where now, thanks to my fellow Rotarians, two wells serve 4000 of our brothers and sisters with fresh clean water.

Five bowls of pumpkin soup.

And not one bean.

One huge spider, a June bug in my hair at 2AM, chiggers, mosquitoes, lizards and of course the roaches.

One case of jungle rot, cured and cleaned.

One Dr. Pepper. 

350 dresses and shorts. 350 happy children and mommas with clothes that aren't hand me downs or American leftovers, but brand spanking new.

Hundreds of pairs of underwear and medicines, flip flops and candies.

Four small medicinal gardens.

One starfish found and tossed back into the sea

Two chlorine pumps installed

Twenty four lap top computers, delivered, installed and ready to roll.

Three floors of freshly painted walls.

Nine of Warrenton's finest Rotarians, businessmen and college students.

Ten Presbyterians.

And me.

I've found over these few years that my calling isn't so much to heal the sick or teach a new trade, it isn't so much to paint a wall or plant a garden as it is to find those people that can.  Once they are found, it's quite simple, as Pere Bruno says ... "Come and See." So that's what I will do, until the last person tells me "No" , I'll keep searching and I'll keep going back, again and again and again.

Growing up my favorite poet was Emily Dickinson and my favorite poem was this:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain.

If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain.
If I can help one aching bird,
Unto his nest again...

I shall not live in vain.

  It's time for me to go home. Time for me to cry into Isabelle's thick brown hair and exchange eye rolls with Jacob behind Paul's back.  Time to sit again at my desk and find words to tell the Story. Time to train for a race and chill with my girlfriends.  I only pray that once inside my own gate that I don't forget what's on the other side.  

May it be so for you and for you and for you....

Thanks for reading, but thanks most of all for praying.

Love more
Give more
Serve more

carrie 

Good Night

I don't want to write anything.  Not because I don't have anything to say, but because I have too much to say.  I've had my hot shower, a pizza and even a margarita (or two) and I'm ready to be home.  I'm ready to cuddle with my kids and share my stories with Paul.  I'm ready to unpack my bags and have a tall ice filled cup of Dr.Pepper.  But I'm not ready to move on.

My biggest fear is that somehow, someway I will forget, that I'll get too comfy and too distracted with life that I'll forget the piece of myself that I left in Haiti. That piece which makes me whole.  That piece that God has chipped away at me, little by little, year after year, leaving pieces behind in the desolate land of Terrier Rouge, so that I can't be whole without it.  I figure He knows what He's doing after all... I'm just along for the ride.

So, for now, I'm just going to say "Good Night" and "See you soon..." and if you really want to get on my good side, you'll drop me off an ice cold Dr Pepper on my doorstep.

Forty Two Kids

I've written so much this week and some nights I've even gone to bed with one more blog idea in my head.  Yet one thing has been strangely missing because I'm not really ready to process it yet.  So much has happened these two weeks, so much that words can't wrap themselves around, that only silence  can do it justice.  Its almost as if I attempt to explain it, the magic will dissipate into thin air. I want to protect it and keep it mine, partially because I don't want it to be really  real and partially because I'm not quite sure what to do with it.  So I've put it away for later.  Who knows when later will really be?  But I figure I better go ahead and start right now.

I visited an orphanage in Cap Haitien twice in the past two weeks.  I've never been to an orphanage and I'll be honest, I've got a bit of an Annie complex.  I've over sensationalized it to turn it into a horrible place with a mean nasty woman and every child just begging to be adopted.  I thought I'd be faced with sickly and pathetic children putting on their best in the hopes that they would be going  to a real home like mine.  Like I said, I didn't quite know what to expect then and I can't even say what I expect now.  So let me just share some thoughts, that's all.  

They are beautiful, each and everyone of them.  Possibly the healthiest looking Haitian children I've seen these past two weeks.  Forty two in all. 

