I’m sure it will never leave me.

I’ve seen too much, felt too much. I will think of this place often. More importantly, I will think of its people often.

A village puppy

Just another day in the village for one boy

There have been, to be certain, some horrible, unimaginable parts of Haiti — the poverty, the diseases, the hunger. I’ll think of those things, too, serving as reminders as to how fortunate I am in my life and how wonderful a country the United States really is.

Peeking around a car

Peeking around a corner

Above all, else, though, I’ll think of the humanity I found here. The kids, as I’ve mentioned in previous updates, are amazing. Their singing, their smiles, their handshakes, their hugs — everything about them made each day better, and it will be difficult to go back to a place where kids are (rightfully so) afraid of strangers.

“Won’t let Satan blow it out … this little light of mine”

Coloring with kids

It’s already been difficult saying goodbye. I said personal farewells to a few of the friends I’ve made here, giving them some clothes to help in the days ahead. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

They’ve given back to me, too. One villager, Gustave, who is about my height, sat with me after I gave him a pair of khaki pants and a dress shirt. Through an interpreter, he wished me a safe return — both in terms of arriving back in Kentucky and, eventually, coming back to Haiti.

“You are here from God,” he told me. “I prayed for you to arrive, and you arrived.”

I had no words.

I still don’t.

Thank you, Haiti.

All smiles

You’ve seen her here before — she’s a little Haitian superstar to the missionaries, a tiny 4-year-old lady who is woefully malnourished and, as a result, most likely developmentally behind schedule. She’s undeniably cute, though, and she’s completely sweet, even when she’s asleep, which she can do almost anytime, anywhere, even standing up.

But this isn’t about Gerline.

Gerline has, at one time or another, been the subject of adoption talks by almost everyone who comes through Lifeline. My nephews have each, independently, asked if they could some day have her as a little sister. This is common; even if you only spend five minutes with her, you’ll be in love for four minutes, 45 seconds of that time.

About the only thing standing between Gerline and an adoptive U.S. family is the bureaucratic red tape. Granted, that’s a significant challenge, but don’t expect her family to interfere. We recently picked Gerline up for a trip to the beach, and her grandmother told us she didn’t mind if we took her back to America when we left.

Harsh words, perhaps, but when viewed from the Haitian perspective and not the American one, it makes more sense. Here, it’s almost an example of survival of the fittest, and when you are responsible for, in some cases, as many as 18 children, a special case like Gerline just seems to fall by the wayside. She’s probably never going to be able to fully care for herself, like other kids in the family, so the focus moves on to the kids who can immediately contribute.

I’m going to take a positive approach to it and think that Gerline’s grandmother knows that her little baby would be better off with another family in a country more suited toward the needs of a developmentally challenged child. They’re not asking her to be taken because they don’t care; they’re asking simply because they do.

But this isn’t about Gerline.

It’s not about her family, either.

They got me thinking about grandmothers and mothers, and today, of all days, I’m fully aware of how blessed I am with the women who raised me.

My late paternal grandmother was, by the time I was around, a small, frail woman, but she had the strength and spirit of an entire family. From her I learned that sometimes life gives you hard breaks, sometimes hard enough to shatter both femurs in a horrific car wreck, but when you believe in something greater than yourself, you’ll rise from two years in traction and walk again.

My maternal grandmother is maybe the one person who stood by me through every moment in my life, even when I didn’t deserve it. Up until age 16, I spent almost every Friday night at her house, watching the TGIF shows on ABC, and every time anyone makes the most casual reference to Full House or Perfect Strangers, it reminds me of those weekends on her couch. More importantly, though, I think of the days following my divorce, when it felt like every other member of my family was mad at me. One day, instead of nothing but junk mail, I received a card from her. I don’t recall the exact phrasing, but it essentially said, “No matter what you do, you’ll always be my grandson, and I’ll love you.” From her I learned that even the worst of behaviors can be forgiven, particularly when it’s someone you love.

