I like the analogy of God shaping us like a piece of soft
clay. No matter what we turn out to be, His finger prints are on us. Some of
the events in my life seem to be more forming than any other regular time. Last
Wednesday was one of those days. I woke up to the sound of eager mission team
members preparing for the day. I am not a get up early person and almost
decided to snooze a little longer but for some reason I did not and slid down
the ladder that connects my bed to the floor. I dressed and stuck my head out
in the cool morning fog that awaited me outside. Almost instantly the laundry
lady came to me and her face showed a lot of concern instead of the bright
smile she usually has for me. Tears were in her eyes and she asked me to come
along quickly to see Cardouche, a family member of her, because he was ill. I
was glad that we had a doctor on the team so I did not have to do this alone. I
pulled Doug from behind his breakfast that he was enjoying with most of the other
team members. We quickly followed the lady who walked ahead of us taking a
narrow path leading to Cardouche’s hovel. The family had always been poor as
dirt. We ducked into the little house and it took our eyes a moment to get used
to the darkness inside. There on the floor, outstretched and seemingly unconscious
was the sick man. For some reason or another, the family had laid him on the
dirt floor the night before. We picked his body up and laid it on the only bed in the house. His pulse was erratic and all over the place. His breathing was labored
and rattling. It was clear that he was about to expire if nothing was done. He
might have had a heart attack or suffered of congestive heart failure but it
was impossible to determine that on the spot. We decided he had to go to the
hospital which in Haiti is easier said than done. First and for all the family
had no money, not even a penny. Transportation would cost money, not to think
about the expense of being in the hospital. This was most likely the reason he
was still home. The family hoped that we would take care of the expenses. I
decided we would take care of the situation. Something had to be done quickly.
We hurried back through a small crowd of curious neighbors. I asked Jeff, the
driver for the orphanage to get the truck and come with me. In the mean time I
went back and talked with the wife and son of the sick man. Jeff showed up
shortly thereafter but was not driving into the garden of the little house and
waited on the road. Cardouche had to be carried to the truck but just at that
time nobody seemed to be able to help. I reached over the bed and picked him up
but although he was a skinny man he was tall and must have weighed well over a
hundred pounds. I carried him out and about to hurt myself, I jelled out to one
of the older orphan boys who was watching me from the road. He hurried over and
helped me carry Cardouche to the truck.
Right then the family showed up and crowded in the back seat
with the sick man. Pauluis our director appeared out of nowhere and slid in the
cab as well. As careful as one can drive over the bumpy Haitian roads, Jeff
tried to get to the hospital as quick as possible. The sick man moaned and
groaned constantly. About halfway the hour long trip, he started to talk and it
was clear that he was seeing things. “Papa, papa, papa” he cried out followed
by as much more soft and reverend voice saying “Jezi, Jezi”!, (Jesus, Jesus) I
have thought long about this and whatever the explanation, I am sure that dying
people are in a state of mind where they seem to be between this life and the
hereafter.
We reached the hospital and got a gurney to wheel him into
the emergency room. The reason I know that it was the emergency room was
because it was written on the wall. Not because anything inside gave me a hint.
When he was laying on a bed inside everyone seemed to be
busy talking to the nurse and I had a minute alone with Cardouche who seemed
now far gone. Long time ago, when my dad was dying in the hospital and unconscious,he
seemed to be very encouraged when a preacher read him the passage of John 15
where Jesus said he was going to prepare a room for us in heaven. I leaned over
the bed and whispered the same thing in Cardouche’s ear and I was thankful for
God teaching me Creole. I will never forget his reaction. From the depth of unconsciousness
his voice was very clear and outspoken! “Wi, Wi”! (yes, yes) he said and it seemed
to confirm something he was very aware of at that moment. After that he was
just as far gone as ever and from what I know he never came to anymore.
The next morning when we heard the news of his death, the
family asked again for help to get him back home. We had planned to go out with
the team to do a clinic in the mountains and the truck would be needed for
that. I just knew that our plans were about to fall apart if things were just
left to happen. I quickly decided to go along and make sure that the process
would move expeditiously. When arrived at the hospital things got difficult. I
had expected that the body would at least be in a pine box or so, but that was
not the case. Apparently when you are that poor in Haiti you are just on your
own. The orderlies laid the body wrapped
in a dirty sheet in the bed of the truck. There were two knots in the sheet,
one over the face and one over the feet with the toes still sticking out. The
family put a pillow under the head. What an effort in futility.
We started the truck and at the last minute all the family
members crowded in the cab. No one was sitting with the dead man. This is Haiti,
fear of death all over.
The drive back was very upsetting to me. I know the dead man
was not feeling the rough ride but it hurt my sense of decency. Dead people are
not supposed to bounce in the back of a truck and arrive huddled in a corner.
That’s not right.
As soon as we got within hearing distance of the house the
wife started wailing. The windows were down and the wail was quickly taken over
by the neighborhood. In Haiti this is a form of sympathy with the family. It is
very common that the wife as well as other female family members get completely
hysterical doing this. The wife had to be held down after she was going bonkers
in the yard next to the house. What a difference with the ride back home when I
had heard her just softly crying and although I know it is part of the custom
it unsettled me very much. When unloading the corpse I had to hold back my
tears. The suffering of these dear people was so clearly visible and I felt powerless.
We paid for a simple casket and the next day half of the
village followed the procession walking down the dusty road to the cemetery.
Things were as they are supposed to be.
Now a few days later I can look back and see how every family
goes through these circumstances at some point. Whether rich or poor we all
will die one day and our family is going to be shocked by it. We might have a
decent funeral or we might end up shoveled in a mass grave like so many
Haitians were after the earth quake. But what is essential is to know that
Jesus went ahead to prepare a room for us. I have seen my dad’s face and I
witnessed Cardouche’s reaction. They both confirmed to me what they knew to be
certain. He is alive and waiting for us.
