Day 2 – Water Truck Day
Wow! Just, wow! It is difficult to explain the range of emotions we’ve all felt today. Right now, while I write this, we’re all sitting around a living room having a great time telling jokes, playing trivia, and listening to music. Truly, God is in this place. We are happy, here, with each other. This morning our joy came from an entirely different, and entirely unexpected source.
Our day began at 5:45 am, when we were driven to a daily prayer event. Each morning, hundreds of people gather to pray in a large steel building. It has the look and feel of a livestock building at a local state fair, only, instead of animals and fairgoers roaming about, the place is filled with dozens of prayer warriors. And that’s all it is. Prayer.
They do this all day, but we joined them for roughly an hour. While we prayed several men took turns praying into a microphone, praying in Hatian Creole. The Holy Spirit was definitely present, even though we knew little or none of what was being said. All of us were hit with the sense that, in spite of all of our differences, the body of Christ is one. And we were with our family. After breakfast at the house, we piled into the back of the “Top Top,” our ice cream truck shuttle bus, and headed into the one of the poorest places in the world: City Soleil.
As predicted, this was a game changer.
There are no words to describe the feeling while driving through the homes and streets built in the midst of rubble, garbage, and human waste. As the Top Top pulled down the final turn into the street we’d bring water to, dozens of little children followed us laughing and calling out to us. When we came to a stop we were immediately flooded with open inviting arms, insisting that we pick them up and love on them.
Many of the children were naked, or had little to no clothing on at all. Some, like one boy I remember who was no older than three, had nothing but a single rubber boot on. And all of them were starved, with skinny limbs and distended bellies. They clambered all over us, and we hugged on them and loved on them and played with them for over an hour.
While most of us were enjoying the children. A few helped deliver clean water to a horde of people and buckets who otherwise have no source of this life giving substance. The water truck, a big tanker that reminds one of a diesel truck, pumped out over 1200 gallons of water into thousands of buckets that were brought in one, often chaotic line.
The children were an eye opening experience. You could feel the pure desperation, the need, to be loved and noticed. It wasn’t enough to just hold them, you had to love them. You had to play with them, interact with them, and connect with them in the most wonderful of ways. While they hung naked onto your shoulder and arms, you could smell or feel the body order and excrement. But through all of that, not one of us noticed a single thing that wasn’t utterly beautiful.
They were beautiful.
I think that’s what they love most about us, that we don’t merely tolerate them or deliver a service. We share with them and play with them and get to know them. They matter and because of us, they know it. It’s an amazing feeling.
But even more shocking I the act of delivering the water itself. The residents do not line up by the hundreds with their buckets as if it’s a chore or just something they do. They run to the water truck with fervor, fighting their way to the end of the hose before the water inevitably runs out. 1200 gallons is a lot, but it is not nearly enough.
It is heart breaking to see old women and grown men fight with each other to get their buckets and pales filled. They aren’t fighting out of a sense of good order, like we might in America, because someone cut someone else in line or broke the rules. They fight to the front because if they don’t, they can’t cook. If they don’t, they don’t bathe. If they don’t, they can’t drink. If they don’t, their animals and children die.
The worst, and easily the most sad, is the use of children to get water. Parents send little, little children often as young as two or three to the front of the line with little buckets to get water. They know that even though they’re “cutting in line,” people like us can’t say no. So we sometimes let the hose fill their little buckets and try not to cry when a naked girl young enough to wear diapers says “merci” and then struggle to carry a gallon of water down the alley to their home.
During all of this, amidst the clamor we enjoyed our task and each other. We didn’t lose our hearts, but found more spirit and care than any of us have ever felt before. We’re still processing the feelings that have overcome each one of us. But for now, we’re content to just rest and accept that while there isn’t much we can do, we are doing what we can. We are here, doing God’s work, and we will continue to do just that. The outcome is His.
We’re at the house. We are laughing, but also tired. Tomorrow we’ll head to two orphanages and the “Apparent Project,” an initiative that provides jobs. But for now, it’s time for bed. Good night.
