tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29548727049603374322024-03-21T17:42:47.080-07:00Stories about Justice and Creativity and HaitiBritney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-60376005787855709022012-05-26T15:49:00.001-07:002012-05-26T15:49:53.303-07:00We Need a Savior<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The fabric of the clouds whipped up in dense swirls like a
good meringue that Granny Alderson would have been proud of. They poorly hid
the plump algae-green mountains that fold into themselves as we ascended off
the Island. And I thought, “Haiti, you make my life terrifying. And I couldn’t
love you more.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This is a blog entry about our last four days in country for
our annual summer trip to Les Cayes. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKdMYIAEAPfVHPYae4kzRiR-2tGsy9AiwXYdm6lx2_cjR_nOkBcHgFWv2SPtIg2CsWNL74T3F8adXZx3hlJkCtihpv3e89YHxBa0eq4QolrVapMWob6ryuUFZsjDum9iYwOdzB6kEXOeY/s1600/522995_566954816476_63500758_31085705_114883081_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKdMYIAEAPfVHPYae4kzRiR-2tGsy9AiwXYdm6lx2_cjR_nOkBcHgFWv2SPtIg2CsWNL74T3F8adXZx3hlJkCtihpv3e89YHxBa0eq4QolrVapMWob6ryuUFZsjDum9iYwOdzB6kEXOeY/s320/522995_566954816476_63500758_31085705_114883081_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Familiar and predictable would be words that one might use
to describe a place and a people that they have visited several times. And I
suppose in more stable lifestyles placed in more stable communities, this could
be the case. But no trip to Haiti has been like the other. And no trip to Haiti
has been uneventful--a praiseworthy reality, because many of the tales that
bind us together in their sharing arise out of the event-filled. Jesus
highlights Himself in story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Stories highlight themselves in the unconventional. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On Monday, we said goodbye to the Centenary College team
that we bunked with, ate with, and served with the week before. After their
departure, our young adults team (many of whom have traveled faithfully for the
past four summers) packed our buckets and bags and awaited our F350 to retrieve
us for Mama Pampering Day at Darivage Children’s Village. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Darivage, on the days when the kids are not acting up, holds
the spirit of an old wrinkled hand guiding the backs of the fatherless. There,
the community cares for their own. There are things to be taught and things to
be grown. The widows in the village instruct and love the 43 biological and
economic orphans that fill the concrete dwellings. And there is an awareness
that the burden of the young and impoverished is the responsibility of the old.
It is<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lovely. And it is inspiring.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the days leading up to the second half of our trip, we,
along with Centenary, taught classes at Bighouse and Darivage of French,
English, Crochet, Music, Haiti & Louisiana Similarities, Math, Bead Making,
Simple Medicine, Tool Usage, and VBS. In return, the children and their
teachers taught us beginning conversational Creole, the words & music to their
National Anthem, how to (attempt to) carry buckets of water on our heads, and
Haitian Rara Dance. They lit up in the exchange, and we learned much—not
necessarily about the topics being focused on, but much about the necessity of
exchange within foreign friendships. Where there is no empowerment…where there
is no place for me to edify, “You have something to give too”….we have only
grown a charity, not a person or her people. And when people are growing (both
on our team and in the village), we are likely to be giving something lasting
to the Kingdom. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Monday and Tuesday were different than our educational days,
however. These days were in celebration for the mamas at both sites. Half of
our team broke away with all the children to teach movement exercises, play
with bubbles, and paint fingernails…while our spa crew took over the small
concrete rooms, moving around wooden desks, and attempting to avoid the hens roosting
in the corners. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Three buckets of clean water from the clean water buildings
(newly built, safe enough for us to drink).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bags unzipped and sundresses layered for display. Nail
polishes of reds and pinks stacked. And suds growing in the pales stirred by
fast moving, gloved hands. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The women began to line up in the room where our translator
helped us explain: “We wanted to have a celebration just for you. Because we
realize that we get to visit for a week or two, enjoy the children and our time
here, but then leave. And we recognize that the real work comes from you. Our
lives have been changed by these villages and these children, and we know that
they are only here because of the meals that you cook, the clothes that you
wash, the beds that you make, and the wounds that you bandage. And we wanted to
say thank you. So if you will let us, we would love to wash your feet and
hands, paint your nails, do your makeup, and let you choose some dresses and
purses that we’ve brought.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We waited a bit nervously wondering if they would be
offended by our offer, when a huge unanimous “Wi!!!” came from each lady in the
room. And we began. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A small wave of uneasiness quickly followed our eagerness
when we realized that the hands and feet we would be cradling had seen much.
But the fear of the unfamiliar in the form of gnarled toes, missing nails, heel
infections, or caked mud quickly dissolved in the gut remembrance that the base
of our faith unambiguously rests on moments like this. What an honor this was
about to be. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As if every woman were Jesus himself. As if every knot we
pressed into, stain we scrubbed, muscle we relaxed were the King’s own. As if
each massage for a tension spot were a thankyou for a child being picked up, a
plate being washed, a tummy being medicated. As if we were getting the
opportunity to thank the Lord of the world for individually caring for the
orphaned. I cannot tell you what these hours meant to me. I will never forget
them. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Each mama came through the different stations picking the colors
and lotions they wanted and piercing us with loving stares as they watched and
rested. At the end, Mama Darivage, with her perpetual frown climbing the top of
her pole-sized body, gave a speech. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“What you have given us is worth more than gold or silver.
We know you do this because of the love in your heart. And because you have
loved us, we can love the children better.” Her frown never shifting, she
grabbed four of us by the necks and sobbed into our shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We showed each other Jesus that day.
And I believe that is the definition of restoration. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We debriefed for hours that night on the roof of the
guesthouse, letting the Haitian world spin around us from dusk to stars<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as we talked about simplicity, and
community, and what was hard and what was rich. Then we headed off to rest up
for our trip-wrap-up-day on the Island of Ile a Vache.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The boat ride from the Cayes Port to the cove of the tiny
sub-Island’s resort should take about 45 minutes. Our over eager and (surely)
slightly deranged captian of the 30 foot yacht made it there in 20. I’ve never
flown/seen people fly so high on water before. With no time in between slamming
into waves to adequately scream or laugh, our crew held on for dear life and
kept an eye on the shoreline that seemed to never come. But when we arrived, it
was every bit worth the travel (and bruises and scrapes). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The cove of Ile a Vache is one of the most beautiful places,
and definitely the most beautiful beach, many of us have ever experienced. We
spent the entire day on the half-mile stretch of paradise sitting, sleeping,
walking, swimming. It was the perfect way to end the trip, enjoying each other,
loving on Haiti, rehashing moments of the past 10 days. Deep breaths, deep
laughs, darkening skin, and a book of stories not yet processed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A less intense boat ride back to the mainland led us to one
last drive through downtown Les Cayes and up the hill to the Cambry Guesthouse
for a little light packing and leisure preparation for our next-day departure.
Or so we thought. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Our three rooms of Americans had just begun to fold a few
shirts and take a few showers when Pastor Louis, our main partner and the head
of the ministry in Haiti, came to let me know that Haiti was currently under
some political unrest which was manifesting in riots throughout the south. A
few towns in the south are on strike because of the governments refusal or
delay in giving them electricity. We would need to leave at 11:30pm instead of
after breakfast as to avoid the rock throwing that had been occurring during
the day. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A panicked laugh and a prompt change of pace happened in the
rooms as word spread, and we prepared to leave during the night. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Thankyou notes were signed, waterbottles were filled, and
our luggage was weighed and lined up before we took a small one hour nap prior
to loading up for our midnight travel. It had been too uncharacteristically
uneventful, I suppose. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Groggy bodies climbed inside the dark blue 15 passenger van
that was to follow its matching vehicle carrying Pastor Louis and all of our
luggage. And we took off. We stopped just into town to pick up DouDou, the
largest Haitian I’ve ever seen. He speaks wonderful English, has the lightest
brown eyes, and was chosen as our driver because of his intimidating size
coupled with his extensive capabilities. You’d be a fool to mess with DouDou. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We were driving much faster than normal, which made it hard
to want to fall asleep. All eyes took on the responsibility of backseat driving
and we wondered what the speed was for. We weren’t flying out until 6pm the
next evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’ve seen political manifestations before in the forms of
burning tires and large parades. So my assumptions of what we might encounter
were filtered through this. With those assumptions tucked away, and the speed of
our vehicle ignored, a few of us fell asleep for about an hour. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The gasping of team members and the fast jolt of a slowed
vehicle threw us all awake in time to watch the large van with “Daniel 3:17”
painted on its back u-turn on a dime followed immediately by our matching van.
A quick flash of the barricade we were avoiding with fervor came and went with
the headlights and we sped back towards the direction we had just come as angry
locals ran to surround us. DouDou cracked his window and spoke in Creole to the
rioters. Whether they were convinced that we would be let through or they were
lying, I’m not sure. But we were told we could pass and turned around once
again. Two locals’ bodies made a loud thud on the windows as they road the back
of the van toward their wall of trees and rocks that prevented any car from
passing on the main road connecting the south to Port au Prince. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Both vans eased up to the barricade awaiting the right of
passage. But nothing happened. Except for the growing volume of a voice
rounding the corner coming from a small Haitian man with black beady eyes and a
swinging machete. DouDou exited the vehicle into the noise of creole and
darkness, interrupted only with the rhythm of our flashers. “Be careful,” he
said as he locked the doors. “Stay calm and quite. Stay calm and quiet. Do not
move. Do not speak,” I told the team. And we waited. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A larger dump truck, innocently attempting to pass in the
same manner, creeped up behind us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The driver stood outside amongst the locals along with Pastor Louis and
DouDou, wisely assessing the situation like silent warriors. Being led by the
Spirit when to talk and when to not. We watched wondering if this was
culturally a big deal or if we had nothing to fear. The angry man with the swinging
machete directed the large dump truck with the tip of his weapon, drawing lines
on the gravel like nails on a chalkboard. He was moving the truck in such a way
that it would add to his barricade. “Stay calm. Stay quiet.” The sound of the
machete-prompted air being let out of big tires would have been the eeriest
sound, if it weren’t for the breaking glass of bottles behind the wheels that
followed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Oh. We were being used as the blockade, but now they have
this truck. They’re getting the truck in place and then they’ll let us go.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But then the edge of the tool made its way to our side of
the van. “Stay calm. Stay quiet.” And the prayers began. We prayed through the
sounds of the rocks stacking behind our tires. We prayed through the sound of
air being let out on all four corners. We prayed through the sound of bottles
breaking around the vehicle. And we prayed through the only creole word we
could make sense of in the angry mummers outside, “Blancs….blancs”
(foreigners, whites). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DouDou
climbed in for just a couple of minutes to make a hidden call under his breath
on his cell phone, and then he was gone again. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Thank God that this team was entirely made up of troopers,
resting deep in the arms of a mighty Father. And we waited. And watched. And prayed.
And wondered. Would we be there till morning? Or until another van came? Were
we being used as leverage? Would they make us get out of our car? What would we
do if they did?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">DouDou opened the door and asked if we had our passports for
him to take up so that we wouldn’t have to be searched. Two of us said in a
panic, “Ours are in the other van. They’re in a green and black backpacks, can
you get them?” He responded, “Not now, they will not let us.” And it was then
that we realized how little control we actually had. But it would be fine. They
could take our bags. They could even take our passports. As long as we could
get out. A moment when it is intensely clear that the things that matter most
are the things that we will leave this earth with. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pastor Louis stuck his head in long enough for us to ask,
“Are we safe?” and to answer, “Sure. By the grace of God,” before he went back
to guarding the front of the vehicle. And we waited, slightly unsatisfied with that answer. Until a shot was fired. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Get down. Everybody get down. And stay down,” Erik said
from the front seat as the windows of the van filled with the light of 6
approaching headlights from the opposite direction. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.
Jesus save us, Jesus save us. Jesus come, Jesus save us. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The locals ran towards the cars to acquire the next victims
of their blockade enlargement but then scattered quickly into the woods. Why?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A few minutes later, bodies still tucked down in the
sweating vehicle, Louis cracked open the door and said, “It is ok now! We are
safe. The police are here.” And a roar of clapping and praising erupted through
the seats. One by one we pealed ourselves out of the van and lined up behind
trucks, hidden from the rocks being thrown from the trees, while the police
stood watch, shotguns in hand, and our tires were aired up once again. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Eventually, after two hours of the experience, the barricade
was removed, and we were off…more disturbed and unsettled, but unfathomably
grateful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The car remained mostly silent for the rest of the ride to
Port au Prince as we caught breath and tried to wrap our minds around whether
what just happened was as dramatic as it felt or not. The “Daniel 3:17” on our
luggage van bopped around the potholes in front of us, and we reached for a
Bible. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve
is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And the understanding of rescue settled heavily on our
silent car in the aftermath of not knowing how something could or would end. We
need a Savior. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And we learn this in company of risk, faith, trust, poverty.
Our acts of kindness, our pocket books, our relational trips to learn a people
are manifestations of a Gospel alive, but it is no eradication of the
unshakeable truth that we need a Savior. We can educate and feed forever, and
our efforts will heal many. But brokenness and rescue are matters of the King,
whose heart is for a renewed world. And we need Him. We need Him to take
selfishness, poor infrastructures, and hate to the cross and give them their
dues. We need Him to lead us in wisdom and ridiculous lengths of love to
rebuild whole people and whole communities in His name. We have no way out but
Him. We have no control but His. And, whether we know it or not, we are held
captive behind barricades of self-living, injustice, and hurt until we are rescued. We need
a Savior. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And He will
come. And He does come. And He has come. Rounding the corner in light, firing
into the air to let it be known that all authorities who acted out of power
that wasn’t theirs have been thwarted with the announcement of His arrival.
With even the speaking of His name. And what was lost is found. And what was
hopeless sees a way. We need a Savior. And He is Jesus. And He does not fail
us. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The team is back in Shreveport and Houston and California,
continuing to process the beauty of our time with our Haitian friends and
family. Already beginning to talk about next summer’s trip. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Haiti. You make my life terrifying. And I couldn’t love you
more. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Britney</span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-79794850701576256332012-05-26T15:28:00.001-07:002012-05-26T15:28:08.965-07:00Soccer and Second Lines<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Yesterday started a bit earlier than usual due to the fact that church started at 7 and we were riding with the Pastor. The sun was just started to inch over the hills at Cambry Guesthouse when I made my rounds through the hall knocking on doors, “Good morning, ladies!” The locals start Sunday School at six so that their walks to and from the 7am service aren’t in the hottest part of the day. So we scurried about in our long skirts and non-blow-dried hair towards the back of the truck that would take us downtown.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There are always seats towards the front of the church for visitors of the Pastors. And as much as we try to disperse into the crowd, we are usually pointed back to that spot in the church. It would feel uncomfortable if all eyes were on us in these cushioned places of honor, but the locals are not concerned with our presence in this moment. They have come to worship God.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A string bean of an elderly woman in a white cotton dress stood across the congregation from us. Her hands straight up and exactly half a beat behind the music the entire time. She’s there every Sunday, standing beside the man who looks about in his 60s, shifting his hips back and forth to the chants and rhythms of the Island’s hymns. The church usually holds around 1,700 on Sunday. And they are dressed to the nines.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The music and the prayers last for a very long time and consist of full participation for the large, committed crowd. They cry out in Creole about God and His goodness. About God and His provision. About God and His power. The Centenary girls pointed out later in debriefing that you didn’t need to know all the words to hear the passion and conviction in what was being agreed with.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Two and a half hours later, we loaded back up into the off-roader and headed back home to eat breakfast, nap, and email our mothers for Mothers Day.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Naps lasted for a while, as you would expect on day 6. And then it was back up again to load up for the soccer game!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It seems something(s) unexpected always finds its way into our well thought out (and hardly stuck to) itinerary while in Haiti. One of those things for the first of this trip was getting to see the national final game between the North and the South to see how gets to go play in the Caribbean game! We were rooting for the Americas, a Les Cayes team dressed in slick orange and white uniforms.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Pastor pushed his way to the entrance with our cover money, then went to point to who he was paying for, quickly realizing it wasn’t necessary. We’re the only white people in line. In the street. And soon enough, we would find out we were 15 of maybe 20 white people in a stadium of thousands.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The very few stands that were there were packed and had been for three hours, said Sean (another American who has been living in Cayes for three months teaching English). But that was ok, because the entire field then became lined with a crowd of people at least three levels deep, shoulder to shoulder. And then of course that moved people to standing on top of the walls, hanging on to the trees, and climbing on top of the roofs. The latter is where we ended up.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">If you want an idea of yesterday’s atmosphere…mix the thought of a national soccer game, with a Caribbean flare, and add in Mardi Gras. The Haitians moved in as close as possible on the long, wide roof, as we searched for chairs to stand on. After every goal, the band (directly behind us) would grab their old worn instruments and have at it while the crowd went wild, drank their Prestiges, and danced away a couple of minutes of victory.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After about two hours of play, Les Cayes team took the National Championship and the thousands of people rushed onto the field as the music cranked up and (what appeared to be) a second line started, grabbing anyone with any need to dance and sweeping them into the street.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We stayed on the roof, watching and dancing, until the majority of the happy crowd bounced its way out the tin door. And then we climbed down and back into the truck to head home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was so very cool to witness something so collective and entertaining with the people in their world.<span> </span>Something so universally unifying as music and completive sports. Makes people feel like people. And makes the world a bit smaller.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We came home for a supper of rice and turkey (Phil, the one we shared a truck bed home with from the Market the day before). And then a good night’s rest with the AC’s rhythm of shutting on and off on the wave of unpredictable electricity.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This morning, I waved the team off for a day of botanical garden seeing and down-town Les Cayes walking, as I stay at Cambry to sort supplies and await the young adult team’s arrival from Port au Prince!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Tomorrow, we begin our teaching/learning exchange at Bighouse Children’s Home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A beautiful world we get to be in together,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Britney</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“…out of the dust…”</span></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-22496753261325391702012-05-26T15:27:00.004-07:002012-05-26T15:27:40.678-07:00Basket of Cherries<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It’s only 10:35am in Haiti, and the day has already been extremely eventful. Since the first half of our trip revolves solely around the Centenary Module, we are attempting to throw the students into as much of a cultural experience that we are able to in 14 days. And if there’s a way to do it, it’s at the market.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Much laughter could be heard from the back kitchen at the Cambry Guesthouse this morning when it was explained to the cooks that our large group of light skinned 20-something females were wanting to explore the country market to purchase the things on our hosts’ grocery list. They agreed, and each item (along with its French name and estimated cost) was written down on a piece of recycled paper then tossed into Dr. Lawrence’s hat. Then the process of haggling was explained and slightly practiced before the drawing began. And the question lingered silently in the common room….Who would have to buy the turkey.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Cheese, eggs, Clorox, peppers, onions, garlic, raw chopped up goat, and more. Each student received their commission for the next couple of hours, and we climbed in the back of the off-roading pickup to head to the Biggarrouse Mache.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There’s nothing discrete about us when we arrive somewhere.<span> </span>We arrive with the aroma of a target, along with our struggling creole skills only coupled perfectly with the Goude stuffed in our socks and our lack of knowledge of where to find what. The teenaged merchants follow our groups of four who have quickly split up and taken off into the layers of booths. They call after us in loud, monotoned descriptions of what they are selling and why we should buy. “Nou gen pa bezwen, mesi!” We have no need for that, thankyou! We must find goat.