Team Members:
Tom Bartholomay
Pastor Steve Winemiller
Sam Winemiller
Alf Kirkeeng
Paul Goodman
Heidi Sell
Kathy Casper
Thursday April 7, 2005
There were fourteen boxes (two per traveler), each measuring no more than 63 inches (total height, width, and depth), each weighing precisely (or slightly less than) the allowed 50 pounds, packed mosaically in the back of Alf's van.
Paul loaded up his guitar and we were off. Alf maneuvered a windblown I-75 to Venice, to pick up Pastor Steve, his son Sam, and our mission leader, Tom. Then we trekked on to Bonita Springs to pick up Heidi. After dinner at Cracker Barrel, we proceeded across Alligator Alley to Miami, playing a getting-to-know-you parlor game called "Faith Talk."
Friday April 8, 2005
After a good night's sleep at the Comfort Inn (surely there is irony there), we packed up the shuttle and headed to MIA. Checking in and going through security took almost as long as the actual flight!
Arriving at PAP (Port Au Prince airport), we descended the airplane stairway (no "jetways") and were greeted by a live reggae band at the entrance to the airport terminal.
Pastor Larry Bollinger quickly spotted us and loaded us, our gear, and the 14 boxes into the bed of Village of Hope truck, which was less like a "bed" than any roller coaster I've ridden.
Port Au Prince is a crowded, noisy city that smells of diesel. Where there is color, it is screaming color, much like Haitian art. The "tap-taps" (small trucks, similar to what we know as taxis or city buses) are ablaze with vibrant color, works of art in themselves.
There are no traffic lights in Port Au Prince, no stop signs, no traffic management systems at all. Vehicular traffic is chaotic and dangerous. Pastor Larry explains that successful drivers in Haiti must be "judiciously aggressive." I'd call it fearless.
Hope House, by contrast, is a haven of tranquility. Missionaries Larry and Margaret Bollinger have transformed the grounds of their home as a garden sanctuary, shaded and walled from the noise of the city. My grandmother would approve the taut clotheslines, the pristine doily on the inside dining table, the soda bottle caps tossed dutifully into the trash bin.
Our first excursion was to Grace House, a school/orphanage run by Sister Marie Major, a native Haitian woman. Marie worked for many years in the U.S. caring for a wealthy family in Boca Raton. When she retired, they provided her with a comfortable condo, a luxury car to drive, and all the trappings of Western culture. But Marie had made a promise to God that if her children grew to adulthood without falling victim to drugs, illicit sex, and other Western temptations, she would devote the rest of her life to God's work. As her children embarked on healthy, successful adult lives, Marie felt compelled to return to Haiti, where she used her resources to build a house, a school, a church, and establish an orphanage. When she couldn't find a pastor for her church, she went to seminary herself, and became ordained as a pastor. I hope Marie will come to visit us, and bring the joy she currently shares with nearly 20 young girls at Grace House.
Saturday April 9, 2005
Today, after a robust breakfast of sausage, eggs, and pancakes with syrup, we embarked on a bumpy trip to Village of Hope. We toured the chapel and classrooms, as well as the hillside vegetable garden. The garden is staffed by six gardeners, four of whom are full-time employees. The garden yields okra, eggplant, and other vegetables, and a crude shelter, cloaked in mosquito netting, provides a nursery/work area for gardeners to coddle new plants to maturity.
We worked in the open-air chapel, painting the concrete posts a pale sky blue (bleu ciel) in preparation for the next mission trip's artist to create a mural.
After lunch, back at Hope House, we were off to the Baptist Mission in the mountains of Haiti. A bumpy, dusty, ride snaking up and around what seemed like endless trails of un-city-like pitted streets.
The Baptist Mission was the most "touristy" of the sites we saw, with street vendors, a museum, a snack-type restaurant, and even a gift shop.
Just steps away was the Wings of Hope, an orphanage for disabled boys. What a magnificent building! You would never guess, from the street, that such a glorious place existed behind the latched door. But, once inside, we were greeted warmly, and accompanied through this beautifully tiled home by quiet residents, happy to see us. Imagine a four-story house with no stairs, just gentle ramps ascending from one level to the next. There were sleeping areas, dining areas, classroom areas, play areas, gym/therapy areas, all tiled, clean, inviting, and welcoming.
We returned to Hope House, and Paul entertained us with card tricks. We practiced our puppet show, after a tummy-filling dinner of sloppy joes, beans and cold slaw.
Sunday April 10, 2005
The church service in the chapel of Village of Hope was heart stopping. The children sang a welcoming song for us and there were several solos and small groups who sang for us. Four members of the team did a puppet show, as Pastor Steve told Bible stories about King David and the lamb and Daniel in the lion's den. The stories were interpreted by an animated Jorel Renee, the administrator of the school.
After the church service we went to a lavish (by Haitian standards) hotel for brunch. Goat meat was on the menu. I must say that I tasted goat meat, and silently apologized to every goat we met on the roads after that. There's just something that bothers me about eating cute animals.
After brunch, we went to Notre Maison, an orphanage for disabled children. Jorel, the accordionist (not the administrator), came with us. The children were extremely disabled; some were confined to infant seats. Others were mobile, and so animated with happiness. They loved the music, and many of them danced or approached us to clap with them. I have never in my life been so surrounded with joy. Pity was not a thought that occurred to me.
We returned to Hope House after that, and I spied Pastor Steve diligently working on lacing shoes. We had worked on a shipment of sneakers the night before, lacing them and categorizing them according to size.
Sister Marie would be here soon with her 17 young girls, and we would fit them each with new shoes, provided by another congregation, whose Christmas shipment of shoes had just arrived.
The girls arrived in Easter splendor. I have not seen such beautiful dresses since 1965. Their outfits were perfectly pressed, perfectly accessorized, and each little girl seemed even happier than the next. They loved the shoes (sneakers), although I believe they craved the individual attention we gave them more than anything else.
Monday April 11, 2005
Today we attended Assembly at the VOH school. After that, we fitted the children of certain classes with shoes. It was hard because some of the children went without new shoes, since we only had certain sizes. We learned well the lesson of human limitation.
In the afternoon, we drove (in the evil truck bed) out to the desert to see the well built for the people who live there. Such poverty is hard to fathom. It is equally hard to fathom the isolation, and the will of these young people who walk so far, over such difficult terrain, for the purpose of education. We picked up several students, on their way home from school. They were full of joy, and happy to join us in the linguistic challenge of communicating. I finally agreed with one of the young men that he was, indeed, a student.
The children hung on the back of the truck, until Pastor Larry indicated with a wave of his hand that they should let go. They understood, and they let go. All of the children were poor, and many were naked, but I did not pity them. They are joyful people, and in many ways, I envy them.
Education is a good thing, as long as it does not disturb the essential values of self-worth, family, and the seamless fabric of their society.
We journeyed on to the border of Dominican Republic, a gated community, located just beyond a string of mountains gouged bare and clean by human sweat; the mountains yielding diesel-spewing truckloads of sand and gravel, as the people of Haiti labor to rebuild their country.
I would easily return to Haiti, knowing well that I am alien in my background. However, I am one with the Haitian spirit, in that I find splashes of color surprising and amazing, even (or especially) on the dusty canvas of life.
Submitted by,
Kathy Casper
