Tuesday morning

Today Lisa was talking about how she wants to stay.  She is seriously thinking about coming back in June.  Marc would love for her to be here.  But the tremors make him hesitate.  We had one last night and again while I was typing this morning.  The ladies in the kitchen want to see the Honorat children but they say to Lisa that if she brings them down they absolutely can not sleep in the house.  All of us think of this while we are lying in bed at night.  It is difficult to avoid these thoughts.  I pray myself to sleep, thinking of my family and I do not let the images of the earthquake take purchase. But what a dilemma for the Honorats.  Their hearts are here, though the treasures of their heart, their children, are safest there in Canada.  I am certain that they wait until it seems clear to them, and if they are sent, God will shelter them.  His very timing, that he kept Lisa and the children safe in Canada when the quake struck, is made clear in how Marc struggles with PTSD symptoms following the quake.  She points out how terrible it would have been if they were both struggling.

The allure of this place is so evident when you stroll through the countryside.  It is verdant and fragrant and languid.  The shore is warm and gentle.  The people are beautiful, creative and sweet.  Last night we watched as our dinner was drawn from the sea. (Poor Brian had hoped to go out in one of the dugout canoes and that was a comedic disappointment but that is a story for another time.)  The men cooked the lobster and crab and conch over coals in our campus yard.  It was such a feast! 

I can't get over the children.  I confess, though I am so anxious to get home to my babies (big and small) and my sweet husband, I am on the verge of tears and my throat closes when I think of leaving. A little girl named Mary followed us through the market yesterday.  She was about Maggie's age, seven or so, but it is hard to tell because malnutrition stunts their growth.  All she wore was a black t-shirt worn to a charcoal smudge of color.  She held our hands and glanced shyly up to us, chirping things in Creole.  Mostly, she watched us with tentative sideways glances, traveling down to the shore and then all the way back up to the busy main thorough fare.  No one called after her, no one stopped her.  She was hungry but we are not allowed to give food or money because it can create a dangerous situation.  It truly breaks your heart.  As we drove away she watched us, her face leaping in brightness as I caught sight of her and waved.

I see Barbie being effected much in the same way that I was on my first trip here.  You rise and fall with the joy and sorrow of the place.  Though the joy is less frequent these days.  At times you are caught up in the deeply evocative nuances of this place and then plunged into a desperate longing for home.  I look so forward to hearing her reflections on this adventure when we return home.

I will be sad to leave the new friends we have made on the medical team.  It has also been good to spend time with Jessie.  I have always connected with her but in this place you are forced to be your truest "real."  I love the conversations we have all shared. Last night Kathleen (team coordinator) who had been sleeping in a room all by herself, moved into ours after spending two sleepless nights plagued with thoughts of what was outside the walls and what would happen if another quake hit.  She has a very upbeat personality and does not seem at all timid or prone to emotionalism.  I know from my previous visit that any isolation here is a ponderous feeling. The strangeness of the place is very visceral and profound.  She admits that she slept better being in with all of us.  We understand, we all agree we are better together.

The days will accelerate as we near departure for home. I must leave this office and get out into the soft Haitian air.  It is raining a great deal now but I love it and I feel the need to keep moving to capture the images that will convey this place.