He was asking me all sorts of questions about my family, my job, my life, etc. and I asked him about his dreams for the future (finishing his education and visiting the U.S. someday, among other things).

He knew that I was heading back to Chambrun for a couple of days the following morning, so during a lull in the conversation he turned and asked me, “Can you bring me some chocolate?”

Ruined Port-au-Prince was the last place I would have expected to find genuine hospitality.

Normally I would have laughed and said, “Um, maybe… I’ll try” (blans like me get lots of requests like this because we are white).  But this time was different.

You see, Ismail’s family has been remarkably hospitable during my stay.  So much so that I am often desperate for ways to be hospitable back. 

I’m supposed to be the rich, connected American, right?  So why am I on the receiving end of so much generosity?  I mean, in a place filled with people who have nothing, I am living with a family that gives everything.

Despite the hardships endured by the Dazmas and their neighbors, they are still willing to give.

All that to say, when Ismail asked me for chocolate I left determined to find some for him.  After all the hospitality I have received from his family so far, it was the least I could do…

Generous Meals

My first glimpse of their unexpected hospitality came after we had been in the Dazmas’ tent for only a few minutes. 

After sitting and chatting for a while, Laneze (the mother of the family) jumped up and busied herself on the other side of the tent.  When she came back, she had in her hand a giant, steaming plate of rice and beans… much more than either my translator Denis or I could possibly eat (especially two hours after lunch!). 

We thanked her for her generosity but insisted that we split the plate between the two of us. 

It was a tasty meal, but it wasn’t until later that I realized how significant that small gesture really was.  As I quickly came to understand, the Dazmas barely have enough food to eat.  Their miniscule budget gives them enough to provide one meal a day for their kids… usually.

They struggle with malnutrition, and yet there they were, providing an enormously generous meal to their guests.  Wow.

But it didn’t stop there.

When we realized that the Dazmas were going to be feeding us regularly, I suggested giving them some money to cover the cost of food.  Denis agreed, but told me, “We’ll need to tell them to not start making expensive food for us.”

At first I was a bit confused at what he meant.  Then it dawned on me.  Denis knew that because the Dazmas are so generous, once they had a few gourdes (Haiti’s currency) in hand they would immediately go out and blow it all on nice meals for their guests.

Clothes drying on razor wire. When I accidentally left some dirty clothes hanging up outside their tent, the Dazmas gracious offered to wash them for me.

Can you believe that? 

When we did end up giving the money to Laneze, we had to insist that she feed us whatever they would normally eat instead of an expensive chicken dinner.  She actually needed convincing!

The Little Things

Another aspect of their unexpected hospitality has come from their almost fanatical dedication to my comfort and security.  Even the little things – the seemingly inconsequential details – point to a hospitality that is rooted deeply within their family.

For example, when it came time to set up our small air mattresses our first evening there, they insisted that we sleep inside the tent to stay out of the rain.  Presilma and Laneze, we understood, would be perfectly happy to sleep under the tarp outside…

I don’t mind sitting on the ground, but just about every time I do, one of the Dazmas runs up with their single wooden stool to make sure I am comfortable. 

Presilma and Denis washing up in the morning. The moment I woke up they offered me a basin of clean water to wash my face.

When I’m walking through town with Ismail, he points out every pothole, rock or crack in the sidewalk that might cause me to stumble. 

When I yawn in the evening, they ask me, “Are you tired? You can sleep now if you’d like.”  And of course, five minutes later I discover that our mattresses have been laid out neatly in the corner of the tent.

Open Hearts

But there is another kind of hospitality that I am discovering while living with the Dazma family: hospitality of the heart.  It’s making me re-think the whole concept of generosity.

The Dazmas have been remarkably honest and open with me about their lives.  They have let me enter into the center of their family’s day-to-day existence.  They have exposed the potentially shameful truth that they do not have enough to get by (an especially significant thing in a culture like this).

They have also risked all sorts of unknown consequences by having a blan stay in their tent.  What will their neighbors think?  What if some unruly men in the community decide to start making trouble?  What if the blan embarrasses them?

Despite all the potential outcomes, their hearts are open.  They have welcomed a stranger into their home… one of the purest forms of hospitality I can think of.

And that’s the truly mind-blowing thing about all of this.  In Matthew 25, Jesus says to those on his right, “I was a stranger and you invited me in” and “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” 

Me hanging out with the Dazmas in the evening (thanks to Denis for taking this picture!).

Is it possible that, to the Dazmas, I am one of the “least of these?” 

Boom.  Mind blown.

Who would have thought that the tables could have been turned so significantly by a simple plate of rice and beans?

I’m learning a lot from the Dazmas about what it means to be hospitable. Their willingness to give out of the little they have makes me wonder why I am often so stingy with my abundance. 

My hope and prayer is that the lessons I have learned from these generous people will stick with me… that I won’t quickly forget what it means to be a generous giver.

———

When I returned to Chambrun for the weekend, I knew that I had a good first place to start.  With Ismail’s request echoing in my head, I rooted around in my suitcase until I found what I was looking for…

Chocolate.

Over his right shoulder lay Pierre Moise, Kenchise, Williamson and Ismail.  Their mother, Laneze, slept on a blanket just outside the tent flap.  Beyond her was Presilma, the father of the family, sitting up with his arms wrapped around his knees.

