Humbled

Everyone loves to get something for free. I'm always amazed at the lines of cars that wrap three times around Chick-Fil-A when the local business gives away free lunch. I come home with bags and bags of freebies from race expos and the free stuff at conventions is equally massive. We all love to get a good deal, without a doubt. I'm always trying to figure out a parallel in our world to the world here in Haiti. Could it be that there just isn't one?

Yesterday we delivered food to the poorest of the poor here in northern Haiti. It was so much more than a free lunch. In each bag we packed two packs of spaghetti, a bottle of oil, a cup of beans, a cup of rice and two dried and salty fish. All of it, besides the noodles, food that my own children wouldn't eat.

Upon arriving in Phaeton the people ran for the community center and lined up in two lines. The children ran to meet the trucks as we made our way to the distribution site. Nothing can prepare you for what comes next. The elderly, many without shoes, some in wheelchairs, all of them aged beyond their years and each of them with a look of hunger and desperation in their eyes. There are no words. We say nothing. At my turn I grab two bags and offer them to the next in line as they hand their ration card to Pere Bruno. It takes every ounce of spirit to look up into their eyes because all at once I realized again that the tables could be turned and I could be on the other side of the fence. Humbled. This is my third time distributing food in Haiti and I can never prepare my heart. When finally I have the nerve to look up into someone's eyes I realize that it is not so much about me and what I fear as much as it is about their amazing spirit that can't be quenched- not by hunger or disease or drought or even death, could I stand in their shoes?

Our second site was a little town called Paulette, the place with the girl in the picture in the blog below. I searched and searched the crowd for her face and never found her. I watched as the elderly were pushed and shoved this way and that and even yelled at to get in line, they were like sheep being manhandled in order to keep the younger people at bay. Sweat was dripping from their wrinkled faces, the temps nearing 95 degrees in the sun. They were smashed together like kids at a rock concert. It was harder than hard, it hurt. The elderly stood patiently moving this way and that all to receive a paltry bag of food and a broken creole blessing from a bunch of Americans. What were we doing here? I stood in the shadows watching, crying and praying. Until finally I took my turn. I handed my bags to an older woman and finally I looked up and she said in English "thank you, thank you, thank you " and her hands came towards my face. I wish I could say I let her cup my chin or stroke my cheek but I was too afraid she would feel my tears and I said "your welcome" and turned away, back to the safety of my camera, back to searching for the one life I felt I could change.

I have another chance you see. I get to go back next week with more bags of food and try again to make myself worthy to feed the hungry. I will fail, that I know. But I will try. And I will search again for that little girl, the one with the bloated belly and red tinged hair because she is my starfish that I want to save. She is my chance at making a difference. But maybe that's more for me than it is for her...maybe it's just so I feel better about my big house, fancy cars and overstuffed pantries. I hope not. I pray I'm better than that. I pray each night I'm here that I don't go home the same person as when I left. I'd ask you to pray the same.