Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Trust

Last week, I was going to bed comfortably in a temperature-controlled bedroom with fifty pounds of food in a big blue suitcase at my bedside.
Yesterday, I touched down in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, prepared to come home fifty pounds lighter.
Today, July 8th, was our team's first day of mission work. After waking up to an incredibly delicious breakfast, featuring island fruits and fresh, hand pressed juice, we hopped up into our tap-tap and headed out over the dusty roads for our first destination: a home for sick and dying adults. As soon as we entered, a swarm of Haitian boys ran up to introduce themselves and show off their ear-to-ear smiles. The nuns greeted us with a little more reservation, and sent the women and men to their gender-respective sections of the home. As soon as we cleared the last step leading to the spacious upper level, several young girls in pale lavender gowns ran past us giggling and beckoning to a room at the end of the hallway.
When we passed through the doorway, they descended like a flock of birds: nesting in our arms, picking at my long, straight blonde hair, and chattering loudly enough that they woke the twin babies sound asleep in the corner. Each of us found a niche in that room: the moms quickly and subconsciously moved to comfort the unhappy babies, and the teenagers assumed the familiar roles of best friends and sisters. The room rang with songs, gasps, giggles, and tickle fights-- just like any other sleepover anywhere in the world. In that room, there were no Americans or Haitians. There was no English or Creole. There were no healthy or sick; no straight blonde or curly dark hair; I was not sixteen, and the young, smiling girl in my lap was not "twa"-- three years old. We were nothing but girls, sharing in the lightness of laughter and song that connects girls everywhere.
The walls of the next room were lined with cots that supported the frames of resting women, and although the air was more serious, it was by no means any darker. The women, eyes bright, motioned for us to sit by their bedsides and rub their skin with lotion. The third woman whose skin I massaged told me, after I asked her in dreadful Haitian Creole, that her name was Juli. She asked me for mine in return, and when I told her that my name is Meg, she gasped and put her hand over her heart. She replied in Creole, "Oh, that is so good. Very very good." This kind of appreciation, this trust; I had never experienced anything like it. While I massaged her back, I thought to myself: how would I act in this situation, if the roles were reversed? Would I really be so willing to let a complete stranger's hands massage my body? Would I really appreciate something as small as that person's name enough to have that kind of reaction?
How can I learn to live with that level of compassion?
I got a glimpse later that day, when we jumped back into the tap-tap and headed out for Notre Maison, which translates to "our home". It is exactly that: a home for orphaned and disabled children. There, the unwanted became so much more than that: they become fiercely loved. We connected with incredible kids and staff through feeding, chatting, holding hands, pushing wheelchairs, doing puzzles, and just being together.
Today, I am thankful for Juli, the girls, and the kids at Notre Maison for needing me, wanting me, and trusting me more than people I've known for significantly longer than just an hour.
The rest of this week, I will be so thankful for Reiser Relief, the staff here, and my team for giving me the amazing opportunity to reciprocate the love I've been shown.
The rest of my life, I will be so deeply and completely thankful to Haiti and its people  for showing me the amazing extent of the human soul to love with the heart and not the eyes.

Meg Maurer




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