I was surprised to see another person awake so early, but as I listened carefully to the soft words coming from Presilma’s direction, I understood.  He was praying…

——-

When I first had the idea of coming to Haiti to live among IDPs (Internally Displaced People), I knew it would be uncomfortable.  I knew that I would see countless images of heartbreak and pain.  And I knew that I would hear many unforgettable stories of Haiti’s forgotten refugees.

But what I did not expect was how much I would learn from the everyday moments – those mundane, unglamorous snapshots of life in a tent camp – that would leave a mark on my heart forever.

Dadadou

Right now, I am staying at a tent community called Dadadou.  Once a soccer pitch, it is now home to over 10,000 refugees.  You can see a satellite image of the camp here, but remember… this is a photo from January.  Today, every square inch of the property (except the track) is covered in tents.  And each tent holds anywhere from 5-15 people.

Some of the Dazma family after playing a little kickball in the morning (the little one on the right is a neighbor).

Let’s just say it’s crowded.

The connection to Dadadou comes from my translator, Denis, who used to live just down the street from the camp.  In the immediate aftermath of the earthquake, Denis actually lived in Dadadou for a period of time.  During those chaotic and frightening days, he shared a tent with neighbors that used to live right above his small, two room apartment… the Dazma family.

Now, the Dazmas have graciously welcomed Denis to stay in their tent once again, this time with a weird Blan (white person) in tow.

For the next two weeks I will be living with them, eating with them and observing what goes on in the tent village now that many aid organizations have moved on.

A New Kind of Normal

Almost seven months after Haiti’s devastating earthquake, life in the country’s many IDP camps has taken on a somewhat strange and unique feel.  From what I’ve seen so far, day-to-day life in the camps is a mix between ongoing crisis and a new kind of normal.

For example, the Dazmas barely have enough food to eat.  My heart broke the other morning as I watched the children eat small handfuls of cassava (a potato-like root vegetable), knowing that their only other meal for the day would be lunch/dinner at 3pm – a plateful of rice and beans topped with a small portion of mackerel.

Dadadou is perched on top of a soccer pitch.

But in the midst of this hardship, Presilma (the father), daily heads back to his old neighborhood to work.  He is a tailor, and although there is very little business these days, he has no choice but to set up shop in the hopes that a customer or two might come along.

Presilma’s tailor shop is on the ground floor of the building in which his family used to live (their ruined apartment was on the third floor).  As he works, friends and neighbors stop by to visit and chat.  Occasionally, his kids will swing by on their way to visit cousins down the street.

If it wasn’t for the fact that they were living in a tent and clinging desperately to the bottom rung of extreme poverty, you would think that the Dazmas were back to life as usual.

A new kind of normal, indeed…

Under the Surface

As I’ve watched the family through the many uneventful moments in their lives, I’ve developed a deeper picture of the life they are now living.  And although they have settled into a sense of normalcy in their day-to-day routine, I can feel the stress of their situation brimming just under the surface.

One afternoon, as the youngest of the Dazma kids were taking cover from the mid-day sun, I sat and watched them play jacks with a few stones.
———-

This would have been a totally ordinary image from any number of places around the world except for one thing: the only shade they could find was a tiny alley between two tents.  Every few minutes, their mother would step over them, taking pots and pans back and forth from the charcoal stove she was using to cook dinner.

The Dazma’s kitchen. It’s too small to cook in, so Laneze has to cook about 30 feet away, outside a neighbor’s tent.

With such little space, the Dazmas have to put up with all sorts of inconveniences (playing games crammed into a tiny alleyway, trying to cook food 30 feet away from your kitchen, etc.).  For a short time, these things can be overlooked.  But how long can someone really live in a home where you can’t even stand up straight?

Another of these moments came in the evening, as we were sprawled out on the ground behind their tent, enjoying the evening breeze.

The Dazmas’ “back yard,” for lack of a better term, is a 15’ x 15’ square formed by neighboring tents.  The ground is made of Astroturf (remember, they’re living on a soccer pitch!), so it makes an ideal place to hang out once the sun goes down.

But even in this moment of respite from the heat, I can see how their situation is taking a toll.

Their neighbors have a rambunctious two year old boy.  His inquisitiveness (and recklessness!) is always good for a laugh.  In the evening, however, when his energy starts to disappear, he turns into a whining, crying mess.

Kenchise Dazma. Always ready with a smile.

Anyone in the world who has had a two year old will tell you that he/she can sometimes bring out less than the best in a family.  Patience wears thin, tempers flare, frustrations can’t be covered over any more…

But in Dadadou, these moments of everyday family strife cannot be hidden away.  There we were, sitting three feet outside of this family’s tent, seeing and hearing everything that was going on.  I saw the dirty looks and short tones.  I heard the anger and the arguments…

When thousands of people are living in such close proximity, there is no such thing as “airing your dirty laundry.”  It’s already out there for the world to see.

I could go on.  Every day I see more and more mundane details that reveal the pain, stress and fear that lay just below the surface in Haiti’s many IDP camps.  These are not the food riots and disease outbreaks you might hear about on the news.  These are not the massive crowds and endless seas of tents.

These are the day-to-day struggles of a people living on the brink.

And Yet

And yet, let me tell you what I do not see in Dadadou.  I do not see despair.  I do not see resignation.  When I sit down and talk with refugees about the future, they all talk as if some day things will be better.

Haitians will not give up. Here they have set up their kiosks in the rubble of a fallen building. Amazing perseverance…

Take the Dazmas for example.  This is a family that lost everything in the quake.  To repair their home, they’ll need to come up with $2000.  But right now, they don’t even have enough money for food.

