This Is Our Work, July 2011

It had been almost a year since I returned to Haiti, and I was so looking forward to going back to Mother Teresa’s Nutrition Center for sick children. I felt renewed and refreshed from living a life of relative luxury in the States, and I was longing again to hold the precious little ones at this special place and be reminded of things I had forgotten and feelings I had yearned to feel again. When I left Haiti last year, after working through the spring and summer months, I was saturated with exhaustion and felt I had nothing left to give. I was now fresh to see and hear and feel and give again.

I was surprised to find, as I walked up the small cement path of the Nutrition Center compound, that the gravel plot was barren, a mere echo of the once makeshift post-quake tents that had been erected to house the tiny patients a year before. The play structure where we used to sit and rock sick babies in the shade was still very much intact, swarmed with excited little ones. After receiving a royal and most uninhibited greeting from one such child (and finding it physically difficult to pry her off of me), I proceeded to the back of the compound to look for the babies. I headed down a narrow cement stairwell, and made a right past a pair of Sisters who were treating a screaming child laying on a table in obvious discomfort, shewing away the hands that were trying to help her.

And suddenly, I was back. Transported into a world that I had once known so well. The babies were lined up in their tiny metal cribs, just as I had remembered them—some crying in blatant angst, others laying still and lifeless, glazed looks drawn across their faces. All with the signs of severe malnutrition. All helpless.

I took a moment to observe the Sisters, dressed in the traditional white and blue robes, as worn by Mother Teresa, and I admired. I was standing amongst Angels, and I felt their strength, unearthly perseverance, and tireless dedication amidst the prevails of hell all around them. And that’s when a Sister reached down to scoop up one of these little ones I had been eyeing, placing her in my arms. She was the most fragile thing I had ever touched. Still swaddled in blankets, despite the cloud of sweltering heat around us, I couldn’t see the full magnitude of the skin and bones I was holding. What I could see was a large sore on her head, and tiny, shriveled twigs for arms. Her head and neck lay limp against my arm, with no muscle strength whatsoever. The Sister pointed out that I needed to support the head myself, even though the child was 9 months old. I thought to myself, “What can I possibly do to ease her suffering?”

And so I walked her out into the courtyard, where other volunteers sat cradling babies in their arms. I sat down, held my baby next to me, looked at her tiny face, and loved her. Because that is what I could do in this moment. Her breathing was rapid and labored. I saw that her eyes were spaced considerably far apart from each other, and her tongue was protruding. I hadn’t noticed before, but on top of everything else she faced in her short life span, she was also a Down Syndrome baby.

When one sits at Mother Teresa’s, rocking a sick child in their arms, life slows down. The world hangs by a string, suspended in mid-air. Priorities, wants, desires, needs, and thoughts shift. Life becomes stripped of all the nonsense that entangles it every day. It is a time where the forces of nature converge to put you in your place and reduce you to dust. It is a place for quiet, peaceful reflections. And like many of the grounds we visit here in Haiti, these grounds ooze Godliness out of every corner, crack, crease, and with every whimper and cry heard.

We return to the Nutrition Center later that week, and I see the same baby girl, but in a much worsened condition. She is hooked up to a bare-bone oxygen tank and the sore on her head has since opened and is leaking. A Haitian woman sits at her bedside, staring. I ask her if she is the baby’s mother to which she nods yes. I tell her that her baby is beautiful, but she is in no mood to chat with me. I can see the burden she carries, drawn across her face. And so I scoop up another baby and carry her into the courtyard.

Today, I sit and admire the white-washed walls across from me, painted with colorful pictures of Mother Teresa and Jesus on the cross. And I think.

I sit, rock, stroke, and talk—and life is simple again. The seconds tick by. I stare into the baby’s eyes and I am filled. I see the Divine. The minutes pass—I sit, rock, stroke, talk. It isn’t glamorous. It isn’t big. It is one child amongst many. Sit, rock, stroke, talk. Am I making a difference? Will she remember that someone loves her tonight? Sit, rock, stroke, talk.
I am reminded once again that this is the work we do. There are no statistics or measurables to calculate our success here. There are no cameras and no press. Nor should there be. One must see and experience this through their own eyes, not through a camera lens. One must touch with their own hands and for a second, allow themselves to truly feel and love.

