Beyond... (Haiti, Day 2)

It is always a good reminder as you enter a new country to get a feel for 'timing'. This was achieved in 3 hours of waiting in the Port au Prince Warehouse (I mean, 'Airport'), as we stalled until our trip liaison arrived. The 10am site visit, per our well-intentioned schedule, began at 5pm and was a race against the sun.

Grace International is a light in a very dark storm. I cannot believe how unbelievable this place is; the team has tried to talk our way through the overall state of this land, and it does not add up. There are gaps at every level, and it would take a Dr. Vanegas-style flow chart to even establish the basis for a prognosis, not even beginning to lay out a treatment plan.

I struggle on multiple levels - this engineer is aghast at the trash, the rubble, the half-built buildings, the half-collapsed buildings. In my best John Wayne impersonation, I want to turn to the masses (the 20,000 people tented outside my window at the moment), and challenge, "Give me your best, who will work hard, long, with a vision for the future...", and then I realize I am not John Wayne, and this is not a Warner Brother backlot.

There are signs of life, and signs of death and signs of change and signs of stagnation. I am proud to be here and hope that what we are involved with provides opportunities and hope for people who have been given a fairly difficult lot in life.

Let it begin... (Haiti, Day One)

11 days ago I was surreptitiously approached by a friend at the Association of Christian Design Professionals conference and asked if I would be willing to travel to Haiti on short notice. We were just finishing rolling the chapel and throwing spit-balls at the elderly volunteers, so I was a bit preoccupied: "Sure".

Then, backing up, I qualified my statement: "I'll have to check with my three authorities first: God, Maggie and Gaskins," assuming one of them had a good reason to keep me at bay.

I probably should have found a stronger means of disqualification, as I now find myself arriving in a hotel room in Ft Lauderdale and setting a 3:30 am wake-up call to get the team to the airport for 5 days in Carrefour, Haiti, staying at Grace Hospital and designing a 500 person neighborhood. Or, as Duane rumored, attending the grand opening of the new Sandals resort.

I suppose that last comment is insensitive - I have a history of dealing with overwhelming things with mild sarcasm. I'm pretty sure we are about to see the overwhelming, about to enter the unfixable, about to attempt the impossible.

My dad commented the other day, before this trip was sprung, that Haiti is beyond repair. He is likely correct, judging from the last 100-years of support and where the country has floundered. If there is a God-sized project anywhere, it is in Haiti. I am not an overtly spiritual man in my words, although I try to be in my prayers. But it is clear to me from my suburban tower that Haitians need a breakthrough, and that God is the best route for that transition from the oppressed to freedom.

And as well, even though we are preparing a home for 500 people in a 20,000 person tent city, and that seems almost a waste, it isn't. For the people with a new home, a new garden, a new factory and farm and proper outdoor toilets, it will not be a waste.

My prayer is that I am a man after God's own heart in these days ahead.

Ol' Blu

In early 1995 I took my amazing $300 tax return and blew it in Mecca ('REI', for the uninitiated). Bought a sleeping bag, tent, and 2 bananas ('bandanas', again, for the uninitiated).

Being the crazy rebel that I am, I refused to purchase common red bandanas, but instead opted for a light-blue and a tan bandana, which would ensure I always know which ones are mine (there's nothing worse than having a big bandana party with all of your friends and not knowing which ones to take home at the end of the night).

Ol' Blu (that's the blue one's name) was a faithful chap. Served in whatever capacity needed at the moment: a sweat rag, dew-rag, tourniquet, blanket, ear-warmer, snot-rag, dish-rag (this list is not necessarily in chronological order), food-prep station, strainer, way to meet the ladies ("Wow, that's a nice light-blue bandana you've got half hanging out of your pocket. I bet you can tell a few stories about him." "Why yes, I can."). There has hardly been a time in 15 years that I have not taken Old Blu with me on any trip of length or into the great wide open. The roughness of the cheap cotton had worn as smooth as a baby's bottom. I had even contemplated making a pair of underwear out of him.

Today, just a moment ago, my 2nd child walked in to show me a picture she made, which turns out was composed of a number of pieces of cloth cut up and taped together to in simple beauty. Ol' Blu played his final role, one he shall never return from, as the cut up front door, sidewalk and chimney smoke of my daughter's craftsmanship.

There was a moment I was tempted to react, to cry out in loss at Ol' Blu, to exclaim words of sorrow and anger at the senseless butchery. But how is a 7-year old to understand, and what can I do now to repair him anyway. He died as he lived, a servant to all. I will miss him.