And yet, despite this hardship, Presilma gets up before the break of day to pray for his family’s well-being.  Every morning he washes his face and heads off to work.  Every time I see him, I’m greeted by a bright smile and a firm handshake.

This is not a man without hope.  Like the many other Haitians I have talked to so far, Presilma believes that someday things will be better.

And with a country seemingly full of people as dedicated as him, I’m starting to believe.

There is hope for Haiti, even if it means getting used to a new kind of normal…

On Monday afternoon, after three rather uneventful flights, I walked off the plane and into a wall of heat.  I stood in line with a bunch of other sweaty travelers as we attempted to get through immigration quickly.  After traveling quite a bit, I’ve discovered that the key here is to pick the right line (for example, it’s good to avoid standing behind moms with fifteen screaming children and stacks of passports that take two hands to carry).

After immigration, it was on to the always chaotic baggage claim.  Imagine… stacks of luggage, an overflowing belt, and two flights full of passengers crammed into a steamy 50’ x 50’ room…  Looking around as the belts turned, it was easy to see what was going through many travelers’ minds: “Gee.  I wish I hadn’t gone with that nondescript black suitcase after all…”

One of the many new structures being constructed by NVM here in Chambrun.

Thankfully, my (unique-looking) grey bag eventually arrived and I was soon out of the airport.  All I had to do then was walk down a long, fenced-in sidewalk, look for my ride, and avoid the many porters in matching plaid shirts who wanted desperately to help me carry my bags out of the goodness of their hearts (and the cold hard cash they expected from me for their “help!”).

Finally, after a lot of confusion (“Are you Richard? From IPH?” one man asked me.  “Nope, sorry.”  “Your name is not Richard?  From IPH?”  “Um… no?”), I found my ride.  Within minutes, we were on our way to Chambrun.

Unbelievable Growth

When we arrived, my jaw was on the ground.

Once an old classroom, this room is now part of a volunteer dorm.

The grounds of Nehemiah Vision Ministries in Chambrun are unbelievably different than they were when I visited back in January.  There are big tents all over the place, brand new buildings set up, and concrete slabs laid for a bunch of new structures. 

Instead of a tiny church/school and a small clinic, NVM is now home to a dining hall, volunteer dorms, showers, offices, 24/7 electricity and wi-fi (!).  A full-on hospital and large buildings for long-term workers are on the way.

Nehemiah Vision Ministries is quickly becoming a hub for relief efforts in this region.  Because of the commitment of several new American churches and organizations, Pastor Pierre’s vision of bringing hope and change to the village of Chambrun just shot ahead by about five years.  Wow!

The Point

But the point of this trip is not for me to stay here in the village.  I have a deeper purpose for coming once again to Haiti.

You see, as exciting as the work of NVM is in this region, there are still tens of thousands of people living in tent villages both inside and outside of Port-au-Prince, the majority of which do not have access to the resources of a ministry like this.

A tent village two weeks after the earthquake. Now this one is gigantic, going as far as the eye can see in every direction. Don’t worry. Newer pictures are coming soon!

My mission is to see what life is like inside these tent communities.  To capture for you the realities, the injustices and the hope that exist in the everyday lives of Haitian earthquake refugees.

That’s why, by the time you read this article, I will have already left Chambrun with my translator, Denis. We will be staying with friends he knows in several different camps.  Two nights here, one night there… All told, we will be traveling for about two weeks.

I don’t know when my next article will go live, but don’t worry… I will be making occasional stops back in Chambrun to write about my experiences.

Until that time, stay tuned… You don’t want to miss what’s coming on World Next Door!

Tomorrow

As I lay in bed the night I arrived, I looked around at my mosquito net and the fans trying in vain to keep the room cool.  I thought about the many unknowns ahead of me and wondered just what I would see and experience here in Haiti.

But as I drifted off to sleep, only one thought kept running through my head…

“I made it.”

I feel like I just got home from Ukraine.  Oh wait… Let me look at the calendar.  I did just get home from Ukraine!

And yet, my next assignment calls.

But this one, I feel, is going to be different than all the rest.  This one is going to leave its mark on my heart in ways I can barely even imagine.  It’s not much of a stretch to believe that when I get home from this trip, I will never be the same.

You see, by the time you read this article, I will be back in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

Back to Haiti

If you remember, World Next Door has been to Haiti twice before.  Once, in the middle of autumn last year, and again two weeks after the devastating earthquake in January.  Both times we embedded with Nehemiah Vision Ministries.  Both times I personally left with a profound sense of the brokenness of this world and yet the hope that is springing up through the kingdom of God.

But unlike the previous two times where I lived in Pastor Pierre’s home and visited the villages and clinics and rubble-strewn streets of Port-au-Prince, this time I will be right in the thick of it.

Although aid organizations have provided thousands of much sturdier tents than the ones I saw before, thousands of Haitians are still living in refugee camps today.

I will be living in a tent community of internally displaced people (IDPs).  It will be me, an interpreter, and thousands of earthquake refugees.

For two weeks, I will be attempting to answer the following questions:

• What is life really like for the survivors of the disastrous earthquake?
• What, if any, progress has been made in rebuilding the already struggling Haitian economy?
• What organizations and ministries are making the biggest impact on the lives of refugees?
• Amidst the rubble and the tents and the throngs of hopeless people, what is God doing in Haiti?
• And finally, what can you do to get involved?

I will be interviewing families, observing everyday life in the IDP camps, taking pictures and posting my experiences, discoveries and, undoubtedly, some of my emotional turmoil here on World Next Door.

