Feminism Has Not Yet Reached Haiti

Day 3 (Tuesday, Aug. 3)

Leogane, Haiti

The heat and humidity is stifling this morning. My shirt is soaked through within an hour. By 8 a.m., I stopped twice to rest and drink lots of water. Most Haitians go through on a daily basis for half the year. I realize how difficult it is to accomplish anything in the heat of the day.

We finally finished hanging the gate by mid-morning. Just as we finished, some Americans in green construction helmets stopped by for a visit. Two of them were structural engineers who came to help rebuild homes for The Christian Reformed World Relief Committee (www.CRWRC.org). With them were two Haitian men learning carpentry skills in the organization’s nearby trade school. The group leader said the ministry trains Haitians in such skills as carpenters, electricians, plumbers and welders. These are all skills the locals will need in order to rebuild their devastated country.

We asked them to play a joke on our leader, Jonathan, who is a computer tech guy by trade but struggles with construction lingo. We asked them to tell him they were there to inspect their cement beams. It fell for it hook line and sinker.

***

Feminism has not arrived yet in Haiti. Each day, I see the girls go fetch water from the neighborhood well about 100 yards away. One of the little girls grabbed my hand today to come with her and I went, teasing everyone I had just been asked out on a date. Off we went, holding hands. I grabbed the empty bucket from her hand, and she smiled. Perhaps no boy or man had ever performed such a gesture for her.

The well has an old-fashioned hand pump with a lock on it. I don’t know who has the key or if it is ever locked up. Perhaps 100 families draw water to drink and to perform daily necessities around the home, such as cooking and washing clothes. The engineers said the well is dug 150 feet deep in order to provide fresh drinking water year-round, including during non-monsoon season times, roughly half the year.

The little girl had a two-gallon container, which, by my calculations, is about 16 pounds. She insisted on pumping the well herself, but I grabbed the bucket in one hand, her hand in my other when it was full. Together, we walked slowly back to the compound. When we got to the front gate, she promptly grabbed the bucket from me. I let it go, trying to understand this antiquated custom. Throughout the day, the girls would grab one or two water containers from a gallon to 5 galloons and fetch water for the orphanage. We drank strictly bottled water all day, but the children drank from the well. We were told to not let the children drink from our water bottles, because other children would feel left out. Sanitation and health issues also were involved, from Haitian lips to ours.

Many of the children simply want to be held. They either walk up to you and grab your hand or put their arms up, implying for us to pick them up. It is easy to accommodate their always friendly faces. Some of them lost one or both parents in the January 12 earthquake. Some parents simply dropped their children off, because they no longer could care for them. Our main task during our week here is to love these children.

This morning, one of the little boys who has taken to me, Oligas, came to visit me while I was working on the gate. I walked around with him, holding his hand, I picked him up and walked around some more, and I sat down in a chair in the shade and put him in my lap. Oligas speaks no English, and I know about four words in Creole. We make do as best we can. Love knows no bounds. Children feel love even without spoken words. Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he told his followers not to hinder a child’s love for his Father. Our love shows them God’s love for them.

Oligas comes to visit me a couple of times a day. I have grabbed his hands and swung him 360 degrees until we are both dizzy. I have hoisted him onto my shoulders, suddenly making him a giant among his peers. His smile is his way of thanking me. I hold him in my arms and rock him while my co-workers go on without me.

As we watch the work, he grabs my eyeglasses and puts them on. He figures out how to remove my sunglasses from my eyeglasses. He grabs my PGA golf cap and puts it atop his head. He cares not that the gap between my head and his is immense. I start to stop him, then think better of it. He is simply curious about things he has never seen. None of the orphans wear eyeglasses.

A choke cherry tree sits next to the front gate, and the children often come by throughout the day and pick a few red berries to eat. Oligas points for one, then another. Before long, he is loaded with more berries than he can possibly eat. He points again. I tell him “fini.” His continued pointing tells me we are not finished. I pick another. After the third “fini,” my shoulder hurts and we really are finished. He stops asking and eats his prizes, one by one.

Oligas tires of me and walks the 100 yards back to the trees, where the other children are playing with members of our kids’ team. The two giant mango trees is their haven from the sun during the day. It projects an enormous amount of shade. The temperature is at least 10 degrees cooler than the direct sun. Forty people always seem to be hovering under the trees.

Our gate has flaws, and we discuss how to fix them. Finally, we make a decision and finish the job. One of the Haitian men who helped us begins conversing with another in Creole. I joke with Paul that they are talking about how the gate is worse off than before. We laugh. We have earned the right to joke with the locals by being here and working side-by-side with them.

I tease Bill and Paul that my limited carpentry skills limits my good ideas to one a day. My one idea a day is enough affirmation to keep me going. By mid-morning, the gates swing freely without touching the ground, our main goal. And I helped.

***

I should have been fired from my second task, assisting Doug L in the building of a large tool box to house our battery-operated tools, spare parts and children’s knick-knacks. I keep getting pulled away by kids who want to play. After a few “careful” measures and cuts, our box is nowhere near plumb. Fortunately for me, I am given much grace.

Paul stepped in and quickly fixed our boo-boos. I don’t feel bad. As we inspect the situations, we realize that Haitian 2 x 4s are different than American 2 x 4s, which are actually 1 ¾ x 2 ½ inches. It’s a given in America. No one told the Haitians: Theirs are actually 2 x 4s. Unfortunately for us, most of the wood is severely warped, partially from the rain, partially from the humidity.

Something wonderful happened today, and we all could see God working in the lives of the Haitians. Paul, the son in the father-and-son team, began teaching carpentry skills to several of the Haitian men. Before long, all of us were teaching, even me with my limited construction knowledge. I taught painting skills, though I never could quite convey stroking the paintbrush with the grain. Sometimes, the extent of my teaching is to exhort the men. They soon come to understand what “great job” and a high 5 means. Encouragement, like love, is a universal language.

