Friday, February 25th, 2011
It is moments before dawn. A few stars cling to the fading darkness, fighting to be the last in the sky before the sun’s brilliance overpowers them all. A young boy stirs on his pallet on the ground. He rolls over and finally opens his eyes. He sits up and stretches. His mother is already gone, trekking the long path down the mountain with their one basket of mangoes to be sold in the marketplace. She won’t return until long after dark.
As the first dim light peeks through the cracks in their mud-thatched hut, the boy rouses his five sisters. He sends two of them to fetch water with their only five-gallon bucket and one-gallon plastic jug. The nearest water source is three miles away. When they return, an hour later, they take turns bathing behind their house, then each don their one outfit. The boy removes his red and white checkered school uniform from the cactus fence surrounding their yard. He had hung it there to dry after washing it the afternoon before. After examining it for spots and wrinkles and finding none, he searches the house for any food his mother may have left them. He spots two sweet potatoes on the tiny shelf and quickly divides them amongst his sisters. Today is feeding day at school, so he will wait to eat there at noon.
He gathers his tattered books, a broken pencil with no eraser, and a pen with no lid, makes sure his sisters have everything they need for the day, and starts on his own journey down the mountain. He doesn’t like leaving five girls alone at the house all day, but his mother can only afford to send one of the children to school, and being the only boy, she chose him. He knows how lucky he is to be receiving an education, and he plans to use it to help his family when he is older.
It’s one-o-clock, and school is out. The boy journeys home, rice saved from his once-a-week school meal stuffed in his uniform pockets. Two hours later he reaches their hut, and his youngest sister, only two years old, toddles up to greet him. He smiles at her, but the smile quickly fades when he notices a crusty white substance caked around the outside of her mouth. He knows she has been consuming dirt patties again. He sighs and pulls her up onto his lap, reaching into his pocket for a handful of leftover rice. She eats as if she’ll never get enough.
Soon the sun is sinking low in the sky and the boy knows it will only be a few more hours until their mother arrives home. He gathers his sisters inside and they play finger games while he does his homework until it grows too dark to see. Then they spread out their worn blankets on the dirt floor, stretch out and slowly fall asleep. The boy’s uniform is once again washed and hung up to dry so it will be ready for another day. The boy falls asleep, trying to ignore his rumbling stomach, just before his mother walks in the hut. She sighs and sets down her basket, still full of mangoes. She only sold three. Just enough to buy two packages of crackers for the children to share tomorrow. She curls up in a corner to catch a few hours of sleep before starting the day over.
You may think this seems incredibly hopeless. You may be right. But let me paint another, slightly different, picture for you:
It is hours before sunrise, and a recording on a loudspeaker rings clearly through the early morning air. “Ole, ole, ole!” The people aren’t even sure what it means, but as soon as they hear it they rise from their beds, put on jackets and hats against the cool air, and stroll up the path, through our gate, and to our church. Six days a week, at four-o-clock in the morning, our church hosts Tas Kafe Cho, a prayer meeting/praise service.
A little girl, perhaps seven or eight, follows one of her caretakers out of our yard and into the church. She rubs sleep out of her eyes and seats herself on a bench next to one of her friends from the village. Though tired, when the service begins she is soon dancing and singing at the top of her lungs with the rest of them. The singing and praying lasts two hours, until a hazy yellow dawn illuminates the village and it is time for everyone to start their day. The church empties and the little girl runs back into our yard, barefoot. After being scolded for the hundredth time for not wearing her shoes, she returns from her cement house dressed in a perfectly starched green and white checkered uniform, shiny black shoes, and frilly white socks. She is carrying a comb and a bag of barrettes. When she finds someone who has an extra moment she plops herself on a stool in front of them and sits as still as she can while deft fingers work to separate and braid her coarse, dark hair. She used to cry every time they did this because for over a year hear body was covered with open, oozing sores – a common skin fungus among the children that comes of sleeping and playing in the dirt. But now her head is healed, along with the rest of her skin, and she has grown much tougher in the past few months.
Soon she is ready for school, and after eating the bowl of noodles given her for breakfast, she strides back out into the yard and up the steps into the church, which has since been transformed into the school. She finds a seat on the bench, squished between thirty of her classmates. Everyone is reciting, teaching, talking at the same time in the same open building, but no one seems to notice how chaotic it appears. And somehow the students manage to learn their lessons.
Around noon the youngest students are let out, and the little girl runs to play with her friends before they have to head home. She changes out of her uniform into her play clothes and sits with her many surrogate family members as they gather around the outdoor kitchen, preparing lunch for all the mission people. She clutches a baby doll that was recently given to her and pretends to feed, change, and wash it. After another meal of beans and rice she and her three-year-old half sister and their four-year-old friend hike uphill with the other to the upper property, where they gather during the hottest part of the day to watch movies on an 8x11 in. DVD player. The national movies are very poorly made, but for them any entertainment is golden. The little girls’ laughter resonates across the yard.
Before dark the girls follow the group back downhill for the mid-week church service. They know every song by heart and show no hesitancy about worshipping their Savior with their whole being. The girls are only following the examples they have been shown daily by many around them. Real joy is evident on every face. Yes life is hard, but they know Who they are putting their hope in.
The sun has set, the first stars are twinkling in the night sky. The little girl has bid her friends goodnight, munched on a snack of crackers and juice, placed her doll in a makeshift bed beside her own, and is more than ready for bed herself. She snuggles up under a clean sheet on a mattress inside the cement house, still holding in warmth from the day’s heat, and closes her eyes. With a full, satisfied tummy, warm covers, and people to care for her, nothing prevents her from quickly falling asleep, soon to awake and begin another day.
Though the first story is fictional, it is an accurate portrayal of the lives of many Haitian children. But it is stories like the second one, which is true, that brings reason to hope in the midst of apparent despair. That little girl is one of many who have been given the chance at a better life because the Dorcés were willing and able to provide it for her. There is so much more to her story, so many more examples of God’s provision and love, but just comparing this portion to the standard is enough to bring me hope. I can hardly wait to return and not only watch more of her story unfold, but also be a part of it.