I invite you to come along with me on this journey.

There is still hope for Haiti.

But don’t worry about my articles making you feel depressed.  Don’t put off reading my articles until you’re “in the mood.”  If you haven’t noticed already, one of our signatures is finding hope in even the darkest situations.  We will not leave you emotionally high and dry.

Despite the fact that tens of thousands of Haitians are spending hurricane season living in tents, despite the fact that Port-au-Prince still lies in ruins and despite the fact that the media has largely moved on, I believe with all my heart that the kingdom of God is still working powerfully in Haiti.

And I want you to see it…

Staying Connected

If you haven’t already, be sure to sign up for our email updates.  That way you won’t have to remember to check our site every day.  The articles will come straight to your inbox.

Also, I’ll be updating Twitter regularly.  Feel free to follow me if you want to stay in the loop.

Finally, if you want to chat with me the day after I return, be sure to come to the Stand Against Poverty event on September 17.  Just be prepared… I might be a little fired up. 

—–

Well, that’s it for now.  The next time I post an article, it will be from Haiti.

I’ll talk to you soon. And remember, for the Haitian people there is still hope… even if it’s found in the most unlikely of places…

Through medical teams, food distributions and other aid, NVM has begun the process of restoring their country… one person at a time.

One of the many Haitians devastated by the earthquake.

From January 29-February 13 I was embedded with two of the medical teams from NVM.  I tried to capture my experience here on World Next Door for you to read.  Below you will find each of my articles from the trip and a video showing some of my photos that didn’t end up on the site.

Heartache

As I watch the devastation in Haiti, I cannot help but think about the injustices and hope I’ve experienced around the world…
Click here to read this article…

Compassion Fatigue

How do you continue to stay engaged when your heart can’t take any more?

Click here to read this article…

Never Too Young

Should children be sheltered from social justice issues? Or should they get involved from an early age?
Click here to read this article…

The Checklist

Even though I’ve traveled a lot before, I’m filled with fear and anticipation about my upcoming trip to Haiti…
Click here to read this article…

One at a Time

With millions of Haitians sick, hungry and homeless, is there any way to have hope for the future?
Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: Finding a Way

Despite having everything set against them, Haitians will find a way to go on.

Click here to see this photo gallery…

Sticks. Trash. Home.

As I watch the devastation in Haiti, I cannot help but think about the injustices and hope I’ve experienced around the world…
Click here to read this article…

Downtown

What I saw in downtown Port-au-Prince will change my life forever…

Click here to read this article…

Out of Obscurity

Geniuses around the world are living undiscovered in poverty. Did I just find one?

Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: Food!

It wasn’t until I saw a food distribution in Haiti that I realized the true meaning of hope and anticipation.
Click here to see this photo gallery…

The “Real World”

As I get back to “life as normal,” many Haitians continue to suffer. But I will not forget…
Click here to read this article…

B-Roll Photo Gallery Video

Finally, here is a short video showing some of the photographs that didn’t make it in to any of the WND articles or photo galleries on the site.  The music is by Sarah Scharbrough, who will be performing live at our One-Year Anniversary Party and Benefit on February 26.

Now, a lot of people have some pretty severe re-entry stories after trips like this. Collapsing and weeping in their closets when they see how many clothes they have, getting furious at their friends who just don’t understand, feeling nauseous in restaurants as platefuls of food go to waste, etc.

But that’s not really what’s happening to me. I’ve gone through reverse culture shock before. I understand the fact that some of my friends don’t get it. I’ve come and gone like this enough that I can get back to “normal” in just a day or two (instead of weeks, like it used to take!).

But there is something gnawing at my mind right now. A whisper of awareness that seems different somehow.

Unlike trips I’ve taken in the past, the crisis I just left is still going on in full force. Even if I get straight back to work and throw myself in head-first to life here in the “real world,” there will still be a disaster going on 750 miles off the coast of Florida.

Reality Check

New orphans like this little one must now be cared for by their extended family.

Let’s face the facts. Across the city of Port-au-Prince right now, tens of thousands of people are living in tents. Refugees inside their own country. Some are sleeping under rudimentary shelters made out of sticks and trash… others are crowded 8 or 10 deep in tents donated by organizations like the Red Cross.

There is very little food, very little electricity and very little sanitation. Some Internally Displaced People (IDP) camps with thousands of residents each have only three or four latrines. The situation is desperate, made even worse by the ongoing stress and fear many Haitians still feel because of the quake.

So as I catch up on The Office and 30 Rock, Haiti is still right there, in the back of my mind.  It won’t go away…

With that in mind, as we bring this chapter of our Haiti coverage to a close, let me share with you one last story from my time in Haiti that continues to pop up in my thoughts at unexpected times.

My interpreter, Jean.

A Night With IDPs

As my time in Haiti was coming to an end, I wanted to get a sense of what life is like for IDPs living in tents, so I asked my interpreter, Jean, if I could spend a night out where he stays.  He agreed, so as the sun set on Wednesday night, we drove downtown together.

Jean, along with around 300 other IDPs, is living in the compound of a church just down the street from his unstable home.  Although the streets in his neighborhood have been mostly cleared of debris, there are still countless collapsed buildings around every corner.

When our car pulled up to the church, I could see a trash fire burning on the opposite sidewalk.  Otherwise, it was dark.  There was no electricity.

As we walked through the church courtyard in the dark, I could see many tents, tarps and mattresses crowded into any available space.  Many people sat around talking and listening to battery powered radios.