In a two-hour sequence, Paul taught the seven men how to use a skill saw, a hand saw, a power drill, a power screw driver and how to measure. These are skills they will need to get jobs in the changing Haitian economy. These skills can help these men put food on their families’ tables.

Watching the Haitian men learn new skills was worth my failure as a carpenter. Clearly, this was God’s intent all along. That’s how God uses us sometimes. We must let go of our prideful ways and humble ourselves so he can do his work. Throughout the week, Paul and Bill’s teaching became the focal point of our days.

Perhaps these men will one day show other Haitians the same love we gave them.

***

Our team is the only occupants in our hotel. Yesterday, Doug L and I were asked if we wanted to move to an air conditioned room. It took us all of 2 seconds to say yes and begin moving our stuff upstairs.

The hotel is a work in progress. We leave by 6 a.m., and the construction workers are already trickling in to begin their day. When we arrived, only four rooms had air conditioning. By Monday, two more rooms had air conditioning. Jonathan, our leader, tells us the manager promised the rest of the rooms would be air conditioned. We remind him that the manager didn’t say when. Haitian time. The air conditioning never came for our other two rooms. The five remaining people in un-air conditioned rooms sleep in the air conditioned rooms on sleeping pads. John, one of the twins, pops in our room every night around 10 after playing cards with his sister and brother.

The air conditioner has a habit of just pooping out at inopportune times. We soon realize that the city’s power grid has its limits. When the power grid is overwhelmed, it just shuts off, and there goes our air conditioning. The hotel has a small generator that powers the air conditioning much of the time. It is off all day while we are gone. We notice that when we meet in the evenings for Bible study that the air conditioning is shut off to save the owner a few bucks on the diesel bill.

***

Each night, we pray for specific needs. Sometimes it is something simple – yesterday, we prayed for a tent to cover our tools – whereas other days are more complex – such as the health of the children. Today, our tent prayer was answered. I tease Jeannine, who made the request, that the tent was twice as big as we asked. The tent was sitting unused on the other side of the driveway. After two days of looking past it, God opened our eyes to see it, just when we needed it.

Devastation and garbage are everywhere

Day 1 (Sunday, Aug. 1)

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

The severity of the sweltering heat hit me square in the face when I walked off the plane and through the hallway to the terminal when I was hit with a heat blast through a crack. I grew up in Arizona, so 110-degree, dry heat is something I dealt with regularly in the summer for 20 years. This was different; it was muggy and sticky.

After we gathered our 15-member traveling party (three met us there for their second week), we took a bus to customs. I saw my first tent in the distance near the tarmac. Once inside, utter chaos ensued. Everyone on our flight was standing in the same long, sweaty lines. Haitians, naturally, got preference going through the lines. In the distance, I saw hundreds of people trying to track down their hundreds of suitcases, while fending off hustling Haitians trying to earn a buck by taking your suitcase to the customs’ luggage checkout counter. It was a distance of perhaps 30 yards, but with the massive body traffic might take hours.

We spent roughly 30 minutes in line to get our passports stamped (my first ever). The building was your typical metal airport hangar, but with no air conditioning and only a few fans. I estimated the temperature to be 120 degrees F with 70 percent humidity. Sweat constantly dripped from my body. Most Haitians keep a handkerchief in their pockets for wiping their brow and face. I made a quick mental note of that.

Once through the line, we had to swim through some 300 bodies for our 25 pieces of luggage, including 10 extra suitcases with donated children’s clothes and tools and equipment for the construction team. Five different men boldly grabbed my suitcase, trying to “help” me, only to be given a stern “non!” and a wag of my index finger. I can’t fault them for trying to make a buck; they’re at least willing to work. One of my teammates offered a Haitian man $2 for maybe five minutes work and was told, “Not enough,” he said with palm out. “Take it or leave it,” he was told. He took it and went on to his next victim.

The various Haitian baggage handlers bickered constantly over who carried what bag and who should get credit. I know about five words in Creole, but I’m certain I heard a few loud four-letter insults.

The men in our group tried to take charge and protect the women in our group as best we could. We stacked carts four-suitcases deep, and I was in charge of one, with my personal suitcase and a second suitcase filled with children’s clothes on board. I didn’t let it leave my sight. I feared being asked by a customs agent: “Has anyone other than you handled your bag in the airport?” Well, yeah, 13 Haitians handled my bag. Duh.

Next up: getting all 25 bags through customs. The first cart was being handled by John, one of the 17-year-old twins. The woman agent asked him to open a bag, and she went through it for a minute. She waved him through. I was up next. I was motioned to put the top suitcase on the counter in front of her.

In broken English, she asked what was inside. I told her, “Children’s clothes.”

“For who?”

“An orphanage,” I told her.

“All of these bags are for the orphanage?”

I chose my words carefully, not wanting to lie. “Yes, all these suitcases are together,” I said.

She smiled. “You can go. All of you. Thank you for coming.” She waved us all through.

This was not your normal “Thank you for visiting Haiti” travel dialog. She was thanking us for coming to help the orphans. She knew what we were doing in her country.

It was the first miracle that our team experienced in Haiti. We would experience many more in our eight days there. As we walked out the door together, we silently gave thanks for making what could have been a difficult process as easy as possible. God had let us know in our first hour in Haiti that he was with us amid the chaos around us.

In the parking lot, en route to the truck that would haul us to our hotel, we had to dodge a few more aggressive baggage handlers. In the distance, we saw a “Cornerstone” sign and walked to it. For all we knew, this guy punched out the original sign-holder to make a few extra bucks. We met our contact outside, who led us a quarter mile to the parking lot, where our truck awaited us. We had a 10-minute walk through the bumpy, pock-marked parking lot, with hundreds of Haitians shouting at us for change or water. Most of the airport was heavily damaged from the earthquake and was closed.

Four kids loaded our bags onto the truck. Our leader, Jonathan, asked us to contribute $2 to the main handler, who would divvy up the $30 among his people, all for five minutes work. The good news is we didn’t have to pay for parking.

