The power of human touch is radically amazing. Human touch speaks of intimacy and connection. As humans we crave this intimacy and, yet, we have unspoken rules about it. We welcome strangers with a handshake or perhaps if we are younger, with a fist bump. We reserve embraces and kisses for those closest to us. This is only natural because in a very real way, the more we touch another, the more we are giving of ourselves. But also, the more we give of ourselves, the more we are hopefully received and blessed in return.
It is because of this reality of the power of human touch that my experience at the Village of Jesus was so life-giving. We spent a mere hour or two with this group of Haitian women. Many of them are probably around my grandma’s age; some of them are closer to my mother’s. All of them speak Creole and I speak barely none. After my weak attempt at, “what’s your name?” and “how are you?” we have basically exhausted our means of communicating verbally, and yet, we are not nearly done speaking to one another.
We begin our visit by passing out our gifts. Each woman receives a bandana, a rosary, lotion, and a new blouse. They are each so excited. The clever ones try to hide their bandana so that they receive two. It makes me laugh to witness their tricks and yet sad to know such tricks come out of a desire for more… for more than two clean shirts or two clean bandanas. I think of my closet at home and am embarrassed to know I have enough t-shirts to clothe each of these women at least once if not more.
After passing out the gifts, we begin the pampering. I follow the lead of others by simply going to one woman, pointing to the lotion, and pointing to her. She nods and immediately rolls up her sleeves. And so I sit and I massage lotion into her arms. I massage past her elbows going as far as I can reach. I take time on her hands; trying to mimic the massages I have received at home, hoping that it feels soothing. I think about the number of people in my life that I have touched this closely and carefully; very few. And yet, here I am, miles and what feels worlds away from home, having this extremely intimate experience. I can’t help but think that this is a sacred moment, an encounter with the divine in a way I have never before experienced.
Slowly, this is how we make our way through the women. Some of them point to their legs and we massage those too. Many of the toes and feet look and feel so broken. Missing nails, scars. Feet that have carried these women through hardship, through poverty, through homelessness. Feet that have carried these women, perhaps barefoot, gracefully through the care of children and families. These feet speak volumes.
After the lotion, we move on to nail painting. I remember a saying that says something like, “if you are to be a street sweeper, be the best street sweeper that you can be.” The point being, whatever you are doing or being, do and be it to the best you know how. That’s how I feel while painting these nails. I cannot do much for these women; I cannot do nearly enough. But, if I am going to paint their nails, I am going to do it perfectly… or at least, as best I can. I am going to do my part to make these women feel beautiful and proud.
That’s why, at one point, I sit cross-legged on the ground so that I can paint one women’s toes carefully. I am sitting on the cement ground in a pair of old capri’s that I brought to Haiti because I didn’t care if they got ruined. And yet, after about two minutes on the ground, a Haitian woman near me starts gesturing to me, clearly upset. Without words that I can comprehend, she is clearly telling me that I am sitting on the ground and the ground is dirty, and so, I need to find a chair.
You see, Haitians are a proud people who take care of themselves and their possessions. Here I am, just trying to paint nails as best as I can, and here these women are, worried about me getting my pants dirty. They are taking care of me as I am trying to take care of them. Another encounter with the divine.
As we finish making sure that each woman has her nails painted and arms massaged, the women start praying the rosary in Creole. This is not the first nor the last time in my week in Haiti that I find myself amidst a group of women spontaneously praying the rosary in Creole. Such faith, and hope, and joy. Yet another sacred moment.
Slowly, we start saying our goodbyes. We kiss their cheeks and say, “bonswa” and “mesi” at least a dozen times.
And then, that’s it. The time is over and we are on our way, perhaps to never see these same women again. Even so, they have changed me. They have changed me because, as I said, the power of human touch is radically amazing.
Human touch speaks of connection. It reminds us that in a very real sense, we are all one.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Haiti
There is a Haitian proverb that says, “What the eye does not see does not touch the heart.” Before I went to Haiti, I admittedly took some offense to this saying. It seemed to be implying that I couldn’t care about people I had never met, that I couldn’t love them or have compassion for them. Now, after spending mere days in Haiti, I think I am beginning to understand.
Before going to Haiti, I could say that I had compassion for Haitians; I could say that they are my brothers and sisters and I could mean it. However, I did so from the safety of my very comfortable life, I did so while doing nothing to better their existence. Only someone who has not witnessed the poverty and sickness and hunger of Haiti firsthand could care for and love these people from afar and yet do nothing to touch them – do nothing to alleviate their suffering.