Twenty one of them live on the tip top of a mountain covered with cinder block homes, one on top of another.  Literally. The neighbors laundry hangs precariously across the twisted barbed wire fence just feet from the children's bedroom windows.  There is no green grass and no place to ride a bike.  There is no city park or ice cream stand just down the road.  There's a three story crooked building and a small cement play yard with a simple and well loved basketball hoop.  There is a rude and primitive kitchen with three large burners on a wrought iron frame with no obvious source of fuel. There are four bedrooms, each with bunk-beds, some of them four to a room, sleeping eight children in a space smaller than my bathroom. There is a communal closet where clean clothes are kept and a sewing room off to the side where the girls are learning a trade. All of it clean and neat and impressive amidst the squalor of Cap Haitien.  Twenty one lucky kids, a paid "momma" on each floor and the sweetest dispositions imaginable.

The other twenty one are street kids.  I don't know what that means besides that they don't live in that crooked house on the tip top of the hill, they live somewhere else. I didn't ask because I don't think my heart could take the answer. I know that among those street kids are some as young as 8 and as old as 15. Do they open the heavy metal gate and have them file past the guards that carry guns in order to keep the other twenty one safe? I don't know.  How do they choose which twenty one sleep there and which twenty one sleep nowhere? I just don't know.  

  I do know that forty two kids were there in that cement play yard today.  I know that I saw forty two smiling and cherubic faces.  I know that forty two kids climbed on my back and arm wrestled Chris and shot hoops with Jesse.  I know that forty two kids got brand new dresses and fancy new shorts.  I know that forty two kids received forty two Chick-Fil-A cows and Elmer passed out forty two pieces of gum.  And I know that only twenty one children have beds.  

Like I said, I'm not quite sure how to process this, especially as my own children are without their momma tonight.  But I do know that there is hope in that orphanage, I know that the Harvey's are full of love and God's grace, because they are giving forty two kids a place to be, even if only for a few hours a day.  In that place I saw love. I saw happiness.  I saw friendships. I saw hope.  I saw family.  

The Harvey's live just down the road from me in Haymarket, VA.  I've broken bread  with them and shared stories and shed tears.  God willing, in the coming years, those forty two kids will live just down the road from Pere Bruno in a little town called  Limonade.  They have the land, they just need the money to build. They'll move all together, all forty two of them, into a bigger house with a bigger yard with better stoves and better rooms.  They won't need the armed guards or the big metal gate.  There won't be children sleeping nowhere or kids called street kids and kids called Kay Anj kids, they'll all be just that...the Harvey's kids.  

Some people ask "What makes a family?". It isn't so much blood and DNA as much as it is love.  Those twenty one kids and those twenty one kids, they make forty two, whichever way you shake it, forty two kids and a few mommas. Add in Father Eustache and Archibald, toss in an American twenty something named Lindsey and tie them all together with the Harvey's and their love... If I've learned one thing today, family isn't what I thought it once was, just as home isn't where the gps sends me at the end of the day.  Because today I found both in a place where I expected to find none.    

A.ittle lace, a little thread and a whole lot of love.

Proud.  Haitians are a proud people.  They may live in the dirt and feed their children mud cakes for dinner, but they are proud, of that I have no doubt. 

The clinic was full today.  Tap taps came by lining up dropping people off and picking them up and each and everyone of them was dressed in their Sunday best.  The children don't wear the smocked dresses with angel sleeves that my Isabelle wears.  They don't wear the trendy patterns of the latest fashion magazines.  They wear hand me down prom dresses from 1990.  The men wear their just polished Sunday shoes and collared shirts.  The women wear fancy straw hats and high heeled shoes.  And the children wear more lace than I've ever seen in my life.  The more lace the better, and you might as well sew some more lace on the socks to even it out.  And all of it, every stitch, clean as it can be. 

They take great pride in their appearance, even when they have so little from which to choose.

We've handed out food, sustenance... Life.  We've brought doctors to heal and teachers to teach.  We've brought plumbers to fix things and painters to paint.  We've brought flip flops and underwear, medicine and computers and yet still something was missing.  We were so busy meeting their needs that we forgot that they were people.  People like you and me that like to have a new dress to wear and a new duds in which to strut you stuff.  

