"Ti Fre Mwen"

I would like to tell you about the new siblings I've found in Haiti.  They are brothers, and they are age 14 and 11.  Their names are Gyver (like McGuiver) and Holendgy (Oh-lawn-gee).  I think I've told you about Gyver already.  I have a hard time not talking about him.

I've told you their family lives in a tent on a slab of concrete.  This is true.  I've told you that sometimes it rains on them, and they have nowhere else to go.  This is also true.  They have no running water, no electricity, no shower, no bathroom.  We don't know how they cook.  We don't know how they iron their clothes.  We don't know how they brush their teeth.  We did figure out what happened to their father.  He abandoned the family a few years ago.  Just up and left without a word.  His children today don't know where he is.  Their mother struggles to provide for them - to feed them, to clothe them, to send them to school.  I don't know how she does it.

Every time I see Holendgy and Gyver, they are smiling.  I have been to their tent city many times now, and I have never seen self-pity, discouragement, or complaint on their faces.  Quite the contrary!  I have danced with Holendgy in the rain.  I have sung songs in English and in Creole with him.  I have prayed on my knees with Gyver on a rooftop under the stars.  I have grinned at him across the room.  I have eaten dinner with them.  I have walked between a row of tents, holding their hands.  I have listened intently as they tried to teach me Creole and laughed with them at my confused pronunciations.

When I go to the tent city and see Holendgy and Gyver, I give them a hug and say, "Ti fre mwen."  It means "my little brother" in Creole.  They smile and say the words in Creole that mean "my sister."  I do not know if I will see Gyver and Holendgy again after I leave Haiti.  I do not know what will happen to them or what will happen to me.  But I do know that the thought of Heaven has become sweeter because of these two boys.  I know that God has taught me something profound about His joy through the smiles on their faces.  I know that I've welcomed two little brothers into my family.

"Ti fre mwen."  The family of God is beautiful.

Mariecia's Testimony

Yesterday Mariecia met us at the tent city.  She bounced - almost literally - up to us, grinned wide, and said something to the affect of, "Praise the Lord!  He answered your prayers for me, and now I have a testimony I would like to share with you."

I couldn't remember her face, much less the prayers we had supposedly prayed.  I thought she was mistaken.  I thought she had the wrong person.

Then she started talking.  Six weeks ago, we had come to the tent city and prayed with a mother whose daughter had just drunk bleach.  The daughter, Rita, was curled up on the bed, looking miserable (and no wonder!), slightly listless, and completely depressed.  Her father had died years ago, they lived in a tent, and there was no money to pay for her to go to school.  So, Rita decided to commit suicide.  Her mother saw us and asked us to come to her house and pray for her.  We did.  We spoke about hope and a future and God's power and the joy of the Lord.  Her mother sat opposite us and said "Amen" to most everything we said.  Then we left.

That was during my first week in Haiti.  Yesterday, Mariecia walked up to me and shared her testimony.  God had healed her daughter, she said.  They went to the hospital and got medicine for Rita, but she was still depressed and refused to take it.  So, her mother gave her water and prayed that God would bless it.  Today her daughter is healthy, seeking after God, and living in a real home.

Oh, yeah.  I forgot to say that we had also prayed that God would move Mariecia and her family out of the tent city into a real house.  Mariecia told us that there was an organization working to get people into homes of their own.  But the man in charge of the organization wanted money before he would get someone a house.  Mariecia doesn't have any money.  So she prayed.  The head of the organization got fired, and another man took his place.  This man doesn't require a bribe before providing a house.  This man found Mariecia and her children a place to live.

This is Mariecia's testimony.  This is how God has been good to her.  And we are witness to the fact that the joy of the Lord simply radiated from her face as she told us what He had done for her.

What is your testimony?

Epic Battle: Round One

We met a spider in the house we stayed at last week.  He was hanging high up on the wall just above the window in the girls' bathroom.  He was quite large, slightly disturbing, and completely ugly.  But it was okay because he was dead.