I go back into the nursery and find the baby girl I held a few days back, who is hooked up to the oxygen. My eyes fixate not only on the tiny, protruding bones in her chest, nor on the struggle I see in each breath she takes, but on her mother who is still there, head down, resting on the side of the crib. I see exhaustion and hopelessness. I wonder about her life and the circumstances that have conspired against her, bringing her to this point, unable to care for her own child. The hunger, the poverty, the shame, the helplessness, the hopelessness. I leave for a moment, and when I return, she is gone. I am left to stare at the empty stool where she sat just moments before and I allow my walls to come down, something I rarely let myself do anymore in Haiti.
And when I do, I find a release of tears come to my eyes. Tears that I haven’t felt in so long.

I cry for two specific things, and for everything they represent: for the mother, because as I sit down on the same stool where she sat, I allow myself to briefly step into her shoes and feel her burden. I am overwhelmed. Though I am not yet a mother, I know of the love my mother has for me. It is unquenchable, all-consuming, knowing no end. And for but a brief moment, I have a glimpse into this woman's world as not only a mother--but a woman, a human life pushed to the limits, a survivor… ; And then I cry for the little life next to me, eyes shut, swaddled despite the summer heat. I know she she won’t live much longer, a few days maybe. I cry for potential lost and a life cut-short. I cry for human suffering gone unnoticed. But I feel privileged to have known her, love her, and hold her…even if only for a short while. Even if she is only one child amongst the masses. She matters. She has a purpose. I pray that she feels love, comfort, and that she will be taken quickly to heaven.

And then I put the walls back up around my heart and brush the tears aside.

This is our burden and our sorrow. This is our privilege and our joy. To do great things, through small acts of compassion. To open up our hearts and our minds to love, until it hurts. To see through new eyes, and walk in other’s shoes for a brief while. To be lifted by the power of the human spirit. And reduced to nothing as we feel the burden of our fellow man and our complete and utter reliance on God. To learn the Healer’s art and to be changed and refined through the process… Call me crazy, but I believe that if one wants to make a difference in the world, they need not look further than a single child or human life who is in need, and then love them. Holding nothing back.

This is our work. And I know it matters.

"Down The Hall" (Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying, Haiti, July, 2011 )

One of my favorite places to visit in Haiti is Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying. By its very nature, there is slower pace here than at most of the orphanages we visit, and a calmer atmosphere permeates the air. There is a strong presence of God here. Time and again, this place touches my heart and teaches me about the human spirit.

As is customary when we visit, volunteers branch off and sit at the bedsides of the ill patients to minister to them: massaging their frail bodies with lotion, talking, listening, laughing, crying, and praying together. On this particular occasion, I had just left the bedside of a young women and began looking around for someone else with whom I could visit and massage with my small bottle of lotion. But it appeared that the patients were either engaged with another volunteer already, or simply not interested in having a bedside visit at that time. This was certainly not the norm for this place.

Not quite knowing what to do with myself, and not wanting to feel useless, I walked out of the room and stood awkwardly in the open-aired corridor. I glanced to my right and happened to see at the very end of the hallway, where volunteers don’t customarily visit, a young Haitian woman standing at someone’s bedside. Apparently, there was no space for her in the main rooms. She was waving at me, beckoning me to come over. I ignored the gesture for a moment, but then looked over again to find her hand still waving, calling me over.