Many things in Haiti touched my heart, but none so much as Reglena. Reglena is a little girl I met at the Missionary of Charities facility in Port-au-Prince. I was drawn to Reglena as an expressionless little girl with big brown eyes. As she lay in her crib in a room full of back-to-back cribs, she was one of a few children not crying. Upon first glance, I thought Reglena was maybe two years old. She was old enough at least to hoist herself to a sitting position when her nanny handed her a glass of water. After she finished her water, I leaned down to her, my arms out-stretched, and let her eagerly crawl into them.. the arms of a strange blah (white) woman whom she had never met.
Reglena resting comfortably on my hip weighed less than twenty pounds. Once I held her secure, I grabbed a hold of the wristband she was wearing so that I could learn her name. The white hospital band rested on a wrist that seemed very small, it was maybe the diameter of a fifty-cent piece. It read: Reglena 5 yrs.
Reglena was 5 years old and smaller than my 19 month old niece back home. But unlike my niece, Reglena wasn’t full of smiles and movement, talking and dancing. Reglena was more like a puppet, willing to go wherever I moved her, vacant of emotion. Reglena was barely able to hold herself up not because she had an illness, but simply because she was malnourished.
In an instant, I held Reglena, thought of my healthy niece, and started to cry. Today I cry because I know that my words cannot do her justice; they fail to convey her beauty, her frailty, her innocence.
In that moment, I knew that Reglena had touched my heart. Indeed, she broke my heart in a way she never would have had I not seen her myself.. if I hadn’t felt her cling to my arms when I tried setting her down not twenty minutes later, if I hadn’t seen her finally start to loosen up and giggle as she buried her head in my chest in glee when I figured out how to muster any emotion out of her. It was peek-a-boo that did it; made her laugh and smile. Because you see, Haitian children are not so very different than our own. The only real difference, the only one that matters, is that more of them, tons of them, die daily of completely curable diseases.. they die daily because they don’t have enough food to eat or clean water to drink.
It’s interesting that despite the suffering in Haiti there is almost no incidence of suicide. This is because Haitians, in their soul, are full of life. They love to sing and dance. They are deeply faithful and have a profound respect for community and family. Haitians are joyful and gracious, they are kind and generous. They are so full of life while at the same time they are dying of TB, aids, cholera, malaria, dehydration, and malnutrition.
It is easy to get overwhelmed. It is east to think: there is too much suffering in the world, too much pain, where do I start? How do I start? I went to Mass in Haiti and in his sermon Fr. Tom reminded us of the story of the Apostle Thomas seeing the Risen Christ for the first time. As we remember, when Thomas sees Christ and touches his wounds he exclaims, “My Lord and my God.” Fr. Tom reminded us that that’s what the Eucharist is all about: that we are the body of Christ and that Christ is within each of us. And so, when the suffering in the world seems like too much and you feel powerless, the first thing you do is look to the person nearest to you in that moment and say to yourself, “My Lord and my God”. It’s as if you are saying: “there you are, my Lord, in my spouse, there you are in my children, there you are in my friends, my neighbors, my peers, my co-workers, my enemies.. there you are, God, within even me.” Once we begin to see God within each other, we can try to do other small things within our reach.
In Haiti, I spent a morning in a wound clinic run by the Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. I have no medical background and yet there was much I could do. I spent thirty minutes on the floor trying to match pill containers to their lids. You see, each Saturday one to two hundred adults and children come to see the Sisters to receive free medicines for their ailments; cough syrup, fever medicine, vitamins, antibiotics, scabies medication, dehydration medication, worms medication. The medication tablets are handed out in envelopes folded out of magazines. The liquids are dispensed in used pill containers donated from different groups of volunteers. Wounds, burns, cuts and other abrasions are wrapped in strips of cloth cut out of used bed sheets.
And so, what can I do? I can save my empty pill containers and used sheets for starters. I can ask you to save yours. That may not seem like enough (and truly, it’s not) but, it’s a start.. it’s an acknowledgment that somewhere out there, another is hurting. It’s a step towards healing.
Haiti is a mere one hour and forty minute plane ride from our shore. It is truly a beautiful country full of life, joy and hope. It is a joy and hope that also touches the heart. It is a joy and hope to be envied.
In a way, we are all very much like the Apostle Thomas who did not believe in the Risen Christ until he had seen it with his own eyes. This is true because in a very real sense, “what the eye does not see does not touch the heart”. And yet, Jesus responds, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Blessed are they who consider our Haitian brothers and sisters, who consider the Reglena’s of the world, and think, “My Lord and my God” there you are… even when they have not seen them face to face. Blessed are they, because truly God is amidst the Haitian people, of that I have no doubt.
(If you are interested in donating empty pill containers or bed sheets please respond to this post).
Before going to Haiti, I could say that I had compassion for Haitians; I could say that they are my brothers and sisters and I could mean it. However, I did so from the safety of my very comfortable life, I did so while doing nothing to better their existence. Only someone who has not witnessed the poverty and sickness and hunger of Haiti firsthand could care for and love these people from afar and yet do nothing to touch them – do nothing to alleviate their suffering.
