On the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, at the top of a hill a mile from the nearest paved road, sits St. Clare’s Church. Its pink walls and blue-tinted windows are a welcome site of color and vibrancy in a neighborhood packed with one-room, concrete-block homes. The community, known as Tiplas Kazo, is one in a string of desperately poor sections of Haiti’s capital. Dusty, rutted roads wind among the houses. There are few cars and few trees. Smoke fills the air, as residents cook with charcoal in their tiny homes.

On a windy January day, as our van struggles up the steep hillside, slipping on rocks and weaving around potholes, I watch children look up with curiosity from the pebble and marble games they are playing in the dirt. When we round the final corner and park on the side of the road, the exuberant singing of hundreds of women, men, and children streams out of St. Clare’s Church as if to greet us.

I had never been to a Catholic Mass before, but after just a couple of days in Port-au-Prince, I was hoping a Haitian service might provide some insight and much-needed sustenance. I’d been one of twelve U.S. citizens volunteering at an orphanage and a hospice, and with one week to go, I was feeling overwhelmed and depressed.

The sanctuary felt like a sauna. I looked for fans and saw them along the butter-yellow walls, but they weren’t working. I decided to sit apart from my group and mix in with the congregation, so I squeezed into one of the back rows, my hips pressed against the hips of my neighbors. I’d never seen a church so full. When it was time to stand, we all rose together—glued by our sweat—like one body. We sat down the same way.

I met my pew mates at the beginning of the service, during the welcome and “passing of the peace.” I was a little nervous, not sure how I’d be received, but they put me at ease with their smiles, kisses on the cheek, “Bonjou”s, and enthusiastic handshakes.

The service went quickly—a lively mixture of singing, praying, a short sermon, and communion. Not understanding a word and not being Catholic, I spent most of the time looking at the parishioners. To my right sat an elderly woman with dark-brown skin and gray-streaked black hair pulled back in a bun. She had a kind face, full of folds and creases, and she was wearing a faded floral dress and a royal blue hat. A few minutes into the Mass, she reached for her purse and pulled out a paper fan, which she waved steadily in my direction. A cinnamon-colored man in his 20s sat to my left. He was tall and very thin, with black pants and a white shirt that hung loosely on him. With a strong, deep voice, he belted out the songs, which he and everyone else knew by heart. A 3-year-old with yellow ribbons in her hair sat in front of me. Although her mother told her not to stare, she couldn’t help herself and kept turning around in the pew to give me a shy look. “Blan,” she whispered to her mother, which means “white” or “foreigner” in Creole. And that I was—a midwestern 37-year-old mom with dark-blonde hair, blue eyes, and winter-white skin. I did stand out.

During the offering, I watched, amazed, as every man, woman, and child walked up the center aisle to put a coin or two in the wood en box. The congregation was so poor, I wondered how they were able to give so willingly when they lived in homes without plumbing or electricity. In the middle of the procession, a 10-year-old boy just two rows in front of me collapsed. My heart stopped. Had he died? His father calmly picked him up and carried him out the back door, patting his back and whispering in his ear. I never saw them again.

Two hours after the service began, it concluded with a prayer to Saint Jude, the patron saint of desperate situations. When things are at their worst, it is St. Jude you pray to, hoping that together with Jesus, he will make the impossible possible. The smiles on the faces of the children in anticipation of the prayer showed that this was a favorite part of the ser vice. The 3-year-old with yellow ribbons stood up eagerly, along with everyone else, and raised her arms above her head. I did the same.

“St. Jude!” the priest called out in his deep, powerful voice.

“St. Jude!” the congregation responded with equal intensity.

“Pwoblèm nou grav!” (We have a serious problem), the priest said, looking up at the ceiling.

“Pwoblèm nou grav!” 700 men, women, and children responded—their eyes closed and arms outstretched, praying with all their might.

“St. Jude!” the priest called out again.

“St. Jude!” the congregation repeated, their voices rising in unison.

Back and forth, the prayer continued for several minutes, everyone rocking from side to side, eyes shut, concentrating on each word the priest said.

