New Encounters

December 23, 2008

Today was a day of new encounters, a day of community building and discovering new hidden treasures of this country.

If I was a better person, or maybe just less honest, I might be able to say I entered this new journey and have lived day-by-day in Haiti with a sense of pure selflessness, in the spirit of giving without question, of faith that what we do here is enough and is God inspired. Certainly, I strive for that. But the truth is, I still measure my work in images of “success” that have defined my education up until this point. I still struggle with my own needs, my losses, my desires. Little by little, I’m recreating new definitions. But it has required some time, a lot of tears, ample frustration, and battling doubts galore.

Patrick has had his own internal battles as well. His biggest has been with his own spirituality. I think Patrick is the most spiritually honest person I know, and he ever strives for that “Ah Ha” moment in his life. He has struggled here, I think, because of the role he has been thrown into, the title he has to shoulder. “Pastor” was never a goal on his life’s to-do list. His studies into theology have always sparked a desire for communion with all peoples, regardless of creed or dogma. His passion is for social justice and walking in solidarity with marginalized populations. Patrick’s gift is that he makes all people feel comfortable, he laughs easily; he breaks down barriers before people recognize there was a wall between them. And he does it all without effort, with a smile, a joke, an understanding nod.

But here he is Pastor Patrick. Not only that, but he pastors to a set of the most conservative Christian churches we’ve ever been a part of. His gift with people serves him well in this role, but his relentless honesty with himself leaves him questioning how he can stand at a pulpit preaching from a book that the conservative churches he ministers to take as literal what he believes to be contextual at best. And although his sermons have been beautiful in their simplicity, a call to the connection of humanity rather than the elevation of Christian Dogma, inside he still sees himself as a Christian Pastor without enough passion for the Bible. The disconnect feels false to him.

Several weeks ago, we met an interfaith minister who is also a Voodoo priest living here. We both found him to be an incredible spirit, the kind of person that spirituality seems to flow from every pore. He, too, was easy to be around, and conversation easily flowed on subjects traditionally hard to talk about. Patrick felt that maybe Dja could be a mentor of sorts. So today we sought him out.

We found Dja’s home nestled in a grove of trees and climbed the stairs to his apartment with vaulted ceilings and brightly colored walls. He and Patrick spent some time together talking about spirituality, about the discipline of the spirit and the quest for inner knowledge and peace. It was the start of a relationship I hope will help Patrick reconnect with who he is, to feel comfortable with an arbitrary title knowing he brings a unique bend to his role in the church. I think of my own mentors in life, those who were able to see the world as a whole, nature as part of that whole, who encouraged thought, questions, imagination and allowed for a little healthy doubt on rules set forth in the pages of our religious texts written centuries ago. I see Patrick easily being such a mentor, but he has to realize it for himself first.

After two magical hours at Dja’s, we headed to the small village of Gwo Jan, along a deeply rutted country road up the mountain. Our destination was the home of an American couple who have lived and worked in Haiti for 25 years. We drove there in hopes of finding at most a friend, a mentor, and if nothing else a colleague in the work we do here.

We found their house perched on a hill next to a stream. We arrived there with the help of multiple people along the way encouraging us that yes, Carla lived just up the road, that no, we weren’t lost.

We spent an absolutely magical afternoon with Carla and her husband who work with cultural immersion for visitors, and who currently have a vision for a remembrance village to document the history of Haiti and the wounds of slavery. Carla had invited us up to see what they do. Today they were working with a woman taking part in a 3-day immersion weekend with them. We sat in on her Creole lessons, took a walk through the village with her, met a voodoo priest who introduced us to a voodoo temple and explained the symbols, the essence of the spirits within, and the rituals for connecting with those spirits. We walked along fields where Carla’s Haitian partners pointed out names and uses of plants, discussed farming techniques and food preparation. We stopped by to greet people in their homes, were welcomed inside to watch hair braiding and to play with their children.

