food parables

Beignets kick off Mardi Gras celebration

2012-02-21T16:23:00.005-08:00

Since the late 1800s, Fat Tuesday has kicked off Mardi Gras in such places as New Orleans, a ritual to coincide with the Christian celebration of Lent (Ash Wednesday is Feb. 22 this year), when penance is given over 40 days. In other words, you gorge yourself with good food before fasting.

In honor of Mardi Gras, I’m teaching a Creole cooking class on Sunday in San Francisco through Lifecrowd (https://www.lifecrowd.com/activity/celebrate-mardi-gras-with-creole-cuisine), then search in San Francisco). I spent several days coming up with the following menu:

Mint juleps
Creole-spiced Crab Dip
Chicken and sausage gumbo
White rice
Bread pudding with a butterscotch sauce

The menu was inspired by two missions trips I’ve made, one to rural Louisiana in 2006 in the aftermath of Hurricane Rita and the other to Haiti in 2010 after an earthquake devastated the nation. I learned how to make gumbo from a southern belle at a country hunting lodge (gator jaws everywhere). She had learned how to make gumbo from her mother and had never written down the recipe before graciously giving it to me. Bread pudding is probably my favorite dessert to make.

Gumbo and bread pudding are staples to Creole cooking. During Mardi Gras, the Acadians of the plains would ride on horseback from house to house collecting items for the community stew in town. Stale bread is used in bread pudding recipes to fortify the custard, because wasting food is not an option.

When I was searching through my recipes, I stumbled upon Beignets (pronounced ben-yahs), a fancy French doughnut. I had to try it. My first attempts – I topped them with a raspberry sauce – was so delicious, my wife ordered me to not make them very often. They are, after all, just a little fattening.

Tuesday was Fat Tuesday, so I got up early with my leftover dough and made Beignets for the teachers at the school in Walnut Creek at which I’m doing my student teaching this spring. They loved them as much as my wife.

One teacher – claiming to be on a strict calorie count – wanted to know how many calories a single Beignet had, so she looked it up online. Each one has … oh, you don’t want to know that fact.

Now, I must decide whether to include bread pudding or Beignets to my cooking class on Sunday. The only way to find out is to sign up and show up. For $25, you get to eat what you cook.

Here’s the recipe I used for Beignets, which I halved.

Beignets

Prep time: 15 minutes. Total time: 2 hours, 30 minutes

Yield: 18-20

Ingredients

3/4 cups lukewarm water
1/4 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons active dry yeast
1 egg, slightly beaten
3/4 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup evaporated milk
3 1/2 cups bread flour
1/8 cup shortening or lard
Oil, for deep-frying
1 cup confectioners' sugar

Directions

Mix water, sugar, and yeast in a large bowl and let sit for 10 minutes.

In another bowl, beat the eggs, salt, vanilla, and evaporated milk together. Mix egg mixture to the yeast mixture. In a separate bowl, measure out the bread flour. Add 1 1/2 cups of the flour to the yeast mixture and stir to combine. Add the shortening and continue to stir while adding the remaining flour. Remove dough from the bowl, place onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth. Put dough into the bowl and cover with plastic wrap or a towel. Let rise in a warm place for at least 2 hours. The ideal rising temperature is between 70 and 72 degrees.

Preheat oil in a deep-fryer to 325 degrees F.

Add the confectioners' sugar to a paper or plastic bag and set aside.

Roll the dough out to about 1/2-inch thickness and cut into 1 1/2-inch squares. Deep-fry, flipping constantly, until they become a golden color. (Often, the dough flips itself when it’s done.) After beignets are fried, drain them for a few seconds on paper towels, and then toss them into the bag of confectioners' sugar. Hold bag closed and shake to coat evenly.

Serve warm.

What is the value of life?

2011-01-25T11:26:00.000-08:00

What is the value of life? Can you put a price tag on it? Who determines the value? It all depends on who you talk to.

On Saturday, my wife, Susan, and I participated in the Walk for Life Walk in San Francisco, along with 40,000 other pro-lifers and perhaps 200 pro-choice advocates. On the pro-life side, every life, from the tiny fetus just a few days old to the elderly on their death beds, is worth fighting for. The pro-choice side, too, fights just as hard for the right to snuff out life, in the name of a woman’s choice. The latter is a billion-dollar industry that is dependent on abortion remaining legal in this country.

The abortion issue is easily the most divisive issue in America today. Although abortion is still legal in this country, its supporters are dwindling. Still, the mainstream media supports the pro-choice view. Sunday’s San Francisco Chronicle reported the walk as a non-event, using only a photo and caption on page C9. Forty thousand pro-lifers became “thousands of anti-abortion rights advocates” and “abortion foes.” The pro-choice crowd was termed “a smaller group of abortion rights advocates.” Note the difference in terms. The yellers and screamers are abortion “advocates.” The peaceful pro-lifers are “abortion foes.”

As we walked along the Embarcadero slowly and peacefully, the abortion rights people yelled and screamed vile things at us, as though we were murders or thieves. My wife and I laughed at a few of the signs, such as “Don’t hang your rosaries on my ovaries” (The Catholic Church is a big supporter of the march.) and “Don’t use your theology on my biology.” Pro-life signs were tame by comparison. “Defend Life” and “Women deserve better than abortion” signs were handed out by the hundreds.

One side of the argument clings 40-year-old methods and ideology, while the other gravitates toward the sanctity of life and an unusual partner – science. Several of the signs I saw intimated that we would revert to the dark ages and usage of coat hangers in dark allies if abortion were made illegal again. Please. Pro-lifers say the biggest change in the argument is today’s use of sonograms. A woman who is pregnant can see that there is a living, growing being that has a heartbeat and moves inside her tummy. The truth is telling.

That is the difference maker in today’s argument, and it’s a valid one. That’s why the key to issue is today’s youth. Today’s teenagers are changing the landscape for the abortion battle, because they are smart enough to know there is something alive inside them when they view a sonogram. If they want, they can even get a DVD with the baby’s movement on it and take it home. So much for the pro-choice argument that a fetus isn’t alive until it comes of the mother’s womb. Today’s teenagers are deciding for themselves and they are choosing life.

I heard the argument that a fetus wasn’t alive on Saturday from a young man named Connor, clearly a staunch pro-choice supporter. For maybe 15 minutes, I did my best to engage Connor, a young man in his early 20s with strong views. He was easy to spot in the crowd. He was no more than 5 feet, 4 inches tall, with red and blue streaks in his hair. Connor listening to my points without yelling and screaming because I was calm and collected. I think he appreciated that I didn’t preach at him. I asked him questions and listened to his responses.

At one point, I asked Connor how he would feel if his mother had chosen to abort him. His response threw me.

“I probably would have been better off. I’ve had a hard life. My mom and dad probably shouldn’t have had me.”

“You do realize that you wouldn’t be here if your mom had chosen to abort you,” I told him. He just shrugged his shoulders.

To me, that summarizes the position of the pro-choice movement in America today. Pro-choice supporters do not value life. I tried to assure Connor that God loved him and that his life had purpose and meaning, even if he didn’t see any now. Whenever I talked about God’s love, Connor tried to turn the conversation to things that Christians did thousands of years ago, such as the crusades. He asked if God was so loving, why are there so many starving children in places such as Africa.

“Because there is evil in the world,” I told him. “Evil people don’t care if people starve to death or are aborted at the hands of a skilled doctor. Money is usually at the root of evil people. On the other hand, I told him, lots of Christians are fighting for the rights of unborn babies here in America and for starving children in Africa.”

Connor tried telling me that there were no emotional repercussions from women having abortions. I told Connor my reasons for being a pro-life supporter and that I had worked with hundreds of poor single moms who chose to have their babies and raise them. They were happy with their choice. I told him I had counseled hundreds of women who felt tremendous guilt and shame from having abortions and that many women are haunted for a lifetime by their “choice” to abort.

Yet, God still reaches out to those who chose to abort their babies, in their depression and grief. That was the message of many of the speakers at Saturday’s rally. One African American told the crowd she had chosen to abort three children. Eventually, she found forgiveness in the words of a Catholic priest, who helped her find redemption in her life by giving names to the three aborted fetuses. I hoped Connor was listening to the woman’s pain. God still loved that woman, even after she had aborted three of her babies.

Before we parted, I tried to pray with Connor, but as he was walking away, he said, “Please, don’t pray for me.” Then he was gone. By the way, Connor claims to have read the Bible three times, and he, indeed, knew what the Bible said about many topics. Maybe Connor is angry at God and wants to continue to be angry at him. Maybe he blames God for his spot in life. I suspect it’s because he’s never really felt God’s love.

I’m sorry, Connor, but I cannot oblige your request. As I walked on Saturday, my conversation with him kept running through my mind. Since Saturday, I have prayed for him several times, coming to tears on almost every occasion. I prayed that Connor would find someone else to talk to, someone who would listen to his pain and reassure him of God’s love for him.

People such as Connor don’t believe they are worth being praying over because their life has no meaning, no purpose. That’s why we must continue to pray for the lost we meet. Connor may not value his life, but God does. Every life is precious in God’s eyes.

Making Tamales Should Be a Group Effort

2010-12-15T08:51:00.001-08:00

Whenever people get together to make tamales, fun and laughter are sure to follow. Both were prominent on Sunday night when my LIFE group merged with a Latin women’s LIFE group from my church to make tamales at the home of Eren and her mother, Olga.

Eren is the common denominator for both groups. She, Olga and friend Judy attend the same group on Wednesday night as my wife and I, in the home of Fair Oaks Baptist Church pastor Steve McCoy and his wife, Andrea. We’re all sort of new to the church, and Steve and Andrea recruit leaders by way of their home fellowship studies.

During one of our Wednesday night meetings, the Latinas and I started talking about Mexican food. (Eren and Olga are from Mexico and Judy is from Guatemala.) Before you know it, we were planning a get-together to make tamales. Everyone else in the group was like, “Yeah, we’ll come” – and eat!

Making tamales is a natural in a group setting. One of the traditions in Latin countries is for families and friends to get together on Christmas eve and make tamales, eat them for a late supper, then go to midnight Mass, stuffed.

Easily, there is room for 7 to 8 stations. People talk, laugh and work side by side for hours while making these tasty treats. In Central and South America, tamales are made differently in virtually every country. Some are made with corn husks, whereas banana leaves are more prominent farther south.

On Sunday, Mexico (Eren, Olga and Alicia), Guatemala (Judy) and Colombia (Lucia, Carmen and Dora) were represented, as well as a few gringo hangers on from Los Ustados Unidos. The Latin Ladies meet Friday night in Eren and Olga’s house and study the Bible together, sometimes in English, sometimes in Espanol.

Me? I’m kind of a cross-over between gringo and Mexican. I grew up on the border of Mexico and love the culture and the cuisine, which I have studied – in the kitchen and in word – intently over the years. When I started catering in 2004, tamales were my specialty. In 2005, I won a prize for my mushroom tamales at the San Jose Tamale Festival, against dozens of other competitors.

And, yet, it’s been three years since I last made tamales, with Susan. Making tamales is time consuming and a lot of hard work. When I pitched the idea to Eren, she readily agreed to host it.

Sunday afternoon, I was slaving away in the kitchen, making adobo (red chile salsa) and my three-mushroom (button, Shiitake, and portobello) concoction. Eren had prepared chicken, roast pork in adobo and cheese and jalapenos, so we had four different types of mushrooms to make – and eat.

Sue and I were the last to arrive a little after 4 p.m. All the ladies were eager to make tamales. My wife had an interesting observation. Why weren’t the Latin ladies teaching us how to make tamales? The answer is because most of them had never made tamales.

Eren and I traded off sharing a few secrets, then we got started. Eren had an oblong table set up in her kitchen covered with a plastic table cloth – when you’re done, you just throw the dirty thing away.

I gave a quick demonstration on how to make the little treasures, then I got out of the way and let them have fun. When they made a mistake, I stepped in to correct them. We had tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones and every combination thereof. Some were pretty; some were kind of hideous. Some had blogs of masa, and others were paper thin. Who cares? All that matters is what they taste like.

The Latin ladies – along with Andrea and Earlene (see Dec. 11 post) dived right in. There was much cackling – I mean talking – going on while they worked. The tamales are fitted into a steamer when they’re done for a 75-minute wet sauna. Eren took care of boiling the water, while I prepared the masa (corn meal, mixed with salt, baking powder, lard and chicken stock). Eren had soaked the corn husks in boiling water for an hour before we arrived.

Every 20 minutes or so, a new pot was boiling. Occasionally, we’d have the ladies switch positions and learn a new task. At one point, I led the group in singing the famous Latin song “Cielito Lindo.” The refrain goes “Ay, ay, ay, ay. Canta y no llores.” As soon as I sang those lines, the Latin ladies jumped in and sang. When they finished, they all laughed heartily. Later, I changed up the tune a little and sang “Ay, ay, ay ay. I am the Frito Bandito” and my wife took it from there with a solo. “I love Fritos Corn Chips, I’ll get them from you.” It was hilarious.

By the time we finished all four types of tamales, the first, Eren’s roast pork, were done. Everybody who came brought a side dish, and we had a nifty little potluck happening by 7 p.m.

We all sat around the table chatting. The gringos asked questions about life in Mexico, Guatemala and Colombia and what brought them to the United States. We asked about the foods they grew up with. Life sharing was going on.

That is what good food should do. Good things happen when food and people collide. That combination brings conversation and laughter, two essentials for budding friendships. As you talk, you get to know each other. A get-together becomes a celebration. When you're done, share the extras with friends and family, because Christmas is about giving and sharing with others.

Caption: Making tamales in group settings is a Latin tradition, especially on Christmas eve. Here, I gave a quick demonstration to Eren (middle) and my pastor's wife, Andrea.

A Friendship Based on Love of Food

2010-12-11T11:07:00.000-08:00

My grandmother canned various fruits and vegetables from her vast garden, and she taught my mom how to can. My mom didn’t have any daughters to pass on the art of canning, and, even though I’m a pretty good cook, my mom did not teach me how to can. (Don’t worry; Mom; I’m not mad.)

Frankly, I never thought twice about learning how to can until I went to Haiti in August and began planning a garden project at the orphanage my church is rebuilding in Leogane. Canning, as my vision states, is something we need to teach Haitians how to do because most of the country is without electricity and, hence, refrigeration. Canning is a necessity in third-world nations so they can eat healthy foods more often.

So when I received an offer to learn how to make pepper jelly from a friend at church, Earlene Boyd of Walnut Creek, Calif., I jumped at the chance. The benefit to me was twofold: 1) I wanted to learn more about canning; and 2) I wanted to learn how to make pepper jelly (think spicy jalapenos) so I can serve it over cream cheese as an appetizer for a dinner I’m catering in a couple of weeks.

Earlene had given my wife, Susan, and me a jar of pepper jelly awhile back, and we fell in love with the stuff. You pour it over cream cheese and dip your favorite cracker into the concoction, and viola, instant yummy appetizer at a fairly low cost.

As we worked, we chatted, which is how it should be while working together in the kitchen. I asked Earlene if her mom taught her how to can, and she said no, she just wanted to learn how to can and simply followed the directions. Ugh. I hate following directions.