“Pa bliye peyi nou, St.Jude” (Don’t forget our country, St. Jude). The priest’s white robe fluttered, as a breeze came through the sanctuary.

“Pa bliye peyi nou, St. Jude.” The congregation’s voices filled every corner of the church, resonating off the walls, through the open windows, and out into the neighborhood. People a mile away could hear our prayer.

“Pa bliye pèp Ayisien, St. Jude” (Don’t forget the Haitian people, St. Jude).

“Pa bliye pèp Ayisien, St. Jude.” Everyone swayed, their arms waving above their heads, each phrase building on the previous one, the call and response reaching a crescendo.

The priest spun around and faced the glass painting of St. Jude that was placed up high, just to the right of the cross in the front of the sanctuary. He let out a thunderous plea.

“St. Jude, osekou!”

“St. Jude, osekou!” the congregation cried back, holding the “kooooooooouuuuuuu” for several seconds.

“Amen. Alelouya! Amen Alelouya!”

“Amen. Alelouya! Amen Alelouya!”

Then everyone clapped loudly. Exhausted and inspired, I clapped with them, tears filling my eyes.

After the benediction, as I prepared to leave, I turned to the elderly woman who had greeted me in broken English at the beginning of the service, and asked her the meaning of the prayer’s final word, osekou. The passion with which it was said made me wonder. She looked into my eyes, lifted her finger, and drew three letters in the air: S … O …S.

I’ve often wondered how far back the seeds of Haiti were planted inside me. The children of the Tiplas Kazo community in Port-au-Prince have become such an important part of my life that I like to think that over the years I had been preparing for my connection with them.

Some of the seeds surely were sown when I was a child, sitting week after week in the second pew on the left side, right in front of the pulpit, at St. Paul’s United Church of Christ in Chicago. My father was the minister, and I spent my first eighteen years listening to his sermons. Dad always emphasized putting faith into action by reaching out to those in need and working for social justice.

Perhaps more seeds were planted during childhood trips to the Cayman Islands, where my grandparents had a small cottage on the beach. The heat, the sugarcane, the palm trees, the humidity, the blue-green waters of the Caribbean—I loved them all. I spent hours on the dock watching tiny iridescent fish swim near the water’s surface. At night, I sat on the shore staring at the stars, listening to the waves, feeling the tropical wind, imagining myself as a Caymanian so I’d never have to leave.

I studied French in high school. I hadn’t spoken a word of it for twenty years, but all those verb conjugations started to come back as soon as I stepped off the plane in Port-au-Prince.

I was invited to go to Haiti in the spring of 1999, and my response took less than a second. It was one of those times when my heart spoke before my mind had time to catch up. I was helping out at a retreat and ran into a friend of my father’s, Bryan Sirchio, a minister and musician. I hadn’t seen him in years, but I instantly remembered a song he’d sung years earlier, called Staring at My Overflowing Plate. It described a scene at a Haitian restaurant—an American visitor was served a large plate of food, and just as he was about to eat, he looked out the window and saw hungry children with their noses pressed against the windowpane, staring at his meal. The waiter came over quickly and pulled down the shade, so they wouldn’t be seen. Bryan’s song was about how we pull the shade down and pretend not to see the suffering of the world.

It’s so easy not to see you

Close you out like a shade in the window

Your condition seems so foreign

Are you lazy? Why are you poor?

Someone said you and I are connected

That your hunger is linked to my fatness

But how can that be—I never met you

I don’t know your name

I’ve got problems of my own

I’m so busy—I do good things

And I don’t know if I can make room

In my life for your misery

Someone said that the whole world is changing

For you no longer will stand to be used

But talk like that—it makes me frightened

Scared what I might lose

I’d never thought about Haiti before this song and hadn’t thought about it much after, but the moment I saw Bryan, the hungry children looking through the restaurant window came back to me. I asked him whether he still sang the song and if he’d been to Haiti recently. He told me that he still went several times a year, and sometimes brought people with him. Then he invited me to go with him on his next trip. He said it almost in passing, but my heart spoke and I said yes.

