From Overwhelmed to Overjoyed

Like most folk in the circles I run in, Haiti has called to our hearts to come to the aid and comfort of the wounded and grieving.  But requests for pastors to rush to the scene with a Bible and a sermon is nil as compared to the urgent need for rescue workers, medical teams, water consultants, and construction workers.  Sending money does little to assuage the Calling Voice, but it seems all we can and should do at this point. 

Except maybe to make a long-term commitment to let the Voice infect us more fully, so that, as today, when local business news and weather squeeze Haiti off the front page of the newspaper, the infection of compassion affects our priorities and prayers.

A few weeks before the earthquake Highland was approached by a member of Louisville’s Jewish community about partnership work in Haiti.  At the time I gave it a number and told it to wait in line with the many other urgent needs in the world.  The earthquake shook that opportunity to the front of the line.

But the line of genuine, urgent need behind Haiti is long:  How to care for troubled youth in our city (the focus of this year’s CLOUT action).  A flood in Morocco that wiped out meager farms of destitute folk we were just beginning to connect with through our partnership there.  The steady stream of real human need that walk through the doors for Friday Church and Sunday worship.  A desperate cry for Louisville churches to sponsor the constant, growing influx of refugees who appear at our airport with nothing but hope and a smile.  The faces I’ll see this afternoon as I substitute in on the food line at Salvation Army.  The story behind the public school student Terri reads with each week.

Sometimes, ok often, I’m overwhelmed.  My prayer is that God transform “overwhelmed” to “overjoyed” at the honor of being a small piece of God’s Love made flesh.  Along the way, stories like this one from a doctor in Haiti feel like messages to me straight from God.  Maybe they are.

One evening about eight days after the earthquake, I stopped at the bedside of an elderly woman.
She had been badly injured with lots of scrapes and bruises. Her right foot had been crushed, but had been well cared for and she had not required surgery. She had a large bandage on her foot and another covering a laceration on her scalp. She was clearly in a lot of pain.
At that point, the hospital still had very limited post-operative pain medications beyond Tylenol and ibuprofen, and she had not been to surgery. Many patients who required amputation could not be given narcotics post-operatively until 10 to 12 days after the earthquake. 

The woman and I spoke for a moment, me offering a little comfort and getting a lot in return; a little break from the one long day that, for me, had lasted five days or so already. For her it had been more than a week.
At least now she was sheltered in a tent and on a bed, with great nursing and medical care.
I held her face and spoke softly. She held mine as we spoke quietly. She then pulled me close and looked at me straight in the eye. We had a moment I will never forget. She said simply, strongly, almost in a whisper: "We're alive. We're alive. We're alive."
She did not cry. I did, with gratitude for her kindness and tremendous sadness for all that had happened. My heart slowed and calmed. All I could think to say was to repeat: "We are alive."

We can continue.

(The story by Evan Lyon from which this was lifted is here.)