The drive from the airport to our hotel was 20 miles, but it took us nearly two hours in normal traffic. When I say normal, I mean normal for Port-au-Prince. We drove on the main road from the capital city to Leogane, the epicenter of the January 12 earthquake that devastated this tiny Caribbean island. Much of the road was not paved. Most of it was filled with ruts and pock marks that sent drivers from the far right of the road to the far left in a matter of seconds. Each quick swerve brought honks from on-coming traffic and gasps from the 22 passengers in back, including the five Haitians who bravely sat on the back with no handhold or seatbelt.

From the back of the truck, I saw nothing but crumbled buildings (but not torn down), utter devastation, filth, stench from garbage strewn everywhere and hopelessness on the faces off Haitians. Rubble from broken buildings lay on the main road. Blue tarps and tents were everywhere, side-by-side in every vacant lot and park in town.

One-person businesses were everywhere. Men and women of all ages hawked their wares on every street corner. Motor oil, bottled water, sodas, gum, clothes, fresh produce, cooked food, stores on a stand – you name it and it was for sale.

White people in the back of a truck brought stares from the thousands of Haitians we passed by. We quickly learned that a friendly “bonswa!” (good afternoon) brought a smile and return “bonswa” from Haitians. Most of the Haitians we would meet were friendly.

Traffic is heavy on every square foot of the road. It is filled with motorcycles (often taxis) with as many as three people on board, personal cars and pickups, trucks like ours hauling goods and semi-tractor trailers. And public transportation. No, not busses like we see in the United States but little mini-pickups that had metal cages in their bed with benches on both sides. It wasn’t unusual to see both benches crammed and with people on the floor, standing on the back bumper holding on for dear life and even sitting up on top. I counted 21 people in one pickup/bus. Every person had the same empty look on their face. Few vehicles have air conditioning. Haitians shout at each other for every driving transgression, then move on.

The larger your vehicle, the more respect you get when you weave. Thankfully, our driver was an expert at avoiding ruts and weaving through traffic.

I reserved three waters in my suitcase, but it was buried at the bottom of the pile. I was sweating profusely. Katy, one of the women in our group, offered me a drink of cold water. I swallowed my pride and took a drink, a big drink. “Thank you,” I said, humbly. “No problem. If you need more, just say so,” she replied. I said so a few more times on our long, hot drive.

All the way, we prayed. The truck’s transmission was shot and slipping constantly. Every time we stopped, we held our breath as to whether we were going to move again. Each time, we eventually moved. The road was dusty much of the way.

This form of travel was foreign to us foreigners but a common, everyday occurrence for the locals.

It is Sunday and many of the women and girls are wearing pretty dresses, and the men are in coats and ties, walking with Bibles in hand. Church is going on somewhere nearby – or maybe miles away. I could see a few open-air services going on as we drove through town.

Finally, we reach our hotel. Our 18-hour venture is over. Rest was coming. On the gate of our hotel was a picture of a gun with an X through it. Was this an ominous sign? We joked about it, but inside, I was wondering what I had gotten myself into.

Missing Haiti already

Somewhere between Miami and San Francisco

As I write in my journal, I am 5,000 feet up on American Airlines flight 1817. Looking out my tiny window, I just watched a magnificent, cloudy sunset on the horizon, a gift from God, I think.

We are on the last leg of our 18-hour trek home from Leogane, Haiti to San Francisco, which began with a 4 a.m. (Central time) wakeup call for our departure to the airport. We would land at 10 p.m. Pacific time. Our day included spending four hours in the Port-au-Prince airport and four hours in the Miami airport: eight hours in airports and nearly seven in the air.

For the past few days, I’ve been craving a cheeseburger and fries, Haagen Dazs ice cream and a Starbucks coffee with real, honest-to-goodness cream from a cow. I managed to nail three out of four at Miami airport diner with three of my mates. No time to search for ice cream, though.

After dinner, I practically sprinted to the Starbucks some 200 yards away from our gate in order to get back to board While waiting in line for several minutes, I felt like preying on people’s good nature by imploring “I just spent a week in Haiti helping rebuild an orphanage, and I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee all week. My flight’s about to take off; will someone PLEASE give me cuts in line?” Alas, our group’s study for the week was on humility, and I just couldn’t do it.

I am exhausted, but I cannot sleep. My brain is going a hundred miles per hour, going over my to do list when I get home. I close my eyes, but my mind keeps wandering back to Haiti. No, not the 95-degree, 95-percent humidity work days. Not the food. Not the maddening traffic. Not the airport. The people.

There are so many writing projects I want to tackle. There are so many memories to remember. Some make me laugh, some make me cry, some make me think, some make me angry, some make me pray.

At every stage of our long journey today, my teammates and I swap stories, mostly the funny ones. It helps to keep the memories flowing. They all know I plan on writing this blog about our mission trip to the orphanage in Leogane, Haiti. As one of them, Dustin, waited in line for the cramped airline bathroom, I told him, “Don’t think about the bathroom at the orphanage.” We both laughed.

“Did you get a picture of the bathroom?” he asked. I did not. “I did,” he smiled. “You gotta write about the bathroom.”

“I’m going to write about Rebecca,” I replied. We both laughed at the inside joke. Readers will just have to wait for that tale.

Then he returned to his seat, and I to my journal. Note to self: Write about orphanage toilet.

Mostly, I can’t stop thinking about the children. Their faces are embedded on my mind. I can’t forget them. I want to tell their story, because they deserve to be seen and heard. Is Oligas, my little buddy (think Gilligan and Skipper), OK? Is he playing by the mango tree? Is he thinking of me? Are his eyes welling up, too? Is he wondering if he’ll ever see that white man with the great beard and tan golf cap again? I wonder, too.

