We’ll say goodbye today.
I make construction paper cards before we go. Erica’s brought a printer and given me a couple mini photos–one of Sophonie and me, and one of Chilanchi and me. I stick them to the paper.
“Jezi renmen ou,” I write. “Mwen renmen ou.”
Jesus loves you. I love you.
It’s our last day at the orphanage, and they’ve warned us the kids might be a little clingy, a little moody.
I’m a little clingy and a little moody.
That first day, when the children pulled me from the van, hung on me, reached to be picked up, dragged me here and there, each trying to claim me for himself or herself, batting away other children–that first day I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Their needs overwhelmed me.
I wondered what I was doing here in Haiti. And I wished I was home getting ready for Christmas.
But this last day, I don’t want to go home. I don’t care about Christmas. I’ve found holiday joy right here in the dirt.
I’ve tucked a hunk of sidewalk chalk in my bag, and we sit on the ledge at the side of one of the houses.
Pataje.
We’ve learned that word well and used it often–especially during craft time when the kids wanted to squirrel away the crayons, hide them in their skirt folds or in a pocket.
Share.
I don’t have to tell the girls to pataje this afternoon. They take turns writing names and drawing pictures on the concrete. One of them has a few stray Goldfish, and she crushes them, divides them up. Then she rips the snack-sized bag open, and they pass it around, lick and probe tongues deep into an untorn corner, not wanting to miss a crumb or any of the saltiness.
I drink up these last hours. I don’t want to miss any of the salt, either.
I’ve passed the cards to my little “posse,” the group that’s spent most of their time with me.
Chilanchi, she pulls on me, wants me to go around front, but the others want to stay. I’m torn. I stay. And Chilanchi, she takes the little card with our little picture, shreds it into ribbons, throws it on the ground. Stomps her foot, glares at me.
Sophonie is angry, shouts things I don’t understand. Then shakes her head, narrows her eyes, and and then protests in English, “No friend! No friend!”
“No,” I say. “It’s okay. She’s upset. She’s sad. Yes, friend.”
Chilanchi runs off. I start after her, but the others grab onto me. “Sandy, stay. Stay.”
And I’m torn. I stay. Maybe Chilanchi needs a little time.
I don’t hear or see her come back, but when I glance to my right, she’s seated next to me. And she’s doubled over in quiet sobs.
I no longer care about what kind of bug I might contract. I pull her close, wrap my arms around her, kiss her cheek, lay my head in her hair, rock her. “It’s okay,” I croon. “It’s okay. I love you, Chilanchi.” And my own tears flow.
And then we draw some more and play hand-clapping games and laugh. I make a mental note to bring a jump rope next time.
Later, Chilanchi disappears again. The girls say she’s hiding behind her bed, so we go to her room, and I coax her back out.
We take photos. I can always make them smile with photos.
“Sandy, photo!” They pose and pester. I can’t snap fast enough.
When it’s time to go, Sophonie and Chilanchi walk me back over the bridge and to the van. Other team members have already piled into the truck.
I draw the girls close for final hugs, but they stiffen and hold back. I tear the rubber bands from my hair and give one to each of them. They slip them on their arms.
Sophonie pulls me to the van, points to the door. “Go,” she says. “You go.”
I force a smile and wave goodbye through the window. They don’t smile even when I hold up the camera. I’m pretty sure I see a tear.
I’m pretty sure I feel a tear, and the ache in my heart threatens to crush the joy.
And for a brief moment I wonder if for them (and me) the pain of leaving is worse than the pain of not coming at all.
I’ve been sitting here a while in the silence, with my eyes filling up with tears. I feel this one deep. Feel this ache.
When we left the orphanage on my first visit to Haiti, the children gathered on the steps to sing us a goodbye song. On the very last chorus, they sang in English. It made me so sad, knowing that they had memorized a way to say goodbye, because they had to do it so very often.
“… because they had to do it so very often.”
Before we left we gathered in the “cafeteria,” kind of an outdoor concrete pavilion, and several of the older children prayed over us. Usually, they, too, gather on the steps of the front house to sing. And you know what? Now I can’t even remember if they sang a goodbye song. I could barely hold it together by that point.
wow. that’s challenging, Sandy.
many have voiced (or unvoiced) questions about the place of short-term missions trips. whether they really make a difference to those in need or just make us feel good about the sacrifice we made. i used to wonder.
but then i realized that so often it is the poor who have a ministry to us — the ones “on mission.” God’s economy is upside-down, yes? and isn’t it just like Him to use their simplicity, their poverty, their needs to unravel all we thought we knew?
indeed, we cannot do great things, only small things with great love (mother theresa). and that gives me hope, because love is eternal. even when the van drives away and the tears well — love remains.