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My small team was made up of me and Amanda and, thank God, Mia…the cook. She had put on her finest dress for our outing, so of course we felt pretty underdressed. Haitians stay so clean, the greatest of mysteries.<span> </span>Who knows how we would have returned to the truck if it weren’t for Mia. We approached the section of the Market toward the far back where the fence line began where the meat was stored, both the live and the…well…sellable.<span> </span>If this doesn’t qualify as intercultural experience, Centenary, give these girls their money back. The dismembered hooves were stacked on the corner of the butcher block tables, under the canopies made of NGO tarps. Fresh goat heads with opened eyes were organized where each seller stood as they negotiate the different pieces of whichever animal was most recently deceased. Warm, exposed, raw meat would be disturbing if we were uncertain of its freshness. But alas, we are not. The childlike screaming of the goats tied by one hoof toward our right awaiting the fate of the knife and the dollar let us know that we are getting a new product. A silver lining, I suppose.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Our “cashier” was a larger dark woman with a black and white striped tshirt barely peeking through the tribal wrap she had strapped above her chest. She leaned back when she haggled, butcher knife in hand waving about as she flung drops of blood on the old mutt that lounged by her side. What a movie moment we were having.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She gave Mia a price, which Mia laughed at. One trick we had yet to be taught in the art of market negotiation: The “you gotta be kidding me” laugh. And Mia bare handedly pulled and tugged at the different parts of the animal, pointing to the cuts that we would be paying a fair price for. And finally, we walked away with a very heavy bag and 100gds extra.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Eventually the rest of the group made their way back to the truck where our live turkey sat resting lazy and terrified beside the box of soap we had purchased to wash our own clothes today.<span> </span>He’s been named Phil, and I’m sure we’ll be seeing him again.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A debrief of the students’ experiences followed our grocery drop-off, and now rest is taking place before we delve into removing the awful stains from our worn clothes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Three things were significant about the Biggarrouse Machet for me, as I watched the small white clusters cling to old brown paper and scurry from booth to booth asking, “Where are the eggs?” in Creole. 1. How huge is it to edify the Haitian’s culture by demonstrating that we want to learn, as fumbling as we may appear at first. 2. How nice the dense crowd was in general in their greetings and offers of direction. 3. How metaphors of hope can be found in the most routine of places if your filter is set right.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And by that I mean…The market has a general haze of grey-brown when you glace across. The dust and mud from the worn ground is mixed in with old dirty trash and animal droppings. The tarps are old, the poles are drying wood, and the sacks are whatever plastic bag was able to be found.<span> </span>But my gosh, the colors of the fruit and the vegetables! Piles and piles of white rice, and cantaloupe sized grape fruit. Leafy spinach and sharply colored carrots. And while ducking through the ropes and poles of these stands covered in mounds of vibrancy, a lady approached us with a large wide basket balanced still on her head. She lowered just long enough for us to see the hundreds of deep red cherries, and then she was again on her way.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the smallest of ways, I hear Haiti say, “See. Things grow here, too.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A very memorable experience, one surely to be not easily forgotten. Now for clothes washing, or at least an attempt. And then more rest before our early morning church service, followed by an unplanned Haitian soccer game.<span> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">-Britney</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“…out of chaos, life is being found in You…”</span></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-860453159157356172012-05-26T15:27:00.001-07:002012-05-26T15:27:12.290-07:00To Die is Beautiful<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I woke up with my feet asleep from being crossed like a pretzel and posted up high on the bus window as I slept across the seat beside my own. When I came to, our vehicle that assists us in getting from dusty Port au Prince to lush Cayes was circling down into a valley. And the mountains beyond mountains were whirling over my head. I didn’t feel quite human as I had crashed hard after 17 hours of travel and no sufficient rest. But I could hear cement sacks plunking down on top of each other like lazy elephants, I could feel the smoke burning against the back of my throat, and I could see the ocean creeping around to our left. So human or not, we were in Haiti.<span> </span>Rest would come as surely as an adventure, as surely as a story.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m traveling throughout this first leg of the trip with a Centenary Module class of all girls. On Monday, the First Methodist Young Adult Team, many of whom have come summer after summer for the past 3 years. will join us. These few first days have and will be spent learning parts of the Haitian culture. How intricate and deep the crevices of significant tales run throughout the history of the Haitians’ world. And as a direct result, our world as well.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What many know to be Haiti remains to be simply the surface level of her existence. Would justice be done if someone described Mother Teresa of Calcutta as a wrinkled lady with a thick Indian accent? Shame on them if so. In the same way, Haiti cannot just be a poor country in the Western Hemisphere devastated by natural disasters.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Haiti was the greatest of worlds, coveted by all major players in the 1400’s game. It was called the Pearl of the Antilles and everyone wanted a piece of what the land had to offer. And so it began. Two races of slaves, multiple generations of masters, several dictatorships, and too many leaders to count. Thousands of pounds of sugar and indigo exported, thousands of aid workers imported, thousands of lives lost through disease and walls that fall. One slave revolution to begin the west’s abolition, one retreat that caused for the Louisiana Purchase, one moment in history that changed the way you and I live today in the states. All woven through the hills and brown eyes on half of a Caribbean island barely able to be identified on a globe.<span> </span>If you’re looking for a good read, I suggest something on Haiti’s history. Your current reality is more intertwined with their past than you may realize.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Yesterday was our first full day in this rich country. The guesthouse we’re staying in, Cambry, is up on a mountain, which offers us a view barely believable. It’s somewhat worthless to take a picture that will only partially bring you back to something so unable to be captured. You can get to the roof by ladder, which will lead you closer to the stars as well as the shower basins. That’s where I found the tadpoles I was showering with last trip.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The girls are doing so well here. They ask good questions. They learned so much about the country prior to coming, which has made a crucial difference. As a class, it really feels like we are partners here. Coming to learn and not simply to fix. We filled our bottles and climbed into the back of a very large 4-wheel-drive truck and headed off in the hot sun to see the forts.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">These forts are so significant to the history of the Haitian and the American. They stand as the plantation ground for southern battles during the Haitian Revolution in the late 1700s and the early 1800s. Hardly preserved, it is nothing like visiting US monuments or museums. It is more like finding a treasure that changed the world, that only lives in stories told by old people. “There’s a place in the mountains…”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We crossed paths with a few terrified baby pigs as we pulled ourselves around the side of a steep hill and reached the top where a plaque stood beside some over grown walls. Concrete at least 200 years old, shading some goats tied to their posts. Is it a national and international historic site? Or is it a farmers grazing ground? Yes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There, Dr. Kress taught a history lesson about the Soldier Dessalines who had rallied the Haitians in the north and the south to revolt against the French. Slavery had been abolished and France was going to make Haiti a state. However, it seemed they had been tricked and France was really reinstating the slave nation because they were going to use Haiti as their Western base while ruling their land in the states. But on the mountain we had climbed, 200+ years ago, Dessalines met with another Haitian general and made the agreement to rally again and resist the French government in order to take back their country for good. Soon after this agreement, the slave revolution was won, and the Bonaparte’s retreat caused for the Louisiana Purchase. Meaning I am not of French decent. I live in the free Americas as a Louisiana resident because a few people dehumanized in their capture decided it was time to reclaim what was not someone else’s. Dessalines died in a prison a few years following, and the Haitian anthem today is named after him.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The locals that we visited the site with sang it for us in Creole, with the repeating line, “To die is beautiful, to die is beautiful, to die, to die, to die for your country is beautiful.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have had a lot of questions here recently about my future. My occupation. My role. My direction. There have been many uncertainties and many large jumps made on the backs of uncertainties. But there has been one significantly perceptive-altering thing that the Holy Spirit has shown me in my pursuit of “how to be great” or “how to do great” (even when those statements are followed by “…for the Kingdom of God). And this is it: Jesus did not call me to be great. Jesus called me to die. Because He did not come to be great. He came to die, and in that death, great things were made possible. In fact, the greatest of things. Therefore I must not be so tied to my own life. The fears that come with it. My attachment to pride. The idols, expectations, anxieties. I cannot be so driven by my course and how it should lead me to the path that will impress whatever current generation in their need for me to be famously unique. These are possible results, but they are not the pursuit. The pursuit is to lay myself down in the small ways, the small moments. To listen well. To stand strong against injustices. To love through touch and word and laughter. To speak grace and truth into the unbalances. To hold tiny hands. And hear wiser teachings. To stick with people as they work it out, all the while infusing hope. And allow them to do the same for me. To humbly embrace my own inabilities, and then powerfully step into the Holy Spirits understanding of the world and its path.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Direction and purpose are bigger questions than I’m ready for. Right now (and maybe at any time), I can only know that God will show me how to love him and how to love people. And then He will give me a people group to live that out in intimately, vivaciously, wildly. That group or the dynamic of that group may change because the world’s plates are always shifting. But wherever I am, whenever I am, to whomever the Holy Spirit leads me, I must learn them wisely, love them deeply, and walk with them faithfully towards the fullest of lives made only possible by death.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I rest in that while here in Haiti--my old, wise friend and teacher whose own history bleeds with sacrifice and whose own present is speckled with hope. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To die is beautiful.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I breathe it in. And I trust for more.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lespwa fe viv,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Britney</span></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-7026952069175515242012-02-22T10:27:00.000-08:002012-02-22T10:28:14.746-08:00Written<div><br /></div><div>I believe true restoration is not the avoidance of what is dark and dead, but the unthinkable repurposing of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning was a typical fourth day awakening, as my muscles and my eyes reminded me of the miles we've trekked in these short days. My senses first found the pulse of my alarm clock, then the whirl of the air condition kicking on and off with the power, and then the tap of June Bugs hitting the walls invisibly as to not join the June Bug graveyard that our room of girls has established.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today was the wrapping up of tasks not yet done before we head back to Port au Prince and then on to Florida tomorrow. Or three groups began this trip with a long list of things needing to be checked off before we returned to continue planning for our next four endeavors in country. Excitedly we can say that they pretty much all have been. We needed lastly to show the professors the American University, buy some Malaria medication for future trips, and hike some of the trails of the hillsides as to see more of the native culture.</div><div><br /></div><div>We decided to do the latter first to capture as many of the cooler hours as possible. So we set off on a trail only slightly distinguishable from the rest of the ground around it right behind the guesthouse in its neighboring waving hills. The trails themselves you can barely see from far away, but as you come right upon them, you notice that the 10" path of no grass/sometimes grass is actually leading somewhere. We had no ending point except to be back <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" detectors="true" result="0">at 11am</a>. We walked in a straight line around the middle of a hill and then over another and down the side of yet another, passing huts and cows and children scattered without pattern. Ahead we could hear drums and singing in the cluster of trees at the peak. We asked our translator what was happening and he said it was a normal prayer service. Little did we know our path was taking us straight through their sanctuary of limbs and tied ribbon blowing eerily in the diving breezes. Their prayer style and location was so bizarre I wondered if it weren't something a bit more dark. But Dr. Kress stopped to hear their words and said, "They are asking God to help them, that only he can." </div><div><br /></div><div>Down another hill, around and back up, and we heard a voice calling from a car below. It was Pastor Louis from our guesthouse driving down a backroad to see if we had enough water. As we scooted down to meet him, he told us of a church of his that was only about a half mile away on foot if we wanted to meet him there. Unfortunately, a half mile away is like a half hour away in Haiti. You should plan to walk five and you should plan to be late. It took our crew quite a while and a couple of times getting turned around to find Pastor Louis again, who led us to the correct location.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once there, he told us the rich history of the site. When his ministry was preparing to move into this area of the south, the head witch doctor of the area was strongly opposed to it and cursed them. The Bokor headed up a Vodou temple next to the house that he lived in a few miles from the Cambri site. One day while he was speaking in 1995, he was struck by lightening. It did not kill him, but it caused his body much damage. Hearing this, El Shaddai came to the man's house and prayed for him. The man, over the next 8 years, surrendered his life and his practices over to God, tore down the temple, and gave all the land to El Shaddai for them to build another church on. This is the site of the church we went and visited today. The pastor said that the Bokor handed over to him his big jar of terrantuals, frogs, and other creatures who held his power, and in the name of Jesus they burned the whole thing, blessed the land, and began rebuilding. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked away and told David that I commended any ministry that does not avoid the brokenness, but instead sees to it that it is repurposed for the kingdom, and that this to me is the Gospel. He responded with, "When we seek to plant, we find out where is most dark, and go there." </div><div><br /></div><div>We could save a lot of time, energy, sinfulness, and fear if we could trust the Spirit in us to take us into the dark places and equip us not to avoid or conform but to creatively seek to repurpose that which has been lost. Among that third way, I believe, is where heaven comes on earth. </div><div><br /></div><div>We pulled ourselves back into the guesthouse to down the water we were scared of drinking on the trails without bathrooms, cooled off a bit, and then headed for Cayes.</div><div><br /></div><div>We arrived at the American Univeristy on Mardi Gras day, meaning our curious group and a couple of armed guards near a locked gate were all to be seen on the property. However, with the French fluency of sweet talking Dr. Kress, we were inside the facility quickly. On the top terrace, we met an American man who invited us in to sit down. He told us he was one of three American teachers there, and that he had been there since September. We commented on how nice the buildings were, to which he offered that they were built as a US military compound during the Raegan Administration. The walls are measured just so and the roof is designed as a helicopter landing. But now it functions as the classrooms for 250 Agriculture and Civil Engineer local students. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a few minutes of chatting, the second teacher named Sean joined us on the porch. He is about our age and has been in Haiti teaching English and helping with teams for about 3 weeks. When our professors started explaining that they were a part of a small, Methodist affiliated, liberal arts college, Sean said, "Are you a part of the Shreveport Methodists?" To which Sarah and I said, "No but we are..."</div><div><br /></div><div>Sean then went in to say how he was baptized in our church before he and his family moved to Charleston. He said that we were that church from Sheveport that has established a pretty consistent presence here, and that he had looked up a lot about ours and Grace UMC's work in blogs and articles online. He commended our commitment to one global place and said that the people know us. What incredible affirmation that God is spreading what God has started. We, in our broken nature, are not built to stick around. In friendships, in marriages, in countries that are tough. We are built to flee to leveled, easier ground. We are built to worship that which will both cater to us and our success. We are not built to stick around. But Jesus is. And it is ONLY by the power of the Holy Spirit that we are able to embrace that in our own lives as well. Because sticking around requires sacrifices when you'd rather not, commitment when the seasons are dry, and hope when the vision is not yet fully recognizable. And what is beautiful is that we are able to learn this together, not alone. Where laughter and truth and dreaming and growing pains and depth and boldness and conviction can abound among those we've made covenents with as friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>So if there is even a little bit of a known presence of FUMC Shreveport in Les Cayes, Haiti, it is because we have stuck around, and that can only ever be because of Jesus.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we talked more, Sean mentioned, seemingly randomly, the deep need for a place for young adults in his home town. "Sunday school just doesn't seem to be enough, what do we do throughout the rest of the week?" he said. What a crazy wonderful opportunity...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well we've actually got a lot to say about this subject...you see, we live in a young adult community house that we started in Shreveport..." We told him how we've been fascinated by new monasticism all through college and how on the return of our Haiti trip two years ago, we felt like God was saying it was time to create something similar. We talked about how we recognized that there weren't a ton of places for us to go in this awkward stage of life, how we needed each other, and needed more than Sunday mornings to live out the holistic faith that we wanted. We told him about family meals, and the health care fund, and our housemate meetings. And them we invited him to come and see when he returns to the states. To which he said, "And I think I'll have to bring a few people who need to see this as well."</div><div><br /></div><div>Our daily, seemingly mundane, experiences and encounters can very well be the loose stitching that God does prior to pulling it all together piece by piece in the brilliance of a plan unfathomable to the human psyche. We are being written, and it is the most glorious thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, for one more meal, one more cold shower, one more drive through Kanaval traffic to the airport until May.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mesi pou li ekri mwen,</div><div><br /></div><div>Britney </div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-69110459756505913882012-02-22T10:26:00.002-08:002012-02-22T10:27:36.472-08:00Waterfalls and Presidents<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Last night as I finished up blogging, I wondered what I would be able to write about today. We were just going to the beach, very routine, nothing abnormal was likely to happen....</span></div><div><br /></div><div>One waterfall find, ministry connection, Carnival run-in, UN official yelling, lobster eating, and President siting later....I'd say, maybe I assumed incorrectly. This is in fact Haiti, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>We began our day eating our oatmeal and peanut butter out on the tiled walkways overlooking the misty mountains attempting to convince you they are actually a postcard--and it works. I've said it before, but it's worth repeating...Cambri. Is. Breathtaking. We have always been downtown in our guesthouse, but here the mornings invite you into the island and at night the stars remind you of your smallness as they rise above the clouds that rise above the lights that throb over Kanaval. Today's agenda: visit the children down the hill at the Cambri orphanage, see the mobile clinic that is being set up by the other team there, and then head out to explore as much of the city of Port Salut as we can in a day.</div><div><br /></div><div>The children at this site found our hands before we finished the incline. They know enough English to get through sentence number three, probably due to the guesthouse they live near. One finds me, and then sees my nose ring and finds Dana. I say under my breath, "I understand , my grandpa did the same thing." And then my new friend found me. His name is Toto and he is kind of like a little puppy I suppose. I couldn't get over his name or the way that he repeated sounds that I made in a singing voice. He reminded me so much of my friend Peterson from our first trip that left with his family soon after. It was neat to meet a similar personality. He played with my hair and told me things about the other kids that I couldn't quite translate. We made conversation with the older boys a bit, some in Kreyol, some in Angle, and then after a peek in the clinic, we got out of the way and headed further south.</div><div><br /></div><div>Port Salut was said to be the home of a couple of cultural sites that we wanted to check off for our upcoming Centenary Module. We also had plans to visit another Children's Village to see how their ministry is being run as well as eat lunch on the beach. We parked at the village to see a class happening, which was curious since all schools are out for Mardi Gras this week. We asked the head Mama what was happening, and she said, "Since school is out, I set up a Christian day camp for youth." It's so encouraging to see initiative, and successful initiative at that. And they danced and they sang as we toured the facilities. After about ten minutes there, Kaiti mentioned that this may really be somewhere that the Wesley could make a relationship with and live among this summer. I thought, "This is why we must sometimes trust the change of plans with our flexibility, because we never know what meetings God is setting up." Our last minute added visit could make all the difference for a college team and the people that could become their next Haitian family. </div><div><br /></div><div>We mentioned to the head Mama at the end of our visit that we had seen a sign on the way in near her entrance that read, "Kaskade"...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Wi, li se kat minut am mâché." So we headed on foot toward the hidden Port Salut waterfall. It took a bit more than 4 minutes, and we were followed by teen boys who were 100% making fun of us, but surely it was worth it. As you weave in and out of deep greens on a well trodden dusty path, you begin to hear water hitting from a height that the ocean doesn't make. We could make out the sound of a large number of voices as we came upon the gate where we were charged a quarter each to enter. Whether or not that person who is $2 richer was someone in charge, we'll never be sure. The path down is just as dusty but winds more with man made steps sloping ever so slightly enough to make you wonder if you'll domino this whole caravan before its over. And then you see it. Three separate streams slipping down slick tan rock into a pool of beige water pushing into a juggled stream. On top, a preteen Haitian boy sitting, torso dancing to the chatter below, which happened to be the older orphanage kids who had taken a small outing. We moved to the side of our sandy slope when we saw the herd heading back our way, greeted with thirty different "bonjous," and finished our climb down to the water. Haiti is full of surprises. We tookour pictures and enjoyed the hideaway that we had been blessed with, and started our thigh-exercise back to the top. I've always wanted to see a water fall in Haiti. Check!