For many Haitians, life is now an even bigger struggle...

After introducing me to his friends, Jean ran over to a pile of stuff covered in a plastic sheet and started digging through it with a flashlight to look for something.  I realized that the pile was a collection of his possessions… Things he had “rescued” from his dangerous house, which even now he fears will collapse.

When Jean returned, he had in his hand a portable DVD player.  A couple of other guys got to work hooking it up to a car battery.  Within minutes, I found myself watching a Jean Claude Van Damme movie under a tarp with a bunch of Haitian refugees.  It was surreal, to say the least.

Time to Sleep

After the movie was over, everyone set up their mattresses and lay down outside.  With so many people and so few tents, most prefer to simply sleep under the stars.  Although the mosquitoes were out in force, the breeze felt nice.  Before too long, I had drifted off to sleep.

Earlier that night, Jean had said something about how much he “fears” the rain.  I didn’t really understand what he meant until around 4am, when it started to pour.  Groggy, tired and quickly becoming soaking wet, I grabbed my mattress and followed Jean into his tent.

The tent was large, built for perhaps 5-6 people.  But inside, I found myself crammed into a corner with 9 other Haitians.  I curled up against the side of the tent and tried to fall back asleep, but as I looked around the tent I realized that I was the only one doing so.

These pregnant women must face an uncertain future with their babies.

Everyone else was sitting up, talking in hushed voices.  There simply wasn’t enough room for everyone to lay down, so nobody did.

Eventually, the rain stopped and dawn brought light to the courtyard.  I rolled up my mattress and stepped out of the soggy tent (apparently water had found a way inside).  As I followed Jean out of the church property, I took in sights that had been only shadows the night before.

Tent after tent.  Family after family.   One person had lost his job in the quake.  Another had lost her family.  These people lived every single day without knowing if their lives would ever get back to normal.

Jean and I got in the car and drove away.  But he would be back in the evening.  For now, at least, this was his home…

The “Real World”

Some friends I must not forget...

And now here I am.  Back in the United States.  Back in my comfortable apartment.  Back in the “real world.”

Of course, I say that a bit ironically.  I live in the land of endless entertainment, constant comfort and free refills.  I can go for days or weeks at a time without engaging with the outside world if I so choose.

What’s so “real” about that?

I am thankful that Haiti remains like a thorn in my mind.  I don’t want to move on.  Even tonight, as I lay down in my comfortable bed, Jean will be sleeping yet again on an old mattress under a tarp.  I don’t want to forget that.

Because only if I embrace the low grade fever of sadness will I be able to make a change…

Haiti, I won’t forget you.

How many times did I hear that as a child?  How many times was that drilled into my head?  I grew up knowing without a doubt that I had the potential to be an astronaut, a scientist, president… anything.

And for many young American children, it’s actually true.  With a quality public school system, academic scholarships and hundreds of extracurricular activities, kids in our country today have the chance to pursue any dream or talent that they want.

It’s the essence of The American Dream…

Unfortunately, this does not hold true in many parts of the world.  World-class scientists, engineers, artists and musicians are living and dying in obscurity every single day.  In environments of pervasive poverty, geniuses are being lost, simply because they do not have enough money to get an education…

A Place of Poverty

The other day I spent some time with my interpreter, Jean, in the village of Chambrun.  We didn’t really have an agenda other than to have some kids take us around and introduce us to their parents.  As always, I was looking to answer my two big questions:  “What is life really like here?” and “What is God doing?”

Women in Chambrun like this one have an incredibly hard time making ends meet.

As the kids took us from one side of the village to the other, I met a family who is now living in their kitchen because the earthquake had destroyed their home. I saw women carrying sticks on their head from miles away to use as firewood.  And I saw many hungry children that hadn’t eaten in days.

As I had expected, it was a scene all too common here in Haiti.  Very poor people made even poorer by the earthquake.

But at one point, as I was sitting on a rusty metal chair in front of one family’s hut, something caught my attention in the yard of the home next door.  There, watching us from a distance, was a boy holding a four-foot long toy helicopter made entirely from junk.

Bebeto with his fully functional toy helicopter!

Normally, this wouldn’t have come as much as a surprise.  Haitian children are extremely inventive with their toys.  But this helicopter was like nothing I have ever seen here.  This toy helicopter had working rotors.

I beckoned him over for a better look at his invention.  Sure enough, he had used old tomato cans, scrap tin and wire to build the body of the machine and had rigged up a battery and two small motors to run the main and tail rotors.

Now, it wasn’t powerful enough to actually fly, but this little toy took some real know-how to construct!

I wanted to find out more about him, so I began asking him some questions.

Meet Bebeto

His name is Bebeto (pronounced bee-bee-toe) and he’s 13 years old.  He loves to build things and has a new-found passion in circuits and electric currents.  Based on the admiring gazes of the other children, it is clear that Bebeto is something special.  This kid is smart!

Bebeto must now care for his niece and nephew like siblings.

As I asked him questions about his invention, the other kids got excited, talking over each other to tell me about the other things he had built.  Bebeto, on the other hand, was unbelievably modest… Most of his answers were short, followed by a bashful grin.

With the right schooling and a university education, Bebeto could very well go on to become a scientist, engineer or aircraft designer.  He could rise up out of poverty and come back to help in the rebuilding of this nation.

Unfortunately, the earthquake has affected his life in some major ways.  For example, while he does go to school, he must wait an indefinite time until schools here re-open (something that could very well take months or even years).  Like everyone else, his family is currently struggling to find food to eat.