And then came Bethann, Maxine and Miss Johnny.  Each one of them with a heart of gold and fingers that can make magic from fabrics, ribbon and lace.  Bethann and Maxine are a mother daughter team and their goal was two dresses a week.  Miss Johnny is a dear 92 year old friend of mine from Charlotte that wants to spend all her time and all her money making frilly things for little girls that will probably never see the inside of a department store. 

So, each one of them sewed. One dress then two... Friends watched and the news spread. Ten dresses then twenty.  The Methodists even got in on the game.  Fifty dresses then sixty.  Miss Johnny received the citizen award of the year in Charlotte, NC and the word spread. A hundred dresses then two hundred.  And somebody remembered those little boys.  The ones that like to stick frogs in their pockets and play in the dirt. Twenty pairs of shorts with pockets and fun boyish prints. Thirty then forty.  And the news was spread and the sewing machines were hopping till we packed 300 dresses and 50 pairs of shorts.  And we were on our way.

The Dominican Republic wanted their cut on the action and tried to charge Bethann an import fee.  Surely these dresses would be sold in the finest store.  Surely, they thought,  you won't give these away.  Surely, they believed, you wouldn't waste them on the Haitians.  But Bethann stood her ground. These dresses, made with love and care, are not for any fancy window or high society children, these dresses are for the children of Terrier Rouge.  And she marched on through. 

"And a woman came to Him with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume..."

One by one they were made.  Each detail thought through and through.  Each stitch had a prayer, that this dress might be hope. That this dress might show love.  But most of all, this dress, these shorts, that they might tell those dear Haitian children... " You deserve the very best. Not someone's leftover hand me down or yesterday's news. You too deserve something new."

"And she poured it on His head while He was reclining at the table."

Packed in bags and bags they were loaded in the truck.  Bethann and Maxine were more excited than children on Christmas, they were going to see their hard work take root, and up to Milliere we drove.
We found a small school full of sweet little children, each one was cuter than the next.  One little girl was so tiny and small and had the sweetest big brown eyes, I wanted to pick her up and squeeze her myself.  And one by one, just as they were made, Bethann and Maxine went row by row and handed out brand spanking new pride, in the form of a brand new perfectly exquisite dress.

They had to be careful. Those girls were so sneaky, as soon as you turned your back they snuck it under their bum and acted as if they had been left out of the party. Isn't that what you would do if you'd just been given your very first, and possibly only new dress?

It went on like this, one room to the next and then on to Paulette to hand out some more.  I watched as the ladies hand picked each dress for each girl. Was it long enough?  Did it bring out her eyes?  Too tight? Too loose? No professional seamstress could have done better. 

We handed out over 250 dresses and shorts today and some will say it's a waste.  Some will say that they should have been sold and the money used for medications or new school supplies and some might suggest that too quickly they'll get dirty in the red clay earth of this beautiful country.  But those of us who stood there wiping tears from our eyes, we know... We know that today, we gave those little boys and girls pride, and you can't put a price tag on that \

"And when the Disciples saw this they asked 'Why the waste?" Jesus replied to them 'Why are you bothering me she has done a beautiful thing'".

Matthew 26, selected verses.  

Pure Joy

I am sunburned and I have bruises in places I didn't even know existed. I do believe that even my lips are sunburned.  I'm exhausted and dehydrated. I am emotionally and physically spent. And I've had the best day EVER! 

It's kind of like the cold Haitian shower.  You go in tentatively, first getting your hair wet while keeping your body dry but slowly and surely you find yourself sopping wet in the cool water and you can't imagine a shower more refreshing.  I'm wet, sopping wet, with sweat, tears, laughter and love and it all, every bit of it, comes from this place, Haiti.  

We Ran Like the Wind today.  It started out as a utter disaster.  Each one of us tentatively stuck one toe in the water...checking it out.  Handing out the T-shirts we were mobbed as little hands tugged and pulled and begged with their beautiful pleading eyes, "take pity on me."  We each found our favorites.  I found Ben Wesley for Jen and the sweet little one with scabies and a runny nose.  The mob was so bad at one point the teacher took off his belt and chased after the students to move them back.  I asked after Tony's little Eterson, but he wasn't here.  And I couldn't find my Didslande,  but make no mistake, he was there.  Those shirts went faster than Usane Bolt! 

