Mom

I wrote awhile back about all the smart people I work with. Everything I said about them was true. And it isn’t just people I work with. I have really smart friends also, and many of my family members are no slouches either. But the smartest person I have ever known, by far, is my mother.

My mom was not a highly educated woman. She graduated from the 8th grade. This was the middle of the Great Depression so the costs of education made both high school and college out of the question for her, the youngest of six children. But even though her formal education ended young, my mom was a great reader and continued to educate herself throughout her life. When I was growing up there were always books in the house and reading often took precedence over dusting and vacuuming (a standard I am happy to say that I uphold to this day!)

Much of mom's education came from life. She moved from the farm to the nearest large town and started to work. She married in 1939, about five weeks shy of her 19th birthday, and had children. She worked as a domestic, a cook, and a waitress. She suffered the pain of divorce and lost babies. She remarried and had more children, both produced and acquired. She buried her parents, siblings, and her husband. She left friends and family behind and started over, more than once, simply playing the cards that life chose to deal to her.

Through it all, she was kind and loving and compassionate to others. She did the best she could with what she had for as long as she was able. She worked hard, both in terms of hours and physicality. At age 70, she tore up the old carpet in her house - by hand - and laid down new carpet - also by hand - and repainted all the rooms in her house - by herself. Whatever you could call her, it wasn't lazy!

My mom was not perfect - no person or parent is - and I'm not trying to make her out to be a saint because she wasn't. Did she make mistakes? Yes. Did she regret some of her choices in life? Probably. Given the chance, would she have done a couple of things differently? Maybe. In addition to all the wonderful gifts she gave me, she also contributed to a trait or two in my make-up that has proven to be less than constructive in adult relationships and that I have had to deliberately work to change. However, those 'damages' were not done maliciously or with intent. They came from her own 'damages'- things that were done to her by others or circumstance over which she had no control. I certainly don't blame my mother (or dad for that matter) for any of my shortcomings or weaknesses. They are mine alone to own and change.

I was a late-in-life baby, the last of five in my family, born one week before my mom's 40th birthday. If you ask my older siblings, they would probably tell you I was spoiled. I, of course :-), don't agree. My mom was fair. She treated us not the same but equitably, nonetheless. She adapted to her children's personalities and strengths. She was able to see the different things we needed and gave them to the best of her ability.

I remember when my mother's mother died. I think I was 14 or 15 at the time. My grandmother lived far away from us all my life so I didn't grow up in close relationship with her. I saw her once a year until I was about 11 or 12. I'll be honest and say that she wasn't my favorite person. She was old and crabby and her house smelled funny. She lived in a little town where there was nothing to do and going to visit was a painful week out of my summer. She was also mean. I'm sure she wasn't but I perceived her that way because I didn't know her. I was afraid of her.

Because of my childish perspective on my grandmother, I admit that after her death, I couldn't really understand why my mom missed her so much. They hadn't lived in the same town for 30 years. As time passed, and my mom would occasionally mention how much she missed her mom, I understood it even less. How, 25 years after her death, could her lack of presence be so painful? I really didn't get it. And, of course, now I do. Clearly. Daily. I'd give my right arm to have my mom back, to simply be able to talk to her about my day or hear her tell a story about hers.

Abraham Lincoln once said "All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my mother." I believe I can say the same. She taught me to listen and learn and be compassionate to others, to work hard, to have courage in the face of adversity, to not think the world owed me a living, to be kind and patient even when you don't want to be, that laughing at myself was good and that there was rarely ever a reason to take myself or my circumstances too seriously. Do I always live up to those lessons? Not nearly as much as I would wish yet I'm grateful for having been taught them so lovingly.

So on this day, the tenth anniversary of her death, and every day, I pay tribute to my Mother - my teacher, my mentor, my cheerleader, my pal, my Mom.

Distractions

The life of those in academia is bound by time. It's the nature of an academic environment. Everything revolves around the clock. I realize this is probably true for many professions, but it seems particularly true in academia. Classes start at specific times. Classes run for specific times. They end on time. In longer classes, you have breaks that last a certain length of time, at specific times. Even meetings are controlled by the clock in ways they might not be in the corporate arena. They must be scheduled around class schedules - schedules that simply cannot be adjusted. In the corporation, a manager might be able to say "let me have my secretary re-schedule my meeting with so-and-so and we can keep working until this is done." The academic can't say - "Well, let me move my class back half an hour so we can extend this meeting." It just doesn't work that way. The clock is an inescapable presence.

