The Highway to Haiti

Nothing quite says, Welcome to the neighborhood, like having your bikes stolen out of your backyard. Such was the feeling of violation in our new home last month. Incidentally, this is not the first time we’ve lived in a downtown urban area, nor the first time we’ve had our bikes stolen! When we lived on State St & Madison Ave in Chicago—same thing. Initiation? Rite of passage? Rookie mistake?

Years ago when I lived in Central America we used to joke about how easily things would “grow legs and walk away.” In Haiti, the easiest way to combat this is to live behind enough cinder blocks and bars, broken bottles and razor wire to rival a Supermax. Besides being ugly, living within utilitarian confines sends the wrong message and doesn’t quite jibe with the proverb in the previous post (which happens to be the November 18, 2008 post; we apologize for the long, yet intentional, hiatus). So, now we’re out a few hundred bucks in bikes—which had been great for getting around and meeting people.

About the same time the bikes were stolen, we had been planning a garage sale. We decided that we had enough stuff to merit a Thursday-thru-Saturday sale. On Thursday morning at 7am I set up a couple tables under the porch of a nearby vacant building and laid out the contents of a dozen boxes. Pam and I were going to work in shifts and we discussed in advance how much we wanted to try to get for the big-ticket items. Within minutes curious passersby turned into a crowd digging through all the stuff on the porch. By 9am, two hours passed, and so had the mob along with 90% of everything we had set out. When we counted the absurd wad of dirty cash and coin jammed into my cargo shorts—we made US$362!

Back to burglary: My wife could tell you that I’m a calculated individual. I study, research, and consider the risks at work or at play. When I gamble (don’t get the wrong idea, there’s a lot of theology here), the risk/reward ratio is the determining factor. The same could be said of the guys who stole our generator only two weeks after our bikes! We had an excellent little 2000-watt Honda generator that we secured to a concrete column outside. The heavy-duty steel cable was apparently no match for bolt-cutters, and the 45-lb. Honda that carries like a suitcase was easily handed over the fence in the darkness. It seems there are guys in this town who study and plan much like myself and share similar interests: in generators at least. I’m quite sure we could be friends.

This, however, caused us to step back and really think through home security and theft prevention. The idea is to create an environment where the risk/reward ratio, as it pertains to burglary, is so unfavorable that it isn’t even worth the hassle. Our neighbors say Dobermans work well. Ultimately, in the economics of our theology, the risk/reward ratio related to the choices we make in life only becomes favorable, or meaningful, when we live in obedience to Christ—even without guarantee of wellbeing or reward this side of Heaven. Sometimes it’s just the price we must pay to live in the hood.

Two weeks ago we were at the hospital getting health certificates—documents required for our residence permit. One of the requirements for the health certificate is sitting in on an HIV/AIDS counseling session and taking a “confidential” HIV/AIDS blood test. Another part of the process included getting a card indicating our blood types. So that day we dragged Silas and Luke around the hospital: to the exam room, to the counseling office, and to the lab for tests. After we finished, the doctor told me to come back the next morning to get the results—and the health certificates.

As instructed, I returned for the papers. On my way out a nurse stopped me and told me someone was looking for me. “Who?” I asked. She led me toward the radiology room and pointed me to the x-ray tech, a guy I didn’t know. He introduced himself and began by saying, “Eske ou ka ede-m?” On any given day, I find myself in at least three or four conversations beginning with these same five words (translated: Can you help me?), typically followed by a request for anywhere from $5 to $50—no joke. This happens so much, it becomes desensitizing, and it’s difficult not to tune-out and politely say, “no” and, “I’m sorry”. Since we were at the hospital, I presumed he needed help paying a hospital bill. But his request was different. (more…)

The following letter was mailed last week:

August 12th, 2008

Dear Family and Friends,

Three generations ago it was common for missionaries to pack their belongings in caskets and leave for the field quite aware of the challenges ahead. Times have changed, and one of the challenges today, ironically, may be a lack of awareness of the complex environments in which missionaries serve. (more…)

