Sundays in Haiti

Monday, April 23^rd, 2012

        In many ways you may find that our Sunday mornings in Haiti are not so different from yours.  It’s like pulling teeth to get the kids out of bed, washed, dressed, fed, and out the door.  All the Bibles and songbooks seem to have been lost overnight, and no one wants to move quickly after the weekend.  Finally we make it to Sunday School and through the morning service, where we all sit prim and proper in our starched Sunday best, no one guessing what a struggle it was just to make it there.  We have an opening prayer, worship time, announcements, communion, and a sermon, just like you would be familiar with.  When church is over we greet everyone and head home to our afternoon meal.  Pretty normal, right?  But this general overview of a Sunday in Haiti is where the similarities end.

          I forgot to explain why it is such a hassle to get to church on time in Haiti.  The first is water: water we use for bathing, cooking, and cleaning.  This water is stored in a deep reservoir which is kept locked so we can control the amounts of water used each day (since we have to transport this water from a larger reservoir a mile up the road, which we pay to have filled).  Once it is unlocked in the morning and all the buckets are found (a job in itself) either Dee or I has to stand guard as one of the boys ties a rope to a bucket handle and lowers it into the reservoir, pulls it up filled with water, and pours it into a 50-gallon barrel.  The other boys are filling buckets from that barrel and toting the water across the yard to our above-ground tank that holds 100 gallons.  Once that is at least half-way full we are ready to start the day.

           Second is Sunday clothes: the day before was when all the washing was done, but it began to rain before everything was dry, so everyone rushed to gather the clothes and pile them on a bed before they were drenched.  Now it is time for church and we must find the dryest, least-wrinkled (a must in Haiti) dress clothes from the pile for each person.

            Next is breakfast: we do not have a refrigerator, and due to humidity levels and pests we do not keep much food stored overnight.  This means much of our “grocery shopping” for the day occurs each and every morning.  Though we usually try to think ahead and make our purchases the night before, some things, like bread have to be bought fresh.  But on Sundays most of the street shops are closed.  It takes longer than usual just to find some good bread and few eggs to boil.  And though only a handful of us are going to Sunday School, we have to oversee breakfast for everyone (about 25 people) before we leave.

              And then there is the vehicle.  Worst case scenario is that there’s been a gas shortage, and we have to siphon diesel from our generator so we have enough in the vehicle to make it to church (one mile down the road).  Best case scenario is us pushing the truck while Dee pops the clutch ‘cause the battery is dead.  Then we pile into the bed (all but Mdme. Kiki and the kids), since the cab only has enough room for three to four people.  So much for the time spent on our hair and pressing our clothes as the wind mercilessly whips us around in the back of the truck.

                After all that we finally arrive at Sunday School at 8:05 a.m.  Dee takes the junior-high/highschool age class, and I gather all the kids younger than that.  Usually there are about twenty-five of them.  Though these kids are extremely smart and most of them can memorize anything I give them, they are not used to sitting still or quietly.  Much of the class time is spent lecturing those who are hitting the ones beside them, or reminding them that they are not to talk while I am talking.  Using flannelgraph and the promise of stickers or candy if they’re good, I manage to keep their attention for the most part, still wondering if anything is getting through to them.  They continually surprise me, though, when I say a verse and immediately they repeat it back to me, like parrots.  And the next week they will answer every question I ask about the story I told.

                  When Sunday School is over we file into church and sit on the the wooden pews.  Even though sometimes we have to battle dogs, guinea hens, or goats for a place to sit, I love our partially-enclosed building.  During the service I can lift my eyes and see mountains and palm trees, and feel the fresh, tropical air, and somehow it just seems more natural to worship in these conditions. I’ll almost be sad when we finish covering the building with tin and plywood.

                   Another difference about our Sundays is the worship service itself.  Not only is it about one and a half hours longer than most services in the States, but the worship is like nothing I ever saw growing up in my little country church.  When Haitians praise, they mean it.  And they mean it with their whole bodies.  Hands are in the air, voices are raised to the loudest volume, drums are beat with vigor, feet move across the floor and into the aisles as the people dance for their Savior.  This is true praise.  I had really been missing out.

                     Two and a half hours later church is dismissed, and after shaking hands with every single person present, we take down the decorations, sweep the floor, count the offering, and pile back in the truck to go home for lunch.  This time we have a few extras that we drop off along the way.  We sit down at the table to a steaming plate of rice and beans, chicken legs, and cooked carrots.  Not your typical Sunday roast, but delicious nonetheless.

                      I’ll never look at Sunday mornings in the same way again.  I pray that after reading this, your idea may have changed a bit, too, and as you go through your normal Sunday routine, think of us and remember to pray for those we’re reaching, despite such obstacles as wrinkly clothes, gas shortages, misbehaving children, and unfinished buildings.  We know our God is bigger than all of that.