While working on campus, many of us complain of the difficulty in getting some uninterrupted time to do work. There are too many distractions. Colleagues stop in your doorway to say hello and spend 20 minutes chatting. And while you'd like to be sanctimonious, you can't be because you must admit that you have often been guilty of the same behavior. Students drop in with a question (far less often than we would like) or a problem (far more often than is comfortable.) Even if you close your door, the ultimate 'do not disturb' message, it doesn't take long before someone is knocking. You just get going on a project and the phone rings or the alarm on the computer sounds reminding you of the meeting or class you must be at. Distractions - everywhere.

Working from home is quite a change from working on campus. There is no schedule. There are no classrooms full of students waiting for you to arrive, no meetings at which your attendance is a requirement or even an expectation. You have time - massive amounts of uninterrupted time - in which to accomplish all those things you cannot when you are on campus with all those distractions. There it is before you - an uninterrupted vista of time.

And then there are all those distractions. The distractions are different then they are at the office, but they are no less compelling psychologically. Yes, I could be revising that Interpersonal assignment OR I could be writing this blog entry. Yes, I could be writing out a new set of notes for that Intercultural chapter OR I could be working on that afghan I'm making as a birthday gift for a friend. But this all makes me sound pretty good, right? At least my distractions are somewhat productive. It's not as though my distractions are stupid things - Facebook, mindless television, trashy novels.

But they are. In addition to my writing and my gift making, I check my Facebook page, I've read a less than literary novel or two, and I admit to an addiction to America's Test Kitchen on TV. But it doesn't even take that much to distract me. I'm walking from one room to the next and by the time I'm there I've had 12 different things catch my attention. The dust bunny along the hallway baseboard, the drooping plant that needs water, the stray sock that I dropped on my way to the laundry chute, the neighbor walking his dog down the street, the sound of the mailman dropping the mail in the box, and on and on. I make jokes about having adult-onset ADD, but there's a part of me that isn't joking.

I've written before about my attention span - or lack thereof - and my use of lists. And the lists do help, but it seems that I might be one of those people who works most productively when I have some sort of a schedule. Don't get me wrong. The projects are getting done and, if I'm not mistaken, I'm actually going to finish ahead of schedule. Yet I am plagued by more than one guilt feeling about 'wasting' time. Maybe it's the Puritan work ethic instilled in me by my depression-era parents. Or, maybe it's simply the incredible gratitude I feel knowing that I have a gift that few people are lucky enough to have access to and even fewer will take advantage of.

So the current challenge is to work, but not overwork, and to take advantage of the opportunity to rest, relax and rejuvenate my mind. I'm working at being 'in the moment' and enjoying it for what it gives and trying to remember that the attention to other things is making me more creative and productive when I am working. And, a small part of me looks forward to being back on a schedule that isn't quite so self-directed.

Inferiority

Recently I spent time with a friend comparing notes on a mutual hobby and sharing our finished work and works in progress. As we examined her work and my work I recognized - and I'm here to declare to you all - she is better than I am. Her work is more careful and precise and her finished product is more professional than mine. She is superior.

Anyone who is conscious of their surroundings and other people has, at one time or another felt inferior. After all, a sense of inferiority, by definition, must come from comparison. To be 'inferior' there must be something 'superior' to which you are comparing.

We grow up doing this comparison in our culture and it stays with us throughout our lives. Competition, in any endeavor, exposes us to this. One tennis player has a superior serve to another. One singer, a superior voice. One dancer, a superior kick or jump. When I was in college I competed in Forensics and then went on to coach as a professional. The activity is filled with those judgments - this performance is superior to that, this speech, this delivery style, this supporting evidence. I continue it as a teacher. This paper is superior in writing style; this speech is superior in expression.

Most of us learn to live with those evaluations quite well and to accept them as a commentary on our strength or interest in a certain area. We value those judgments as a means of improving our skills in areas we care about. If we know what 'superior' is, we are better able to strive for it. We accept that we can't be the best in everything and we don't want to be. Some things we care about and other things we don't. Some things matter to our advancement in career or relationship, others don't. We pick and choose and are the better for it.