</div><div><br /></div><div>We left with talk about Kaiti's May team and how our teams can maybe run into each other while we're working this summer. Then we headed to the artisan center in the middle of town, which turned out to be a pretty typical souvenir shop, but it helped us practice our haggling...which I hate to do. Where is Carrie Mercer when you need a painting not to be $30?</div><div><br /></div><div>After getting information for Centenary about a couple of famous artists' houses in the community, we headed to the beach. We've been here many times with our teams, and it is quite nostalgic at this point. Many shells and debriefing conversations have been surfaced here. A proposal has left its trails in that sand and we have toasted to our love for Haiti and our gratitude of God with many a sugar cane coke under those palm leaves. This trip offered no less of an experience as we talked about our questions, our hopes, what we've learned, what we've yet to learn, and good humor to keep it all running. After our meal was paid for, we loaded back up in our off-roading minivan, and headed back to town.</div><div><br /></div><div>Little did we know, so was the entire town. And round two of Kanaval had begun. Which would have made for a very uneventful wait in traffic as we discussed how we help our teams cope with the emotions that inevitably follow trips like these, except for the unmistakable train of black escalades that began pushing our long line of cars to the side. And there was President Martelly, surrounded by too many cars and guns to count, windows down and thumbs up to the crowd. Reminder: never dull, always something to write about.</div><div><br /></div><div>We laughed and told Dr. Ciocchetti that we arranged all of this for his first trip to the Island, then trudged along with the hundreds of other celebrating locals.</div><div><br /></div><div>The night became even more interesting as we found ourselves lost in traffic and on the edge of a side road staring at the floats passing by. <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://2" detectors="true" result="2">Tonight</a> they actually looked more like the decorations we're used to in Louisiana, with their large colors and loud music and soda carts. We laughed about how we had waited 5 hours and walked 6 miles to NOT actually see the parade yesterday, and then viola! This moment was only squelched by the UN vehicle that rolled his window down at us.</div><div><br /></div><div>(UN guy in a French accent) "You are cutting off traffic, you are being disrespectful!" (As he continued to not let us in.)</div><div>(My thoughts) *Doesn't he know where he is? Would he say that to a Haitian?*</div><div>(Dr. Kress in French) "Sir, are you French?"</div><div>(UN rudely) "You are English! You speak English to me. You are being disrespectful!" (Rolls up window and moves forward.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I understand better why the Haitians dislike the UN. Dana said, "Move forward, I'll speak some English to him..." And we laughed and shook our heads at the rudeness and laughed some more. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few more wrong turns and floats after that, our wonderful driver finally found his way back to Cambri, and we clapped and proclaimed the bizarreness of the day and crawled out in wonderment of how we would even begin to share the stories of the day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I have remembered that it is important to trust our flexibility to the interruptions. We never know how God might be trying to love on us. I remembered that one way or another the Holy Spirit will get us to the point where we are fully open for whatever is out in front of us, where we embrace it because the most terrifying place to be is not out of control, but outside of God's will. Today through conversations about teams and trips, I remembered that our emotions should be coupled as equally with our education. We should learn, and gain wisdom and knowledge, then ask God to infuse our emotions into that education. So much harm has been done on the back of distraught and overwhelmed feelings. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I remembered, sitting on this tile with the blue of the single lights glowing into the thickening dark, smelling the burning of a hundred trash piles, hearing the conversations of the leaders and the other teams on all sides as well as the drums of the festivities below in the city...that no man could write the stories that the Creative Almighty chooses to lead us into. We are blessed to play a role. We are blessed to play a role.</div><div><br /></div><div>Expecting to write again tomorrow,</div><div><br /></div><div>Britney</div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-81605370863915932112012-02-22T10:26:00.001-08:002012-02-22T10:26:48.612-08:00Kanaval Nationale<div><br /></div><div>We take our Bibles, journals, other books, whatever we can fit in our bags when we go to church in Haiti, because often it is very early, and often it goes for 3 hours, and often it is all in Creole. This morning's difference was that we were joined by a team that flew in last night from Los Vegas, Chicago, and Florida. With 30 of us "blancs" in church, much of the service was translated, including the message which was done by one of the other team members. I have never been to a church service in Haiti that was not as enthusiastic as it was packed with people. My naivety may be showing through, but it seems that many of the worship styles are fairly similar across denominations. I suppose that goes for the U.S. as well. We're just not as different from that church down the street than we like to think we are:)</div><div><br /></div><div>They wave their hands in the air and turn around in prayer by using their folding chairs as altars, and the small children stare and smile at the foreigners. Today's sermon was on the woman at the well, one of my favorite stories. And Dr. Kress and I were asked to come say a word. This being probably the 5th time this has happened, I tried to be prepared. At least this time I wasn't wearing a skull and cross bones tshirt and size 3x skirt because I had forgotten my Sunday best and "could borrow from one of the neighbors." There I was, with death itself on my shirt thanking the people of God in Haiti for the love they have shown us. Amen, amen. </div><div><br /></div><div>But this morning was lovely, and the music was beautiful. I wanted to bottle up the soloist's voice and bring it back for all to hear. He is from Canada, and you will be hearing from him someday. </div><div><br /></div><div>We didn't have anything scheduled necessarily for the afternoon, and the other team was going back to take naps and sort their medical supplies, so, we thought, "Why not?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's when we headed towards downtown to catch Kanaval Natinonale ( Mardi Gras)! Unfortunately, we had gotten our time frame for the day's festivities from the gate guard, who said, "after noon." Which we took to mean after twelve, after church. We knew that after we got a ride down their, there would be no ride back to Cambri. But we had an El Shaddai employee, David, our walking shoes and our water, so we'd be set for the 5 mile trek home. Little did we know, as we meandered around the faux walls and halls of temporary displays, that after noon meant "afternoon." Time: unspecified. So we asked and we looked and we asked someone who looked like they would know. "The parade starts at 4," he said. Good, it was <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" detectors="true" result="0">1:30</a>. This mishap gave us a wonderful afternoon though, filled with seeing and experience something none of us may ever get to do again: Carnival in Haiti. </div><div><br /></div><div>The risers look much like the ones in South LA, except they are coved in Digicel phone service signs and were still being painted right up to the moment of the parade. The streets were filled with many people of many different statuses, and the masks were huge and goofy and intricate. Except for that one kid wearing the scream mask. That's not homemade , sir. Nor is it quite in the correct Holliday. But who am I to say. One man motioned for me to walk up to his booth of wooden necklaces. "Bonjou," I say. "You are welcome," he says. Now that's a confident salesman.</div><div><br /></div><div>We mingled and took pictures and made friends for a bit. Dr. Kress and Kaiti got interviewed on Haitian News. We watched a caravan of ambulances and what looked like a younger, bluer Shriners pass on scooters. And then about3 hours of walking and waiting later, we decided to walk back and hopefully catch the floats in the float yard on our way out of town. Which we did. Haitian Mardi Gras floats are a bit different than Louisiana as they look like big trucks with cages, many huge speakers, and a few advertisement signs on them. I suppose more than anything, the actual parade is more about the music and the necklaces they throw than the decorations. Some of the trucks were so loaded down with speakers that they are having to pull generators on smaller trailers behind them. </div><div><br /></div><div>We are now 6 miles away on top of a mountain and I can still hear them. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's really an amazing thing to see our culture traced so richly back. It makes me more and more aware of the shoulders we are always standing on. It makes me more and more humbled to remember that we can credit nothing to ourselves. We are made of the spirit of God that is within us, the fibers of choices and risks that have gone before us, and the love and friendship that surrounds us. </div><div><br /></div><div>My feet look tanned, but are actually covered in dirt...so I do believe that a shower (also known as our June-Bug graveyard) is calling my name. Along with another long sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh! But first! I bought a mask today from Kanaval to commemorate the day. It's pink and kind of looks like a possessed house cat. Yay!</div><div><br /></div><div>Britney</div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-44090995014168358922012-02-22T10:24:00.000-08:002012-02-22T10:26:03.265-08:00Frog Juice<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">It sounded, quite frankly, like a small animal was being stabbed every 3 seconds and it started <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" detectors="true" result="0">at 2:30</a> this morning--which was unfortunate, since we had only gotten about 3 hours of sleep the night before heading back to Haiti. Our travels on Friday took a good two hours more than normal since the nation had decided that Carnival Nationale would be held in Les Cayes this year instead of Port au Prince, so every pickup with mattresses, Taptap with tents, and northerner looking for a Carribean float was headed to the southern coast alongside of us. And we thought we were going to miss Mardi Gras in Shreveport...</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Our driver, Dou Dou, explained to us at each traffic jam that he had to exit the vehicle to direct, "You hof to let theem know yuhr chief. You kahnnot quietly say, 'Ehm, plees move.' Weeth Heshens, you must seh, 'Bock up! Bock up! Yurh een tha weh!' Ahnd eet wuhks. They know you ah chief."</div><div><br /></div><div>And they did, and he was, and that's how we made it to Les Cayes by <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" detectors="true" result="1">11:30</a> instead of <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://2" detectors="true" result="2">9:30</a> but not <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://3" detectors="true" result="3">1:30</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>We peeled ourselves from the mini van and stumbled into our rooms at the beautiful Cambri Guesthouse, nestled atop a mountain encircled by more and more rings of mountains. You can see the throbbing glow from the Carnival float yard and the stars are like glitter.</div><div><br /></div><div>This guesthouse is a new one for our teams, and it's inauguration into our travels is part of the reason we are here this week on a scouting trip. The other parts include introducing Kaiti from the Tech Wesley foundation to some different partnerships in the south, meeting with the Bighouse and Darivage pastors to hammer our the details for our summer teams, and solidify plans with the two Professors with us for the Centenary Module Team that will be joining our FUMC Young Adult Team in May to teach classes to the children's homes. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were all pretty excited to see that dinner had been covered and left out for us. So we sat down and enjoyed some rice, red sauce, and ketchup-chicken together. While we enjoyed, Pastor Louis told us much about their efforts as our partners and the church planters for many villages in Haiti. He spoke to us about the orphanages and how his father was the church planter of 365 evangelical churches before he retired. He and his brother followed in his footsteps seeking to care for the holistic church, with all her branches and depth. In that spirit, he began talking about their medical clinic on site and how they seek to heal the body and the mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Our people," he said, "sometimes have a different mind. And we work to get their minds and their diseases well." We asked him to explain further and quickly figured out that he was talking about vodou. Chris ask him, "And how do you do that?" To which, the pastor responded, "We teach the Word." He led us conversationally into a side of Haiti that we have often missed before, for a couple of reasons. One is, we simply didn't know what to look for. The other is, frequently on foreign mission trips, we get so isolated going in between our work site and our guesthouse, or we dont have enough time, that we miss some of the culture. It is important to know the intricate corners of those you have chosen to live among, even if for just a small amount of time. It shows respect. It affirms their wonderful humanity. And ours. And we often learn that it is us who are learning and changing and healing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Louis told us that many, many people come to their clinic after they have tried every Witch Doctor possible and they haven't worked. Vodou is 20% spiritual and 80% mental manipulation, the Christian Haitians believe, and the Witch Doctors are masters at their craft of illusion. He said that when their ministry seeks to build a knew church in a village, they find out where the Witch Doctor lives and build close to him, as to show him the tangible love of Jesus and bring the Good News to that area. Christians are not affected by the 20%, he explained, because our souls are claimed by Christ. So they can move in and share water sources with these "Bokors" (as they are called) and pray against the false teachings. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Have you seen the Witch Doctor's house out beside Bighouse Orphanage?"</div><div>"No, is it close?"</div><div>"Yes! It is two houses before! You have passed it every time you have been out there, which has probably been...?</div><div>"17 times, at least."</div><div>"Yes, you will know it by the two flags that hang by his house. This represents the number of family members he has killed as human sacrifices as to gain their power and become a prominent Witch Doctor. He keeps a rope hanging in the tree at his gate, that is where his spirit lives. His spirit harms those who come uninvited. And beside it is a fire, where he worships. Bighouse was well known for evil of this kind. It was where Papa Doc was raised and he would come back here to do his ceremonies. We tell our people that the curse has been broken. That Jesus came to free them."</div><div><br /></div><div>Sure enough, the next day we passed the Bokor's house and saw his red and blue flags, his fire, and his rope. And I thought, how wonderful it is that the gospel speaks to the teachings and remedies that fall on paranoia and revenge and death. How wonderful that the gospel brings life and freedom and selfless love. If I weren't a believer, in this moment I would say, "The teachings just work well, it is simply a brilliant way to do life, in the truth of how Jesus lived his." Breaking social barriers, healing the poor in spirit and body, alleviating people from their cultural oppression, encouraging people to care for people, claiming that no curse nor system nor another person owns them because they have already been bought. We have been shown the greatest of Ways.</div><div><br /></div><div>The afternoon at Bighouse and Darivage were incredibly productive. We met with each pastor to determine what they would like for us to teach in our 8 days of classes that we will be offering at both villages with Centenary College and FUMC's Young Adult teams this summer. Many of what we expected: art, math, English, French, tool usage, music, etc. What surprised them both was that we want to teach the normal school hours that they will already have (8-1), but then learn from them in the afternoons. So, this summer after our teams work through translators to conduct a rotation of lessons, all 35 of us will be learning Haitian dance, bracelet making, simple Creole, etc. When we expressed that we wanted to learn as much as teach, the pastors said, "We think this is wonderful because a lot of teams come to do something for us, and we have things to show too." It's all pretty exciting. Especially the part where I'll be joining my backwoods lack of rhythm with Caribbean groove. Sure to be the most awful display of movement they've ever seen. I picture one of those wind- men advertisement tall things that blow to and from in front of stores when I think about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>After our visits, the professors really wanted to see any historical old buildings or plantations that our leaders could show us. They had one better. We were able to climb, find, and explore the insides of two French fortresses from the Haitian Revolution. From the last years of the 1700s, their plaques read, but they are not necessarily being preserved. One of them had a network of old tunnels webbing beneath our feet. Which we voted not to peruse due to potential spiders and/or bigger and worse alive or dead things. The towers looked like that one scene in Ever After, with their vine covered bases and crumbling picture-perfect windows. I felt blessed by the adventure. </div><div><br /></div><div>I let my team know that I had big plans to be asleep early, since I had had 2.5 hours the night before, thanks to devil demon frog cricket in the drains. To which, Dr. Kress and Sarah showed me the picture of one of the water-catchers on the roof whose lid had fallen off and was now the new home to multiple tadpoles. "I think we know why." </div><div><br /></div><div>Nice. It wouldn't be a trip to Haiti if I weren't questioning if I was bathing in frog juice water...or killing a hand-sized spider...or wondering if the grilled goat from the street stands still had hair in it. </div><div><br /></div><div>All in all, a beautiful couple of days to begin a scouting trip. The kids are healthy and happy, and learning guitar and a few other English words. The boys that used to be the younger boys three years ago are getting more mature face shapes, which is bitter sweet. And the security wall and clean water building are both finished. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><a href="x-apple-data-detectors://6" detectors="true" result="6">A 7:15</a> bedtime for <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://7" detectors="true" result="7">a 6:15</a> wake up call is beckoning. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Bon Nuit,</div><div><br /></div><div>Britney</div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-30029233403264681702011-07-20T11:44:00.000-07:002011-07-20T13:15:43.207-07:00Justice Roll Down from the Mountain of God<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; ">What is redemptive is that death &injustice aren't willed by God, but that they're repurposed &worked together for good. This is the Gospel.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Our latest trip to Haiti that we returned from a week ago tomorrow was an 11 day journey that was blogged about from on site only twice. Typically, when the events of each day start to wind down at the guesthouse, that's when I'm able to pull out a laptop and recount the storied living that we get to be a part of in Les Cayes. However, after only two days of blogging, life for our team of 16 refused to wind down even a little bit. So a week later, here I am, committing to at least attempting to write out the process of our last 8 days in country. Thank you for your prayers for our attempts to quickly work with the legal and medical systems in Haiti. Thank you for your prayers for Acenita. Thank you for your prayers for our team that got to see a newer, messier, heavier side of missions. Thank you for your prayers for our presence as comforting arms to grieving Bighouse Orphanage after Acenita's funeral. And thank you for your continued prayers as we return to Haiti on Sunday to love on our family there, that is surely still working through their loss. We recognize and love the Lord of Lords for His master story-crafting. We recognize and love the Lord of Lords for not letting us be satisfied with "everything happening for a reason," and for calling us to only being quenched in our thirst for the Kingdom by reminding us that we were called to renew the world; by reminding us that He detests death, fear, sin but still is faithful to work even those to the good of His people; by reminding us that everything is purposed, that we are asked to believe in a culturally relevant, Christ-centered Good News, that when we can do something, we are called to do something. Here's how we've been reminded...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Tuesday afternoon at Bighouse Orphanage, I sat across from Pastor Jean, Frantzou our translator, and Anna Connell (a team member) who was holding the tiny framed, basketball bellied toddler, Acenita. I could hear the organized chaos of VBS being executed by our other 14 team members who were helping lead 75 children in the creating of Moses Beards made out of foam and cotton. An attempt 95% successful only fallen short because of Peter who had glued the cotton straight onto his face. It's always Peter. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I stared back and forth between Acenita falling in and out of sleep in Anna's arms and the pile of cinder blocks drying next to the chapel, thinking about how if those bricks didn't dry properly, their foundation would always be weak. Acenita had surely been sick since birth. But it was clearly getting worse. The Pastor told me how he had exhausted his efforts. How the Port Salut doctor, the Les Cayes Pediatrician, and the Port au Prince specialist had all attempted their tests and diagnoses but no one could get past simply treating the symptoms. Everything was negative, however her spleen was taking up most of her belly which was taking up most of her body. Acenita's stomach was hotter than the rest of her skin and her heart beat was fast though she had done nothing but lay in her metal-framed bed for days. I prodded for as much information that I could. I looked at all the medical records with no understanding of the field. But no one needs text books to know when someone is dying. Surely souls know. And in point two seconds, my mind shifted from, "I hope they get her help" to "Who's going to do that, Britney?" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I whole-heatedly believe that it was the Holy Spirit's deep, deep...do you hear me?...deep...conviction to "Not overlook what you have been entrusted to care for." I knew at that moment that if Acenita passed away and we had not spent ourselves in every way possible in helping her, it would be on my hands. I made a call to our field partners of the orphanage, and told him her situation and asked what the reality of medical visas look like, if we thought that would be necessary depending on her status over the next couple of days. We were given permission to watch her and decide accordingly. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The next day, we went to Bighouse again with the team for another day of VBS and mosquito screen installation. I pushed through the grabbing hands and cheek kisses that were searching for their favorite team member from the day before, and I made my way to Acenita's bunk. I'm not sure I've ever felt so panicked. After feeling her high-fevered stomach and her throat that was vibrating due to the rapid rate of heart beat, I yelled for Sarah, left instructions for the team, and in ten minutes, Anna Connell, a translator, the truck, and a driver were rushing to the hospital. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Acenita hates going to the doctor. She was 5 years and some small number of pounds worth of Diva, and she would let a doctor know what she thought on her energized days. Today was not one of those days. She sat in her little underwear made for babies, heart beat racing, in the young physician's office while he looked over her papers, listened to her chest, and mumbled constantly in a concerned creole conversation that let me know we would have to get her to the states. And sure enough. He committed to writing a letter for our trip to the embassy, but highly encouraged us to do something, as he had nothing for her. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The rest of the day was like a movie, for sure. The rest of the week was like a movie, for sure. We quickly found out that Acenita was without a birth certificate, which we were told wouldn't come in for another month. "I have money, how much for one tomorrow?" I am ashamed for working this type of system. But there was a choice to be made. The next day we had a birth certificate. This was only after we had gotten in to see Junior, the head of Immigration in Les Cayes, whose office we visited after hours at an unmarked building up a back staircase where a florescent light flickered and a broken A.C. blew weak, warm air. "Is this real??"