by Paul Farmer
As the afternoon went on, our circle grew. Chef, a tall, shy man in his 70s, whose pants and shirt looked three sizes too big, pulled up a chair and started in on the eggplants. He wore a straw hat with fringed edges. Daphné, Manmi Dèt’s 9-year-old granddaughter, squeezed in next to me and helped with the green beans. Nancy stopped by for a while to chop onions. A friend of Manmi Dèt’s came by for a visit and ended up staying for an hour to help. Nennenn, pounding herbs in the kitchen with a mortar and pestle, checked in from time to time to see how things were going.
Preparing Sunday’s meal was a community project. How rare it would be for young and old to gather like this at home. Spending an afternoon preparing a meal, singing songs, sharing jokes with family, friends, and neighbors—my life was too busy for this. Here, everyone seemed to have time, lots of time, to share.
Haitian Jezi
Manmi Dèt led Paul and me down the center aisle to a pew right in front of the lectern for the 6:30 Sunday morning Mass. The sun was inching up over the mountains, casting a soft golden hue on the sanctuary. This was one of the first times Paul and I had been together since we arrived. Ever since Fr. Gerry gave him his assignment, he’d practically lived at St. Clare’s. Berry Philippe picked him up early in the morning and walked him home after dark. Paul told me he was nearly finished with the painting and felt good about it, although he was nervous about how it would be received by the congregation.
As we slipped into our seats, I glanced over my shoulder at the balcony wall. My breathing stopped for a moment while I took in the painting. It was magnificent! Jesus’ almond-shaped black eyes looked right at me. His face drew me in so that I felt as if I was the only one in the room. His expression was loving and compassionate, yet strong. His outstretched arms sent chills through my body. It was as though he was inviting me to come rest in them for comfort.
My mind flashed back to the miserable nights after Rich died. Some of my most comforting moments came when I visualized being held in Jesus’ arms. Each night after Luke fell asleep, I’d put on my favorite CD—Russian monks chanting—and let their deep voices sweep me away. Lying down on the carpet, I would close my eyes and picture a tranquil beach. Jesus was on it, talking to a crowd on the shoreline. Sensing my presence, he would look up and smile. The crowd would disappear, and he’d hold out his arms. I’d run through the sand, sobbing. Then he’d scoop me up like a child and carry me to the waterfront, point to the horizon, and gesture that everything would be okay.
Just the thought that Jesus was with me and that there was a divine plan of some sort helped me heal. My favorite part of the Russian chanting lasted just three minutes. When it ended, I’d press Rewind and imagine the beach scene all over again. I did this for hours.
Jesus’ teachings about love and compassion, food for the hungry, and justice for those who suffer at the hands of greed and power had always been the teachings that inspired me. Maybe this is why Fr. Gerry wanted a risen Christ on the back wall. It was the last image the congregation would see be fore they walked back into their lives—filled with the challenges of finding clean water, feeding and clothing their families, sending children to school, and getting medicine when they were sick. Perhaps the painting would offer hope that one day their suffering might come to an end. I know Fr. Gerry’s goal was to do everything he could to improve conditions in the neighborhood so that this would happen. “Let’s start heaven on earth,” I often heard him say.
When I turned back around in the pew, I squeezed Paul’s arm with encouragement. I couldn’t believe what he’d done in only two days. The Jesus he’d painted felt real and alive. I was sure the congregation would love it. While we waited for Fr. Gerry to start Mass, I reflected on the red slash Paul had painted on Jesus’ ribs and the wounds in his hands. I thought about the difficult lives of the members of St. Clare’s and hoped Jesus’ image on the balcony wall would remind them that they were not alone in their suffering.
Beaming as usual, Fr. Gerry walked out from behind the altar to begin Mass. He looked up at the balcony and smiled. In Creole he welcomed the congregation. A couple of minutes later, when he pointed to Paul, we realized he was talking about the painting. Paul and I held our breath, knowing the moment of truth was only seconds away. With a big swoosh of his arm, Fr. Gerry dramatically pointed to the back wall and everyone turned to look. There was a gasp. Then silence. Then thunderous applause and cheers. We exhaled with relief.