Bryan explained that it would be a two-week “pilgrimage of reverse mission” to Port-au-Prince. It was called “reverse” because it was designed to be transformational for the participants. It would involve volunteering at an orphanage or with sick adults during the day and learning more about Haiti through various speakers at night. There would be plenty of time for reflection and journal writing. Witnessing life in Haiti, Bryan said, would probably raise all sorts of questions and feelings about life, faith, wealth, and poverty. “Their lives are going to transform you.” That’s exactly what I wanted.

On the surface, I appeared successful as a businesswoman and parent. But beneath, I was struggling, going through the motions of life with a broken heart that I thought would never heal. At the time of Bryan’s invitation, I needed help and was searching for something—I didn’t know exactly what—but something that would move me forward out of the rut I’d been in. This trip could help. It was certainly worth a try.

Eighteen months earlier, my husband had died. It was unexpected and devastating. He was 36. I was 34. Our son had just turned 5. On a warm September evening, as we watched the sun set in the countryside and talked about our commitment to slow down so we could enjoy each other more, I had no idea that five minutes later, Rich would be gone. The coroner never identified what triggered his asthma attack. Whatever the allergen was, it was so toxic, it killed him in less than five minutes.

Never would I have imagined that I’d be a widow in my mid-30s, overwhelmed with grief. I’d always thought Rich and I would age gracefully into our 80s or 90s, spending our lives together enjoying fulfilling careers, volunteering for meaningful causes, raising two or three children, and then retiring to a beach house like the one my grandparents had. That vision vanished as I struggled desperately to blow air into his lungs. Suddenly, my future disappeared. I had no energy to think about anything except taking care of our son, Luke, and doing the minimum to keep my home-based health and wellness business going so I could pay the bills.

I stumbled through those first few weeks and months, numb and without direction. Searching for meaning in Rich’s death, I pored over countless spiritual books, hoping they might shed light on why. I wanted to believe that Rich’s death had some purpose that would inspire me to move forward, make plans, and create a new future for Luke and me. Every day, I searched for “signs” that God and Rich were with me, talking to me, and that, at some level, all was well. Before long, everything became a sign—a butterfly, a cloud formation, a ray of light in the corner of my bedroom, a thought that didn’t sound like one of mine, a bird lingering at my window, an unusual dream. But even though I did feel reassured of God’s loving presence, I suffered at a level I’d never known before.

I felt stuck, and prayed for more signs—hoping they would help me see my way out of my grief. When the invitation to go on the “reverse mission” came, I jumped at the chance. It seemed like this could be my sign. Going to Haiti was so “out of the blue,” it felt oddly right. I didn’t know where it would lead, but the experience would take me far away from Cottage Grove, Wisconsin, where I lived, to a place completely unknown. It sounded perfect. Maybe attending to the suffering of others might shift some attention away from my own pain. I filled out the application and sent in the deposit.

In the nine months that passed between my saying yes to the “reverse mission” and actually getting on the plane, I didn’t think much about the trip. Shortly after I saw Bryan, I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area to live with my sister. I was overwhelmed with the move, enrolling Luke in first grade, running my business, and beginning a new life in California. Every minute of every day was packed with work and parenting responsibilities. I seemed to be racing everywhere, often late, out of breath, exhausted, and stressed. As the trip to Haiti approached, I wondered what I had been thinking when I said yes, and I thought about canceling. But I didn’t.

When the morning came to fly to Port-au-Prince, I grabbed all the material I should have read in advance, packed a small suitcase of hot-weather clothes, waved good-bye to Luke and my mom, who had flown out to take care of him, and headed off in a whirlwind for the airport.

As I flew from San Francisco to Miami, I thought about how little I knew about Haiti. I’d seen news reports years before of “boat people” struggling to get to Flor ida, but I couldn’t even remember what had caused their exodus. I knew that Haiti shared an island with the Dominican Republic, and that it was tiny, about the size of Maryland, but that was about it.

I began to read statistics: Three-quarters of Haitians live on less than $2 per day. Four and a half million people—over half the population (56 percent)—live on less than $1 per day. Safe drinking water is not regularly accessible to over a third of the population. The countryside is 97 percent deforested. Haiti has a 70 percent unemployment rate, a 50 percent illiteracy rate, and the worst health statistics in the Western world. About 75 percent of Haiti’s farmable land is owned by just 5 percent of its inhabitants. Nearly half of Haiti’s wealth is controlled by 1 percent of the population.