I knew.  I stared hard at him every time I walked into the bathroom, and he never moved.  Three days straight, and he never moved.  It became a sort of parable for me.  No matter what happened during the week - and we had several things happen - but no matter who got sick or who got buglarized or how late breakfast was, we were okay.  Our enemy was dead.  I knew.  He was hanging motionless in the bathroom.

Then the spider did what he wasn't supposed to do.  He moved.  Suddenly, my parable wasn't doing so well.  The enemy I had proclaimed dead was twitching.  Threatening to come down from the window and terrorize our household.  Survival instinct took over.  I jammed my Chacos on my feet (Thanks, Kristi!), grabbed the mop, and smashed the spider against the wall.  One point for me.  Don't think there will be a round two.

My enemy was defeated.

When I consider Haiti, when I consider America, when I consider the world, I do not see that the darkness is gone.  I see black - thick, gross, strangling pitch black.  But I also see stars.  I see a multitude of bright, singing stars.  And the more the stars sing, the less of the night I see.  I see the promise of day paling the eastern horizon.  I see that the dawn is coming.

Our enemy is not dead.  He is alive.  Lurking in the shadows, sneaky, ugly, inconsistent.  But he is also defeated.  By Jesus' blood on the cross, by the power that raised Christ from the dead, by the Name that is above every other name.  The enemy is strong . . . and God is stronger.  Our God is stronger.

Nunu

I have a ring on my finger. (Relax, Melody.  It's on my pinkie.)  It's a bead ring - little black and white beads circled up on a bit of string.  It happened like this.  Tuesday morning, our team did an impromptu VBS at Pastor Noel's orphanage.  It was great fun.  We started out doing this dancing chant/echo thing with a dozen or so girls and ended singing "Jesus Loves Me" in Creole with almost 100 children.  As we were leaving, a little girl pushed her way through the crowd, grabbed hold of my hand, and jammed a little black and white circlet on my pinkie.  I know the little girl.  Every time I go to the orphanage, she dashes up and gives me a hug.  She always sits with me during church, and she hits and kicks the other children who try to hold my hand.  Her name is Nunu.

Nunu is one of 22 girls at Pastor Noel's orphanage.  She is five years old.  She likes to play with jewelry, dance, and get in trouble.  She bites when she's upset with you.  When Nunu was very young, her mother died.  Her father struggled to provide for her, but ultimately came to the conclusion that it was impossible.  Not enough money, not enough food, not enough anything.  He would have to kill her.  So, he took his 3-year old daughter, boarded a tap-tap, and set a destination.  If no one intervened between now and where he was going, his daughter would die.  He was almost there when a Christian lady climbed into the tap-tap.  When she learned what the father was planning to do, she immediately begged to rescue the girl and take her to Pastor Noel's orphanage.  This is Nunu's heritage.

Two years later, this little girl whose mother is dead and whose father abandoned her is giving away her favorite homemade jewelry to a foreign white lady who's only known her for a month.

I look at the ring on my pinkie, and I see fingers intertwining.  Nunu's and mine, Haitian and American, black and white.  I see light in the midst of dark, hope in despair, life in death.  I see the power of Jesus to rescue a condemned life and build up hope, faith, joy, and love.  I see a rainbow where there was only a storm, stars where there used to be only black sky, a rose where there ought to be ashes.  I look at this ring, and I see Nunu.

Where Do You Go When It Rains?

There is a boy here in Haiti whose name is Gyver.  He is the oldest son in his family.  He has two younger brothers and a younger sister.  His mother's name is Atuna (ah-TUNE-uh).  I don't know where his father is.  Gyver and his family live in a tent.  On a wide, flat concrete slab mashed between a barbwire-tipped wall and a fence along with dozens and hundreds of other tents.

Gyver reminds me of Jesus.  The first time we met him, he prayed passionately for our team to be filled with the Holy Spirit.  The second time, he encouraged us not to become distracted in serving God (2 Timothy 2:4).  The third time, he preached to us.  Standing up with his Bible open in his hands.  For 45 minutes.

Gyver is fourteen.

