I would like to ask you, if you put missionaries on some
sort of super-spiritual pedestal, to please stop. While I can’t speak for the
majority, I can personally attest to my own daily screw-ups, and I think my
friends who live and work here would also agree that the lives and actions of
missionaries are far from perfect.
Take Saturday, for example. Market day. It takes a fair
amount of time and energy to drive into town and enter the
push-your-way-through, don’t-step-in-that-hole, watch-out-for-that-wheelbarrow-full-of-raw-meat
shopping experience that is the Cap Haitien Open Market. But there are good
things- the vendors who know us well and smile when they see us coming, the
shock and surprise of people when I respond to their “eh, blan, ou pale kreyòl?”
(Hey white girl, you speak Creole?) , and the excitement of finding new,
delicious things in the market (lately, mangoes, cherries, and for the first
time this week, spinach!). Overall it’s not my favorite, but normally it comes
and goes without much to-do.
found this image at: http://agrarianideas.blogspot.com/2011/07/gregs-haitian-adventure-part-6-markets.html
This past Saturday, however, was extra-overwhelming, for
reasons I can’t really explain- and I turned into missionary-zilla. One of the
wheelbarrow pushers, who stop for no man and don’t really look where they’re
going, charged right into my path and barreled into me before I had a chance to
jump out of the way. I moved to the side, he acted irritated and shouted at me
to ‘ale’ (go). With people on either side of me and his wheelbarrow hemming me
in, ‘ale’-ing was not really a possibility. So I told him so, in Creole, in a
not-very-nice tone. Then I stepped in a puddle of the virtually-ubiquitous
sludge, which I try hard to avoid. Thinking about the raw sewage that was
likely hanging out on the bottom of my flip-flopped foot didn’t make me much
happier. Then we went in search of a fan, a much-needed appliance for hot
Haitian summers. Between running into problems at the first place we went to, getting
a serious ripoff of a price at the second place, and the incessant choruses of
“eh, blan!” “Give me one dollar!” and “Blan, ban m yon ti kòb” (give me a
little money), I had had enough. With an irritated expression on my face, I
told the lady who was loudly asking me for “yon ti kòb” (again, in a
not-very-nice tone of voice) that I didn’t have any kòb for her.
My Haitian friend Toto, who was helping us with the
fan-shopping process, knew that I was in a bad mood and tried to make me smile
by cracking some jokes. A good-hearted gesture, but I would have none of it. I
shot him a look and kept walking.
Also, I should mention, this past Saturday was the first
time I had decided to conquer the challenge of driving in town. Driving outside
of town is no big deal for me, but in town is a whole different story. You’re
dodging tons of people, watching for holes in the road, squeezing through tight
spaces, trying not to hit the ubiquitous motos that whiz past you on the left
and the right. Driving outside of town is kind of like that too…but in town the experience is on steroids. Everything had gone well for the
most part, until after the whole fan-buying fiasco. We were almost done with our market
adventure for the day, and I was trying to put my bad mood out of my head and
focus on driving. I was watching the road ahead, motos, pedestrians, frequently
checking my rear view…but was not watching how close I was to vehicles parked
on the side of the road. All of a sudden I heard a loud noise on my right- the
sound of my side mirror swiping a parked truck. As my roommate rolled down the
window and attempted to readjust it, the mirror part fell off of the
arm that was attached to the car. Big, fat, ugly tears started sliding down my
cheeks. When we got to our destination, I parked the car and proclaimed that I
was done. Teri graciously got into the driver’s seat and did the rest of the
driving.
Why do I tell you all of this? Not because I’m proud of it.
I’m ashamed of my behavior and my attitude, not to mention my driving snafu.
But last Saturday was a reminder to me that I’m a sinner and a broken,
imperfect person. MTI friends, it was a “twang” kind of day. But it reminded me
that, praise God, grace is abundant and freely given. I’m still learning how to
accept that grace, and let me tell you, Haiti is an excellent place to learn that lesson.
But this I call to
mind,
and therefore I have
hope:
The steadfast love of
the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come
to an end;
they are new every
morning;
great is your
faithfulness.