After the service, congregation members stood in line to shake Paul’s hand in gratitude. They gathered in the aisle in small groups, pointing and discussing the painting.
Paul brought me up to the balcony and showed me what was left of the tiny paintbrush I’d given him. It was in two pieces—the hairs of the brush had separated from the handle. He showed me the tubes of paint. The white, black, and green tubes were squeezed and rolled tight. Every drop had been used. He didn’t need yellow after all. There’d been no mistakes. As we looked at the massive painting, Paul said it had nearly painted itself. We both knew it was a miracle.
As we got ready to leave the sanctuary, a middle-aged woman walked up to Paul, kissed him on the cheek, motioned to the painting, and whispered with a smile, “Haitian Jezi.”
The Best Day of the Week
Cooking was in full swing by the time Mass ended. A huge pot of vegetable stew was boiling on the gas stove under the awning. Two more pots of beans simmered over campfires made with sticks gathered from the yard. A teen age boy had been watching the beans cook since 3 A.M. He came each week to light the fire and get the beans started so they’d be ready on time.
Chef was back, helping chop the chicken into small pieces. He leaned on his machete, nodded hello, and wiped his forehead. The heat from the fires made it feel like 100 degrees under the awning. A woman I didn’t recognize took each piece of chopped chicken and washed it in a bucket of water. Then she handed it to Nancy, who was sitting next to her on a cement block. Nancy rubbed fresh lime on both sides—to enhance the flavor, she told me. Nennenn fried the limed chicken on the stove. All the while, Manmi Dèt was scooping handfuls of rice from the 50-pound bag onto a metal plate. Gently shaking the plate, she uncovered tiny black bugs and picked them out one by one.
Nennenn waved to me to come stir the stew on the stove.
“Ah, that’s good!” she declared, taking a little taste. “But we need more garlic. Garlic is good for health, Margo.”
Nennenn’s love for cooking showed through her smile and focus. With her wooden spoon and open heart, she moved confidently from pot to pot, adding herbs and spices.
She took her job as chef seriously and worked hard to make sure as many nutrients as possible were in each meal. For many of the children, this would be their only nutritious meal of the week. When I asked her about it, Nennenn seemed undaunted by the fact that she was making food for hundreds. She told me she never knew exactly how many children would come. Sometimes there were only 350. Sometimes 600. Usually, there was just enough food.
By 10 A.M., all that was left to do was wait for the rice to finish cooking. Daphné brought Manmi Dèt and me a cup of rich Haitian coffee, and we sipped it together on the blue vinyl couch. Manmi Dèt took my hand and squeezed it. Then she placed her other hand over her heart. Our language barrier had been frustrating. I had so many things I wanted to ask and tell her. But her beautiful gestures spoke volumes.
I decided to try my French, and I asked her what she thought of the food program. She understood my question and replied—part in English, part in French.
“It’s good … parce que les enfants ont faim” (because the children are hungry).
She paused and took a sip of coffee.
“I like...because I love the poor … Je veux imiter Jésus” (I want to imitate Jesus). She pointed in the direction of the pink church on the hill. “Sainte Claire imite Jesus.”
I nodded in agreement, feeling the sincerity of her words.
We sat in silence, watching Nennenn stir the stew and
then dish up two plates. She proudly handed us each a generous portion. “Eat. Eat.” Her eyes sparkled as she watched me take a bite and chew it slowly. I could taste a hint of lime in my chicken. The tender vegetables were blended in a delicious sauce. It wasn’t spicy, just alive with flavor.
“I love it!” I exclaimed, to Nennenn’s delight.
She slapped her leg and laughed. “Good. That’s good!”
Chef and the other volunteers lined up eagerly at the stove with empty containers they’d brought. Nennenn filled each one up to the top with rice, beans, stew, and chicken. I rea l ized then that they were taking meals home to their families.
The pots were hauled into the back of Toto’s jeep, and we left for the church rectory. Along the way, I spotted dozens of children walking from all directions, on their way to the meal site.
