On behaving like a Christian in Haiti...and how sometimes I'm bad at it.

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.

found this image at: http://www.traveladventures.org/continents/southamerica/cap-haitien-streetlife14.shtml

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.