Of hugs and bon swas

Day 1 Continued (Sunday, Aug. 1)

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

After our team’s bumpy, two-hour ride in the back of a truck from the airport to our hotel near Leogane, we were promised some time to rest. We had been traveling for 18 hours, including a redeye from San Francisco to Miami, followed by the final leg from Miami to Haiti.

Our hotel is a work in progress. Some rooms are finished, whereas others are being constructed. Five rooms had air conditioning, which we paid extra for, and four of those went to the women in our group. My room had a simple 3-speed air fan, a double bed covered with a simple sheet, a table with two chairs and a tiny bathroom. The entire space was perhaps 150-square feet. We did have a shower – indoors even – with one handle with no H or C to designate the temperature of the water. We assumed it was cold, or at least we hoped it was. After working in 95-degree heat during the day, we wall wanted to take cold showers upon returning to our rooms late in the afternoon. But growing up in Arizona, I can tell you I took many cold showers that were actually warm. The prospect of taking a warm shower after working all day at the orphanage did not appeal to me.

Later that night, my roommate, Doug L, and I would put up a mosquito netting in our room. Opening the window was not an option, because that would let the mosquitoes in. Mosquitoes can only bite you if you let them inside. We decided we would rather sweat than hear mosquitoes buzzing about.

Our team’s R & R ended much sooner than promised. Our leader, Jonathan, a software guy leading the construction team, let us know we would be boarding the truck and driving the 25 minutes to introduce ourselves to the kids. Eating was also on our minds, and dinner was provided for us at the orphanage. We hired the orphanage cook to cook meals for us during Cornerstone Fellowship’s summer mission here.

Our team was now complete: 18 in all, with three staying over from the previous week. We were growing accustomed to looking out the back of the truck at the busy traffic behind us. Most of the Haitians stared at us, and we stared back. Car and truck horns are not your ordinary horn honks; most are loud air horns. We would hear that sound thousands of times during our week here.

Even though Americans have been coming to the region more frequently in the past six months, white people just aren’t a part of the culture. Americans don’t retire to Haiti, as they might so in neighboring Dominican Republic or Belize or Costa Rica in Central America. Haiti does not have a sewer system, a water works, garbage pick-up, and most homes don’t have electricity, so no air conditioning or even a fan. Hence, it is not the kind of place people come to vacation, though one of the cruise lines owns an island near Port-au-Prince. Only two airlines fly into Haiti.

Finally, we sense the truck slowing down for a right-hand turn, meaning we were closer to the orphanage. My heart beat would slow down dramatically once off the rough road.

Once the truck stopped, we sweaty Americans hopped off and were immediately greeted by the friendly children. Most were smiling broadly. We exchanged “bon swas, to introduce ourselves, making us fast friends. Some kids wanted to be picked up and held. Most would quickly grab your hand and just hold it and stare at you. A few kept a safe distance, not knowing what to think of the Americans. We were coached to let the kids determine how friendly to be. Pushing the children for hugs or high fives was not on our agenda.

The Haitian hellos lasted for five minutes. There are 78 children in the orphanage, but not all of them are present. I came in contact with perhaps 50 kids in rapid fashion.

In between greetings, I glanced around at my new settings. Our headquarters would be here, at the girls’ orphanage. The boys’ dorm was a quarter mile away, across the street. Before the January 12 earthquake, the orphanage did not include boys. The population doubled with one swift wind. Many of the children lost one or both parents to the hurricane.

The orphanage (I am choosing not to include the name of the orphanage in order to protect the identity of the children) is not your typical Haitian cinder block building. It is a temporary facility made of plywood walls and a tin roof. A cement floor gives it a sturdy foundation. Three doors connect to the outdoors, but there is only one window. Despite the typical 95-degree heat and high humidity, there are no fans in the room, requiring electricity, which is not hooked up.

The building consists of two dorm rooms; one for the older girls (roughly 12 and up) and one for the younger girls, with roughly 20 bunk beds filling each room. A storage room and dining room (our designated adults only room) are the third and fourth rooms. The entire building is perhaps 400 square feet. The kitchen is out back.

The “outhouse/shower” is 20 yards away and consists of cinder blocks with tarps acting as doors. Knocking, we would find out, consists of pounding your hand on the tarp and waiting. Inside is a hole in the ground. There is no toilet. Sometimes, toilet paper is present, sometimes not. As I peak inside, I secretly hope I will never have to use it.

Across the driveway sit five tents, two of which house local families who lost their homes in the earthquake.

In the distance, a hundred yards away, sit two large mango trees. Before long, children grab our hands and start walking us to the “trees.” We would soon realize that the massive amount of shade the trees offer make it the perfect place for the children to play. Virtually everything the kid team did with the kids is done in close proximity to the trees.

A small herd of goats eat grass and weeds nearby. Each one pants feverishly but cannot go far; each is tied by rope to a big-rooted weed or shrub. During the week, I did not see the goats ever drinking water.