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">With our few, day-consuming stops, we had our list of papers that would need to be collected within the next day and a half to get Acenita approved at the Embassy in Port au Prince for an emergency medical visa. The whole time, the baby growing weaker and more confused. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The next morning, Sarah and the team headed out in prayer for us and mission to accomplish projects while waiting to hear from our endeavors. We probably drove all over the south that day. We went first to get a certificate in a town forever away. Which we did. Check. However, once we returned, we realized it was the wrong certificate, so we would have to go back. But first, we would need to get Acenita's most recent papers. We then met the pastor, his wife, and the child at the General Hospital in town, where she waited in the heat while we waited for her letters and papers. After a wait far too long, Acenita was put in the car with us to cool off in the A.C. The shock of which pulled all of her juice and crackers (which she hadn't been able to keep down for weeks) up and all over my clothes. I felt like I was holding a skeleton, and for the first time, I thought about what it would be like if she passed away in travel with us before we were able to get her to Schumpert in Shreveport. Lord, have mercy. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">6 hours, many bumpy miles with an enlarged spleen, 1 washing in the well to remove vomit, three doctors sites, and 1 visit to Junior later...it was now time to go see Acenita's parents to get their ID cards that approved her leaving for help. I asked how far they lived away. They said "3-4 miles." One day, I'll learn not to ask. A 45 minute drive on ridiculously awful back roads after questioning, we were told, "Now we get out and walk the other half of the way" because the road had come to an end. Good thing I wore my flipflops and it had just rained. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Anna Connell and I became quickly jealous of the Haitian women who glide across the roots and the river beds with total ease. We passed rice fields. Wobbled by neighbors asking "Kikote Zami Cayes??" in search for her family. Then we got to the stream that my shoes weren't going to survive. So I prayed the parasites away, and grabbed them in my hand, and hopped the rocks to the other side, just in time to snag a cactus and keep trekking. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">"Where is their home?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">"Up there?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">*neck strained all the way up a mountain* "Where?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">"There?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Acenita's mother and father (parents to three orphanage children and three children that live with them) are the poorest people I've ever met in my entire life. She sat shaking on the side of her short, 3-sided, dried banana leaf hut, waiting to hear from us that Acenita had passed away. Relieved to hear we were there to get help. She had to have been younger than me. So primitive. So disconnected. So surreal. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The hike back was just as epic, as we were able to see the mountain tops from where we climbed. We now had all the documents we needed to head to the embassy that weekend, aside from one. So we headed back to our first destination to get the corrected document. We drove for an hour in the back of the pick-up, drying off from being wet in the river, now coated with the white dust from the road...just to find out that they were closed and that we would be given no help until Monday. Our first unbudging roadblock. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">That night at the guesthouse was the most intense worship I've ever witnessed as the team poured out on behalf of the sick, on behalf of God's healing power, on behalf of justice, on behalf of guidance and peace, on behalf of leading us in rescue because we were first rescued. We called to the heavens that death had lost its sting and that our God was triumphant. And He is. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">We would then wait, and at 3am Monday morning (two days later) Missy and I would separate from the team for good and head to Port au Prince and then hopefully immediately to Miami then DFW and then Shreveport's Schumpert whose doctors were waiting for Acenita's arrival. Everyone's parent's were notified. We were terrified. And willing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Sunday afternoon Acenita went into the hospital for emergency blood transfusion to help slow her heart. Our translator came to let us know that he was going to go sit at the hospital until the Doctor told him whether or not Acenita would be released to travel by the morning. We waited. We ate supper. We talked about every single detail necessary for my separation from the team. And the team collected all their extra cash to pay for the passport and visa. And we played games and tried to pass the time. And waited. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Frantzou came about 9:30 to let us know that Acenita had passed away. And a bizarre tension of peace and heavy heart ache rested on the team, the pastor and his wife, and our hard-working and compassionate translator. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">We called off all of our plans and made new ones to put all money toward Acenita's funeral which we were asked to attend the day before we left. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">That night, Lomax gave the devotion on the second floor, white-tiled, wrap-around porch. And he talked about eternity. And how the Bible says that this life is like waking up from a dream. And there was peace. And many tears. And a good amount of anger. And peace. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">"In Christ alone, my hope is found, He is my light, my strength, my song, This cornerstone, this solid ground, firm through the fiercest drought and storm, <b>what heights of love, what depths of peace, when fears are stilled, when strivings cease, </b>my comforter, my all in all, here in the love of Christ I'll stand." Surely, Jesus. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Our 15 passenger van got stuck for the first time all trip behind the vehicle carrying the casket on the way to Bighouse Tuesday morning. And I thought about Lomax's devotion, and I thanked God that this too would build the Kingdom, and that we will all be home one day. And I thought about how my Aunt Kathryn's memorial from February went toward building at Bighouse. And how she always loved to hear about my Haiti trips and the children. And how now she is probably holding one. I trust that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">The boys' on the team were shirtless and covered in mud by the time the reached the chapel. The laughter was good for our souls. And helped energize our hearts that drove our arms to hold the 75 grieving children who were lost in their sorrow. But let us love on them. And let us know that they could not wait until we returned. Our sweet family. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">world</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> you will have trouble. But take heart! I have </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">overcome</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">world</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I trust this. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I know, that this too, will be worked for good. That is how <i>other</i> our God is. Even what He hates, that being sin and death, will work together for the building of the Kingdom. So we choose to remember that we were first rescued and then are called to accept the responsibility of rescuing those who cannot do it alone. That we were not called here to simply watch. That the Spirit gives peace just as He gives empowerment to free the broken and heal the wounded. That our work is here and our home is there. That my hope is found in Christ alone, as is my drive and purpose, which is always changing depending on how we are growing and who needs to be loved. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That, currently, looks like praying for and working toward better healthcare with our partners both here and there. Because not loss will be looked over in vein. But will only be recognized, as all things, as a catalyst for restoration. We are greatly for the tiny Diva that welcomed us to bighouse with her little body and big personality three summers ago. We, along with our family in Haiti, will never forget her. And we will accept the fight for freedom in the name of those who have gone before us, and by the power of the name of Jesus. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Continue to stand in agreement with us while we seek the Spirit's discernment for healthcare and what that process looks like. And again, thank you for living the storied living with us. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We fly out again for Haiti, this time with the Youth Team, this Sunday morning. So, more blogs to come. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bondye renmen nou, </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Britney</span></span></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-8990802633412736792011-07-06T13:25:00.000-07:002011-07-06T14:21:15.898-07:00My God is so Big, so Strong and so Mighty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAuv1ZU02PVhQRzAVIalonI6tZcj7n1EZZkJYDun-iu11pmBbOAZClG-wZp-fBTcZbZ3zIhxIviUpdzLfFD3jm5SALCxdOY4Mw8yMQ9goKVT2iPtMIz2tAhPNdm8pSffwy5AP3_Ds_RXw/s1600/Herby-Carrie%2527s+Haiti+Pics2011.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAuv1ZU02PVhQRzAVIalonI6tZcj7n1EZZkJYDun-iu11pmBbOAZClG-wZp-fBTcZbZ3zIhxIviUpdzLfFD3jm5SALCxdOY4Mw8yMQ9goKVT2iPtMIz2tAhPNdm8pSffwy5AP3_Ds_RXw/s320/Herby-Carrie%2527s+Haiti+Pics2011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626350586297710642" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div>There's a big white table that currently accompanies 5 wooden chairs and 10 folding chairs on the second floor wrap-around porch at Hosanna Guesthouse. If you lean on it for too long (like I do when I blog) its paint chips off onto your sun-screen/bug-spray covered arms that are already pretty dirty from a day of play and work at the orphanage. A row of potted plants sit on the the railing in old paint buckets and a broken cushion-swing begs for a team member to journal on its green and white stripes underneath the hanging decorations of plastic flowers. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >It is day 4 of travel and day 2 of site-work in Haiti for the college and young adult team. Trip-goers are scattered about the complex busying themselves with rest, reading, and showering while we wait for Frantzou (our wonderful translator) and Luke to get back here on Frantzou's motobike from purchasing a circular saw from the market. Luke has never looked so tall than he did situating his long legs and video camera behind the smaller Haitian who assured me that "he is under my protection and God's protection, now worries." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Today was a sweet day at Bighouse, as the second days usually are because teams are getting familiarized with the faces and the heat and the routine of our short stay. It's always really rich to see new team members as well as old quickly fall for one specific child. Where when they hold each other, though no one says anything, you can tell the two are soaking in every minute of loving on one another that they can, subconsciously admitting to the fact that lives change lives little by little, if even by long hugs and group sing-alongs. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Half of the team (mostly the guys) spent the morning stripping wood and taking measurements to install all the many mosquito screens into the orphanage windows. Which keep "evil out" we hear. And I suppose in a sense, that's true. However, our battery powered circular saw was overworking and losing power quickly. So the guys finished the measurements, loaded the wood on top of the 15 passenger van, and decided that we would finish building the screens at the guesthouse and bring them to install tomorrow. (Which is why Luke is now at the market.) The other half of the team spent the morning corralling all 75 of the children into "un lin, sivuple!" not two lines, but one, as we brought them into the chapel three at a time to get their updated heights, weights, and pictures. This is always a fun and chaotic and hopeful and chaotic and humorous and chaotic task. It is essential to get all of the children through the process, but sometimes we have wanderers. It is essential to get the children's correct information, but sometimes Louvilia from three years ago who was Dovilia last year is Novilia this year. Welcome to Haiti. This is why it is good to invest in one area deeply, so that we can recognize the child even when her stats shift slightly due to typically unsteady structure.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >The children at Bighouse are still growing, one boy, Charles Fritz Kendy, already at a whopping 106lbs. I swear he's gained 20lbs a year. Just one or two of them seem to have not, but this is more about chronic health problems than unprovided nutrition. We are currently in conversation about how to remedy these chronic health problems for these two--mainly one--children who have already been in and out of doctors offices in Cayes, Port Salut, and Port au Prince now for a few months. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >It was deeply convicting to me today while standing under the pavilion with the translator and Pastor Jean as he told me the details of these doctors appointments. When the updates are in emails, they seem crucial and significant. But when the update is in your arms, it becomes of utmost priority. I'm never quite sure when or if the tears will hit me in Haiti anymore. The trash doesn't shock me. The dirty feet don't appall me. The torn clothes and thin mattresses at the orphan dorms don't paralyze me to ineffectiveness as they once did. But today, standing under the pavilion with the translator and Pastor Jean as he told me the details of these doctors appointments...I felt the conviction of the Holy Spirit of my responsibility as a go-between. As a voice. As a witness to sickness and a witness to good medicine. We are introduced to health and wealth and introduced to poverty and sickness for one reason and one reason only, and that is to answer when called to fill the gap. Not take over. Not "Americanize" the world. Not assume that we are fix-alls. But as far as it depends on me, and on us, if we know of a sick child and know of someone who knows of good doctors (whether in Haiti or overseas), or know of someone who could fund the medicine...then it is the calling coupled with our salvation that commissions us to stand in the gap. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >A 6 year old with tiny arms and beautiful cornrows shyly scooted up to me today with her vbs craft in hand. When I picked her up, she whispered something into my ear that I couldn't understand. "Kisa?" I said. And she repeated. When I asked the translator to do what he does best, he said, "She says, 'Please keep holding me.'"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I thought about how many times my soul cries out like that to God. "Please keep holding me. Please don't let me down. I'm not sure about a lot of things, but I know that this feels safe, and right. Please keep holding me." And I held onto that baby girl in the back of the chapel where the team was leading the 74 other children in Creole and English verses of "My God is So Big So Strong and So Mighty, There's Nothing My God Cannot Do." And I thought about how the children's songs are sometimes the most relevant. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sweet Peter (the often crying and consistently intense 6 year old) then came up to me with his foam Moses beard craft in his hand, but cotton stuffing glued onto his own face. I wish I could say that I was the compassionate caregiver who then took him to the well to wash it off. But, alas, I took him around to all the team members to show off his newly developed white beard. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Speaking of weird bugs. Our translator ushered a very, very, very, very large spider out of the classroom we were eating lunch in today. This was of course prior to him punching a wood bee away from the ladies and then dropping down to the ground to complete his share of the push-up-competition that some of the boys have made a daily routine for after our mid-day-meal. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >We finished the day with Nilla Wafers in a round circle and answered "Wi!" to the children's questions of whether or not we would be back tomorrow. Then Anna Connell did what she does best and rounded up the team for another adventurous mudding experience in our lumber-topped-white van. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Now we wait to finish screens, take cold showers, and play another tense game of BS and Spoons on this long, paint-chipped white porch table before dinner and devotion time. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >We ask you to help us stand in the gap in prayer for the sick, in gratefulness for the healthy, and in seeking for those who can meet needs. Trusting that we have been introduced to all three for a beautiful purpose. Awareness, hope, and restoration. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mesi Anpil, from the team in Les Cayes, Haiti:)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Britney</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-69368906081978205192011-07-05T13:20:00.000-07:002011-07-05T14:20:42.623-07:00We're kind of in love....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIzRj5W6-AMxtVl-968r5fgQAIM9Z_fgK_6VjfoAghkV5mlOAABDhCxi8fwn5tmNUrSpMgUh5VGawsmr1hDD8ag7TRvrFVlhkTS3upSmtxg1MQsuDe3xfr536Mz8dOQ6YcNM7xT4TE2u8/s1600/Haiti-Carrie2011.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIzRj5W6-AMxtVl-968r5fgQAIM9Z_fgK_6VjfoAghkV5mlOAABDhCxi8fwn5tmNUrSpMgUh5VGawsmr1hDD8ag7TRvrFVlhkTS3upSmtxg1MQsuDe3xfr536Mz8dOQ6YcNM7xT4TE2u8/s320/Haiti-Carrie2011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625981125121859650" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div>We set aside two days for travel at the first of this college and young adult trip, since it was a 12 day venture and we wanted to ease into it. So instead of making the 4am-10pm all-day-trek from Shreveport to Les Cayes, Haiti, we stayed the night in Miami after church on Sunday and flew out yesterday morning about 6:45. That put us in Port au Prince around 8:30, which would have normally put us in Cayes around 1:30 after a good 5hour bus ride to the south. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Normally. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">At the packing party last Saturday before we left, we talked about how wonderful the trips can be, especially when we let ourselves be ok with the phrases "Haitian Time" and "flexibility." We just didn't know we were going to get a chance to practice that upon immediate arrival into the country. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We had gone over the drill multiple times prior to getting to customs in Port au Prince. We would collect all 17 of the bags that have yellow duct tape on them. Put them on three carts. Surround those three carts, and respond with the typical and typically not useful "no mesi, we can carry them" to the many many red hatted "workers" assisting you for a tip. So our team made up of half former members and half first timers did a magnificent job lugging our loads down the newly finished and definitely more efficient walkways at the airport. The concrete path and the overhead roof made for a much easier transition to find our driver than the potholes directly outside of baggage claim used to. And there we were, hard part over, sitting on our bags, looking for a sign that said "Britney" or "FUMC Shreveport."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No where to be found. We had gotten by with only giving out $3 in tips to a guy who took our cart and were eager to throw our bags on the Hosanna Guesthouse bus and hit the road before we received any further assistance. And after a call to the Hosanna pastor, Sarah confirmed that he would "be there really quickly, he had just gotten into Port au Prince."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So, that meant another hour of waiting as it takes an hour to get through the city once you've reached its boarders. But we were good. We had witnessed Justin running to a sweet French Nun's rescue after she fell while loading her team and got to visit with her workers from Belgium who were there for rebuilding. And we were chilling on top of our bags, visiting with Francois, our newest helper, who was "keeping a look out for our van and driver..."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Eez thees your bus?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No, thankyou though...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Wot about thees one?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No, it won't be here for another hour...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Oh, I think thees is your bus"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Nope. Not our bus. Thank you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Thees one?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Yes....yes! That's our bus...Thank God, that's our bus!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"K, how much you geev me?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We loaded our luggage and people into the 15 passenger van and pickup and headed for the southern coast. The drive was of course gorgeous, especially now in Haiti's rainy season when all of the red flowered trees are blooming. Our van windows cracked just enough to miss most of the side-road-stand's smoke but catch a cool summer breeze throughout the back seats. And then, about 2.5hours into the drive, we pulled onto the side of the road to "check the brakes." And there we stayed for the next hour-hour and a half waiting on brake maintenance (which happened completely and securely, mommas). Lucky for us, there was a family selling cold sodas in bottles that let us pay with US dollars, and we got to know some of the locals in Petit Guave. Missy decided to start a game of "I'd plank that...in Haiti" (where you lay flat on any surface you can find and take a picture). She fell off the bumper of the bus attempting plank #2, and swore that before the trip is over, we will have taught the orphans how to plank. Lomax also drew some mazes on paper for the neighborhood kiddos to figure out. And Anna, Sarah, and Carrie received their first proposal for the trip from a young gentleman that thought they were "very magnificent." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No complaints. A little bit of sun. Our first round of sugar-cane-coca cola. And a few good attempts at Creole conversation, and we were back on the road for the last 2.5hours. Which we slept through. Until we heard from the back, "Everybody now!" as Missy joined the Haitian radio station in leading us in a rousing round of "I'm proud to be an American" and we all died out laughing at the randomness of the Haitian rap station's choice to celebrate the holiday. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We got to the Hosanna Guesthouse in Cayes around 5:15pm last night. Settled into our rooms. Ate a wonderful supper of black rice, goat, and coconut muffins. Then unpacked and organized supplies, had debriefing/devotion time, and showered and were asleep before 10:30. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This morning, our first timers enjoyed their breakfast initiation of eggs with hotdogs, potatoes, and carrots, right before we left for Bighouse orphanage. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The drive through the muddy backroads to Bighouse was amazing. And by amazing, I mean, just like a roller coaster. And our driver was a beast. He wasn't playing with getting stuck. We were going to make it through "by the power of Jezi!" dedgummit! The few of us in the backseats got the best show for sure, as we off roaded in our 15passenger. Then we arrived at Bighouse...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">...where everybody is family:) Each person was swept away by ten little hands as soon as their feet stepped out of the van. And the kids were so happy. So very happy. We all hugged and squeezed and called out names to show that we remember each other and that we were hoping that a reunion like this was surely to come again. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We gave a rundown of the day with the kids, letting them know they'd be sized for new shoes this morning and that VBS would start in the afternoon. To which they applauded, then Obnese (a 13 yr old orphan) prayed for our team and that God would bless our time together. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I love hearing a language that I don't understand call out to a God who hears them all. It makes me think that He is what connects us. And it makes me trust that that is why we are here. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We sized for crocs. Which, showed us that we brought PLENTY of medium sized pairs, but not near enough smaller children or larger children pairs. So if you're reading this, and you're wondering if there's a specific need that you can give to, I'm planning on bringing little crocs and big crocs down on our next trip in three weeks. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Then we broke for lunch and reconvened with some VBS story telling of Joseph and his faithfulness, game-playing, bracelet making, and dancing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Our wood and circular saw that didn't get to make it out due to the large amount of rain that muddied up the roads earlier this morning, finally got delivered about 3pm just in time to store for tomorrow's mosquito screen installation. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We said our goodbyes. Anna Connell rounded up the "blans" and we loaded up in the truck, after of course playing round 4 of "locate Lomax"...as he tends to wander off. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We're now back at the guesthouse showering, reading, resting. Enjoying the lovely, open, tiled second floor, wrap-around porch. And waiting for dinner. And maybe a round or two of cards on the porch before devotion/debrief. Tomorrow we've got the story of Moses, height/weight/picture updates, and mosquito screen installation. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We are focusing on gratitude while we're here. Knowing that it is very tempting during week-two week trips to different worlds to be all-consumed by <i>what to do or what to feel</i>. Instead, we are praying that God will stay us in gratitude. Of you who helped us get here. Of you who are praying. Of the Good News that empowers and equips us. Of the Kingdom that begs to be built. Of the God who knows all languages. Of goat meat. And car breakdowns. That give us stories to laugh about and share. Of the babies and that they're growing. And that they love to dance and remember our names. That they are learning to pray and that they pray for you and me and each other. Knowing that gratitude will put us in a place where God can then lead us to what to do or feel in His own way and timing. That gratitude will free us to embrace a fuller life, a fuller trip, a fuller experience with relationships than anything else chosen. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Keep Haiti in your prayers. Pray for leadership that is solid and transformative. Pray that the dumpsters (that we saw for the first time) continue to multiply around the country's city along with other types of things that point toward progress, cleanliness, education, and sustainability. Pray that our hope is built on nothing less than the promise of Jesus. And like Joseph, who believed throughout years of not seeing, we will partner with the Haitians in our belief that restorative things are happening and there is a greater future than even we could have imagined for the country. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Thanks for coming with us:) We'll be here until the 13th, so check back!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Britney</span></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-32294947878946651422011-04-28T11:09:00.000-07:002011-04-28T11:17:24.761-07:00Jacky the Cat, Robin Williams, and a Moto-Bike<span style="font-family: courier new;"><br />I not only rode my first Moto-bike in Haiti today…I learned to drive one!!! (On a low traffic, side-beach-street, with small amounts of potholes and distractions, Mom.) It was exhilarating, and after a few good jolts and a nice solid wobble to find my balance, Frantzou (our translator) and I were off. Slowly at first, then second gear, and *gasp* up to third gear even! And I laughed out loud and told Frantzou how funny it must look to see an American girl taxi-ing a Haitian man around Les Cayes. He said, “I will tell them, ‘She knows what she’s doing!’” And I said, “And I will shout back, ‘I am pretending!’” And we laughed as I avoided dips in the road that were unnecessary to avoid just before I got a glimpse of the main road and quickly inquired, “How do I stop?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">It’s a lovely day in Les Cayes. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">This morning I woke up at 6:30, watched the curtains blow around the sun rays until about 7 when I got out of bed to get ready for our 7:30 breakfast--pancakes and mangoes. I was introduced to the guesthouse kitty, whose name I expected to sound very foreign, but turned out to be “Jacky.” We talked about the different ministries that the Pastor and his wife here at Hosanna Guesthouse have been a part of growing over the last 40 years. They are visionaries who know their smallness and recognize the reality of God’s provision. Their ministry, Bethanie Missions, was a dream when they started, they said. Now, it has turned into a denomination that supports 65 congregations, two guesthouses, a school, a clinic, and an orphanage in Haiti. They said that Bethanie runs on faith. And that when God wants them to build, they build. And when God wants them to wait, they wait. When the money is there, they expand, and if it is not, they pray, and continue fasting to see where God takes their adventure next. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The wife of the Methodist Superintendent of Les Cayes said yesterday, “How can we preach the God of the good news to people who cannot eat? That is why we do both. We feed them and we tell them about the greatness of God.” I think that’s the most beautiful thing about the name Bethanie Missions…it is active in its caring for people. And that is a natural response of a God who is not booming over us as in the voice of a disappointed boss…but in the voice a Savior who has asked to help carry the load and take us somewhere that makes sense. Who asks us to yoke up to something lighter than lies and more freeing than selfishness or loneliness. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The Pastor and his wife at Hosanna asked to take us up to the place that they wish to establish a clinic, just outside of the Anniversary Arch. We bumbled over a broken, rocky dirt road that winded through a mountain, and came out at a very large, empty, concrete facility. The couple has a vision of turning it into a Christian hospital that cares about life. They are disappointed with the state of the hospital and clinics in Les Cayes and want to be about offering something different that heals people’s bodies and speaks to their souls. We walked around what used to be classrooms as the Pastor painted a picture of the ER and waiting rooms and examination spaces that would one day be there, when God leads people to support it. And I could see a time when I trek back up that mountain side and walk in a place with painted walls and enhanced quality of life for many. Then they took us back past the car and up a hill. And as we peaked the top of that mound and leveled out onto a small grassy area, I realized that I was looking down over all of Les Cayes. Downtown, the villages, the sea and the side Island in the distance. It was that one place you keep in the back of your mind when you travel but you can never fully explain what you want to see or how you’d even get there…but once you’re there, you know. And all I could think about was, can I go higher? I can’t wait to take our summer teams back there to see the city and pray for the hospital and the ministry and healing that will happen on that land. We drove out back toward the city, catching a glimpse of one of the Catholic schools named after a Saint whose picture painted on the side of the building strangely resembles an American Robin Williams, Hu pointed out. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Coming back to the guesthouse, I went to the upstairs porch to plunk out some chords of Jesus Loves the Little Children (as I’ve been volunteered to play that and tell a Bible story at the Children’s Chapel in the morning, haha). And just as I started, I was summoned downstairs because I had a visitor. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Mama Lis! Maxo’s wife who used to work at the other guesthouse, who took us in as her children while we were in Haiti. She speaks as little English as I do Creole, but her presence, affection, and expressions speak deeply enough to reinstate that we belong to her and she belongs to us. It was as if somewhere in our souls something recognizes itself in each other. We attempted the small talk that any four year old could accomplish, then let her know that we would come and visit her and the children with a translator tomorrow. And she filled a bag with some of Madam Franchette’s peanuts to make Mamba a, and left with a wave and a big white smile. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Of course, after that, was the Moto-bike lesson. And as I rode around on the back of the kelly-green cycle, passing through more of Cayes than I’ve ever seen before, wondering (as always) about it’s multiple paradoxes of feeling comfortable as well as unnerving, feeling dirty as well as gorgeous, feeling like home and like anything but home…I thought about my driving attempt and my earlier conversation with Lis. And I said to Frantzou, “If I get better at driving this thing and knew the language fluently, there’d be no stopping the possibilities!” And he laughed and said, “You move here?” And I said, “Oh no, maybe when I’m old. We can all be old and in Haiti together. But when I come now, I think I would be much more effective and have many more relationships if I could communicate and could get around your country.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Which makes sense, I suppose, since we’re all following the life of a divine guy who had the same mentality. That if He could communicate in the way we communicate and travel on the grounds we live on, His ministry would be effective and relational to a greater degree than any god ever followed before. He would be able to speak with the people, meet them in their element, and show them He loved them in a way they could understand. In hopes that they would yoke up with His lighter load and envision, surely live into, a freer, fuller, less fearful, more connected life. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Hu asked if I was going to get a moto-bike when I get back to the states. I said, “No, because there I’d have to wear a helmet and I have TERRIBLE helmet hair.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Which is true. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">This afternoon we’re going to visit Darivaje Orphan Village to check on the children there as well as meet with the pastor to discuss projects for the summer. Tomorrow is Children’s Chapel, back to Bighouse to pick up some painted beads and say goodbye to the children, another visit with Virginia and Lis, then a tour of some of Bethanie’s ministries, and packing for home:)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Denmen, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Moto-Bike-Britney </span>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-70849996105726250132011-04-27T16:33:00.000-07:002011-04-27T16:35:20.359-07:00Gratitude: A reason to Sweep the Streets<span style="font-family: courier new;">I didn’t realize that it had been half a year since I had last been in Haiti until someone in the airport asked me, “Sava byen?” and my response was a stuttered attempt that eventually turned into a nod and a smile. Do I still know how to do this?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">As with all trips, this one snuck up on me, but the descent into Port au Prince always brings to reality where I am and what I’m doing. The shift in altitude recognized by my stomach lets me know that it’s time to lift the covering to my window-seat view hole right as the nose of the plane crosses over the edge of the Caribbean island’s port side. I can tell where the sand piles up in the ocean because of the lighter turquoise as if someone with really big hands was playing in it. I can see the folds of treeless mountains turn on top of each other as they poor down into the concrete shacks, scattered here and there at first, but then immediately multiplied as the plane gets closer to the runway. And I thought, “This feels strangely foreign.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The past 6 months were a perfectly timed sabbatical from my work in Haiti, as it turned out to be very important to be in the US during the last valiant stretch of my Aunt Kathryn’s beautiful life. As the country’s presidential election (and all the riots that came with the runoffs) kept our congregation and teams cautious about reentering between November and March, I was thankful to not have to choose to travel. I remember the two weeks before we were supposed to head out on our February Sunday School trip when I just could not get a peace about leaving North Louisiana. I prayed and prayed and asked God to either settle my mind or reveal a strong enough reason to cancel our travels. I got neither, but canceled anyway and eventually felt as if the decision were “right.” And my sweet Aunt Kathryn left this world for the next on the day that we would have been traveling back to Shreveport. I’m very thankful to have been home. Someone’s timing is better than my own. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">She would be glad to know that we are back in Haiti though. And I thought about her as we flew in, thinking to myself, “How different life circumstances were the last time I was here. Life is so strange.” We were greeted by the welcome band (who all have matching red shirts now, fancy fancy), and headed outside to meet our driver. A little disappointed that Jackson the one-armed bag guy was not there to offer a hand to his “Amehreecan Friend!”, we left for our hour drive of winding through Port au Prince and the extra 4 hours to the south. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">We stopped at a supermarket to stretch and rub out that soar spot in the middle of my back that comes with sitting in the middle seat of a small SUV for long enough to lose feeling in your farthest right toes. Asked to use the bathroom, was graciously shown one upstairs, and washed my hands in a bucket before we headed out again. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Arrived at the Hosanna Guesthouse just in time to eat dinner, shower, and attempt to fall asleep before 9:30. However, my mind couldn’t stop thinking about everything and nothing all at the same time. A thousand worries. A thousand fears. A thousand things that I could think to be sad about if I tried hard enough. I had forgotten my computer and my international phone decided to stop working for this trip, so I had nothing to distract myself with as I laid in a blue-lit room on top of my sheets and watched the fan blow the ribbon on the wall decoration back and forth. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">And then I thought, “Maybe I’ll pray.” And I pictured Jesus sitting on the side of the opposite bed waiting on me to talk to Him. And I got a pain in my chest and shook the idea out of my head so quickly that it scared me. “Why are you so afraid to pray?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">“It’s too hard.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">“What’s too hard?”</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">“Working through everything I’d have to work through to talk to you.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">“Do we have to do that all in one sitting? We could just talk…?”</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">“…I don’t know….”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">And then I thought about the excerpt I’d read in Donald Miller’s “Searching for God Knows What” on the plane ride from Ft. Lauderdale earlier yesterday that said, “Some would say formulas are how we interact with God, that going through motions and jumping through hoops are how a person acts out his spirituality. This method of interaction, however, seems odd to me, because if I want to hang out with my friend Tuck, I don’t stomp my foot three times, turn around, and say his name over and over like a mantra, lighting candles and getting myself in a certain mood. I just call him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">And so I decided not to have to have all of the answers to life and death’s questions hashed out. I decided not to even have to have the questions themselves. I decided not to have to have a perfectly articulated, hour-long repentance for all of the ways I’ve missed the mark recently. And I decided not to have to be in a pleasant, compassionate, peace-filled mood, even in Haiti, to pray. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I didn’t even say much at first. I don’t even think it was a “greeting.” It would have been more like acknowledging someone was in the room by means of a head nod and eye contact. And this is what I immediately realized through what I’m positive was the Holy Spirit. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Gratitude. A focus on how you’re grateful and to whom you are grateful…instead of your fears, your skepticism, your complaints…changes everything. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The Haitian people on the road to Les Cayes were sweeping their trash as we drove past. Many smiled and a significant number (at least enough to be noticed) were generating a new spirit as they pushed their carts and sold their hats. The country is excited about having a president that the country voted for. They are excited that he is putting a call out to all overseas Haitians to contribute $2 a week to the rebuilding of their own country. They are excited that their voice is supporting a man who is claiming to relocate people and eradicate the massive amounts of post-quake tents; who is claiming to want to work toward free education in a country where 80% of the schools are private and more expensive for most families. Granted, I take no political stance on the outcome of the election, nor do I predict how the country will look in 5 years. But I do notice a difference in a country at peace for the first time in a long time. I do notice a difference in the motivation, attitudes, and conversation of a people who are grateful. Encouraged and grateful. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">So, last night, when Jesus was sitting on the bed on the opposite side of the room and told me that I didn’t have to have it all together to talk with Him…and then told me that I’d be less scared and more encouraged if I focused on gratefulness rather than fear, busyness, overwhelming to-do-lists, or loss of loved ones….when He reminded me of Donald Miller’s excerpt and the Haitian lady sweeping the street…I fell asleep thankful. And at peace. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The world is terrifying and corrupt and sorrow-filled if that is all we allow it to be. But it is also freeing and rejuvenating and beautiful when we fight to remember what is good. I am thankful that I get to work in a place where the people remind me that we belong to each other and that God is with us. I am thankful that there is food on my table both here and in the US and that, hopefully, it is sustaining a body that is working toward putting food on tables that do not have it. I am thankful for vision of a Kingdom that is growing, and that God is weaving lives together to dream new dreams and move forward as the church is called to. And I am thankful that the Spirit reminds us that He provides and that we are commanded not to fear. I am thankful for music. And that I can carry an open Bible with me where I go. I am thankful for my family, and for 23 years of knowing Kathryn Lamb Lee. I am thankful for the ability to create, and learn, and love with people. I am thankful that I can feel wind, I can see words to write them, and that God is patient with me. I am thankful that He’s not looming over me with the statement, “Do more! Be better!” but is simply drawing me into a conversation, encouraging me to focus on what is higher, and assuring me that everything else will follow as a natural response. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Haiti, you sweet country…you teach me so much. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">We wrapped up the day at Bighouse, checking in on the kids and discussing projects for the three summer teams. Mackendy has seemingly shot up 4 inches, and Bertony wore a floppy white bucket hat that covered his face as he introduced me to the orphanage’s newest resident, Mikenson, who likes to tickle. And as they went through the names of anyone who has ever been on a trip, inquiring about who would be back this summer, a little face planted itself into the back of my knee ever so gently and I turned around to see Son Son who had brought me a rock (at least, that was the outcome after I asked him to please not throw it at Peter…who surely would have reacted intensely). We hugged and took “Photo Photo!” and Judelain asked how my mother was in a deeper voice than I thought he was ever going to have and Acenita jumped in my arms just in time for me to realize she (again) had not put on underwear and we looked at bracelets they had made and they asked for bracelets I was wearing and I was grateful. Grateful for ever having met these little people. Grateful for it to be relationships we are able to foster and maintain. Grateful that God loves us enough to let us do life together and learn from each other. And grateful that the story is just in its beginning. </span>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-56319362646718808792010-10-25T16:17:00.000-07:002010-10-25T19:29:41.811-07:00This was our Monday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIvPBn2GyDzcnv2xTD_YH8HCQyFzJNYmCCQoYZnB0OG7h7XQB_hJwL5IoZckSZ_0iF8DIQvhShpeWSzrAsTK-jrb-hvFOz1iIAcC8rW8dsBXGNNkYt3gLrJYnlt03wqC-NikL0eotYKsd/s1600/41055_520205761956_63500098_30770704_4421558_n.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIvPBn2GyDzcnv2xTD_YH8HCQyFzJNYmCCQoYZnB0OG7h7XQB_hJwL5IoZckSZ_0iF8DIQvhShpeWSzrAsTK-jrb-hvFOz1iIAcC8rW8dsBXGNNkYt3gLrJYnlt03wqC-NikL0eotYKsd/s320/41055_520205761956_63500098_30770704_4421558_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532176294148242994" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div><br /></div>The sound of the small hand bell ringing from downstairs. It's 8:04 and Danyis is letting us know that breakfast is ready. Grab the water bottle and a green tea packet, update our @fumchaiti twitter account about the day's plans for our scouting team, and carefully trot down the tiled, unevenly measured pink stairs. It's oatmeal, yesss. Some days it's eggs with hotdogs for breakfast. In past trips we've had spaghetti with hotdogs for breakfast. Today, it's oatmeal. They make it with half-and-half and cinnamon here, glory glory. There are only three of us instead of the usual fifteen per team, so we can fill our bottles up half-way with ice and still have plenty. Sarah Marsalis-Luginbill and I dropped a dollop of homemade spicy </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">mamba a</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> (peanut butter) in the middle of ours and watched it swirl around in the heat. Fresh juice from the trees behind the guesthouse sits in a pitcher beside the white thermos of cinnamony hot chocolate which sits beside another white thermos of Haitian coffee (either, a smart choice). Pray together that our food helps equip our bodies to be tools to help liberate and provide for those without food, as we're more reminded of their number while here. And </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">nou manje </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">(we eat).</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Get our backpacks with our US dollars, our Haitian goud, our phones, our water, our hand sanitizer, our cameras and notebooks, and get ready to head out with the driver for our morning at the market. Go back upstairs and wait for the vehicle to get fixed. Get ready to head out once again. This driver has a no-nonsense policy with our Creole skills. We will speak Creole and if we don't understand his, he will just repeat it louder, no problem. And louder once more, what's wrong with you people. But no complaints...this is how you learn a language, by not having your own enabled. First stop, the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Supermarchet</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> for Haitian Coffee and sugar cane coka cola to bring back to a lucky few. Weave in, weave out of scooters, tap taps, and second-hand vehicles. Needing the windows down for the breeze to aid the ever-growing stickiness in the car, but catching all the black exhaust from the 20 drivers surrounding your own </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">machine </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">at the one stop light in town. Second stop, Pharmaci. We need malaria pills, he gives us eye drops. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Non, non</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, malaria pills. Not enough at that one. So two pharmacies later, we roll our windows all the way down as to be able to stick our hands far enough back to open the door from the outside, look both ways as to find the perfect .3 seconds to get out without getting mauled by traffic. Determine that there may never be a perfect .3 seconds to, so you open the door with confidence and speed. A guy on a scooter honks at you, but that's ok because he also winks at you. You've done something bad and something good, apparently. Two boxes of malaria pills, please. That'll be $3.50 US. Mental note: never, ever buy malaria pills in the states again. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Third stop, church book store. These three please. 750 goud a piece or total? The driver tells me again, and louder. So 750 total? No, no, I can't pay $20 US per book (not walkin' all over this </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">blanc</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">). Oh, oh ok, $20 total. I gotcha. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Pardon mwen,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I was confused, but luckily the fourth time you repeated it louder, I finally understood. My apologies. Mental note: never, ever skip another Creole Class when you get home. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Fourth stop, Project Espwa. The acre beyond acre of inspirational orphan care. It is a village founded by a Catholic Priest and funded by a nonprofit called Free the Kids. Over 600 kids live there, mostly boys as the "girls are more useful for restaveks (slaves), so the boys get left on the streets." The compound reflects its name (Project Hope) as it cultivates an atmosphere of respect and possibility for the children it is raising. We're given a tour where we're shown the place where they make over 3,000 meals a day for orphans, community students, and staff. Then they show us the new dorms and dining area that are being built with new construction methods where metal is built along with the concrete making it much cooler than normal Haitian structures on the inside. A clinic is there, offering services at very little fees to the community. And children are in their uniforms in classrooms with maps on the walls. When they turn 16 they are asked to decide what they want to do when they "graduate" from the place, then Project Espwa puts them on a track to become more trained and educated to accomplish their goals. They have wood shops, craft training, metal work, and higher education tracks that have led some of their students to medschool. The children and the workers (some who are children that have graduated and been hired back into the system) walk around the place with a type of pride that is healthy for humanity. One that rests in an identity that says, "I can. And I am." Make </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">this </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">the contagion, Lord. We can all learn from this type of orphan care. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Coast back into the guesthouse driveway for lunch. Then an after-lunch nap. We head upstairs to our beds that have open windows at their heads and lasko fans at their feet that go on and off depending on the city's power and the generator's attitude at the time. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Wake up and stretch, turning a sweated-upon pillow on its other side and pulling our sticky knees apart to drop my feet back to the floor and put my toms back on. Let's go for a walk and see what we find. Sarah, Hu and I grabbed our backpacks again and stuffed our phones into the most inside of their pockets because grey clouds are laughing at our excursion. We laugh back and open the gate. We go left and through the anniversary arch and down a rock path, thinking the whole time, "It's really unfortunate that I have to watch my every step, because this scenery is beautiful." And, "I would pay an arm and a leg to go back for one day to see the Island and its indigenous people before Columbus got here." Lush rainforest infested with the appropriated animals of that climate. Little glimpses of what the land was and could be if cared for are everywhere (sounds like a broken Kingdom that throbs with resurrection). We found a goat on a tomb, a room of people singing "Lord I Lift Your Name on High" in English, and two little sisters who couldn't stop laughing at us. An infectious laugh that we recorded on Hu's phone as his ringtone now. Can't have a bad day if that kind of joy is calling you. Back to the highway. Down another side road. Too many puddles. Back to the highway. Down the road that leads to the American University. Don't the Maxos live down here now?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The Maxos were the family that once worked for the guesthouse where we stay, and I was afraid of how long it would be until I would get to see their faces again. The cook had mentioned that they were down the road (at least, that's what I thought she said). Walk, talk, think "please be outside, kids...", walk, talk, walk, look, talk, look, look. "BRITNEY!!!!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Where'd that come from?....."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A tiny, round face slowly peaks over the balcony. "ANGAEL!!!! Ki kote ou mama!?!?! (Where's your momma??)" She disappears and then reemerges with her sister and Mama Lis who give us no time to say hi before they pull us into the gate, down the side path, and up the back stairs into their upstairs home. We hug and hug and get the tour and keep pretty decent half creole/half english conversation and sit in white lawn chairs around a plastic flower arrangement in their den while she tells me about life and is patient as I watch and think about her words slowly to recognize them. Her kids are all in school. Her husband, Maxo, is driving some for the Methodist guesthouse in Port au Prince. He comes home tomorrow for a few days. I comment on how much beautiful space she has, and she drags us into her room to show me how big it is and to tell me that she and the kids all sleep there when Maxo is gone, but when he's home, the kids are out and in their own rooms. And then we laughed and laughed. I mentioned something about her wonderful peanut butter and barely got it out of my mouth before she sent Liznael to get three freshly ground jars. But when she found out Mama Virginia was in Haiti and at the guesthouse, she said, "When you come back with Mama Virginia, I will give them to you:)!" Smart lady. So, we are going back with Mrs. Virginia (who runs the guesthouse) Wednesday. She showed us the kitchen, the kids rooms, the bathroom. All concrete and with no lights on, but spotless. Then she showed us a back room where she proudly said was "Mama Virginia's!" And that we could sleep there too if we ever needed it!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">God's people make room for God's people as God made room for God's people. It is not charity when it is family. It is not family when there are "us and them." It cannot be "us and them" when love is the root and Jesus is the Lord...the final say of all decisions, the shifter of the selfish, the challenger to the comfortable, and the reminder that there is more (and more outside of me) and that it's good to listen and jump and laugh and give. If life is not full and done alongside one another, it is not how it was meant to be. Liberate us, Great Offerer of extra rooms. :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">She took us up the last set of stairs to the roof where we all five stood and watched the sun setting over Les Cayes. A chicken coup and laundry lines make the rooftop perfect and I tell her that this is where I'd like my room, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">sivuple</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">. I think I've found my favorite spot in Les Cayes, second to under the mango tree at Bighouse. We hugged and kissed-cheeks goodbye as it started pouring outside (you win, weather). Mama Lis gave us umbrellas and told us we could bring them back when we came Wednesday. Some more security ensuring we'd come again. How could we not:) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Carefully navigate the rocks to the main road, then through the gate, and up the guesthouse stairs to change for dinner and take our soppy shoes off. Eat chicken with the magic sauce, dreaming about a vat of it with a ladle and promising audibly that I'd drink the whole thing. Then shower/online-story-reliving, finishing this blog just in time to see my mom's public facebook request for me to get on skype. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Sitting on my striped sheets by the lasko fan, feeling solid in my soul for this moment thinking about family here, family there, the thrill and challenge of thinking creatively and efficiently for the sake of the orphan, Shreveport, Haiti, and the God who loves all and gives all. Whose hospitality is radical, who gives another option when life is neither full nor done together, and whose kingdom peaks through in the moments when we <i>know</i>, suggesting a glorious and purposeful order to what once was, and the hope and possibility of what can be. There is a reason Jesus went backwards from death to life...to show us that nothing has to stay buried. Even hope on an island of deforestation, fallen buildings, and rampantly spreading Cholera. The empty tomb is the audacious declaration by the only God to the oppressed country, the single mother, the addict, the criminal, the starving, the businessman, the wanderer in transition, and the person who seems to have it all together but is truly tired. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><i>But this country can't catch a break</i>....The tomb is empty.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><i>But I've tried everything</i>....There's a bigger truth here. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><i>There is no hope. There is no option</i>.....There was a man who died, and he is no longer dead, not even now, and his public victory over the final, final word is the reason why this statement is no longer valid. Take your words to someone who is content with accepting the stone as the deal sealer. I want to be among the crowd that remembers, in all challenges and transitions, in all losses and world-shaking-catastrophes, these words...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;">"He is not here...He has risen..."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Take us somewhere wonderful with each other for the sake of each other. Give us hope that makes a bigger family, that changes the world. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And thanks for today:)</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Tomorrow we go to Dasmas for November-Trip construction project planning. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Bon Nuit!</span></div></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-49322652084892719922010-10-23T13:16:00.001-07:002010-10-23T14:17:31.688-07:00Nakedness and Learning your Language<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5grbAQI6l4Eiai3JFuupzlsgBLjae3ApITavkdII-hxJEr6E6dfXnwX_qn0CD8KmGOCKhUuQBZXxS6Lrh_b7jJP4gF3d4b7fqpPbElIlZDFLdFk9dEHKGEE4zodx9-Xtwtww0Qe4Xv6Q/s1600/40790_520185522516_63500098_30770048_4180205_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5grbAQI6l4Eiai3JFuupzlsgBLjae3ApITavkdII-hxJEr6E6dfXnwX_qn0CD8KmGOCKhUuQBZXxS6Lrh_b7jJP4gF3d4b7fqpPbElIlZDFLdFk9dEHKGEE4zodx9-Xtwtww0Qe4Xv6Q/s320/40790_520185522516_63500098_30770048_4180205_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531353574696190642" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>Today was the one day this trip that we visited Darivaje and Bighouse Orphan Villages to drop off some medical boxes, a soccer ball or two, and to meet with the pastors to discuss what supplies and projects are priority needs right now. It seems to be the more difficult visits when you are there for scouting and discussion for just a few hours and can't say, "Na we demen!" (I'll see you tomorrow!) to the 77 faces half-excited because you came, half-bummed because you're leaving for another couple of months. But because God is continuing to grow this story with Haiti throughout North LA plus some, we're able to give many solid dates of when a number of teams will be visiting throughout the next year. I tried to tell Pastor Jean, "Thank you for letting us drop in today" and he laughed a very hardy laugh in my face and said, "This is your home!" As if to say, "Why do you need permission to come home?!" Glory, glory, what a sweet life. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Before we left Bighouse today, we were standing in a mob of children in the dorm area (where they EACH have a new metal bed courtesy of our sponsors through Global Orphan Project!!! no longer sleeping 3 to a mattress horizontally). I was telling them about their sponsors and how each one of them is paired with someone in the states who loves them and prays for them and helps provide for their food and medicine and schooling every month. I told them that if they ever wanted to draw their sponsors or any past team members a picture, then we could get them on one of our trips and take them back. As I said this, Jean Renald smiled his huge, gorgeous smile and pushed through the crowd to hand me a picture he had made. "For you!" he said. At the top it read, "We love you!" And underneath it there was a picture of a large, half naked baby. I take this to mean, "We love you, big baby." No? Is that not right?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Obnese of course handed me something to bring back to Kaci as he asked where Nicole was. Anna C and Anna M's song was still being sung. Makendy didn't lose his tough-guy-I'm-getting-older-I-don't-hug-anymore facade until I told him that </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Missy di li renmen ou</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">! And everyone was SO stoked at both Darivaje and Bighouse that "Justeen" would be back in November to flip in the air with them some more. There was not a summer team member not asked about. Actually, they went through the list of every person I've ever traveled to Haiti with plus some Kansas folk that I haven't. How humbling is it to be so special to a group of people that they voice how much their home is not the same without you by asking repeatedly, "Kile yap vini?" (When will they come back?). I've committed most of you to March, July, or August....whoops.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Darivaje's well has been paid for through Global Orphan and the man was coming to check out the land today to get that ball rolling. No more barrel trips into town several times a day for water. A list of supplies is being made by both pastors and will be given to us this week so that we can plug people in for what school supplies, medical supplies, clothing supplies, etc are needed. It is safe to say, as cholera continues to infect so many throughout the country, medical supplies and more water filters are a definite. If you know of a group, a church, an individual, a business that would want to ask the question, "What can we collect?" tell them to contact me. We're in the business of making connections to fill and refill cabinets for the sake of Haiti's children as she grows. Hit me up:)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We accidently walked through a larger, older Haitian lady's bathing quarters today. She just laughed, and bathed, and laughed, and waved. It was slightly awkward but mostly joyful. (?) Hahaha, she just laughed and laughed. I felt rude for ignoring and I felt rude for waving. What a predicament. What a very naked predicament. Welcome to Haiti, Sarah M.L.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Do you know what it feels like to leave your heart somewhere and walk away from it? It's like taffy being pulled apart. It's 8 goodbyes and 3 hugs a piece and 11 looks back until you make yourself break away and focus on the muddy path in front of you. I love Bighouse. I pull those kids to me and breathe in the 4 second hugs and think how they feel so much like a part of my biological family that what feels foreign is the distance. Can we move Haiti and Shreveport closer, please? Thanks. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It may be the language barrier (though my creole is growing they say! thanks, Dr. Kress!). It may be the limited time. Or it may just be how life goes when you love someone, are grateful for someone, are proud of someone and could watch someone do life so much that it feels impossible to express it. (My parents are such characters). But in the hesitation of "Ok, I've said goodbye and now I actually have to make myself leave" this afternoon, I kept thinking how incapable I feel of accurately conveying how deeply I love these kids. How I want to, just for a little while, become one of them in all of their language and being just to have any better of a chance to show them more of how full and rooted and hopeful my love, our love, is for them. And then, again, I felt God through my thoughts say, "That's what I did... :)" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"I learned your language and spent time with you that you might know how full and rooted and hopeful and deep and transforming and specific and wild my love is for you." A bizarre and perfect and truthful and unexpected teaching.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Samuel (one of the orphans) met us as we were leaving the gate and passed me a tiny, torn sheet of paper that he had written on in Creole. It said, "On behalf of the children at Bighouse, we are very grateful that you spent the day with us!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I see the Kingdom. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">-Britney</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-44433032185087483042010-10-22T18:31:00.000-07:002010-10-22T19:38:45.583-07:00Veil<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEs-n4PwAHj9nkvrjSr8GHGJWMwC6iiKk-OCU49J2Dap8CdStJiucFjt9BQJE5vpPaYqrnuVyzKQ0jynopZmVMKclecFf0MCQgfBiRW8Gypf9WRrduX6kChfV6P0soqekTHnk4c-FsEGtr/s1600/40166_520188751046_63500098_30770154_1812837_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEs-n4PwAHj9nkvrjSr8GHGJWMwC6iiKk-OCU49J2Dap8CdStJiucFjt9BQJE5vpPaYqrnuVyzKQ0jynopZmVMKclecFf0MCQgfBiRW8Gypf9WRrduX6kChfV6P0soqekTHnk4c-FsEGtr/s320/40166_520188751046_63500098_30770154_1812837_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531063522513104850" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> marks Haiti Trip #8 for me, #1 for Sarah M.L. from Grace Community, and #God Only Knows for Hu Debo...those of us making up the three-person-scouting team in Les Cayes this week. We left Shreveport Regional yesterday morning making the Dallas connection to Miami where we stayed overnight and boarded for Port au Prince at 5:50 this morning. I say it every time, but really and truly these trips sneak up on me (Not planning-wise, mentality-wise...ok, maybe personal planning-wise too. My roommates will vouch, I'm usually begging for a vocalized check-off list 5-min before we leave for the airport.). Regardless, it never feels like reality until we hit the PAP tarmac. Surely the words of Jim Elliot (whose story that I read in the 9th grade might explain a lot) ring true as the state of mind that I usually find myself in, "Wherever you are be all there; live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God." Surely, a richness to be present. Surely, sometimes an unsettled mind to be caught off guard with every new event. Maybe this helps us trust God though. Maybe with spontaneity of thought and resting within the now, we can find ourselves paying less dues to the past and sacrificing fewer anxieties to the future. Potential result? Maybe company in the here and now with the Lord of the people and His people. Maybe joy. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Grace Community's young adult group surprised us at security check at the airport to pray with us before we left. It's been a couple of trips since it hasn't felt routine and that a moment of community within the mission was fresh and connected. It was beautiful. It was a gift. I mean this more than I have in a long time: there are few things more powerful than when we go to God together. Nothing more binding. Nothing more freeing. Nothing more relational. And to think that even that is amplified when we go to God together on behalf of a bigger picture, a larger healing, a wider-spread commission, a resurrecting piece of the world, something bigger than we are. I don't know that I'm ever offended when someone says, "Can I pray for you? Right now?" Therefore, why would I even listen to a whisper that suggests that the same inquiry from my mouth would be offensive in the slightest? Our world, and communities, and siblings, and best friends, and Haiti need us to have audacity enough to grab each other by the hand and go to God. This feels right, right? Thank you for praying. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today was really just a big 8 hour drive in the back seat of a four-door pickup. My tale bone no longer exists, don't ask me about it, it's not really something I want to talk about. ;) But seriously, it's gone. We ended up driving east to Croix des Bouquets to buy some metal art, then back through the city and north to get the car looked at (a two hour journey for a 2 second "OK"...but se la vi, would rather double check a vehicle in Haiti any day than not), then the 5...6..hour drive down to Cayes, past the anniversary arch and on into home sweet guesthouse. We got out of the car and Hu said, "Well. We made it without hitting anything"...just as the driver pulled up and got his tire stuck on a parked car in the drive-way. Eh...</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">nou </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">pale</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> too soon?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today on the drive something really significant happened. Other than me falling to sleep sitting in the middle with my feet in the dash, head in a blowup neck-pillow, mouth wide open with gum drying on tongue (heh). I can't exactly explain this, so stay with me. Today a veil lifted between me and a Haitian woman who was sitting on the street in one of the market places in Port au Prince while we drove though the city. She was, for a moment, demystified and therefore less distant. She wasn't a victim, a photograph, or a survivor from the kind of place overseas that one could place in romantically foreign or tragic stories. She was a neighbor. She was human. She was normal and in her day to day. She was there, and I was in a car, and we were in the same world at the same time. She probably has gossiped before, or has a crazy sister-in-law, or has one outfit that is so much her favorite that she'd wear it everyday if she could. She probably has a distinct laugh, and a food preference, and pet peeves. Sure, she probably has a past, and deep wounds, and big questions for God... no doubt. But this coming back thing is etching away (I hope) a glassed-over "these people" perception of this country. Their livelihood is no longer my parade to watch. Something very liberating happened today. And as we drove off and I attempted to recover and wrap my mind around what had just taken place, I thought, "Hm. So if someone imbeds themselves long enough in a peoples' life, getting to know their humanness, their spirits, and their realities...a veil eventually lifts putting us all in the same place, lessening the distance between us, and giving us greater room for understanding and relationship and therefore greater room for healing." And then I thought, "Oh my God. That's what Jesus did." I can't fully explain this, and I apologize for that. But it was a solid, bewildering, and glorious 20 seconds. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." -2Cor3:16-18</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Tomorrow, we are going to see the kids at Darivaje and Bighouse...!!!!!!!!!!! Ahhhh, those hugs, those hugs, those smiles, those hugs!!! We are all big brothers and sisters now. Tomorrow, I check on family:)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We'll be in country for the next six days and blogging all the while! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Oh. A few last things. We ate Haitian pumpkin soup tonight, mine and Sarah's first time. It was amazing. I saw four guys peeing on buildings today, two of them saw me (a very awkward exchange of glances). Cholera is spreading rampantly throughout the country apparently now, please be in prayer for the halting of disease. And elections are coming up, so we got to drive through a "manifestation" today being held in promotion of a candidate. There were trombones, which I thought were pretty appropriate. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Wanting you, me, and Haiti to take each other by the hand and go to God together...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Bon Nuit </span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-79456312188609608302010-10-06T08:43:00.001-07:002010-10-06T09:01:48.896-07:00Trip Calendar for the Next Year<span style="font-family:arial;">I'm currently in the middle of working with a website designer who is creating a site for First Methodist's local and global missions. Meaning, there will soon be a hub for all of the information concerning our partnership in Haiti (blogs, picture archives, trip calendar, team prep, ministry information, donation lists, etc). </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Until then, I'm putting the trip calendar up for the next year here on the blogspot so that you all can get an idea of what we're offering and when is a better time for you to plug in. Check out the opportunities and if you or someone you know is interested, email me at </span><a href="mailto:britneywinn@gmail.com"><span style="font-family:arial;">britneywinn@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">. I'd love for you to come to Haiti with us!</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">October 2010-October 2011 Haiti Trip Calendar</span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-October Scouting Trip</strong> (Full, Church Staff Only)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-November Construction Trip</strong> (Full, with Grace Community's Young Adult group)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-December Youth Trip</strong> (Open, for 11th/12th grade FUMC youth, contact Rhonda Mallory at the church if interested, 424-7771)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-February Project Trip </strong>(Open)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-March College/Young Adult Spring Break Trip, March 28th-April2 </strong>(Open)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-April Medical Trip</strong> (Open)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-May Module with Centenary College</strong> (Open to Centenary students through the college only)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-June Summer Trip </strong>(Open)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-July Summer Trip </strong>(Open)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>-October 2011 Medical Trip </strong>(Open)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It cost around $1700 to go with one of our teams, and this covers all of your expenses. We will take a $300 downpayment 3months before departure. You need HepA and HepB shots as well as malaria medication, and it sometimes takes a month to get your passport in if you don't have one already. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Again, shoot me an email if you're interested or if you have an further questions!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><em>-Britney Winn</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">FUMC Haiti Initiative</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Church #: 318.424.7772 Etx: 147</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><a href="mailto:britneywinn@gmail.com">britneywinn@gmail.com</a></span>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-27470364157667657222010-08-04T14:42:00.000-07:002010-08-04T16:05:55.856-07:00Mwen Fanmi...My Family<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMV4k6GlHleIuFPiyd0VpApH1g-yWs-mDLLECbfPgufKZYOJraTx3vGIi5t8DzWPMf7ILf1CNfoIW0nU_3TZHpxQ2NZet27vHFZBVk4-mRT4katJElDW4u0Px_SSV3_UOC-ZtiM7ci0t53/s1600/haiti+pageA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMV4k6GlHleIuFPiyd0VpApH1g-yWs-mDLLECbfPgufKZYOJraTx3vGIi5t8DzWPMf7ILf1CNfoIW0nU_3TZHpxQ2NZet27vHFZBVk4-mRT4katJElDW4u0Px_SSV3_UOC-ZtiM7ci0t53/s320/haiti+pageA.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501692599364111026" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Conversation carried by a translator, of course:)...<div><br /></div><div>Me (as we're leaving Darivaje for the last time this trip): "Pastor, my entire team has felt so welcomed at Darivaje. Thank you for letting us visit, beginning this partnership with us, and allowing us to start a relationship with your ministry and these children..."