Worry

I read this article today about worrying about children. It turns out that people are worrying about all the wrong things. Here are the top five things parents worry about, according to the article:

1. Kidnapping
2. School snipers
3. Terrorists
4. Dangerous strangers
5. Drugs

Here, on the other hand, are the top five ways children get hurt:

1. Car accidents
2. Homicide (usually committed by a person who knows the child, not a stranger)
3. Abuse
4. Suicide
5. Drowning

The premise of the article is that people are spending a lot of energy worrying about crimes that are actually quite rare, and not enough time doing something about the more common problems that they could prevent. The best thing parents can do is insist that their kids wear helmets and seatbelts and then stop worrying.

The list of things to worry about obviously varies depending on where you live. I know people whose children have been kidnapped here in Haiti. Kidnapping is something I have spent some energy worrying about. But the point of the article is a good one. It is easy to watch scary TV news and assume that the awful thing that happened to that person is likely to happen to you.

You might think that going through the earthquake would make me a more worried mother than I was before. After all, something that I had worried about actually happened. I have always worried quite a bit. My husband used to say that I should work at the Worst-Case Scenario Store, a place Garrison Keillor talked about on the radio. I have a very vivid imagination and I read too much.

However, I find I worry less now. I don't even go check on my children every time I wake in the night (though I still love watching them sleep and sometimes go downstairs to do that for a while). I think the main reason is that the earthquake reminded me of how little control I have over what happens. Worrying seems pointless in a way I always understood intellectually but now get at an emotional level. Why use my energy that way? If some terrible thing happens, my worrying will have absolutely no effect on the outcome. How much better it is to spend my time enjoying the life I have today!

Behind the Mountains

One of the things I lost in the earthquake chaos was my signed copy of Behind the Mountains, by Edwidge Danticat. It could have been among my books that were flung out of the way to make room for soldiers. (I explained that a little bit here.) But I think that this particular book was lost because I had loaned it to someone right before the quake, and in all the comings and goings, I don't know who it was and the person hasn't come forward, in spite of a little whining I posted on Facebook.

I ordered a new copy right before school started, since it took me that long to admit I wasn't going to find it. Amazingly, the book came in time for the second week of school. This is the read-aloud with which I always start the seventh grade year. It is a great one to talk about so many things: the variety of ways people live in Haiti, elections (we've got those coming up soon again), going back and forth from one culture to another, the way writers use their childhoods to make their art. I didn't foresee it making all of us sad this time, though. As we read about Léogâne, where Celiane's mother goes to sell the tablette she makes, we thought about how over 90% of the buildings there were destroyed in the earthquake. When there was a reference to the Palais National, we thought about the crushed version of this presidential residence that is left.

I highly recommend this book for late elementary school and early teens; it's a very good way to learn about Haiti, and when Celiane's family moves to New York (sorry, spoiler), it's wonderful on what it is like to be an immigrant in a huge, scary place.

Siblings and Books

I grew up in a home where everybody read books. For most of my childhood we didn't have television. For two years we lived in a small town in the United States where horrified friends, finding we had no television, gave us one, and those two years were probably the two when I read the least. Since I was the eldest child, many of the books came to me first and were passed on, but quite early my brothers and I had different tastes, and I don't remember recommending books to them very often or having them recommend books to me. (Brothers, since both of you read this blog, do you have any memories to the contrary?)

My children are growing up in a home where everybody reads books, too. And one of the things I am enjoying as they get older is that my daughter (13) is always recommending books to her younger brother (7). Sometimes she says, "You'll like that when you're a little older," and sometimes she hands it to him for right now, and sometimes she even reads to him.

She's always right, too. Several times she has suggested books to him that I have wondered about - that will be too difficult for him, surely? A few months ago she chose The Phantom Tollbooth and this was my reaction. But he loved it, and while he may not have understood every bit of the wordplay, he got enough of it that I could hear him giggling as he read. Part of the reason she is always right is that he adores her (though you wouldn't always know it) and he's willing to try her ideas.

