Hearts Together For Haiti

. . .going to the Hospital for the Sick Children and prayed the whole way there for strength to deal with what I was about to encounter. When we stepped through the flaking doorway, we were all instantly immersed in a seemingly unrelenting, thunderous chorus of cries and screams from every direction. My heart immediately sunk and I felt tears swelling at what my eyes were seeing. At that very moment, I wanted to turn and run, but I felt the hand of God in mine, leading me and asking me what would Jesus do? Many children ran to meet us and wanted to play, these were the healthier ones and seemed very content. But beyond that initial swarm, were rows of metal cribs that looked more like miniature jails and in a sense mirrored the plagues that truly did imprison these children. Every child was dressed in a little hospital gown and a cloth diaper, and almost all needed to be changed. Many were standing in their cribs, clutched to the metal bars, screaming or sobbing, imploring with their eyes to be picked up. That was all that they wanted, I can never have enough arms and hands, I can never have enough love. Some were collapsing as their sobs shook their little bodies so hard that their malnourished legs crumpled under their own weight. There were different rooms set up, each was for a different stage, from the deathly ill to the cured. The children would be shifted from one to the other as they got better or worse. In the room for the most sick is where I found my home. The walls were lined with babies that had IV's protruding from their delicate heads, that didn't have the energy left to cry. I was afraid to touch some of them, not because of their disease, but because they were so skinny, afraid that I would hurt them, they seemed so fragile. Many of the people in the Sister's care, were babies, abandoned by their mothers in hope for a better life, some food, some health. These mothers probably cannot take care of themselves either, but do what they can by giving up their children to strangers, with trust in God that they will be taken care of. I can only explain it by saying that they were living skeletons, infested with Aids and tuberculosis, crying for attention, making the taught skin that they have left stretch to form a gaping hole, where endless screams come from every direction and overtake you. We drove by voodoo colonies, saw their dark flags flying proudly after seeing children that were terrified to look at anyone because of how they had been tortured. Stories of how babies were offered as sacrifices, somehow survived, then brought to the Sisters to try and make well again. I saw real fear, like I have never seen before, and pray that I will never have to see again. It haunts me, I see it in my dreams and I see it in the reflections of my own eyes. The kind of fear that leaves the eyes of a child staring blank as if to burn a hole through whatever they are staring at. The things, the death, the putrid stench of disease and excrement that seems to linger in my nose as if to torture me so that I may never forget, to tease me. Here I feel like a lost child. I know where I've been and I know where I want to be, but I cannot go, at least not now. This is my desert where I must become prepared and strengthened and where I will be tested. I want to be back in Haiti, doing God's will. It is strange, but I miss shooing the flies away from a sickly limp child's eyes while they seem to search my face for some solstice, some love as if it is something they have long lost. Singing softly while wiping the tears from such deep, soulful eyes, knowing that Jesus is looking back at me. All of their thin, bony, brown arms reaching up, grasping for some relief, a bit of heaven, and finding a small piece of it within a touch or hug from a stranger. Having mixed raging emotions, wanting to scream at the injustice of a dying 1 year old baby, a baby that had aids. A baby that was suffering, that was so skinny that he looked more like an old man than the child he was. His spine stuck out like a railroad and flies mixed with the purple antiseptic covering the open sores on his head and back. Watching the Sisters and other sick children pray over him, seeing their faith through their suffering. Tears burst forth, but they were tears of anger, of hatred, mixed with tears of relief and joy, David was going home. I diverted my eyes to offer my own prayer and confusion to God. As I did, I was comforted by the reminders of Jesus that hung on the walls, and knew that David would soon be in His arms.

These children, they are my angels, they showed me who Jesus really is, they touched my life in ways that cannot be expressed. They have learned to comfort those who are comforting them. So I ask, where do I begin after seeing the sorts of things that I have, that are forever etched in my mind, the things where pictures were not allowed and even if they were, could never do justice. These people, who have nothing, have more than I ever will. They have faith and love like I may only imagine. The fear of embarrassment seems nonexistent as they freely sing, dance and throw their beautiful black arms into the air to give praise to the Lord, thanking Him for all that they have and for all that they do not have. They are poor, yet they give to others, they hurt, they cry, but they know how to laugh. In my dreams, the images of dark, shining eyes are still so vivid, the small dirt encrusted, black hands reaching for me, while the echoes of a thousand blan's become a chorus. I know that I need to go back, but better prepared. I will begin nursing soon, then I can help more, I can ease pain and cure more through the grace of God, I can make a change, more. I need the feeling of their little hands in mine, on my arm, running through my hair - their inquisitive eyes in wonder because I am a different color. The brightness of their teeth within the brightness of their smile. I pray that I will never forget, I pray that I may go back. I have gained their darkness and their light, I have gained a new perspective on my life, and I have gained God. What more could I receive, what more could I ask for, but to return.