And then the fun began. We started marching through the streets of Terrier Rouge.  The band led the way and everyone came out to watch.  And I mean everyone, we were the parade.  Then came the kids, barefoot, short and tall, pushing and shoving, laughing and some were even fighting to get up front. The older girls had their T-shirts pulled up with a rubber band and the little ones wore them  down to their knees like dresses.  The teenagers flirted with the boys by batting their eyes and giggling with their friends while the wee ones just pushed and shoved and I even saw one little boy pull  a girls ponytail...some things, I guess truly are universal.   

One might think that in that heat that they would want their own space, that they wouldn't want to be on top of each other, but packed in like sardines they filed down the street practically on top of one another, each closer than the next. If a shoe came untied it was a mass casualty as they would all topple on top of one another like a bunch of dominoes.  We marched through those streets and those kids had such great pride and excitement that you couldn't help be a part of it. 

Now, you've got to remember that Boo Mike forgot my pants, so at this point in the trip I was down to a skirt and a pair of jeans, the skirt won.  We lined up at the start line for our 200 meter race and those k

ids were off,  ZOOM!!! I fully expected them to stop a little in, but no those kids kept on going and going, WOW did they run.  I'm happy to say that Elmer, Joan and I all placed first in our age groups, but alas we were last in the race.  That alone brought great entertainment to see the slow "Blancs" bringing up the rear.  And Mike and Tim were up next, running with the ninth graders, we figured we'd give them them the tough crowd.  They came tearing down the street, Mike was close behind the last Haitian runner and in order to shoe them on, and only Mike would do this... He goosed them across the finish as he came in next to last.  Only Mike...

But the story doesn't end there. What happened next, if we could bottle the sheer joy and spontaneity, we'd be trillionaires.  When we got back to the school it was like a gigantic frat party hosted by Pere Bruno himself.  Dancing and shouting took over the soccer field of the school.  Kids were doing the twist and Mike had a multitude of kids climb up on his shoulders.  I spun the kids in circles and dipped them to the ground until I was too dizzy to stand. Joan, oh Joan, I can tell is a party animal, she was bustin a move like Lady Gaga herself.  

Pure Joy.  

I hate even writing this down, because our language inhibits expressing all that happened, pictures and video can't even touch the magnitude of happiness and solidarity found here in Terrier Rouge this afternoon.  This race today raised no money.  No sponsors were highlighted.  No famous people ran down these streets, but of all the races I've run, it is by far and wide my very favorite because it was ... Pure Joy. 

My Starfish.

We found her. 

I was certain in my heart that we would.  And the best part... I found her.

 I walked through the schools with my iPhone in hand with her picture and searched every face.  I paused to say a few broken French words and I'd search again. 

She wasn't in school. I looked.

I looked through my camera lens with the mega zoom, searching faces, holding my breath.  We showed her picture to the community leader and he did not know who she was.  I was discouraged at best.  I knew if I saw her I would know her.  I knew in my heart that I would recognize her and I did. 

 She was in the middle of about 8 boys under a tree, a true tomboy.  She wore someones discarded leotard, ripped and torn at the edges. And the same stubborn look that says "I can do this on my own."  She is taller and her cheeks are thinner but her eyes are the same.  A touch of defiance, uncertainty but above all else unknown fear. They were slightly yellow and you could tell at the age of 6 that those eyes had seen too much. I showed her her picture from last year and told her that I had found her. She is my starfish..

 Pere Bruno went and found her mother and we told her the story again.  With Pere Bruno's permission I gave her $25 and we visited, as best we could.  I showed her pictures of my children "ma pitzits" and told her my name- Pastor Carrie. In very broken French I told her I had been praying for her and I held my hands in prayer. 

Gazline  was silent, staring at the children getting dresses under the makeshift lean to.  We outfitted her in the most gorgeous white eyelet pillowcase dress, it was gorgeous against her dark skin.