Bebeto's niece. There is hope for her in Chambrun.

Additionally, during the quake, Bebeto lost his sister, who was living in Port-au-Prince when the disaster struck.  Now, her two children (ages 4 and 6) must be cared for by their grandmother, Bebeto’s mom. Their already thin family budget must be stretched even further.

If the standard story of poverty here plays out, Bebeto will drop out of school, get a low-paying job and attempt to take care of his family.  Some day he might marry a girl from the village and struggle to feed his own wife and children.

His dreams of becoming an engineer will fade as he faces the cruel realities of poverty.

An Advocate Steps In

What else could Bebeto be destined for?

But there is hope for the children of Chambrun.  Kids like Bebeto no longer need to slide into obscurity as so many have before.

Through the Nehemiah Vision Ministries school in Chambrun, 380 kids now have a chance to learn… to discover their true potential.  Through the school’s daily lunch program, these children have a chance to eat nutritious food every day.

But NVM cannot support these children alone.  They need the help of financial sponsors from all around the world.  Sponsors like you and me.

The future could still be bright for this clever young man...

For just $40 a month, you can sponsor one of these incredible children.  Your money will help pay for school supplies, uniforms and food.  But more importantly, your sponsorship will build into the lives of children that badly need encouragement in this difficult place.

These kids, who have been told by the world countless times that they can’t, will finally have an advocate that says they can.

And while not every child in Chambrun will go on to become a world-famous scientist or musician, at least now it’s a possibility.

All they need is you…

The Next Project Begins

As Jean and I got ready to leave Chambrun, Bebeto brought up a book to show me.  The title, in English and French, was Circuits.

He opened the book to a page full of elaborate diagrams and pulled out a sheet of graph paper.  On the paper, Bebeto had sketched the design for his next project… A C130 cargo plane.

I don’t know how he’s going to make it work, but I have a feeling he’ll find a way…

Now, I’ve seen photos on the news.  I’ve watched videos of the devastation.  But it wasn’t until I visited Port-au-Prince in person that I truly understood the scope of the Haitian earthquake…

War Zone

To get there, we hired a motorbike taxi.  Essentially, we paid a guy on a motorcycle to drive the two of us into the city.  We had no helmets, and we came absurdly close to Mack trucks as we weaved in and out of traffic.  But I wasn’t concerned about my safety.  I was too busy taking in the unbelievable sights and sounds.

The presidential palace in ruins. Once a symbol of freedom and independence in Haiti. Now completely destroyed.

As we drove past the U.S. Embassy and the Port-au-Prince airport, it looked like a war zone.  UN Armored Personnel Carriers rumbled down the streets, Humvees full of American troops whizzed by and countless helicopters criss-crossed overhead.  Every now and then, a giant military cargo plane would roar into the sky from the airport’s single runway.

American troops waiting to guard food distribution.

At strategic checkpoints around the city, soldiers from the American 82^nd Airborne division stood guard in full tropical camo with automatic rifles slung over their shoulders.

As we continued further into the city, I began to see the tent villages.

At first, they were nestled into small open places between buildings… a few people trying to live close to their old homes.  But once we reached downtown, the tent communities took up every single public place available.  Parks, yards, sometimes even streets.

Port-au-Prince has quite literally become a giant refugee camp.  And as we pulled up to our destination, I could immediately see why.

Total Destruction

Words cannot describe just how totally the city has been destroyed.  If buildings are not complete heaps of rubble, they are leaning dangerously to one side.  If they aren’t leaning, they have massive cracks in their walls.  If they don’t have cracks, their roofs have collapsed.  I could go on and on.

One of countless buildings destroyed in the earthquake.

Walking down a single street, I saw crushed automobiles, downed power lines, shattered windows, and rubble swept into the road.  Every time we turned a corner, the scenes of destruction continued.

Even now, the smell of rotting bodies drifts out of some of the wreckage.

As we walked past building after building, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in some post-apocalyptic world.  Everything was destroyed.

In an attempt to show respect to the victims of the quake, I took only a few pictures while we were there.  But even if I could show you thousands of images, I wouldn’t be able to convey the totality of it all.

Not Deserted

Port-au-Prince is still absolutely full of people.

I knew I was going to see devastation, but I was totally surprised by one thing.  Before heading down there, I had imagined Port-au-Prince to be a ghost town.  I pictured empty, deserted streets and an eerie quiet among the broken buildings.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Port-au-Prince is teeming with people.  Everywhere I looked I saw vendors trying to sell things on the sidewalk, women doing laundry, pedestrians crossing the street and tap-taps (Haiti’s public transportation) driving every which way.

The real difference between the city now and before the quake is not the number of people.  It is the fact that those people are now living on the streets.

The main public park downtown is becoming a crowded slum.  People have already added wooden or corrugated metal walls and roofs to their temporary dwellings.  They are preparing to live there for a long time.

Port-au-Prince had roughly 3 million inhabitants before the quake.  200,000 died, which means that 2.8 million people still live in the city.  Except that now, they have no homes.

Vanishing Dignity

One of the most heart-wrenching things I observed as we walked around downtown was the absolute loss of dignity to which so many people had succumbed.

A tent city has sprung up in Port-au-Prince's central park.

On one busy street-corner, I saw a sight that will remain with me for a very long time.  A young mother, wearing nothing but a skirt, was bathing with her two naked children in an old, broken fountain.  There, passing just feet in front of them, were pedestrians, cars, street vendors…

Her dignity was gone.