It's raining in Haiti tonight.  A deluge of wide, thick rain that's been pouring down with a steady pitter-patter for the last two and a half hours.  I got half-drenched running from the front gate to the truck parked ten feet away.  The roads looked like rivers tumbling along at flood stage.  Women had set out overflowing, sloshing buckets outside to catch the rain run-off.  Motorcycles appeared in danger of drowning.  Everything was soaked.  I made it safely back to the staff house and watched the lightning play across the sky, felt the rumble of the thunder, listened to the rain tip-tapping against the roof.

And all the while, Gyver and his mother and his sister and his two little brothers lived in their tent on that slab of concrete along with dozens and hundreds of other tents.    Where does Gyver go when it rains?  How does he speak to God?  What does he think of us?  If it rains all night, does he get any sleep?  Is he drenched?  Is he cold?  Is he exhausted?

Where do you go when it rains?  How many times have you spent the entire night outside in a downpour?  How often have you had to wear sopping wet clothes until your body heat finally made them dry?  How often have you heard a 14-year old preach for 45 minutes?  How many kids remind you of Samuel in the Old Testament?  Of John the Baptist?  Of Jesus?

The longer I stay in Haiti, the more clearly I see that our stuff (cars, houses, clothes, furniture) has no worth when it comes to who we are.  Stuff can be nice, comfortable, safe.  But it doesn't help us to be like Jesus.  In fact, often it just gets in the way.  One of the most Godly, peaceful, wise, Spirit-filled, joyful people I know lives under a tarp above a slab of concrete.  Where do you go when it rains?

Team Testimonies: Marcio

Last night, Marcio told me his story.  It started off with a discussion about the book he's writing, about him and his fiancee.  Then he said, "I ran away from home when I was fifteen."  Marcio's story is one that tells a full, incredible story in each separate sentence.  It's like watching a James Bond movie - only this is true.

Marcio was born in Portugal.  His parents, he, and his twin sister moved to Canada when he was young.  At 15, Marcio saw that his parents were struggling to provide for him and his sister.  His family was falling apart.  He ran away.  Crossed into the States twice and got arrested twice.  The third time, he rode in on the underside tire rack of a semi-truck.  A year later, he was living in an alleyway with cardboard boxes for a bed and a dumpster lid for a roof.  An older lady, a mother herself, saw his need, befriended him, and invited him to live in her basement.  He enrolled himself in school.  He nearly got kicked out of school.  Something about a slip-and-slide using oil and a ramp in the school building.  He got involved with drugs.  He started selling drugs.  By the time he was 18, he had enough money to buy a penthouse, a Mustang, a flat-screen TV, and basically anything else he wanted.

And then he lost it all.  The upscale housing complex kicked him out, his bank started asking questions about where he was getting his money from, his girlfriend cheated on him.  He moved.  He got a job.  He kept doing drugs.  He lost his job.  The lady that had let him live in her basement offered to help him again.  But she said he couldn't do drugs, and he had to go to church.

God started to get ahold of Marcio.  He became involved in Young Life, a group geared towards Christian teenagers.  A friend invited him to a meeting - said they were going to a club.  Marcio thought "bar" and showed up at the door with two six-packs.  He opened the door to a bunch of mothers, kids, and teenagers worshiping in the living room.  Through Young Life, God called Marcio to Haiti.

He came the first time with a group of ten people from his church.  They worked in a compound with the poorest of the poor.  They cleaned out a dirt latrine so concrete could be poured in its place.  They made friends with the kids.  They played.  And then one afternoon while they were out on the soccer field, the earth dropped.  Boom!    The animals started going crazy - dogs, cats, goats, pigs.  Then all the birds rose up into the sky, casting a shadow over everything.  And the ground started to roll.  Wave after wave.  Up and down.  Dust, screams, palm trees and concrete crashing, and under everything, that deep, deafening roar the earth makes as it grinds against itself.

Ten minutes later came the first aftershock.  Buckling the ground, collapsing ten-foot walls, burying houses.  Seventy-one aftershocks followed.  Three nights and two days.  And in the silences between the aftershocks, people singing.  Praising God that they were still alive.

