Are you my mother?

I went to a funeral today. The mother of one of our house dads passed away, so his family, plus a few other members of the Kids Alive ministry (myself included) traveled to a neighboring town for the service.

A funeral is one of those cultural things that has unspoken rules. I had been to one Haitian funeral prior to this one, but was with a large group. So when I was uncertain about what to do, I just followed the herd. This time around was a bit different- the service was different from the last one, and there weren’t nearly as many in our group. I couldn’t just slide in somewhere and hope to go with the flow (as if I could “slide in” unnoticed anywhere in this country- the lone white girl in a crowd of Haitians does not have the privilege of being inconspicuous!).

Enter Michaelle, one of our house moms. I’ve liked her from day one, but prior to today, I hadn’t had much one-on-one interaction with her. I’ve had “bonding moments” with many of our houseparents- like the time Philip and I wrangled 120-some Haitian children who really wanted balloon animals that a short term team was making, and really didn’t want to wait in line. Or the time I translated a song for Nannie, so that she could learn it in English.  Or my fist bump-handshake-whatever-thing with George.

That's Michaelle in the middle. Celamise is on the left, Herline on the right.

Anyway, back to Michaelle. I don’t know if I had awkward written all over my face (a distinct possibility, frankly), or if she just had the insight that this was a new experience for me and I could use some help, but she gently and sweetly guided me through the process, thus preventing the conspicuous white girl from making any embarrassing mistakes.

At the end of the service, she gave me a heads-up to wait until certain people had left before standing to go. As we started the post-ceremony processional to the cemetery, she said in my ear, referring to my rather tall high heels, “We’re going to be walking for awhile. Are you sure you can make it in those shoes?” I smiled and told her I thought I could. When the jostle of the crowd caused me to end up a few steps in front of her, she grabbed my hand and held it, an instinctively motherly, and also very Haitian, gesture.

             (Side note: Hand-holding is one of my favorite parts of Haitian culture. Women with women, men with men, men with women…doesn’t matter. If you’re friends, you can hold hands. If you have any positive feeling whatsoever toward a person, it is perfectly acceptable to “kenbe men” (hold their hand). I very much give and receive love by way of physical touch, so my Haitian brothers and sisters are totally speaking my language with this gesture! I love it.)

I’ve been thinking about these interactions since they happened. Under many circumstances I would balk at the help. My stubborn, proud thought processes tend to travel the path of, I’m an adult and a capable woman. I don’t need extra help, and I don’t need to be mothered. Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes I DO need to be mothered. And all the time I DO need to know that I’m loved, cared for, watched over. The Holy Spirit has been doing that work in me- softening me to the point that I can admit my need to be cared for, and filling me with the knowledge that he is that provider, caregiver, lover of my soul.

Sometimes, he chooses to use people to manifest that truth to me, and it is pure gift. In reality, I probably would have made it through okay without Michaelle’s help. I might have made a few mistakes, and I would have been 100 times more awkward, but it would have turned out okay. But this day, this experience with Michaelle, was a gift from my Father.

The Kingdom of Heaven is like… a lot of things. Today it was like a mother caring for a daughter. 


No, even more than that, like a Haitian mother caring for an American daughter. Odd? Maybe, to my small, finite brain. But very, very beautiful indeed.