</div><div><br /></div><div>The Pastor: "I am so, so very happy that you and your team have come. Darivaje is now your home, and I have told the children that they are no longer orphans. They have a momma and a daddy with me and my wife and this staff, and they have a family with you and your people. Whenever you are in Haiti, Darivaje's doors are open wide to you..." </div><div><br /></div><div>"But he lifted the needy out of their affliction and increased their families like flocks. The upright see and rejoice, but all the wicked shut their mouths. Whoever is wise, let him heed these things, and consider the great love of the Lord." -Isaiah 107:41-43</div><div><br /></div><div>If you are reading this...if you have had any input in prayer, in conversation, in questions...if you have given by your presence, by your wallet, by the sharing of the stories...if you have been to Haiti...if your heart has been tuned to the people of this country by the lives of others, by the quake 6 months ago, by a child you sponsor... if your world has been made smaller and your family bigger...this next part is for you. I'd like to tell you about some of the little brothers and sisters that live behind the doors that are "open wide to you" in Haiti at both Bighouse and Darivaje, where our partnership has increased as abundantly as the love and resources that accompany it. It is amazing to think that there is never a question or hesitation as to whether the Spirit is going to provide a limitless supply of love in our souls, energy in our days, and money and ideas in our banks and minds for the sake of the poor. For the sake of these...</div><div><br /></div><div>Judalain is 16 and is the oldest, maybe the sweetest, child at Bighouse orphanage. His english skills are growing "ampil, ampil!" and he starts school again down the road in September. Judalain, in all of his thoughtfulness, told Dr. Kress last week that when teams come, he sits back and lets all the babies get the attention, because he wants them to be held and loved and doesn't want to get in the way. He has had a hernia now for as long as he can remember, and recently it has become unbearably large, to where many days he is unable to eat. With the extra money that was raised at the "Restore" event that we had before we left, Carrie, Michael, and Nic were able to take Judalain for an examination, then to have lab work done, and then secured his surgery for August 18th. So many treatable sufferings continue for such unnecessarily long amounts of time because of lack of resources. And the lack of resources continue for such unnecessarily long amounts of time because we don't know those in need, we don't know where or how to use our money. I am convinced that people are generally good and want to fight against poverty...they just don't know the names and faces of those who need to be fought for. That is what we want to do. Introduce you. Introduce ourselves. And then pray that it is impossible for things to stay the same. Because hernia surgery's in Haiti aren't that expensive:)</div><div><br /></div><div>John Wesley is a small-framed boy with a snaggle toothed smile out at Darivaje Orphanage. When we first heard his name, we all died out laughing, and someone said, "Our conference is going to loooove you!" He wears flooding, khaki slacks every day to compliment his short sleeved button down shirt...looking like a tiny pastor walking around the village. His smile is both curious and shy. He doesn't know what to think of us yet, but I'm pretty sure we're winning him over. Next trip for sure. </div><div><br /></div><div>Obnese, Jean Renald, and Chryslain look like they'd be nothing but trouble at Bighouse, but they are every bit of the leaders we need to execute any sort of structured day on site. They herd the little ones, pick them up when they fall, help re-strap crocs and balance plates of food. They know where the trash goes, where the scissors live, how to get everyone to be quiet and listen or to leave the paint brushes alone. They are the "bosses," the leaders. And I pray so hard for their lives. I see their potential. I want such wonderful things for them. How do I say, "I'm so proud of you" in Creole? Because that is all I'm thinking while I'm there. And that is all I want them to hear every day from here on out. I pray someone is telling them. And that it will make the difference. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ron is a community child at Darivaje. He doesn't live at the orphanage, but his brother does. I'm unsure of his family situation, but I know his living arrangements are clearly different than his sibling's, evident by the large spots of infected scalp mange that we found on his head this afternoon. This is one of the hardest things for me to look at and deal with. I am not thrown off by a lot, but it takes everything in me to stick around for moments like this. But Justin Kirkes, medkit in hand, stepped up and took charge...throwing on rubber gloves, letting the child know it was about to burn, then quickly going through at least 12 alcohol swabs scrubbing the lime green pain away from the bumps that are causing it. The child took it without flinching. These kids are a different breed here. Their determination to press on, their tolerance for hurt, speaks largely of the human will to survive. That we could help each other do it. That we could carry the load. Surely there are fewer statements more powerful than, "I know how you feel" and "Let me help you." There is a doctor's appointment for that child already paid for on Friday to get it taken care of. But I just keep thinking about what would/could have happened to that child if there weren't people there with simple medicine to bring a halt to the spreading. And how many more of the Ron's are there in our world? </div><div><br /></div><div>Stephanie is one of the older girls at Bighouse. She is too old to be held, but still young enough to probably wish to be held...making for a very awkward stage, indeed. She is quiet, but will sneak attack your hand without you even knowing it. Before you even realize what's happened, Stephanie has been interdigitating with you for five minutes, just content to be sitting against the concrete wall under the mango tree. She is the definition of enjoying the presence of company. She is the definition of the simplicity of being present. She is easy to overlook and quiet, but completely unforgettable. And she never, ever fails to remember anyone's name. </div><div><br /></div><div>Peter is the most intense person I think I have ever met. He is the one we call "the walking bo-bo" as he is always hurt. Or at least, is always wanting you to think he is hurt. Peter cries intensely. Peter laughs intensely. Peter walks like he owns the place, and your place for that matter. He grabs our paint brushes and says, "M'travay!" (I work!) and struts off like, "don't doubt I won't finish this chapel by myself." He waits until everyone is off of the soccer field and screams, "M'jwe!" (I play!) as he barrels onto the concrete and kicks the ball square into his own face. His nose is always curled up to his forehead and his eyes are always crinkled and you are going to know that you have come to Peter's house before you leave the place. Peter is the character that you write stories around...every story needs a Peter. He makes you laugh, confuses you, and gives you something to talk about later. He lives life in a way that makes a mark, that leaves an impression. In some odd way...in a way that not necessarily means I want to scream my way on to a soccer field or hurt myself every five minutes....I kind of want to live like Peter. All there. Crazy kid. </div><div><br /></div><div>Laurenza has grown from a baby to a toddler at Bighouse, seemingly, in just a year. Maybe it's the food she's getting. Maybe it's the personality she's getting. But I held her long enough for a picture today before she jumped down and ran off to see what all the other kids were looking at (which just happened to be a game of "how many people can we pile on Justin Ansley's back"...the answer being, Justin Kirkes and 4 orphans). But watching her run off today like a little girl and not a baby made me think about the bitter-sweet joy that is laced around the entirety of this relationship we have with these kids in Haiti. We are getting to be a part of their <i>growing </i>lives...and maybe one day we can replay these stories with them...when they're older...when we've watched the years, the food, the medicine, the trips, the country, the education, the church shape them. Maybe we can sit down with them, with a stack of pictures, and say, "Let me tell you about how cute/intense/sweet/funny you were when you were five..." Just like any other big brother or sister, mother or father would....just like family. </div><div><br /></div><div>So thank you for being a part of this ever increasing family. We are grateful to God for the inspiration, the invitation, the creativity, the resources, the web of believers who stand in the depths of compassion for the loathing of injustice in the foolish and beautiful belief of a better world. Thank you for making your world smaller, this family and the kingdom bigger, and continuing to pray, re-imagine, and dive in with how you connect. </div><div><br /></div><div>The world is changing. At least here. In small ways. Which are surely the big ways. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow we have our last morning at Bighouse for our big summer trip, complete with the long-awaited bandana-hand-out and a sharing of the cookies/bubbles/chalk kind of day:) Then we head to Port Salut beach with the August team to wrap up, then back this way to pack for home. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the sake of a larger family, </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you...Mesi, Mesi</div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-72381813202914709522010-08-03T15:19:00.000-07:002010-08-03T15:52:37.818-07:00Brown-Bag Fashion Show<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX846ck5FJmcHSg_90gdEU_eYmcJsHL65PVlqw3gdevVMkloTQ5pkzhqXr6c_6nWUWz2qfoGtkin3j9w_Xp9CKzwbpcAMpIXK6uYiFf7q5qmNxRRiNFSjYnz3sNFcC3jx9inIc-G0pkY0U/s1600/5889_513108794336_63500098_30554295_6945528_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX846ck5FJmcHSg_90gdEU_eYmcJsHL65PVlqw3gdevVMkloTQ5pkzhqXr6c_6nWUWz2qfoGtkin3j9w_Xp9CKzwbpcAMpIXK6uYiFf7q5qmNxRRiNFSjYnz3sNFcC3jx9inIc-G0pkY0U/s320/5889_513108794336_63500098_30554295_6945528_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501319072136762578" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>It's a little draining to be typing right now, as I've been fighting a solid battle with the first symptoms of a decent head cold since about 1am last night. Sarah is doing the same, so she, Tim, and I came back to the Guesthouse after lunch today, missed the afternoon at Darivaje, and slept. Still super drained, throat not burning as bad, nap was appreciated and surely did something positive...but alas, this blog has the potential to be very short. More tomorrow. <div><br /></div><div>Debriefing/devotion time on the roof with the August team was sweet last night, as Tim (with only a 30 second warning) was asked to share with us. And he offered us a message that has been growing in his life for a while about community, and the power that we have when we are together in the name of Christ to bring joy, and full life, and restoration. It was beautiful. </div><div><br /></div><div>Went down and made a collective effort to cut front slits, head and arm holes into 122 paper bags for the VBS story today. Which were donated by Piggly Wiggly in sweet Haynesville, LA. Which soon became (after a little bit of messy paint) a "coat of many colors," just like in the story of Joseph, for ever child at the orphanage. Can you picture it?? Eighty children waddling around with oversized, painted brown-paper-bags on them....laughing, painting each other, confused as to how to get their arms in them, showing off how they put their name with flames on the back... If you're thinking that it was probably the cutest thing in the entire world, you'd definitely be right. It was in fact the cutest thing in the entire world. </div><div><br /></div><div>And while half of our team did crowd control with all the little bagged Josephs...the other half sawed boards and assembled new desks for the new classrooms at Bighouse that were built in April, that last week's team finished painting. Construction is never easy in Haiti. The tools are borrowed, the donkeys bring in the concrete mixture, the rocks are carried by hand, and it can be best described as primitive. Thankfully, we had a group of guys that knew what they were doing, headed up by Mr. Bryan, and much was accomplished. And surely much more will be tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>While the building continued, and the paper-bags got hot and began to be shed, Michael, Nic, and I made the first official Croc drop in one of the back rooms. We organized them into three piles in the room beside the outside kitchen, and had the kids line up, coming in one by one to get sized for their new shoes. You should have seen the smiles and the dancing that took place as soon as the old worn pair was tossed and the new Crocs were sported out, only to be shown off to those less fortunate to be at the end of the line. A pair of pink Crocs have never looked so bright and new as they did at the end of Benji's old and dusty outfit, worn and torn by many months of play in the orphanage's playground. And her little body walked a little straighter with a little more energy as she buried her head in the side of our legs, grateful to feel pretty today. </div><div><br /></div><div>Every child and orphanage "mama" passed through with a new pair in hand, (except for a handful of little-feet that we have to attend to tomorrow). Then we ate lunch (beside a rather large spider, that the boys in our team just couldn't leave alone), and headed for Darivaje. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the way there was when the three of us were dropped off at the guesthouse, so I have missed much of the story from the afternoon. (Ughhh, I loathe being sick). But I hear it went very well. Cassie (with the August team) said that they are "so welcoming there." Which is the very best way to describe Darivaje. They sang songs, played games, and told round two of the story of Joseph, complete with the brown-bag-fashion show. The pastor and his wife, as sweet as they can be, rode into town just to check on those of us who have felt a little off today, and said that they pray we will feel better and that they will see us at Darivaje tomorrow:) So sweet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Cabrit Dinner tonight (le goat), and organizing supplies for our last day of VBS, the Croc drop for Darivaje, more desk assembling, and the clothes drop for both orphanages tomorrow. Michael and Carrie leave with a translator, Pastor Jean, and Judalain leave at 6am in the morning for Port Salut to have Judalain's lab work done for his hernia surgery. </div><div><br /></div><div>Grateful for your prayers for our team, our health, these children, Judalainls surgery, and our last 3 days in Haiti!</div><div><br /></div><div>Mesi ampil, ampil, ampil, </div><div><br /></div><div>B</div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-37719826216352556592010-08-02T14:08:00.000-07:002010-08-02T14:19:53.699-07:00Because We Love Haiti<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgElUfwXfp9vhbFedaJaj5PcT7oPjJ2Yldj38qVLwEH_nb_DJ-ZC-yuqwm7lfwVpdRHwpE7ZzX0MNE2aRS9ikDMGNeoCdtTvVrgxi_HK1AvOkFq42kzLtz8LgRHfpYULRdGyt76OH6ntftF/s1600/39084_10150238589580422_800740421_13810928_3314630_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgElUfwXfp9vhbFedaJaj5PcT7oPjJ2Yldj38qVLwEH_nb_DJ-ZC-yuqwm7lfwVpdRHwpE7ZzX0MNE2aRS9ikDMGNeoCdtTvVrgxi_HK1AvOkFq42kzLtz8LgRHfpYULRdGyt76OH6ntftF/s320/39084_10150238589580422_800740421_13810928_3314630_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500925271513408082" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The past couple of days have been packed with activity for us in Haiti. If big-moments are those that you take a photograph of with your mind and hope that you’ll recollect it often in the days ahead, then we definitely had a big-moment-weekend. We left early for Bighouse on Saturday to finish painting the classrooms and to give the six July-only team members one last morning to play with the kids and say goodbye. I can vouch for them and for this next team that will do the same this coming Thursday…knowing that when you leave there are not as many people to hold them when they fall, knowing that when you leave there will not be as many activities taking place or older “siblings” to play with or heads of hair to run their hands through, knowing that when you leave they will remember your name as much as you remember theirs and you will both be waiting until the time when you will see each other in Haiti again….saying goodbye is a terribly difficult thing to do at Bighouse orphanage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is near impossible to get back into the bed of the pickup, and not be able to say “Demen” (tomorrow!), without planning your next trip down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’ve said it once, and I hold to it completely…this place is contagious.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We loaded up and headed back to the guesthouse for a quick lunch and a change of clothes, then got back into the vehicles for the drive to Port Salut beach. Of course, we listened to the wrong person who listened to the wrong person who said that the car we were renting was the one sitting across the street. So I led, ya know, ten people into climbing into the back of some stranger’s pickup and we just sat there waiting on our driver who just stood there wondering why in the world there were ten white people packed like sardines in the back of his pickup with their swimsuits on. Luckily, our guesthouse leader (who had rented us the other vehicle…that hadn’t arrived yet) caught us in time and yelled, “Whose car is that???!” And I yelled, “Um….well if you don’t know, then I’m sure I don’t know….(whispered) Hey guys, I think we should get out of the car…get out of the car.” Then our correct vehicle pulled up, we apologized to the driver who thought he was going to luck out on an American tip for the afternoon, and headed for the mountains.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>The drive to Port Salut is indescribable in the most sincere since of the term. On the days when the sun is not masked by rain clouds, the Island lights up as we dip low and then climb back high across an hour’s drive to the southern coast. It is breathtaking. You can see the teal Caribbean sea when it makes a surprise appearance every now and then around a corner, right before it’s hidden again by another set of mountains beyond mountains beyond mountains that are covered with random crops and tiny huts that leave you wondering how in the world anyone got over there. The roads get better the closer you get to Port Salut, as many UN people live out that way, and the smell of sea water announces our arrival.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We went and put our orders in at the beach-side restaurant for dinner…some got chicken or fish…some got grilled conk or lobster (which just happens to be the same price as chicken, conveniently, and is one of the best meals I’ve had). Then we went and played in the water that is best described as cloudy, walked the beach and found shells and muscles, and played Frisbee with some locals. We finished out the evening eating our meals on wooden tables in the sand, singing to the guitar as the sun set, and driving through dark mountain roads back to the guesthouse.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We had our last devotion/debriefing time on the roof as thunder clouds demanded our attention and surrounded the house, eventually accompanied by lightning so bright and loud it would light up the entire outside and then have us jumping high and screaming. We moved our closing under the roof veranda and spoke over the storm as we cried and laughed and said our goodbyes to the July-only team. Then we played in the rain as we were still in our swimsuits.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Sarah, Michael, and I woke up at 5 the next morning with the July group, had breakfast with them, then climbed into the charter bus to take them on the 4 hour drive back to the airport. Saw them through security, gave hugs, and crossed our fingers hoping that Port au Prince airport would allow us to sit inside for the next 4hours as we waiting on the next team of 7 to arrive. They said no. They said no and asked us to leave. So we did. And we sat outside on the curb and ate our PB&J sandwiches in the heat and wondered what we were going to do on that curb for 3.5 more hours as we took the last sips of our water.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>So. We called a driver named Daniel who I’ve ridden with before and trust and asked him to take us to the Global Orphan Project’s Orphan Transition Village, 20minutes north, where I led a group to and stayed the past two times I was in Haiti. And he did, and it was such an exciting and unexpected surprise. We sat in their main office with Tate, a GO Project staff, and his wife, shared their fruit cups, filled up our water bottles, talked about Bighouse and Darivaje (the two orphan villages that we sponsor through them), used the bathroom, hugged the children, then left to pick up the team.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Jackson, the one armed bag guy, helped us get the team’s luggage on top of our charter bus, and we made the trek back out to Cayes. As we arrived 4hours later at the guesthouse, we got word that the July team had made it home safely in Shreveport, gave the August team the rundown for the week, ate a late supper, took late showers, had a few late conversations, then got some much needed rest.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Woke up for another full day of painting (this time the church) and playing at Bighouse today. The older boys greeted Missy with bracelets they had made her with her name on it. Maegan finally found Merothide who had definitely grown since the last time she held her. Justin Ansley, who tries to act big and bad, melted when he immediately was covered with 4 kids hanging everywhere possible, tugging at his piercings. The minute we arrived, Nic Sorensen was weighted down with both Tony twins. And Jason (my little brother, mwen ti frer), Cassie, and Tim were welcomed without hesitation into the Bighouse family as kids wrapped their arms around their necks and asked their names.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>All day long we’ve answered the questions of, “Kikote Nicole? Kikote Zahk… Eleezabith… Dehna? Kikote Gront… Mehree Lahenn?” And we told them they were in the United States, and that they love them and will pray for them, and that they will be back.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>As we all will. Because they will be waiting. Because they won’t forget. Because we keep this thing going like an actual relationship… ever growing, ever added to. Because we love Haiti.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Going to get a coke and play cards and relive the day with the group,</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Britney</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh. Ps. Tim rode a donkey today. Livin' the dream. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-76596983414788420942010-07-30T14:23:00.000-07:002010-07-30T15:03:58.766-07:00surely the day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLAPD1-AiEs97DiJLeNN61lLJU_FqwmAmvT5mZ7TuRSXRW3F07s-dokfzFugbBb7GgG1JXYnElLjeQUq3BMW0clZZeyabDUaV6jAe_8dPZyU79h4RNUqiLFB6i1e7hWm0xgQ7Wov8TOf1/s1600/15863_515146216326_63500761_30619216_2456482_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLAPD1-AiEs97DiJLeNN61lLJU_FqwmAmvT5mZ7TuRSXRW3F07s-dokfzFugbBb7GgG1JXYnElLjeQUq3BMW0clZZeyabDUaV6jAe_8dPZyU79h4RNUqiLFB6i1e7hWm0xgQ7Wov8TOf1/s320/15863_515146216326_63500761_30619216_2456482_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499821407809615186" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>I wish I could paint an accurate picture for you of our day at Darivaje Orphanage. I assure you it won't be accurate, but I'd love to take you there as best I can...<div><br /></div><div>We kick the dirt and linger around the vehicles a little longer than necessary in the mornings, because everyone is (silently) wondering if they're going to get to ride in the back of the small pickup instead of the four-door Pajero. Now, nothing's wrong with the Pajero...but the pickup is an adventure. You have to hold on. You have to sit close. You have to endure the bruises that you'll have at the end of the day on your butt-cheeks because of the way that you've been tossed by the avoidance of potholes. And it's perfect. With it you get the wind, the Caribbean sun abusing your shoulders before the day has even slightly begun, and all the smells both good and bad of the Haitian roads (mostly the latter). And it's perfect. </div><div><br /></div><div>You sit so close that the sweat drips down the back of your legs and into your shoes almost immediately. And someone starts us off with an old camp song that none of us have heard in years (usually this is Lauren "the-walking-camp-song" Burkhalter), or we talk about Breakfast or how we slept or didn't, or we practice our Creole greetings on the passersby. </div><div><br /></div><div>We make it a good ways off the main road and down a back one until the trucks can't pass anymore. We can see Darivaje across the corn field directly to our right, but have no clue whose field that is, so we have to walk the extra twenty minutes around. The path is so muddy that the 19 of us (16 team members, 3 translators) along with all of our coolers, bags, and supplies and about 11 community children, balance-walk in a straight line for many, many yards on top of a short concrete lining of the road. It's a pretty great sight, if you ask me. Someone yells, "Look at the tadpoles!" and our entire line almost collapses into the stream we are avoiding. It's best to stay focused. Though with this group, it's hard to stay focused. Easy to laugh, easy to love, hard to stay focused. </div><div><br /></div><div>We are met by very excited faces and the warm of the Pastor who has already made this our home. He is so, so grateful that we will be doing for them what we do and have done for Bighouse for a year. They were inviting. We all met in the chapel, unloaded, then the kids sang a welcome song for us. Then we sang "This is the Day" for them in english. Then they sang "This is the Day" for us en Kreyol!! Then we all sang it together in our different languages, and I get a glimpse of the banquet. That in our differences, we make up the world that God loves; and therefore, in the moments where our cultures, and foreign vocabularies, and polar-opposite realities collide, we find God in the rarest form. It was surely <i>t</i><i>he day.