There is, also, another feeling of inferiority. This is the irrational sense of inferiority that is based on a faulty judgment of our own worth, the worth of another, the importance of an event, skill, or situation. One of my more vivid memories of this sense of inferiority comes from High School. Now, I realize some of you are laughing and thinking that there's absolutely nothing unique about this. And, of course, you are right. High school is filled with all the elements that make for those types of comparisons and, given adolescent sensibilities and hormones, make them memorable.

The significance of this event, though, is that nobody did anything intentionally. No one set out to hurt me or 'make me feel' inferior. I did it to myself. It happened in typing class. (Those of you who grew up using computers, go ask an old person what a typewriter is and why we had to take a class learning to use one!) It was winter and it was cold, both outside and in. My high school was built in the early 1900s and had high ceilings and incredibly large double hung windows and was, consequently, extremely drafty when the winter winds blew. Two girls were sitting in the row in front of me - Patty and Yvonne. Patty was shivering and complained of being cold. Yvonne glanced over at her and remarked "Well, you're wearing a summer shirt, what did you expect?" They both laughed and the incident was over.

And there I sat. I looked at them both. Yvonne was wearing a heavy ski sweater in a style very popular in the mid-70s. Patty was wearing a cotton shirt. It had short sleeves, a v-neck, buttoned up the front, had a tie that went to the back and the fabric was printed with some sort of Holly Hobbie doll design also very popular during that era. (Again, for the young - a Google search will teach you about Holly Hobbie.) I looked at Yvonne. I looked at Patty. And I realized that my family was poor.

I was wearing a cotton shirt with a cardigan sweater over it. This was the first time I had ever heard the expression "summer shirt." In my house, you had a shirt. You wore the shirt. If you were cold, you put a sweater on over the shirt. It didn't matter if it were summer or winter - the shirt was to be worn. You didn't have very many of them so your options were rather limited. But at that moment, I realized that other people had seasonal wardrobes. They had shirts they wore only in the summer. And they had enough shirts that they could put them away and wear different shirts in the winter.

At that moment, I judged myself 'inferior.' Did my classmates judge me that way? Maybe they did. Probably they didn't even spare a thought for my 'wardrobe.' What's important is that I judged myself. I found myself lacking. I came to the conclusion that my family's financial situation was inferior and that those who had more money were somehow superior. Time, of course, certainly helped me understand that there were many more important things in life than money. The fact is, we were poor. Our family income was inferior to other families that we knew. But that didn't have to define who I was.

I'd like to say that I carried the lesson on with me and never felt inferior again. Sadly, I can't. On occasion, I'm still susceptible to it. Most of us are familiar with one of Eleanor Roosevelt's more famous quotes - "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." And most of us, on our more healthy and well-adjusted days, can agree with her whole-heartedly. But when we're tired, or maybe when we're feeling blue about some event in the world or in our life, or maybe just when the gray sky of winter is gray one too many days in a row, we let it get to us. The insensitive comment made by a friend or a family member or a colleague can still, on one of our less well-adjusted days, take us to that place.

Back in High School it didn't take me too long to figure out that money was not the only value and certainly wasn't the most important one. I was able to recognize that other things - character, compassion, generosity - were more important than one's bank balance. Many of those criteria that we judge ourselves and others by are probably, especially from an eternal perspective, pretty warped. Wealth, physical attractiveness, fame, job prestige - as we see in the papers every day - are fleeting and they don't guarantee happiness. And those things certainly don't guarantee a superior character in those who hold them.

American Archbishop Fulton John Sheen (1895-1979) said it this way - "God has given different gifts to different people. There is no basis for feeling inferior to another who has a different gift. Once it is realized that we shall be judged by the gift we have received, rather than the gift we have not, one is completely delivered from a false sense of inferiority." Ultimately, our purpose in life is not to live up to anyone else's (or our own, for that matter) random standards. It is to be who we are - in fullness, giving our best.

Wheels

I was a Theatre major in college. Though most people I know do know this about me at some level, it's easy to forget because I teach in the Communication field that I took my Master's degree in instead of in Theatre. But Theatre was the start - as every cheesy actor remarks at some point in their career - the first love.

