This. Is. Haiti.

I take one last glance from under the arch of the border. Back toward the vibrance and contagious hope of the Dominican. Back toward Jose Antonio who held out his sandwich to me yesterday at lunch, thinking I had none. Back toward sweet Christina who placed her bracelet on my wrist after I commented on its loveliness. I suppose I expect these colors and sounds, fragrances and precious embraces to fade slowly, for Haiti is only a few steps away. But I hear a new chord entirely- one that only plays the harsh notes, summoning a darkness so heavy that I can grab it from the air and hold it in my hand. Venders stretch endlessly ahead, overflowing with fruits, candy, American Goodwill clothing, and scotch tape. No one is buying. No one can. Rocks are piled below the bridge of the border, tracing a murky stream. Hundreds of women press their clothes across these rocks after wringing out dirty water, piling dry garments in heaps on their heads. Everything is brown. Everything is dead. From the trees to the ground to the lake to the clothes to the stares people are giving us. Everything. Garbage invades any glimpse of surviving life, choking the earth beyond what my eyes can see, creating a stench of spoil and burning charcoal.

Dirt road after dirt road proves the consistent devastation outlining Haiti, marked with masses of people who wear the same loneliness, the same absence of hope. And just when I find myself convinced that no source of life could even begin to sprout, let alone thrive in the midst of such squalor, I enter Father Andre's orphanage. Squealing laughter erupts from twenty beaming faces as these precious children jump from swings and slide down slides, anxious to pile on our laps. Beyond this barring fence persists dry ground, but this is a garden- an oasis surging with joy and dreams that are indeed harvesting into fruition. My eyes quickly fall to a little girl alone on a swing, her arms tightly hugging her shoulders. She lets me pick her up and sit her on my lap, willing to share her swing. We glide back and forth, not too much, just enough to rock. I don't ask her name or how old she is, neglecting to put to use the handful of French I learned and forgot. We just sway to the buzz of screaming orphans weaving around us. And then it comes. "Turn you eyes upon Jesus,"I softly begin to sing, knowing she cannot understand even a word. "Look full in His wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace." Never have I felt more like a mother. Never have I wanted to be a mother more. She lets her arms fall, and I know she's asleep, but I keep singing until the minutes have linked hands into an hour. I'm crying, weeping, thinking of her parents dying in the earthquake, thinking of her rescue from the rubble. So though it's off key, hymn after hymn is all I can pluck from my shattered Spirit. The things of earth growing strangely dim. I forget. I forget the market combusting with desperate beggars, the frail garments spread out on the rocks, the smell of burning charcoal clinging to the seldom breeze. I forget the garbage that ices the ground. I forget the fights and the screams and the loneliness. I forget the heat and the mosquitos and the twirling clouds of dust, even the squealing voices circling this swing. The things of earth are growing strangely dim. Oh, the captivating purpose this frail child in my arms must have! How many times she could've died- should've died, but survived.

Father Andre paves out his aspiration for the orphanage over dinner that evening to myself, Melissa, and two other volunteers Kathy and Kara. Phase one was renting the current house temporarily for the children to be cared for. Phase two was purchasing a substantial amount of land to build the actual orphanage, which was accomplished in October. This land stretches for fifteen acres, and will be complete with a clinic, a school, and a church, along with fertile ground that will hopefully allow this mission to grow its own food and tend its own cattle.





Father Andre understands that each of these darlings holds a story as special as the sweet girl I swung to sleep. It is his ultimate hope and prayer that every boy and girl in this orphanage will grow into intelligent, compassionate, loving leaders who are fully equipped to take Haiti by the hand, ignited by a passion to see it change. Dove Missions has full intention to follow this project and serve in whatever capacity capable. Out of twenty children, seventeen are still in need of sponsors. We're asking you to ponder and pray toward this endeavor, as the entirety of Father Andre's orphanage is operated by donation. What an exquisite opportunity it would be to share in the second beginning for one of these children! I am fully convinced that each of them will be vital for the restoration of Haiti as they're compelled by consistent giving to give of themselves. They truly have been pulled from destitution and placed on a beautiful path lined with promise. Dove is absolutely thrilled to walk that path with them!

-Betsy Coughlin
Summer Volunteer for Dove Missions