The Back Side of the Earth

If the earth had sides, there would be a back side. Politically insignificant, countries that have no natural resources, industry, exports or even any tourist value would be back there. Villages that have no electricity or good drinking water. Homes made of cardboard, that wash away with each heavy rain. Families living ten, twelve, fourteen in a 10' x 10' room with a dirt floor, and no door. Parentless children with no hope, no future, no childhood.

Who cares about that place?

Haiti is just such a place. It holds no international significance, politically unstable and the infrastructure in such chaos, that some have mused it could fall off the face of the earth and no one would notice. Some would give thanks that the blight on the Western Hemisphere is gone. It has been called the 'graveyard of missions,' as so many have invested years and millions to better the place, but to no avail.

I lived there in the early 1980s when there was a brutal, but stable dictatorship in power. Life was rough for the average Haitian; food was scarce, jobs were hard to find, begging children with bloated bellies and orange hair were commonplace. But there was some industry; Rawlings wound baseballs, and Judy Bond stitched blouses. Club Med had a resort destination north of Port au Prince, and similar resorts dotted the stunning coastlines.

My first visit to Haiti since the fall of the Duvalier regime came in 2007 with my family. Though I knew it was so, I was still so stunned to see the country in such horrible disarray. Assuming democracy was a friend to Haiti, I expected to see some progress. Unfortunately, it was worse. House-size piles of rotting garbage filled the streets. Rivulets of human waste, plastic bottles and filthy water criss-crossed every path. Cement skeletons of unfinished houses occupied lots where children chased away hungry mongrels, evidence of investments gone bad. Crumbling concrete was all that was left of streets and sidewalks whose construction had once been a source of income for so many. Once lush and extravagant playgrounds, beach resorts were barren shells of their former glory. Traffic, typically chaotic, involved playing bumper cars all the way to the guest house, and enduring three minor accidents where no one even stopped to check the damage.

Ironically, we were stopped for a missing taillight, with the threat of a thousand-dollar fine. Insanity.

Somehow, an old friend, Franklin Val, managed to reach the age of 69. We met him in 1984, a pastor and translator with a wife and five children. Well educated, he spoke French, Creole and English quite well, and frequently translated for us. He owned a beat-up SUV, and worked as a driver for foreign visitors (pastors don't earn a living in Haiti preaching). It was during one of these chauffeuring gigs, that he encountered the violence of those early coup attempts. In 1987, while driving for an NBC news crew, Pastor Val was caught in the cross-fire. He managed to drive himself to a hospital with four life-threatening gunshot wounds, one to the chest. In a dramatic end to his front teeth, he collapsed face first at the hospital door. During the fight to save his life, he remembers stating, "I will live and not die!" He had a lot of time to think during recovery. As a result of the burden he felt for so many children wandering the streets in the wake of the violence, he took in 55. He and his sister, Yrma, have been doing so ever since.

We hired this toothless tri-lingual chauffeur on our visit in 2007, re-uniting with an old friend. He brought us up to speed about his family (his wife had passed) and work with the orphans in Bognotte, a two hour drive from Port au Prince. He told us that their only source of income was his taxi service. He and sister Yrma, 67, were solely responsible for 30 boys and girls. We had heard about all this before we went, so we were prepared to visit and bring gifts. What we saw has forever changed our lives.

Just three miles off the main highway, the twenty minute drive took us over dusty then muddy paths, carefully picking our way in and out of huge gaps in the 'road,' and through small creeks. Ever-enterprising Haitian teenagers waited at the intersection of the main road with their scooters, ready to transport folks in and out of the back country. Upon arrival at the orphanage, our vehicle was swarmed by warm brown faces, toothless grins and shy greetings. So many blancs way out here in the country!

The children had obviously worked all morning preparing their home for our visit. The few possessions they had were neatly arranged on a shelf. Nothing was out of place. On a 95 degree day, Steevenson's long-sleeved, plaid flannel shirt was neatly tucked into his jeans, and buttoned to the top. Few were wearing shoes; all were eager to see what we had brought. We distributed small gift bags with candy and toys, and we brought games and crafts to play with the children. A new soccer ball was welcomed with great fanfare! Pastor Val showed us around; there was a main room with a large picnic table and the aforementioned shelf. Two adjacent rooms held squeaky metal bunk bed frames with sheetless thin mattresses lacking pillows and blankets as well. Crumbling walls, tin roofs which turned bedrooms into ovens at ten o'clock in the morning, and dirt floors made up the structure. In the back there was an outhouse. We posed for a photo with the group here. Not a kitchen in sight. We learned that Yrma daily cooked for the group over an open camp fire.

For 22 years.

There was so much hope in those faces, especially the teenagers. Our youngest connected with a girl, Stephanie, her age. What a sobering contrast, to think of the opportunities our daughter has compared to what Val's kids are faced with. We were truly overwhelmed. But you could tell they saw opportunity packed in our suitcases. This new connection with the civilized world could provide a better life for these little ones, truly the "least of these." Even pushing 70, Pastor Val had the audacity to hope for technologically competent and well-educated students. He showed us the land, 30 acres, that he owns where he'd like to build a better facility - a dormitory, a clinic, a school and a kitchen that will feed the surrounding community. He talked about computer education, job training and spiritual development that would produce intelligent contributing members of society with strong moral character, the hope of Haiti.


Without enough for the burdens he currently carried, Pastor Val still managed to stop along the way home and offer a bag of food or a few gourdes to people he cared for. After 22 years, some of the girls he raised are young women trying to make it on their own. His generosity had long reach. He stopped to speak softly to a drug-crazed man, and refused to give him money based on his answers to questions gently posed. A true pastor.

So, who cares about Haiti? God does. He cares about each individual in this corner of the back side of the earth. Each of those children bears the image of God, and He has a destiny and a plan for their lives. They are precious in His sight.

And God brought this little group to our attention.

So we care, too. Heidi Baker, a missionary in Africa, says, "each one, reach one." A simple directive. If we each only did what was put in front of us to do, the body of Christ would accomplish the goals we were asked to achieve on the earth. Problems like those faced in Haiti, are way too large for anyone, or any government to handle. But child by child, orphanage by orphanage, pastor by pastor we can make a difference.

Haiti is not forsaken by God. The evidence is overwhelming that He is active and involved. Too many 'coincidences' have surrounded this effort. They are obviously not just coincidences. Divine intervention is at work. This blog will document what has been happening along the way.

I am happy to introduce you to Haiti, and to Pastor Val. Now let's see what God has been up to.