Theatre is an odd thing. It's here, it's concrete, you see it, you hear it - then it's gone. TV you can go back and watch again and again - ad nauseam. Browse through the cable listings in your area and you'll find entire channels dedicated to reruns of Law and Order - just in case you missed the basic story the first 80 times they told it. And every time they re-broadcast it, it is exactly the same. Nothing changes - not a word, not a tone, not an expression. Don't get me wrong - I love the technology of TV and it has, after all, given us iconic images and experiences - including Lucy stuffing chocolates down her dress and into her mouth. No complaints there.

But Theatre is different. Theatre changes every time you see it. Even if the actors say the exact same words, they rarely say them the exact same way, with the same tone, the same expression, the same cadence. The movement changes, maybe just a fraction of an inch. The reaction of one person to another is slightly different in timing or intensity. You can go see the same production every single time it plays and never see the same show twice. Then, of course, it is gone. The actors, directors, technicians put in immense time and effort to create this experience and after 20 or 6 or 2 performances, that's it - it's done. They dismantle the sets which are repainted and become part of a new show, hang up the costumes which are tweaked to fit some new actor in some new character, and all that's left is a crinkled program, the still photos that get posted in a theatre lobby, and the memories of those who have participated.

The Theatre life is an odd one. You work insane hours, both in amount and in times. You work evenings and late into the night. You work weekends. You work holidays. You sleep late and stay up even later. When the rest of the world is getting up to start their day, you're winding down to go to bed. Because of the nature of the work, you interact with your colleagues with an intensity that you simply do not find in many other fields. It's the creativity, yes. And it's the emotion. Your job in the Theatre is to evoke an emotional response in your audience, whether you're the actor, the costumer, the director. The end goal is the audience response and everything is directed to that end - that vision.

That much emotion doesn't come without a price. That price is drama - and I mean that in every sense of the word. The point is the drama, yes - but the work becomes drama and the relationships become drama and the drama easily feeds upon itself and creates more drama. Add to the mix that you have people who have personalities that embrace drama and, in many cases, like to be the center of the drama and if there is no drama they will create some drama. If you're not careful, even in the middle of comedy you can get lost in the drama.

Luckily, though, in the midst of all this there are a few people who are sane and grounded - people who don't get lost in the drama. One of those people was Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was one of my directors in my university program, and one of the sanest, most drama-free people you could ever hope to meet. She plopped herself in the center of all of that angst and emotion and drama and became a pool of calm and sanity.

I don't want to give the wrong impression - Nancy was not, ever, boring. She laughed more than most people and had a sharp wit and a wicked sense of humor. She was the first to laugh at your joke, the first to join in the fun and was always up for a good time. She was passionate about the drama - she demanded the best and the most from her actors and her techs. Halfway, or half-assed, was not an option. Do your best - that's the standard. And that standard created some absolutely memorable work. I don't think it's possible that anyone who ever was fortunate enough to work with Nancy came away from the experience unaffected.

A story shared by one of her actors is a great example of Nancy's way of handling the drama which constantly swirls in the theatre. Jim Blanchette shares "...She was in rehearsal for Arsenic and Old Lace and I was lucky enough to be working in the theatre that day watching. An actor was discovering their inner Lawrence Olivier and needed motivation for everything they did. The actor asked for one too many justifications and Nancy answered curtly but sweetly, "Your motivation is a kick in the ass. Cross stage left..." Drama be damned - there's work to be done. I don't know who the actor was, but I'm guessing that working with Nancy was one of the best things that s/he ever experienced.

Nancy died on January 26. She leaves behind a legacy of actors, technicians, students, colleagues and friends who were forever changed for the better for having known Nancy and worked with her. On Sunday and Monday, many of us will gather together to remember her formally - and probably dramatically. We'll share stories, we'll laugh, we'll cry and we will raise a glass to one of the best human beings we've ever had the privilege to know. We'll recognize that our lives, like the Theatre, are ephemeral and that what ultimately matters is that we've done our best and that we've created something that positively impacts the people we interact with - something memorable. Even in death, Nancy remains our teacher.

Advice

I had dinner with a friend recently. We've had a hard time connecting the past few months - our schedules simply haven't been compatible and one delay led to another. We both do our share of traveling, we both work, we both have family obligations. You know how it is. So when we finally got together we had some catching up to do. As it turned out - a lot.

