IVP - Strangely Dim - May 2010 Archives

Listen and Learn: The Drama of Haiti

Reflections on the recent Haiti Partners trip from participant Lindsay Bonilla, our dramatist in residence.

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I got home yesterday afternoon, and as I continue trying to process all of my experiences in Haiti, I find it rather disorienting. First of all, it's kind of hard to explain this trip. I've been on lots of missions trips in the past to many wonderful and exciting places--and when I got home I could say, "I helped build a playground or paint a wall" or "Our team led worship services and did a Vacation Bible School." But this trip was very different. It's not so easy to put into words. I don't take with me so much a sense that I did anything so much as that I experienced everything.

I wasn't there to do; I was there to listen and learn--to be fully present and take in whatever I could. And so it becomes problematic at times to find the right words to share with others in a way that they will understand and find meaningful. And yet, we live in a culture that is so focused on doing that oftentimes we never stop and take the time to listen and learn first. Our idea of missions has been one intent on doing, one intent on having something to show for our efforts, something that will look like progress to others. And so maybe this trip and my difficulty to explain it reveals something deeper to me. My need to do and to quantify my productivity is exactly that--it's my need. It's not God's need. God needs me to listen and and learn from Him--and then, after listening and learning, perhaps I'll know what it is that I should do. He says, "Be still and know that I am God." Be still, even when it doesn't make sense to everyone else what you are doing, even when you can't explain it satisfactorily, even when it would be easier to do something and feel better about yourself--be still because it's not about all of that anyway.

I take with me from this trip no simple statements about what I did or accomplished. Instead, I take with me a plethora of images and vignettes, feelings and experiences, which despite being a writer, I find hard to put into words. (Kudos to Kent Annan here, because he did it so well in his book that I am still reeling by it!)

I take with me the deep imprint of the servant hospitality that comes from those who will wash your feet or sacrifice to buy ice for your drink (ice you can't even drink for fear of getting sick from the water). I take with me the lived ideal of community that makes loving your neighbor--not loving the idea of your neighbor--possible. In a culture like ours where we can so easily protect ourselves from our neighbors, holding them at a distance and only allowing them to see of us what we want them to see, I feel almost jealous, even desirous, of some Haitian cultural aspects which refuse to make escape from those we are supposed to love an option. Whether it be pumping water at the well for one another because we all depend on the same source or, as it strange as it may sound, not being afraid to wave and say "bon jou" to your neighbor who is standing there taking his or her bath, lathered up in soap, right before your eyes--I am encouraged by the idea of living with and loving neighbors whom you have seen and known, warts and all, and whose vulnerabilities are not hidden from you.

I take the laughter and courage of a people who have suffered deeply but who hang on because they believe in the goodness of life; because they understand that if they are still alive it means that there is work for them to do, people for them to care for, and joy and suffering to be found in it all.

On our first night in Haiti, we sang a song that was taught to us by Merline and Alex , Haiti Partners codirector John's wife and brother -in-law. The lyrics said: "Mwen se Ayiti." It means, "I am Haiti." At one point there was a break in the song where we began to hum. Then we went around the circle, and one at at a time, everyone said: "Mwen se Ayiti tou," or "I am Haiti too." It seemed kind of funny to say it that first night, and some of us kind of giggled or wanted to, but for some reason, it doesn't feel funny any more. In fact, after what I have experienced, it feels completely natural.

And so, I say with confidence this time . . . Mwen se Ayiti tou. Amen.

Living for Eternity--Haiti Reflections, Part Three

Mariana Valbuena, our youngest participant in the recent Haiti trip, has unpacked her thoughts. Here's post one of three. Read the whole post at her Facebook page.