I see Earlene at church just about every week. She and her husband, Duane, sit right behind Susan and me. She knows I like to cook, so we often end up talking about food, even during church.

What I learned from Earlene was that we both have a passion to use food as gifts for friends. Earlene gives away treats at church all the time. We have gotten into her inner circle, praise the Lord, which means regular goodies. A few weeks ago, we were guests at her home for her annual “pumpkin” dinner, in which pumpkin was the featured guest.

I told Earlene of my desire to set aside one day in the next few weeks and do nothing but make candy and baked goods for friends, and that set off a 30-minute conversation about food gifts. We agreed that it was a wonderful way to love on someone. My list started off with chocolate and peanut brittle, two of my childhood favorites my mom used to make (and, no, she didn’t teach me how to make those either.) I’m even thinking of presentation of the packages and how to make it … pretty. I might even buy bows.

So out of my morning with Earlene, I gathered up a few treasures. I learned how to can, how to make pepper jelly and our friendship blossomed a little.

How do I pay her back? She heard a few Hispanic ladies from church and me are getting together to make tamales. She asked if she could come. “Of course,” I told her. We’re both already thinking about how to invite others into the fold.

Food is a gift from God, and we should share it with others as often as possible. Celebrate the Christmas season by inviting friends over for a meal or by setting aside a day to make treats for cherished friends or maybe even people you don’t even know. Like a neighbor you’ve been dying to get to know better.

If nothing else, bring me some goodies, and I’ll be your friend!

Note: For the rest of December, I’m going to share some of my food secrets that I learn, such as my candy-making escapades.

Latkes for Everyone

2010-12-10T09:32:00.001-08:00

Hanukkah began at sunset Dec. 1 and ended Dec. 9. Every year, the date changes slightly. According to myjewishlearning.com, Hanukkah (sometimes spelled Chanukah) is a Jewish holiday also known as the Festival of Lights, commemorating Israel's freedom from the oppressive Syrian-Greek rule and the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 164 B.C.

Hanukkah is celebrated mostly in the home. Each night, families light menorahs, play dreidel (played with a spinning top) and sing songs. Presents are given, under the influence of Christmas.

And, yes, food is a big part of Jewish customs during Hanukkah. In particular, Jews eat deep-fried foods to commemorate the miracle of Hanukkah, in which a cruse of oil lasted for eight days instead of the usual one. Potato latkes are the most famous Hanukkah traditional food, usually served with a slow-roasted brisket.

I stumbled onto potato latkes years ago and absolutely love them. As Christians, I think it’s important that we understand Jewish customs and traditions. Food is a great way to connect with our Jewish brethren.

Here is a simple potato latkes recipe. Last week, I made them for my family, along with braised brisket for dinner. We all loved the dinner, shared in a family atmosphere.

Potato Latkes

Prep time: 15 minutes; cooking time: 15 minutes.

Recipe yield: 10 to 12 latkes

Ingredients

3 cups peeled and shredded potatoes (3-4 whole potatoes)

¼ onion grated

1 clove garlic, minced

2 eggs, beaten

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 1/2 teaspoons salt

1/2 cup vegetable oil for frying

2 tsp. chopped green onion for garnish

Directions

Place the potatoes in a cheesecloth and wring, extracting as much moisture as possible.

In a medium bowl stir the potatoes, onion, eggs, flour and salt together.

In a large heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat, heat the oil until hot. Place large spoonfuls of the potato mixture into the hot oil, pressing down on them to form ¼- to ½-inch thick patties. Brown on one side, turn and brown on the other. Let drain on paper towels.

Serve hot, with applesauce (preferably homemade) or sour cream and sprinkle with chopped green onions!

Haitians, Orphanage Need Our Prayers

2010-09-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

Day 7 continued (Saturday, Aug. 7)

Leogane, Haiti

After returning to our hotel from our Port-au-Prince jaunt, we all quickly finished packing our bags for our 5 a.m. departure time the next morning. Everyone wanted to make sure their suitcases were under the 50-pound maximum, so lots of filthy t-shirts and pairs of jeans were tossed in the garbage. Any extra food was given to Amy, who was staying the next week to work with the children.

By the time Saturday night rolled around, we all were exhausted and ready to go home. Everyone was anxious to go to bed, knowing we would be getting up at 4 to drive the two hours to the airport.

Saturday night also meant our last evening group gathering. Chris Stockhaus, missions director at Cornerstone Fellowship (Livermore, California), gave our 200 missionaries “Humility: True Greatness,” by C.J. Mahaney. Each day, we were to read two chapters for our personal devotional time, then talk about it later in our group time.

Frankly, every chapter was a little depressing. Do any of us ever feel humble enough to be worthy of the presence of God? We might feel humbled for a minute, but in that instance, our pride has kicked in and humility goes out the window. And yet, humility is something we all need.

I found it ironic that I received a book on humility. For the past nine months, I’ve been working on developing a new ministry, Feast With the King, also the name of the ministry book I hope to finish writing someday and get published. My morning prayer since January has been that I be a simple, humble servant, seeking to fulfill his God-given mission.

Sometimes, I think God is so funny. Was this book God’s way of telling me that I still need more humility? I thought I was doing pretty good there … for a minute or two. Or was it just a few seconds?

My gauge for humility has always my dad, who passed away 5 ½ years ago after a four-year battle with lung cancer. Pop was almost always who he was: a hard-working, simple farmer. That’s what made him happy. He was a deacon and sang in the choir for 40 years at the church I grew up in. I don’t think my dad ever sought attention for himself. He devoted his life to his God, his church, his wife, and his three sons. My dad was always willing to help others in need.

Me? I can find countless ways I bring attention to myself – every day. Sometimes, I get caught up in our “look at me” world.

It was equally humbling to hear others in our group tell their stories during our evening meetings. Going down to Haiti to help the orphans wasn’t the only thing this week was about. Short-term missions are God’s way of connecting with us in special ways.

I went down to gain some carpentry skills, only to hear God to tell me to plant a garden. I still don’t have many carpentry skills, but I grew up on a farm and worked in the fields for 10 years. God knew that when he recruited me. He knew both my brothers still work in the ag industry, so I have instant experts at my disposal.

As we went around that night, person after the person were so moved at seeing God work in the lives of these poor orphans and the adults associated with them. I think we all realized how rich we really are compared with Haitians, many of whom make around $100 a year. If I make less than that in a day, it’s a bad day. We all have air-conditioned homes and apartments to go to, cars to drive speedily to where we need to go, microwaves to heat up our dinners in a minute refrigerators to keep food cold, and freezers to keep food frozen.

Americans are so privileged to live the lives we do. Going down to a place like Haiti taught all of us who went how fortunate we are to live in the country we live in. In Haiti, we saw the worst form of poverty any of us had ever seen right in front of us. I’m a firm believer in being an Acts 1:8 church (paraphrase: go to Samaria, Judea and throughout the world to share the gospel), but where do you start with a place like Haiti? These people just saw the worst devastation they will ever see.

These people walk in humility every day. Many of the orphans lost one or both parents, friends and relatives in the January 12 earthquake. They see the same devastation around them every day. Hunger is a part of their daily lives. They battle near 100-degree temperatures and 90-percent humidity on a regular basis half the year. Drinking clean water is not a guarantee some days.

What do we do to help them? Maybe a better question is what can we do? Maybe you’re unemployed or underemployed and taking government welfare, and you don’t have any funds to send? Maybe you can’t get away from work or family to go to Haiti on a short-term mission trip. If all you can do every day is get on your hands and knees and ask God to help these people, then that is what you should be doing.

But, do not be one of those Christians who says “I’ll pray for them,” and then never think about them as you merrily go about your daily lives. That is one of the worst form of hypocrisy in the church today. Write a note in your Bible reminding you to pray for the Haitians. Keep a prayer list near your nightstand that includes a prayer for the orphanage.

2 Chronicles 7:14 (NIV) says “if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”

Haiti is a land that needs healing; Haitians need our prayers. When we pray, at home, at our churches and nationwide, change occurs, miracles happen, bellies fill up, clean water springs up from dirty wells, crops grow where only weeds grew before and people begin living again. Those things may need to happen for the Haitians to feel God’s love for them.

So if all you can do for Haiti and the orphanage in Leogane is pray, then pray earnestly every day. God hears our humble prayers.

These Boots Were Made for Working

2010-09-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Day 7 continued (Saturday, Aug. 7)

Leogane, Haiti

During our last few days at the orphanage, I began to think of ways to lighten my luggage load for the flight home, knowing I had to keep it under 50 pounds. I threw away a holy pair of jeans that were utterly filthy (and smelly). I tossed a white t-shirt that would never come clean, no matter how much bleach was applied.

The heaviest items left in my suitcase were an old pair of work boots. Surely, someone could use a good pair of work boots. I hadn’t used them in several years before this week; I surely wasn’t going to miss them.

Jonathan, our team leader, pulled me aside and reminded me of the church’s rules to not give personal items or food to the locals. Inside, I was sad, because, in my heart, I knew I was right in wanting to give one of the Haitians something he needed to work in local construction. But I also knew I had to follow the rules, whether I agreed with them or not.

After saying our goodbyes to the children, we headed back to the hotel to freshen up (so important for male construction workers), before heading off to tour Port-au-Prince. When we got back to our rooms around noon, the local construction team was hard at work on the second floor, where I was staying.

After changing clothes (I felt so refreshed), I started to head downstairs to our vans, ready to be a tourist. One of the workers passed by, and I just happened to look at his feet. He was wearing this ratty pair of tennis shoes feebly held together by short pieces of shoelaces. His heels hanged out over the back of his shoes, flattening them, and he was barefoot. The shoes looked like hand-me-downs that had handed down a couple of times.

I got his attention, then put my foot up next to his. His was bigger, but that was OK, because the boots were too big (they were given to me and probably a size 11; I wear a 10). I motioned for him to wait by my door while I fetched the boots. “Please, Lord, let these boots fit this man. He looks like he could use them.”

I put the boots on the ground for him to try on. Perhaps he was wary of me, thinking I was a used shoe salesman from the States. The young man slipped on the unlaced boots and smiled. I smiled back. If the boots fit, you must … keep them.

“Yours,” I told him. “Gift.” I was thinking, “You need them more than I do, fella.”

We shook hands, sealing the deal. He quickly slipped off his tennis shoes and put on the boots, without socks, mind you. I couldn’t help noticing this young man of perhaps 25 had the feet of a 70-year-old man.

He went back to his labors, with toes stretching out, and I skipped off, gleefully. I had lightened my suitcase load and I had gladdened my heart. (The next day, my suitcase weighed in at 50.3 pounds, close enough to not pay the additional fee.)

I probably bragged too much about my thoughtful gift, but I was truly happy that I could help someone in need. Our team rules said nothing about giving your stuff away to the locals.

Caption: These are the shoes worn by the Haitian before my free gift.

One of my teammates, Amy, has returned to Leogane to care for little Charlie, who was sick the entire week we were there. Read her blog at http://amyshaiti.blogspot.com/

Not Even the President Escaped Devastation

2010-09-03T13:31:00.000-07:00

Day 7 continued (Saturday, Aug. 7)

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

I felt a bump. It happened in the blink of an eye. I looked down to find a boy about 12 years old, dark as midnight on a starless night, looking up at me. “Hey, don’t do that,” I said to him in a firm English voice, thinking he was pick-pocketing me. Of course, he probably didn’t understand me, because most Haitians speak Creole. He stood smack dab in the middle of a group of 12 American tourists, bunched tightly, looking about at the rubble around us.

I reached into my zippered pocket, and my cell phone was gone. Our Haitian interpreter, Fred, acted quickly, prodding the boy for answers and trying to scare him into cooperating.

“He doesn’t have it,” someone in our group said. “That kid over there has it,” pointing to a boy 20 yards away in the street, halfway between our side of the street and the other, a large (read thousands) tent city.

Fred, still thinking quickly, pulled out his wallet that contained a fake badge from his days as a security guard. Later, he said he yelled at the boy that he was a policeman and if he ran, he would arrest him. The boy froze, then slowly started inching backward.

It was my turn to act quickly. I sprinted toward him as fast as my 51-year-old, sweating profusely body could go. The boy turned and ran just. All I could think of was to say stop in Spanish. “Alto!” I yelled. The boy dropped my cell phone in the street, and I was never so thankful. Thankful that I got my cell phone back and that I didn’t have to run any more. That 20 yards winded me.

A few minutes later, Fred pulled me aside and told me how lucky I was. “Had you gone another 20 yards, you would have been in the middle of all those Haitians. Had (the boy) screamed out, the Haitians would have come to his rescue.” The implication was that I was a bigger, White American seemingly taking advantage of this scrawny, probably hungry, probably orphaned, Haitian boy with no shoes.

I couldn’t help thinking about those two boys, working in tandem as pickpockets for food, for survival. I immediately thought of “the artful Dodger” in the classic Charles Dickens book “Oliver Twist.”

That was the highlight of our afternoon touring Port-au-Prince. At 11, we left the orphanage, stopped off at the hotel to freshen up and change clothes, and by 2, we were in Haiti’s capital.

Touring Port-au-Prince on our last day in Haiti was our reward for our hard work here and … surviving. One of our guides, Jean, promised us a decent meal at a “safe” restaurant. We stopped there, got out, but the sandwich/pizza/burger joint was tiny, seating perhaps 20 people. We had 25 in our group. The owner was unwilling to let us take over the place and displace his regular customers, so we moved on.

Whenever we stop and get out of the vans, people stop us and ask questions. Who are you? Why are you here? How do you like it here? Some of the Haitians can be downright funny. They laugh and joke with us because … “Why would you come to this?” one of them said. Some of the Haitians were genuine in wanting to chat with us. Sometimes, we realized they were cordial because they wanted money, but most of the time, they were just friendly nationals.

Frankly, Port-au-Prince is disgusting in every sense of the word. Billions of dollars, more money than was donated to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina in 2004, has flooded into Haiti, population 9 million people before the earthquake, yet little has changed in eight months. In a August 22, 2010 article, the Washington Post said 230,000 people have left Port-au-Prince for outlying areas. The story said it is believed that 1.3 million people are living in tents in Haiti. That’s one-tenth of the total population. Everywhere we drove in Port-au-Prince, we saw tent cities. Between the medians on the main thoroughfare, in city parks, on bridges, next to rivers.

Before the January 12 earthquake, Port-au-Prince was home to 2.3 million people. The BBC Network reports that 230,000 people died from the earthquake, and it is believed that tens of thousands are still buried in the rubble. Everywhere we walked, we could smell the stench of dead bodies.

Our church sent teams of people to work in a 55,000 person tent city in Port-au-Prince, and the space it filled was no bigger than a couple of football fields. Allies of maybe 10 feet separated tents that were usually about 10 feet by 10 feet. The next tent was no more than a foot away. As far as the eye could see, blue tents filled your vision. Sometimes, you could see what organization had given the tents away, such as Samaritan’s Purse or the Red Cross.

Walking around the capital, it is hard not to feel deep sympathy for these people. Our group would talk awhile, then feel rage at how this country had gotten to this point. Haiti has been pretty much this way for centuries, mostly because of a corrupt political system. The nation has nearly a 50-percent literacy rate.