Am I  a bleeding heart.  Absolutely. 

An emotional wreck. Without a doubt.

But hopefully, somehow and in someway I pray that she knows that she doesn't have to take on the world alone. As Pere Bruno turned away I handed the mother the rest of my American dollars in my backpack.  I reached in and found my favorite hot pink running hat and filled it with everything I could find... Power bars, tootsie pops, chewing gum, a Chick-Fil-A cows, a caribeaner and random candies, and another stray $5.  I put it in her mothers hands and said "For Gazline." And then we just stood in silence, my tears we're the only sound and my hands didn't want to leave her shoulders. 

Pere Bruno came by and said "You found her". And I cried some more.  I thought once I found her I'd be ready to go home.  I thought that was what weighed most heavily on my heart.  I thought I was done, but I'm not.  I'm not ready to leave is place. For some reason, in my heart even now, almost two weeks later I still don't want to go home.  I just want my Paul, my Jacob and my Izzy here with me.  I guess God isn't done with me yet.

What's in a Name?

What's in a name after all?  I go by all sorts of them and here, in Terrier Rouge the  children have an absolutely adorable way of saying "Carrie" with a slight tilt in the "a" and a long carry over of the "e" .  That is until Mike got to them.... I guess I deserve it, I did teach them to say "Boo Mike" after all, turn around is fair play.  He taught them to say " Carrie" followed by a choking and gagging sound while their hands grasp their necks.  It's quite lovely you see.  One might think that such behavior would be relegated to the school children at St. Bart's, but alas on our walk this morning even the children from the Catholic school had the name down to an art form.  Still, to hear their little voices brings my heart great joy.  

There is Didzlan, Stephania, Lunia, Lulu, Eterson, Watsom, Ben Wesley, Emmanuel, Pierre, Adelaide, Moseline, Iliador the list goes on.  Many of them I can't pronounce or remember, they are so different than our own, but names are so very important.  It allows you to have a piece of them to carry with you.  It allows you a name to give to stories and memories. And the sounds of my name from their sweet cherubic voices usually brings me out of the gate with a handful of candy.  

Through the years I've forgotten so many names and yet somehow, even with all the "Blancs" coming and going through these parts the little children remember mine.  I have no clue why I am so blessed. It's part of what makes this place home.  Being remembered.  Being welcomed. Being wanted.  Maybe that's why I keep coming back.

Today we visited Fort Liberte, and believe it or not I drove!! I know, outside of Fauquier County and all, and I didn't get lost.  As we were leaving the coast four little children were chased away by an old man yelling at them as he threw rocks at them.  I was horrified.  What had they done?  Then, moments later, they ran towards the cars and Pere Bruno jumped out and ran after them.  His tall lanky body with a long graceful step lunged towards them as he took the belt from around his waist.  He had it unbuckled and was waving it at the little children while yelling. The kids ran in terror.  Sweet and docile Pere Bruno turned around and we all stared at him in silence till someone asked "Is he smiling?". The response was a quick "no." And then all of the sudden, through his gray beard flashed his white teeth against his dark skin and out came a quiet little grin, you had to look to see it, but it was there. He got in the car and without a word, he drove away.  

Those children didn't know who they were dealing with.  They not only did not know Pere Bruno's name but they didn't know his spirit.  

People tell me all sorts of things about Haiti.  Ever since my first trip they've been saying things like "All those people are drug dealers and thugs" or "They are happy with their station in life, so let them be". The thing is that I'm pretty sure that those comments are made in order to protect themselves.  Many people say such things to protect their bank account or vacation time but others believe that load of lies because it protects their emotions, their way of life and most of all their heart.  Once you step foot down here, once you learn some names and look into their beautiful white eyes and see their spirit, your can't help but fall in love.  