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I thank God for this experience. It was an experience like no other I've ever had. This was not your typical mission or service trip. In fact, we did absolutely nothing for the people of Haiti. Instead, we went there to receive things. We went there to learn from the Haitian people, to hear their stories, to hear their voices. We had the chance to listen to them, to live with them, to understand their struggles, their dreams, their lives. Obviously we can't ever know their true feelings until we live through what they have, but it gave us a much better picture and understanding of Haiti. It gave me a better picture of life in general, of God, of myself. This is definitely an experience that changed my life; it is the start of a new phase in my journey with God. A start of a line of decisions I will soon make. It was a further glimpse into the eyes of God (a prayer that has been the theme of my cry to God to help me see things the way He does). I want to thank God for opening up yet another clear door in my path and thank Kent and Haiti Partners for offering this great, life-changing opportunity to me and to the rest of the group. It is definitely an experience that many more people need to have.

Living for Eternity--Haiti Reflections, Part Two

Mariana Valbuena, our youngest participant in the recent Haiti trip, has unpacked her thoughts. Here's post two of three. Read the whole post at her Facebook page.

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Living for Eternity--Haiti Reflections, Part One

Mariana Valbuena, our youngest participant in the recent Haiti trip, has unpacked her thoughts. Here's post one of three. Read the whole post at her Facebook page.

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A million thoughts race through my mind as I sit in front of this computer, hoping to use this technology to try to weed through the densely packed jungle of thoughts, emotions, and ideas that has grown in my heart and mind over the past five days. I feel my heart literally heavy inside my chest. I know I need to sort through it all before it starts to slowly fade away. I started this process with a prayer. May God be the One who leads me through this process and may I get out from it what He desires. I told God that I literally feel His hand on me right now, working and molding and transforming this piece of clay to something closer in appearance to the final clay pot He desires me to be. What an intense feeling.

Posts from Haiti

Jonathan Chan writes from a hotel room in Miami, collecting his thoughts from our last five days in Haiti.

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Back in the States, after quite a few disruptions in the Miami airport.  All of us are weary, but I need to summon the energy to write.  I think it's only now that the tragedy of what I've just seen is hitting me.  While in Haiti, we were constantly on the move, fording rivers and climbing mountains, clearing a space to sleep and calculating how much water we needed to carry for the next few hours.   The sheer weight of it all didn't really begin to land on me till a few hours ago.

As Jamie and I touched on earlier, our first stop in Port-au-Prince was a university building that had gone down with hundreds of students still in it.  Getting out of the car, my stomach dropped.  You could smell death in this place.  While Enel spoke of God's grace in surviving the ordeal, a garbage truck pulled up to pick up the bodies that had been found in the rubble.  Hundreds of years ago, tens of thousands of Africans were herded onto ships not fit for cattle and delivered into bondage on this island.   Now necessity dictated that the dead bodies of their descendants receive similar treatment. 

"From my youth I have suffered and been close to death;

I have borne your terrors and am in despair."*

On Saturday, I drove through the small city of Leogane with Benajah, Abelard, and Zo, my hosts in the Haitian countryside and members of the Haiti Partners team.   The earthquake's epicenter was close by, and the city looked like it had been carpet bombed.   The police station had become a brickyard.  Every road leading into the city was lined with USAID tents.  We drove by the house of one of their friends, who had lost his entire family to the earthquake.  "He just sits around smokes a lot of marijuana now," they said.  In that kind of situation, I don't think I would be able to do anything nearly that brave. 

"Do you show your wonders to the dead?

Do their spirits rise up and praise you?"*

We stop at the opening of a new restaurant (or maybe the reopening of an old one, I might have missed something in translation) on the way back to their house in Darbonne.  A number of the patrons are in wheelchairs or on crutches, missing arms or limping along.  Some laugh and carry on.  Others sit in silence with blank stairs

"Is your love declared in the grave,

Your faithfulness in Destruction?"*

All weekend we've visited schools that have been destroyed, fifteen years of work wiped out in forty-five seconds.  We drive back into Port-au-Prince on Sunday and pass the Presidential Palace, the Ministry of Justice and the Ministry of Finance.  There's nothing left.   I remember a conversation I had with some former U.S. policymakers in March.  They can't remember a situation this bad in the thirty-plus years of experience they share in international development.  Usually, they tell me, you have a good amount of central government capacity left to work with.  Not so in Haiti. 

