A story from my trip to Haiti

You never know what you are going to see in Haiti. Even though you rarely leave the orphanage, you see scenes of Haitian life and culture outside the windows all day, like one of those 8mm videos of "indigenous peoples" we watched in my college anthropology class. Tarantulas climb the outside wall. A neighbor's dog stands up on the roof of his house and barks for the whole city to hear. A shoe-shiner walks down the dirt road ringing a bell to attract customers. Every few hours, a truck drives by playing a tinny, mechanical version of "My Heart Will Go On." At first I thought it was an ice cream truck, but our leader told me it was the Water Truck. I guess clean water is as much of a treat in Haiti as ice cream is in the United States.

One morning, I heard Carole, the boss of the orphanage, yell at me from the front yard, "Lynde! Come out here and see this baby!" Not knowing what to expect, I went outside and saw a young girl with an even younger, school-aged, child and a baby girl. None of them were smiling. I learned that the girl was 22, and she had come to ask the orphanage to take in her two children.

Even with new experiences slapping me in the face daily in Haiti, I never expected to see that. When I'm at House of Hope, I spend all day surrounded by happy, well-fed, hyperactive children. It is easy to forget that every little girl there started out like those two forlorn girls in the front yard - hungry, scared and no reason to smile.

I learned that the medium-sized kid was six and the baby was one. I tried not to look at the mother. She made me feel inexplicably guilty and insufficient. (Those feelings are actually a little explicable, but I won't go into them now.) I tried to look at the children instead, but the mom kept gazing at me with big, desperate eyes like headlights. I couldn't avoid them. As soon as we made eye contact she handed me her baby. I didn't know what to do; my conscience, emotions and reason were all akimbo like a needle on a broken compass. You see, when you really, really want to be a mother but you can't seem to get there, holding a baby is different. You snuggle them really close to your body, hoping to absorb some of the baby-ness into you. You think in your head, "See, God? I can do this!" And maybe, just for a split second, you pretend the baby is yours, and you try on motherhood like an expensive dress you know you will have to put back on the rack, but, damn, it looks good on you now.

The baby fell asleep in my arms while I swayed my hips back and forth. She got hot and sweaty, and I sat down under a mango tree to cool off. I held her while the mother answered questions from the Haitian orphanage director about the girls and their history. I knew the reality was that House of Hope probably couldn't take in these girls. The orphanage is almost full, and it does not accept little babies. I knew the mom had likely already visited several orphanages, and she might have to visit several more to find a safe home for her girls. After the conversation, I handed the baby back over to the mom and ran upstairs to find some clothes to give to the little girls. Then they left.

I saw them again, waiting in the orphanage yard as we rode off in the van for the airport. I thought about how unfair the world is. I get to go back to the richest country in the world, where I can do pretty much whatever I want. The three of them have to stay in Haiti, where they must choose between being together and surviving. I have ample means to care for children, and yet I have none, while she has more than she can handle. I don't know why, and I don't know what the answer is, but I hope that, in Heaven, we won't all be equal. I hope the starving mothers and children of this world will feast next to God at the head table of Heaven while we who were rich on Earth wait out in the yard for them to come feed us. I hope God has a plan for setting right all of the unfair-nesses of this world, that in Heaven we will have peace AND justice.