In the car on the way to church this morning they were discussing mysteries. He said he liked them. She said that many of them didn't seem very realistic to her; those things just wouldn't happen. He said that he liked books that weren't realistic. A comparison of fantasy and realistic fiction that just isn't very realistic ensued. She opined that books need to obey the rules of their genre. How could an English teacher not smile at such a conversation?

This is a subset of their whole relationship, of course. In the same way as my brothers are two of the most important people in my world, so my children are part of each other in a way neither of them will ever be a part of anyone else. They are the only two who come from my husband and me, the only ones who will share our family memories when he and I are gone, memories of trips taken and cars breaking down and holidays and special meals and books we've read and a devastating earthquake. Recommending books is only one of the services that my daughter will offer her younger brother; accepting her recommendations is only one that he will offer her. I hope they will remain close for their whole lives, the way my brothers and I have, though we live in three different countries.

And all of this has got me thinking: one of my brothers (the youngest of the three of us) loaned me a book, Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury, several years ago and told me to read it. I still haven't read it - he told me to keep it and replaced it a long time ago in his own collection - but I'm going to start today.

Inspiration

Watching this team of amputees play soccer, you ask yourself, "What were my problems, again?"

Reading Update

Books #48 through 50 were all YA titles. #48 was Lies: A Gone Novel, by Michael Grant. I wasn't that thrilled by the first two books in this series and I don't think I'll be reading any more of them. What interest I had in the characters is no longer strong, and the events become more and more absurd. I do want to know whether they all get out of the FAYZ, though.

Book #49 was Gateway, by Sharon Shinn. This one has time travel, romance, an adopted protagonist...but although I found it mildly interesting, I don't think it's going to be a huge favorite in my classroom.

There's another adopted main character in book #50, North of Beautiful, by Justina Chen Headley: not Terra, the protagonist, but Jacob, the "Goth guy" she meets. Terra, named by her cartographer father (her brothers are Mercatur and Claudius), was born with a port wine stain birthmark on her face. She spends all her time trying to camouflage her birthmark, and also to hide who she really is. She has a "miracle boyfriend," Erik - a miracle because she can't believe anyone wants to be with her, and she'd better hold on to him because she's sure nobody else ever will want her. Her father is disappointed in his career and takes that out on everyone around him. (I thought her father was the least successful character - he never really came alive for me, and he made me think of the father in The Poisonwood Bible, which is otherwise one of my favorite books: a bit too bad, with no redeeming qualities.) I loved all the references to maps and how the mapmaking theme fit in with Terra's collages, which she can't quite accept as art. There's a trip to China that's a lot of fun. (I applaud this mini-genre of YA travel. There may be many more books in this category, but the only other one I've read is Carpe Diem, by Autumn Cornwell - the link is to my review). And while I thought the character of Jacob was wonderful, I had a hard time sharing Terra's swooning over his Goth appearance. I guess I need to learn the lesson of the book, about beauty being everywhere. Jacob is certainly beautiful inside.

This post is linked to today's Saturday Review of Books.

Poetry Friday: In Praise of the Ordinary

I wanted a poem this week in praise of the ordinary; a poem that celebrates how beautiful everyday life is, the more boring the better. Here's a nice one that I found on the Writer's Almanac site.


The Patience of Ordinary Things

by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things...

Here's the rest of it.

I am still reveling in my life, my routine, the blah-ness of predictability. It is a kind of love, enjoying those things - and people - that you trust to be there, day after day. You try not to think about the fact that someday they might not be. And yet, you do let yourself think that a little, because it makes you love them that much more today.

Book Aunt has the Poetry Friday roundup today.

Thursday

This morning my husband had a doctor's appointment (for a physical), so he left the house at 6 AM. He always makes me a cup of tea every morning. Of course, I am perfectly capable of making myself a cup of tea, but since he wasn't there I just didn't bother. It was only a few minutes ago that I made the connection between that and how sleepy I have been feeling all day.

When I got to school, the power was off (as in, the generator hadn't been turned on yet), but the wireless internet was working (since it runs on battery backup). Later in the day, the power was working fine but the wireless quit. I was disappointed because we were going to have an Open House later in the afternoon and I wanted to be online while waiting for parents to come see me. As it was, I probably got much more work done than I otherwise would have, and came home with all my grading already finished.