We started with the surface stuff, catching up on events and activities. Her life, my life - we've both had a lot going on. As we talked, the signs began to emerge. A laugh that was in an odd place, a comment that didn't quite fit, another one that seemed completely out of context. You know how you can know something in your gut before you can put an intellectual name on it? My stomach started to tense up. Something was wrong. I could feel it. And it turned out to be something big. Her husband has had an affair.

The story came out in pieces - this detail, that feeling, this comment, that reaction. The whys and the wherefores aren't important - they never are. As she said so eloquently, "the excuse doesn't matter - he chose to betray me."

Many of us (no matter our gender) have had this experience personally and, if not, we all certainly know someone who has, and more than likely, someone close to us. We know the pain, the humiliation, the complex and deep emotions, the confusion that she feels. And, probably understandably, we all have an urge to give advice.

I believe this urge to give advice stems from a couple of different places. The first is our sincere desire to help. We want to make it better. We want to alleviate pain, bring comfort. We want to help and our idea of 'help' is encouraging that person to do what we personally think would be the best thing to do. I think the second is our own discomfort. We want to say something almost as a reassurance to ourselves that we have, at the very least, an idea of what should be done in this situation as if that knowledge itself would stave off such an event happening to us. We have the urge to say the things that others have said before us, even if they weren't helpful and actually felt irritating or patronizing. There is an almost uncontrollable desire to spit out platitudes and homilies, things we've read in magazines or heard on Oprah or Dr. Phil. I felt every one of those urges as I listened. I opened my mouth and closed it. More than once. Finally, she asked me what I thought she should do. There it was - my golden opportunity. I didn't take it.

I opened my mouth to start and I stopped myself. Who am I to give advice to anyone about what they should do in such a painful circumstance? Why should I be the one to decide that what I would do is the best way for someone else to handle this? Why would I think that based upon what details have been shared with me that I could come close to understanding the intricacies of what has conspired between two others in their most intimate relationship? Why would my values be more important than hers or my instincts any better? She is the one who must make her choice. She is the one who must live with the consequences.

I didn't tell her what to do. I expressed sympathy - I am so saddened that she is going through this pain. I expressed shock (legitimate, by the way) - her husband is the last person I would have expected this out of. I expressed pain - I like her husband and I feel betrayed by his behavior. I feel taken in, as though he has lied to me about his character and has pretended to be someone he is not. I also asked questions. I asked her what she felt, what she hoped for, what she wanted. I asked her what she was afraid of and what she was worried about. I asked her what she thought her options were and how she felt about each of them. And at the end, after listening to her talk, I asked her what she was going to do.

As it turns out, she's not going to do what I would do. And that's her right. She's a bright woman and she knows what she can live with and what she can't. So as my friend moves forward, my job is to keep being her friend. I'm going to listen to her talk and vent. I'm going to remind her of the person that she is - strong, loving, courageous, and confident. I'm going to support her as she makes her decisions about moving forward and what her future will look like. I'm going to encourage her to trust her own instincts and judgments. And I'm going to reassure her, that even when her pain is the strongest, she is not alone.

And I'm going to keep my advice exactly where it belongs - to myself.

Haiti Update

As you all have read, I was in Haiti for two weeks in September. Many people have written and called asking me for updates on our connections in Haiti. I thought I would depart from my usual entries to give an update here.

We actually had a team in Haiti at the time of the quake. They were doing the same work I did when I was there in September - staying at the Mephibosheth House and working with the kids there and also working at the Sisters in the mornings. We were incredibly fortunate.

The kids at the Mephibosheth House are all safe. The staff is all safe. Thankfully, one of the team members reacted quickly and got a text message out to her husband immediately. At the time of the quake, Dio and Lionette were not at the house so we here at home spent 24 hours not knowing their condition. I spent Wednesday glued to CNN, combing street scenes looking for them. We learned Wednesday evening that they had been at the church at the time of the quake and returned home safely about 8 hours later - a tough 8 hours for the kids, staff, and team.

