Teamwork and Tents

There are many things for which I’m grateful while in Haiti.I’m thankful to believe in a loving God, despite all I see. He continues to produce miracles before us each day. Ask me how and I’ll be happy to share.

I’m relieved that I have another world into which I can again step tomorrow, where my children are healthy and have plentiful opportunity to carve out lives of purpose and abundance. Where my mattress is double stacked with a downy cushion and perpetual comfort. Where even my dog has more food than he can eat.

I’m grateful for the Haitian people, who are unlike anyone I’ve ever known. They rise at dawn to sing, despite unspeakable loss, and sweep the leaves that have fallen during the night to the dirt that lines their world. They hand wash their clothing in metal tubs and are always tidy and composed. On Sundays, the women wear heels, despite the challenges of dirt floors and hazardous streets. Women and men alike carry gear and baskets of produce from place to place atop their heads. They are quick to smile.

I’m thankful for Mirdrede, our hostess, who speaks English well and laughs easily and is a reliable anchor in a broken country that is filled with corruption and despair. She is also a volunteer and talented at braiding hair. No one messes with Mirdrede.

I’m grateful for the security guard who walks round our property, rifle slung over his shoulder.

I’m encouraged by the communities who stand behind us at home, making our journey possible through prayer, support and roll-up-your-sleeves-and-create-a-solution-from-afar tenacity. (You know who you are!) Even people none of us have ever met continue to improve Haitian lives and our own daily. It’s not because they’re trained in such things; it’s because they care and choose to dive in.

I’m thankful for Markenley, who reminded me today that even a 10-year-old orphan can teach an old girl new dreams.

I’m awed by the members of my team. We had barely met before coming here and yet already they seem like family to me. No one leaves another behind and all are quick to work and laugh and pray.

Beverly is a pediatrician but, first, she is a wife and mom to seven children – five of whom are adopted. She will dance and skip rope with orphans as quickly as she checks their heartbeats and temperatures. She is fearless, fun-spirited, competitive and wholly impressive. Several years my junior, I want to be her if/when I grow up.

Mark is a burly fella who will climb atop a collapsed building to swing a sledge hammer alongside locals, rather than stand around to wait for an official assignment. Even his past two heart attacks haven’t slowed him down. He loves MREs and prefers flavor over healthy, anyday. He is the guy you’re glad to have beside you when inching down broken roads in the back of an exposed pickup truck near dusk with thousands of hungry, restless survivors eying your bounty.

Debbie adds trinkets and crystals to clothing when home but, here in Haiti, she is anything but fragile. She is quick to communicate and laugh with all who draw near and her determination to learn Creole is earnest. Two days ago, a Haitian who she befriended begged her to take his precious son, who he said was the most important thing in his world, with her to a better life. His wife was crushed in the earthquake. Debbie was crushed by his offer and the sacrifice it contained.

Brad is the big brother that every woman wants. He is fiercely protective – fiercely, fiercely protective – and, with his shaved head and imposing hunting knife slung always from his waist, convincing. As a proud American, he served in Somalia and Desert Storm, then lost his employment in construction, thanks to the failed economy. He has turned to the lawn-care industry to support his precious wife and children. While in Haiti, he has become quite the mobile clinic pharmacist. We also call him our prayer warrior. Mostly, we call him our friend.

Dana wasn’t sure whether she should come on the relief trip. She is rowdy, in her own spiritual way, and confesses everyone says she’s a bit of a wild child. She is the baby of the group and yet her tenacity is fierce. Her son asked her to stay home; her husband assured her he knew she would be in good Hands. She is quick to roll up her sleeves and dive into the dirty work, whether it is helping to change the sagging bandages surrounding a festering wound, holding a soggy-diapered kid or flinging herself into the mix with a bunch of sweaty guys in a makeshift game of soccer.

John walks the talk without having to say a word. He is quiet, but wry and funny. He is always watching, listening, but is slow to judge. His research and advice before our trip even began has gone miles in keeping each of us safe and well. His heart is bottomless. His safari hat is ever-present.

JP is always smiling. Big. Given the opportunity, he generally has two or three kids in his arms. He is not camera shy. He has the patience of Job and plays a mean duct-tape soccer game. He respects women, speaks adoringly of his wife and praises even his female boss. He is genuine.

Howard is our fearless leader. He naturally gravitates to people and is quick with a prayer and welcome. Not your typical preacher, he wears sleeveless tee shirts and shorts, whenever possible – hence, his perpetual farmer’s tan. Networking is his specialty, social media is his hobby and genuinely making a difference, in ways large and small, is his heart. He is good at all of them.

And then there is my husband, who did not hesitate to jump into Haiti beside me. A tireless worker, Jim thinks on his feet and is a hungry learner. He is fiercely protective of me and devoted to stepping into God’s unfolding Plan. He has the heart of a father and the obedience of a son. He and Howard have seen more of this country and its chaotic bureaucracy, as they have tirelessly fought to free our donated supplies, than the rest of us put together.

Let me say it, again. In one short week, I love our team. I’m a bit of a loner, by nature, and sometimes savor too much my time behind a camera lens or keyboard, but I can genuinely say that I’m the biggest fan of those God tapped to stand alongside me on this wacky, spirit-filled journey to Haiti.

Speaking of crazy, I’m also happy to have a driver who, though hot headed and quick to launch into argument (and has even disappeared on a couple of outings), delivers us in a vehicle so that we don’t have to be one of those trudging in the rubble-strewn gutters and densely peopled edges of ceaseless shacks and tents.

Ah, tents.

Perhaps even more than food and water, I’m grateful to sleep in one that is watertight and sealed from mosquitoes and peering eyes.

Here, there is a sea of tents, and yet there are not nearly enough. For every tent you see, there are 20 makeshift, ramshackle lean-to’s alongside.

When it rains, which it did – heavily, for hours upon hours – last night AGAIN, I’m filled with horror when I think of the masses who are scrambling to find cover for themselves and their wee ones.

The knowledge that Menard, a young girl I met a few days ago, is now struggling with her family and community to hold aloft – for hours on end – the tarps sheltering their limited belongings horrifies me. The weight of the water will otherwise collapse upon them.

The same children who dance around me during the day are scared and miserable when it rains. It is nearly impossible for their parents to keep them well.

Before I came to Haiti, I saw lots of discussions about tents and whether they were truly the best option for families who had lost their homes.

What I have learned is that many Haitians never had houses – even before the earthquake. To give a tent is to give the first home some of them have ever had – and will ever know. It is a gift of dignity and protection and hope.

A tarp will never, ever be the same.

And neither will I.