Jean and Fred, our interpreters would tell us the background about what we were seeing. Jean pointed out the national stadium, where the national soccer team played before the earthquake. He says he played semi-pro soccer earlier in his life and had played there “once or twice.” We walked past what Jean described as a once beautiful city park that once was a place for families to come and relax on hot evenings or weekends. Now, a mega tent city resides there and no grass can be seen anywhere. The national museum was closed, though not because of rubble. The Presidential Palace was in shambles, as was the national treasury and the national cabinet building, all within a few blocks from each other.

Jean got a kick out of seeing the crumbled treasury building. “We don’t have to pay taxes anymore, because there isn’t anyone to collect them.” He was speaking in jest. Or was he.

A single patrol guard stood near the tattered Presidential Palace, easily as large as the White House. The Post story quoted President Peval as never having walked across the street to talk to people in the mega tent city Champ de Mars. While we were in Leogane, President Clinton traveled to Haiti to represent his nonprofit and make a sizable donation to the cause. Every time we saw a helicopter, we joked that it was Clinton. Even Clinton got out and walked about the rubble. But not the president of Haiti.

The Haitian presidential elections are coming up in the fall. One of the people running is a popular rapper, Wyclef Jean. The joke was that he couldn’t be any worse than Peval, who is described as “distant” by the locals.

As we drove around, most of what we saw was more devastation. We could see green hillsides in the distance, and our interpreters said there were still pockets of Port-au-Prince that remained undamaged, mostly homes of the affluent. Our interpreters described the aristocracy as being mostly uncaring about the poverty around them.

We saw lot of big homes hiding behind sturdy gates and tall walls, keeping them away from the population around them. The rich speak French, considered more proper than the pauper Creole.

Our interpreters said the displaced include many of the rich. Jean said he knew of doctors, lawyers and businessmen who live in the tent cities because their homes and business crumbled in the earthquake, and they have nowhere to go. (Jean himself lost his teaching job in Leogane, because the school was destroyed by the earthquake.)

By mid-afternoon, we made it to our destination: MacEpis, a wannabe Haitian McDonald’s. One half of the roughly 2,000-square foot restaurant was reserved for ice cream and desserts, with the other half for hamburgers, fries and sodas. All week long, I had craved a cheeseburger, so I ordered a … cheeseburger, fries and a Coke. After waiting a good half hour, my beloved burger finally arrived, with bacon and cheese.

This truly was a sad day. I nearly cried. The burger was awful, easily the worst hamburger I’ve ever eaten. The bacon was chewy and unedible. The French fries, though, weren’t bad. A Coke is a Coke, even in Haiti. We were told it was safe to drink the carbonated drinks here because the restaurant has a good reputation. (It was safe, as the guards outside carried scatter guns.) In other words, the water was safe. I got a tiny scoop of ice cream for dessert, but it wasn’t the same as Haagen Dazs.

I left with a full stomach, but with memories of more bad food. I refused to claim this as my burger fix. I would have to wait until Miami 24 hours later for that luxury. Ugh.

Saying Goodbye Is Always Difficult

2010-09-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

Day 7 (Saturday, Aug. 7)

Leogane, Haiti

Today was difficult because we had to finish our projects and say goodbye to the children. I went back and forth between my construction projects and the kids playing under the trees. I gave Oligas one last romp on my shoulders and spent some time hanging out with him.

We told the kids through the interpreters that we were leaving soon and flying back to America the next morning. We told them that if we never saw them again on earth, we would one day see them in heaven. Sad eyes all around, both adults and children. We prayed in English and in Creole, then we headed out.

The construction guys said goodbye to the seven Haitian men we trained in carpentry and cement skills. This morning, Bill, Paul and the Haitian crew frantically put up a wall around Amalia’s kitchen. I also had to say goodbye to Amalia. She came out to the van as we all piled in and said “au revoire.” I grew to admire her for the hard work and dedication she puts into preparing close to 180 meals a day under adverse conditions. Seven days a week, she cooks and sweats in her outdoor kitchen.

Leaving mission stops is always difficult. I remember leaving my last two mission trips feeling the same way: empty. We had to say goodbye to relationships we had nurtured over the week, not knowing if we would ever see them again. We have to accept that, for one week, this is where God wanted us to be, serving these little lost lambs. Loving these little children was an unpaid job, but we all know we will attain riches in heaven one day because of the love we gave.

Granted, I am hoping to return to the Leogane orphanage again, to plant a garden. First, I must make sure God is, indeed, in this. I have to ensure the farming plan has the necessary support financially farmingwise make it succeed. I knocked off one item on my to-do list by asking one of our interpreters if he thought we could get a local farmer to come in with a tractor and chisel/disc to turn the soil over before we planted. He assured me it was possible.

Before I left, I packed a few pounds of soil from the orphanage in a gallon freezer bag to take home to have it analyzed for nutrients. Yes, I knew it was illegal, but I asked God to overlook my sin. I packed it in the middle of 40 pounds of dirty, stinky work clothes from my week in Leogane. If the customs people in Miami can find it through that mess, they can have it.

Just dreaming such dreams for the kingdom means waiting on God and doing the legwork to make sure that God is opening doors or not. It’s a conundrum of sorts. We can’t do it without God, but it still requires our efforts. Several people in my group asked about coming back to work with the children. Absolutely. This kind of ministry needs irrigation engineers, carpenters, dirt farmers, chicken farmers, bee keepers and canners. Bringing along people to love on the children is a natural.

As I look ahead, I have already started to write down names of people who can farm, build chicken coops, keep bees and design an irrigation system. I am amazed at the resources God is filling my mind with. We need seed companies to donate seed. How do we get bees down there? How do we get hand farm tools down there? Where do we buy chickens to lay eggs? Will the local Ace Hardware have the necessary fencing on hand?

Those are all questions to be left in God’s hands. I will turn to him in prayer, ask others to pray, ask questions of people I think might have answers or solutions to the problems I foresee and watch God work. The project to-do list is rather substantial. I know I can’t do this task God has put upon me without his strength and guidance.

As we waved good-bye to our little Haitian friends, I, like everyone else in the group, began to cry. I looked for little Oligas, and he gave only a half-hearted wave back. Was he hurt? Or was he used to feeling abandoned? I know I have to return to my life in California, but that notion still hurts me. For the next few miles, our van was silent.

Only God knows if I will one day return to Leogane, Haiti … and see my little buddy again.

Caption: From left, Hilary, Fred (our interpreter), Amy and Geannine were the backbone of our kids' team.

Preserving Identities With a Paper Trail

2010-09-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

Day 6 (Friday, Aug. 5)

Leogane, Haiti

We stumbled upon a potentially embarrassing problem today at the orphanage when we discovered, shall we say, irregularities, in its filing system for the children’s important papers. The paperwork included report cards, medical reports and birth certificates. Everything was in one, 6-inch stack of random papers, which I estimated to be over a thousand pages.

What’s the big deal? For most of these kids, these papers represent their dwindling identity. Many of them lost both parents to the earthquake, some lost only one parent but were dumped off at the orphanage because the surviving parent could no longer care for them after the January 12 earthquake.

One of the teenage girls was in tears when she showed us where the files were kept in the storage room. Little care had been given to the files. No methodology existed for the Haitians, it seemed. The files were infested with ants (major disease carriers) and most were sopping wet from one of the recent storms. We could see mold and mildew on some of the papers, which could make the kids sick.

After making the discovery, several of the people in our group were livid. “How could they be so careless?” was the common cry.

Then we discussed it some more. Part of our dilemma was our common dislike for the orphanage’s director, who is just 18 and barely an adult. She has made her disdain of our presence known by her ever-present frown. She is rarely at the orphanage, doing who knows what while away. She has clearly left the children in our care. We have witnessed her berate the cook and anyone else who gets in her way. Yet she is in charge, and we have to respect the chain of command.

In truth, this job fell on her after the earthquake. She doesn’t really want to be here, but is here by necessity. This job means survival for her. She wasn’t trained to run an orphanage, and she wasn’t trained to file paperwork. So she stuck everything in a big pile and walked away.

The big issue we faced was this: did the Haitians even want our help with the paperwork problem? If they didn’t, should we take action on behalf of the children in the name of righteousness. This is one of those dilemmas with no right answers. So we prayed: “Lord, what would you have us do?”

Fortunately for us, the Haitians eagerly accepted our offer to help. We separated the files into four sections and even built a storage box with four bins. Our solution to the birth certificate problem came to Catharine in a dream. No kidding. Catharine stayed at the hotel yesterday because she was sick. In between sweating and the sound of hammering by the hotel workers, she slept periodically and … dreamed. She dreamed of taking pictures of the birth certificates.

We used one of our cameras to take pictures of all the birth certificates, giving a paper trail to any potential lost items in the future. One problem solved.

Then a few of our people (all parents) went to work doing what they do best: organize. For people like me who have ADHD, people who organize are gold. These people went above and beyond the call of duty. They showed those kids that their identities mattered. I could see a few of the teenage girls watching them with gleeful anticipation.

One day, these kids are all going to walk away from the orphanage. When they leave, we hope that each one of them has his or her treasured birth certificate in hand.

Perhaps a few of them will remember the time when the Americans came to visit for a summer. Maybe a few of them will leave the orphanage with an identity based in Jesus Christ because of our presence here this summer. That child’s life will be impacted for a lifetime because of his hope in an eternity with God in heaven. Maybe a kid or two will choose to help others around them because of the love we showed these kids.

That’s why we came. We can’t impact every kid here, but we hope to impact a few. As our week winds down, each one of us has special memories of time spent with at least one kid. I hope each one of those kids has special memories of us, too.

Caption: Nora, a mother of two daughters in Pleasanton, California, was one of four people who helped organize the orphanage's important papers. The discolored papers above is from exposure to the sun.

Building Boxes to Store Treasures

2010-08-31T17:34:00.000-07:00

Day 5 Continued (Thursday, Aug. 5)

Leogane, Haiti

Many of the Haitians don’t understand personal responsibility or pride of ownership because of one very good reason: They don’t own anything. We decided to build open-ended boxes that would slide under the children’s bunkbeds so children could have a place to store their possessions, what little they have. Most of what they have has been given to them by our church’s short-term missionaries who came here this summer.

Throughout the week, we could tell when the kids were wearing t-shirts from the Bay Area. My favorite t-shirt was emblazoned with a tennis club from Marin County. I don’t think there are many tennis players at the orphanage. But every day, those kids had clean clothes to wear.

One of the things that slowed us down in the building of the boxes was the thought of only some of the kids receiving the boxes before we left. We could not built all 40 needed for the girls side of the orphanage, to say nothing about the 38 boys across the street.

In every decision we made, we tried to think how it would impact the children as a group. We were told to do certain things out of fairness to the children, such as not giving individuals presents. We didn’t give individual kids snacks. We didn’t want other children to feel slighted, and we certainly didn’t want children to be emotionally or physically abused so another kid could have a gift we had given to someone else.

Most of these kids have few possessions. Everyone has a toothbrush and toothpaste, and everyone has the necessary toiletries. Everyone has their own bed, but that’s about it. Kids don’t have toys to play with, for the most part, except for what we brought. And because the toys don’t belong to the kids, there is little personal responsibility on the part of the children to take care of them so they could play with them the next day. Often, toys disappeared for a day or two, only to be found later, in the weeds or on the other side of the compound.

Part of what I thought about with the boxes was how the children would feel when they got the boxes. “Great, I got a box for my stuff, but I don’t have any stuff to put in it. What good does that do me?” Or maybe, “Thanks, and does this mean you’re going to give me something to put in my box?” I wish I had better answers. (Many of the teenagers did have their own cell phones. Where they got the money to pay for them, I don’t know.)

Sometimes, Americans have grandiose illusions of things they can do for the children of third-world countries such as Haiti. Does it really benefit these kids if they are given some luxury item that’s going to disappear in a few days or weeks or months?

What happens to these kids after we leave this summer? Did we build up their hopes for nothing? Did we promise something we couldn’t keep? That’s a question our church is wrestling with now: What next? That answer will come from more discussions and much prayer.

The worst part about the boxes (aside from the fact I worked on them, and none of them were plum, or square) was that we would not be there when the children received them. The decision was made to not give them the boxes until all of them were completed and could be given out together.

* * *

Working with the Haitians can try your patience sometimes, whether it’s the language barrier or the difference in speed of life. The children’s boxes were to be painted today. Oopsie. We fine American mathematicians, many of us college graduates, didn’t add so good. In fairness to Doug L and myself, the boxes were designed by a certain contractor who shall remain nameless. The original design didn’t consider the half inch on the bottom of the box, which made the fit under the beds a little too tight. One could not put their fingers on the top of the box without smacking them into the metal bed frame. New design: wack off an inch on the sides.

As the group’s designated painting teacher, I was an abject failure. The interpreters were not around, so “what we had here is a failure to communicate.” I tried to teach Jid, one of the Haitian teenage boys, how to paint, stroking going with the grain. Every time I would look away for a minute or do another chore, I would return to see Jid painting up and down instead of side to side. Perhaps “with the grain” doesn’t translate in Creole.

Then, two of the boys did not seal the lid on the plastic paint container, and it spilled all over the grass around us. It’s hard to get mad at them for attempting to something they’ve never done before. I tried to stop them from using the paint on the ground because of the dirt and grass combination, but it didn’t work so well. “Non” suddenly became indecipherable to the Haitians.

When they finished, the box really looked sharp. I congratulated the boys on a fine job. They beamed. Later, I saw it after the paint had dried. Then, I could see the grass imbedded in the paint. It was actually kind of funny. I told everyone we were seeking a natural look. “The green tones bring out the color in the white paint.”

When we finished painting, I told Jid we needed water to wash the paintbrush, so I marched off, bucket in hand, to the neighborhood well a hundred yards away. Thirty yards later, I realized I was not alone; Jid was walking with me. I pumped the water, then grabbed the bucket for the return trip, but Jid took it from me and insisted on carrying it. At that moment, I felt the respect of a teenage boy. I don’t know when Jid lost his dad, but it sure felt like he appreciated another man doing something for him.

The Haitians see certain jobs belonging to women, water carrying being one of those tasks. Jid did not look at it that way. That skill will one day make Jid a better employee, a better employer, a better husband, a better dad, and a better man. Today, Jid discovered humility.

* * *

We never know how little things might impact the Haitians. Yesterday, while the men were getting lessons in using the skill saw, one of the men, Jacque, who is 53, did not have a pair of safety glasses, whereas the other six did. I saw the problem and quickly went over to Jacque and pulled off my own glasses and offered them to him. His broad smile said “thank you.” Jacque felt a part of something.

Today, Jacque is still wearing those glasses, quite proudly, I might add. Even though we were told not to give the Haitians presents, I later gave Jacque those glasses. He needs them more than I do. I can’t remember the last time I used them. I didn’t like them any way.

* * *

Random happenings from our group today:

Three people from our team went with the Haitians to take a few of the sick children to a local free clinic. One of the boys, Charlie, had severe diarrhea, but didn’t get to see the doctor. The doctor used the triage method, taking the worst cases first. Charlie’s case wasn’t severe enough. After six hours of sitting, our team felt like it didn’t get much accomplished today.

