The Latest From Haiti

It's been a while since our last post. Since then, we've been extremely busy. In the past month, we've been able to construction about 200 shelters and have worked out the kinks in the system to eventually build a total of about 1000 shelters by the end of July. With the season's first tropical storms now churning in the Caribbean, this is surely good news for those Haitians still living in tents and bedsheet shelters. Also, Alli has been coordinating a team of Korean doctors and dentists now for about a month and they've finally arrived! They have been seeing hundreds of Haitians in need of basic medical care and dental work in the mountain villages south of Port au Prince. Tonight is there last night and Allison is up there now with the team as I right this post. We'll be finishing up our time here in Haiti and leaving on June 30th for some much needed R & R. I've posted some videos below. Enjoy!

The Clinic

Part of what I (Allison) is doing in Haiti is volunteering in an outdoor physical therapy clinic that is affiliated with a local hospital. A P.T. named Donna came down to Haiti in April and saw a need to start an outpatient physical therapy clinic for post-earthquake injured patients. Physical therapy pretty much does not exist in Haiti. There are no accredited training programs. So, people don't have follow up care after injuries or surgeries. It has been sad to see problems that patients have just from lack of education about how the body works. For example, somewhere, somehow, a lady I'm seeing was told that after her femur (thigh bone) was competely broken in the earthquake and she had some pins put in, she should keep her foot turned out to the side. Because she had no reason not to trust this information, for the past 4 months she has kept her foot turned out to the side 90 degrees, and now is so tight in that position that she cannot turn her foot back in to walk normally. It's just very sad. Volunteer physical therapists from the states rotate in every 2 weeks or so. It has been a very interesting experience. We have seen alot of patients with crush injuries, amputations and anything else you can think of..including a guy who came in today with deep cuts in his arm from being in a knife fight earlier this morning. Thank goodness we had a doctor present who was able to get him fixed up. It has been really amazing to use the skills the Lord has given me to serve Him. I always knew when I was in P.T. school that I probably would not lead the normal P.T. life, working in a clinic for the rest of my life. It has been so amazing to see the journey the Lord has taken me on in regards to my skills as a physical therapist and how He is allowing me to use my gifts to life out scripture by serving the poor, orphaned, widowed and suffering. I wanted to post some pictures of the clinic and some of our patients.

The view from the sidelines...

You've, doubtless, heard me say something in the past about how the sense of smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. That's never more true for those hot, humid Georgia summers. Alli and I were talking the other day about the differences in "hot" for Haiti and Georgia. One thing, we decided, was that Haiti lacked that sweet, green smell of freshly-cut grass at dusk. We all have memories of that smell: picnics, summer chores, summer jobs, road trips with the windows down. For me, that sweet odor plops me instantly on the baseball diamond, the 50-yard line, or the first cut of rough on the first hole at Oak Mountain.

On the practice fields at Central High School comes ever more memories: the smell of cut grass, yes, but the soggy wet field having just been watered, the grass clippings clinging to my sweaty arms and legs, the weight of the helmet in my hands, the wet blanket of shoulder pads, the ringing in my ears thanks to Brian Maxwell, the taste of water-hose water in the coolers at water break, expletives filling the air from Coach Bailey and Coach Kay, the deep grunts of linemen pushing forward, the cracks of helmets and shoulder pads, and shrill ring of whistles stopping and starting the endless drills. Suddenly, I remember, at least in ninth grade, most of my memories of playing are of me standing on the sidelines, watching and learning, studying the movements, the plays, joking with other freshmen, chewing on my mouthpiece anxious for a chance, wondering when or if my chance would come. And, I suppose if I were to be completely honest, all this was to mask the paralyzing fear in my heart of what would really happen as I imagined myself lining up across from "Max". You see, my freshman year was the first year I'd ever really played football.