Then, I pulled out a stack of background material and a book Bryan had sent months before—The Uses of Haiti, written by physician and anthropologist Dr. Paul Farmer. Dr. Farmer is a professor at Harvard Medical School who since 1983 has lived and worked in Haiti, where he became a founding director of Partners In Health, a renowned nonprofit that works with Haitians to build clinics and provide free health care services for the poor in Haiti and elsewhere.

Dr. Farmer’s text was mind-opening and heartbreaking. It detailed the complex history that helped explain why Haiti is the most underdeveloped country in the Western Hemisphere. It critiqued U.S. foreign policy and showed how U.S. companies and Haiti’s wealthy elite profited continually at the expense of the poor. By the end of the book, I understood his title—The Uses of Haiti—because Haiti has been used and exploited by others throughout its history.

Haitians are the descendants of African slaves. In the 18th century, Haiti—called Saint-Domingue then—was the wealthiest French colony in the world, providing two-thirds of Europe’s tropical produce. In 1791, the slaves, led by Toussaint Louverture, organized and launched what became the first and only successful slave revolution in the world. The war against their French colonizers lasted thirteen years. Over 200,000 people were killed. The country’s infrastructure was destroyed and agricultural productivity stopped.

When the war ended, in 1804, Haiti became the world’s first black republic and Latin America’s first sovereign nation. It also became the first nation to ban slavery and to declare itself a haven for runaway slaves and other oppressed people. I couldn’t believe I’d never read about this in school.

But the world’s powers did not support Haiti. For the next sixty years, the U.S. refused to recognize Haiti as an independent republic, because the U.S. had slaves of its own and was afraid they might be inspired by Haiti’s example. A diplomatic quarantine, threatening visits from German, French, British, and American gunboats, and a growing economic dependency on the U.S. and Europe made it impossible to rebuild the country.

I was astonished to read that France demanded that Haiti pay 150 million gold francs to compensate for French losses during the war. If Haiti didn’t comply, France would not recognize Haiti’s independence, and it threatened to return and reinstitute slavery. The sum of 150 million francs was ten times Haiti’s annual budget. Desperate for trading partners, and with the possibility of another French invasion and the restoration of slavery, Haiti’s leaders borrowed from French bankers (as required by the agreement) to begin repaying the “debt.” By the end of the 19th century, 80 percent of Haiti’s national revenue was allocated to repaying debts. It took Haiti 125 years to pay off the debt to France (estimated at a value of $21 billion today with interest and inflation calculated in), and the effects on the society were devastating.

The Haitian Revolution was followed by nearly two centuries of power struggle among various elite factions and the masses of the poor, who never gave up their dream of full participation. On the heels of a popular uprising, the U.S. Marines invaded and occupied Haiti from 1915 to 1934. A new Haitian army, created and trained by the U.S. during the occupation, became the dominant power after the Marines left. There ensued a series of U.S.-backed dictatorships, including the brutal Duvalier regimes that lasted from 1957 to 1986. When I read about “Papa Doc” Duvalier and his son “Baby Doc,” who succeeded him, their names sounded vaguely familiar. They had received millions in aid from the U.S., the World Bank, and the International Monetary Fund over the years, but had used little of it to benefit the poor majority. Instead, it supported fraud, corruption, and the oppression of any opposition. Their feared militia, called the Tonton Macoutes, was known for killing all opponents. Thousands of Haitians fled the country for their lives.

In the mid-1980s, Haitians began to organize in opposition to the dictatorship. Through tremendous courage and tenacity, their marches and strikes led to the overthrow of “Baby Doc” Duvalier. Meanwhile, a soft-spoken Catholic priest was beginning to touch hearts and raise consciousness, leading to the mobilization of the poor throughout the country. When I began reading about the rise of Jean-Bertrand Aristide, it seemed that finally something positive was about to happen.

