A place to call home

Sunday produced a joy in me that will remain long after my plane departs in the early days of next week.

It was a long-awaited homecoming for a simple family who share an intricate love, who have come to mean something significant to me in a way that I still can’t quite articulate.

There are times in life when someone, or a group of someones, come into your life and make a home in your heart. Then they stay for a long, long time.

When the Charmont’s came into the cholera clinic 7 months ago, they opened the door to my heart, pitched a tent, and settled in. Little did we know how they would enrich our coming days in Haiti. For certain, little Plumpy was easy to want to take care of and protect. Anyone that has met him knows this. His brother and new sister, and mother and father, hold an equally treasured spot in the recesses of our affections. There was always something about this family that evoked a fierce sense of protection in me, and the strong desire to help them thrive, regardless of the odds against them.

In the short amount of time we’ve known them, we’ve been through the birth of their third child, Rose. We’ve held bible studies at their home, taken P for echos to check on his unwell, tiny heart, and gone on beach outings and lunches at our place. They’ve survived tropical storms, earthquakes, cholera, the blazing heat, pertussis, joblessness, hunger, pneumonia and chicken pox. They’ve handled life in a slum with a certain grace that was never laced with complaining- just the humble request for prayer to leave life in half a tent. They endured things that would have taken me out in the first hour. For 19 months they’ve lived in squalor in less than 60 sq feet – with one bed between the 5 of them.

As fulfilling as our visits were with them, each time we’d have to drop them back at that miserable tent community, driving them back over the narrow stretch of trash and rubble before pulling up to their slot. Each time, I’d drive away with a rock in my stomach and tears stinging my eyes. Leaving them there made me feel cruel and helpless. It left me hating that I couldn’t – or wasn’t- doing more.

A couple posts ago on the blog I wrestled with moving them because their community is vibrant and sharing, and essential for survival in a place like an IDP camp in Cite Soleil. Yet God used a Haitian friend to release that fear in me and let me know it was okay to be recklessly intentional with one family.

Finding a house that is decent and available for rent is extremely hard here. To find a place that is safe, near a good water source and has electricity- and oh, I needed to find it in just a week– seemed too daunting. Yet Antony, our Haitian friend, helped us scour his community for a place. He was excited when he came to tell me, “I think I’ve found it.”  We came upon the house, passing a small creek and young children playing along the way. With 4 bedrooms, a porch, patio, and its own latrine it was too good to be true. God answered our prayers exceedingly, abundantly.

A group of kind friends joined us this weekend to clean and get the house ready.  We scrubbed some funk and junk off the walls and floors. We raked trash from the yard and were even able to run electricity into the house- a luxury the family surely never had in Cite Soleil.

Sunday was moving day. We pulled up into their community and they had almost everything ready… we told them we had a surprise for them and to pack up all of their items. The other families were running around, helping them get ready. I had been quite anxious about coming to the community and seeing everyone I had come to love, knowing that I couldnt give this same gift to each of them. I didn’t sleep well the night before thinking about it- I quite honestly almost made Justin go alone to get them. I didn’t want them to feel I had abandoned them.  But, amazingly, they weren’t upset. They were supporting Gener and Valene, bathing the kids, hoisting furniture into the truck. This is because the family has become very loved- I have watched them share their food and possessions with the others. They are good people and they are leaders. They have built and sustained community. And because of this, their friends want good things for them.

It was a beautiful picture of strength and support. If anyone ever questions the love and care that is capable of the Haitian people, visit the IDP camp on the corner of Rue 9 in Cite Soleil. It is alive there.

The car was filled with anticipation, smiling and pointing on the drive over. We pulled up and jumped out. P had fallen asleep on the way so we carried he and Rose to the house and grabbed some things to begin moving. Two of their friends from the camp had come to help.

They couldn’t stop smiling as we walked up to the house and began moving their things in. Valene had a sparkle in her eye and in her smile- the joy of mother who is now able to give her children the life she knows they deserve.

As they walked through the rooms in the house, they said repeatedly, Mesi, Mesi.

This home symbolizes so much more than just a covering over their heads. It’s security. It’s new life. And it’s a second chance in a community that will welcome them. There is space for them to be a family. To cook, invite people over, to watch their children play in the yard from their porch as the cool of the night comes each evening. There is a school nearby, and a large church with many ministries for them to become involved in. Our staff here who has also come to know and love them will be a part of helping them integrate into a new life.

We’ve been visiting them each day, and every time we come down that little muddied path to their front door a sense of joy washes over us. There is a feeling of carefreeness floating through the open doors. Laughter and playing and running. Smiling, welcoming us in. Life.

Yesterday, I watched Peterson take his first steps. He stood up on his own, teetered and fought for balance. He looked at me with his toothy smile, and took four distinct steps before falling squarely on his bottom. He’ll be running around in no time. He has ample smooth, flat surfaces to practice on now. He is smiling and clapping when we see him. He is already thriving here.

Marks of our life in Haiti run through the rooms- our curtains and shelves, bedding and towels. We framed photos of their family in picture frames we had. It helps me feel like we are leaving a little part of us with them and with Haiti. They are an extension of our family, and always will be.

We asked Gener how their first night went. He shook his head, smiling and said: “This is the first time for as long as I can remember that I didn’t hear gun shots at night. I have never fully slept through the night.  It’s like we’ve been given a new life.”

Tears filled my eyes. Thank you, God. Thank you.

I am not sharing this joy to magnify ourselves. In fact, this has very little to do with us- and everything to do with the God we serve, and how He uses sinful, broken vessels like us to propel His care forward and share a glimmer of the love He has given us.

This family has given me far more than I could ever give them. They have shown me that love always wins, that faith, determination and resilience have a place in Haiti.

And forever, they will have a place in our hearts.