It was good to meet with parents at the Open House. I had met a few of the new ones already, but before I had their kids' identities firmly in my head. Now, after a week and a half of school, I know exactly who they are talking about when they say their children's names. I had taken up information sheets from the kids, including the question about where they had studied after the earthquake, but it was fascinating hearing the stories directly from the parents. Many told me that January 2010 was the first time their child had studied in English, when they were evacuated to the States. Imagine that: switching school systems, countries, and languages, without warning, after a traumatic earthquake, when you're in middle school. It is amazing how well those kids are functioning in English now. (Many of them tell me they learned English from TV, and even those who were in English school for the first time this year could speak some; but it's a very different thing to go to school and do academic work in the language.)

It's still early in the school year, and I may be eating these words soon enough, but it seems to me that we have a very good spirit on campus right now. Many of the parents told me how happy their children are to be back to something "normal" and how kindly they have been welcomed by the returning students. It feels as if we are all just a little bit more grateful for everything, just a little more aware of how quickly it can all be gone.

"Thank you for being in Haiti," one mother said to me. Honestly, it is a privilege to be here. It is an honor to serve these families who are so full of courage, and who are getting on with their lives and rebuilding their country.

After we got home it started raining and then the roof started leaking. But we aren't in a tent right now, so it's hard to feel too upset.

Found!

Here I told you about my missing binder containing lesson plans for the past three years. I had pretty much given up hope that this would ever be found, but today an administrator walked into my classroom during my free period holding it. "Is this yours?" he asked.

Yes. It's mine. And I'm so happy to have it back!

Why I'm Here

I read a pile of student drafts this afternoon, and also a class set of notebooks. The drafts were on self-selected topics, and one of the prompts in the notebooks asked the students to introduce themselves to me. Although I hadn't specifically asked anyone to write about the earthquake, many of the students did.

I sat and cried while I read.

And it suddenly occurred to me: This is why I am here. There are plenty of people who could teach my kids to write. And sure, I can do it too; I can fix their spelling and nudge their verb tenses and help them express themselves even better. But nobody can cry with them the way I can. (I am, by the way, a world-class crier.) Nobody can care about them the way I do, at least not exactly the way I do. Nobody else will read their writing the way I will, with exactly my eyes.

When I cry with them, it's not out of pity, because I saw something on TV or read about the Haitian children, but out of empathy. I know. I love Haiti too. I've lived here longer than you have; I came here before you were born. I was here that day in January, and I felt the earth shake. I'm so sorry for what you lost, and you're right to mourn those people and those places and that life. I love you. And God loves you.

We don't just sit around and cry. I still make them be quiet and stop chewing gum and turn in their homework on time. Life goes on and there are expectations. But they know that I care about them, and that I'm there if they want to talk, and that I'll read draft after draft of whatever they want to write.

All those months ago, when I was in the States, fretting about my complete uselessness, people said to me, There will be work to be done that only you can do. And now, here it is. I can teach and love these kids, here and now. I feel as though I'm exactly where I belong, doing exactly what I am supposed to do. And even if "what I am supposed to do" involves sadness and grief, it's sadness and grief I am uniquely qualified to suffer. And it's a privilege to do it.

Going to Church

"I was glad when they said unto me, 'Let us go into the house of the Lord.'" - Psalm 122:1

"And then I realized we had to drive all the way across Port-au-Prince." - Me

Last week I promised to take the camera with me to church today, and I did. I took over a hundred pictures and I have narrowed that down to a few to post. Remember that I took them out of a moving car with my point-and-shoot camera and my limited photographic skills. I got many lovely shots of the insurance sticker on the windshield and of my husband's hands on the steering wheel. If you live here and you know what our starting point and destination were, you may find our route odd. We had an errand to run on the way. My husband needed to have some tests done for his physical and had to drop off a, shall we say, specimen at the lab. I asked him if I could reveal this detail on my blog and he seemed surprised I would ask - almost as though everyone stops by the lab on their way to church to drop off little vials of biological matter. Sometimes we need reminders of what is actually normal behavior.