Aristide advocated for the millions of impoverished Haitians. He challenged the status quo, pointing out that Haiti’s poverty was a result of its history and the tiny ruling class that had always controlled social and economic power. In Haiti’s first democratic election, in 1990, Aristide was elected president with 67 percent of the vote. For the first time, the poor majority played a role in shaping national policy. Aristide’s government quickly initiated adult literacy and public health programs, and set out to raise the minimum wage, create land reform, and end corruption. These initiatives did not make him popular among wealthy business owners (in Haiti and abroad), landowners, or the Hai tian military.

Just seven months after the democratic government was inaugurated, a violent coup led by members of the Haitian military forced Aristide into exile. The coup was followed by three years of repression and violence by the Haitian military and by paramilitary groups. It was later revealed that one of the top paramilitary leaders, Emmanuel Constant, was working with the CIA. Tens of thousands of Haitians tried to escape during this time. These were the “boat people” I’d seen on TV.

Escalating repression, a flood of unwelcome refugees in Florida, no signs of the brutal de facto military government ending its reign of terror, and the growing international solidarity for the Haitian democratic process led the U.S., with support from the UN and international community, to return President Aristide to power. This reinstatement came with conditions, including accepting economic “structural adjustment” programs, some of which would privatize Haiti’s publicly owned utilities and would slash tariffs.

In September 1994, 20,000 U.S. troops entered Haiti, and a month later President Aristide returned to serve out the remainder of his presidency. Back in office, he dismantled the much-hated Haitian army and focused on improving the lives of the poor majority. His term ended shortly thereafter, in

February 1996. Power was transferred peacefully for the first time in Haiti’s infant democracy to René Préval, who was just finishing his five-year term as president when I visited the first time. Another presidential election was just a few months away. Aristide was running again and was expected to win.

I put the book down in a daze and stared at the clouds. How could I live in the U.S. and know so little about our neighbor only 600 miles away—an hour-and-a-half flight from Miami?

Fear crept into my mind. I had lots of questions for Bryan, the first being: Was Haiti safe? Haiti had such a violent history and the U.S. government had contributed to the suffering in so many ways throughout the last 200 years. Did Haitians resent Americans? How would it feel to be an over-fed white American among people who struggle daily for food and clean water? I’d just spent the daily income of about twenty Haitians on magazines and snacks at the airport in San Francisco. I had more on my airline lunch tray than most Haitians ate in a day. I felt nervous and guilty, and we hadn’t even landed. As the plane sped along in air-conditioned, high-tech comfort, been a day-just one day—in my life when I had experienced real hunger.

As the plane descended into Port-au-Prince’s Toussaint Louverture International Airport, I watched the sparkly blue Caribbean turn to a murky brown just off the coast. From overhead, I could easily see that the mountains were stripped of trees. With most of Haiti’s trees cut down, there was no root system to soak up water, and when it rained, the precious topsoil washed into the ocean. This was one reason why Haitian peasants struggled to feed their families. Their soil was gone.

Toussaint Louverture Airport’s tiny baggage claim area was chaotic and hot. I found my luggage quickly and followed our group out of the building. As I walked out onto the street, a crowd of men of all ages approached, pleading to carry my bag. Before I could respond, four of them reached for my small suitcase and disappeared into the crowd. I ran after them, weaving through dozens of people, worried I might never see my suitcase again, but at the end of the walkway I spotted them next to our group’s van. Bryan was giving them a tip. “Mèsi, mèsi” (Thank you), they said with both desperation and gratitude in their eyes.

I felt sick to my stomach, and my heart was pounding. When I looked at my hands, they were shaking. I was afraid, overwhelmed by the mass of people that surrounded me, the smell of burning garbage, the heat. Sweat dripping down my forehead, I squeezed into a seat in the back of the van, clutched my backpack against my chest, and wondered if I’d made a mistake coming here. When the van finally pulled away from the curb, I was relieved to be moving again.

The slow, bumpy ride to the hotel gave me time to center myself. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to slow down my heart and remember why I’d come to Haiti. Helping out at the hospice had been my motivation. Reverse mission. Willing a positive attitude, I relaxed my shoulders, sat up in my seat, and started to take in the streets of Haiti’s capital.