Said Hilary, a first-grade teacher at Cornerstone Christian School in Antioch, who was with that group: “DMV has nothing on Haitian hospitals.”

Said Catherine, also with the group: “I’ll never complain about American health care again.

Amy, who quit her job to come to Haiti, had the best story, though. She had to go to the bathroom and stood in line for a few minutes. When she finally got in, she laughed, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear her. When she came out, all the locals were laughing with her, knowing why she was laughing. She was laughing at the fact that the toilet consisted of a hole in the ground.

One of the sick children at the hospital needed his diapers changed. “Anybody up for the task?” one of the ladies asked. John, one of the 17-year-old twins on our team, said he would do it, and took the child in hand. Then he asked, “How?” Everyone in our group roared with laughter.

* * *

I’ve decided I complain too much. I complain about the lack of space back home in our 1,100-square foot, two-bedroom 1.5 bath condominium, shared by my wife, her son and her dad at the moment. I whine when I have to wait 15 minutes for the shower. Yet, every day, I get to take a hot shower. Every day, I write on my laptop, search the Internet on the Wi-fi. Every day, I grind coffee beans to percolate my fine, Colombian coffee. Every day, I reach into my 38-degree refrigerator for cold half/half. I have a 33-inch TV (though no cable, by choice). I am a chef by trade, but at home, I cook in a teensy-weensy kitchen, but at least it’s inside; my kitchen is also indoors; I have an air conditioner that keeps our house at a cool 72 degrees when it’s 100 degrees outside. Most of these Haitians would think I live in the lap of luxury.

Members of our team often joke about how many Haitians we could “cram” into our tiny homes. We could get 3-4 Haitian families living comfortably in my condo. None of them would complain about being cramped. Dustin and his wife live in a 1-bedroom, 600-square foot condo. Twelve was the number we came up with for his home.

My dinky 4-cylinder Honda Accord goes twice as fast as most of the cars in Haiti. I don’t think it’s ever held more than the maximum allowed by law, five seat-belted passengers. Here in Haiti, the locals would cram a 10 people in my car, with a few more in the trunk and maybe two on the roof.

It’s all a matter of perspective. The next time my toilet seat is a little cold in the winter time, I’ll remember that I don’t have to squat, as the Haitians do (and which Amy refused to do in the doctor’s office) every day. When I complain of a poor night’s sleep because my mattress is too hard, I’ll be thankful I’m not on the cold, hard ground. Next time I start sweating in my house, I can walk over to the air conditioner and turn it on to cool off.

Thank you, Lord, for the many luxuries you give me.

Caption: This simple, wooden box will one day hold the treasures of the Haitian orphans we cared for in Leogane.

Passing on Godly Legacies to Our Sons

2010-08-27T11:54:00.001-07:00

Day 5 (Thursday, Aug. 5)

Leogane, Haiti

Everything I needed to know about Bill, I learned while hanging the orphanage’s gate earlier in the week. Our leader, Jonathan, looked at the gate at one point and said to Bill, “That’s good enough.” To which Bill responded, “It’s good enough for government work, but this is for the Lord, and I have to do it right.”

That’s the voice of a servant who wants to do his best work for God. That’s what we all should be striving for.

As the week went on, Bill’s expertise on everything construction came to the forefront. No matter what we were up against, Bill had a response based on experience to share with us. And, as a teacher, Bill was top-notch. Bill had a knack for getting the seven Haitian men who worked under us to convey his desires, often without our esteemed interpreters. Bill, no doubt, has the same reputation with his employees who work under him at the Lawrence Livermore Lab.

But the best teaching Bill has done in his life is with his son, Paul, who also is on our team. Bill tried to teach everything he knew about construction and fixing things to Paul, and he did a commendable job. Paul had the same desire as Bill to teach the Haitians life and carpentry skills. Not only did they try teach them the right way to do various carpentry skills, they also tried to teach them the meaning of hard work and integrity on the job, traits that seem to be sorely lacking with many of the Haitians.

Watching Bill interact with Paul was a joy all week. They had the kind of relationship every father and son should have. It included one important element: mutual respect. When Bill was away from Paul, he talked admirably about Bill's ability to play games with kids and be a team leader in the corporate world. Later, Paul marveled at his dad's vast knowledge of all things carpentry and the like. They had fun working together, razzing each other.

Christians need to always remember to exhibit those two characteristics when on the mission field. Bill and Paul lived that out throughout our week in Haiti, and with a good sense of humor.

Bill has passed on a legacy to his son, something that all fathers need to do with their sons. My dad taught me how to be a godly man simply by setting a lifetime example for me. I can remember having only one or two conversations with my dad about what a godly man looked like. I knew what one looked like by looking at my dad.

My dad also had a knack for fixing and designing things and would have made a fantastic engineer had he not wanted to be a farmer. My only regret I have with my dad is that I didn’t seek him out more on how to fix things. He would have taught me everything he knew, but I never had the desire – until he died five years ago.

The Haitians quickly took to Bill, too. They came to know him and trust him, even giving him the esteemed nickname, “Papa,” an endearing name in Haiti.

Men, what kind of legacy are you leaving your sons? We should all strive to be more like Bill and Paul, who is working to pass on his own legacy to his son.

When I think of legacies, I think of what Joseph passed on to his son, Jesus. By age 12, Jesus knew enough of the Pentatauch (books of Moses) to teach in the Temple. No doubt, Joseph was there in the temple studying God’s word with his son. For at least 10 years, Jesus made a living as a carpenter. Because we know he never sinned, we know that Jesus always gave his best work and never cheated any of his customers or lied to them about his workmanship. The Bible doesn’t say, but I think Jesus had an outstanding reputation as a carpenter in Nazareth.

I think about my own legacy to my sons. I am nowhere near the godly man my dad was, but I constantly try to instill in my 23-year-old son and 16-year-old step-son (Julian) the importance of hard work and integrity. My son, Matthew, is not walking with the Lord, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have godly characteristics. The things I taught him as a boy growing up in the church can still be seen in him.

Like Bill and Paul, I, too, want to go on a mission trip with my sons. When the prospects of going to Haiti came up in late April, I told Matthew I was planning to go. I hoped to instill in him a desire to go. Because he’s studying architecture in college, I tried to pump up the unique design my church is using in the rebuilding of the orphanage. In the end, Haiti lost out to an architecture class in southern Europe, where Matthew drew pictures of buildings of antiquity. Go figure.

I won’t give up in my hopes of trying to persuade my sons to go on mission trips with me. I will return to Haiti one day to plant a garden, and perhaps my son will come with me. Maybe another city will be devastated by the likes of a hurricane, earthquake or tsunami, and our church will decide to go and lend aid and care for the dead, sick and the injured. That’s where my heart is, to go on the first wave of relief aid and write about it.

Matthew is preparing to apply for grad school in architecture, and I keep pushing Habitat for Humanity on him. Not only would it be good experience for his studies, it would put him in the midst of other like-minded people who believe in helping those less fortunate than us. That’s the legacy I want to leave with my sons.

Caption: Paul is in the middle smiling broadly, while Bill stands in the background at far right, admiring the work of one of his students.

Love Letter to My Wife From This Island Paradise

2010-08-26T17:14:00.001-07:00

Day 4 continued (Wednesday, Aug. 4)

Leogane, Haiti

My darling Susan,

Here, I am a quarter of the way around the world, slaving away in a tropical paradise, and I’m feeling sorry for myself. My wife is not here to share the experience of working in 95-degree F temperature and 80 percent humidity.

Today, as I watched our team care for the little children, I thought, “Suzie would have fit right in.” You would have been such a great lover of these orphans. You would have been a great hugger. You would have been an awesome wiper-away-of tears. You would have taken lots of pictures of the kids. You would have let the Haitian teenage girls braid your hair. You would have laughed with them. You would have cried with them. I missed getting to see you do what you do best, which is to love other people. I get to feel that every day, but these children have never felt it. They missed out.

Four and a half years ago, we went on a romantic vacation together in Hackberry, Louisiana after having dated for six months. We were on a mission trip to roof houses, and you wanted to be up on the roof with me and the other men on our team. You insisted on carrying your own weight, and you did.

Do you remember the day when the church from Mississippi joined us to roof First Baptist Church? Their under-their breath comments about you belonging below in the kitchen were not so under their breath. (Little did they know that I was the one who spends so much time in the kitchen!) The comments from those good ‘ol southern boys were beginning to bother you, and you asked me what to do. I told you to do what God tells you to do, and you stayed on the roof. The tomboy in you always wanted to play with the boys and not with Barbie dolls with the girls.

The other men in our group stood up for you to those country bumpkins. “Suzie’s a hard worker. Leave her alone. She’ll pull her own weight,” the men from our church said.

They left you alone, because they realized the spirit of faith gave you just as much energy as any one of them. Or maybe it was because you outworked a few of them.

A little while later, the pastor of the church sidled up next to me, pulling nails from the roof. We struck up a friendly conversation, and he asked me: “You planning to marry that gal?”

I stopped working. “Yes sir, I believe I will,” and went back to work.

“Good, ‘cause you’re a fool if you don’t. My daughter’s just like that. She goes on mission trips like this and she wants a hammer in her hand. If she were here, she’d be up here on this roof, too.”

That day, I knew I wanted to marry you. That was February of 2006. A few weeks later, I asked your mom and step-dad for permission to marry you. It took me another six months before I asked you to marry me and another year before we actually married, but that day on the roof I knew you were the one for me. I had been single for 13 years, because I knew I wanted to marry someone who had a heart to serve God as I did. You were worth waiting for. And, the fact that you were pretty darned cute didn’t hurt, either.

I always enjoy serving the Lord a little more when you are beside me, whether we’re distributing food to the homeless or cooking meals for people in the church. I like that feeling and look forward to feeling it for another 30 or 40 years with you.

So here I am in Leogane, Haiti, working on our church’s construction team, and I’m sad because my partner is back home. I know you wanted to be here, but the timing just wasn’t right for you this time. I know that God opened all the doors for me to come, but closed them for you. Know that I always want you beside me. I love that you care so much for people like the Haitians; I know you are praying for me this week (that I won’t bash my thumb with a hammer, no doubt). We believe in helping those who can’t help themselves. It’s who we are.

Right now, that’s the Haitians. In a couple of years, another disaster will strike some foreign land, and we’ll talk about going and pray about it. I know we will have many more mission trips to take before we die. Someday, I’m sure you’ll come to a place like this without me, and you’ll miss me in the same way I missed you this week (you better!).

It’s getting late, and it’s time to go to bed, so I will be refreshed and ready to go at 5 a.m. tomorrow. I wish you were here beside me, sweating in this tiny hotel room on this island paradise. But then, if you’d come, you might have fallen in love with one of the little buggars and wanted to adopt one, and you told me not to bring one home.

Love always,

Doug

xoxO

Caption: Bethany, a college student at Indiana Wesleyan, spent two weeks of her summer vacation in Haiti, caring for the children at the orphanage.

God Whispers in My Ear

2010-08-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

Day 4: Wednesday, Aug. 4

Leogane, Haiti

Today, I was feeling sorry for myself in a major way. I suck at measuring (accurately, at least), cutting a straight line with a skill saw and screwing-in screws with a power drill. I was 0-for-3 on the day. I came to Haiti in hopes of gaining more carpentry skills because I feel called to go on foreign mission trips to work in construction. Someday, I’d like to be able to write in a few other skills besides cooking that I offer to a team.

So I went for a short walk to be alone and pray. “Lord, why is it so hard for me to learn how to do these things. I really want to get better. I just don’t have a knack for this sort of thing. This is going to be a really frustrating week for me if you don’t help me.”

I looked out over the empty backyard of the orphanage and stood in silence for a minute, sweating profusely. Then I heard God whisper in my ear: “Plant these people a garden. You’re a farmer.” Then I cried for a minute.

God was right. The fact that I suck as a carpenter doesn’t disappoint God one bit. I grew up on a farm, and even though I left the farm 31 years ago, the farm has never left me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve driven down I-5 to Los Angeles and driven over a thousand bubbles in the middle of the freeway because I’m checking out the crops to my left and to my right. When I began catering in 2004, my secret ambition was to grow a garden for vegetables and herbs, and maybe even raise a few steers, a pig or two, maybe a goat, a roost of chickens or a gaggle of ducks.

I joke that the farm house I grew up in was next door to fields of cantaloupe, wheat and lettuce – and poop, lots of poop because 20,000 head of cattle lived across the road. I can tell you everything about raising cattle, because my dad was a cattleman. As a sophomore in high school, I had the 4-H grand champion steer in the Yuma County Fair. I participated in the Arizona State fair judging cattle. I could guess the weight of a steer within 30 pounds. For three summers in college, I was a hired gun for various farms in California and Arizona. Driving farm implements was a whole lot of fun growing up, but my oldest brother will tell you that I never could put in straight rows for planting. He always had to put the first six rows in. Sort of like my saw skills.

My senior year, my dad the farmer advised me to choose between cattle and wrestling, and I chose wrestling. In college, I gave up wrestling for journalism after I suffered a lifelong injury to my neck. I was a newspaper journalist for 23 years, including seven years working in the food department for the Tri Valley Herald in Pleasanton, California. Here I am writing about farming again.

I digress. Back to Haiti. Whereas my mind doesn’t really see things when I work in construction, the ideas started flowing immediately for a garden. I walked around the roughly one-half acre. I grabbed a handful of dirt and tried to envision what kind of crops would grow here. I looked at all the weeds and rocks and began plotting strategy. Thankfully, it is a fairly flat piece of land.

I walked next door to check out the corn field. I plucked an ear of corn, and the kernals were sweet and tasty. The field was infested with weeds. This farmer apparently didn’t like hoeing weeds.

I made mental notes of the farm equipment we would need. I thought about the irrigation problems we would face and how we would solve them. I made a mental note to ask my middle brother how to get rid of the abundant grass. I made a quick plan to buy some chickens and build a chicken coop so the children would have eggs to eat for protein. Chicken poop is one of the best natural fertilizers. They would need either a cow or a nanny goat for milk. We’d plant fruit and nut trees someday. I asked one of our interpreters if he thought we could get a local farmer to come in and chisel the ground, and he assured me they would help us. I made plans with the cook to go to the local farmers market so I could see the vegetables for sale from the area. (There was a large variety; I counted more than 20 different vegetables and fruits.)

When would we come back? November, to plant the winter crop. Then again in February for the harvest. We’d teach them bee-keeping because bees are needed for pollination. We’d teach them canning so vegetables would be plentiful two months later. Canning is no good unless you have a cool place to store the jars. With no electricity at the orphanage, we would have to build an old-fashioned root cellar a few feet underground to keep them cool. Because it rains so much, it would have to have proper drainage designed. We would need to write the director of the orphanage and ask his permission.

The children would help farm, because they need to learn the responsibility of caring for something that will benefit them. Teaching them to farm will bring alive Jesus’ teachings on the Parables of the Soils. Maybe a few of them will even become farmers.