The most important lesson we learned this week came courtesy of Jeanine, one of our kid leaders. As we get back to our normal, everyday lives, we will tell others about what we did at the orphanage. I’ve chatted up the experience with my two seatmates, two women from the Bay Area returning from a short vacation. People have the same response: How neat that you could go and do that for the children.

The focus is on us and what we did. The truth is, everything we did last week was God’s doing, and Jeanine challenged us to give God the credit. He orchestrated everything we did so that people could see his glory. We were there to let those 78 children and 10 employees about God’s love and provision.

God laid it on all 18 of our hearts to go to Haiti when the call came out this spring. He opened the door for us to get time off from work and away from our families. He provided the $1,200 for each of us to go, in unique and different ways. None of us received scholarships to go. God gave us ideas to share, strengthen and to persevere in the blazing tropical climate. He gave us strength to work and even when we didn’t sleep more than three hours a night. He gave each of us different skills, from 17-year-old twins John and Brian to nearly retired Bill. Some were great with kids, some were whizzes with a saw in hand.

Me? I’m just so-so with kids, though I was aces with Oligas. Truthfully, I stink as a carpenter, though I was a pretty good at gophering. I gave lots of encouragement to those around me. Though I’m a caterer, I did not cook a single meal down there.

My gift is telling stories and for the next 2-3 weeks, I’ll be telling our stories, one by one.

I tell these stories so that I won’t forget them. I tell them so that I won’t forget Oligas and his buddies. I tell their stories in order to inspire others to pray for them and perhaps one day go down there themselves.

What I want to share with readers is that God hasn’t forgotten the Haitian people, in the midst of the worst catastrophe in that nation’s sordid history. God never stopped loving those children, many of whom were buried in the January 12 earthquake. I want people to know that God is large and in charge in Haiti. He doesn’t do that by grabbing big headlines in the media. He does it one by one in the hearts of Haitians.

In a few hours, I will finally put my head on my pillow in my own comfortable bed. I will return to my comfortable Western life. I will drink my coffee with cream every morning. When I want a Haagen Dazs, I can drive the four blocks to the store and purchase a container. I don’t deserve it. Oligas and the other orphans fell asleep hours ago, when darkness, struck, in the same hot, perspiring way they do every day.

Leaving My Comforts Behind

Most of my days are filled with routines, some fun, some trivial and some difficult. Most days, I arise from my comfortable bed between 5:30 and 6 a.m. I wake up to a quiet house with a cool breeze blowing through open windows of our two-story condominium. I take a hot shower to help loosen up a body that feels the aches and pains of being 51, having had two discs fused in my neck in 1995, who has chronic bursitis in one shoulder and arthritis in most of my joints.

After I get out of the shower, I make my morning coffee by grinding fine Colombian beans, listening to it brew in my gourmet coffee maker, then add the requisite half-half – never the powdered cream or non-dairy creamer and milk only when my preferred creamer is empty.

I read the Bible near first light, pray, and read the morning newspaper – all over a steaming hot cup of coffee. As I read, a heating pad warmed in the microwave oven wraps around my neck or rests on my shoulder. Half an hour later, ice sits on the same spot if I am in pain.

Three weeks ago, I injured my right shoulder, my good one, by lifting a propane tank after competing in a chili cook-off at my church. Since then, I’ve been managing the pain through stretching, light lifting, oodles of Ibuprofen, heat and ice and prayer – something I’ve done more days than not since age 21 – and lots of prayer. If my shoulder doesn’t get better by Monday, I may not be able to fulfill my desire to work on reconstructing an orphanage in Leogane, Haiti. My team leaves tomorrow night and will arrive in Leogane sometime early Sunday afternoon in sweltering heat and humidity.

When I am in Leogane, all my items of comfort will be left behind. My bed may not be comfortable. The hotel we are staying in may or may not have air conditioning to battle the low 80s temperature we will face most nights during our stay. I will be working in 95-degree heat and 95-percent humidity during the day, so having air conditioning then is a moot point.

According to the Starbucks locater map, there are no franchises in Leogane. Drinking black coffee or coffee with the powdered cream is a very reasonable possibility. Although I brought one-time use ice and heat packs, they are meant for emergencies, such as hurricanes and earthquakes. Or falling off a roof. I will continue to take 600 mg of Ibuprofen several times a day until I return from Haiti.

At least for me, pain always seems to be a pre-curser to going on short-term mission trips. Five years ago, when I went to Hackberry, La., severe back pain nearly forced me to cancel my trip. Then, the day before we were to leave, the pain miraculously disappeared and I was able to roof houses every day and carry heavy shingles up ladders to roofs. Amazing what prayer and God can do when you choose to serve God in some God-forsaken place.

I have asked friends to pray for my shoulder so that I can work hard on my trip. I come from Midwestern farm stock and a family with a strong work ethic. Not working hard is inconceivable. Haiti is not a vacation for me; it is work. In the past three weeks, I have gone from not being able to raise my right arm at all, to being able to rotate it fully with very little pain. That in itself is a miracle.

What I learn from times like this is that my life is totally in God’s hands. For three weeks, I have prayed for a complete healing of my shoulder, knowing full well that if God chooses not to heal me I may be switched to the team playing with and loving the 80-some orphans in our care. Maybe God has something to teach me in that area. I don’t know.

I do know that I believe God has called me to lead single men, remarried men and teenage boys to do construction on the mission field, so I have signed up to do construction in Leogane. I need to learn carpentry skills in order to lead men. God does not simply choose a man to lead and put him into circumstances with which he can’t lead. Didn’t David first slay a lion and a bear before facing Goliath on a one-on-one duel on the battlefield? When I went to Louisiana five years ago, I went with no roofing skills to speak of the first time, but left with the ability to roof a house three months later on my own, when I was a group leader. God prepared me.

Tomorrow, it would not surprise me to wake up with absolutely no pain in my shoulder. Or maybe Sunday, after sitting scrunched up on an airplane for eight hours, I’ll exit the plane, backpack slung over my shoulder and pulling my travel suitcase and realize something: the pain in my shoulder is gone.