This is the Prime Minister's residence. Seven months after the earthquake there is still a large tent city in the formerly well-kept yard of this house.


Some art for sale by the side of the road. Yesterday, passing the same spot, we saw the first "earthquake art" that we had seen, but my picture unfortunately doesn't contain it. The paintings showed lopsided houses and people on the ground.


And then there is the real thing; often there are houses that look perfectly fine right next to flattened messes like this one that look as though nothing has been done to them since the day of the earthquake.


A row of public toilets on the street, for the use of the people in the nearby tent city.


This tent is part of that tent city. It seemed poignant to me that these refugees live in the shadow of a billboard advertising Delta Airlines and its flights to the relatively nearby city of New York. There in the harbor you can see the Statue of Liberty with all she promises to the "huddled masses yearning to breathe free."


Quick stop at the lab.


On our way again. Here's another billboard, this one showing Miss Haiti, who is going to participate in the Miss Universe competition. Sarodj Bertin is a lawyer as well as a beauty queen. Here someone tried to argue that Haiti shouldn't be participating in this competition because of the earthquake and you can read the comments to see what Haitian readers thought about that. The banner under Ms. Bertin's arms advertises the Jesuit Refugee Service.


Another flattened building.


And another tent city by the side of the road.


Nearing the airport.


And here's the airport tent city.


A billboard at the airport tent city asks if you are in despair and says that, if so, Jesus is your hope. There's a number you can call to talk to someone.


Another tent city by the side of the road. You can see from just these few photos that the quality of the tents varies wildly.


People walk down the side of the road to church. Of course they are beautifully dressed. They may have just come out of one of those tents, but they won't show it.


More tents. They are everywhere.


This billboard warns about the hurricane season. "Run and tell your neighbor," it suggests. Imagine a full-blown hurricane with all those people living in tents. Thankfully the season has been quiet so far.


We're almost there. Here's a tap-tap waiting for passengers.


More tents.


It's laundry day! Actually, this is pretty much how this neighborhood looked pre-earthquake. We're just about to turn in to where we will worship.

Church was wonderful; it is always a highlight of the week to get together to worship God with people we love.

I didn't take many pictures on the way home but I did want to show you some political graffiti, which is ubiquitous in this election year. I picked Wyclef, since he has been in the news lately. On Friday night the CEP (Conseil Electoral Provisoire) announced that Wyclef Jean, the hip-hop star, may not run for president due to his failure to meet the residency requirement. Today he said that he's not giving up and will file an appeal.


Here's the man himself, on a billboard advertising Cola Couronne. (Scroll down a little at that link to get past the Ghanaian soda, Pee Cola. Yeah.)


And here is some graffiti on the wall. It says "Long live Wyclef." In other places you can see, "We love you, Wyclef Jean," "Dear Wyclef Jean," and "Wyclef Jean, a good thing."

Thanks for coming along on our ride to church. Now I think we need a nap!

Goudou Goudou

The other day in class, a seventh grader got a frightened look on his face and when I asked him what was wrong, he said, "It felt like Goudou Goudou."

Our building is right next to a busy street, and when a large truck goes by, the building feels as though it's shaking. The sound of that truck going by is exactly how the earthquake sounded when it was beginning. The sound of Goudou Goudou.

Here's an explanation of the term Goudou Goudou from the ActionAid Earthquake Blog, written by Claudine Andre:

“Goudou Goudou” (pronounced Gudu Gudu) is how the majority of Haitians refer to the catastrophic earthquake that happened on January 12th 2010.

...[A] lot of Haitians living in Port-au-Prince and its surroundings still believe that what happened on January 12 was a spiritual act. Most of them are sure that it was Satan at work; some have faith that it was prophesied, and others believe in the hypothesis that life and natural ways recycle themselves when necessary.

The percentage of the population that really trusts the scientific theory of an earthquake is comparatively low. But literate or not, rich or poor, Catholic or voodoo practitioners, all know the words “Goudou Goudou”.

