Sometimes I Hate this Place

Sometimes I hate this place.

There.  I said it.  It hurts to admit it.

I’ve started writing this several times, trying to make the words all lovely and spiritual and easy to digest.  But some things just can’t be prettied-up.  Stop reading now if you can’t handle a little lamenting.

A few nights ago, a friend was supposed to come for dinner, but he was delayed by traffic while driving from Port au Prince.  Jeremy sent me a text that said, “go ahead and make dinner.  He’s stuck in a gun fight and might not get here in time.”  EXCUSE ME, WHATTTTTT?  News reports soon followed with more information:  “On Wednesday, automatic gunfire was reported throughout the day at Bicentenaire, Avenue Bolosse and Martissant, and nearby neighborhoods where gangs clashed, causing transit paralysis and widespread panic…. Late in the night shots were still heard and tension and fear remained palpable among residents of the affected areas.”  (HaitiLibre.com)  I did go ahead and make dinner, but with a righteous anger rising inside of me.  “I hate this place,” I thought while cooking up the pork chops.  I imagined our friend hunkered down in his car while bullets whizzed by.  (Disclaimer:  usually my imagination is worse than reality)  Not only was our friend in danger, but I couldn’t stop thinking about all the sweet ladies trying to sell on the street, the innocent kids just wanting to play, the men trying to work—all of them in the line of fire by gangs armed with automatic weapons that are funded by corrupt government officials who want to control this country.  The injustice burned within me.   

Several hours later, our friend did make it to our house in one piece, and ate his pork chop while regaling us with the story of what he did during the couple hours that he was stuck in Port.  It turns out that he pulled off the road and visited with local vendors while waiting for the traffic to clear.  He wasn't actually dodging bullets, as my mind imagined, but still the danger was nearby.  To him and many others, it was just another day in Haiti.   It’s sadly becoming the norm.

Not only are there frequent reports of gang violence, there is also currently a nationwide fuel shortage that is causing life to grind to a halt.  This happens every couple of months when the government can’t pay their bills, and it just wreaks havoc everywhere.  And now they are saying there's a potential of no gas until mid-September.   So, Friday, I woke up thinking that it would be the last day I could take my kids to school for a while.  While we have plenty of diesel for our generator, all of our vehicles use gas—and there has been zero gasoline for sale in our city for days.  Actually, one gas station did open up briefly, but there were reports of nearly 600 cars in line to buy their ration, 1000 gourdes, or about 4 gallons.  If we would have tried to brave that line, we would have run out of gas while waiting.   And yesterday, in front of the other gas station nearby, there were reports of young men slashing the tires of vehicles in anger because they couldn’t get gas for their motos.  Their frustration is understandable, even though their actions are inexcusable.  Many of these guys drive moto taxis for a living and if they can’t find gas to work, they can’t make money to support their family.  It sucks for everyone.   For us, it’s really just an inconvenience, but for others, it is a major impact to their family’s ability to work and eat.

We were down to our last ¼ tank of gas in the Sequoia, and the truck’s gas tank is empty.   So, here in Haiti, we don’t have snow days, but we HAVE had “riot days” and now there may be “no gas in the car” days that keep the kids home from school.  Believe it or not, the kids are NOT happy about this.  They LOVE their school, their teacher and their friends.  They want to go.  And believe me when I say that I ALSO WANT THEM TO GO.

As I drove them to school Friday morning, I prayed over that last little bit of gas, asking God to make it like the widow’s flour that never ran out.  Just as I turned off the main road onto the bumpy side street, KA-THUNK.  The car came to an abrupt stop.  My heart sank and I might have cussed a little.  And of course, as is with the timing of all my catastrophic vehicle problems, Jeremy was 3 hours away in Fond Parisien where he is working.

I jumped out to discover that the ball joint on the front passenger wheel had broken off.  Immediately, I realized how much of a blessing it was that this didn’t happen while driving on the main road, which could have been extremely dangerous.  Or even worse, it could have happened while coming down our very steep driveway.  But the location where it DID happen is not exactly the place you want to hang out for long.  There have been some robberies and shootings there after dark over the past few months.  We pass through that area every day on the way to and from school and have personally never had any issues, because we are traveling in the daylight.  But now that we were sitting ducks and I had five kids in the car, my mama bear primal instincts kicked in.  It was 7:45 a.m. and it was already nearly 90 degrees.  I was sweatin’ it in more ways than one. 

I made a quick phone call to Jeremy to see if he could reach the mechanic.  We both hated that he was so far away, and I felt really alone.  But then, because GOD IS GOOD, PEOPLE: He sent help in the form of two other American missionary men who just happened to be driving by at that exact moment.  Literally, within 30 seconds of the car-tastrophe, help had arrived.   One of them was a dad who was also taking his kids to school, so he let my kids hop in and go the rest of the way with them.  The other gentleman stayed with me until the mechanic could come and assess the situation.    Long story short, two hours later in the blazing sun, the ball joint was temporarily welded so that I could drive it to a safe location where it waits for repair, and I was on my way home in our friend’s air conditioned truck.  Despite the difficulty of the morning, I was keenly aware of God’s presence in that whole frustrating ordeal.

As soon as I walked in the door, I received a message from a nurse-friend at the American clinic who is helping me with a pair of premature twins under our care.  Their condition had declined significantly and they needed to be hospitalized ASAP.  But remember:  no gas!  car is broken down!  the hospital is 3+ hours away.  My hands are tied.   I thought again, “I hate this place.”   This is not the first time that transportation issues have stood between a sick patient and the help that they need.  This is the daily story for many others nationwide:  so many needs, so much suffering, so few resources, so many obstacles standing in the way. 