I started thinking of friends who might join me because they have certain skills our team would need. My friend Jan was the first to come to mind, because she raises a few chickens in her back yard, she keeps bees to make her own honey (the best I’ve ever tasted), and her back yard is one huge garden. My two brothers are my best advisers, and maybe I’ll invite them to come along. I asked Bill, our Haiti team’s resident construction expert, if he could design us a chicken coup, and he said certainly. When I told team members I wanted to come back to plant a garden, a few of them said they wanted to come back, if for no other reason then to see the kids again. The team will need engineers as well as housewives.

Cool.

When God puts a vision on the hearts and minds of one of his followers, he gives them the tools they need, from ideas, to consultants, to helpers, you name it. All of the components won’t come at one time, but they’ll come at just the right time. His time. I love how God works. He uses us for his purposes, if we are willing to humble ourselves and serve him with his plan, not ours. This isn’t about us. It’s about empowering the Haitians to feed themselves. This project may go beyond this little orphanage that sits on 2 acres of this island nation. Every farmer in Haiti could benefit from the irrigation principles we can teach them.

Here’s the funny part. In January, I began a ministry called Feast With the King, whose premise is to use good food to witness to a lost world. One of our tenets is to help churches plant urban gardens and give the proceeds to the homeless. In Livermore, I’m working with a church to plant a garden in its back yard. But as I planned to go to Haiti, at no time did I ever think about planting a garden. I knew I wanted to go, prayed about it and asked God to provide the finances, which he did.

God first had to get me down there before he could put his ultimate plan on my heart. I had to grow a heart for those orphans before I could serve them. God wants his servants to have caring hearts for those they help. He wants our motives to be pure.

The hard part for me was to not go out and find a tractor and chisel and get to work. I wanted to organize the kids and get all the big rocks out of the field. But I knew I had to be patient, pray and wait. Every once in a while, I’d walk over to the ground and just look around and pray. Before I left, I bagged a pound of dirt to have it analyzed back home for nutrients.

When I got home, I wrote up the proposal to my church, Cornerstone Fellowship, and its mission board, which oversees this Haiti project. A few days later, I was invited to participate in a group to plan our follow-up ministry. Since I got back two weeks ago, I started calling people I thought could help me solve problems I foresaw. I shared the vision with a few friends, and some of them sent me notes from research they did on the Internet.

God is present in Haiti, and he is working in the lives of Haitians. He is letting them know every day that he loves them. Someday, one of the ways he will show them he loves them is by providing them with healthy food from their very own garden.

Way cool.

I can’t wait to go back to Haiti again. I want to help plant a garden. I want to see the children again. And I want to share God’s love for those children. God willing.

Caption: Could this be where we one day plant a garden? Stay tuned.

Feminism Has Not Yet Reached Haiti

2010-08-19T12:15:00.000-07:00

Day 3 (Tuesday, Aug. 3)

Leogane, Haiti

The heat and humidity is stifling this morning. My shirt is soaked through within an hour. By 8 a.m., I stopped twice to rest and drink lots of water. Most Haitians go through on a daily basis for half the year. I realize how difficult it is to accomplish anything in the heat of the day.

We finally finished hanging the gate by mid-morning. Just as we finished, some Americans in green construction helmets stopped by for a visit. Two of them were structural engineers who came to help rebuild homes for The Christian Reformed World Relief Committee (www.CRWRC.org). With them were two Haitian men learning carpentry skills in the organization’s nearby trade school. The group leader said the ministry trains Haitians in such skills as carpenters, electricians, plumbers and welders. These are all skills the locals will need in order to rebuild their devastated country.

We asked them to play a joke on our leader, Jonathan, who is a computer tech guy by trade but struggles with construction lingo. We asked them to tell him they were there to inspect their cement beams. It fell for it hook line and sinker.

***

Feminism has not arrived yet in Haiti. Each day, I see the girls go fetch water from the neighborhood well about 100 yards away. One of the little girls grabbed my hand today to come with her and I went, teasing everyone I had just been asked out on a date. Off we went, holding hands. I grabbed the empty bucket from her hand, and she smiled. Perhaps no boy or man had ever performed such a gesture for her.

The well has an old-fashioned hand pump with a lock on it. I don’t know who has the key or if it is ever locked up. Perhaps 100 families draw water to drink and to perform daily necessities around the home, such as cooking and washing clothes. The engineers said the well is dug 150 feet deep in order to provide fresh drinking water year-round, including during non-monsoon season times, roughly half the year.

The little girl had a two-gallon container, which, by my calculations, is about 16 pounds. She insisted on pumping the well herself, but I grabbed the bucket in one hand, her hand in my other when it was full. Together, we walked slowly back to the compound. When we got to the front gate, she promptly grabbed the bucket from me. I let it go, trying to understand this antiquated custom. Throughout the day, the girls would grab one or two water containers from a gallon to 5 galloons and fetch water for the orphanage. We drank strictly bottled water all day, but the children drank from the well. We were told to not let the children drink from our water bottles, because other children would feel left out. Sanitation and health issues also were involved, from Haitian lips to ours.

Many of the children simply want to be held. They either walk up to you and grab your hand or put their arms up, implying for us to pick them up. It is easy to accommodate their always friendly faces. Some of them lost one or both parents in the January 12 earthquake. Some parents simply dropped their children off, because they no longer could care for them. Our main task during our week here is to love these children.

This morning, one of the little boys who has taken to me, Oligas, came to visit me while I was working on the gate. I walked around with him, holding his hand, I picked him up and walked around some more, and I sat down in a chair in the shade and put him in my lap. Oligas speaks no English, and I know about four words in Creole. We make do as best we can. Love knows no bounds. Children feel love even without spoken words. Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he told his followers not to hinder a child’s love for his Father. Our love shows them God’s love for them.

Oligas comes to visit me a couple of times a day. I have grabbed his hands and swung him 360 degrees until we are both dizzy. I have hoisted him onto my shoulders, suddenly making him a giant among his peers. His smile is his way of thanking me. I hold him in my arms and rock him while my co-workers go on without me.

As we watch the work, he grabs my eyeglasses and puts them on. He figures out how to remove my sunglasses from my eyeglasses. He grabs my PGA golf cap and puts it atop his head. He cares not that the gap between my head and his is immense. I start to stop him, then think better of it. He is simply curious about things he has never seen. None of the orphans wear eyeglasses.

A choke cherry tree sits next to the front gate, and the children often come by throughout the day and pick a few red berries to eat. Oligas points for one, then another. Before long, he is loaded with more berries than he can possibly eat. He points again. I tell him “fini.” His continued pointing tells me we are not finished. I pick another. After the third “fini,” my shoulder hurts and we really are finished. He stops asking and eats his prizes, one by one.

Oligas tires of me and walks the 100 yards back to the trees, where the other children are playing with members of our kids’ team. The two giant mango trees is their haven from the sun during the day. It projects an enormous amount of shade. The temperature is at least 10 degrees cooler than the direct sun. Forty people always seem to be hovering under the trees.

Our gate has flaws, and we discuss how to fix them. Finally, we make a decision and finish the job. One of the Haitian men who helped us begins conversing with another in Creole. I joke with Paul that they are talking about how the gate is worse off than before. We laugh. We have earned the right to joke with the locals by being here and working side-by-side with them.

I tease Bill and Paul that my limited carpentry skills limits my good ideas to one a day. My one idea a day is enough affirmation to keep me going. By mid-morning, the gates swing freely without touching the ground, our main goal. And I helped.

***

I should have been fired from my second task, assisting Doug L in the building of a large tool box to house our battery-operated tools, spare parts and children’s knick-knacks. I keep getting pulled away by kids who want to play. After a few “careful” measures and cuts, our box is nowhere near plumb. Fortunately for me, I am given much grace.

Paul stepped in and quickly fixed our boo-boos. I don’t feel bad. As we inspect the situations, we realize that Haitian 2 x 4s are different than American 2 x 4s, which are actually 1 ¾ x 2 ½ inches. It’s a given in America. No one told the Haitians: Theirs are actually 2 x 4s. Unfortunately for us, most of the wood is severely warped, partially from the rain, partially from the humidity.

Something wonderful happened today, and we all could see God working in the lives of the Haitians. Paul, the son in the father-and-son team, began teaching carpentry skills to several of the Haitian men. Before long, all of us were teaching, even me with my limited construction knowledge. I taught painting skills, though I never could quite convey stroking the paintbrush with the grain. Sometimes, the extent of my teaching is to exhort the men. They soon come to understand what “great job” and a high 5 means. Encouragement, like love, is a universal language.

In a two-hour sequence, Paul taught the seven men how to use a skill saw, a hand saw, a power drill, a power screw driver and how to measure. These are skills they will need to get jobs in the changing Haitian economy. These skills can help these men put food on their families’ tables.

Watching the Haitian men learn new skills was worth my failure as a carpenter. Clearly, this was God’s intent all along. That’s how God uses us sometimes. We must let go of our prideful ways and humble ourselves so he can do his work. Throughout the week, Paul and Bill’s teaching became the focal point of our days.

Perhaps these men will one day show other Haitians the same love we gave them.

***

Our team is the only occupants in our hotel. Yesterday, Doug L and I were asked if we wanted to move to an air conditioned room. It took us all of 2 seconds to say yes and begin moving our stuff upstairs.

The hotel is a work in progress. We leave by 6 a.m., and the construction workers are already trickling in to begin their day. When we arrived, only four rooms had air conditioning. By Monday, two more rooms had air conditioning. Jonathan, our leader, tells us the manager promised the rest of the rooms would be air conditioned. We remind him that the manager didn’t say when. Haitian time. The air conditioning never came for our other two rooms. The five remaining people in un-air conditioned rooms sleep in the air conditioned rooms on sleeping pads. John, one of the twins, pops in our room every night around 10 after playing cards with his sister and brother.

The air conditioner has a habit of just pooping out at inopportune times. We soon realize that the city’s power grid has its limits. When the power grid is overwhelmed, it just shuts off, and there goes our air conditioning. The hotel has a small generator that powers the air conditioning much of the time. It is off all day while we are gone. We notice that when we meet in the evenings for Bible study that the air conditioning is shut off to save the owner a few bucks on the diesel bill.

***

Each night, we pray for specific needs. Sometimes it is something simple – yesterday, we prayed for a tent to cover our tools – whereas other days are more complex – such as the health of the children. Today, our tent prayer was answered. I tease Jeannine, who made the request, that the tent was twice as big as we asked. The tent was sitting unused on the other side of the driveway. After two days of looking past it, God opened our eyes to see it, just when we needed it.

Weak bricks, light cement, shoddy workmanship

2010-08-17T17:44:00.001-07:00

Day 2 (Monday, Aug. 2)

Leogane, Haiti

Surprisingly, I slept well in an un-air conditioned room, sharing a double bed with another grown man, with a mosquito net overhead. The rooms smells of fresh paint and plaster. We were awakened at 5:15 a.m. – 3:15 Pacific time. No one grumbled at the early wakeup call; everyone was rarin’ to go and excited to get to the orphanage.

The truck that took us from the airport to our hotel and from our hotel to the orphanage broke down Sunday, and no one was disappointed. The drive from the airport to our hotel took two dirty, stinky, dusty, clutch-slipping hours. Sunday night, the orphanage’s ambulance took us home in two shifts, and we repeated the practice Monday morning. I was in the second group each time, with the kids’ group going first.

I begin a routine the first day that would repeat itself several times a day. First, I put on sun screen on my exposed parts. I wear long pants, wool socks and boots because of my construction work. I decline shorts because of my fear of mosquitoes and malaria. I would rather sweat more, be a little bit more uncomfortable and survive the dreaded bugs. When we arrive at the orphanage, I apply No. 40 Deet over my exposed parts and clothing. I grew accustomed to the smell of sweat, sunscreen and Deet.

We asked the cook for breakfast to be served at 7:30, but it was 7:30 when she finally arrived in the kitchen out back. It was an example of Haitian time, we were told. Things happen in their own time. Haitians don’t wear watches. They get up at sun rise and work till dark, then go to bed. Most Haitians eat a late breakfast and early dinner, with perhaps a light snack around mid-day. We Americans wanted our three squares a day, though. So as not to rub that fact into the noses of the children, we are told to eat lunch only inside the dining room, which is always 10 degrees hotter than it is outdoors. We eat fast.

I was put on the three-man team to rebuild a dilapidated front gate, a double-swinging gate that drags along the ground halfway to being open. I worked with the father-and-son team of Bill (dad) and Paul, both experienced handymen and carpenters. Bill taught his eldest son everything he knows about construction, and his knowledge is fast, we would find out throughout the week. Bill works in a similar capacity with the Lawrence-Livermore Lab, while Paul is a manager with UPS. I was there to learn at the feet of the masters. In other words, I was a gofer.

At 8:30, breakfast was served. At least we were told it was breakfast. I’m a part-time caterer and pretty good cook, and my knowledge of food is fairly extensive. Still, I had no idea what was set before us. It looked like oatmeal that was blended for a couple of minutes. Jeannine, a public school teacher in Pittsburg, told us it was spaghetti.

“No way,” I responded.

Way. She said she saw the cook boil the noodles, then put them through a ricer. I don’t know what she did to make it creamy. It was a bland, soupy glop. I added sugar to make it palatable. One of the kids’ team members, Justin, added peanut butter to the glop and said he liked it. As the week went on, we watched Justin put peanut butter on everything. I made a peanut butter sandwich with white bread, knowing I needed the protein. I brought beef jerky, almonds and energy bars to meet my protein needs.

I did get my precious coffee – strong, black Folgers, with a pinkish sugar that is different than the granulated stuff we see in America. I am an avowed coffee snob and haven’t lowered myself to drink Folgers in perhaps 10 years. There was no cream or milk, but I was happy, nonetheless. I didn’t care; it was caffeine.

We eat our meals in the dining room where a big table sits to your left as you enter. The cook places our food there and covers it with a fleece blanket. Maybe that’s how Haitians keep their meals warm. I do not recall eating any hair during the week. Roughly eight chairs line the outside of the room for us, as well as two coolers that contain our beloved water. Despite our request solely for water, the Haitians buy us Coca Colas, Sprites, grape soda (called raisin on its wrapper), orange soda but never diet sodas. Something tells me that Haitians don’t diet much. A large block of ice and the drinks are brought to us every morning. We never saw an ice cube during the week. The ice company simply stops on a city street and dumps the blocks on the road and sell them, first-come, first serve. Cash only.

Fixing the dual-hinged gates should have taken us no more than 5-6 hours. At 3:30, we finished hinging gate No. 1. Our main problem was the softness of the cement and bricks. When we start, there is a conglomeration of wood shims and nails holding everything together. If you know anything about cement, you know how difficult it is to hammer a nail into cement. That tells you how soft the cement is. 2 x 4s intermingle with 1 x 4s, and the depth of structure is never the same. Instead of 1-inch thick bolts, dozens of 16-penny nails hold the gate to the wall. Baling wire can be seen in two spots. The gates weigh about 200 pounds each.

We use 2 x 4s and anchor the gates with thicker bolts. We replace two of the four hinges with sturdier ones. We have to raise the gates 6 inches so that they don’t drag on the ground when rolled back. (Two days later, we discovered part of the problem; children riding on the gates.)

The flimsy cement is the core of our problem. Looking at the two gates, all we saw was gerry-rigging, something done for an instant solution when the proper tools or parts aren’t at hand, but it isn’t meant to be permanent. As we look at the parts of Haiti while driving around, we routinely see flimsy walls and homes made of brick whose cement has no structure because the locals have used too much water and too little cement.

