Mission Under Fire (2 page)

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W
e began the next morning with devotions that consisted of a short message taken from scripture, followed by a few praise songs. I’m not sure what the occasion was, but I remember someone playing an accordion during one of those morning meetings. We attended these sessions daily with Double Harvest employees and local Haitians.

An interpreter, whose name I no longer remember, spoke 12 languages, and helped us to communicate with the locals. This man was tall, well mannered, and very intelligent. Unfortunately, his opportunities were limited in Haiti. Had he lived in the United States, he probably could’ve been quite successful.

We had a good breakfast, filling up on the usual pancakes or waffles prepared by the ladies, and we were ready to work.

The women in our group spent time each day with the Haitian children that hung around the compound. Julie Baldini works in family ministries at our church, and immediately fell in love with them. We all did. Filled with joy and curiosity, they could brighten your day no matter what you’d been through. Their circumstances didn’t prevent them from loving life. It’s like they’re unaware of their poverty. Unlike the vast majority of children in America, most Haitian kids don’t have a second set of clothing and some have none at all, unless they were lucky enough to have a school uniform, or a couple tattered garments. In spite of their poverty, they were thrilled to watch us and relished the attention they received.

After only one day, the children started bringing the women homemade gifts, melting their hearts. One of the children gave Maggie Duncan a ring made of cloth and twine. Maggie cherished the little girl and the ring so much that she wore it everyday for a year. It seemed like most of us had at least one special little friend that gravitated to us.

I remember taking my son Chad on a mission trip to Honduras around twenty years ago. It seemed like the highlight of that trip, for Chad anyway, was playing soccer and hanging out with the local kids. Things haven’t changed much since then. I think God uses children in destitute countries as a way to lure His people to serve—they are that sweet, appreciative, and friendly. And like the other mission trips, seeing their joy and carefree smiles made the blood, sweat, and tears worth it.

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W
e all gathered around to receive our work orders when Arthur asked, “Who knows how to drive a tractor?”

“I can,” Brad and I replied simultaneously.

Somehow, I ended up with the tractor job. Arthur pointed me in the right direction and instructed me to load the flatbed trailer with lumber and transport it to the crusade site. Excited to do something productive, I quickly got started.

I made my way to the tractor, accompanied by a Haitian helper, and we loaded the trailer full of lumber. When I turned to see what everyone else was doing, they were nowhere to be found. I assumed they had already left for another job so I headed out. I’m not a stand around and ask questions kind of guy. I’m a fixer and a doer so I mounted the tractor and began driving, assuming I’d find my way without any problems. I couldn’t speak their language so I depended on hand gestures to communicate.

Once we loaded the tractor, my helper didn’t see a need to accompany me to the stage. I headed out of Double Harvest the same way we came in. I was in a third world country, driving a tractor, making very good time, but had no clue where I was going. As luck would have it a couple kids started yelling and pointing with enthusiasm in the direction of the stage. It must have been incredibly obvious that I was lost. It might have been the way I pulled up to the fork in the road and raised my hands to my sides gesturing,
which way do I turn?
They wanted to help because even in Haiti, as in the U.S., men aren’t supposed to ask for directions.

As I drove on, following their instructions, the kids hopped on the trailer behind me.

When we came to the nearest village, I rumbled through tiny roads lined with people running along side me, gawking and chattering about—I can only assume—at the funny looking American. By now, the number of passengers on my trailer had grown. They had not only jumped onto the trailer, but were up on the tractor with me. One kid sat on the left fender and another sat on the right. I would’ve had more passengers, but lucky for me, “no” means no in seven different languages.

I looked around at the lean-to shacks and crumbling concrete homes that were lucky to have a roof. Their living conditions were pitiful, reminding me how fortunate I am, and how little I really need. Each tiny home had no more than two rooms where they’d sleep in one area and store their simple belongings in the other. They usually cooked outside, and bathed at the community water well that consisted of a concrete slab with a hand-crank pump in the center.

At one point I had to stop in my tracks because of a hazard in the road. I remember seeing the kids looking around wondering why the carnival ride had ended. Although it might be hard to imagine electricity in this rundown village, I was surprised to find an electric wire hanging across the road. It ran through the village, and at certain points, a few villagers had tapped into the wire and routed it into their homes. An older boy, around twelve-years old, saw the wire and jumped from the trailer onto a nearby roof. He snagged the wire, unhooked it, and threw it over to the other roof, clearing my path. The whole time I watched him do this, I thought,
I’m going to have to call on my lifeguard days and perform CPR on this little numbskull.
How did he know that the wire wouldn’t be hot? Either way, he lived to tell about it.

As I drove on I thought to myself,
someone’s going to be upset tonight when they try to turn on “Dr. Phil” and discover they have no electricity.

At that time, I started to question my decision to work on my own. I wondered if we were really driving to the designated site, or if the kids who’d accompanied me were opportunists, cleverly hijacking the tractor with me a willing accomplice. Regardless, I kept driving until we had passed through the village. They were pointing me toward the countryside, which seemed right, I supposed.

I soon found myself surrounded by about sixty Haitians, mostly children and young adults, pointing and yelling at me. I could feel myself melting from the sun and stress. Unable to understand the people surrounding me, I was afraid that they were going to steal the lumber.

As quickly as I had begun to question my safety, I noticed a small stage a few hundred feet away, just beyond the open fields.

I had arrived and the Haitians graciously helped me unload the lumber. When we finished, I wanted to check in with the other missionaries. They still hadn’t arrived at the stage. I thought,
really? I’m going to drop off a load of lumber in the middle of a crowd of people who live in shacks?
This was a new culture and a new people to me; I couldn’t help feeling a little suspicious of their intentions.