I was big and that was about it. I had no experience to speak of and I can remember that I wore gel in my hair to school those days. The gel, I would quickly realize, burned my eyes like fire when mixed with sweat. I remember having to be taught what a three-point stance meant. As I learned the terminology, I learned to pair those terms with what I'd seen on television and to make my body do what I saw the men do on the screen. I remember how easy it had been to sit in front of that television and criticize these gigantic men of the sport when they would fumble the ball, drop a pass, miss a block, jump offsides, miss a 15-yard field goal, or forget to run out of bounds with 5 seconds left and down by 6. I remember throwing my pillow at the screen in disgust when Chris Chandler would throw one of his many interceptions. But, just the same, I remember standing on the practice fields that year and idolizing guys like Scotty Pless, Alonzo McPherson, Brandon Smith, Donny Lathery, and Brain Maxwell. I remember wishing and praying that I could, one day, be as strong as them, as fast as them, as popular as them. They wore their pads differently, they carried themselves differently. There was a certain air about them. They were like men who'd been in battle so long they no longer cared to wash off the blood. They no longer noticed flesh wounds. They never showed weakness, except for those final Friday nights when we would, inevitably, lose in the first round of the playoffs. Close on the tails of this admiration was my own youthful pride. I would go from admiring their strength and toughness, to bragging to other freshmen that I could hit harder, run faster, and jump higher than the seniors. We'd stand, in our starched white practice uniforms untouched by grass, dirt, and especially blood, and criticize and brag quietly, just out of earshot of those giants that were on the field.

I dare say, we all still do this today. We sit in front of our high-def flat screens and criticize coaches, yell at players, make character judgments based on a botched 4th and 1 play, and jab at players that show up to training camp overweight, all the while munching on pizza and downing "cold ones." You see, its easy to stand on the sidelines in our freshman years of life having never really touched that soggy, torn-up field of play or sit in our armchairs and criticize the men out their doing it from our air-conditioned living rooms. Our ignorance of what its like to be in the game allows us the audacity to think that we could do it better; that somehow we hold a secret that no one else has ever held before in the history of the game. But, as I quickly and abruptly learned that hot, humid Georgia afternoon, seeing and doing are two very different things. The grunts and sounds of clashing armor take on a very visceral tone when you find yourself "in the trenches". The "weak" tackles don't feel so weak anymore. The slightest collision makes your ears ring louder than the whistles. The game moves faster than you ever could have imagined. The shoulder pads that were so comfortably unhooked while you stood on the sidelines suddenly constricted your breathing as you toed the line of scrimmage. Standing on the sidelines ultimately affords us the privilege of pretending that we could do it better. Removed from the pain, the emotion of the fight, the fears and triumphs that come along with it all affords us the privilege of criticizing others when they come up short. It also, unfortunately, allows us to continue in our romantic views of the game, with their virtue, the popularity it could furnish, and the gain it offers.

Remembering that smell of freshly-cut grass took me to all these places I've just mentioned; all the while standing in the middle of the disaster of Haiti and mission field of Costa Rica. I've realized that I no longer hold dearly the notions of what I thought a missionary was or should be. Nothing fits quite as neatly into boxes like it used to. Seeing and experiencing the suffering and pain first hand has ruined my rosy images of serving the Lord. "Sharing the love of the Christ" no longer has its clean edges. Loving the widow and the orphan isn't so Bounty-fresh anymore. The sounds of grunts and cracks coming from the field aren't just a backdrop to celebrity anymore; they are very real cries for help. The Bible stories I wish I'd paid more attention to in Sunday School are no longer felt-board cutouts but, rather reels of film meant to teach me something about my opponent. Holding up four fingers at the beginning of the fourth quarter is no longer something cool to do (knowing all along that I had no chance of touching the field in such a tight game), but rather a rallying battle cry of perseverance. To put it simply, the novelty of "serving the Lord", in the face of the suffering we've seen, has lost its romance, its luster, and with it its preconceived notions of "what its supposed to be like."

But, just as I would realize towards the end of my freshman year, the real game, with its struggles, trials, pain, blood, and bruises, would forever hold my devotion. What keeps Brett Favre coming back for more punishment from defensive ends is not unlike the fight we find ourselves in now. The hope of glory.

"Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s afflictions, for the sake of his body, which is the church. I have become its servant by the commission God gave me to present to you the word of God in its fullness— the mystery that has been kept hidden for ages and generations, but is now disclosed to the saints. To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. We proclaim him, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone perfect in Christ. To this end I labor, struggling with all his energy, which so powerfully works in me." (Colossians 1:24-29)

Seeing and feeling the reality that is serving the Lord will forever hold my heart. Serving Him has suddenly taken on a very grim reality, but a reality so beautiful and intriguing as to never really lose my attention. Pray for your teammates!

Load 'Em Up!