As we walked through the streets, many people called out to me begging for food.  But these weren’t typical homeless people.  These were decently dressed men and women who used to have jobs.  People who used to have homes.  People who now must scrape by just to get a meal.

Most people here speak no English, but there is one phrase that many of them have learned since the earthquake…

“I am hungry.”

Overload

Many Haitians are still living among the rubble, trying to move on.

After several hours of walking around and sitting in utter disbelief, Jean and I returned to Pastor Pierre’s house.  That night, I went up on the roof to reflect on all I had seen.  I turned on some music and let the images from the day wash over me.

I’ve seen a lot of poverty, so I didn’t expect to get very emotional.  But as I thought through the absolute hopelessness facing so many of the Haitian people, something in my heart absolutely shattered.

Within minutes I was weeping.  Giant sobs shook me as I thought of people dead under the rubble, children without parents, families searching for food… Haitians who once had so little now have nothing.

After a few minutes, my sobbing subsided and was replaced by a quiet introspection.

As I thought about how I need to respond, I realized one significant thing.  I cannot forget this.  I must not.  The Haitian people will be recovering from this earthquake for decades.

With little dignity left, the Haitian people need us to remember...

As I head back home and sleep again in my comfortable bed, Jean will still be sleeping in a tent.  That woman will still be bathing on the street corner.  Bodies will still be found under the rubble.

Even if I move on, Haiti will still be here.

Never Forget

My time on the roof led me to one simple conclusion.  I must not let this become just a memory.  I must reserve a section of my heart for the nation and people of Haiti.  The Haitian earthquake must become a part of my low grade fever of sadness.

Because only if this becomes woven into the fabric of my life will I be able to make a difference here.  I must become an advocate for this nation, even when the memories of this trip begin to fade.

If I do, then as the rebuilding of this nation continues, I will be able to share in the joys of a God who loves to restore.  When hope and life spring up among the wreckage, I will be able to participate in the celebration.

God will not forget the people of Haiti… and neither will I.

Our bus from the Dominican Republic arrived at 6am. We had a few hours to wash up and unpack, then headed straight out to the village of Chambrun. The team of doctors and nurses I was traveling with traded notes on the supplies they had brought as I stared out the window in amazement.

Here, in a city I had visited just three months before, was the definition of devastation. Buildings lay in rubble, walls had tumbled down, and just about everywhere I looked were people sleeping in tents, still afraid to go inside.

The NVM medical team getting ready to head out to Chambrun.

As we drove up the dusty road to the Nehemiah Vision Ministries clinic, I saw a handful of people milling around outside. “Huh,” I thought. “I expected to see a whole lot more…”

But then, as we rounded the corner, I was struck by the sight of hundreds of Haitian men, women and children sitting on benches crammed into the whatever shade they could find.

People were huddled under trees, sitting shoulder to shoulder on benches… Word had spread that there was a free clinic happening in Chambrun, and they had all come for help.

The doctors, nurses and pharmacists from our team began setting up and familiarizing themselves with the clinic. After wiping down a dental chair and moving a tub of medicine or two, I started to feel a little useless. So I broke out my camera and started walking around to get a sense of the bigger picture.

Crowds wait outside the medical clinic for a chance to be seen.

Outside the clinic’s doors were around 200-300 people hoping desperately to be seen by one of the doctors that day. Some of the patients had walked for miles to get to the clinic. Others came from the nearby villages.

It became clear right off the bat that most of the patients were not direct victims of the earthquake. There were only a few who had broken bones from falling rubble. Most people were there for different reasons.

The fact is, two and a half weeks after the initial shock, most people with severe wounds from the quake have already been treated or have died due to infections.

No, these were not direct victims of the earthquake. But almost every single person I met was indirectly affected.

This grandmother must now take care of two infant babies.

For example, one elderly lady came into the clinic with twin infant girls. As the doctors asked her questions, she sobbed in fits of hopelessness. This woman’s daughter had been killed in a building collapse and now, with no food or family to help, this aging grandmother was responsible for these two newborn babies.

Another woman I met sat helpless as a nurse treated her tiny daughter. The attending doctor asked her how often she feeds her baby. The woman burst into tears and said, “I have no food!”

With elementary schools closed across the country, many children that used to eat once a day at school now go for days without eating. Nation-wide, hundreds of malnourished children are dying each day as their parents look on, helpless and alone.

Several of the doctors in our team said afterwards that they had heard something odd from many parents. They heard several times about children that liked to “lick the dirt.” After discussing it a little bit, the doctors came to a conclusion about what was causing this peculiar behavior. These children are so deprived of essential minerals that their bodies have begun to crave dirt to get what they need.

What I saw on my first day was not at all what I expected. Instead of gaping wounds and gushing blood, I saw starving children and adults ill from water-borne diseases. Instead of performing amputations, our doctors were handing out vitamins.

A little girl has her feet bandaged.

These weren’t the earthquake victims we’ve see on the evening news. These were the helpless masses that have been left in its wake. I realized for the first time that in a nation as devastated as Haiti, it will be food, medicine and clean water that lay the groundwork for reconstruction… Not dump trucks and cranes.

As we neared the end of the first day’s work, local volunteers from NVM closed the gate. No more patients could come in…

But there were still hundreds left outside.

I started to feel a bit hopeless. With millions of people in need of help in this country, what could we even accomplish? We couldn’t even help everyone in one small village.

And now the government is clearing land for a 50,000 person tent-city on the main road just a 10 minute walk from the clinic in Chambrun. Tens of thousands of hurting, starving people in need of medical help, in need of food… of water.