Who did she think I was, and what did she want? My mind began to entertain the thought of simply walking in the opposite direction and sticking to my set routine. Playing it safe. Perhaps she wanted something from me that I simply didn’t have. Did the Sisters want me down there, or was this area off limits? What kind of illness or disease might I encounter once I arrived? I knew none of these ramblings in my head mattered, and yet, for as many times as I had been on these sacred grounds, I still found my mind entertaining negative thoughts—my weaknesses and fears getting the best of me. But before I had the chance to rationalize any further, I found myself walking down the hall towards this woman. And I’m so glad that I did…

As I approached her, I became instantly softened by her warm smile, radiating a mixture of beauty, sorrow, and worry. It didn’t take long to figure out why. Laying in the tiny bed to my right was her mother. The woman was large, with graying hair pulled back in rows of small braids, and the skin on her arms, chest, and abdomen was cracked and parched. Her body was incredibly swollen and when I laid my hands on her arm, it was hard as stone. “Cancer,” her daughter said. I listened to soft moans of pain as I stood wondering what on earth they expected me to do for them. I was touched that they obviously believed that I could help them, but all I had in my hands was a small bottle of leftover lotion, which somehow felt very inadequate at that moment. But I soon remembered that I held much more than that—I also carried with me a kind word. A gentle touch. The hand of someone who cared and took time to listen, commiserate, and share a smile and a laugh. Albeit in broken Creole.

I looked across at both mother and daughter—their painted fingernails in a shade of fuchsia pink, peeling from long-ware and a hard life. I recognized that despite the circumstances of time and space that had conspired against them in this harsh environment, that they were still very much ladies. And they were just like me. They wanted to feel pretty. They wanted to feel loved. They wanted to know that everything was going to be okay.

My gesture was simple: all I did was rub lotion onto the cracked skin of the mother’s swollen arms and hands. And then I moved to her face, which surprisingly became a very personal way of connecting with this woman. Of all the body parts I had previously massaged with lotion here (and I’ve rubbed my fair share), I had never laid my hands on someone’s face. Her body relaxed and her moans turned to softer breaths. As I traced the lines of her worn face with my hands, I felt that I had suddenly been “put in my place,” reduced to nothing. I longed to take the pain from her. I momentarily stepped into the shoes of her daughter, as I remembered when my own mother had cancer. She had the best doctors and resources on her side. This woman had nothing.

I told my two new friends that I would pray for them, and that Jesus was with them. It was simple. They smiled and thanked me. They accepted me and my miniscule offering with grace and humility. And in that moment, I sensed that they recognized the power of sharing one another’s burdens as much as I did. I sensed that they knew someone cared about and loved them. They were not forgotten in the world, or at the end of the hallway—and that small fact meant everything. I watched as their countenances, laced with gratitude, became suddenly softer and familiar, like home. As I walked away, I found my heart being lifted by the power and courage of the human spirit I saw in these women. And I realized that I too was not forgotten or alone—in the world or while standing alone in the corridor that day.

It wasn’t much I carried with me down the hall—a small bottle of lotion and a willing heart. My visit was short, unplanned, and at first uncomfortable. It was made up of small and simple gestures that, on the surface, appeared hardly important. But I am ever learning that these are the gestures and moments that count the most in life. I believe in the power of small moments and simple offerings, where we choose to let go of ourselves, tread off the beaten path if necessary, and love fully. Through our love, I know our offerings are magnified a hundredfold and make a difference. In the words of Mother Teresa, as manifested in our work every day in Haiti, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” I pray that over the course of a lifetime, I might begin to truly internalize these words.

And may we never hesitate to walk down the sometimes long, scary, or less-traveled roads (or hallways) in our lives. May we instead trust in the miracles that lay ahead of us: the ways will be used in the service of others and in turn be taught and enriched beyond measure.

Hey, So What's the Scoop?

Dear Faithful Readers,

I want to give you an update into my life, being as I haven't blogged in several months. It's a shame really, but I've honestly felt at a loss in terms of where to begin. I've had so many thoughts and experiences I've wanted to share, but after waiting for so long, it becomes overwhelming to try and capture everything. And so what do I do? I don't write at all. And the "blogger guilt" sets in. But I'm determined to eliminate the guilt and catch you guys up, little by little. So here's the scoop:

I had the privilege to return to Haiti this past March to volunteer in orphanages in Port-au-Prince. The experience was amazing to me, and hard to describe in words. I was touched and humbled on so many levels as I stepped back to a place that I loved. The restless feelings of the previous weeks were calmed, and I relished every day I got to help and love the kids I came in contact with. And although the landscape was noteably different since the earthquake, the place and the people stilled filled me, as if I had never left at all.