One of our team said, “I had to come to Haiti to find God.” And I came back so very grateful for everything–yet so very torn. Trying to find my balance again, longing for that simplicity. Yes, I was blessed over and over. We pray for them every night here. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about that place and those kids.
Teams go back nearly every month, though, and those who have returned even after several months have discovered “their” kids remembered them.
I wonder if they’ll remember me. I’m planning, God willing, to go back in December again.
I think even one down-to-the-toes, feel-all-the-Jesus-in-me hug makes it a good thing to do.
Sadly, a very valid question to ask. So often in my culturtwining life I see beautiful, wonderful encounters, sometimes even faith encounters with Jesus. And then I see such pain that follows. I never know what to do with that, except to trust that God has brought each of us to where he’s brought us so he must be on top of things. You tell such a tender story here; thank you for sharing!
So much of this is sad, I am glad you went and even more glad that you are able to write about it and share so others will go and see for themselves. It is hard.
My husband works for a kids camp in the summer for abused and neglected kids and he said it is very similar to this, they cling, or they push the workers away.
Abandonment is a very deep and soul moving thing. It is at the heart and core of ‘who’ they are and it is not their fault.
Praying for you.
Oh.Oh.Oh. This is so rich, Sandi. Thank you for telling this story so very, very well. Thank you for going. Thank you for planning to go back. Those abandonment issues go so, so deep into those small hearts. May God protect those hearts – and yours.
Oh, the ache.
Yes, I know this too well and Sandy, I’m telling you this now, the ache won’t ever leave.
Just the other night I sat down at my computer and looked at pictures of the orphans and I just wept.
Wept for them. Wept for me. Wept for the Kingdom of God and all we are to be stewards of.
God bless you, God bless us all…
For His love, encompassing us, will never ever fail.
I feel this here, now, in my living room, yet I’ve never been to Haiti. I feel it when I leave the jail on Thursday nights or during the week when I visit with women there. I felt it yesterday as I played with two year old Zaquan, so his mom could talk with her mentor. Felt the pain when I watched her buckle him into his car seat and drive away to another part of town, to a house with two bedrooms and three children and no job and a young mother who’s grown up harder and faster than I can imagine. She watched her mom die of a heart attack in the backseat while she was driving, right on top of teenage daughters. Saw my new friend’s sadness as she talked about brothers and boyfriend in jail.
It’s easier to stay in my safe, comfortable living room than to think of the overwhelming lives others face.
But the hope He gives must be enough to compel us forward and outward. Across town or across the country, and even around the world.
Your story and the photos of these beautiful little ones touched me deeply, Sandy. You were such a blessing to them as they were to you. May they know and keep the love of Jesus, as seen in you, all the days of their lives.
Blessings!
oh my this made me cry. the perfect kind of cry that leaves you longing for more, desperately wanting to do more. DO. MORE.to be more. to live beyond me, and live for Him. that last line, it haunts me…
Sandra,
Nice to meet you. I’m hopping over here from the Imperfect Prose link up. When were you in Haiti? What a poignant story here of that time. Thank you.
Have a wonderful week.
Jennifer Dougan
http://www.jenniferdougan.com
http://www.jenniferdougan.com/2013/02/the-priest-and-hundred-dollar-bill.html
Wow, what an opportunity, Sandy. Always the tug. To stay, but have to go. Beautiful accounting, accenting with amazing photos. Makes me think of my time in Africa. Although I didn’t get to be there to help, as you did. I envy you that experience. One that will always remain in your heart.
Oh, Sandy…..I am sitting here with a tear in my heart as well, both for your sweet girls in Haiti and for my sweet girls in Belize. What a strange existence we live when our hearts are so torn between two drastically different places! It always serves as a reminder that this world is not our home, and that we’re all feeling a tug and a pull for somewhere else. Thank you so much for sharing your story.
Sandy, I see your strength reflected here.
And I’m amazed. Your capacity to love and to share in hurts . . . enormous.
I’m so grateful for you.
I’m glad you’re going back, Sandy.
The scene you described with Chilanchi, I am living that scene day after day with my own children. It’s so painful, but I have to remember that they are hurting, too, just like Chilanchi.
I hate saying goodbye. I’m glad you are going back. They need you. Thanks for going back! God bless you Sandy!