One of the clinic's doctors tries to diagnose a young boy.

It all seemed so hopeless.

Last night, however, as I went through my pictures from the day, I realized something significant. I saw a picture of a tiny child whose mother now had vitamins to give him. “We helped them,” I thought. I saw a photo of an elderly lady walking out of the clinic with brand new crutches for her swollen feet. “We helped her too…”

Photo after photo. Face after face. These are the people we did help. And without our clinic, they would still be completely helpless.

“One at a time.” That’s the phrase that keeps running through my head right now. One at a time.

The only way we can ever make a difference in Haiti is if we are willing to help people one at a time. The moment we get lost in the overwhelming misery of a country brought to its knees, we run the risk of losing our hope in the beautiful work that is happening here.

The truth is, children are being saved. Families are being fed. Hope is still present in Haiti.

Even if it only shows up one person at a time…

After a week of constant news, constant worry and constant heartache, I was beginning to grow weary of it all.  I had begun to reach the invisible threshold of compassion fatigue…

I think it’s something everyone deals with.  We can only absorb so many awful stories and statistics before numbness sets in.  We get to a point in which we don’t want to feel bad anymore.  We wish we could just get back to life “as usual.”

How do we continue to care?

Now, I don’t think that compassion fatigue is necessarily a bad or evil thing.  In my opinion, it’s totally natural.  We all crave normalcy and routine in our everyday lives.

To stay actively engaged with the crisis in Haiti, we must willingly force ourselves to absorb heart-breaking material over and over again.  Eventually, this becomes a burden.

But here’s the thing… Even though compassion fatigue is normal, we must find ways to fight against it.  This crisis will not be over soon.  It could be months, years or decades before Haiti is finally back on its feet.

So how do we stay engaged?  How do we keep our hearts in tune with the struggle of the Haitian people?  How do we avoid “sympathy burnout”?

Well, I am no expert on this, but I have had quite a bit of awareness dumped in my lap over the last few years.  New social injustices, natural disasters and global poverty have all become a part of my everyday consciousness.

So here are a few of the things that have helped me to stay engaged when my heart longs to disconnect…

Make it Personal

Pastor Pierre of Nehemiah Vision Ministries. One man in the middle of the crisis.

Often, I find myself getting worn out in the midst of huge and staggering statistics.  When a news report says that 70,000 bodies have already been buried in Haiti and that up to 200,000 could have died in the quake, it’s hard to engage my heart.

I don’t even really know what 70,000 of anything looks like.  It’s a lot, of course, but big numbers begin to lose their meaning for me.

That’s why I find it enormously helpful to connect with two or three individuals.  When I am listening to the stories of just a handful of people, the big news reports and statistics begin to fit into a context I can get my head around.

For starters, you might take a look at some of the following…

• Nehemiah Vision Ministries’ blog – here you can see what is being done by a single organization.
• Twitter feeds of people on the ground in Haiti – some that I know of are @firesideint, @RAMhaiti, and @fredodupoux.
• The Livesay Blog – an American family living in Haiti and participating in the relief work there.
• World Next Door – I may be heading down there myself in the next couple of weeks. Stay tuned to this site and to my twitter feed for my perspective on the ground…

This little one needs you to get inolved!

Get Involved

David Livingstone once said, “Sympathy is no substitute for action.”  He’s right.

When you are reaching the threshold of compassion fatigue, it’s time to get into the game!  By volunteering your time, energy and money, you are giving yourself a reason to continue caring.

Because I might be heading down to Haiti soon, I now have a filter with which to engage the news and stories I hear each day.  I can envision myself in those situations and know more specifically how to pray.

But you don’t have to go to Haiti to help Haiti.

Consider volunteering with organizations in your area that are preparing to send medical teams.  Put together a fund-raising event doing things you love to do (artwork, music, pottery, whatever!).  Find creative ways to raise money and get your friends and family involved (one person I met recently had her friends pledge a certain dollar amount for every point the Colts scored on Saturday… they raised over $6000!).

By staying active in your engagement, you can avoid the restless emotional fatigue that comes from just sitting at home with the news on…

Pray Well

One of many children that need our prayers right now.

At some point, of course, there will come a time (or many times) where we are simply overwhelmed by the immense tragedy of it all.  It is in time like these when we have no choice but to pray.

But how to you put words to what you’re feeling?  As I look at the unspeakable tragedy going on right now in Haiti, I don’t even know how to pray.  Thankfully, the Holy Spirit is able to take our heart’s groans and turn them into prayers.

Romans 8:26 says “the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.”

So even if we have no words to pray, we need to continue opening our hearts to God.  He will hear.  He will understand.  Even if we do not…

Accept the Fever

Of course, if we choose to truly engage our hearts with the struggle and pain of the Haitian people, we will never get back to normal.  By wading into the tragedy with our hearts and hands open, we run the risk of catching the Low Grade Fever of Sadness.

It’s not life threatening.  You can still grow, laugh, and learn… but just below the surface will be the knowledge that the world is broken.  That things are not as they are meant to be.  It’s a sadness that can never really leave you until the Kingdom of God is finally revealed in all its power.

But if you are willing to take on the Low Grade Fever of Sadness, if you are willing to let the plight of the poor become part of your consciousness and if you are open to the life-change that may result, I guarantee that you will never be the same…

———

It’s never easy to keep your heart engaged with issues hundreds of miles away, but it is possible.

Don’t give up!