Marcio saw death.  He saw more death than he'd seen birthdays.  He saw so much death, he got used to it.  He watched a man get shot at point-blank range in the midst of a mob fighting for food for their families.  One night, while walking the streets, he saw a house that had collapsed.  The heavy roof had fallen down on top of the walls under it.  Marcio saw a little girl pinned under that roof.  From her feet up to her chest, face down, she was stuck.  And she was still alive.  Marcio went to her.  He sat with her.  He made up a name for her, an age, the story of her life.  He prayed.  He cried.  He tried to lift the roof off the top of the little girl.  It wouldn't budge.  He had to go.  He had to leave her . . .

. . . When he came back later, the little girl was dead.

God broke open Marcio's heart to children.  God broke open Marcio's heart to the Haitian people.  God broke open Marcio's heart to the heart of God.

And then, eleven days after the earthquake, a UN helicopter came.  It landed on the roof and pulled out the white people who didn't want to go.  In describing it, Marcio said just one word.  Awful.  Mothers were throwing babies at them; children were clinging to their legs, refusing to let go.  One of the UN officers pointed a gun at a woman whose son Marcio had watched die.  Marcio punched the officer in the face.  He left the country in handcuffs.

Since then, Marcio has come back to Haiti.  He spent six months of the last year here.  He met his fiancee here.  He drew closer to God here.  He befriended the people of Haiti.  He knows more people in the airport, in the stores, on the streets than, I think, anyone else on our team.  He has a heart, an enthusiasm, a connection with the people of Haiti that is profound to see.  It is a pleasure serving with Marcio in Haiti.

Team Testimonies: Leeza

When I first met Leeza, I remember thinking how calm and kind she was.  Always cheerful, always with an encouraging word, constantly doing little, helpful things for others.

I heard Leeza's story at the airport yesterday.  We rode the bus over with Jordan and Zick, waited for an incoming team to arrive, sat in the shade, and talked.

Leeza's story starts in Barbados.  Her grandparents were born there and moved to the States to provide a better life for their ten children.  Brooklyn, New York became home.  Leeza says she, her siblings, and lots of cousins were very protected growing up.  The neighborhood kids would come to their gate, peek through the bars, and say, "Why don't you come out and ride your bikes in the streets?"  But Leeza's parents knew it wasn't safe in the street, so the children stayed at home.

But things at home weren't safe either.  Leeza's father was abusive, and that combined with her identity as an outsider in New York, made Leeza painfully shy growing up.  She remembers one night when she was five, hearing her mother calling her name again and again.  "Leeza!  Leeza!"  When she crawled out of bed to see what was wrong, she saw her father beating her mother.  She didn't know what to do, so she ran into another room and waited and cried.  Outwardly, life wasn't too difficult.  But inwardly, Leeza didn't know who she was.  Her grandmother had started a church in Brooklyn, and the family was "Christian."  But it was more a list of rules for Leeza than anything else.

Entering high school, Leeza switched from a Christian to a public school.  There, no one really seemed to care - about grades, about morals, about anything.  The same was true in college.  Leeza became friends with a girl who introduced her to a new scene.  Drinking, smoking, partying.  One night, Leeza got in a tense argument with a guy she'd known for years.  From her window, she called the police to come to her house, but when they came, she said everything was fine.  She was the one being abusive, not the other way around.  That incident made her realize that she was becoming exactly what she had grown up with - exactly who she didn't want to be.

From that point on, God stepped up His pursuit of Leeza.  She got expelled from college, her grandmother (whom she was very close with) died, she couldn't find a purpose for her life.  God used these things to bring Leeza into a personal relationship - not just a knowledge - of Him.  One Sunday morning, He told her to get up and go to church.  As she walked past church after church, He kept saying, "No, not this one."  Until she came to a very small church with so few people that the pastor was basically preaching just to Leeza.  There, she stayed for a semester, and God used that time and place to grow Leeza close to Him, to show her Himself.

Since that time, Leeza has gotten involved with teaching a Sunday school class, intentionally meeting with fellow Christians, and growing in the disciplines of fasting and prayer.  God called her to Haiti through the family of Christ  that He is growing her up in, and we have been blessed by her joyful, willing spirit here.