For Haitians, this expression describes the sound of the earthquake. It is one of the rare connections that different social ranks have. It’s understood by everyone and gives a good imagery of what happened on the 12th. Mostly it is a very light way to refer to the earthquake and minimize the trauma after the disaster.

Before school started I was working in my classroom one day and I felt the building shake. I turned to my second grade son and asked him if he felt it. He responded, very seriously and gently, "Mom. It's because the earthquake happened before, and you're afraid it will happen again. It has to do with psychology."

We're still wary, still vigilant. Hoping it won't happen again, but aware that it could. Goudou Goudou.

Poetry Friday: This is the Stuff

I teach a poem every day to my middle schoolers. (This is all part of my effort to be Nancie Atwell when I grow up.) On Fridays, though, we do songs. I ask the kids to bring in songs and then we discuss the lyrics like poetry and listen to the music together. I have learned a lot of new vocabulary this way (thank you, UrbanDictionary.com). I don't accept songs I consider inappropriate, but I often have to explain to my students why I have come to this conclusion. This makes for some interesting conversations. Some of the lyrics are difficult to discuss in any meaningful way, since they make little sense (at least in my opinion), but I can usually find a metaphor somewhere or some alliteration to talk about.

Some days nobody brings a song, and then I share some of the music I like. I call this "Old Lady Music," and it is surprising how many students actually enjoy some of the things I play by Paul Simon or Sting or one of my other favorites. The song below is one I have shared with my students as well. It feels very appropriate for this time in my life as I am adjusting back to life in Haiti after six months in the United States after the earthquake.

This is the Stuff
by Carolyn Arends

Riding along on a big yellow school bus
Elmer's glue and a brand new lunch box
Writing my name for the very first time
With a pencil that was bigger than me
From jumping rope and skipping school
To doing things that grown-ups do
Life goes by like that big old bus
If you miss it, it's history

Paper dolls and paperweights
Scraped up knees and hearts that break
Dreams to dream and plans to make
Love to give and love to take

This is the stuff
The smallest moments
This is the stuff
I need to notice
This is the stuff life is made of

Walking along as my life unravels
Looking back at the road I've traveled
All the things that matter most
Have caught me by surprise
Misty eyes and silent prayers
Promises and secrets shared
Friends that keep you up all night
Laughing till you cry

Life's made up of little things
Ties that bind and apron strings
New beginnings, old routines
Love and heartache in between...

I don't know the people on the video, but this song is in the background. It's really the perfect song for a video like this; a baby doing things all babies do, things that aren't really exciting unless it's your child. When our kids - especially the firstborn - are babies, we take pictures of everything they do. Why do we lose that sense of wonder as they get older? Why don't we realize that this is the stuff life is made of? Why don't we take pictures of our kids doing their homework, or make videos of eating dinner together as a family? It could all be gone in a second. These are the little things to appreciate while we have them.



Here's today's Poetry Friday roundup.

First Week

Tomorrow it will be Friday already. Time goes much faster when you are staying busy. I am so glad to be back at work, and I think this was a huge step towards being the me that I recognize.

It feels good to be doing something useful. It makes me feel competent, except, of course, when I feel incompetent. Today a seventh grader said to me, "I have no idea what you just said. I didn't get one single thing about it." Ah. Seventh graders. I had forgotten how they are! I said what I had said again; in fact, about three more times in different ways. By the end I seemed to have communicated more successfully.

Last week I posted a couple of status updates on Facebook about electricity, and several people commented that they could tell life was back to normal, since that's what I used to obsess about pre-earthquake. Again this week we are having power problems. On Tuesday night we had a big storm and the city power went out. Our inverter (battery backup) lasted through yesterday afternoon (we do have a generator, too, but it isn't working), and then last night we slept without any fans. It was very warm and sweaty and the air was filled with the whining of mosquitoes. Our quality of sleep suffered. I kept thinking, though, about people sleeping in tents, and my situation didn't seem so bad. Still, I hope that the electricity will come on again tonight as usual.

And tomorrow it will be Friday, the end of a week of "normal life." Normal is so beautiful; I never appreciated it before the way I do now.

