When I first stepped off of the little plane, the blast of tropical heat mixed with the underlying acrid odor of post-earthquake Haiti hit me like a brick wall. I had prepared myself for this but for once the reality was stronger than the anticipation, and a wave of fear went through me as the enormity of the situation became evident. For the aura of death to still be in the air twenty days after the quake boggled the mind; but in the air it was, and as my mind began to truly grasp that fact, a sense of helplessness drove out the remaining remnants of fear.
That was my first impression of Haiti this past Sunday (January 24th, 2010) when we arrived. I had hoped for something different. Somehow while knowing the facts, I had convinced myself that once witnessed, the devastation would be less than anticipated; and as we drove toward Port-au-Prince, I began to think that it was a possibility. While many buildings were damaged, few were down on the way to the guest house, so as night fell I consoled myself with the memory of what I had and had not seen that afternoon.
After breakfast on Monday, however, we made our way to the remains of Port-au-Prince. There is truly no way to describe it adequately. I have photos, some pretty good of the destruction, but they only give a snap shot of the situation, just a grain of sand on the beach. As I stood amongst the rubble and realized that there was nowhere I could turn or run to escape, it truly felt like an oppressive weight was placed upon me. I had an odd sense of breathlessness. Sounds contrived I know, but I felt it nonetheless.
Like many in the ministry, I often feel the need to set things right again. From broken hearts to broken marriages, a large part of my life is spent trying to do just that. To mend fences and heal spiritual wounds is my stock and trade. When faced with any given situation, my instinctual reaction is to look for ways to make it right again. When faced with the image of the destruction of an entire city and the deaths of over two hundred and fifty thousand souls, my reaction was in all honesty despair.
While appearing for all intents and purposes to be handling things well, my heart was in utter turmoil. Finding Christ, much less doing His work in this horrible situation seemed impossible. In all honesty mentioning Christ and His promise of love seemed almost cruel in such a situation. What evidence was there of such a love anyway? There was evidence of power. As I was shaken from my bed on two consecutive evenings, that power was undeniable; but love, finding that was another matter altogether.
I found myself asking what my role was, if I had one at all, in God’s plan here. For while I admit that chaos was the only thing in evidence, I knew and still know that God has a plan for His creation. I know that no matter how dark life may appear, Christ is always near. Sometimes the darkness seems to blot out any evidence of Christ’s presence; but faith does not require evidence, it simply requires knowing.
Late on Monday afternoon after having driven for about seventy five miles with no break in the devastation, we stopped at the remains of a little church to visit the local preacher and find out what, if anything, could be done to save the church buildings. As we entered the courtyard we found ourselves in the midst of a tent city. It was one of thousands, for as the people fled their homes they set up shelters outdoors for fear of other quakes.
As the rest of the team went to examine the buildings, a young father, Michael, motioned for me to follow. As I did, he brought me to a makeshift tent. Linens, cardboard, and the like completed the structure. Once there he introduced me to his young family: a lovely wife and a few kids. As I listened, he told me of the home he had lovingly built over three years, and how it had been destroyed in an instant. He didn’t want sympathy, he just needed an ear.
As I listened to him, despair began to creep into my soul again. Not only mine this time, but his as well, as his entire life lay before him in an eight by five makeshift tent.
After he finished his story, he asked if I would pray with him. I tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. How could my words, how could any words bring comfort? So I just stood with him as he quietly cried. As I tend to do sometimes, I was overcome with emotion as well, and as Michael and I stood there lost in thought, I felt a little hand slip into mine. As I opened my eyes and looked down, a little boy of about ten was gently gripping my hand and looking up at me with such concern in his eyes that it broke my heart. His world had been destroyed. His life will never again be the same and yet this little boy put all of that aside to try and bring comfort to of all people, me.
As we headed back to Port-au-Prince late that afternoon, my despair was lessoned and a light was dawning in my mind. Perhaps I didn’t have to set it to rights. Perhaps my role, all of our roles in life, isn’t so much to do what God would have us do as it is to be who God would have us be.
I fear that often I get lost in the ministry I perceive that the Lord has for me, when all He truly desires from me is love, love for Christ and love for the other folks on the road. The same love I witnessed in the eyes of a little Haitian boy in the midst of the horror that had become his life here on earth; a love so pure that it shown in his eyes. The same love that shown in Christ’s eyes in the midst of the horror that His life had become on Calvary; a love so pure, so amazing that He overcame all obstacles, even death, for the objects of that love.
Tony Rowell
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