My sister grew up wanting to be a teacher, and since she’s six years older than me, the early part of my childhood found me as her star pupil. She would sit me at a table, working with me on reading and writing lessons, including cursive. I was 4. Now, as I make my career reading and writing, I often remember how my love of words started with her. From her I learned that little brothers might be smelly and annoying, but if you guide them, sometimes you can set an example that pays off.

And then there’s my mother, a woman I once thought of as a saint, then realized she’s far from it, which only made me love her more. From her I learned, well, it’s a bit more complicated.

Let me explain.

I was a freshman in college, and a young one at that, just 17 years old and full of the general angst that comes with boys of that age. I wanted to think I was an adult, but in reality, I couldn’t even vote. I was a baby, spoiled and naïve.

Mom knew that. I didn’t.

I learned.

I grew increasingly angry, at her, at everyone, to the point I couldn’t stand to be around my family. Yet she still called, reaching out just to keep a connection. One September evening she called, and I was at my teenage worst. We fought, and although the topic was so inconsequential it’s long been forgotten, the words out my mouth will stay with me forever.

“I don’t care if I never talk to you again.”

I slammed the phone into its cradle and moved on with life as a man who didn’t know he was just a boy.

Twenty hours later, my uncle and brother-in-law met me in my dorm lobby, their eyes puffy, their faces telling a story, incomplete at best. Their words, though, left nothing vague.

“Your mom’s in the hospital. She’s had a brain aneurism. We’re not sure what’s going to happen.”

The odds said she would die.

I had faith against the odds, though, but really, I’d been prepared for that since birth. See, here’s what I’d learned from some other strong women in my life: sometimes life gives you hard breaks, but when you believe in something greater than yourself, you’ll rise again; even the worst of behaviors can be forgiven, particularly when it’s someone you love; and sometimes you can set an example that pays off.

Not only did she rise again, but now, 16 years later, she’s busier than ever, continuing to raise her family, despite other tragedies that have hit us along the way.

Not only did she forgive me for the terrible thing I said, we’re closer than ever, actually talking instead of fighting.

Not only did she set an example, but it pays off daily, even today, maybe even especially today, as I sit 1,500 miles from home, trying to spread love and goodwill toward complete strangers who will probably not remember me a week from now.

I’m not able to hug my mother today, and even though it makes me sad, she’ll have these words, now and forever, to always let her (and my grandmother and sister) know how much of an impact they’ve had on me. I wouldn’t be here today, literally and figuratively, without you.

I love each of you dearly.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I hope the shots also cover cooties.

Troy, Matthew, Nathan and I took another trip on foot through the village, this time on a rudimentary epidemiology mission to collect data on vaccinations among the area’s children. In truth, I’m not sure how much of this is actually part of epidemiology, but I like the phrase “rudimentary epidemiology,” and seem to be more familiar with the “rudimentary” aspect of it than the “epidemiology” part.

Regardless, Troy, a physician’s assistant back home, which pretty much makes him a doctor here (not a witch doctor, mind you, although truth be told, I’m a bit disappointed not to have yet encountered any Haitian voodoo, mainly because the extent of my voodoo-ery begins and ends with the movie Labyrinth and David Bowie). To better assist the mission’s medical clinic, Troy wanted a better idea of how many kids had received vaccinations and if the villagers would take advantage of the shots if they were offered at Lifeline’s clinic.

Troy hoped to collect information on 100 kids, which took far fewer stops than expected, as most mom’s we talked to had more kids than can be counted on two hands. One woman, bless her heart (and parts further south) had 18 kids. I’m not sure I could think of that many first and middle names; I’d probably have to resort to the George Foreman method, using names like Strother George Foreman Hall, Strother George Foreman Hall Jr., Strother George Foreman III, and so on and so forth. Actually, the 18th child would likely be named Strother So On And So Forth Hall.

As I’ve previously written, any trip through the village involves being swarmed by kids, and it’s both uplifting and heartbreaking to get their attention. On the plus side, anyone’s ego would get a little boost from having people fight to touch your hand. The negative is seeing them actually fight to touch your hand.