Yo Domi Nan Soley

My beanbag chairs were unbelievably filthy, so I asked a school employee to wash them for me. She brought them back today and they were still damp and starting to smell a little sour. She told me, "Yo domi nan soley." They've been sleeping in the sun.

I put them back to sleep in the sun a while longer.

First Day of School

This morning it was wonderful to see all the returning students at school. There were many new faces, as well. Apart from the usual first-day chaos of scheduling and locker distribution, today went well. My son said he loves second grade.

Tomorrow is a full day, with the real full-length class periods. Bring it on!

Ready or Not...

School starts tomorrow. I am more or less ready, though my schedule changed three times today and I picked up a new class. I keep telling myself, I can handle this. I am an experienced teacher.

It doesn't really worry me that I've been out of teaching for seven months; I stayed home with babies for longer than that, and found it wasn't hard to go back to the classroom. But I am nervous about how it will be to have students coming from all different schools around the world; students who were here after the earthquake; students who are coming from other schools that were damaged or destroyed; students who just moved to this country in the last few weeks. In some ways it feels as though we will be rebuilding our community from scratch. And as in the case of rebuilding Haiti, this provides opportunities but is also scary. We'll never have exactly what we had before; that was comfortable and we were used to it. It's up to us to make sure we have something better.

Ready or not, here they come...students who are ready to be back together, students who are starting afresh, students who are afraid of their new school. There will be kids I missed, kids I haven't met yet, kids who have lost their comfortable world and are working to find out what their new lives will be like. Each one is precious, irreplaceable.

I'm ready. I'm scared. I'm praying.

Tangerine

Book #47 was a potential read-aloud for seventh grade, Tangerine, by Edward Bloor. I chose it because it had a soccer theme, and I got the idea from the cover that it was funny, always a big plus with seventh grade read-alouds. But eighty pages into the book...

Sirens started to wail outside. Then the loudspeakers crackled to life. "This is Mrs. Gates. We are experiencing an extreme emergency. Please listen carefully and do exactly as I say. First, any injured student should come immediately to the office. No student who is not injured should attempt to come to the office at this time. All other students should move calmly and quietly to their afternoon bus stops or pickup points. School buses have already been dispatched to drive you home. If you cannot go home at this time, you should proceed out the front entrance and walk to the high school gymnasium."

Mrs. Gates repeated this speech twice more as I worked my way out the front door and turned left to my bus stop. I hooked up with Joey again there. He said he'd heard that there were kids with broken arms and legs all over the office.

A convoy of ambulances, police cars, and fire engines turned into the entranceway, their sirens wailing and their lights flashing...

OK. Can I really read this to students who were just in an earthquake? It's not an earthquake in the book, by the way, although a character initially thinks it is. Instead, a sinkhole has opened up under the school.

When the Haiti earthquake happened, I was in the middle of a read-aloud with my seventh graders called The Last Book in the Universe, by Rodman Philbrick. The story is set in a post-apocalyptic society where the infrastructure has been destroyed by the "Big Shake." On the night of the earthquake, one of my seventh graders who was on campus joked that this was the "Big Shake" that was destroying Haiti. Even though this is a great read-aloud with lots of discussion potential, at this point I can't imagine ever reading it to a class again.

But, back to Tangerine. As I kept reading this book, unable to quit reading it until I finished it, I decided that it would make a wonderful read-aloud. It isn't funny, at least most of it isn't, but it is about soccer, and it's about reinventing oneself, about the way kids perceive themselves and each other, about secrets in a family, and about middle school. And, incidentally, about kids who have to leave their school due to a cataclysmic event and find ways to fit in elsewhere. What could be more appropriate for my students?

Sunday

This morning we drove across town to attend church. We're meeting with the same group as in January, but due to damage from the earthquake, we've had to relocate. The drive to church is much longer and more eventful than before; next week I'll take the camera along and document it.

Sunday morning in church has consistently been one of my most emotional times since January. Somehow the combination of music and stillness, supportive people and reminders of God's love, causes tears. I'm still sensitive, like someone with a sunburn. This morning it was wonderful to be meeting with friends, but there were many reminders of how different things are now; the location (we met in a clinic room, complete with oxygen in case anyone passed out during the sermon), the missing people, the conversation afterwards when we talked about the last seven months.