The roads were treacherous. Gigantic potholes, open sewers, boulders, no traffic lights or sidewalks—I’d never seen anything like it. Hundreds of people lined the streets. Groups of men studied the engines of stalled cars or repaired ripped tires. A chairmaker and a man creating bed frames out of iron worked next to each other. Women and young girls in dresses and head wraps carried water jugs on their heads, maneuvering gracefully around people and rubble in the street. Vendors, packed along the side of the road, sold mangoes and sugarcane, fabric and charcoal, waiting patiently for the occasional customer.

Brightly painted minibuses and pickup trucks, called “tapstaps,” inched along, stuffed with travelers. Each time a tap-tap stopped, I watched in amazement as more people piled in. How they fit, I do not know. I was struck by the phrases, some writ ten in English, that decorated the buses: “Thank you Jesus,” “Pray,” “One love,” “Be cheerful,” “Patience.”

We drove past shacks and decaying buildings, dodged around ragged chunks of concrete in the road and piles of garbage 6 feet high baking in the sun. I started breathing through my mouth. Heaps of gravel and half-dug trenches showed signs of development here and there, but, overall, the city’s infrastructure was ancient and broken.

Each time our van slowed down, barefoot children wearing torn T-shirts ran up to our windows and peeked in. With palms outstretched, they cried out, “M’grangou,” which means “I’m hungry” in Creole. We were told not to give them any money, that if we did, our van would be swarmed with kids and it wouldn’t be safe for them in the street. Bryan assured us we’d have other opportunities to share our resources with nonprofits that provided services to children. The outstretched palms by our window remained empty. I couldn’t look in the children’s pleading eyes for more than a second and was relieved when our van started moving again. These children were Luke’s age. I learned later that they represented a handful of the thousands of orphans who roam the streets of Port-au-Prince.

At dinner that night, I didn’t eat or talk much. None of us did. Every muscle in my body was tense. My mind raced, trying to sort through what I’d seen. I’d been to Nicaragua and Mexico but had never seen anything like this. Poverty wasn’t isolated to one section of town. It was everywhere-—spread out for miles and miles in all directions. The contrast from Miami to Port-au-Prince was beyond words. My heart hurt. I felt like sobbing, but couldn’t shed a tear. I was in shock. Reading about massive poverty was one thing. Witnessing people struggling to survive was quite another.

Before we got up from the table, Bryan asked us to scrape all the food we didn’t eat onto an empty plate. I asked if I should include food that I’d picked at with my fork. Bryan nodded. Our waiter bowed his head in thanks as he quickly cleared the table and took the overflowing plates away. He would bring our leftovers to his children.

The next morning, we drove to volunteer at Son Fils, Ports-au-Prince’s Home for the Destitute and the Dying. The hospice’s small courtyard was full of frail men, some shaving, others playing dominoes. The Missionaries of Charity, the order founded by Mother Teresa, ran this two-story facility. Patients came from all over Port-au-Prince in hope that there might be a bed for them. Care was free. With limited medication—just whatever was donated—the nuns provided a loving environment for people to heal or die.

I went up to the second-floor women’s area with three other volunteers from our group. As we rounded the corner, a nun carrying a tray of cooked rice greeted us. She looked just like Mother Teresa in her light-blue-and-white sari and habit. “Welcome. We’re glad you’re here. You can help change the sheets in the rooms. We have extra nail polish and lotion if you’d like to paint the ladies’ nails or give massages when you’re finished.” She smiled and walked away. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her glow brought tears to my eyes and helped calm my nerves. How was it that, surrounded by all this suffering, she could be so bright and peaceful? My jaw relaxed a bit and my shoulders settled. She’d helped melt some of the fear and shock I was carrying.

The infirmary was simple. It looked like overnight camp, with beds lined up neatly next to each other. A volunteer from a Canadian group was singing Creole songs with three of the patients. She told us that this room housed women who were sick, but not about to die. They were in the next room. She also told us that many of the women suffered from tuberculosis. A shortage of safe drinking water, inadequate sanitation, and severe malnutrition left Haitians vulnerable to TB and many other diseases. Some patients also had HIV/AIDS, one of the main causes of adult deaths in Haiti. It is believed that AIDS arrived in Haiti through infected tourists. The combination of HIV and tuberculosis is particularly deadly. With proper medicine, recovery from TB is almost assured. But most Haitians couldn’t afford treatment, so they died.