We shall see. One never quite knows what to expect on mission trips. We go leaving our bodies in the able hands of the one who created us, a God who is loving and compassionate. Beyond the construction goals, we go down to Haiti to simply love on people who deeply need to feel love.

God willing, he will provide real cream from a cow for my coffee on Monday morning. Or at least milk -- but nonfat is out!

To see where Leogane is located, search this link (it's just east of Port-au-Prince):

http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&q=haiti+map&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Haiti&gl=us&ei=OYRTTKPRPI34swP8oInaAg&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CCMQ8gEwAA

Memorizing Important Creole Phrases

Countdown: 2 days until I leave for Leogane, Haiti, where I will spend eight days helping my church rebuild an orphanage. During the day this week, I try to work and get things done, but it’s pretty hard: Haiti is on my mind.

In the past few days, I’m finishing up the final details before I depart with my team to Haiti. I am limited to a carry-on suitcase and backpack. I also will be checking-in a bag filled either with equipment for the mission or clothes for the children.

A carry-on, by definition of the airlines, must fit in the overhead storage compartments. I’m looking at the list of things that my church, Cornerstone Fellowship in Livermore, California, told me to bring, and I need a bigger suitcase. Checking in a second bag involves cash, which I don’t have to donate to American Airlines.

Mind you, these items aren’t tourist stuff; they are things I need to work on the construction project. My suitcase will have a pair of swim trunks, but only because the ocean is nearby and just in case. The hotel we are staying in does not have a spa to be soaking in at night when we’re done working. The hotel doesn’t have a Web site to tell us about their amenities, but we’re told that not all rooms have air conditioning. I may or may not need mosquito netting. This is Haiti.

So I’ll be taking work boots, long pants, despite the 95-degree and 95 percent-humidity conditions, work gloves, safety glasses, a hat to shield my head from the burning sun, wool socks I purchased just for Haiti, and shirts that absorb the sweat better. I will have to tuck my shirt in, because that’s how those nasty mosquitoes reach your chest and back. We were told the mosquitoes are big enough to ride in some cases. If I’m lucky, the ones who pick me will be in training. Just in case, I have pocket Deet, 18 for the mosquitoes in training and 40 for larger fellows.

Then there are the things I’ll need for the redeye flight to Miami, the layover, and the final leg to Port-au-Prince. I’ll need a sleeping pill for the flight, water for the flight, a few snacks, and reading materials. I’m dressing in shorts for when I land in Haiti and the 95-95. I want to be cool when I land. Is it possible to stuff a cheeseburger into an already crammed backpack?

And then there is the list of Creole phrases given to us. I have yet to memorize any of the terms. A few of them are easy, because there is a similarity to French. “Bonjou” is “good morning,” “Bonswa” is “good afternoon” or “good evening.” “Wi” is “yes” and “non” is “no.”

Then there are the important terms. “Manje” means “to eat.” Maybe I should learn “Be careful of what you eat.” Naturally, I will remember “kwit-manje” because it means “to cook.” “Bwe” is “to drink.” “Mwengendjare,” means “I have diarrhea.” “Mwen anvi vonmi” means “I feel nauseated.” “Quick, where’s the nearest toilet” is not listed on the sheet. “Souple, ban mwen Kaopectate” means “Give me Kaopectate.” “Prese prese!” (“Hurry.”)

I looked, but I don’t see the phrase, “Jesus loves you.” I must find that out.

Now that I’m thinking about it, that’s my prayer request. Pray that I’ll never have to say “souple, ban mwen Kaopectate” while I’m in Haiti. If I never use that term, I’ll be happy.

At our team meeting last week, someone suggested playing Charades, because we may be playing a form of charades when we get down there and try to communicate with Haitians, who speak French and Creole. Do you think Haitians know what the pee-pee dance means? If I’m holding my stomach, and writhing in pain, do you think they’ll figure out what’s going on? I think I can work agony on my face.

I think I’ll keep my list of Creole phrases in my back pocket.

For more photos from Rose Duncan in Haiti, go to this link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=114318335267188529411&target=ALBUM&id=5496243092348559089&authkey=Gv1sRgCJC-75K9yMWoPg&invite=CKHw5egM&feat=email

Hearing the Call to Go to Haiti

In the spring, after a massive earthquake devastated Haiti on January 12, my church, Cornerstone Fellowship in Livermore, California, talked about going down to help rebuild an orphanage we had come into contact with. On April 25, the church organized an informational meeting, and some 300 people filled our gymnasium. I was one of them.

Our mission was simple: “to lift up fellow Christians through relationships as we build, disciple, care for orphans and treat urgent medical issues.” Too, “we wanted to lift up the Haitian church” through the process. I wanted to go in the worst way and work on the construction team, one of four projects being undertaken. I heard God calling. Then I heard the cost: $1,200. Maybe not.

The construction team, or Nehemiah, would be in Leogane, about 20 miles (or 4 hours) east of Port-au-Prince. During the summer, the goal was to help rebuild an orphanage, a church and a medical clinic, as well as show the locals how to build 10-foot x 10-foot modular homes. Everything would be built to California code, not Haitian code, which is what caused the mess in the first place, from mostly watered-down cement that lacked supportive rebar.

That first meeting, they made it sound so warm and fuzzy. We would be staying in a hotel with no air conditioning (95 degrees, 95 percent humidity days is typical in summer). Mosquitoes big enough to ride. I’d need to get my first passport (something that had stopped me from previous mission trips). And shots, lots of shots, for such things as tetanus, hepatitis A and B, malaria, rabbies and pills for diarrhea. Fun times, this Haitian mission trip. On top of that, meals might be sporadic, so we were warned to bring energy bars that didn’t melt, beef jerky, nuts and a few extra bottles of water to tide us over. Just in case.