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>After that, we lined the kids up and got their names, ages, heights, weights, and pictures so that we can partner them with their sponsors (of $35 a month) in the states! This money, like at Bighouse, will be filtered through The Global Orphan Project who then takes care of their meals and medical attention. Any extra gifts go toward things like the well that's needed at Darivaje, or the latrines and showers that were built at Bighouse last year. </div><div><br /></div><div>After all of that, we balloon relayed. It was slightly successful, but shortlived. They really just wanted to chase the balloons around, haha. So we did that too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then the team broke for lunch in a side room of the concrete chapel that sits in the middle of a pasture that is lined with distant blue mountains on two sides. It is a lovely place, and those words do no justice. We ate our packed meals, but didn't stop there, as the Pastor's wife and the mamas of the orphanage brought us a fresh Haitian juice and some fruit that they had prepared. It. Was. Delicious. Oh my gosh. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then it was time for baseball (kind of, as we had to teach it...and by we, I mean Justin). A few hours of that, and then some impressing them with our skills of flipping over kids and jumping on walls (...and by "our," I mean Justin's...). A group got a game of soccer going that seemed to last for hours in the grass, while some just held babies and soaked in, breathed in the awareness of the approaching goodbyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>We thanked the Pastor for the day, who in turn thanked us for the day...must mean the one responsible is neither;) We said our goodbyes, some temporary, some temporary in a different way...loaded up, and headed back for the guesthouse. It began to sprinkle on the way home, which was refreshing. Our driver, out of much courtesy, pulled under a gas station roof to get us out of the weather. However, the roof was "L" shaped, so most of us were out of the rain, while Michael at the back of the truck was still getting hit in the face. So we told him we were fine with a little water, waved to the many passengers of a huge dump truck who were hiding under a tarp but on top of piles of material, and finished the journey home. Justin, of course, followed behind on the back of Pastor Jean's scooter. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just made it back, and are taking shower-shifts before dinner. Tomorrow morning we'll be finishing out the July-only-team's last day at Bighouse, coming back to the guesthouse for lunch, then heading to Rainbow Beach for the afternoon and supper. None of us have ever been to this beach before, but we hear it's amazing. Looking forward to the day:)!</div><div><br /></div><div>With banquets and sweet little faces and beaches on the mind, </div><div><br /></div><div>Bon Nuit from Les Cayes:)</div><div><br /></div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-48718662922056678032010-07-29T20:08:00.000-07:002010-07-29T20:10:32.788-07:00“Darivaje ees yoh home…Welcome!”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlYvGcGSf1E8ystBy1ojPAY5vZQ7lIWRS3wJxOkCy3uE2ID0TICodVJ49cvCc9UO1xqLLDTKxgmHXdi5PfXmA22y7Eh1M-JtlZfx21RlonD3mwFcOQy9PcyssaouzvkJ2aYNToJmVjK9t/s1600/15863_515145916926_63500761_30619166_7176070_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlYvGcGSf1E8ystBy1ojPAY5vZQ7lIWRS3wJxOkCy3uE2ID0TICodVJ49cvCc9UO1xqLLDTKxgmHXdi5PfXmA22y7Eh1M-JtlZfx21RlonD3mwFcOQy9PcyssaouzvkJ2aYNToJmVjK9t/s320/15863_515145916926_63500761_30619166_7176070_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499531360245989634" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Today was full as we started the morning finishing up painting and taking weights of children at Bighouse. Then after lunch, we all piled into the Pajero and the back of the pickup (which seems overly packed until we pass another truck, even smaller in size, with ten extra Haitians in it), and we headed to meet the children at the new orphanage, Derivaje, about twenty minutes away…give or take, depending on how much mud and how far we walk after we get stuck. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We woke up this morning and Mrs Virginia and the ladies had pancakes with mango syrup ready to greet us. So we ate, coated in sunscreen and bugspray, grabbed our packs, supplies, and coolers, and headed for the 20min drive, 20min walk to Bighouse. The kids are getting more and more familiar with us (as what usually happens by day 3). How they know we’re there is beyond me, but they always greet us before we even cross the tree line with hugs and laughter and running and “BONJU, Breetnee!” “BONJU, Aleesahn!” “BONJU, Gront!” “BONJU, Annah!” We hug, and hug, and hug for about 15 minutes before we can even officially get on orphanage property. Peter…who I’ve now started calling Peter “I fell on purpose so you’d hold me” Leore….did the obvious and, well, fell…started weeping, and found his way into someone’s lap, miraculously healing all recent injuries. And some of the older boys brought us bracelets they had made. Some people got bracelets that said, “Haiti Cheri” and “I love you!”…I got a bracelet that said “Kaka.” The translator said it’s for a Brazilian soccer player that the Haitians love….I’m not completely confident that it doesn’t just mean “Kaka.”</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>It happens about the third day every time when one of those “time stops” moments hits me at Bighouse, and I quickly and unintentionally pass over the reality that this trip also ends. I want such wonderful things for their lives. They hit deeper parts of my soul than I knew I had. This country is not glorious but her people will change you forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And the intimacy of doing life with people is found when Obnese helps one of us tend to the younger kids…when Herby sings “Jesus loves me” in our ears even though the sores in his mouth hurt so much he can barely move it…when the soccer games go on for hours and no one even realizes they’re tired and thirsty and have no more to give, but it doesn’t stop them….when questions are asked about how this can be done better, and creativity and wisdom become the vessels in those conversations where God radiates and mends….when a well is fixed…when solar panels are discussed…when the children sitting with us tonight on the roof at debriefing can’t understand a word we’re singing but resound in Hosanna’s with us as we watch the stars….when a child weighs in 35lbs heavier than he did this time last year…when you can say, “This is life” and be completely confident in the statement, and therefore completely joyful. Who are we to get to be a part of this life? Grateful indeed.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>I cut my finger open with a new pair of scissors last night. Bled all the way up the stairs, on the table, and all over the bathroom. Completely panicked at the thought of needing stitches in Haiti, and have been cleaning and wrapping ever since. Think it’s going to be fine. May leave a scar, but I’m just going to let the story be, “I got this in Haiti…” Because “I stupidly cut myself with scissors because I think felt can’t be broken through” sounds slightly lame. Leave more to the imagination.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Darivaje Orphanage was beautiful, and peaceful, and calm. The kids and the pastor were so welcoming and grateful. Humbled and illuminated when we told them that a large group of people back home have committed to being their village sponsors through Global Orphan Project just like at Bighouse. And they said, “We have been praying that you would come for months and months and now God has sent you. Tell your people that we pray for them. And that Darivaje is their home.”</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>I feel that that is true. I cannot wait for us to get to know this new part of our family more. Teams will start coming to both orphanages when we make trips down and we will help meet the needs as best we can for all the kids at the two sites. First and foremost, at Darivaje, being a well. They have no water source and have to go to the main road just to fill barrels and bring back to the children. So we’re gonna get the money and build them a well. Somehow. And soon. Because everyone deserves clean water.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Had goat for supper, mango smoothies for a late night snack, and now are wrapping up the night…resting for a full day at Darivaje Orphanage tomorrow.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Pray for the travels of the two teams that are switching out on Sunday. Pray for Judelain, a boy at the orphanage with a huge hernia who we are trying to schedule a surgery appointment with a good surgeon before we leave. Pray for health and energy and creativity and wisdom that ask the questions that make life better for others.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>And if you’ve read any of these at all, thank you for sacrificing your time…your connections and prayers keep us going and grow the efforts.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Love from Ayiti!</o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-14072323995982390002010-07-28T14:39:00.000-07:002010-07-28T14:46:34.593-07:00"Steak and Pasta, baby."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFhjdE52HBywJeMSm11fzrm0fet2lqqizA-7Ef6t-I-6oXrnUJh1qB7zNbZuIDGWyFQ4U89mckqlhfbcFwRAerRZZKuxIWPQq-wXE4CYhKJx_s7VRBHMGuGb09fn-Zf_gGE_oXrKSQYHi/s1600/15863_515145906946_63500761_30619164_983044_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFhjdE52HBywJeMSm11fzrm0fet2lqqizA-7Ef6t-I-6oXrnUJh1qB7zNbZuIDGWyFQ4U89mckqlhfbcFwRAerRZZKuxIWPQq-wXE4CYhKJx_s7VRBHMGuGb09fn-Zf_gGE_oXrKSQYHi/s320/15863_515145906946_63500761_30619164_983044_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499075524852875682" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Coming in close second only to Mark Sorensen’s poorly executed Creole last summer of “Bon Sparge!” instead of the correct “Bon swa!”….was July Team Member, Justin Kirke’s attempted greetings out the back of our pickup on the way to day two at Bighouse.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> “How do you say, ‘What’s up’ again?” –Justin</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Sak pase…” –Me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">a few minutes later, and yelled loudly at passersby</i>) </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“SOCKAPLAZA!!!!....I mean….SACKAPLAYSA!!!!....I mean….oh man, what is it??” -Justin</p> <p class="MsoNormal">(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">a few hours later, on the drive back from Bighouse, and yelled just as loudly</i>)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“STEAKANPASTA!!....wait…..seriously, what is it??...” –Justin</p><p class="MsoNormal">“No, yeah, that’s it. Steak and pasta, baby, steak and pasta…The Haitian greeting” –Carrie</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Eh. It's a wonder we can get anyone to talk to us...</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Last night we wrapped the day up with the Haitian dish that is only best described as cornmeal-grits-with-a-meat-layer-and-ketchup-squirts. Downed it. Then we divided up the next day’s supplies, took much needed showers, then headed up for devotion/debriefing on the roof.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We sat in a circle under the stars out from under the covering so that we could feel the slight breeze, and sang songs with our voices and the guitar carrying our praises across the rooftops in the area. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Songs whose lyrics say, “I once was fatherless, a stranger with no hope, your kindness wakened me, wakened me from my sleep…” never mean as much as they do when you’ve left the company of those without parents. Those who share beds made for one. Those who love so freely.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We sang “How He Loves Us,” surely uniting in reflection of the day, though not having to acknowledge it. Then we talked about what it means to be rich. Shared stories and thoughts and things to talk to God about and things to be aware of. And then we prayed together. And the end of the day, that moment, felt good. Felt like quality. Excited that we get a few more end-of-the-days to do that:)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Today at Bighouse was very productive. Twelve of us painted some of the new classrooms and repainted some of the old ones, while 4 of us took new heights, weights, and picture updates of all the children. However, our scale (we found out later, after many failed attempts to create a mathematical formula to understand the conversions and how the weights might be off)….we realized the scale was broken. So that part, we get to do all over again tomorrow. But I’m pretty confident that weight has been put on at Bighouse. It’s encouraging, to say the least, when proof of conquering the lie of hunger and the hopelessness that accompanies it is tangibly evident. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We stand against injustices, and creatively turn them around. Lord willing.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We told the story of baby Moses this afternoon and the kids each molded a basket out of rice krispy treats<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>with a teddy graham in the middle for Moses. They loved it:) They also loved when Anna and Carrie acted out the story and stuck one of the kids in a wheel barrow as we “shook him through the waves through the scary, scary river!!” Precious.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Another hike forever and a year back to our vehicles (that could make it an even shorter distance today because of ALL the rain we got last night). But this hike is beautiful and fun, and the rain made it cooler…and no one complains about that.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Judelain’s doctor’s appointment is planned out and his hernia surgery will be on the 22<sup>nd</sup>. Tomorrow we go to Bighouse for the morning to finish measurements and painting, and tomorrow afternoon we head to (what I was corrected and told to pronouce) Dalvaje Orphanage to meet them for the first time.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Last night, a theme in conversation was changing the world with small acts of great love. Putting our chances on the truth of a backwards Kingdom and message. Where the fools are wise, the poor are rich, the weak are strong, and the small acts of great love are restoring the people of God.</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Hoping your days are backwards, from Haiti,</o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Britney<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-80132537150592299312010-07-27T14:58:00.000-07:002010-07-27T15:55:21.959-07:00Home Sweet Bighouse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7BfEL9UyoY3h8ESvf8EkoEBCe1Aq3dmjY1ybdnDKsbqUy5VA_Ri-YC93sRmOSfJhNgSDJJBz-BLm20MFjAnLuq6IjEKYs2mmzEUYHfvwZWvcKcrhLWXcVfWpzVwQL78lvJ_yGQDs7sen/s1600/15863_515146156446_63500761_30619206_2502106_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7BfEL9UyoY3h8ESvf8EkoEBCe1Aq3dmjY1ybdnDKsbqUy5VA_Ri-YC93sRmOSfJhNgSDJJBz-BLm20MFjAnLuq6IjEKYs2mmzEUYHfvwZWvcKcrhLWXcVfWpzVwQL78lvJ_yGQDs7sen/s320/15863_515146156446_63500761_30619206_2502106_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498723338431546514" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>It's almost dinner time at La Belle Maison Guesthouse in Les Cayes, Haiti. The electricity just went out so our fans have slowed to complete halts, and the team has started showers to wash away dirt so thick that little fingers were drawing pictures in our skin by the end of the day. Mud spots are caked in a variety of places as we battled a few refusals from our pickups to make it any further through what the rainy season has left down roads that are not roads. And we've all opened a sugar cane coke to make the afternoon all that it could be. :)<div><br /></div><div>We're wrapping up day two of our two week summer trip to Haiti. We've got ten people staying the whole 12 days, and six people trading out half way through. Many are returning team members and many met Haiti for the first time yesterday. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's been a year since our first trip to Haiti, and that comes with a lot of thought. Much more than I probably want to delve into right now even if there were enough room on this blog;) Just a few though.... I'm in love with watching people come into contact with Haiti for the first time. And yesterday I got to sit in the peace of letting people take it in, knowing that this is where their story here starts, and that in some way, it always goes forward. Last summer I began a courtship with this country, and we've been trying to figure each other out ever since. And this has been our story. And I am convinced that the more souls that get to say the same thing, the more hope the Haitians have. Because more mouths are, in some way, saying, "We're doing this together."</div><div><br /></div><div>My team is amazing. They breezed through Port au Prince airport with all (that's right) all of our luggage, and we made it out with only caving to four people who helped us carry it. Now granted, I preached for 30minutes twice about how we "do NOT need help, say 'No Mesi!'" and then was in fact the only person who allowed for one...then two...then four people to assist. Better than 5...I guess...question mark?</div><div><br /></div><div>The drive to Cayes was familiar and new. It was the first time I had watched those roads pass since the day we evacuated in January. Surprisingly, most of the rough parts have been beautifully paved. I suppose with so much traffic in and out of the capital, people relocating to the other cities, it was necessary. </div><div><br /></div><div>We ate around the big table and the little table in the dimly lit downstairs last night. Sitting on plastic covers and comparing Haitian gumbo to Louisiana gumbo. A few instructions about how to put your toilet paper in baggies and your baggies in the trashcan, the unpacking of a few decks of cards, room divisions and bugspray...and we called it a night. </div><div><br /></div><div>All call for omlet (egg, ketchup, hotdog) breakfast, orphanage activity bag and cooler organized and packed, water bottles filled, last call for the potty...last call again for Sarah...and we loaded into the Pajero and the back of a pickup and headed for Bighouse. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love Bighouse. </div><div><br /></div><div>The boys pushed us out twice before we called it quits and walked the rest of the path to the 78 little bodies pushing to be first in line to be held, remembered, played with. The orphan village looks great, especially compared to a year ago. The recent additions of latrines, classrooms, showers, playground, dining pavilion, etc, actually make it look functional for so many children. We played, and told the story of Noah, and held, and sang, and twisted pipecleaners, and retwisted pipecleaners, and re-retwisted pipecleaners in hair. We delivered another few months worth of vitamins and made plans to paint the rest of the school house tomorrow as well as finish assembling a few desks. Makendy was in his pink pants and the cut off shirt that shows how cut his arms are (which is somewhat freaky for a 7 year old, but it kinda matches his oddly deep voice). Acenita is spunky and showing off her attitude, as if anyone would miss it. Judelain showed off the english vocabulary he's learned, and Tony took someone's glasses and posted up beside a wall till everyone acknowledged his fashion. Obnese and the older boys whooped up on a handful of our team in a game of soccer on their concrete field in the middle of the beating-down sun. And Samuel stuck a walking stick in the ground and pretended it was a microphone that he performed behind with us as his audience. And we amused him. And we loved every minute of it. And they loved every minute of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still to come: painting the church, potential building of new pews, Croc drop, and introducing ourselves to our newest partners and family, Derivuge Orphanage. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You said that Haiti was chaotic and beautiful and in pieces and rich and hard and wonderful, and I didn't understand. But now I do." -Grant, while driving through Port au Prince. </div><div><br /></div><div>Welcome to Haiti. She comes with as much baggage and questions as she does purpose and captivating <i>something</i> that keeps you coming back. That keeps you telling the stories. If you've been in any part of this relationship with her for the past year of our partnership there...whether going, or giving, or reading, or sharing, or praying for hope and healing and provision...Thank You. And stick with us.... surely the story only gets better from here. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pray for our team, for health and efficiency, for Kingdom building processing and connections,</div><div><br /></div><div>B</div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2954872704960337432.post-8843674639440996292010-06-13T19:47:00.000-07:002010-06-13T20:28:14.176-07:00Jezi, JeziCurrently I am sitting in a dark room on my bed, all the windows open for the breeze to usher out some of this sticky heat, listening to a Michael Jackson song blast full volume from a radio out back, exhausted from the rat race that a filthy, obnoxious, and purposeless june bug just invited me into. Guess who won...<div><br /></div><div>One of my favorite quotes is from the missionary Jim Elliot who said, "Wherever you are, be all there; live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God." </div><div><br /></div><div>And I try to live that present. And there are many moments when I fight hard to have that kind of "all here" perspective and investment. And many moments, including this trip, when I have failed. But then there are those moments, like countless ones today, where it just clicks. The fullness settles into the present and you can literally see a little more clearly. It's hard to explain, but I am in love with those moments. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning's worship in Port au Prince with the team at Pastor Mois' church was the treasure that it was the first time I visited with his congregation in April. And I don't mean treasure in some cutesy term by any means. I mean, the type of hour that you could search for forever and not find, but the Lord in His graciousness just gives sometimes. I've said it before, and I hold to it. There is nothing more beautiful than when the broken exhaust themselves in worship of a good God that loves them. That they trust. That is healing them. Who has never left. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our driver took us through many more parts of the vast capital today than I had assumed we were going to see. Cite' Soleil. The government buildings. The capitol. The hardest hit areas, construction wise. The hardest hit areas, death count wise. And it's hard. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's just hard. </div><div><br /></div><div>What a vain attempt it would be to try and wrap up the reality of the suffering into a few romantic words. I have nothing. Still, it is appalling. Still, it is incomprehensible to the greatest extent of the term. Still, it is heart wrenching if given only a second to realize what and who are still in the ruins not yet excavated as life goes on around them. To realize that an orphan, if viewed as not another face in a group, but as an individual who is not being rocked to sleep tonight by one mother and put on the shoulders of one father...who potentially had that just a few months ago, and now doesn't. To realize that we forget, and it is easier that way. It is harder to think, and sift, and ask. It is harder to feel and be vulnerable in all of the uncertainty. It is harder to see life at its raw, wounded, and rich core. </div><div><br /></div><div>Help us, Lord. You are good. You love us. And You are here. Help us. Help us all. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we drove between Pastor Joseph's orphanage sites today after church, Tate (who is on staff for GO Project and works most of his time in Haiti) asked Ines (a team member who at one point worked for the same company as Alan) what Alan (who used to work for that company but is now on staff at GO Project) was like at his old job. "Was he a big deal?" Tate said, and then laughed. And then he made a point that I don't think he completely knew was so significant. But he said, "See, that's what I love about Haiti. It doesn't matter how high up Alan was at some job back in the states. He's no different than me in this bus. We're both sweating, we're both the same."</div><div><br /></div><div>The Kingdom brings us all to the table. And our titles and pasts and status descriptions don't matter. Not even in the least. Surely that's how we know:)</div><div><br /></div><div>We were greeted at the OTV gate by a group of an excited 80 who had been attention starved for a whole five hours. They asked if we were leaving tomorrow. They know the drill. And we said yes, and put on a carnival (in the most structured manner that I've ever seen a group accomplish in Haiti...yay team!). </div><div><br /></div><div>And before we left to go up for dinner and then one last debriefing on the roof, I found Kinli who jumped up in my arms and we just walked around for a bit. And it happened. One of those very real, very present moments. He gave me kisses on my cheek and laughed when I tried to say, "You are my little brother" in Creole. Then we walked toward the soccer field and I prayed for him and twirled him and he said, "Jezi, Jezi" then giggled and pulled out his pixi stick which was soon all over everything. And he asked when I would be back, and I told him I wasn't sure. But that I would be. And I will be:)</div><div><br /></div><div>May your moments be present and to the hilt, </div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks for reading about one more trip and a few more stories! Until next time:)</div><div><br /></div><div>-Britney</div><div><br /></div><div>PS. I got ranked a five today in looks by a very blunt Haitian man. I am offended. But he was on the prowl for a mama to join he and his baby girl in their family. So maybe not that offended. Bon nuit! </div>Britney Winnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01598548881935291771noreply@blogger.com1