Patrick’s presence is quickly missed around the guesthouse. The cooks and the staff asked how Patrick was doing with concern in their eyes. Vaniel, the house manager, offered his own homemade remedy: a concoction of lime juice, honey and rum. Patrick drank it down, honored by the care shown. Vaniel assured him he’d be better by tomorrow.
Patrick and Francois Villier met us at the guesthouse after breakfast to take us to church. Worried that Patrick was too ill to get up, they wanted to see him. So, without any warning for my dear husband, I opened the door to our bedroom and allowed Patrick V, Francois and Daniel to come see my husband who had been deep asleep. They did what they know how to do, what they believe in. They prayed. Patrick arose out of a deep antihistamine fog to three Haitian hands on his head, a murmuring of prayers filling the air. I imagine it was a little surreal for him; he probably wondered what I slipped him with his morning meds to induce such hallucinations. ☺ So Patrick’s treatment regimen included western pharmaceutical intervention, a Haitian home remedy, and the laying on of hands. If this combo didn’t work, it was to another doctor in the morning. I had to trust.
The church we visited today was tucked away on a side street that hosted a small local market. The neighborhood was alive with activity, smells, sounds, and people painting a colorful collage for the senses. We squeezed the van between the stalls, over rivets and potholes, driving upstream through the crowd. It was hard not to cringe as wheels came precariously close to vendors' trays of fruits or to children's' toes. We filed out of the van and followed Francois through the milieu, up a worn concrete staircase to a balcony overlooking the market below. A cavernous church opened up behind us, the pews packed, the balcony overflowing. Like every Sunday, we inched our way to the very front of the church, the group walking single file between the pews. There was no chance we could come in inconspicuously. Aside from a few curious stares, most of the congregants were deep in prayer, eyes closed, hands raised, swaying to the music like an aspen forest in the wind.
We spent the next 2 hours drenched in song, deep voices echoing around the concrete walls. The minister charged the air with his passionate proclamations that were met enthusiastically with “Meci Senyor” (Thank you Lord) and “Hallaluhia.” Francois was asked to preach and her words were met with cries, with applause, with loud “Meci Senyor.” One woman in the 2nd row, possessed by the energy of the moment would randomly shout out “Praise God, Hallaluiah.” She did so in a way that startled me every time. I watched the faces of the members of the group; each seemed to reflect an emotion I, too, had experienced. Some were overcome with emotion, their spirit clearly stirred by the worship. Others looked a little uncomfortable, not wanting to cause a scene or be a spectacle. Most seemed to absorb the mood, the energy of the church and were revelling in it.
Eventually we were asked to come up and greet the congregation. As Daniel translated, each American face introduced himself, thanking the Haitian community for their hospitality. When it was my turn, Daniel rattled on before I could speak and then turned to me and said, “Say something in Creole.” Neat. Thanks Daniel. I didn’t feel ready to shout my fledgling language into a microphone. But like a 2-year-old spelling out phonetics for the first time, I chopped out “I’m happy to know you.” This was an easy audience. Instead of suspicion, I looked into a sea of smiles. Applause and laughter rose up after my feeble attempt as if encouraging me to keep trying. Wise Daniel knew what would please the crowd. ☺
Kelly Gallagher was asked to preach; a minister in the group, she whispered to me a little fear at not being able to meet the fervor of the audience. But she spoke passionately and the members of the church embraced her. She preached of the importance of community, of walking together through this life with its celebration and turmoil. She commissioned us to be present in community, to learn from each other, to lift each other up. I needed that sermon, and by the attention of the members of the church, they seemed to appreciate the message as well. And maybe it helped explain a blan present in their electric church.
Leaving, we were ushered out by handshakes, bright smiles from little children.
We had a beautiful Creole lunch in a restaurant near by. While waiting for the driver, we sat under a thatched canopy that offered shade from the hot sun. Little bags of water swung from under the canopy. The guard of the restaurant, toting a large rifle, told us that the bags of water were used to keep away flies and mosquitoes. We questioned if the water was poison, or how the bugs get access to it. He laughed and said no, they are frightened by their reflection and fly away. The explanation seemed too easy. But there were no mosquitoes or flies about to validate our skepticism.
The last event of the day was the infamous radio show. Pastor Guy met us at the radio station and welcomed the group one by one. He intended to interview each, with attention to their profession, for the listening audience. In typical Guy style, he did not waste time with questions that might have eased the visitors into conversation such as “how has your trip been, where are you from?” Instead he launched into the subject of the school collapse, and kicked off the session by asking the lawyer her opinion on whether the head master of the school should be held responsible. Wow. Big pitch by Guy. The batter considers her ball. Frowns of stern concentration fell upon my dear friends. I remembered being in the hot seat all too well, and the responsibility weighs heavy; the responsibility to represent yourself and your countrymen fairly, to reach out to the Haitian people and to reign in your own opinions as diplomatically as one can. Guy continued the barrage to each, asking medical advice for the community in dealing with PTSD, depression, and the lingering effects of recent tragedies on the Haitian public. The group gave careful, thoughtful answers to each question, offering their perspective and careful not to assume to have all the answers. They acted as beautiful ambassadors to Haiti, and used their gifts of education and experience to engage in conversation about a country in need.
By the time we emerged from the radio station, night had fallen. I was happy to share the streets at night with our new friends. Candles winked to life, offering a soft light ushering us home.
Patrick greeted the group upon our tired arrival. He wore a smile, laughed easily. Clearly he had turned the corner. Relief flooded my mind, a weight slipped off my shoulders. The interventions of many caretakers had finally brought color and life back. Patrick’s gentle teasing spoke volumes for his recovery. Tonight I’ll sleep well, happy with the change in the air: new faces, a healthier husband, a revival in attitude. Gratitude fills my heart.
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