Two years ago, I traveled to a land called Haiti. It was my first time visiting a less-developed country, and I expected to have a myriad of depressing emotions about those living in poverty. And I did.It was hard to watch people work so incredibly hard for such little return, hard to see their dirt-floor homes and naked children, hard to see those suffering from ailments that pain reliever could’ve taken care of and it was hard to see the children without parents, the orphans.
My heart was set on half-empty from the start, and I was sure it would only become emptier and emptier as the week went on.
But I was wrong.
I found something I didn’t expect to find in a country mired in hardship. I found that life didn’t cease to exist just because the people were poor. They don’t stop celebrating birthdays or Christmas or being joyful over the birth of a baby just because they live in poverty. They were poor by measure of worldly possessions and, although their struggle is one of heart wrenching intensity, I realized that these people certainly held a key to living life to its fullest.
I saw it when our group was invited into the home of a friend of Dr. Mark Fulton, our leader on the trip. This generous Haitian man was thrilled to bring our entire group to his house, and, though his floors were made of dirt, he generously brought out 25 chairs and insisted each of us drink a cold soda pop and relax in his yard, sectioned off by tarp.
I saw it when we attended church with the villagers. They worshiped under a tent, in the heat, for a solid three hours. Their children sat together and a few young ones even wandered over to our laps while their mothers sat with eyes closed and hands raised.
I saw it each time we set up the medical clinics in various villages. I was in charge of taking blood pressures, and I prioritized getting to the elderly and pregnant women first. In one village, I noticed I was running furiously from station to station taking back-to-back blood pressures. I looked to the line at the door and realized that the entire village had decided to let the elderly go first.
I saw it after we packed up each and every clinic. After pulling teeth, treating bee stings and high blood pressure, everyone in the entire village would scrape together all they had to feed us.
I learned the most, though, from watching the orphans. Our compound was divided between a hospital and an orphanage. We stayed in a building between the two, and, whenever they could, the orphans would wander over to our building, play games with us, braid our hair, and, at day’s end, they would gather together in a circle to sing and pray. I was drawn to them and, most evenings, I would wedge myself into their circle and eavesdrop on their singing. I was interested in their dependence on one another, the joy the kids brought to each other. They weren’t in competition with each other; they weren’t comparing tennis shoes or brand names. They weren’t pairing off in groups of “cool” and “not cool”. They looked out for one another and they shared clothes and beds. The younger looked up to the older and the older in turn took care of the younger.
I didn’t understand at first that these kids were okay. They counted themselves as blessed to have three meals a day and a bed when kids on the other side of the wall might have none of those things. Sure they were orphans, but they had something I didn’t recognize, some glue that bonded them together. Almost all of the Haitians had this. It was what made the villagers escort the elderly to the front of the line, what made the man with a dirt floor give 25 soda pops to strangers, what made the villagers feed us though they had nothing, and what allowed the mothers to worship while their children toddled over to strangers, and what made the orphans bond so beautifully.
It was a strong sense of community. It was the presence of people who choose to depend on one another, honor one another and trust one another. They weren’t only people characterized by a fierce independence, but also an intense interdependence.
I see the beauty of this now in the work that I do and the way I live my life. I’ve learned that it’s not weakness to depend on others. I’ve also learned that some of the most incredible things can happen when you don’t even try to do it all by yourself.
Safe Families is now up and running in Madison County, and it has been incredible to see other kids receiving the same blessings as the four kids we hosted later on. The YMCA has continued to open their doors to host families, allowing a place for families with a few extras to participate in group exercise classes and kids’ activities. Imagine If has given Safe Families kids’ spots in both their summer program and after-school program. Spending a week in Haiti ended up having a tremendous impact on me in ways I never expected. I see depending on others in my community as strength instead of weakness. I have been floored by our programs in Madison County that have come along to help children and parents alike get to a place of peace.
In Madison County, I find a glimmer of the Haitian community. I find people and programs whose hearts are set to help those in need, to give generously and receive generously, and to trust the helping hands of others. That’s what being a loving family is all about.