As we wait in the airport this morning, Kent tells us of the heartache that lies deep beneath the surface as you get deep into relationship with people from all walks of life.  A mayor who lost thirteen members of her family.  A mother who lost her two-year-old.  Sitting here now in this hotel room, I have no idea what to do with this.  My guitar's sitting here next to me.  The only notes that come are from a song I heard recently:

"And I can't understand

And I can't pretend

That this will be alright in the end

So I'll try my best

And lift up my chest

To sing about this . . . joy, joy . . . joy"**

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*Psalm 88, passim

**"Joy," by Page CXVI

Not a Crying Trip

This post, also found at my other blog (Loud Time), is my first attempt at processing our trip to Haiti. More to come, I'm sure.

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I'm back--touched down in Chicago last night, shortly after 9 p.m. My trip to Haiti, led by my friends Kent Annan and John Engle with Haiti Partners, was a whirlwind--five days including travel, too short a time to do anything but look and listen. I thought I'd post a quick note now, as a thank-you to those of you who prayed for me and otherwise helped me make this trip, and as an invitation for all of us to pray for Haiti--not just now but always--and to keep our eyes open. That was my mandate for myself: to pay attention to opportunities I come across to help the people of Haiti recover from this earthquake and raise the next generation of its leaders. There's no expiration date for an assignment like that, I suppose.

This was not a crying trip. We saw things that can break a heart--some two million people living in tent cities or on the street, trucks and workers still uncovering and carting off the dead, people with lost limbs or loved ones. But this was not a crying trip: this trip was oddly joyous.

That caught me off-guard. I expected to be despondent, enraged, petrified, but I didn't expect to rejoice. It was probably partly because we were so regularly surrounded by kids--Haiti Partners concentrates its energies on education issues--and those kids like to laugh. A lot. We sang and danced and clapped and played catch and jumped rope and chased one another and made googly eyes at one another, and we laughed and laughed and laughed.

It was likely also because the team that does the work of Haiti Partners--Kent, John, John's wife Merline, trainer and our translator Benajah, and videographer Luke Renner--have wild senses of humor that stop short of the gallows but sit squarely on the earth. They've been running nonstop for five months now, and they laugh as intensely as they work.

It was also likely because of the team that I traveled with, which included a couple of precocious college students (one, Mariana, considering missions as a vocation; the other, Travis, my roommate and a musician interested in urban development), an international development think-tank staffer (Jonathan), a journalist with Operation Blessing (Holly), and two of my authors--Kent, whose book Following Jesus Through the Eye of the Needle is a great showcase of Haiti pre-earthquake and who has directed his royalties toward the work of Haiti Partners, and Jamie Arpin-Ricci, who serves as an urban monastic pastor in Winnipeg, a city that this winter will experience temperatures 180 degrees colder than we experienced over the weekend. For a group of people who had never met one another, we got along famously.

But more than anything, this trip was oddly joyous because the Haitians I met are as resolute as they are resilient. Andre, the principal of two churches and religious director of the utterly devastated (with the exception of the tabernacle which holds the blessed sacrament) Catholic church we joined for worship on Sunday, told us "Discouragement isn't Christian" and encouraged us that "if you're alive, God has work for you to do." Enel, who was on the third floor of a six-story university building on January 12, summed up his work in education reform and revitalization with the phrase "We have hope out in front of us." On and on and on, we met creative, imaginative, dedicated Haitians, in the cities and the country, who are passionate about seeing children empowered, encouraged and set on a path to shape their country's future. And we met similarly passionate children who hang on tight to the joy of education and who understand clearly that knowledge is not just for the intellect, not even just for the person, but for the greater good.

I respect tears, believe me, but this was not a crying trip. This was a celebration. You should get in on it.

The News from Haiti

Here's a post from Haiti trip participant (and forthcoming Likewise Books author) Jamie Arpin-Ricci.