Our team is all safe. They moved to the Embassy on Wednesday and they got out in two trips - the first four about 4am Friday (with the clothes on their backs and a backpack) on a military transport that ended up in New Jersey and the last three on a commercial flight to Miami that got out late Friday afternoon. They were all back safe in Minneapolis by Saturday at 5pm. That may sound a bit odd to some people and you may be wondering why they didn't stay and help. I understand those thoughts, but it is a little more complicated than that. What was, and is currently, needed in Haiti is medical personnel. People without those skills are, in many ways, simply a burden. They require food and water and, as you have seen, those are in very short supply. It was also the safest move for the Haitians we serve. White people are assumed to be wealthy, and where white people are there is assumed to be money. Moving them out quickly was the best thing to do for everyone, plus it made more room at the house which turned out to be badly needed.

In terms of damages: The MH is completely intact with no damage and we suffered only a hairline crack or two in the compound wall (thankfully the house was built to code - US not Haitian) even though a massive building just outside the wall went down. The MH is about a 20 minute drive north-ish, in normal circumstances, from the airport if that gives you any context from the maps you've seen, so the house was in an area that did receive damage. The church - Ebenezer Baptist - also suffered some damage. Luckily the first floor where they hold their services is standing. The second floor was under construction and it went down, pretty understandably. The Sisters' clinic made it through but we are unsure of how much damage they suffered. At last report, we have heard they lost one baby. Steve said the sights in Port-au-Prince were pretty horrific - dead bodies and destruction. He spent much of one day out in the streets with Joe - the MH driver and general manager. They found an open gas station and stopped - 2 1/2 hours later they left with a full tank. Most people will probably never know what happened to their family members, where they died, or where they were buried.

In terms of people: The church lost 1 - a young woman who was the girlfriend of one of the young church leaders. One of the boys at the house, Evans, lost his father and his brother. One of the girls, Ruth, lost many family members, various reports go from 2 or 3 up to 35. That news is still sketchy. We haven't had detailed updates about the families of the staff but I expect one this Saturday.

Current plans: As of Monday there are an extra 30+ people staying at the house (it could be far more by now!) The house has a well and it has solar power. From reports, everyone in the church lost their homes. To help people get back on their feet they've decided to move the kids. When the roads are passable and they are able to make arrangements, they are going to move the special needs kids up to the village of Tricotte (where Dio is originally from, up in the mountains, anywhere from a 6 to 12 hour drive depending on conditions and breakdowns - when we went in '96 it took 10 hours.) That will put the children in the safety of the countryside during this unstable time and allow the MH to be used for the church people while their homes are rebuilt and things settle into the new normal. I haven't heard, but I assume that situation might last quite a long time, given what I've seen and what I know about Haiti and how things 'work.'

Thank you to all of you who have written or called, asking for information and expressing your concern. From our perspective, there is much to be thankful for. We were incredibly fortunate and there is certainly no explanation for it. Amid destruction and devastation there continues to be grace and hope.

Many of you have asked me to suggest ways to help. I would recommend a couple of options for you. First, we are collecting money at the church to be sent to Dio for earthquake relief. You can make a check out to Church of the Open Door and mark it for 'Haiti relief'.
Church of the Open Door
9060 Zanzibar Lane North
Maple Grove, MN 55311
You may also donate on line at:
https://public.serviceu.com/payment/default.asp?OrgID=1274&PaymentID=7421

For those of you who are concerned that money in these situations is often 'diverted' or misused, I would tell you this. Pastor Dio is a man of integrity (I would trust him with my life) and he will be certain that your donations go directly to helping real people in real ways - food, shelter.

For those of you who might prefer to give online or more generally, there are a couple of organizations that will, I believe, use your money well. They are World Vision - www.worldvision.org and Samaritan's Purse - www.samaritanspurse.org.

Vacation

I went on a vacation last week. Now, I know those who don’t understand sabbatical are thinking that I’ve been on vacation for months now – what the heck am I talking about? But as we all know I’m working very hard on this sabbatical – this week was a true ‘vacation.’ I went out of the country for 8 days, I didn’t take students with me, I didn’t take work along, I didn’t think about work while I was away. I went to rest.

This vacation was full of lucky timing. My friend and I were able to get a great deal on the vacation so the financial cost was relatively small. The other part of the lucky timing was the calendar. We left Minneapolis with an air temperature of -18F and landed in 86F with sunny skies. A one hundred degree temperature difference is probably the very definition of ‘vacation’ during a Minnesota winter.

