It was our last day in Haiti and we were at the children's home for the sick. It was beyond what one would define as a scorching hot day. I was feeling sick due to dehydration, but I'd just become a godmother to a beautiful little girl. She'd been hooked up to IV's since the moment her father brought her to the home that morning. Despite the tremendous efforts of the doctor, she was expected to pass within the next few days. I'd sat with her father, holding her hand for the remaining time we had at the children's home. Holding her hand, holding his hand, in silence at the mercy of our language barrier. Staring into her young and innocent big brown eyes, staring into his. Feeling her strength dwindle, feeling his strength stand steadfast. I felt helpless.
Upon arriving back from the children's home, I retreated to my bed to take my routine mid-day nap when I received a phone call from my mom. She informed me that my uncle was most likely going to pass in the next couple of days, at the hands of cancer. The chances of me making it home in time to say goodbye to him were slim. For those who knew my Uncle Gary, knew the true moving soul that encompassed every fiber of his being. The one notorious for mailing hand-written letters of all various themes, often times simply containing a singular quote to reflect on. He was a man of great faith, serving in the priesthood for majority of his life. However, his messages were never sent to oblige one to feel or think in a certain manner. They were issued with pure intentions of allowing one to interpret the words in whatever light one needed at the time. Whatever one needed to push themselves, to think outside of themselves, to grow, to be honest with oneself, to keep going. They were sent to people of all walks of life, each story different for each specific individual. There were many times when I so desperately needed those letters, when I relied on those letters. Maybe you too have been a recipient of one of his letters at one point or another, I sure hope so. Nonetheless, he was special, he was a faithful servant, he had so much life left to live. I felt helpless.
A short half hour later, I received a text message from my mom. My grandma just had a checkup for her cancer, she didn't receive good news. After outliving her original death sentence, another was inflicted upon her. For those who knew my "Mimi", knew within moments of meeting her that she was a superhero. A beauty pageant winner, valedictorian, wife of 62 years, mother of 9, grandmother to 28, great-grandmother to 19, and a relentless, tireless giver. She started The Open Door, an outreach center intended to feed and clothe the poor. She fought and rallied around issues she was passionate about, she brought communities together to serve one another, she took in anyone, she was a mother and a grandmother to many more than just those sharing the same blood as her. She was a talented artist, a counselor so full of wisdom, selfless, and like my Uncle Gary, her faith was the driving force behind everything she did. She was present at everything, I mean it, everything. And when I say present, I mean that she was genuinely present and authentically invested in whomever she was speaking with. She devoted her life to displaying unselfish love. Aside from her cancer, she was so full of life and spice. She could run circles around me. She wasn't tired yet, she had so much left to give. She was the backbone of our family. I felt helpless.
So there I was, sitting in my bed, feeling helpless. For those who know me, you may know that I have this strange inability to cry. I'm often told that it's a good thing, for me, it felt like a constraint. All I wanted to do in that moment was cry. Unable to, I instead questioned God. I'd spent all week in a third world country who's people where so full of faith, love, and generosity. What did they do to deserve to live in such poverty stricken conditions? how could an innocent little girl's life be taken so early? She didn't deserve such pain and neither did her faithful father. My uncle Gary and Mimi were such faithful servants, how could you put them through this pain? Withal, How could you put my family through this pain? My helplessness grew to anger.
I pulled aside a fellow missionary to convey what was weighing on my heart. She didn't put me down for questioning faith. Instead, she told me of the helplessness she felt when she lost her father. Additionally, she inclined me to ask God for a sign that he's with me. Instead of burying my vision in my trials, she expressed the importance of me staying vigilant for the sign, that it will come.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I begged God to show me a sign. I talked to him, describing in detail just how helpless I felt. I told him to send me where I wouldn't be helpless to those in pain around me, that I'd go anywhere, I just needed to know that he was with me. I needed to know that he was with my family, that there's a reason behind all of this pain.
Soon after, my missionaries and I were presented with two options; we could spend the afternoon back at the children's home or go to the home for the dying. At the children's home I felt joy and love. At the home for the dying, I felt sadness and confusion, I signed up to go back to the children's home. So, you might be able to imagine my confusion when I found myself walking onto the bus for the home for the dying. I can't give you an answer as to why I did it, I just felt this push to go.
Upon arriving I immediately walked into the women's room, I felt most comfortable there. I sat with some of the women, rubbed their feet, prayed with them, unsure I was able to properly comfort anyone in my current emotional state. I still wasn't sure why I was there. I walked out of the room, and wandered into the men's room.