The Nehemiah team would be partnered with the Barnabas team, designated to work with the orphans, which were 30 at the time of the earthquake but now number closer to 80. What were once all girls are now a mix of boys and girls. That team was going down to do nothing but love on those kids who had lost one or both parents in the earthquake, or their parents gave them up because they no longer could feed them.

Just love them, as Jesus would love them. And build walls as strong as the fortified ones Nehemiah built around his beloved Jerusalem. (The other two teams were medical and discipleship in a tent city in another part of the country.)

A month ago, I sent out more than 60 letters and e-mails asking for financial and prayer support. Last week, I got a note from the church saying my trip had been funded, as it had to be because I knew I didn’t have anything to contribute.

But God knew how much money I had. He put me in the path of many friends who admired my courage for going. Truth is, many of those donors want to go but can’t for various reasons. Others can’t afford to help me and my teammates financially, but they’re willing to pray. All three are needed to make missions trips succeed.

This trip isn’t just about those orphans, either. So many short-term missionaries talk about clearly seeing God and hearing his voice in a ways they never had. I have friends who have given up the corporate world to serve God full-time because they heard God calling them in the field. I hear God telling me to take other men to foreign countries to build things, but I don’t have any carpentry skills to speak of, so I need a few trips to build those skills. Helps to have a little bit of credibility to your calling.

On Saturday night, my 17-member team meets in Pleasanton to pick up tools and donated clothes to load in an extra suit case that each member takes along with him (two carry-on and one check-in, filled with stuff to leave down there). Then we head to San Francisco International Airport to the redeye to Miami and then Port-au-Prince on Sunday.

Monday morning, the real “fun,” begins. I can’t wait to see what God has in store for my teammates and me.

Here’s how you can pray for me and my team members:

• A safe journey to and from, especially while traveling the roads of Haiti, which are treacherous at best (hence, the four-hour, 20-mile trip).

• That none of us gets sick from the food or water.

• That none of us contract malaria from the massive mosquito population.

• That the orphan team truly be able to love those children and let them see the love of Christ through us.

• That we be able to build relationships with potential Haitian contractors. Part of our mission is to leave worthy contractors down there so that the Haitians can rebuild their own country.

• That we help bring healing to a small part of a nation that badly needs healing.

• And, for me, pray for healing in my right shoulder, which I threw out a couple of weeks ago carrying a propane tank at the chili cook-off I won. I know how to manage pain well, and I'm doing everything I can to reduce the pain and swelling.

Thanks again for your support. I’ll blog again when I return August 8.

For a look at photos from Rose Duncan with Cornerstone's Haiti mission, go this link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=114318335267188529411&target=ALBUM&id=5496243092348559089&authkey=Gv1sRgCJC-75K9yMWoPg&invite=CKHw5egM&feat=email

Feeding the Homeless: Watching God Work

Monday was a rough day for me. I was scheduled to cook a meal to the homeless for Serve the City at Vineyard Church in Livermore, California, meaning I’m in the Cornerstone Fellowship kitchen by 1 p.m. Last week, a fellow caterer asked me if I could work for him Monday from 6 a.m. to noon. I needed the money, so I said yes.

Suddenly, Monday was a 13-hour back-breaker, two days after a 12-hour day in the kitchen for Dinner for Six at Cornerstone. On top of that, I had done a poor job of recruiting volunteers for Serve the City, so I would be preparing a meal for 80 people by myself. Fortunately for me, I organize my time well in the kitchen, and I know exactly what needs to be done. I needed to have the food cooked by 4 p.m. and ready to transport by 4:15 for a 4:30 arrival at the church. Food would be served at 5.

I started volunteering with Serve the City in the spring, working with Sherry Leal, who coordinates the STC homeless meals. Sherry’s job is to recruit chefs, kitchen volunteers and to collect food donations. Her weekly budget is $150, and the group has fed as many as 150 people. During summers, the numbers go down because of the heat. Sherry and I often talk about the Loaves and Fishes affect of feeding the homeless. It is a miracle to feed 150 people for $1 apiece, but it happens every week. Churches that need a boost in faith need to consider feeding the homeless, because your faith increases when you see God’s provision over and over.

After Dinner for Six, I usually have leftovers, which go directly to Serve the City. Because I count “poorly,” the amount of food the church donates is pretty hefty some months. Perhaps, someday, God will give me the gift of counting, but until then we’re stuck with the donations.

On Sundays after D46, Sherry and I always talk about what’s available, from both ends. The plan is to cook a main entrée, often in casserole form, a vegetables, salad, bread, dessert and punch. Someone else handles dessert and mixing the punch. Thriftiness and a hardy, warm meal is the objective.

It was Mother Teresa who said, “When a poor person dies of hunger, it has not happened because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give the person what he or she needed.” It’s hard to hear the gospel when someone’s stomach is growling from hunger.”

My plan on Monday was to make beef enchilada casserole with ranch beans, because I knew we would have extra hamburger from Saturday night. Then, Sherry added two large turkey breasts, which would feed perhaps 50 people. I had three pans of what I thought were cole slaw left over from Saturday, but it turns out it was macaroni salad. Macaroni salad may be popular in Hawaii, but not so much in Mexico.

By 2 o’clock, I had four pots bubbling, two turkey breasts roasting in the oven, and I was sweating bullets. It was doubtful, I’d be ready by 4. I needed a little help. Next door to the kitchen is Parchments, the church’s coffee shop. I peaked in and saw bored employees, so I asked the manager, Chuck Highlund, if I could borrow one of them for 10 minutes to cut up corn tortillas for the enchilada casserole. His answer was “absolutely.” Miracle No. 1.

Miracle No. 2 was getting a church van to cart the food in cambers (food warmers) to Vineyard. I called Nancy de Matallana, the STC coordinator, and she finagled me a van.

Miracle No. 3 showed up at 3 p.m. in Dave Matas, the pastor of single adults at Cornerstone, who had just returned from a vacation in Oregon. We chatted for a while about his family vacation, then I asked him if he had 30 minutes to help me finish the enchilada casserole in order to get them in the oven for 20 minutes to melt the cheese and get the dish to above 140 degrees.