At the end of the trip, I was invited to come back and work for the summer with Rebecca, who is in charge of the organization I volunteered with, The Foundation for Children in Need. After some twists and turns over the next two months, including another failed job opportunity in DC, it was clear that God had opened this door for me to come back and work in Haiti... Once the answer was sure, my plane ticket was booked and I left one week later...

So here I am, sitting in the stifling, summer heat. I've been here in Port-au-Prince since May, helping to run the Foundation's mission trips for volunteers that come for one week increments to help out in orphanages. And although the summer hasn't been without its hard moments and struggles, I am truly tickled pink that I've had this opportunity to work in a place that has called me back again and again. It will be very difficult to leave my "Haitian family" in a few short weeks to go back to DC. It will be very difficult to leave this country, this city, this people, and these kids that I love so much. But I will be ready to decompress. And I will be ready to welcome yet another chapter into my life.

Stay tuned.

Your ever-devoted,

Sarah J

back to haiti

(my fave statue, Port-au-Prince)

This time two years ago, I was comfortably settled into my temporary home in Haiti working with the Haitian-Out-of-School-Youth-Livelihood Initiative. Cliche as it may sound, the months that I spent there truly were were life-changing. You could say that I had found my home away from home, without remotely expecting to... the country, the people, the culture, the colors, the beauty, the legacy, the heaven amidst the hell, the perseverance and joy amidst the suffering and poverty....all captured me in a way that I could not have anticipated. You could also say that it seeped its way inside of me, and has nestled in for good. I always knew that I would go back, I just wasn't sure when that would be.

("Yon Blan"=The White One)

When the earthquake happened last month, I could not have anticipated how much emotion would be stirred up inside of me. Or how restless I would feel. I knew I needed to go back and help. It wasn't a matter of if, it was just a matter of when and how.

(Jacmel sunset)

So I'm off to Port-au-Prince tomorrow, and will be working with orphans. The trip will be short, but intense. And though I'm not entirely sure of what to expect, I know that it will be a privilege to simply be back, and help and love these kids in any small way that I can.

(playing with "the natives, " Jacmel)

And then, I'm sure I'll be back again... and again... and again. Who knows when, how, or in what capacity. But there is sure plenty to do, and these things always have a way or working themselves out, now don't they?

(the art of the cocounut)

(still very 'blan')

(Carrefour-Feuilles neighborhood of Port-au-Prince)

(and the blessed view from my roof in Petion-Ville)

So peace out for now.... (and yes, there will be sharing time when I get back).

SNOWMAGGEDON 2010

Greetings one and all... maybe you've noticed, but I seem to have once again slipped into blogger complacency. Sorry about that. So here's your update: there's a whole, heck of a lot of snow in DC. With two blizzards in the past week, dumping more snow than the city is equipped to handle- more than it's seen since 1922- it has been quite an amusing time to say the least. And although there is a slight chance that we might be inexperienced wussies here, it still hasn't been a picnic in the park either. Here's the front of my apartment building- waist deep in snow at some places.

Here's what's left of the sidewalk. It works for now.

Cute little snow bugger.

And here are people's cars. Bless their little hearts. Makes me kind of glad that I don't own one.

So last week, in order to prepare for the "Snowpocolypse," as it is known, I figured I should probably go stock up on some food. I should have known that the rest of DC would be doing the same thing. It felt like I had been transported back to Communist Russia during the 1950s. Grocery store lines were winding up and down the aisles, like at an amusement park. Many shelves were left bare-- the quintessential necessities like the chips and dip, soda, red meat, dairy, candy, and ice-cream of course, already raided.