Elan holds on with both hands

To be sure, I’m fully aware a large part of it is that we look different — our white skin has a tendency to not blend in here. The kids, particularly the younger ones, like to rub our forearms and shoulders, almost as if they wonder if our whiteness will rub off, revealing a darker layer underneath. They all want to play with my hair, which is longer and curlier than my nephews.

Elan

Nathan, my middle nephew, is already a bit of a ladies’ magnet here, with one girl, Donise, playfully called Madam Nathan, indicating she’s his wife. Lately though, her interests have waned, mainly because she rarely leaves my side when she sees me. I credit my overall awesomeness. Nathan has a more blunt assessment: “It’s because you’re new and tall and white.”

Donise had to fight with a couple of other well-wishers today, as Elan and another girl (it’s not that I can’t recall her name; I just have no idea how to spell it) kept holding on to my arm and forearm, at one point kissing it (although the kids here love to bite, and that might have been her intent). At one point, I had a girl under each arm, two other girls holding my left hand and another girl holding my right hand. My right hand also held the dirty hand of a naked 4-year-old boy, but I’m slightly uncomfortable admitting that on the Internet.

The Girl Whose Name I Can’t Spell, Donise and Elan stand with me

The girls tease each other in their native Creole tongue, then bashfully look away when one of my nephews look at them. They have their schoolgirl crushes on us, and even though it might mostly be because we’re white (or tall and new in my case), I also know we all need that attention, that human touch to keep us going.

So, tonight (or whenever you read this), find someone you care about and give them a hug. You don’t need to say a word — the language barriers this week prove that love is often silent.

I hadn’t seen the ocean in six years, and before that, it had been about 20 years, making it fair to say I’m not exactly a saltwater person. Maybe the rube in me surfaced (the same one that marvels at Chicago’s skyline), but I couldn’t take my eyes off the ocean, how the blues seamlessly segued into the sky.

Unfortunately, the peace didn’t last all day.

As we prepared to leave, the skies opened for the first time since my arrival, and rain fell, hard at first, harder minutes later. We tried to wait it out, but the longer we sat around, the worse it got. Further compounding matters was that we had bought some paintings at the beach, and we now had even less room in the truck, meaning someone (or three) had to ride in the back.

Jon, Nathan and Troy volunteered, and even though a part of me (a large part, too, like say 90 percent) craved the dry comforts of the truck’s cab, I also knew that it would be a nice gesture on my part to make the sacrifice. Troy has given of himself completely on this trip, and he deserves even small things like a dry ride home.

Jon’s face (he’s he one in the middle) pretty much sums up how we felt

We got on the road, with Jon, Nathan and me in the back, bundled up under towels, trying our best to stay warm, having given up any hope of staying dry. We tried to occupy our minds with songs, but it’s hard finding tunes that a 33-year-old, an 11-year-old and an 8-year-old all know. We tried a few Beatles songs, but we kept forgetting the words. We had surprising luck with ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man,” Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps” and Weezer‘s “Buddy Holly.” I struck out completely with any Bruce Springsteen songs, and now I know what the boys will be getting for Christmas.

The smile, at this point, is fake, but the raindrop on my nose is real

Jon braved it out, mostly, getting a little scared when some thunder and lightning hit. Nate and I did our best to help him (later at dinner, Jon told everyone it was “the first time Kevin’s ever been nice to me,” which is decidedly false). We snuggled up next to him, and I sang “Thunder Road.” He tried to change the channel on our makeshift radio. “Maybe if we sing Christian songs God will help us get back safe,” he suggested.

My nephews are better versed in contemporary Christian songs than I am, so we had to resort to Christmas carols.

So there we were, riding in the back of a truck through the backstreets of Haiti, an intense rain pounding away on our heads, singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of our lungs. The darkness of the evening kept me from seeing the Haitians staring at us, but I’m sure they thought these “blancs” were crazy.

They would have been right, too.

And I should have thought of that — “Crazy” would have been perfect to sing. I guess I’ll have to add Patsy Cline to my iPod.

Despite the conditions, we still had fun together

I’m not sure how my sister’s family have done it, having already been here for more than a month, and it really speaks volumes about their faith, as well as their toughness.