Miracle No. 4 came from the Parchments people washing my dishes while I took the food over to feed the hungry and needy. When I returned at 6, everything was washed. What a treat.

Cooking large meals comes down to timing and coordination. On my drive to church, I was praying for a miracle. I confessed to God that I had done a poor job of recruiting and planning, and asked God to cover my mistakes.

Over the years, I’ve cooked for dozens of meals such as Serve the City provides. Every single time, I am blessed to see God’s hand at work in ways I couldn’t have imagined before the day started. God needs his people to act on his behalf, so that he can do miracles in the hearts of those coming for help and food.

God needs you to help serve the lost. Today, commit to get connected to a food ministry that feeds the needy. Once a month is all God wants. Volunteering to serve others depens our faith in God, because we see God in action when our efforts aren’t enough.

If you have a story to share about working with a group such as Serve the City, email me and tell me your story in 100 words or less, and perhaps one day your story will appear in Food Parables.

Caring for the needy among us

Five years ago, Cornerstone Fellowship in Livermore, California came up with the idea for Rimz & Ribz, a combination car-show/barbecue activity for the family. The day was designed with one thing in mind: be an outreach to car buffs and barbecue nuts.

Aside from the cars, a house band played rock ‘n roll music, quality barbecue lunch was served at $10 per head, and this year offered the kickoff for a Chili Cookoff. The cooking contest actually got underway in May when our satellite church in Brentwood hosted its own Rimz & Ribz event, at which a Chili Cookoff and Rib Cookoff occurred. Brentwood extended the challenge to offer an opportunity to witness to a non-church goer in splitting the cookoff duties.

Foodies and car afficionados meander about the parking lot. As they walk around, a buzz occurs about how active Cornerstone is in the community and worldwide. To wit:

• On Mondays, Serve the City serves up 100 meals to the homeless at a partner church, the Vineyard, in Livermore. Some 20 volunteers dole out the food and build relationships with those coming through the doors. Clothing is also available.

• Throughout the month, the church collects good to distribute to the needy in our community. On the second Saturday of the month, 40 volunteers meet in Vineyard’s parking lot to distribute upwards of 70 boxes to needy families. Fresh eggs, flour, sugar, tortillas, bread, potatoes, canned goods, diapers and toiletries go out to families.

• Cornerstone just started giving English lessons to Latinos to help them improve their chances of landing a job.

• Cornerstone supports a growing Rohi orphanage in the slums of Nakuru, Kenya, a town of 800,000. The orphanage provides food, clothing and an education.

• Our church partners with Children’s Water Foundation and Meaningful Life International to dig fresh-water wells in Ghana, so that villages can survive and thrive. Fresh water is essential to life in sub-Sahara Africa.

• More than 300 Cornerstone people are going to devastated Haiti this summer as part of a short-term mission. Short-term missionaries spend eight days rebuilding an orphanage, sharing God’s word in a tent city, caring for orphans and healing people through medicine.

You get the point. I go to Cornerstone because I believe in its mission to care for the needy, in the midst of our own community and worldwide where we think we can make a difference by sharing God’s love for others.

Jesus gave us the command to care for the needy among us in Matthew 25:40: “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.”

What’s my part? I cook for that homeless meal once a month, my wife and I help with the food distribution every other month and I’m on the construction team going to Haiti, leaving July 31. Plus, I write and teach about using good food to share God’s love.

These are things I believe in because Jesus said it was important for us, his followers, to care for those in need. How do we share the gospel to people whose stomach’s are growling because of hunger? How do we share God’s love for someone who is shivering because she doesn’t own a coat?

This post is meant to encourage you to get involved. Although I won Saturday’s Chili Cookoff, I entered so that I could share the importance of caring for others, perhaps through food. Everyone has some kind of gift to share with others. Stop making excuses. Just do it.

Who would be the 2010 Chili King or Queen?

Over the years, I’ve watched a handful of cooking contests and laughed at the nervous contestants running around trying to get their food just the way they want it for the judges. Sometimes, it’s funny, sometimes I’m practically in tears when I see accidents derail potential winners. I’ve done the same thing on catering jobs, and it ain’t funny when it happens to you.

The good thing about planning ahead and arriving at 6 a.m. is that at 10:30, 15 minutes before the judging was to begin, I wasn’t sweating bullets and running around like a chicken with his head cut off. All was calm and serene at my cooking booth at the 2010 Rimz & Ribz Chili Cookoff at Cornerstone Fellowship in Livermore, California on July 10.

Those last 15 minutes, I spent perusing the ball scores and sipping on iced tea, pinky up. I was happy with my taste test at 10:30, so I was done adding spices. I kept hoping my chili would thicken up as it cooked, but it just wasn’t cooperating. Bad chili.

To thicken it, I added three separate roux’s, a mixture of flour and oil, but adding any more meant a potential pasty taste. Not good. The only way for it to thicken up was to cook it down over heat. The flavor kept enhancing, but it also broke up my half-inch pieces of chuck steak. It was getting thicker, but for the wrong reasons.

By that time, I had accepted that I had made a fatal mistake in my plans, and there was nothing I could do to change it. Maybe that’s why people on those TV contests are panicking: They realize their product isn’t winning, and they might even start over halfway through the contest. Me? I thought that was my fatal flaw, because texture is one of the judging elements.

My flaw was that my test didn’t match my contest recipe. My tests included beans, but in searching the recipes of past contest winners, I noticed no one used beans. For the contest, I didn’t change the amount of liquid to go into the recipe. Instead of the beans helping thicken up the chili, mine was runny.

As 10:45 neared, the contestants were told to prepare their chili for the patrons to come and try all the chilies, then pick their favorite on a judging card. Before that happened, I set aside the best of my chili in another, covered pot for the sequestered judging panel an hour later.