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The roar of the nightime torrential rainfall swallows all other sound as we sit together under the tin roof of the wallless enclosure.  The brief flashes of lightning reveal the outlying one-room buildings, made of salvaged tin sheeting and invaluable tarps.  Further beyond that lay the leveled rubble of what used to be these families' homes, destroyed by the January earthquake.  I wait for the next flash of lighening, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dozen or so other faces of my hosts and their friends and family--faces of all ages.  I catch a glimpse of something moving just behind me, turning to see my gaze returned by a goat.  Disinterested, he returns his gaze to the dark landscape beyond.  This is surreal.

While the rain offers me a brief respite to the intense heat of the day, I still find myself sweating slightly.  However, our hosts declare it far too cold to remain outside any longer.  We make our way up the mud-slicked path, ducking into the tin structure where we will be staying.  John Engle, co-founder/director of Haiti Partners, is with me, acting as translator for the Haitian Creole (Kreyòl).  While my meager French helps me understand some of it, I'd be lost without John's help.  The family has given up their two beds for us, laying down tarps and sheets on the dirt floor for their own sleeping space.  Overwhelmed with feelings of unworthiness and inadequacy, all I can do is say a grateful mercy as we all roll over to sleep.

John and I are both sick in the night, waking to face the day with depleted energy.  While John rallies, my health continues to deteriorate, the unexpected result of a poor choice in anti-malaria medication.  Turns out that it is not advised for people with my kind of immune deficiency.  Too late to do anything, we gather up our things to face the new day.  Lindsay, one of the members of our team and a gifted children's entertainer, teaches the kids a wonderful folk tale from India, getting the kids to participate.  We are all on the edge of our seats, wondering what will happen in the end.  Following the performance, we sit in a circle with a group of local teachers, listening to their stories about rebuilding the devastated school system.  Not for the first time since arriving, I am humbled by the commitment, perseverance and hope of these teachers, most of whom lost their own homes in the quake. 

By the afternoon my health has gotten worse and we decide it would be better if I went back to the guest house a day early.  Sad to leave the team, it turns out to be the right decision, as I am quite sick by that evening.  John's wife, Merline, a Haitian native, pampers me, a significant comfort being sick so far from home.

***

It is now the next day, the air is cool and I feel somewhat recovered.  John and Merline's two adorable children are playing on the floor next to me as I type this.  The team should be joining us in a few hours and I am eager to see them.  Tonight we debrief and do some sightseeing before packing up. 

Tomorrow morning we return to Miami, leaving behind new, yet dear friends.  I will also be leaving my pride behind--at least a portion of it.  I am amazed at the stubborn resilience of the people, carrying on with so much working against them.  What other choice do they have?  And so, I am humbled.

We have so very much.  I can only believe, then, that there is so very much expected of us as well.

Haiti, Day 1

Jonathan Chan's reflections on our first day in Haiti with Kent Annan, author of Following Jesus Through the Eye of the Needle.

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The last time I craned my head to see out the window of a landing plane, the water was dotted with as many yachts as the medical ships I saw here.   If I wasn't sure Haiti would be quite different than the last 9 countries I visited this year, I was sure now.  After passing through the chaos of passport control and baggage claim, we were out on the street where UN convoys and trucks crammed with Haitians were crawling along.  We met up with members of the Haiti Partners team, 2 Haitians and an American driving beat-up Nissans.  Our first stop was the former site of a university that one of our guides attended.  He was in the 6-story building when it collapsed, killing nearly 250 people.  As he told us his testimony, a garbage truck pulled up and men jumped out in masks and gloves.  More bodies had been found in the rubble, and they were pulling them out.   We stood alongside the work crew and all watched in silence before moving on. 

During our long car ride through the city, we saw building after building that had been demolished, innumerable tent cities, and the ads of dozens of aid agencies and NGOs.  Right now, we're staying out in the hills above Port-Au-Prince.  Tomorrow, we head to a number of villages on the outskirts of the city where Haiti Partners is rebuilding schools and empowering local leaders to direct their communities' development.

So why are we here?  First, many of us believe that the situation in Haiti will define the development community for years to come.  Over sixty governments recently pledged billions in assistance to a country that is already highly dependent on external aid.   By some accounts, there are more than 1,000 NGOs on the ground, creating a massive coordination problem for a government that has little central planning capacity.  Haiti will be a microcosm of the best and worst in international development.   Haiti Partners is pioneering much of the best in aid.

