Sunday School in Haiti

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

 

       People often ask me what Haiti is like.  The first summer I came back and heard that question the questioners were often met with a blank stare.  How on earth could I answer that in the short time they were willing to listen?  I quickly learned that I had to come up with a brief yet informative answer to satisfy them.  After all, most of the time they legitimately wanted to know.  Each passing year that I spend in Haiti, however, my “brief” answer grew longer and longer.  Soon the query, “What’s Haiti like?” was once again met with silence.  I felt bad, but I could not, for the life of me, think of a single word or even phrase to tell them that would truthfully and completely describe my Haiti.  I felt that unless I could do that I was not doing it justice. 

 

        If you, dear reader, are one of those who have been rudely answered, or not answered, by a blank stare, or by stammering words that don’t really say anything, please accept this as my apology.  I’m working on another “pat” answer for those who are genuinely wanting to know, but the more time I spend in Haiti the more difficult it is for me to answer such a question.  I find myself turning to this blog to let my fingers do the speaking, the answering.  Though it is next to impossible to answer such a loaded question with one short reply, here I can do my best to describe the more specific versions of this inquiry.  Today I would like to answer such a one.  This is for those who have wondered, “What’s it like, teaching Sunday School in Haiti?”

 

         The quick, eye-opening answer I usually give to those who ask this question is:

“Well, imagine taking thirty kids from East St. Louis, or the south side of Chicago; kids ranging from two years old to thirteen or fourteen, and put them together at about 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning in an open-air building, with two or three wooden benches and a flannelgraph board, and that’s my Sunday School in Haiti, more or less.” 

 

          Reading back through what I just typed makes me chuckle.  It sounds terrifying.  Or at least it would have terrified me five years ago.  Most of the time, however, though it is tiring and hard work, the children only bring me blessings and joy.  Even on the mornings when I would much rather stay in bed than make myself rise before the sun, prepare the lesson, get dressed, and join the other passengers in the vehicle that is leaving for church, as soon as I arrive and see the smiles on the faces of the tiny ones, the hidden eagerness of the older kids, I remember that it is all worth it.  And when a six year old little boy whose language would have shamed a sailor begins to stop and think before he lets the curse words fly; when one of the quietest girls in my class shyly turns to me in the morning service and asks to borrow my song book, or my Bible; when half of the class runs to greet me and each of them grabs a bag, book, or other piece of my arm load of supplies, so ready to help lighten my load, God gently tells me that even though the tasks He may ask of us are not easy, they are always full of priceless treasures.  We just have to open our eyes to see them along the way.

 

              Of course, on some days these treasures are harder to find than on others.  And that brings me back to my first description of Sunday School in Haiti.  A couple of stories in particular are what led me to use such terms in answering inquiring individuals.  Like the time I walked into our “classroom” to find two small boys in the beginnings of a scrap with each other, each holding a stick whittled to a dangerous point.  It didn’t look too serious; they were still giggling when I broke it up, but I wasn’t taking any chances.  Holding out my hand to receive the makeshift daggers, I suddenly found a razor blade in my palm!  I’m sure my horror was quite evident, for the little culprit began to hide his face behind his friend’s back in impish shame.  Only once I was in possession of said razor blade (which I’m sure was the means by which they sharpened the sticks, but as far as I was concerned anything that could be used as a weapon later if the fight picked up again, was not going home with any of my Sunday school students) and both sticks, and had made both boys empty their pockets in front of me (fortunately displaying no more life-threatening objects), could I be at ease to begin my lesson.  Even then I made sure to keep my eyes open for anything suspicious.  What kind of world was I in where eight-year-olds carry open razor blades in their pockets to Sunday School?!

 

          On another morning I arrived after most of the children were already sitting in their places, and began my normal routine of setting out my Bible and curriculum, then sent for the keys so I could open the room where the flannelgraph board and easel were kept.  While we waited for the keys I led them in a prayer and a song, and everything seemed fine, though they did seem a little bit more on edge than usual.  Or was it just me?  When the keys arrived, I unlocked the door and entered the next room to retrieve the board, and suddenly found the door closing behind me! 

 

           Okay, in order to put you in my shoes and not seem like a total wimp, let me explain: the storage room I had just entered was almost pitch black, having only a few tiny slits in the concrete to serve as window, and more than once had I been surprised by an enormous spider sitting expectantly on said board, almost as though it knew I would be coming in there that morning.  Most creepy crawlies are not really that creepy to me; I can usually handle them, but spiders are a whole different story.  I don’t even want to be in the same county as them, let alone a darkened room, and especially not the enormous kind Haiti harbors.  Even as I’m typing this I’m getting a chill up my spine and am tempted to check the wall behind me for lurking arachnids. 

 

           Now that you understand a little better, let’s return to the story: I was in the room, suddenly realizing that the door I’d just come through was quickly being closed.  I dropped the board (fortunately spider-less that morning) and jumped to the door, sticking my foot in the narrowing slit just in time.  I heard laughter and scuffling as the little rascals hurried back to the benches.  My fear getting the better of me, and my embarrassment at having such childish fears of dark and spiders, I exited the room with crossed arms and a glare that cowed even the ring leaders of the group. 

 

            I was sure I knew who had convinced the class that locking the teacher in the storage depot would be a good idea, so I, still frowning, icily informed him that he would be the one now entering the room to get the board and easel.  He hesitated, and I reassured him that I was quite serious.  I saw him gulp, then slowly he stood, shuffled his feet to the doorway, and with a glance at me that tried to be defiant, he entered.  One of his cronies whispered to me, “Let’s shut him in there now!” “My, how quickly our friends can turn on us,” I thought wryly, and shook my head firmly at him, but his friend had heard him and jumped back to the door, still held open by me.  I told him no one was going to shut him inside, that God wants us to do good to those who hurt us, and I was doing my best to follow that command.  He finally found both items, and brought them out to me.  I quickly locked the door again, put the keys in my bag, and silently and methodically went about my business preparing the flannelgraph for our story.

 

         But before I could begin the lesson I had planned, I felt the need to expand a little on the topic I had just opened: about treating others as we want to be treated, whether they deserve it or not.  My lecture lasted a little longer than I’d intended, so our actual lesson had to be cut short, and I’m sure by the end of it, the guilty parties were pretty sorry they’d attempted any such thing, just so they could have been spared such a monologue.  But at least nothing like that ever happened again.  And I was grateful that they didn’t actually succeed in their scheme.

 

          In the moment, of course, each of these situations seemed dreadful, and it took me all morning and a few hours with a book on the beach to get over it, but now that I am looking back on them all I can do is laugh.  Today in school I was helping Alexandra with her English reading, and were talking about the five senses.  She was supposed to fill in the blank of “The nerves in our skin give us the sense of _____________” with “touch”, and Josiah, overhearing, blurted out, “Humor!”  We all had an appropriate laugh over that one.  I’m so glad that is the first “sense” he thinks of.  After all, in this life, what would we do without our sense of humor?  Teaching Sunday School in Haiti, I have definitely been grateful for it.