I know they’ve had their moments where they’ve missed Kentucky quite a bit, but there is just absolutely no way I could do what they’ve done.

I don’t miss the the comforts of home, the things like air-conditioning and hot showers. I don’t miss the cars and the traffic, the non-stop playing of the same songs on the same radio stations, the mindless bleating of talk radio, things like that.

I have to admit that I miss some of the little things, though, seeminly insignificant things like buffalo chicken salads. It’s Thursday; I should have had one by now.

Food items aside, other, larger things keep crossing my mind.

I miss you.

Each of you.

The people I talk to every day, the people who call me, who e-mail me, who text me. The habit of checking those forms of communication have been hard to break (other than updating this blog and reading the commens posted, I’ve cut myself off from any other contact). Sometimes I turn on my phone, just because it feels right to have it on, just because you might be writing to me.

You’re with me when I write these blogs — knowing that you’re reading them keeps me feeling close to you. Knowing that you care, keeps me writing them. The circle continues.

So, for each of you out there back home, wherever that might be, know that you’re on my mind. I can’t wait to see you.

Until then, I ask one favor of you: this evening, let’s say at 7 p.m. in Kentucky, I’d like you to get out your favorite piece of music. Play an album, or pop in a CD, or if you’re not near any music players, just sing in your head. I want you to turn it up loud, and I want you to enjoy it like you’ve never enjoyed it before — the music, the words, the meaning.

Play it, dance, sing, whatever you need to do to get wrapped up in the moment. Then think about all the other readers of this blog (including its author) doing the same thing and realize we’re all in this together, thinking of each other, working to make this place just a little better than we found it this morning.

Last spring, around late-April/early-May, I started a project to see which Major League Baseball logos I could find people wearing. A year passed, and I concluded the Florida Marlins were baseball’s worst fans, as all my trips in that year yielded not one single sighting of the fish logo.

And then I came to Haiti, and it all ended.

High atop a mountain, in a little village called Petit Bois where not one single person speaks English, I saw a man wearing a Florida Marlins hat. So, to Marlins fans, you are awful. To this Haitian man, thank you.

The MLB Logo Project is over.

It’s going to be a long day, a grueling day. Up early to avoid the Haitian heat (it’s only 80 degrees before 8), we’re trekking 3-4 miles up a mountain with gravelly terrain and steep inclines. It’s hard on the lungs, harder on the knees.

But it’s good for the soul.


Preparing for the journey up the mountain

Today was a special trip to Petit Bois, a neighboring village, to deliver “love bundles” packaged by various donors throughout the United States. The packages are age-specific, each containing hygiene items, an outfit, a toy and school supplies, and the village kids (and more than a few adults) come from miles around when word spreads the “blancs” (meaning “white,” which is what most everyone calls the American missionaries) are coming.

Passing out the “love bundles” in Petit Bois

The church in Petit Bois, led by Pastor Millien, sent down people to help with the 175 bundles we were to deliver, so at 6 a.m., about 40 kids, five adults and 15 mules were ready for the haul. The kids each carried boxes of food from the Kids Against Hunger program, and as we struggled to make the trip up the mountain, our American whining would get muted watching them dash off without complaint.

A balancing act

First, though, it was time for the kids to just be kids.

Jon, my 8-year-old nephew, took full use of the mission’s swing set while the supplies were being stocked, and in a matter of seconds, the Petit Bois kids mobbed the playground like American teens cheering for the Beatles. Here the were, facing the trip up the mountain, loaded down with a box of food, and they only wanted to swing and smile.

High atop the mountain

Three-plus hours later, drenched in sweat, we were atop the mountain, where we handed out the bundles to an appreciative group. Once the last bundle was passed out, the school kids performed a song for us, leaving us to head back on our journey with a joyful noise in our ears and hearts.

Pastor Millien

Pastor Millien gathered us into his office, where we re-energized with snacks and drinks before going back down the mountain. This man, weathered and wrinkled, his clothes too big for his small frame, asked to speak to all of us before we left. Through the use of an interpreter, he spoke as from the heart as anyone I’ve ever heard.