Many things in Haiti touched my heart, but none so much as Reglena. Reglena is a little girl I met at the Missionary of Charities facility in Port-au-Prince. I was drawn to Reglena as an expressionless little girl with big brown eyes. As she lay in her crib in a room full of back-to-back cribs, she was one of a few children not crying. Upon first glance, I thought Reglena was maybe two years old. She was old enough at least to hoist herself to a sitting position when her nanny handed her a glass of water. After she finished her water, I leaned down to her, my arms out-stretched, and let her eagerly crawl into them.. the arms of a strange blah (white) woman whom she had never met.
Reglena resting comfortably on my hip weighed less than twenty pounds. Once I held her secure, I grabbed a hold of the wristband she was wearing so that I could learn her name. The white hospital band rested on a wrist that seemed very small, it was maybe the diameter of a fifty-cent piece. It read: Reglena 5 yrs.
Reglena was 5 years old and smaller than my 19 month old niece back home. But unlike my niece, Reglena wasn’t full of smiles and movement, talking and dancing. Reglena was more like a puppet, willing to go wherever I moved her, vacant of emotion. Reglena was barely able to hold herself up not because she had an illness, but simply because she was malnourished.
In an instant, I held Reglena, thought of my healthy niece, and started to cry. Today I cry because I know that my words cannot do her justice; they fail to convey her beauty, her frailty, her innocence.
In that moment, I knew that Reglena had touched my heart. Indeed, she broke my heart in a way she never would have had I not seen her myself.. if I hadn’t felt her cling to my arms when I tried setting her down not twenty minutes later, if I hadn’t seen her finally start to loosen up and giggle as she buried her head in my chest in glee when I figured out how to muster any emotion out of her. It was peek-a-boo that did it; made her laugh and smile. Because you see, Haitian children are not so very different than our own. The only real difference, the only one that matters, is that more of them, tons of them, die daily of completely curable diseases.. they die daily because they don’t have enough food to eat or clean water to drink.
It’s interesting that despite the suffering in Haiti there is almost no incidence of suicide. This is because Haitians, in their soul, are full of life. They love to sing and dance. They are deeply faithful and have a profound respect for community and family. Haitians are joyful and gracious, they are kind and generous. They are so full of life while at the same time they are dying of TB, aids, cholera, malaria, dehydration, and malnutrition.
It is easy to get overwhelmed. It is east to think: there is too much suffering in the world, too much pain, where do I start? How do I start? I went to Mass in Haiti and in his sermon Fr. Tom reminded us of the story of the Apostle Thomas seeing the Risen Christ for the first time. As we remember, when Thomas sees Christ and touches his wounds he exclaims, “My Lord and my God.” Fr. Tom reminded us that that’s what the Eucharist is all about: that we are the body of Christ and that Christ is within each of us. And so, when the suffering in the world seems like too much and you feel powerless, the first thing you do is look to the person nearest to you in that moment and say to yourself, “My Lord and my God”. It’s as if you are saying: “there you are, my Lord, in my spouse, there you are in my children, there you are in my friends, my neighbors, my peers, my co-workers, my enemies.. there you are, God, within even me.” Once we begin to see God within each other, we can try to do other small things within our reach.
In Haiti, I spent a morning in a wound clinic run by the Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. I have no medical background and yet there was much I could do. I spent thirty minutes on the floor trying to match pill containers to their lids. You see, each Saturday one to two hundred adults and children come to see the Sisters to receive free medicines for their ailments; cough syrup, fever medicine, vitamins, antibiotics, scabies medication, dehydration medication, worms medication. The medication tablets are handed out in envelopes folded out of magazines. The liquids are dispensed in used pill containers donated from different groups of volunteers. Wounds, burns, cuts and other abrasions are wrapped in strips of cloth cut out of used bed sheets.
And so, what can I do? I can save my empty pill containers and used sheets for starters. I can ask you to save yours. That may not seem like enough (and truly, it’s not) but, it’s a start.. it’s an acknowledgment that somewhere out there, another is hurting. It’s a step towards healing.
Haiti is a mere one hour and forty minute plane ride from our shore. It is truly a beautiful country full of life, joy and hope. It is a joy and hope that also touches the heart. It is a joy and hope to be envied.
In a way, we are all very much like the Apostle Thomas who did not believe in the Risen Christ until he had seen it with his own eyes. This is true because in a very real sense, “what the eye does not see does not touch the heart”. And yet, Jesus responds, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Blessed are they who consider our Haitian brothers and sisters, who consider the Reglena’s of the world, and think, “My Lord and my God” there you are… even when they have not seen them face to face. Blessed are they, because truly God is amidst the Haitian people, of that I have no doubt.
(If you are interested in donating empty pill containers or bed sheets please respond to this post).
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