With normal cement texture, it might take five minutes to go 3 inches; it takes us three. The problem was that the bolts would not seat; instead they easily pulled out of the wall after being hammered in. We decided to drill all the way through the foot-thick pillar, which took us 10 minutes.

Later in the day, one of my team members kicks a mason brick with soft shoes and it split in two. A few more kicks and the brick crumbled into several pieces. As we looked around the compound, we saw the same thing happening. A 7-foot tall brick wall was being constructed around the compound. Every 10 feet is the requisite vertical stabilizing pillar made of cement and rebar. Bill, the expert carpenter, tells us the rebar was put together hastily and was not well done. The pillars are meant to be sunk 3 feet under the ground for a wall that tall, but these stop at the ground. Bill tells us someone could hit the wall with a truck from the other side at 20 miles an hour and the entire wall (40 yards) would fall over en masse.

Brick buildings are supposed to be more stable than wood. Brick buildings are supposed to sway under severe pressure and not collapse. All around the complex, we can see pock marks from what looks like rocks being thrown against it.

Everywhere we drive, we see homes that crumbled in the earthquake. I estimate 1 in 10 survived. Even small, 10-foot x 10-foot homes are rubble. All around our hotel, we can see a dozen new brick structures going up that look like they are being built in the same, flimsy manner. Weak bricks, light cement and shoddy workmanship do not make a good combination.

Finally, we finished the gate project late in the afternoon. Because the original design was 4-inches too wide, the gates do not close completely. We decide not to cut 2 inches off the gate to make it fit snugly. We don’t think the Haitians will notice our gaffe

The heat isn’t so bad, but the humidity is draining. My goal is to drink eight 20-ounce Bleu water bottles, or 160 ounces, daily. My first day, I did not pee once. I get used to my shirt being soaked within 30 minutes of starting work. I keep a handkerchief around my neck and pour water over it throughout the day to cool off. I wear a golf cap to keep the sun off my head.

After one day, I realize how draining the heat can be. Even though I grew up in 110-degree heat in Arizona summers, we always had air conditioned cars, homes and offices to go to periodically. Every afternoon, I went swimming for 2-3 hours. The Haitians have none of those amenities we Americans have grown so accustomed to. Back home, I complain occasionally about our condo’s air conditioning system being busted. Never again.

The Haitians don’t seem to sweat much. Their dark skin equips them better for the horrible heat and humidity. They seem to drink far less water than we do, too.

At night, just before bedtime, I look around at the hills of this city of 150,000 people. During the day, I see remnants of homes (rubble, mostly) everywhere. At night, I see black and only a few, sporadic lights as I turn 360 degrees. There are no traffic lights, no city lights and no home lights, not even kerosene lanterns, to be seen. It is an eary.

Caption: Photo by Paul Phillips

Here we are with half of our completed gate with our two Haitian workers and one of our interpretors, Jean (far right). Most of the ideas came from Bill (to my left).

Of hugs and bon swas

2010-08-16T18:44:00.000-07:00

Day 1 Continued (Sunday, Aug. 1)

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

After our team’s bumpy, two-hour ride in the back of a truck from the airport to our hotel near Leogane, we were promised some time to rest. We had been traveling for 18 hours, including a redeye from San Francisco to Miami, followed by the final leg from Miami to Haiti.

Our hotel is a work in progress. Some rooms are finished, whereas others are being constructed. Five rooms had air conditioning, which we paid extra for, and four of those went to the women in our group. My room had a simple 3-speed air fan, a double bed covered with a simple sheet, a table with two chairs and a tiny bathroom. The entire space was perhaps 150-square feet. We did have a shower – indoors even – with one handle with no H or C to designate the temperature of the water. We assumed it was cold, or at least we hoped it was. After working in 95-degree heat during the day, we wall wanted to take cold showers upon returning to our rooms late in the afternoon. But growing up in Arizona, I can tell you I took many cold showers that were actually warm. The prospect of taking a warm shower after working all day at the orphanage did not appeal to me.

Later that night, my roommate, Doug L, and I would put up a mosquito netting in our room. Opening the window was not an option, because that would let the mosquitoes in. Mosquitoes can only bite you if you let them inside. We decided we would rather sweat than hear mosquitoes buzzing about.

Our team’s R & R ended much sooner than promised. Our leader, Jonathan, a software guy leading the construction team, let us know we would be boarding the truck and driving the 25 minutes to introduce ourselves to the kids. Eating was also on our minds, and dinner was provided for us at the orphanage. We hired the orphanage cook to cook meals for us during Cornerstone Fellowship’s summer mission here.

Our team was now complete: 18 in all, with three staying over from the previous week. We were growing accustomed to looking out the back of the truck at the busy traffic behind us. Most of the Haitians stared at us, and we stared back. Car and truck horns are not your ordinary horn honks; most are loud air horns. We would hear that sound thousands of times during our week here.

Even though Americans have been coming to the region more frequently in the past six months, white people just aren’t a part of the culture. Americans don’t retire to Haiti, as they might so in neighboring Dominican Republic or Belize or Costa Rica in Central America. Haiti does not have a sewer system, a water works, garbage pick-up, and most homes don’t have electricity, so no air conditioning or even a fan. Hence, it is not the kind of place people come to vacation, though one of the cruise lines owns an island near Port-au-Prince. Only two airlines fly into Haiti.

Finally, we sense the truck slowing down for a right-hand turn, meaning we were closer to the orphanage. My heart beat would slow down dramatically once off the rough road.

Once the truck stopped, we sweaty Americans hopped off and were immediately greeted by the friendly children. Most were smiling broadly. We exchanged “bon swas, to introduce ourselves, making us fast friends. Some kids wanted to be picked up and held. Most would quickly grab your hand and just hold it and stare at you. A few kept a safe distance, not knowing what to think of the Americans. We were coached to let the kids determine how friendly to be. Pushing the children for hugs or high fives was not on our agenda.

The Haitian hellos lasted for five minutes. There are 78 children in the orphanage, but not all of them are present. I came in contact with perhaps 50 kids in rapid fashion.

In between greetings, I glanced around at my new settings. Our headquarters would be here, at the girls’ orphanage. The boys’ dorm was a quarter mile away, across the street. Before the January 12 earthquake, the orphanage did not include boys. The population doubled with one swift wind. Many of the children lost one or both parents to the hurricane.

The orphanage (I am choosing not to include the name of the orphanage in order to protect the identity of the children) is not your typical Haitian cinder block building. It is a temporary facility made of plywood walls and a tin roof. A cement floor gives it a sturdy foundation. Three doors connect to the outdoors, but there is only one window. Despite the typical 95-degree heat and high humidity, there are no fans in the room, requiring electricity, which is not hooked up.

The building consists of two dorm rooms; one for the older girls (roughly 12 and up) and one for the younger girls, with roughly 20 bunk beds filling each room. A storage room and dining room (our designated adults only room) are the third and fourth rooms. The entire building is perhaps 400 square feet. The kitchen is out back.

The “outhouse/shower” is 20 yards away and consists of cinder blocks with tarps acting as doors. Knocking, we would find out, consists of pounding your hand on the tarp and waiting. Inside is a hole in the ground. There is no toilet. Sometimes, toilet paper is present, sometimes not. As I peak inside, I secretly hope I will never have to use it.

Across the driveway sit five tents, two of which house local families who lost their homes in the earthquake.

In the distance, a hundred yards away, sit two large mango trees. Before long, children grab our hands and start walking us to the “trees.” We would soon realize that the massive amount of shade the trees offer make it the perfect place for the children to play. Virtually everything the kid team did with the kids is done in close proximity to the trees.

A small herd of goats eat grass and weeds nearby. Each one pants feverishly but cannot go far; each is tied by rope to a big-rooted weed or shrub. During the week, I did not see the goats ever drinking water.

The construction team quickly huddles to review our work schedule. Making cement pillars was primary on our list, as well as repairs to the front gate and various other repairs. If lucky, the church’s 10-foot x 30-foot storage unit would arrive from the Port-au-Prince port after being shipped by sea from San Francisco. The joke was that it took two weeks to ship the storage unit 6,000 miles through the Panama Canal, but it might take 40 days to go the final 20 miles. Such is the way business is done in Haiti, we are told.

Inside the storage unit is 40,000 pounds of equipment, tools and parts we would need to rebuild the orphanage, to California building codes, not Haitian, which don’t exist. That’s why the country virtually collapsed en masse under the stress of a 7.0 magnitude earthquake. The 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco was a 6.9. In Haiti, the bricks and cement structures are not strong enough to survive such a tremor. In our six days there, we would find out how just poorly constructed local homes and businesses are. (Across from our hotel, I can see a half a dozen homes being rebuilt in the same manner as before. Local construction techniques, for the most part, have not changed much.)

We played with the children for a little while longer, and then it was time to return to the hotel for our promised R & R. Even though we are exhausted, we want to stay with the children and the children want us to stay. We need rest for the next day’s work, though.

Seeing the children’s sad faces makes leaving difficult. Our group’s demeanor took on a somber feel on the drive back to the hotel. The children and their dismal circumstances are on our minds.

Caption: My teammate, Dustin, took a picture of the orphanage's toilet with his cell phone. This is a typical outdoor outhouse, with only a hole in the ground for doing No. 1 or No. 2. This is a good day; toilet paper is in the corner.

Devastation and garbage are everywhere

2010-08-12T11:44:00.000-07:00

Day 1 (Sunday, Aug. 1)

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

The severity of the sweltering heat hit me square in the face when I walked off the plane and through the hallway to the terminal when I was hit with a heat blast through a crack. I grew up in Arizona, so 110-degree, dry heat is something I dealt with regularly in the summer for 20 years. This was different; it was muggy and sticky.

After we gathered our 15-member traveling party (three met us there for their second week), we took a bus to customs. I saw my first tent in the distance near the tarmac. Once inside, utter chaos ensued. Everyone on our flight was standing in the same long, sweaty lines. Haitians, naturally, got preference going through the lines. In the distance, I saw hundreds of people trying to track down their hundreds of suitcases, while fending off hustling Haitians trying to earn a buck by taking your suitcase to the customs’ luggage checkout counter. It was a distance of perhaps 30 yards, but with the massive body traffic might take hours.

We spent roughly 30 minutes in line to get our passports stamped (my first ever). The building was your typical metal airport hangar, but with no air conditioning and only a few fans. I estimated the temperature to be 120 degrees F with 70 percent humidity. Sweat constantly dripped from my body. Most Haitians keep a handkerchief in their pockets for wiping their brow and face. I made a quick mental note of that.

Once through the line, we had to swim through some 300 bodies for our 25 pieces of luggage, including 10 extra suitcases with donated children’s clothes and tools and equipment for the construction team. Five different men boldly grabbed my suitcase, trying to “help” me, only to be given a stern “non!” and a wag of my index finger. I can’t fault them for trying to make a buck; they’re at least willing to work. One of my teammates offered a Haitian man $2 for maybe five minutes work and was told, “Not enough,” he said with palm out. “Take it or leave it,” he was told. He took it and went on to his next victim.

The various Haitian baggage handlers bickered constantly over who carried what bag and who should get credit. I know about five words in Creole, but I’m certain I heard a few loud four-letter insults.

The men in our group tried to take charge and protect the women in our group as best we could. We stacked carts four-suitcases deep, and I was in charge of one, with my personal suitcase and a second suitcase filled with children’s clothes on board. I didn’t let it leave my sight. I feared being asked by a customs agent: “Has anyone other than you handled your bag in the airport?” Well, yeah, 13 Haitians handled my bag. Duh.

Next up: getting all 25 bags through customs. The first cart was being handled by John, one of the 17-year-old twins. The woman agent asked him to open a bag, and she went through it for a minute. She waved him through. I was up next. I was motioned to put the top suitcase on the counter in front of her.

In broken English, she asked what was inside. I told her, “Children’s clothes.”

“For who?”

“An orphanage,” I told her.

“All of these bags are for the orphanage?”

I chose my words carefully, not wanting to lie. “Yes, all these suitcases are together,” I said.

She smiled. “You can go. All of you. Thank you for coming.” She waved us all through.

This was not your normal “Thank you for visiting Haiti” travel dialog. She was thanking us for coming to help the orphans. She knew what we were doing in her country.

It was the first miracle that our team experienced in Haiti. We would experience many more in our eight days there. As we walked out the door together, we silently gave thanks for making what could have been a difficult process as easy as possible. God had let us know in our first hour in Haiti that he was with us amid the chaos around us.

In the parking lot, en route to the truck that would haul us to our hotel, we had to dodge a few more aggressive baggage handlers. In the distance, we saw a “Cornerstone” sign and walked to it. For all we knew, this guy punched out the original sign-holder to make a few extra bucks. We met our contact outside, who led us a quarter mile to the parking lot, where our truck awaited us. We had a 10-minute walk through the bumpy, pock-marked parking lot, with hundreds of Haitians shouting at us for change or water. Most of the airport was heavily damaged from the earthquake and was closed.

Four kids loaded our bags onto the truck. Our leader, Jonathan, asked us to contribute $2 to the main handler, who would divvy up the $30 among his people, all for five minutes work. The good news is we didn’t have to pay for parking.

The drive from the airport to our hotel was 20 miles, but it took us nearly two hours in normal traffic. When I say normal, I mean normal for Port-au-Prince. We drove on the main road from the capital city to Leogane, the epicenter of the January 12 earthquake that devastated this tiny Caribbean island. Much of the road was not paved. Most of it was filled with ruts and pock marks that sent drivers from the far right of the road to the far left in a matter of seconds. Each quick swerve brought honks from on-coming traffic and gasps from the 22 passengers in back, including the five Haitians who bravely sat on the back with no handhold or seatbelt.

From the back of the truck, I saw nothing but crumbled buildings (but not torn down), utter devastation, filth, stench from garbage strewn everywhere and hopelessness on the faces off Haitians. Rubble from broken buildings lay on the main road. Blue tarps and tents were everywhere, side-by-side in every vacant lot and park in town.

One-person businesses were everywhere. Men and women of all ages hawked their wares on every street corner. Motor oil, bottled water, sodas, gum, clothes, fresh produce, cooked food, stores on a stand – you name it and it was for sale.

White people in the back of a truck brought stares from the thousands of Haitians we passed by. We quickly learned that a friendly “bonswa!” (good afternoon) brought a smile and return “bonswa” from Haitians. Most of the Haitians we would meet were friendly.

Traffic is heavy on every square foot of the road. It is filled with motorcycles (often taxis) with as many as three people on board, personal cars and pickups, trucks like ours hauling goods and semi-tractor trailers. And public transportation. No, not busses like we see in the United States but little mini-pickups that had metal cages in their bed with benches on both sides. It wasn’t unusual to see both benches crammed and with people on the floor, standing on the back bumper holding on for dear life and even sitting up on top. I counted 21 people in one pickup/bus. Every person had the same empty look on their face. Few vehicles have air conditioning. Haitians shout at each other for every driving transgression, then move on.

The larger your vehicle, the more respect you get when you weave. Thankfully, our driver was an expert at avoiding ruts and weaving through traffic.