I lifted a mattress to tuck in the sheet and discovered one patient’s small collection of personal items hidden beneath— a pair of carefully folded underwear, a rosary, a comb, and a hair clip. That was it. Was this all she had with her, or all she owned? Glancing at the patients sitting on the balcony, I wondered who slept in the bed I was making. They were all wearing the same light-blue dresses—a gift from a U.S. donor. Most were in their 20s or 30s. Some were so thin it looked as though the slightest breeze could carry them away. Others seemed okay, until they coughed the deep, barking, painful cough of tuberculosis.

Not feeling ready to venture next door, I stayed put and began giving manicures to two young women who looked like good friends. They came up to me and showed me their chipped, royal blue fingernail polish. “Mal. Mal” (Bad), they said. I nodded and smiled. They pointed eagerly to the bright red polish I was holding.

Since they had enough energy to sit up, I handed them several cotton balls and a bottle of nail polish remover. The woman on my right carefully divided one of the cotton balls into four sections, as if it was a precious gift. With just one of these sections, she removed the polish from all ten of her nails. She handed the bottle and another quarter of the cotton ball to her friend. Then she handed me the other two sections and the other cotton balls I had originally given her. She didn’t need them. It had never occurred to me that you could remove nail polish with just a quarter of a cotton ball. I usually go through at least one, if not two, per hand.

A lump lodged in my throat and I felt tears rush to my eyes. I took a quick breath and held it, hoping my eyes wouldn’t overflow. I didn’t want them to think something was wrong. They were enjoying themselves and so was I— three women sharing a manicure. But something was wrong. I thought about how different our lives were and wondered how many times a day I consume three or four times more than is really necessary. I’d never appreciated the value of a cotton ball before. My drawers were stuffed with them. I think I had as many bottles of vitamins and aspirin and Band-Aids in my cupboard as these nuns had in their whole facility. I took another deep breath and forced myself to apply the polish onto these beautiful young ladies’ nails.

“Bèi. Bèi. Mèsi,” they said when I finished. I smiled, but avoided eye contact, afraid I’d start crying. When I left the room I watched them over my shoulder, holding their hands up and admiring their new bright-red nails.

On my next visit to Son Fils, I went into the intensive care room. I was nervous and kept reminding myself that I could handle sitting next to people who were about to die. After all, I’d knelt next to Rich in his final moments. I should be able to do this too.

The room was quiet. All I could hear was my sandals clicking on the cement floor. Most of the women were asleep, their bodies so thin that I could barely make them out under the sheets. I looked for medical equipment—ventilators, IVs, heart monitors—but didn’t see any. I decided to go to a bed on the far side of the room near a window.

As I sat down, a young woman opened her eyes to greet me. Her lids were heavy and they closed again quickly. I took her hand—skin and bones—and studied her stunning face. I wondered how old she was and what disease had brought her here. She looked like a model with her almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Her eyes opened again. I held up massage cream, and she blinked yes. My hands shook as I gently massaged her hand and then her arm, afraid I might hurt her if I pressed too hard. When I got to her upper arm, I noticed it wasn’t any bigger than her wrist. I circled my hand around it, right near the armpit, to see if my thumb and index finger were able to touch. They did. Easily.

She motioned to her sternum, asking me to massage there, too. I hesitated, thinking that it seemed too intimate for strangers, but she reached out for my hand and pulled it toward her chest. As I moved her nightgown over to the side, I saw the familiar stretch marks of a mother. “Enfants?” I asked. “Oui,” she whispered. “Trois.” Three children. I wonder who’s taking care of them? How she must miss them. I wished I could remember more of my French so I could ask more questions. She asked if I had children. “Oui.Un.” She smiled and closed her eyes. I guessed she was thinking of her children, wondering what they were doing and how they were. I pressed gently on her sternum, afraid I’d break it, but she held her hand over mine, encouraging me to push harder. Then she let out one of those wrenching coughs. She had TB. The pressing on her sternum must have provided some relief. A few minutes later, she fell asleep.