We had lunch at the home of some friends. There were long-term Haiti people and some newcomers, too. It was a fun time and felt "normal." In the evening we had a school event; all the teachers got together for pizza and conversation. Again, it was a mixture of returning and new staff. School will start soon and we're nearly ready; there's hope for the new year, but again, we talked about the past as well as the future.

In all, it was a good Sunday.

O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

Here you can find more information on this hymn and also hear the tune. Warning: the site automatically starts playing music, so don't click on it if you're in a meeting.

Giving Birth in Haiti

A LATE NIGHT TRANSPORT/WE WILL DO BETTER!!!
by Beth McHoul

It's near to 11:00 PM and most people are home in bed. In my exaggerated thinking of the moment I feel like only scoundrels and midwives are out in Haiti this time of night. Here I am doing another transport after a 24 hour labor and delivery effort that ended in no delivery. When a c/section looms our choices are limited. The small hospital with no doctor or the huge hospital with few doctors and hundreds of women. I chose the latter.

Carline is 18, single, sweet and eager to please. Although exhausted she responded to our every suggestion and was totally cooperative for two full days. She sat defeated when we explained our findings but she understood only one thing - we meant transport. She cried. We cried.

In the rainy dark we loaded up my car. Two guards, one grandma, a nurse, a cousin, the mom-to-be and me. Off we went. The empty streets were full of puddles, trash and the occasional group of people brave enough to be out this late. I speed past Cite Soleil. I enjoy the speed, the lack of traffic jam, the empty streets. I hate the reason I am on them.

I've been to this hospital twice before, I am prepared. I've even made an acquaintance of one of the doctors shaking my head in understanding as he told me how overcrowded they are. I can see that.

If I thought last time was crowded tonight seemed doubled. Laboring women were everywhere. On benches, lying on the floor, on beds, walking about, yelling, crying, screaming and moaning. Every hallway had laboring women on the floor. Blood spots here and there. Trash all around. The new doctor I meet tells me yes, he agrees, our gal probably will need a c/section but she has to wait in line. There are several before her. I'm now moaning along with the laboring women.

I'm filled with disappointment, guilt and frustration as I leave this teenager here. Due to government legalities I am not allowed to stay and help. My heart is sick. The doctor doesn't want one more patient and I don't want to leave our patient here.

We drive home in silence. Once again I am defeated by the inability to provide a woman with a safe birth. A woman we have cared for for months. She knows us, she trusts us, she believed we would help her through this birth experience and now I find that we are not able to finish the job. We are a maternity center and not a hospital. We can only handle normal births. Explain this to a frightened 18 year old who is staring at the multitude of swollen bellies, sweat, urine, vomit, blood and amniotic fluid all around her.

We clean up our fluids quickly, we give Gatorade with a straw, we wipe foreheads with cool cloths, we hug, we check on baby and mom continuously. Not so in this hospital for the poor.

I'm not blaming the overworked staff. The residents are doing their jobs under terrible circumstances. Foreign groups are making huge efforts at the free hospitals to make a difference.

It is not enough. The conditions are like out of an old horror movie but it is all too real. Too real for Carline. Too real for all the women that have to go there because they don't have money to go anywhere else. Somehow they come out with a baby. Most of the time.

This is not acceptable for our transports. The women entrusted to our care should not end up in overcrowded hospitals with broken equipment and filthy conditions if they need more care than we can give.

Heartline is committed to building a 20 bed hospital. We need safe deliveries, safe surgeries and quality postpartum care. Every transport nightmare reinforces to me how important this is. Just ask Carline.

Reposted with permission from Tara Livesay's blog. It originally appeared on John and Beth's blog.


This program is the place I went on July 29th and wrote about in this post.


Beth's husband, John McHoul, has agreed to shave his head if $50,000 is raised by November 12th. He is looking rather scary since the earthquake. Normally he gets a haircut twice a year, but it has been well over a year. I asked if he had taken a Nazirite vow, but apparently not.



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