“To do what you’ve done today, to walk up the mountain, I wish there was some way to pay you, but I have nothing I can give,” he said. “All I have are my prayers for you. May God bless you.”

We didn’t understand their words, but their eyes said it all

Pastor Millien told us that 275 kids attend his school (which he also oversees), many of whom cannot afford the annual fee: less than $4 in U.S money. Many cry daily because they’re hungry, because they know there’s no end to it in sight.

“I wish there was a word to thank you for what you’ve done today,” he said. “I wish there was something bigger than ‘thank you.’”

We are making a difference, and maybe not for just a short time. Sure, the food and medical treatment helps in the here and now, but more than anything, it seems we’re giving them a better shot at tomorrow and beyond. We’re not, in any way, trying to Americanize them or convert them with around-the-clock preaching. Instead (and this is the part that truly appeals to me), we’re simply loving them, unconditionally. If you’re dirty, we’re here. If you’re sick, we’re here. If we can’t understand you, we’re here. If you hate us, we’re here.

And what we’re offering is love.

A girl watches with joy and amazement as Jon plays on the swing set

The beauty of it is, they don’t even realize what they’re giving us in return. Yes, there is a satisfaction out of helping someone, but it’s beyond that, so much deeper than that. What I appreciate is learning to look at things from a different angle, to remember what it’s like to sit on that swing for the first time, not sure what happens once you lift off the ground, but putting your faith into something greater than yourself that as you soar into the air, you’ll return safe and in one piece.

These words by Bruce Springsteen hit me as appropriate, wrapping up what I felt as I walked back down the mountain:

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love bring us love.

Amen.

At around 3:30, though, his birthday party finally unfolded, with one special guest. Gerline, a favorite among the missionaries here, turned 4 a couple of days ago, so she also got to celebrate with her first cupcake and set of candles.

The birthday girl

They let Jon go first, serving as a mini-mentor for her, but she apparently needed no training. We’d barely gotten halfway through singing “Happy Birthday” when she leaned forward, blew her candles out and reached for her chocolate treat.

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We all laughed as Gerline (and others from the village) ate on their cupcakes, and before long, the bulk of the attention had completely turned from the one boy who’d unpatiently been awaiting this moment.

And Jon, to his credit, never complained; in fact, he hardly seemed to notice. Instead, he just played along with everyone, laughing, smiling and trying his best to win a few games of Musical Chairs. This birthday seemed less about the presents he could get from others and more about the gifts he could share with the Haitians.

The baby of the family is growing up.

We could all probably learn something from him.

Even though I’m 1,500 miles away from Lexington’s health department (where I work), the similarities are striking.


Outside a health department in Haiti

Medical records room

Both places have a mission to improve the health of the community, but in Lexington, it combines aspects of public health (immunizations, food safety, epidemiology, screenings, etc.) with primary care (routine medical visits). In Haiti, some attention is paid to vaccinations, STDs and a few other areas of public health, but the bulk of its health department duties are in treating medical needs of the sick or injured.

Also, the Haitian department also serves as a hospital for the region, and babies are also delivered on site.

The birthing room — note the presence of the bucket at the end of the table

While I felt almost at home inside the Haitian health department (although it made me miss my friends, co-workers and bosses at work), it made it even more clear to me what we do back in Lexington. Without the people I work with, diseases would be rampant, safety would be at a minimum and life as we know it would drastically change.

(Of course, as I write this, swine flu could very well have taken over all of central Kentucky, although I have complete faith in my co-workers’ ability to keep the place from becoming a pigsty).

“Don’t only give your care, but give your heart as well.” — Mother Teresa

The spot we’re at is one of nine feeding posts for the organization, as it works to help as many hungry kids as possible. In this village, the doors are open each school day to feed the kids who don’t attend the school, here or anywhere.

They make their way up, usually in tattered clothes, a marked contrast from the sharp uniforms worn by the Lifeline school kids. They work their way through a line, getting a generous portion of food (Tuesday’s was rice and beans) before sitting on benches or the ground, taking bite after bite, using their hands as utensils.