Chapter 4 of The Haitian Chronicles...
this morning was Easter Sunday, but there were no Giant Rabbits bouncing around here hiding colored eggs; no other remnants of the pagan fertility rituals long since faded and folded into the commercialized celebration of new fashion, candy, and greeting cards that buoy the Spring financial quarter at a time we call Easter. make no mistake.
this was Resurrection Sunday.
i was raised in the Baptist Church, so i've been used to hearing preachers get stuck in the celebratory segment of the 4 point homiletics of a sermon and take it right "to the cross." you know what i speak of, i'm sure: "He laid in the tomb all night Friday night; all night Saturday night; but then...early...Early...EARRRRLY Sunday Morning, he got UP..."
it was exactly the remembrance of that feat that resurrected me from my slumber today. i figured if the Son could get up from Death with the Sun, then i could roll out of bed, even if it was before the Sun itself rose.
church starts early around here.
i was up when the sky was dark, and i was still running behind. we were all scheduled to leave at 6 a.m. because church started at 7. Dwayne had been honored to have been asked to preach (with Yonel as an interpreter), and i was going to sing the pre-sermon song. how about that? we had laid out some linen outfits the night before, and while i was asleep, Pastor Wilson and his wife had managed to locate an iron and press and hang our clothing. Dwayne sported the white island look. i rocked the tan. we got to church, and all of the people of the island were dressed in African-American style church clothes.
on the way, i made an observation. with all the stereotypes that are cast upon this wonderful island--Voodoo (Vodun) Priests, The Pat Robertson Paranoia (there was a pact made with the Devil to free the island from the French, etc.)--i have to say, i don't know how that bullshit lives in this day and age. frankly, i've been wondering if there is anyone around here who does NOT go to church, religiously.
there are churches everywhere, particularly at the end of our block. i know the worship leader's voice well, although we have not met personally, thanks to his penchant to sing one song, with one chorus, repeatedly, for up to 30 minutes at a time, his voice booming through the PA system and the churches open walls. as if that were not enough, the loudspeaker that is positioned on top of the remains of the roof and pointed directly at the side of the tent where my head rests ensures the possibility of a Post Traumatic Stress episode triggered by certain...unforgettable praise and worship songs.
in addition to that church, which is capable of pulling up 6-8 hour worship services at random moments, there are many along the road we travel to go to worship this morning. people are dressed in their Sunday best and carry their bibles. we pick up two elderly church members on the way and give them a ride through the steep hills and sharp curves that lead us to the earthquake-gutted frame that still is the Church of Eden.
as we arrive, we are greeted by ushers, associate ministers in suits, and worshippers dressed like back home. we are seated in the front row and one of the ministers is leading the song portion of the service. Yanel interprets, but really, there is no need. it is obvious who planted this church here. from the moment i heard the repetition, the call for people to say "Amen" and "Hallelujah," and the structure of the prayer and call and response, i instantly felt at home.
these were Baptist folk.
i followed along with the service just like i've done all my life, even catching the tune of some of those familiar Baptist Hymns. when it was Sermon time, i got up and sang "Precious Lord." i wondered if Yonel should interpret, but he told me just to sing, so i did. it was graciously received, even though there were some flat looks on a few faces. i closed my eyes and didn't judge. they gave me good applause, which to me, belonged to God.
Dwayne preached a message of responsibility for the fellow man. he was nowhere near as heavy handed as so many traditional missionaries who come to places like these to proselytize and prod, coerce and convict, psyching souls into the synchronous sycophancy that assuages their spiritually spawned necessity for the subjugation of other spirits.
his message was simple: walk the faith, and help rebuild. i love it.
after the service, people were friendly and dubbed me the "artist." they said i sounded like a "professional voice." i don't know if i was that great or if there aren't that many guest singers, but i was humbled nonetheless.
after church, we came back to the orphanage, cleared out some more spaces, then we went toward downtown Port-Au-Prince to view the area. every few buildings were collapsed, and we learned that in several places, especially where the entire frames of buildings went flat, instead of search and rescue, the operation was bulldozer and cover. those remains won't be found for years.
the downtown was bustling though, and we met a group of documentary filmmakers from Chicago. it was cool to catch up and talk about different approaches to outreach. Dwayne bought fresh chicken for the kids (shut up black folk, chicken is an extra thing around here) and a special meal was prepared. the kids did their normal setup and clean up. i was able to get a video of them preparing themselves for the meal. hopefully i can get it posted soon.
we started to wind down and enjoy the last major hours we are spending here. i'm already starting to miss the kids. once we got the 'net up, Dwayne pulled up a live streaming service from his church in Memphis. he got a text message sent from Yonel's phone to the Pastor's assistant and in moments, he gave us a shout out in the tent. everyone got a kick out of that. technology. gotta love it.
it's obvious that a difference has been made here. just a few minutes ago, we noticed a growing number of people outside the tent we're in, and some children we haven't seen before. apparently, the word has gotten out, and people are coming here for shelter. it's all good. today we've had popcorn, peanut butter and crackers, and Celine Dion playing on a rigged up television with an analog signal spotting in and out of it. the kids sang songs in the darkness, and just a few moments ago, the Wilsons and Yonel came in to offer us prayers and good wishes.
after the prayer and conversation, the women came in with a mound of crumbled looking bread. it was a box cake Dwayne gave to Yonel. his birthday is coming, and he has never had a cake in his 25 years. the only problem is that here, cooking is done over charred wood that resembles charcoal. how do you cook a cake on that? i gave the good old "campfire cake" analogy, but somehow, the cake still ended up crumbling to pieces. never mind that, we assured the ladies. even though you could taste a slight wood chip flavor in the chocolate, the icing would fix that. i seized the cake, dwayne seized the icing, and after a few minutes, not only did it look good, but it was a hit. who woulda thunk it.
it's official now. the sadness is starting to settle in. looking out the dimly lit tent doorway, i miss seeing the shadows of the children stacked outside on a rickety mattress. i have to remember that they are still out there, only now they are across the yard and down the little hill on the new landing, sleeping peacefully in a covered shelter, with an active mosquito net and all. that gives me a sense of relief. only now, i don't know what i'll do when i don't hear their laughter in the mornings and their soft songs in the darkness for the first day. i'll take refuge in the familial sounds of my own clan i am incomplete without, until the day i can return here and elsewhere, and do my best to give a little more of my self to help make someone else's path a little easier to follow.