In the Midst of Contrast

Haiti is a land of contrast.  It is a land of crippling poverty and breathtaking gorgeousness.  Deep, swift kindnesses and sharp, slashing cruelty.  Inventive minds and debilitating habits.  Brilliant sunshine and ravenous nights.  It is a land of sorrow and faith, truth and lies.

We have seen many things here.  One of our favorite translators was shot just above his heart a couple years ago because of his cell phone.  A pastor lives in and out of poverty so he can provide for the 22 homeless girls under his care.  A father loses his mental stability when his two daughters are killed in the earthquake.  A small girl is spared from death when the father who is planning to kill her because he can't feed her climbs into the same tap-tap as a man who runs an orphanage.  A pregnant woman in a tent community asks for food to feed herself and the baby inside her.  A woman's heart crumbles when her husband dies, leaving her in charge of more than a dozen orphans.  A little girl asks an American to be her mother and take her home.

This is Haiti.  This is heartbreak.  This is life.

But we have seen more.  A local pastor buys souvenirs for an entire team of Americans who came to bless him.  A translator who spent the entire day working with us ends the day by washing our feet.  A homeless man carries seven chairs into the shade of a tree so every one of his foreign visitors can sit down.  A young blind man dreams of preaching the Gospel in all the world.  A church takes every movable fan in the building and points them at the group visiting from the States.  A 15-year old boy living with his mother in a tent community comes and prays in power for the Holy Spirit to be strong in our hearts.

This also is Haiti.  This is heart-ease.  This is life.

We have been broken here.  We have been blessed.  We are beginning to understand what Paul meant when he said, "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."  We are learning that Truth does not change whether we're walking the trash-strewn streets of a tent community or the white, wet sand next to the waves.  We are learning to listen to the same Voice whether we're in the middle of a prayer walk, riding a tap-tap, washing dishes, or buying a soda.  We are learning how to follow the footsteps of Christ in Haiti and in America and in all the world.  We are learning how to be Jesus in the midst of contrast.  "I can do everything through Him who gives me strength."  Indeed, it is our desire to live daily, intentional lives only through the power of Him who gives us strength.

Team Testimonies: Josh

Happy Fourth of July!  We celebrated the day by hiring a tap-tap, driving up into the mountains as high as we could go, and looking down at the two million people who live in the capitol of Haiti.  It was gorgeous.  We saw goats, brown-eyed cows, wild horses that weren't really wild, and little naked children yelling, "Blanc!  Blanc!" at us from the side of the road.  We sang songs from "The Lion King" and "Aladdin."  We got rained on - poured on, dead drenched - and were actually cold.

This week is our week off.  We've got one team here that is being led by Steve and Jordan, the newest member of our team.  So, the rest of us our here at the staff house, planning day trips, playing guitar, meeting on the rooftop, and eating Ramen noodles.  We're getting to know each other and learning what it looks like to live in intentional community, to be brothers and sisters, to love like Jesus.

We've been sharing stories.  Between the six of us - and the translators - we've got lots of stories.  It has been inspiring to see how God has taken our separate selves - where He took us from - and brought us all here together to build up the Body of Christ.

I would like to share my teammates with you.  I want to share their testimonies so you can begin to be amazed, as I have been amazed, at what God has done, what He is doing.  I'll start with Josh.

Sunday I sat down with Josh, and he shared his testimony with me.  For about an hour.  God has called him mightily.  Before Josh was born, his father had another son named Craig who died of leukemia at the age of thirteen.  But God promised him another son, and when Josh was born, his father lifted him up to Heaven and gave his son over to the Lord.  Josh grew up in a Christian home but a divided home.  His parents were divorced.  He lived with his mom and grandmother, both of whom had survived abuse in the past.  They lived as African-Americans close to poverty in racially-divided Mississippi.  When Josh was in kindergarten, his school teachers taught the children how to zigzag to dodge bullets.  That's the kind of world it was.