I remembered Father Gerry’s e-mail description of Sundays in this neighborhood. “You should hear what they say about the hot meal they receive on Sundays. They say that Sun day is the best day of the week. They cannot wait to have Sunday. Sunday is too far away sometimes for those who are hungry.”
Manje!
When we pulled up to the rectory, yet another batch of volunteers greeted us. They wore the neatly pressed red-and-white-striped aprons that Manmi Dèt had made on her foot-pedal sewing machine. They’d been busy washing floors, arranging wooden tables and benches, stacking clean bowls and spoons, and placing plastic tablecloths on the tables. The table coverings reminded me of the thin, cheap ones I bought for Luke’s birthday parties only to throw away after one use. I could tell these had been used over and over, treated with the kind of care given a silk or lace tablecloth.
The rectory was larger than I’d imagined. It was a two-story white stone building—about 2,000 square feet—surrounded by an acre of dirt and rock. The first floor was empty, except for the wooden tables and benches that had been brought in for the food program. A stairway led to the second floor, which was home to three young men who helped out at St. Clare’s. We moved the pots of food into the rectory’s back room. I spotted a sink and counter, but no plumbing.
Within minutes of our arrival, a long line of children formed outside the front door, ranging in age from 2 to late teens. I wondered how far some of them had walked and when their last meal had been. Some looked weak and tired. Others were jumping up and down with excitement. Many wore their Sunday best—girls in bridesmaid dresses or lacy Easter dresses with big bows—probably hand-me-downs from the States. Their brightly colored hair ribbons matched their outfits and blew in the breeze. Most of the boys wore white dress shirts or T-shirts and faded pants that had been passed down brother to brother. Their belts were pulled to the last notch. Many of the children’s shoes had broken straps, no laces, and were either too big or too small. But even with clothes that didn’t fit, they wore them with a dignity I’d noticed over and over in Haiti.
Watching this massive event unfold, I shook my head and laughed as I thought of all the church committee meetings I’d sat through where it seemed to take months, if not years, to get a new project started. Finding volunteers always seemed a monumental challenge. Not here. The community of St. Clare’s had their meal program for 500 up and running within a couple of weeks after receiving the first funding check.
Everyone moved quickly to get the youngest children seated on benches in the two front rooms of the rectory. The meal would be served in shifts, since there was room for only about 150 to eat at one time. A circle of women sat on cement blocks in the back room and started to dish up plates. They sang and talked as they worked. One put a scoop of steaming rice on the plate and passed it to her right, where beans and a piece of chicken were added. Then the plate was passed again and a generous helping of stew was poured over the top, filling it to overflowing. The delicious aroma flowed through the open windows and doors. You could feel the anticipation rise outside as the children waited to be served.
Twenty more volunteers, most of them children, lined up shoulder to shoulder to form a human chain that extended all the way from the circle of women to the tables in the front of the rectory. They were proudly dressed in their aprons and passed the plates of hot food slowly and carefully from one to the next. I was sure they were as hungry as the children at the tables, and there were definitely more than enough volunteers, but they wanted to help. With smiles and concentration they took their task seriously—keeping the plates flowing. I spotted Berry Philippe and the four boys who had helped peel carrots standing in the middle of the chain.
When the food was placed in front of the children, I was amazed that they didn’t eat right away. Even 2- and 3-yearolds sat patiently with their hands at their sides waiting until everyone was served. Then, a woman I recognized from church that morning clapped her hands to get the children’s attention. She lifted her arms and directed them in a song of thanksgiving. They all knew it well and sang enthusiastically. Their voices filled the rectory and were probably heard blocks away. The song ended with everyone clapping and singing, “Mèsi, Bondye, mèsi!” (Thank you, God.) “Amen. Amen. Amen.”