I reserved three waters in my suitcase, but it was buried at the bottom of the pile. I was sweating profusely. Katy, one of the women in our group, offered me a drink of cold water. I swallowed my pride and took a drink, a big drink. “Thank you,” I said, humbly. “No problem. If you need more, just say so,” she replied. I said so a few more times on our long, hot drive.

All the way, we prayed. The truck’s transmission was shot and slipping constantly. Every time we stopped, we held our breath as to whether we were going to move again. Each time, we eventually moved. The road was dusty much of the way.

This form of travel was foreign to us foreigners but a common, everyday occurrence for the locals.

It is Sunday and many of the women and girls are wearing pretty dresses, and the men are in coats and ties, walking with Bibles in hand. Church is going on somewhere nearby – or maybe miles away. I could see a few open-air services going on as we drove through town.

Finally, we reach our hotel. Our 18-hour venture is over. Rest was coming. On the gate of our hotel was a picture of a gun with an X through it. Was this an ominous sign? We joked about it, but inside, I was wondering what I had gotten myself into.

Missing Haiti already

2010-08-11T10:34:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between Miami and San Francisco

As I write in my journal, I am 5,000 feet up on American Airlines flight 1817. Looking out my tiny window, I just watched a magnificent, cloudy sunset on the horizon, a gift from God, I think.

We are on the last leg of our 18-hour trek home from Leogane, Haiti to San Francisco, which began with a 4 a.m. (Central time) wakeup call for our departure to the airport. We would land at 10 p.m. Pacific time. Our day included spending four hours in the Port-au-Prince airport and four hours in the Miami airport: eight hours in airports and nearly seven in the air.

For the past few days, I’ve been craving a cheeseburger and fries, Haagen Dazs ice cream and a Starbucks coffee with real, honest-to-goodness cream from a cow. I managed to nail three out of four at Miami airport diner with three of my mates. No time to search for ice cream, though.

After dinner, I practically sprinted to the Starbucks some 200 yards away from our gate in order to get back to board While waiting in line for several minutes, I felt like preying on people’s good nature by imploring “I just spent a week in Haiti helping rebuild an orphanage, and I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee all week. My flight’s about to take off; will someone PLEASE give me cuts in line?” Alas, our group’s study for the week was on humility, and I just couldn’t do it.

I am exhausted, but I cannot sleep. My brain is going a hundred miles per hour, going over my to do list when I get home. I close my eyes, but my mind keeps wandering back to Haiti. No, not the 95-degree, 95-percent humidity work days. Not the food. Not the maddening traffic. Not the airport. The people.

There are so many writing projects I want to tackle. There are so many memories to remember. Some make me laugh, some make me cry, some make me think, some make me angry, some make me pray.

At every stage of our long journey today, my teammates and I swap stories, mostly the funny ones. It helps to keep the memories flowing. They all know I plan on writing this blog about our mission trip to the orphanage in Leogane, Haiti. As one of them, Dustin, waited in line for the cramped airline bathroom, I told him, “Don’t think about the bathroom at the orphanage.” We both laughed.

“Did you get a picture of the bathroom?” he asked. I did not. “I did,” he smiled. “You gotta write about the bathroom.”

“I’m going to write about Rebecca,” I replied. We both laughed at the inside joke. Readers will just have to wait for that tale.

Then he returned to his seat, and I to my journal. Note to self: Write about orphanage toilet.

Mostly, I can’t stop thinking about the children. Their faces are embedded on my mind. I can’t forget them. I want to tell their story, because they deserve to be seen and heard. Is Oligas, my little buddy (think Gilligan and Skipper), OK? Is he playing by the mango tree? Is he thinking of me? Are his eyes welling up, too? Is he wondering if he’ll ever see that white man with the great beard and tan golf cap again? I wonder, too.

The most important lesson we learned this week came courtesy of Jeanine, one of our kid leaders. As we get back to our normal, everyday lives, we will tell others about what we did at the orphanage. I’ve chatted up the experience with my two seatmates, two women from the Bay Area returning from a short vacation. People have the same response: How neat that you could go and do that for the children.

The focus is on us and what we did. The truth is, everything we did last week was God’s doing, and Jeanine challenged us to give God the credit. He orchestrated everything we did so that people could see his glory. We were there to let those 78 children and 10 employees about God’s love and provision.

God laid it on all 18 of our hearts to go to Haiti when the call came out this spring. He opened the door for us to get time off from work and away from our families. He provided the $1,200 for each of us to go, in unique and different ways. None of us received scholarships to go. God gave us ideas to share, strengthen and to persevere in the blazing tropical climate. He gave us strength to work and even when we didn’t sleep more than three hours a night. He gave each of us different skills, from 17-year-old twins John and Brian to nearly retired Bill. Some were great with kids, some were whizzes with a saw in hand.

Me? I’m just so-so with kids, though I was aces with Oligas. Truthfully, I stink as a carpenter, though I was a pretty good at gophering. I gave lots of encouragement to those around me. Though I’m a caterer, I did not cook a single meal down there.

My gift is telling stories and for the next 2-3 weeks, I’ll be telling our stories, one by one.

I tell these stories so that I won’t forget them. I tell them so that I won’t forget Oligas and his buddies. I tell their stories in order to inspire others to pray for them and perhaps one day go down there themselves.

What I want to share with readers is that God hasn’t forgotten the Haitian people, in the midst of the worst catastrophe in that nation’s sordid history. God never stopped loving those children, many of whom were buried in the January 12 earthquake. I want people to know that God is large and in charge in Haiti. He doesn’t do that by grabbing big headlines in the media. He does it one by one in the hearts of Haitians.

In a few hours, I will finally put my head on my pillow in my own comfortable bed. I will return to my comfortable Western life. I will drink my coffee with cream every morning. When I want a Haagen Dazs, I can drive the four blocks to the store and purchase a container. I don’t deserve it. Oligas and the other orphans fell asleep hours ago, when darkness, struck, in the same hot, perspiring way they do every day.

Leaving My Comforts Behind

2010-07-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

Most of my days are filled with routines, some fun, some trivial and some difficult. Most days, I arise from my comfortable bed between 5:30 and 6 a.m. I wake up to a quiet house with a cool breeze blowing through open windows of our two-story condominium. I take a hot shower to help loosen up a body that feels the aches and pains of being 51, having had two discs fused in my neck in 1995, who has chronic bursitis in one shoulder and arthritis in most of my joints.

After I get out of the shower, I make my morning coffee by grinding fine Colombian beans, listening to it brew in my gourmet coffee maker, then add the requisite half-half – never the powdered cream or non-dairy creamer and milk only when my preferred creamer is empty.

I read the Bible near first light, pray, and read the morning newspaper – all over a steaming hot cup of coffee. As I read, a heating pad warmed in the microwave oven wraps around my neck or rests on my shoulder. Half an hour later, ice sits on the same spot if I am in pain.

Three weeks ago, I injured my right shoulder, my good one, by lifting a propane tank after competing in a chili cook-off at my church. Since then, I’ve been managing the pain through stretching, light lifting, oodles of Ibuprofen, heat and ice and prayer – something I’ve done more days than not since age 21 – and lots of prayer. If my shoulder doesn’t get better by Monday, I may not be able to fulfill my desire to work on reconstructing an orphanage in Leogane, Haiti. My team leaves tomorrow night and will arrive in Leogane sometime early Sunday afternoon in sweltering heat and humidity.

When I am in Leogane, all my items of comfort will be left behind. My bed may not be comfortable. The hotel we are staying in may or may not have air conditioning to battle the low 80s temperature we will face most nights during our stay. I will be working in 95-degree heat and 95-percent humidity during the day, so having air conditioning then is a moot point.

According to the Starbucks locater map, there are no franchises in Leogane. Drinking black coffee or coffee with the powdered cream is a very reasonable possibility. Although I brought one-time use ice and heat packs, they are meant for emergencies, such as hurricanes and earthquakes. Or falling off a roof. I will continue to take 600 mg of Ibuprofen several times a day until I return from Haiti.

At least for me, pain always seems to be a pre-curser to going on short-term mission trips. Five years ago, when I went to Hackberry, La., severe back pain nearly forced me to cancel my trip. Then, the day before we were to leave, the pain miraculously disappeared and I was able to roof houses every day and carry heavy shingles up ladders to roofs. Amazing what prayer and God can do when you choose to serve God in some God-forsaken place.

I have asked friends to pray for my shoulder so that I can work hard on my trip. I come from Midwestern farm stock and a family with a strong work ethic. Not working hard is inconceivable. Haiti is not a vacation for me; it is work. In the past three weeks, I have gone from not being able to raise my right arm at all, to being able to rotate it fully with very little pain. That in itself is a miracle.

What I learn from times like this is that my life is totally in God’s hands. For three weeks, I have prayed for a complete healing of my shoulder, knowing full well that if God chooses not to heal me I may be switched to the team playing with and loving the 80-some orphans in our care. Maybe God has something to teach me in that area. I don’t know.

I do know that I believe God has called me to lead single men, remarried men and teenage boys to do construction on the mission field, so I have signed up to do construction in Leogane. I need to learn carpentry skills in order to lead men. God does not simply choose a man to lead and put him into circumstances with which he can’t lead. Didn’t David first slay a lion and a bear before facing Goliath on a one-on-one duel on the battlefield? When I went to Louisiana five years ago, I went with no roofing skills to speak of the first time, but left with the ability to roof a house three months later on my own, when I was a group leader. God prepared me.

Tomorrow, it would not surprise me to wake up with absolutely no pain in my shoulder. Or maybe Sunday, after sitting scrunched up on an airplane for eight hours, I’ll exit the plane, backpack slung over my shoulder and pulling my travel suitcase and realize something: the pain in my shoulder is gone.

We shall see. One never quite knows what to expect on mission trips. We go leaving our bodies in the able hands of the one who created us, a God who is loving and compassionate. Beyond the construction goals, we go down to Haiti to simply love on people who deeply need to feel love.

God willing, he will provide real cream from a cow for my coffee on Monday morning. Or at least milk -- but nonfat is out!

To see where Leogane is located, search this link (it's just east of Port-au-Prince):

http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&q=haiti+map&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Haiti&gl=us&ei=OYRTTKPRPI34swP8oInaAg&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CCMQ8gEwAA

Memorizing Important Creole Phrases

2010-07-29T12:39:00.000-07:00

Countdown: 2 days until I leave for Leogane, Haiti, where I will spend eight days helping my church rebuild an orphanage. During the day this week, I try to work and get things done, but it’s pretty hard: Haiti is on my mind.

In the past few days, I’m finishing up the final details before I depart with my team to Haiti. I am limited to a carry-on suitcase and backpack. I also will be checking-in a bag filled either with equipment for the mission or clothes for the children.

A carry-on, by definition of the airlines, must fit in the overhead storage compartments. I’m looking at the list of things that my church, Cornerstone Fellowship in Livermore, California, told me to bring, and I need a bigger suitcase. Checking in a second bag involves cash, which I don’t have to donate to American Airlines.

Mind you, these items aren’t tourist stuff; they are things I need to work on the construction project. My suitcase will have a pair of swim trunks, but only because the ocean is nearby and just in case. The hotel we are staying in does not have a spa to be soaking in at night when we’re done working. The hotel doesn’t have a Web site to tell us about their amenities, but we’re told that not all rooms have air conditioning. I may or may not need mosquito netting. This is Haiti.

So I’ll be taking work boots, long pants, despite the 95-degree and 95 percent-humidity conditions, work gloves, safety glasses, a hat to shield my head from the burning sun, wool socks I purchased just for Haiti, and shirts that absorb the sweat better. I will have to tuck my shirt in, because that’s how those nasty mosquitoes reach your chest and back. We were told the mosquitoes are big enough to ride in some cases. If I’m lucky, the ones who pick me will be in training. Just in case, I have pocket Deet, 18 for the mosquitoes in training and 40 for larger fellows.

Then there are the things I’ll need for the redeye flight to Miami, the layover, and the final leg to Port-au-Prince. I’ll need a sleeping pill for the flight, water for the flight, a few snacks, and reading materials. I’m dressing in shorts for when I land in Haiti and the 95-95. I want to be cool when I land. Is it possible to stuff a cheeseburger into an already crammed backpack?

And then there is the list of Creole phrases given to us. I have yet to memorize any of the terms. A few of them are easy, because there is a similarity to French. “Bonjou” is “good morning,” “Bonswa” is “good afternoon” or “good evening.” “Wi” is “yes” and “non” is “no.”

Then there are the important terms. “Manje” means “to eat.” Maybe I should learn “Be careful of what you eat.” Naturally, I will remember “kwit-manje” because it means “to cook.” “Bwe” is “to drink.” “Mwengendjare,” means “I have diarrhea.” “Mwen anvi vonmi” means “I feel nauseated.” “Quick, where’s the nearest toilet” is not listed on the sheet. “Souple, ban mwen Kaopectate” means “Give me Kaopectate.” “Prese prese!” (“Hurry.”)

I looked, but I don’t see the phrase, “Jesus loves you.” I must find that out.

Now that I’m thinking about it, that’s my prayer request. Pray that I’ll never have to say “souple, ban mwen Kaopectate” while I’m in Haiti. If I never use that term, I’ll be happy.

At our team meeting last week, someone suggested playing Charades, because we may be playing a form of charades when we get down there and try to communicate with Haitians, who speak French and Creole. Do you think Haitians know what the pee-pee dance means? If I’m holding my stomach, and writhing in pain, do you think they’ll figure out what’s going on? I think I can work agony on my face.

I think I’ll keep my list of Creole phrases in my back pocket.

For more photos from Rose Duncan in Haiti, go to this link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=114318335267188529411&target=ALBUM&id=5496243092348559089&authkey=Gv1sRgCJC-75K9yMWoPg&invite=CKHw5egM&feat=email

Hearing the Call to Go to Haiti

2010-07-28T17:08:00.000-07:00

In the spring, after a massive earthquake devastated Haiti on January 12, my church, Cornerstone Fellowship in Livermore, California, talked about going down to help rebuild an orphanage we had come into contact with. On April 25, the church organized an informational meeting, and some 300 people filled our gymnasium. I was one of them.

Our mission was simple: “to lift up fellow Christians through relationships as we build, disciple, care for orphans and treat urgent medical issues.” Too, “we wanted to lift up the Haitian church” through the process. I wanted to go in the worst way and work on the construction team, one of four projects being undertaken. I heard God calling. Then I heard the cost: $1,200. Maybe not.

The construction team, or Nehemiah, would be in Leogane, about 20 miles (or 4 hours) east of Port-au-Prince. During the summer, the goal was to help rebuild an orphanage, a church and a medical clinic, as well as show the locals how to build 10-foot x 10-foot modular homes. Everything would be built to California code, not Haitian code, which is what caused the mess in the first place, from mostly watered-down cement that lacked supportive rebar.

That first meeting, they made it sound so warm and fuzzy. We would be staying in a hotel with no air conditioning (95 degrees, 95 percent humidity days is typical in summer). Mosquitoes big enough to ride. I’d need to get my first passport (something that had stopped me from previous mission trips). And shots, lots of shots, for such things as tetanus, hepatitis A and B, malaria, rabbies and pills for diarrhea. Fun times, this Haitian mission trip. On top of that, meals might be sporadic, so we were warned to bring energy bars that didn’t melt, beef jerky, nuts and a few extra bottles of water to tide us over. Just in case.