For the Church, it is yet another Kairos, that fragile, fleeting instant of truth and opportunity that cries out above our daily diet of distraction.  That nearly a quarter of a million people died is not a natural disaster, it is the crime of a system propagated on the arrogant self-rule of humanity, strengthened by every silent voice and submission.  Against the stranglehold of sin and death, will the global Church find within itself the same power that conquered the grave, the same love that poured from His hands and brow?  As Haiti suffers, will the rest of the body suffer alongside it, knowing that the day will come when they must do the same for us?

Finally, for me, this is another step in a transition that I don't fully understand.  Over the last year, I've grown more and more restless with my life and work in Williamsburg.  While I've gained invaluable experience and had the opportunity to remain a part of the IV community, a part of me is ready for what's next.  The other part of me is petrified.   But I'm here, and like I imagine Peter doing all those years ago, I'm dipping my feet in the water and trying to summon the courage to actually get out of the boat.

Heading to Haiti

Tomorrow I will wake up ridiculously early to board a flight to Miami. There I will meet up with six contest winners and Kent Annan, author of Following Jesus Through the Eye of the Needle and codirector of Haiti Partners, and we'll travel together to Port-au-Prince, where we'll meet up with Kent's codirector John Engle for our five-day tour of Haiti. Monday I'll return home. Tuesday I'll return to IVP.

Kent's book is a memoir of sorts, giving us some insight into life on the ground of one of the poorest countries in the world, where Kent lived for a while and continues to visit from his home in Miami, as he works with Haiti Partners to strengthen the educational infrastructure of the country. The book came out in November. The earthquake hit in January.

I must confess, heading into this trip, my sense of inadequacy, given the impressiveness of this team Kent and IVP have assembled, but also given the enormity of Haiti's recent misfortunes, which pile on top of a long history of misfortune. In one sense, I suppose, my travels to Haiti serve as a sort of fact-finding mission; I'll report back to those who can't go what the needs and signs of hope are, from my vantage point. But I'm a little worried that my trip will amount to nothing more than devo-tourism, a pious jaunt to a place that will pluck at my heart strings but ultimately resolve into little more than lip service to God and to those who suffer more than I do.

That would, quite honestly, suck. A friend of mine read this, however, and reminded me that "it's God's business to make something of this." Not mine. Takes the pressure off, I suppose.

Anyway, if you're so inclined, please pray that this trip will have enduring meaning and value for us, for our hosts, for the world we return to. And I hope to post my thoughts and pictures here while I'm away, along with the insights and reflections of my travel companions, so feel free to poke and prod at my postings from and after Haiti; I'll gladly accept your help in recognizing the truth revealed in this trip.

Losing God for Mental Health

May is Mental Health Awareness Month--a fact that I was, ironically, unaware of. Mental health as a social issue often takes a back seat to more pressing concerns--oil leaks, volcanic eruptions, televised performances by Lady Gaga and the like. It also often gets shoved to the side for more romantic health epidemics; not to take anything away from breast cancer or the AIDS pandemic, but the World Health Organization, the World Bank and Harvard University discovered in their Global Burden of Disease study that "mental illness, including suicide, accounts for over 15 percent of the burden of disease in established market economies, such as the United States. This is more than the disease burden caused by all cancers." Mental health, its bad press notwithstanding, is a problem that could use a little more attention.

Matt Rogers is honoring Mental Health Awareness Month by trying to springboard a conversation, using his Likewise book Losing God as a case study. In that book Matt tells his own story of the interplay of theological doubt (How can I be assured of salvation? How can I experience a relationship with an invisible and sometimes apparently distant God?) with what is ultimately identified as depression. The book is enough of a memoir to make for good beach or book club reading, enough of an extended essay on doubt and depression to spur some rigorous thought, enough of a confession (in the self-disclosing, not the self-blaming meaning of the term) to aid your attentiveness to someone you love who is wrestling with this far too common and far too underreported illness. Who knows--you may even find yourself in the story of Losing God.