The construction team quickly huddles to review our work schedule. Making cement pillars was primary on our list, as well as repairs to the front gate and various other repairs. If lucky, the church’s 10-foot x 30-foot storage unit would arrive from the Port-au-Prince port after being shipped by sea from San Francisco. The joke was that it took two weeks to ship the storage unit 6,000 miles through the Panama Canal, but it might take 40 days to go the final 20 miles. Such is the way business is done in Haiti, we are told.

Inside the storage unit is 40,000 pounds of equipment, tools and parts we would need to rebuild the orphanage, to California building codes, not Haitian, which don’t exist. That’s why the country virtually collapsed en masse under the stress of a 7.0 magnitude earthquake. The 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco was a 6.9. In Haiti, the bricks and cement structures are not strong enough to survive such a tremor. In our six days there, we would find out how just poorly constructed local homes and businesses are. (Across from our hotel, I can see a half a dozen homes being rebuilt in the same manner as before. Local construction techniques, for the most part, have not changed much.)

We played with the children for a little while longer, and then it was time to return to the hotel for our promised R & R. Even though we are exhausted, we want to stay with the children and the children want us to stay. We need rest for the next day’s work, though.

Seeing the children’s sad faces makes leaving difficult. Our group’s demeanor took on a somber feel on the drive back to the hotel. The children and their dismal circumstances are on our minds.

Caption: My teammate, Dustin, took a picture of the orphanage's toilet with his cell phone. This is a typical outdoor outhouse, with only a hole in the ground for doing No. 1 or No. 2. This is a good day; toilet paper is in the corner.

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

Memorials Should Be a Celebration of Life

Patricia Maselli died on July 4 at the age of 53, leaving behind two adult children and 10 grandchildren. One of the things I appreciated hearing at her memorial yesterday was how much she was loved by her family. They talked about her living life to the fullest. “Spontaneous adventures” were mentioned by several people. One after another came up and shared funny stories about her, including several about her penchant for fast cars and fishing.

I laughed quietly when her son told a story about her meeting her dad as a teenager by racing and beating him on the streets of Fremont. I helped her purchase a car at an auction a few years ago, and she bought the one car I didn’t think she should buy. It was a cute, little supped-up Acura Integra that looked like a hot-rodder. Patricia lost me at the first light. Sadly for her, a few minutes later, I found her, pulled over on the freeway, her new purchase steaming from under the hood because of overheating.

Now it made sense why she wanted a fast car.

I knew Patricia from our serving together in Focus Singles Ministry in Livermore,California, for several years. I helped her move to her last residence a few years ago. The Patricia I knew lived a life full of life struggles and far too much physical pain. I did not know her as well as I thought.

Several people, including her pastor of several years at a church in nearby Fremont, spoke of Patricia’s boundless faith. It had the same energy she had for life. She lived her faith by serving others. With Focus, whatever needed done, Patricia would jump into with zeal. Like most single adults, she liked getting gussied up for our various events and kicking up her heals a little. She also served in Cornerstone’s women’s ministry.

After she died, I volunteered to do the food for her service. Memorials and funerals are particularly hard for single adults because there is no spouse to plan everything. In Patricia’s case, her children and extended family were around to help out where possible, but family shouldn't slave away on such a day.

I don’t have any experience in providing food for memorials. At my dad’s memorial five years ago, several women from his church provided a simple lunch, sort of a faux potluck. Having food around allows friends and family to mingle and reminisce after the service for a while. People need to process death by sharing stories with others. It’s part of the healing with need. How did this person’s life impact us, good or bad?

In biblical times, funerals lasted for several days, and food was an essential element of the gathering. When people died, their lives were celebrated. Food brings people together at a time when sharing is important to our psyches. Without the food, too many people would just walk out the door and put that person’s life behind them. God wants us to remember them, because that’s what grieving means. Funerals and memorials should bring tears and laughter together. If it’s just one or the other, something is missing.

Yesterday was a learning process for me on two accounts. I learned that there was more to Patricia’s life than what I knew, and I learned how to prepare food for 100 people who want to keep talking about a friend or family member’s life. Here are a few thoughts:

• If money is an object, ask friends and family members to prepare a few dishes, potluck style. Fill an igloo full of ice and make lemonade. Set up a coffee pot and have on hand the various condiments. Use decaf for such events because no one needs more caffeine in the afternoon. Mini-waters were on hand.
• Finger foods are an essential part of a memorial, because people want to walk around and talk with friends and family members. Think appetizers, vegetables, fruit, a few proteins, cheese and crackers and a multiple dessert items.
• For $300, you can provide a fine spread for mourners that can bridge lunch and dinner. I had three helpers get the food and drinks ready. One did the drinks, two helped me prepare food and one helped me clean up. We spent three hours prepping and one hour cleaning up.
• Here are a few items we did yesterday: cheese, salami and crackers; artichoke dip; nuts; various veggies with Ranch dressing; cold shrimp and spicy dip; finger sandwiches made with turkey and cheese; grapes; brownies and biscotti.

The best part was when things started winding down. We asked the family if we could send the left-over food with them, and they were elated. They were all going to one of their houses to continue reminiscing. When they got there, the abundance of food we gave them took the worry of cooking away from them for the evening. That gave them all more time to laugh and cry together as they remembered Patricia Maselli, who was laughing and crying along with them … from heaven above.