But God protected Josh and brought him up through high school and to a prestigious college.  And there Josh forgot the Lord.  It started with a relationship with an unsaved girlfriend, and slid from there into alcohol, abuse, and secret societies seeped in demonic practices.  To all outward appearances, Josh had it all: a shiny car, lots of friends, money, girls, everything.  Inside, he hated it.  He hated life.  He hated himself.

One night, his mother called - in tears - and said to her son, "I know you're hurting right now and going through a lot of pain.  I just pray that you don't give your soul away."  And something in Josh broke.  Because he knew he had given his soul away.  He knew he had seen the truth of the Gospel and then spit in the face of Christ and walked away.

Paul says, "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners - of whom I am the worst.  But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display His unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on Him and receive eternal life."  In Josh, God is raising up another Paul, to make plain the light and grace of the Gospel to a world chained in darkness.

Josh is now a man filled with the Spirit, strong in the Word, intent on following his Lord and Savior.  He quotes Scripture almost as much as my dad.  His gift is the gift of prophesy and discernment, and we have seen God use those gifts mightily here in Haiti.  Back in the States, Josh is a part of an intentional Christian community in the slums of Baltimore, working to love the least of these, to be the hands and feet of Jesus, to show them the face of Christ.  It is a privilege to serve with Josh in Haiti.

Blessed

I have one word for this last week: Blessed.  We have had quite simply, quite astoundingly, a blessed week.

We might have seen it coming.  Mark and I were in charge of a group of seventeen (12 youth, 5 adults) flying in from a church up in Michigan.  They arrived in Haiti after getting stuck overnight in an airport stateside and freezing in the air conditioning.  They walked out to meet us smiling.  They cheered for the driver who dropped us off at Pastor David's doorstep after maneuvering a full-sized school bus backwards through a very narrow residential street.  And that was just the beginning.  Day one, they thanked God for the heat.  Day two, they thanked God for a four hour church service, half of which wasn't even translated into English.  Day three, they thanked God when we ran out of breakfast dishes that we still had plenty of food.  Day four, they thanked God for the cold Cokes with dinner while we were waiting for more water to arrive.

They thanked God for everything.  I never heard a complaint, an argument, or a gossiping word.  They reminded me of the Haitians.  They reminded me of Jesus.  They were such a blessing.  There was a lot of music at Pastor David's house this week.  Half of it came from the church groups that meet almost daily on his front porch.  Half of it came from a group of teenagers sitting on the rooftop at all hours of the night, praising their Savior and God.

The hardest part about the week was discerning how to take the group deeper.  How to meet them where they were and pull them closer to Christ.  So, we prayed, we listened, we taught.  And God showed up.  I said before I came here that I didn't really know what I was getting myself into coming here, and if God didn't show up, we were going to be in trouble.  I can honestly say now that He has never once failed us yet.  This week, I saw a teenage boy walk up to a stranger on the street and start sharing Scripture with him.  I saw teenage girls circle up around a woman and her baby and pray and worship for a full hour.  I heard them shouting out, "Our God is mighty to save," at 10:00 at night.  I saw them preaching the Gospel through an enthusiastic reenactment of the Good Samaritan, Jonah, David and Goliath.  I saw the King of kings become bigger, closer, more real to the eyes of 17 of His children.  As one of the young men put it, God took the small gap of His love that they had known before and ripped it open to a wide, flowing river.

Now we've sent these 17 back to the States.  On the last night, we washed each others' feet, the same way Jesus did with His disciples.  Only we used wet wipes.  Our feet were really clean by the time it got around to midnight.  Now Christ has sent this group back to be His face and voice in an American, civilized, individualized, lonely culture that needs a Savior every bit as much as the shoeless, shirtless, fatherless kid living under a tarp in Haiti.

This week, Jesus called Trevor, Brianne, Hunter, Mariah, Liz, Andreas, Mel, Chris, Delynn, Caleb, Amber, Lydia, Alex, Hannah, Josh, Ben, and Mallory.  I know.  I was there.  I saw them answer the call.  He's not done calling yet.  If Jesus has washed your feet, if Jesus has washed your soul, then He has set you an example.  Now He says, "Go and do as I have done for you."