But again, GOD.  He is not blind to suffering and pain.  He sees and acts.  I had nothing but God had everything.

I went out on a limb and contacted an organization called HERO, an American-operated ambulance service, and asked for assistance with transporting these babies to the NICU who had already agreed to accept them.  I thought it was a long-shot due to the fuel shortage, but within minutes, they replied, “yes, we can help.”  I can’t tell you the wave of relief that washed over me.  Like a tsunami of thanksgiving.  Over the next few hours, with an extra annoyance of an internet outage that slowed communication (because truly nothing can just be easy), five separate organizations came together in beautiful collaboration to get these babies to the place where they could receive help.  I have an extra measure of gratitude today for Haiti Health Ministries, CAN ambulance service, HERO, and God’s Littlest Angels NICU.  

The dust was clearing from all that excitement when Jeremy arrived home from working out in Fond Parisien (he had traveled there with our friend Parker who has a diesel truck, and a delicious little side note:  they brought back with them some thick cut Farmer John’s bacon, hallelujer praise the Lort).  I was so glad to see him, but he didn’t stay home for long:  Immediately he set out with Parker to find gas.  I knew this was a risky move and it could put him in danger because there are thousands of others also scrambling to find a scarce resource.  Again, I prayed and fretted while trying to make dinner, not at peace until he pulled back in the driveway.  I didn’t care if he came back with gas;  I just wanted him back!  But about 90 minutes later, he came home and had found a little bit of gas, praise the Lord.  A glimmer of hope that the kids can get to school next week after all!

We fell in bed that night, both absolutely exhausted and weary, but still grateful that we truly do have everything that we need:  food and water and solar power.  This is more than many people around us, and I grieve that for them.  We don’t take this life for granted, and I feel guilty even for complaining at all.  I hated this place a little less when the city gave power and the air conditioning came on just in time to go to sleep.

We needed that bit of rest because the next day would turn out to have more challenges.  Remember that little bit of gas Jeremy was able to buy?  Yeah….about that.  After he put it in his truck, we noticed a strong gas smell and discovered that the gas tank is leaking, wasting precious gas AND rendering our last functional vehicle not safe to drive.  We both might have cussed a little more.  We used to be good, holy, spiritual missionary people, but now we’re just ticked off, frustrated and freaking hot whiners.  Oh, and also stuck at home.  In the words of our 10 year old daughter, “why are cars always so hard?”

These few vehicle issues from this week join a long list of transportation trauma for me.  I wish I was joking, but I’m not.  When I journal and try to process some of my more anxious experiences, I’ve discovered a theme emerging, and a lot of it has to do with me feeling vulnerable on the roads with my kids in the car.   I can practically hear all international workers living in Haiti raising up a voice of solidarity as I type:  every time we get in the car to go somewhere, we take a risk.  Often times, not going is not an option, so we go anyway and hope for the best.  For me personally, my list of transportation trauma includes stuff I can’t share in detail:  physical and sexual harassment, animal and human abuse, a drive-by shooting, nakedness, dead bodies, near collisions, and a whole bunch of breakdowns/overheating/flat tires, etc.    

My tiny little story joins the many others in this country, American and Haitian, who have experienced things on the roads they never imagined.  Jeremy has driven longer and further than I have, and the stress of his time on the roads has likely taken years off his life.   Friends have had rocks and glass bottles thrown at them.  Others have driven through flaming road blocks.  Some have seen human bodies burning on blazing tires.  People have been robbed and shot while leaving the bank.  Jeremy and some friends came upon a wreck in which a tap tap carrying about 20 people had gone over the side of the mountain, killing all but one.  So my little breakdown this week really isn't that big of a deal.  Still, no one living in Haiti has been immune from some kind of road trauma.  And adding to the mix the gas shortage when traffic can not flow, this brings an extra dose of misery to those people who just want to work and take care of their families.  

So when I say I hate this place, I mean that I hate THE SUFFERING.  I hate the pain.  I hate the anxiety.  I hate the sorrow.  I hate the desperation.  I hate the fear.  I hate the injustice.   I hate that innocent, peaceful Haitian people are left with the raw end of the deal.  I hate that the enemy has seemed to be victorious in this tiny hurting country. 

But, clearly I also love this place, weirdly, wildly, inexplicably.  Every time I begin to think that I just want to get out of here and live in a place where Firestone and AAA Roadside Assistance exist, I see the little faces that we care for  in their homes every week.  Going TO them is important to me.  I love these people, these babies, these families that we serve in a crazy, protective, fierce way.   And furthermore, Jesus keeps helping us press on, reminding us of the ultimate goal.

Friends, when I tell you that more than any of the crap I just told you about and should probably edit out….more than ANYTHING, I just want someone to know Jesus.  I want them to know that there is more to life than suffering and pain.  I want them to know the hope of an eternity with Him.  I don’t want to be idle in my days here.  I don’t want to shy away from the hard places.   I want to be in the trenches with our neighbors.  I want this struggle to count.  I want to use this time wisely.  I want to reflect the true, authentic, scandalously grace-filled Jesus to those around us who have suffered far more than I ever have.  I know that I have ZERO to offer except for the hope of Jesus, who has EVERYTHING to offer.  If it’s even for ONE, it’s worth it. 

So, whenever one of our vehicles are up and running again, and it has gas in it, I’m going to get in and I’m going to go.  I’m not going to let fear paralyze me.   While what we’ve seen and experienced on the roads will never be far from our minds, more times than we can tell you, Jesus has been with us.    He has always protected.

“It is God with whom we travel, and while He is the end of our journey, He is also at every stopping place.”  Elisabeth Elliot