There's a sweet sweet spirit in this place.  I can see it in the eyes of those I love.  In a few short days I'll be coming home.  I've been gone from my babies a long time, but I remember them.  I remember the feel of Isabelle's head resting on my shoulder as her wet hair tickles my chin.  I have in my heart the sound of Jacob saying "I love you" on his way out the door to school.  I know the feel of Paul's hands and the warmth of his body in bed.  I also know the touch of little Didzlan's short hair and rough little head.  I know the soft and gentle voice of Pere Bruno calling us to breakfast.  I know Iliador's smile and Lanaud's gentle ways.  I know Davis tries to hold my hand when we walk and I know little Izzy can sing Jesus Loves Me all the way through in creole.  I know this place and the people that are here.  They are as much part of me as I pray I am a part of them.  For that I am thankful...and hopefully next year they'll remember my name without the gagging and choking  noises alongside.

Helpless

Tonight as I was skyping with my Jacob and Isabelle, Isabelle fell out of the chair and hit her hand. Over the airwaves I heard my baby girl crying and I could do nothing about it. Not a thing. Helpless. What a horrible feeling, completely helpless with no answers and no way to kiss her little hand or get the boo boo bunny out of the freezer. Helpless.

What an awful feeling, to be helpless in the face of tragedy. Two years ago the residents of Terrier Rouge were completely helpless in the wake of the earthquake. They sat waiting for news, unable to find loved ones or travel to Port au Prince, completely helpless. There are days when the nurses at the clinic are beyond helpless in the face of diseases they can't cure or medicine that they can't provide. Helpless.

Countless times over the past two weeks, Haitians have come to me and said in broken English, "I'm hungry.". Once, a woman probably only 55 years old but she looked at least 80, lifted her shirt above her naked breasts to show me a stomach that was bloated and no doubt full of worms. She was hungry in a way that you and I don't understand hunger. It gnawed at her stomach. It weighed heavily on her mind. It emotionally drained her to know that her cupboards and pockets were bare. And as I looked down at my shoes scuffing their way through the dirt I saw little feet come up beside me, barefoot toes, hard and calloused from not wearing shoes in the hot Haitian heat. They too lifted their shirts and told me "I'm hungry". They were hungry and I, with my full stomach from a breakfast of fresh fruit and pancakes with honey, wasn't sure just what to do next. Helpless.

The other night we had mystery meat. Elmer knew what it was because there was hair on the rind, so it must have been pork. We've eaten a lot of chicken legs and vegetable soups - pumpkin being the best. At every meal without fail we have had rice and beans and some freshly baked bread. Yet, on just the other side of the fence, there are those that know hunger like you and I never will. A hunger that eats away at your bones and spirit and breaks you down to your very soul. A hunger that makes you unashamed to lift your shirt to show your nakedness or your spirit to expose your helplessness. And to know that it isn't just you, but those that you love that hunger alongside you. No, I don't know that feeling of helplessness and God willing, I pray I never do.

So I scavenged in my backpack, past the Trident gum and hard candies to find a Power bar and the leftovers of a peanut butter cracker. In my cupped hands I offered them to her, as if they were gold itself she took them sand said "thank you" and I walked away.

I didn't tell anyone, save Pere Bruno, it was almost a sacred act. Oh, not me, but her. To have been that helpless in the face of hunger, to be that naked and exposed and to ask for help in such a way. That's not the begging of the children crying "blanc" or the constant requests of "give me one dollar" from the teenage boys. It was deep and human and real.

Later that day I walked that way again. Amazingly enough I had to convince myself to do it. I didn't want to look in her hollow eyes or see that look of defeat in her spirit. But all I saw was an empty Power Bar wrapper amidst the trash in the dirt. Soon I also would see the footprints of Pere Bruno making his way over to do what he does, deliver food and hope and love.

It's been quite a few days and I haven't been back that way since. I'll go before I leave, but today's not the day. Today in my small little world I worry about silly things like if Isabelle stopped crying or if Jacob finished his homework. And yes... I still worry about the night we are again served mystery meat and I need to pull out a Power Bar, but as Scarlet would say... "I can't think about that today, I'll worry about that tomorrow." Until then I will be thankful for the blessings before me, a plate full of food, a bottle of fresh water, a collection of great friends and an absolutely amazing God. Through Him, all things are possible.

2012 Photo Journal - Week 1 (descriptions to follow soon)