The Nehemiah team would be partnered with the Barnabas team, designated to work with the orphans, which were 30 at the time of the earthquake but now number closer to 80. What were once all girls are now a mix of boys and girls. That team was going down to do nothing but love on those kids who had lost one or both parents in the earthquake, or their parents gave them up because they no longer could feed them.

Just love them, as Jesus would love them. And build walls as strong as the fortified ones Nehemiah built around his beloved Jerusalem. (The other two teams were medical and discipleship in a tent city in another part of the country.)

A month ago, I sent out more than 60 letters and e-mails asking for financial and prayer support. Last week, I got a note from the church saying my trip had been funded, as it had to be because I knew I didn’t have anything to contribute.

But God knew how much money I had. He put me in the path of many friends who admired my courage for going. Truth is, many of those donors want to go but can’t for various reasons. Others can’t afford to help me and my teammates financially, but they’re willing to pray. All three are needed to make missions trips succeed.

This trip isn’t just about those orphans, either. So many short-term missionaries talk about clearly seeing God and hearing his voice in a ways they never had. I have friends who have given up the corporate world to serve God full-time because they heard God calling them in the field. I hear God telling me to take other men to foreign countries to build things, but I don’t have any carpentry skills to speak of, so I need a few trips to build those skills. Helps to have a little bit of credibility to your calling.

On Saturday night, my 17-member team meets in Pleasanton to pick up tools and donated clothes to load in an extra suit case that each member takes along with him (two carry-on and one check-in, filled with stuff to leave down there). Then we head to San Francisco International Airport to the redeye to Miami and then Port-au-Prince on Sunday.

Monday morning, the real “fun,” begins. I can’t wait to see what God has in store for my teammates and me.

Here’s how you can pray for me and my team members:

A safe journey to and from, especially while traveling the roads of Haiti, which are treacherous at best (hence, the four-hour, 20-mile trip).

That none of us gets sick from the food or water.

That none of us contract malaria from the massive mosquito population.

That the orphan team truly be able to love those children and let them see the love of Christ through us.

That we be able to build relationships with potential Haitian contractors. Part of our mission is to leave worthy contractors down there so that the Haitians can rebuild their own country.

That we help bring healing to a small part of a nation that badly needs healing.

And, for me, pray for healing in my right shoulder, which I threw out a couple of weeks ago carrying a propane tank at the chili cook-off I won. I know how to manage pain well, and I'm doing everything I can to reduce the pain and swelling.

Thanks again for your support. I’ll blog again when I return August 8.

For a look at photos from Rose Duncan with Cornerstone's Haiti mission, go this link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=114318335267188529411&target=ALBUM&id=5496243092348559089&authkey=Gv1sRgCJC-75K9yMWoPg&invite=CKHw5egM&feat=email

Memorials Should Be a Celebration of Life

2010-07-27T12:46:00.000-07:00

Patricia Maselli died on July 4 at the age of 53, leaving behind two adult children and 10 grandchildren. One of the things I appreciated hearing at her memorial yesterday was how much she was loved by her family. They talked about her living life to the fullest. “Spontaneous adventures” were mentioned by several people. One after another came up and shared funny stories about her, including several about her penchant for fast cars and fishing.

I laughed quietly when her son told a story about her meeting her dad as a teenager by racing and beating him on the streets of Fremont. I helped her purchase a car at an auction a few years ago, and she bought the one car I didn’t think she should buy. It was a cute, little supped-up Acura Integra that looked like a hot-rodder. Patricia lost me at the first light. Sadly for her, a few minutes later, I found her, pulled over on the freeway, her new purchase steaming from under the hood because of overheating.

Now it made sense why she wanted a fast car.

I knew Patricia from our serving together in Focus Singles Ministry in Livermore,California, for several years. I helped her move to her last residence a few years ago. The Patricia I knew lived a life full of life struggles and far too much physical pain. I did not know her as well as I thought.

Several people, including her pastor of several years at a church in nearby Fremont, spoke of Patricia’s boundless faith. It had the same energy she had for life. She lived her faith by serving others. With Focus, whatever needed done, Patricia would jump into with zeal. Like most single adults, she liked getting gussied up for our various events and kicking up her heals a little. She also served in Cornerstone’s women’s ministry.

After she died, I volunteered to do the food for her service. Memorials and funerals are particularly hard for single adults because there is no spouse to plan everything. In Patricia’s case, her children and extended family were around to help out where possible, but family shouldn't slave away on such a day.

I don’t have any experience in providing food for memorials. At my dad’s memorial five years ago, several women from his church provided a simple lunch, sort of a faux potluck. Having food around allows friends and family to mingle and reminisce after the service for a while. People need to process death by sharing stories with others. It’s part of the healing with need. How did this person’s life impact us, good or bad?

In biblical times, funerals lasted for several days, and food was an essential element of the gathering. When people died, their lives were celebrated. Food brings people together at a time when sharing is important to our psyches. Without the food, too many people would just walk out the door and put that person’s life behind them. God wants us to remember them, because that’s what grieving means. Funerals and memorials should bring tears and laughter together. If it’s just one or the other, something is missing.

Yesterday was a learning process for me on two accounts. I learned that there was more to Patricia’s life than what I knew, and I learned how to prepare food for 100 people who want to keep talking about a friend or family member’s life. Here are a few thoughts:

If money is an object, ask friends and family members to prepare a few dishes, potluck style. Fill an igloo full of ice and make lemonade. Set up a coffee pot and have on hand the various condiments. Use decaf for such events because no one needs more caffeine in the afternoon. Mini-waters were on hand.
Finger foods are an essential part of a memorial, because people want to walk around and talk with friends and family members. Think appetizers, vegetables, fruit, a few proteins, cheese and crackers and a multiple dessert items.
For $300, you can provide a fine spread for mourners that can bridge lunch and dinner. I had three helpers get the food and drinks ready. One did the drinks, two helped me prepare food and one helped me clean up. We spent three hours prepping and one hour cleaning up.
Here are a few items we did yesterday: cheese, salami and crackers; artichoke dip; nuts; various veggies with Ranch dressing; cold shrimp and spicy dip; finger sandwiches made with turkey and cheese; grapes; brownies and biscotti.

The best part was when things started winding down. We asked the family if we could send the left-over food with them, and they were elated. They were all going to one of their houses to continue reminiscing. When they got there, the abundance of food we gave them took the worry of cooking away from them for the evening. That gave them all more time to laugh and cry together as they remembered Patricia Maselli, who was laughing and crying along with them … from heaven above.

These Ribs Are Smokin' Hot

2010-07-23T13:22:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, my crew and I went all out on a barbecue dinner for 180 people. I had someone on site at 4 a.m., stoking the fire. At 6, I arrived, and the wood was a beautiful gray charcoal at a temperature of about 200-225 F – perfect for smoking. By 7, the ribs were smokin’ hot. For the next 10 hours, we smoked the baby back ribs (pork) and used a wet mop combination of apple cider vinegar and lime juice to keep the ribs moist and juicy.

The night before, I put my magic spice rub on 40 racks of ribs, which was all we could fit in the smoker, then let them marinate for 12 hours. The key for cooking ribs is low (temperature) and slow (cooking time).

The people’s reviews that night were all positive. That night, I let people put on barbecue sauce on the dry ribs. Since then, I’ve changed my method to putting sauce on the last 15 minutes – in a pan if I’m doing them on my grill at home. That lets the sauce thicken and crunch up a bit.

If you’re doing ribs on your grill at home, you can do them in four hours at 250 degrees F. I barbecued three racks earlier in the week, and the racks easily split apart after 3 ½ hours, which is what I look for. Grab a rack on one end and twist; if they break apart, they’re done. Any longer than that, and they dry out, unless you’re mopping those puppies every 30 minutes or so. You can also wrap them in tin foil to keep them moist.

Here’s a few rib tips:

When you find a good producer of ribs, buy them at the same place every time. I think Costco produces really quality ribs, lean and meaty. Packages come with three racks for between $20 and $25, depending on the weight. That will comfortably feed 10-12 people 3-5 ribs each. Some people like pork (baby backs are my favorite), some like spare ribs, some like beef (Texas, not my favorite). Know what you like and stick with it.

When grilling (direct heat), don’t keep the ribs over the flame too long; they’ll blacken quickly, as mine did this week. Start with the meaty side down first (fat-side down first causes flare-ups), brown them a little (15-20 minutes), then flip (another 15-20 minutes). If they cook too fast, remove them from the heat to a cooler spot on the grill but keep the lid down.

Cooking ribs in the oven works just fine; you just won’t have the smoke ring that some people like. You can always add liquid smoke to your wet mop for added smokiness.

If you’re using a smoker, keep track of the temperature. Keep adding wood every hour or so, so that the wood is never blazing, which raises the temperature too high. It takes a little practice to handle the fire properly on a smoker, which uses indirect heat. Some barbecue chefs use charcoal briquets to light the wood. Smoke is what gives barbecue a grayish/purplish ring around the meat, which is a good thing.

I’m a big believer in putting dry rubs on meats and letting them sit for 8-12 hours. I don’t readily share my exact spice rub mixture, but I do tell people the secret: salt and pepper over night. If you look at champion barbecue chefs’ recipes, they all have some sort of mixture of red chili powder (perhaps even a little cayenne), salt, pepper, onion powder and garlic powder. Some chefs mix in cumin or paprika, or even a little sweetness with either brown sugar or molasses. Have fun. I have a few spices I always put in, but sometimes I play around a little.

Don’t put on barbecue sauce until the very end, 15-20 minutes. If there’s any sugar or tomato in the sauce, it will crystallize quickly and prematurely blacken the meat. Some people like sweet sauces, whereas others like spicy. You pick.

If you’re worried about your meat drying out, keep a wet mop on hand. I don’t really have a wet mop; I use a pastry brush and dabble on a little vinegar or line juice every 30 minutes.

When you read up on all the so-called experts, there’s a half a dozen things everyone does the same, and a dozen more that each chef swears is the best method. I’ve done ribs 10 different ways, and they all tasted pretty good. I’ve tasted one of my buddies’ ribs that aren’t marinated overnight, and they’re fantastic.

The next time you have a hankering for ribs, you can always order out, but the three racks I made earlier this week, plus potato salad, cole slaw and corn bread cost about $30 total to feed four that night, plus leftovers for days. At a restaurant, it would cost twice that.

This is a perfect meal to invite friends or neighbors over for a casual meal. Married couples can split up the cooking duties. If you’re single, make it a potluck where everyone brings a classic barbecue side dish.

A meal always tastes better when shared with others.

For my Barbecue Baby Back Ribs recipe, go to my Web site at http://www.dougmeadweb.com

Follow me on Twitter at DougMeadFood at http://www.twitter.com.

Feeding the Homeless: Watching God Work

2010-07-21T13:17:00.000-07:00

Monday was a rough day for me. I was scheduled to cook a meal to the homeless for Serve the City at Vineyard Church in Livermore, California, meaning I’m in the Cornerstone Fellowship kitchen by 1 p.m. Last week, a fellow caterer asked me if I could work for him Monday from 6 a.m. to noon. I needed the money, so I said yes.

Suddenly, Monday was a 13-hour back-breaker, two days after a 12-hour day in the kitchen for Dinner for Six at Cornerstone. On top of that, I had done a poor job of recruiting volunteers for Serve the City, so I would be preparing a meal for 80 people by myself. Fortunately for me, I organize my time well in the kitchen, and I know exactly what needs to be done. I needed to have the food cooked by 4 p.m. and ready to transport by 4:15 for a 4:30 arrival at the church. Food would be served at 5.

I started volunteering with Serve the City in the spring, working with Sherry Leal, who coordinates the STC homeless meals. Sherry’s job is to recruit chefs, kitchen volunteers and to collect food donations. Her weekly budget is $150, and the group has fed as many as 150 people. During summers, the numbers go down because of the heat. Sherry and I often talk about the Loaves and Fishes affect of feeding the homeless. It is a miracle to feed 150 people for $1 apiece, but it happens every week. Churches that need a boost in faith need to consider feeding the homeless, because your faith increases when you see God’s provision over and over.

After Dinner for Six, I usually have leftovers, which go directly to Serve the City. Because I count “poorly,” the amount of food the church donates is pretty hefty some months. Perhaps, someday, God will give me the gift of counting, but until then we’re stuck with the donations.

On Sundays after D46, Sherry and I always talk about what’s available, from both ends. The plan is to cook a main entrée, often in casserole form, a vegetables, salad, bread, dessert and punch. Someone else handles dessert and mixing the punch. Thriftiness and a hardy, warm meal is the objective.

It was Mother Teresa who said, “When a poor person dies of hunger, it has not happened because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give the person what he or she needed.” It’s hard to hear the gospel when someone’s stomach is growling from hunger.”

My plan on Monday was to make beef enchilada casserole with ranch beans, because I knew we would have extra hamburger from Saturday night. Then, Sherry added two large turkey breasts, which would feed perhaps 50 people. I had three pans of what I thought were cole slaw left over from Saturday, but it turns out it was macaroni salad. Macaroni salad may be popular in Hawaii, but not so much in Mexico.

By 2 o’clock, I had four pots bubbling, two turkey breasts roasting in the oven, and I was sweating bullets. It was doubtful, I’d be ready by 4. I needed a little help. Next door to the kitchen is Parchments, the church’s coffee shop. I peaked in and saw bored employees, so I asked the manager, Chuck Highlund, if I could borrow one of them for 10 minutes to cut up corn tortillas for the enchilada casserole. His answer was “absolutely.” Miracle No. 1.

Miracle No. 2 was getting a church van to cart the food in cambers (food warmers) to Vineyard. I called Nancy de Matallana, the STC coordinator, and she finagled me a van.

Miracle No. 3 showed up at 3 p.m. in Dave Matas, the pastor of single adults at Cornerstone, who had just returned from a vacation in Oregon. We chatted for a while about his family vacation, then I asked him if he had 30 minutes to help me finish the enchilada casserole in order to get them in the oven for 20 minutes to melt the cheese and get the dish to above 140 degrees.

Miracle No. 4 came from the Parchments people washing my dishes while I took the food over to feed the hungry and needy. When I returned at 6, everything was washed. What a treat.

Cooking large meals comes down to timing and coordination. On my drive to church, I was praying for a miracle. I confessed to God that I had done a poor job of recruiting and planning, and asked God to cover my mistakes.

Over the years, I’ve cooked for dozens of meals such as Serve the City provides. Every single time, I am blessed to see God’s hand at work in ways I couldn’t have imagined before the day started. God needs his people to act on his behalf, so that he can do miracles in the hearts of those coming for help and food.

God needs you to help serve the lost. Today, commit to get connected to a food ministry that feeds the needy. Once a month is all God wants. Volunteering to serve others depens our faith in God, because we see God in action when our efforts aren’t enough.

If you have a story to share about working with a group such as Serve the City, email me and tell me your story in 100 words or less, and perhaps one day your story will appear in Food Parables.