Recently Pam made a comment that Silas has taken playing to a new level. On most days if he’s not reading or drumming on empty milk-powder cans, he’s trying to keep up with his three-to-ten year old peer group. Most of the boys have chipped teeth, so when they tell us, “we’ll be careful with Silas,” we don’t believe them. Their preferred language is French-Creole, their preferred activity: ladder golf. We live on a shared property that does not belong to us, and the yard is part landfill, part auto shop, and part daycare. There is no shortage of hazardous debris to land on. At the first sound of his friends, Silas is sitting on the floor putting his shoes on. With permission he runs out the door and leaps off the porch, usually face-planting. He picks up critters dead-or-alive. A couple weeks ago he chased a chicken through a cactus fence. He kicks a soccer ball better at two, than I did at twenty. Yet when Curious George gets in trouble, Silas is overcome with empathy for the poor monkey and his eyes well up with tears. It brings us joy when he sings Jesus Loves Me at the top of his lungs. But this same little guy can run around singing yo-ho, yo-ho…pirate’s life for me! A sweet boy and a true son of the Caribbean, I guess?

On April 18th, less than two weeks before Pam’s due date, we found out that our overseeing physician had to leave Haiti to attend urgent family business in the States—meaning we would not be able to count on him to back-up our midwife in the case of a medical emergency.

This news came on the shoulders of events only ten days earlier where people blocked roads and burned tires throughout the country protesting the high cost of living. This particular manifestation occurred in the street not very far from our house:

All along we had known that no missionaries living in or around our town had children born in Haiti—all the MKs were born in the US. This meant there was no clear protocol for our situation. Haiti has a 7% infant mortality rate—15 times higher than the United States, and a 1% maternal mortality rate—100 times higher than the United States. Because of the less-than-ideal healthcare and proximity to the States, most missionaries have simply chosen to have their babies in the States.

Early in Pam’s pregnancy we were introduced to Cheron Hardy, a missionary and midwife in Haiti. Cheron, with Dr. Steve James present, delivered the son of some of our friends in Haiti. After meeting Cheron, we were confident with this option. But, like most options in Haiti, there was a twist: Cheron and Dr. James live in a city that we needed to travel by plane to get to! As our plans began to unravel at the last minute there was no uncertainty regarding what needed to be done—April 22nd we were in Florida.

The day after we were thrown this curveball, Pam shared the news at a women’s Bible study in our town. Right there, Connie Curilla offered her car for us to use, and Jennifer Campbell e-mailed some friends in Miami who often host missionaries and have a good arrangement for doing so.

Wes & Leah Norton provided us with car seats and a portable crib, and they helped greatly with the logistics of getting us from Haiti to Miami at the last minute. Wes piloted the MFI plane that we took from Haiti to Florida. Also, it just so happened that there was a team of doctors, surgeons, and nurses leaving Haiti on that particular flight—just in case!

Though everything happened uncomfortably fast, God orchestrated the details in such a way that even before we left Haiti all of our needs had been provided for.

When we informed our family about the change in plans, Pam’s sister and mom told us they were interested in coming to Florida to be with us. The day before they were to return to California, after having been with us for a week, Luke still had not come. That morning we had an appointment at the Miami Maternity Center. Pam was seen by Carol Williams (the midwife who also delivered Silas) and though Luke was in position, nothing was actively happening. Carol said if we wanted to encourage labor, castor oil is an excellent additive to get the lower GI system moving—which can trigger active labor—if the body is ready.

That afternoon, Pam drank 2 oz. of castor oil—and waited. I, Matt, was invited to play basketball with a bunch of guys at a nearby court. We started at 5:00pm and got home around 8:00pm. When I got home, Pam said she thought things were beginning to happen. I asked if I should take a shower. Pam said only if I could take Silas with me. When Silas and I got out, Pam said, “We need to go.” The only problem was that the castor oil was doing what it is meant to do—system flush. So, just as we needed to leave for the maternity center, Pam also needed to sit in the bathroom. At 10:00pm we finally left the house, and at 10:30pm we arrived at the maternity center. Sixty-seven minutes later, Luke was born.

Luke Matthias - May 1st, 2008 - 7 lbs. 11oz. - 22 in.

One week later, everyone is doing well. We will return to Haiti as soon as we have a birth certificate and passport for Luke.