The time they’d been waiting for had arrived. I studied their faces as they spooned in Nennenn’s stew. They were focused—chewing and swallowing with urgency and excitement. Famished. Their eyes were serious, but many of them still had a sparkle. I watched the littlest ones keep up with their older siblings, completing gigantic portions in record time. They scraped their plates clean with their spoons and then ran their tongues over them, licking every drop. I thought of the mother of three from Son Fils and the days we spent together. I wondered if she was still alive, and if her children knew about the food program.
Plates passing, spoons scraping, people singing, children laughing—the scene was festive, like a party. When the first shift of children finished eating, they cleared and washed their plates and another 150 children filed into the rectory.
Father Gerry arrived as the meal was coming to a close. I could hear his laugh over all the excitement. He sat on a bench next to the children and invited me to join him. Helping himself to a plate of stew, he said, “You see, Margaret, we have the feeling of great sharing at this food program. Share, share, share: that produces love, love, love. Love for God and love for everyone. We love each other and we love all of you who are helping us help ourselves.”
“Manje?” a child asked.
“Non, mèsi,” I said as I looked at the growing crowd of adults waiting close by in eager anticipation of the leftovers they hoped would be served to them. The volunteers were eating now. Berry Philippe sat down next to Fr. Gerry and me, looked up, and smiled with relief and satisfaction as he dug into his meal. Paul told me Berry’s father had died a few years before and that his mother was very ill. He had eight brothers and sisters and no source of income. When Paul asked Berry whether he’d eaten the day he’d helped find the chalk, Berry had said yes—he’d had a small piece of bread and a packet of sugar.
As I helped wash dishes and put away pots and pans, I noticed a mother wearing a sun-faded red dress. She was slowly walking out of the rectory with her two young children. I hoped there had been an extra plate for her. She looked weak and tired, as though she was about to collapse. She reminded me of the women at Son Fils. Her face was gaunt and serious as she lovingly held the hands of her children and made her way into the dusty street and disappeared around the corner. Other children filed out of the yard behind her. They looked happy and full, but what did the rest of the week hold for them? I guessed it would be only a few hours before they all felt hungry again.
Piti Piti Na Rive
On our last day, just before we left for the airport, Fr. Gerry took me on a drive around the neighborhood while Paul stayed behind at St. Clare’s to use every minute to touch up his Jesus painting. As Fr. Gerry and I drove through the narrow streets of the St. Clare’s community, he called out “Bonjou” to everyone he passed. A naked 3-year-old boy tore out of his house, jumped up and down, and squealed with excitement
when he heard Fr. Gerry’s voice.
“Okay, okay,” Fr. Gerry laughed, pulling over and reaching for the plastic container of jellybeans he kept on the front seat. Within seconds, a dozen giggling kids swarmed his window, hands outstretched. He placed a jellybean in each palm. “Mèsi! Mèsi!” they said as they cradled their treat. I watched them lick and carefully chew their jellybean, and I thought of Luke’s annual pillowcase filled with Halloween candy, his overflowing Christmas stocking, Easter basket, and the morethan-occasional treats I bought him at the store. Here, one jellybean was precious!
We had started to pull away when a young mother ran up to the jeep holding a piece of paper that had a scrap of green-and-white-checkered cloth pinned to it. That was the fabric needed for a school uniform. She fought back tears as she whispered something to Fr. Gerry, who listened patiently, then reassured her. Looking relieved, she walked away.
I asked what was wrong, and he explained that she couldn’t afford to send her daughter to school. Only 10 percent of schools in Haiti are public. Even though President Aristide and President Préval had built over 300 new public schools during their terms, all of them were full. The alternative, private school, costs $100 U.S. per year or more, well beyond the means of this mother and most Haitians.
“Can you help her?” I asked.
“I’m going to try,” he said.
I sat back and stared out the window. How could he be so hopeful in the midst of such overwhelming poverty? I couldn’t forget the face of the mother in the faded red dress at the food program. Her sunken cheekbones and fragility made me think she didn’t have many days left to live. The excitement of watching the children eat faded for me as soon as they left the rectory. The reality of their lives, the daily hunger, filled me with sadness. Yet, Fr. Gerry didn’t seem tired or weighed down by the struggles of his community.