I instantaneously locked eyes with this man as he flagged me over. Taken aback, I walked to his bedside and sat down. He was unable to move his legs and visibly very ill and weary. My fellow missionary and I were at either side of him when to our surprise, he began to speak english. This was a rare occurrence in Haiti. Exerting what little strength he possessed, he inched his hand over to mine and I grabbed onto his. He looked me in the eyes like no one ever had before, I felt his soul in that moment.
He began to tear up as he said to me, "I was having a really tough time today. My sister lives in America and I have no way of seeing or talking to her. I'm happy for her, but I have a tough time without her on days when I feel this weak." He paused as he was choking up, I sat silently, wishing I could do something to help him. He continued to tell me how I look just like her. Pointing out the features about me that he claimed to be staggeringly similar to hers. They were the features on me that I didn't quite care for. For instance; my height, the shape of my face, my smile,my hair color. My near black eyes that I found to be boring, he found home in. He continuously began to thank me, leaving me perplexed as to what he was thanking me for.
He continued, "I was just talking to God about how I needed to see her today, how I didn't feel like I could get through today without seeing her face." He paused and began to cry again as he said, "then you walked in the door, I needed you to walk through the door." In this moment, for the first time in a very long time, I cried. The constraints I'd felt for too long were broken by his few words.
I spent the next hour listening to the stories of all the hardships he's faced in life. He'd lost a child, as well as his parents. His sister, being the only family he had, was in America with various possibilities for opportunity. Opportunities he never, and would never have. He was alone, bed ridden, and physically broken, in a poverty-stricken third world country. His stories went on and on, one seemingly worse than the other. What stuck out to me was the rosary around his neck and the bible at his bedside. I proceeded to question him, "after experiencing all of this pain, how do you keep your faith?" He broke eye contact with me for the first time since I walked over to him, and glanced over at his bible. Unable to reach for it himself, I handed it to him. Thinking he was going to read a passage to me, he simply placed his hand on top of it, then locked eyes with me once again.
Choking back his tears like before, he muttered, "I'm strong". Pausing to regain clarity in his voice, he firmly stated, "but, my strength comes from him." He explained how in his weakest valleys, when the fight seems lost, his faith is what keeps him going. He further explained that his faith is not just what has gotten him through his greatest pains, but that it has helped him to move mountains. That his faith is what has brought him his greatest joys and most immense blessings.
Muscling his hand over to mine once more, he spoke certain to me, "The time will come when I'm too weak to go on, the time that many people fear. When that time comes, I'll raise my bible and walk firmly with faith." I held tight to his hand, put my head down, and for the second time in that hour conversation, I cried. In that instant, he repeatedly said "I love you." I lifted my head up and we both tearfully smiled at one another as I thanked him for his strength.
The time came to go home and I realized he hadn't told me his name. With his eyes tearing up for the last time I'd ever see them, he said, "my name is Emmanuel and I love you". I remembered that written in the bible, is the name Emmanuel, which is of Hebrew origin meaning "God with us".
I walked out of the home for the dying that evening and I didn't feel helpless. I stopped questioning, getting angry, and wallowing long enough to listen, and I got the sign that I needed. I realized that even though the people in Haiti lived in greater physical poverty, their blessing was the absence of physical distractions and social status and appearance. While we live in a country with greater opportunities and frivolous material possessions; they get greater, more pure human connection every day. They get each other in their most raw and honest states at all times. I got the reassurance from God that there is beauty in the pain. That he was with me and my family, that I was needed in this turbulent world, and that what I did mattered. I was reminded to keep the faith.
To be honest, I'm not sure what the overarching point is in this story. I didn't spend forever trying to formulate a thesis statement, I simply decided to write this letter, to whomever needed it. Sure, it's my story that shaped me, but I remembered that the letters Uncle Gary sent me were somebody else's story, too. Which led me to think, we need each others stories, just as much as we need each other, and just as much as we need something to have belief or faith in. Maybe the point was to remind you to not to let your miracle, or revelation, be trapped in your familiarity, or buried in your trials. Maybe it was to remind you to be more present in your own life and in others' lives. Or to give or love, unselfishly, a little more. Maybe it was to prod you to live more authentically, or to emphasize the power that comes from really, genuinely looking someone in the eyes. Maybe you needed to be reminded that you have the strength within you, to be someone else's stronghold in their valleys or in their final moments of life. Or maybe, it was merely to remind you to find where your strength comes from, and to walk firmly in it. Then again, I'm not writing this letter to instruct you what to make of it. I only hope it encourages you to reflect on it, and to see it in whatever light you need in this moment.