I started to head back to Double Harvest when all of my little followers hopped back on the trailer. Evidently, the local grownups didn’t like that idea so they scolded the kids off. I found my way back to Double Harvest and saw the others loading supplies and airing the tires on a large front loader that we’d later use to lift material. Although I still felt a bit tense from my journey, I tried to remain calm when I noticed everyone was still at the compound. Admittedly, I was troubled that they were still there, safe inside the protective walls. I said, “I thought you guys had gone out to the site.”

“No,” said Arthur, smiling. “We had to get the tools and supplies checked out of the shop. Why? Have you already been out there?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking he should be grateful that I had risked life and limb for a stack of wood. “The lumber is unloaded in the middle of the field! I hope it’s still there when we get back.”

Inside I was put off, wondering how it was that in the same time it took me to cart a trailer full of lumber into oblivion, unload it, and drive back, they had only managed to air a couple tires and check out some tools. I wasn’t angry that I had done the work, just bothered that I had been put into a potentially dangerous situation.

“Oh, it’ll be fine,” Arthur said nonchalantly, waving me off. “Nobody’s gonna take it.”

My attitude cooled off and we continued our first day of toilsome labor.

W
hen we returned, the lumber was safe and accounted for. We eventually completed building the canopy, but didn’t have enough time to set up our gear, or make time for the band to practice. Without our equipment, we were unable to contribute that evening, so we sang and listened with the locals. Some of us were too out of gas to even stay and listen, so we headed back for a well-deserved shower, hot meal, and a cold drink.

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E
arlier that day, while we were still putting the finishing touches on the canopy, children played near the work site, climbing on tractors and trucks to get a better look. One little guy who was probably about 6-years old got hurt that day. While the tractor was on the move, he and some other kids had climbed on top of the lumber, hoping for a little excitement. But while we were driving in the fields, the tractor hit a bump and knocked one of the boards loose, smashing the boy’s little finger. Jason, a physical therapist by trade, bandaged him up and brought him to his parents.

After spending time with the boy’s family, Jason and the young kid became very close. Over the next couple of days, that little boy didn’t leave Jason’s side. I remember performing on stage and looking into the crowd. Every time I spotted Jason, that little guy was on his lap, happy as a lark.

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H
aitians came from the surrounding villages and listened to the program. After hearing the sermon, many were saved or rededicated their life to God. During one of the meetings, I don’t remember which one, a woman was healed from demonic possession. Steeped in voodoo, Haiti among other Caribbean nations, is known for the dark cultism that consists of Roman Catholic rituals mixed with traditional African witchcraft, sorcery, and possession. Although Roman Catholicism is the nation’s official religion, Voodoo, or Vodoun is practiced by most Catholics in Haiti, coexisting with their religion as a means to communicate with family spirits. This is a very washed-down and simplistic description, but what’s important to know is the Haitians are a religious people and the concepts of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are not new to them. Still, after all they’ve been through, they are hungry to find meaning and to know God.

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A
fter the meeting, the rest of the group headed back to our quarters, showered, and prepared for a hot game of Euchre. Monday through Wednesday had been much the same. We assisted Arthur with small projects throughout the day, and practiced our music when we had time. The ladies helped stain some desks, and we played with the ring-making, gift-bearing children. The days went by quickly. We worked hard, sweating, bonding, getting to know the Double Harvest staff and beautiful people that we served.

Each sweltering day ended with the crusade meetings. We’d sing, act, and share testimonies. One of those evenings stood out to me. It was the night Maggie told her story. She got very personal about the indiscretions in her marriage and how great it’s been since that time. I couldn’t help but think of the past few years and all that Sharon and I had been through. You almost have to experience the bad, to really appreciate the good. It was a meaningful talk.

The long walks back to our apartment and meaningful discussions that took place were a great way to end each day. The air would cool and we’d walk through the darkness, shining our flashlights to guide the way. We’d chat about the Haitians’ need to control every aspect of the event, the drama, our mistakes, or the Haitian choir. And if we weren’t discussing that evening’s activities, we’d chat about our families and such, getting to know each other on a deeper level. There was always something interesting to talk and laugh about.

When we’d return to the compound, we’d relax, snack, read, or play in the euchre tournament that had become quite an event—a guys versus girls battle, with a whole lot of trash talk. The days were hot and physically exhausting, but it gave us a sense of accomplishment.

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O
n Wednesday, Arthur told us about a school in the country that needed some tents assembled. The school provides a basic education and a hot lunch. It was an hour and a half drive into the country, but we decided to make the trip to see what we were getting ourselves into.

The terrain was rough. We traveled in trucks, filling every available space. I sat on the tailgate and had to hang on for dear life as my rear end hopped up a few inches every time we hit a bump.

We finally reached the school, sore buns and all, but the “facility” was not what I expected. It looked more like a camp. The terrain is rough and there were only a few trees in the middle of the “campus”.

The schoolrooms were made of tents, each about twenty by thirty feet, packed with desks and chairs. One tent, no larger than a typical pop-up tent, housed a kitchen, where a woman worked diligently over a large pot of something that would soon be served for lunch.

As we toured the facility, we observed the students in uniform, sitting properly, sectioned off into a couple of different tents according to their age with about 50 children per tent. They glanced at us, while we walked around, but they didn’t rush us like the kids in the village—these children were far more self-controlled, dressed in neat blue or green uniforms. I believe the colors indicated the grade.

After touring the facility, we had a better idea how much work was involved, so we headed to the trucks for the bumpy ride back to Double Harvest. That night, we made plans to start the next morning at 5:00 am, hoping to beat the heat and assemble the tents.

On our way to the crusade that night, Bruce decided to take us on a shortcut. As we walked through the village we saw a community watering well.