For $2, each patron – who came to check out the 100-plus cars and to eat a $10 barbecue lunch – received seven little paper cups and plastic spoons to try each chili, then pick one to come back to the one he liked best. Because my beef had broken up, I carefully doled out 3-4 chunks, then added a little chili juice. I felt like such a cheapskate. I kept waiting for somebody to scold me. “Come on: Where’s the beef?”

Slowly, comments started to come back to me that my chili was the best, a pleasant surprise because I thought I had blown it. I knew my chili had good flavor, but it had flaws. One by one, patrons came back to get another cup o’ chili.

Toward the end of the first judging, my mongo pot of chili was quickly dwindling. The contest told us to provide 18 quarts – that’s 4 ½ gallons, and I think I had 4 gallons in my 10 gallon pot. “Please Lord, let your humble servant have enough chili to finish the contest.” I think that was from the Psalms, chapter 151.

And the Lord blessed me, every so minutely. I think I had two quarts left of chili juice, sans meat, at the end. That was going home with me. All I’d had of my own concoction was perhaps 20 itty bitty teaspoonfuls for tastings.

After the initial judging ended, we had 15 minutes to prepare our judging packages. For me, all that meant was getting my chili boiling for five minutes, then putting it in the container and taking it to the judges.

Unlike the judging you see on TV, no one was running around frantically at this judging. Maybe it’s because our winner’s checks were only $50 for the patron judging and $150 for the official judging, whereas on TV, some of those contests have multi-thousand dollar prizes.

While we waited, I cleaned up. My station returned to its containers and into my car for the return drive home. (Actually, I had to drive to Pleasanton for a three-hour meeting for a mission trip I’m making to Haiti at the end of July.) I just wanted to go home. I was justifiably pooped after getting up at 4.

Thirty minutes later, I was warned they were ready to announce the winners. No butterflies in my stomach, no fingers crossed. I wasn’t praying for victory. I had fun, and that was my number 1 goal. I was sitting with a friend talking about the events of the day.

Then they announced me as the winner. It took me all of 10 seconds to get to where the announcer was standing, and by the time I got there, he had moved on to the next gift certificate winner. I looked around, dumbfounded. Is this it? I’m the 2010 Rimz & Ribz Chili Cookoff King, and this is all I get?

So I headed back to my table, head down. Then the coordinator cornered me. “You won both judging categories, which means $200. We’ll send you a check. Thanks.”

So, that’s it. I am officially the Chili King of North Canyons Parkway. Next year, I hope to defend my crown. And though I didn’t win a trophy to add to my second-place tamale contest trophy from 2004, I plan to get a gold tiara with purple lettering and wear it to church for the next month or two. Hey, I earned it.

Working hard to be the next Chili King

When I arrived in the Cornerstone Parking lot Saturday in Livermore, California, it was 5:55 a.m. – five minutes before the allotted start time. Fear immediately set in. I was the only one in the parking lot. Had I come on the wrong Saturday? After a few minutes of searching, I found the set-up guy. What a relief. Because I was first, I got one of the church’s two canopies, so I would be covered all morning from the blazing sun.

I wanted to use every minute of the 4 hours, 45 minutes allotted to us, with a 6 a.m. start. For me to become the 2010 Rimz & Ribz Chili King, it would mean lots of hard work, including testing my recipe and fine-tuning it. On Friday, I did all my shopping, cut up my chuck steak into half-inch pieces and began the 18-hour marinade in my special dry-spice rub. I have a travel container on wheels that I use for such events so I don’t have to break my back carrying heavy loads. I had an ice chest on the ready. I borrowed a 5-foot long, three-burner propane camp stove, plus a 10-gallon pot for the chili to simmer in.

The recipe I chose was an authentic (and red) recipe straight from the Chile Queens of San Antonio, Texas in the late 1800s, where the original chile (Spanish speakers use an e at the end, whereas English speakers use the i) came from. The recipe I came up with meant more work, because 60 dry chile pods had to be soaked for an hour in boiling water. The ultimate flavor and maroon color I was seeking came from using three different kinds of chiles: New Mexicos, anchos and mulatos. Chile purees can be bitter, but I countered that with sugar and roasting sweet peppers to throw into the mix.

I looked at past winners of the International Chili Society competitions, whose rules we used. Lots of ground beef and powdered spices. I’m more about using fresh ingredients whenever possible. Because of the time restrictions, I used canned tomatoes instead of roasting them on the grill, my preference. Beans were nixed because the last 10 ICS national titlists didn’t use them.

By 6:30, I had my water boiling to soak the chiles and the beef frying up in the mongo pot. After extracting all the beef and oil, I added a cup of red wine to deglaze the bottom of the pan. Those leftover yum-yums are great flavor enhancers.

I used dumps (such as pureed tomatoes, sautéed onions and roasted garlic in tomato paste and pureed roasted sweet peppers) to enhance the flavor. Instead of water, I simmered the beef in a combination of beef and chicken broth. It was two hours before I had the chile puree ready. After the pods had been soaked, the stems and as many seeds as possible were removed, then pureed with fresh water in a blender for 30 seconds. After tasting, I added a little sugar to offset the bitterness.

After two hours of work, I had all the ingredients in the pot. All those amazing flavors were being melded into what I hoped would be the winning chili. Every 30 minutes, I would do a taste test, then add spices. By that time, I’m down to a combination chili powder that’s fairly mild, ground cumin for a smoky flavor, kosher salt and ground pepper, about a tablespoon of each at a time until I found the mellow heat level I wanted. I did not want a hot chili that burned people’s mouths when they tasted it. That’s lunacy. I want my cooking to be remembered for its fantastic flavors, not for packing a punch.

By 9:30 and three hours of hard work, I was virtually done. For the next hour, I rested a little, drank some cold water, stirred the pot to look like I knew what I was doing and added spices occasionally.

Now, it came down to waiting on the judges and the people, each of whom would vote on the six entrants in two different categories. Stick around and find out who would be the Rimz & Ribz 2010 Chili King or Queen.