So the rest of my week has been uneventful--I have looked out onto a white, blurry, windy mess outside my window. No bus. No metro. No work. No church. No life. Happening times I tell you, happening times. And although I have enjoyed having an excuse to be a lazy butt and veg on my couch and check facebook all day like everybody else and their dog, I must admit that I have craved physical activity, routine, oh... and people. I'm done talking to myself and eating cereal and soy milk (I hate soy milk, but it was either that or heavy cream left in the dairy case).

As lovely as it's been, I think I'm ready for Spring.

Peace out people.

Tacky

Ok. So I'm a little behind in my blogging, but what's new? Here's an ode to Halloween '09 for those of you who missed out on the festivities.

The last (and only) time that I dressed up for Halloween, outside of high school, was during my senior year at BYU. I was a Jamaican Reggae Master and it just felt so right. I had found my true alter ego. Four years later, I decided to once again succumb to the joys of the season.

Since my Jamaican getup was stashed somewhere in California, I opted for the next best thing. My friend and I headed to the local Goodwill, where all our creative juices were unleashed. The result:
plenty of tackiness to go around..... Here we are debuting our splendid Tacky Tourist creations. Enjoy.

We even headed to Embassy Row in the District to go trick or treating.

Where we spotted this lovely blight of a tour bus, parked unattended on the side of the road. It was practically calling out our names. And yes, I'll be the first to admit that it was a little too easy to get into character.

We even made a pit stop at the Portuguese Embassy where I attempted to trick or treat, in Portuguese, with no success. How anyone could turn down such a face, is a mystery to me.

Finally, I shall leave you with one last shot of the magic that is October.

Tacky or not, it's nice to succumb to the joys of the season, every once in a while.

“The Grown Up Me”

(me and my parrot, Ruby, in the fourth grade)

When I was last home in California, I had the chance to rummage through some old boxes filled with memories from my childhood…including old writing samples, report cards, and artwork.

I was entertained, to say the least, and was also reminded of what a “unique” child I was.. and still am. One of my favorite writing passages, besides the bizarre murder mystery I wrote in the fourth grade, was an excerpt entitled “The Grown-Up Me.” Also written in the fourth grade:

“When I grow up, I will have four children. I will probably be a Vet. I will make $16,000 per month. I will be 6 feet tall. I will go to C.A.L College. (I think I meant UC Berkeley). I will graduate in four years. I will live in Salt Lake City. I will have a convertible and another car. I will have an Eclectus parrot and an African Grey (these are both large birds, fyi). I will have the color hair that I have now, brown-blond. My hobbies will be reading and gardening. My mom and dad will live in Piedmont in the same house. I will have 2 girls and 2 boys (I guess I’m referring to my children, not birds). I will go many places…”

It’s funny how we picture our lives when we are children. Things just seemed so much simpler then. Cut and dry, if you will. The picture of my "grown up-ness" was very basic, and I was fine with that.

Our visions, hopes, and dreams often change as we grow up. Sometimes we give up on them altogether because they are not practical. And other times, we only begin to discover our truest dreams and aspirations, as we wind our way through the journey of life. Life teaches us, all along the way, about what really makes us tick. About what lights our so-called fires. And through a variety of trials and experiences, we unravel bits and pieces of our truest identities. We are all on a journey of discovery. We are ever-evolving…. and this is a wonderful thing.

So how does the "Grown-Up-Me" measure up today? Well, let's see...

I'm sans child.

I’m allergic to most animals with hair or fur. Sad and ironic.

I'm unemployed and haven't seen that kind of money...well...ever.

I am 5 feet 7 inches tall, but do continue to grow.

I did attend "C.A.L College" or Cal Berkeley for one summer, but that hardly counts.

I took me six years to graduate, but the mish and other foreign adventures contributed to that.

I live in DC.

I ride the bus and metro, no car.

I am petless.

My hair is very much the same, minus the fatty bangs.

I'm no gardener and am oftentimes too ADD to read anything. Books are not my strong point!

My mom and dad still do live in Piedmont in the same house. What a jewel.

And yes, I have gone many places…and intend to go many more.

Hmmm. Three out of ten. Not bad. Not bad at all…