The highlight of the day came with a walk across a steep mountainside to visit a friend of Carla’s--an elder in the community--who was ill. We walked up steep rocks, along a narrow path through fields and past little homes nestled along the way. We finally came to a cinderblock home high on a hill overlooking Port-au-Prince down in the valley.

In the yard were 3 young adult women, 2 teenage girls, two toddlers and an infant all engaged in activities of life: washing clothes, playing with rockes, breast feeding, braiding hair, soothing a scraped knee. The matron of the two-room cinderblock house, a woman who looked to be in her 70’s or 80’s, greeted us with a large wave and a swaggering walk that screamed, “I am fulllll of character.” She gave us--complete strangers--big hugs, kisses on the cheek, and welcomed us into her home. We obliged by ducking under a curtain that blocked the doorway into a cool, shaded room with concrete walls. In the room were one chair and a double bed. On that bed was her husband of 40+ years. He was tiny. A thin white t-shirt hung from his skeletal frame, his hair had grown out a bit without any grey, but his eyes shone with warmth and welcome. He sat up with strength that came from somewhere deep inside. He had been sick for a while, unable to eat or drink much. He knew he was at the end of his life. Although never meeting him, he offered me a seat beside him on the bed. My hand went to his back instinctually, and I felt the bones of his skeleton beneath the thin cotton. The fragility of his body did not represent the depth of his soul. He spoke to us of his life, of his children and grandchildren. He welcomed us, the strangers in the room, to his country and reminded us that there was no black and white, that there were only people. “Tout moun se moun” translated “everyone are people.” He talked about looking forward to the New Year, being glad for friends, proud of family to carry on his ancestry. However even short conversation made him breathless.

It was interesting for me to sit beside him. I was a doctor without my bag or stethoscope. There were no treatments he could afford or diagnostics that would save him. And sitting there, honoring him, listening to his wise words, respecting the end of his life was the most honorable thing I could do as a physician in that moment.

It is a powerful thing to be welcomed into the home of a stranger, especially when that stranger is dying. Words are chosen carefully. All the senses are engaged. Time is sacred.

Recognizing his fatigue, we departed with handshakes and blessings. As we were leaving, his daughter placed his grandson—a 3 month-old baby—on the bed with him to sleep. The final scene as we departed was of an old man curled up on his side in his last days of earth, thin and wearing the story of his life in the creases of his skin. Next to him was an infant, chubby and drowsy with breast milk, at the beginning of his life, with lessons to be learned, memories to be made and the gift of his ancestors to guide him along the way. Both lay in the same position on the bed. The scene was striking.

As we waited for Carla to say her last words of goodbye, Patrick and I squatted with the children of the home. I was overcome with peace, tranquility, a happy sense of being in a place where I wasn't born, but where I was welcomed. I felt honored to share such a moment with these people. The children laughed at us; surely we seemed ridiculous with sweat beads running down our foreheads, with a sense of awe and reverence painted all over our faces. And we laughed at our selves too. Because finally we are learning to take ourselves less seriously, and are allowing ourselves to be caught up in the moment. Life takes us to miraculous places if we pay attention. Today we paid attention. And it did wonders for our soul and for our perspective.

Today a part of Haiti opened up to us. An intimate, beautiful, rich party of Haiti was exposed. Perhaps it was being in the country, a fresh break from the polluted air, constant noise, and hustle-bustle of the city. Perhaps it was being in the presence of and American couple who had weathered 25 years here, and had become all the richer for it, who seemed to look at us with a glimpse of understanding, some good humor, and potentially a little hope? Perhaps it was engaging in conversations about the spirit. Perhaps it was the sacred opportunity to share a moment in life with a family from a village not our own, who spoke a language we are newly learning, but whose humanity was deeply connecting.

All people are people. We get frustrated, we get tired, we are sad and occasionally confused, we feel lost at times and struggle to find our identity in the milieu. But we have the potential to love, to work hard, to create connections, to build families, to laugh, to sing, to dance, to make love, to rejoice in this chaos of life and to nurture hope for an even more beautiful tomorrow.

Today was a good day. I wanted to share it with you.