Our vacation was a cruise in the Caribbean. We sailed out of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and visited five different islands from St. Thomas down to St. Lucia. The weather was consistently in the 80s, the sun shone every day, the water was warm, the breezes were gentle, the people were friendly. There were drinks with umbrellas, amazing meals served impeccably, excellent entertainment, and delightful company. As vacations go, it really doesn’t get much better than this.

Ironically enough, especially in retrospect, I spent much of my vacation time thinking about Haiti. I suppose it was inevitable. You compare something new to what you know the best. And since I had been there so recently and because we had another team leave for Haiti only 2 days after I left for the same area, it was at the front of my thoughts.

The comparisons were stark. Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, our first port is 485 miles due east of Port-au-Prince on the other side of the Dominican Republic. The weather is the same, they are both tropical islands, you would expect to see the same sights. But you don’t. Our stops were tourist havens. We arrived in port cities that, while not originally designed for cruise traffic, have certainly adapted themselves well to be centers of indulgence. Yes, you could find local businesses and island life if you really looked for it, but first you had to run the gamut of duty-free designers. Dozens of jewelers and liquor vendors and designer shops lined the streets and just in case you couldn’t figure it out on your own the cruise line provided you with a “shopping guide” as you were leaving the ship. Cruise ships don’t stop in Port-au-Prince. And if they did, one of the first sights that would greet them is the slums of Cite Soleil and La Celine, a far cry from Louis Vuitton and Rolex. I thought often of the difference between what I was seeing and doing, and what my friends were seeing and doing in Port-au-Prince. Two days after I returned safely home, yet another tragedy blooms in Haiti.

After being discovered by Columbus in 1492 Haiti gained its independence in 1804, becoming the oldest black republic in the world and the second oldest republic in the Western hemisphere, the US being the oldest. Because of the prevalence of voodoo in Haiti’s history, some would have you believe that this independence was attained by Haitians ‘making a deal with the devil’ and that their subsequent history of hardship, poverty, political corruption and despair is the natural result of the sins of the fathers being visited upon generations of children. Others argue that the fault for Haiti’s difficulties lays at the feet of the European settlers, first Spanish then French, who pillaged the natural resources of the country to line the streets of Paris with Haitian gold and fill its drawing rooms with mahogany furniture from Haiti’s mountains, leaving the country bereft of any substantial natural resources. Whatever ‘truth’ you might choose to believe, the reality is there is plenty of fault to go around and laying blame, particularly in circumstance such as this, is a monumental waste of time.

Yet as you watch CNN, I can imagine what some of you are thinking about this country – how sad it is, how they can’t seem to catch a break, how they must be doing something to perpetuate all these problems and difficulties, how the answer sometimes seems to be to move everyone out and go in and bulldoze the place to the ground and start fresh. I understand all those thoughts. I understand the horror you might feel as you see the lack of the most basic medical care, the lack of any public services to help aid those who are refugees, the lack of any coordinated effort to rescue those still trapped under rubble. I understand the frustration you might be feeling that they just can’t seem to make things better, and that things appear to be run with such incompetence. It may seem futile to try to help.

And yet, help is what is needed. I know that the spirit of these people is remarkable. They are loving. They are giving. They are resilient. They are strong and courageous. They care for their families. They care for their neighbors. They are worth your concern. They are worth your prayers. They are worth your compassion and your recognition that nothing but an accident of birth separates us from them. They are worth your time and they are worth your support.

I know there are dozens of ways to give in a crisis such as this. However, if you are wondering where and how, I would offer a couple of suggestions. First, you could send your gifts earmarked ‘Pastor Dio- Haiti earthquake relief’ in care of Steve Hanson, Church of the Open Door, 9060 Zanzibar Lane North, Maple Grove, MN 55311. Diogene is a man of integrity and honor and will make certain that your donations reach hurting people directly – no ‘administrative costs’ taken out. If you prefer to give online, I would suggest World Vision – www.worldvision.org. This is an organization that does amazing work, also with integrity.

For those of you who are wondering, our team is safe, the children and staff of the Mephibosheth House are safe. The house and compound survived the quake intact. The Sisters unfortunately lost one baby in the quake but their clinic is still intact. Amid devastation and loss, there is much to be grateful for.