Being with her reminded me of a day shortly after Rich died when a friend stopped by with a bottle of hand lotion. It had been a particularly difficult day emotionally and I didn’t feel like talking. She understood, put her arm around me, led me to a chair, and gently, in silence, massaged my hands. When she finished, she gave me a long hug and left. No words were needed. I never forgot her kindness and felt, in a small way, I was passing it on to this young woman.

The moans of another woman two beds down brought me back to present time. As I started to walk toward her, I passed a patient wrapped tightly in a sheet, like a mummy. I stopped and stared. I couldn’t see her face and didn’t detect any breathing. Had she died? My heart started to pound and a wave of heat went through my body. The already stifling temperature felt as if it went up 10 more degrees. The reality of impending death throughout the room suddenly hit me. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around to see if there were any nuns nearby, but I was alone.

Not sure where to go, I decided to keep walking to the bed of the moaning woman. I approached her slowly and timidly knelt down next to her. Would I know what to do if she reached out to me or if she pushed me away? I turned to look at the mother of three, and considered going back to her cot. It was easier to sit with someone silent and sleeping than to be next to someone so clearly in pain. I forced myself to stay put.

Back and forth the moaning woman rocked in the fetal position. Weren’t there any painkillers? She looked over at me, and I motioned to the lotion, but she shook her head no. I put my hand gently on her arm. I didn’t know what else to do. Tears dripped down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot, revealing her physical agony and her despair. I tried to think of words in French that would convey how sorry I was that she was hurting, but I couldn’t remember any, so I sat there silently. Suddenly, she lifted her head, looked me in the eye, and spoke in English. “I have nothing,” she said, enun ciating every word. “No shoes… No dress… No money…” She lay back down on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I have big prob lems.” Her words startled me. I hadn’t expected English, and I didn’t know what to say. I just held her hand and waited for more. “I want to brush my—” she whispered as she pointed to her teeth and then her hair. I nodded. She started to say something else, but a coughing fit overtook her. Then she rolled over, exhausted, and closed her eyes.

I quickly left the room. As I stood on the balcony, my body shook with frustration and anger. Frustration because there was nothing I could do to help these women. Anger that this level of suffering existed—not only at Son Fils, but throughout Haiti. These women were dying young and alone—without their husbands or their children, without painkillers, IVs, doctors, or nurses. They couldn’t afford to go to a hospital, and even if they could, there was only one doctor for every 10,000 Haitians, a statistic I couldn’t get my mind around, it was so outrageous. In the U.S., the ratio is 1 to 350.

I leaned against the balcony railing, holding my head in my hands. Part of me wanted to run and get on the next plane. Another part of me couldn’t leave the women at Son Fils.

Searching for something positive, I told myself that at least they had a loving environment to die in. Or maybe they’d get better. What if a shipment of donated medicine arrived tomorrow and saved their lives? What if that mother with the beautiful eyes made a miraculous recovery and went home to her three children? What if the woman I was just with regained her strength so she could brush her teeth and hair? But that day, I couldn’t bring my heart to believe in possibilities.

Later, when we returned to the hotel, I was grateful to be separated from the rest of the city. I sat in a beach chair by the pool and stared at the palm trees waving overhead. I couldn’t motivate myself to write in my journal. Others in our group felt the same. We were all lost in our own thoughts—serious and silent.

Not far from the government buildings of downtown Port-au-Prince, near the sea, is a massive shantytown called Cité Soleil, built on a landfill that stretches as far as the eye can see. As many as 300,000 people live there. Bryan was involved in a community development project and had connections that made it possible for our group to visit. Our stay was only three hours, but that was long enough to witness the devastation. Before meeting at a community center to talk with residents, we walked fifteen minutes through the dense maze of shacks on our way to a tiny artisan shop. Our guides, residents of Cité Soleil, told us to stick close together and to stay in a single-file line. Poverty here is the worst it gets in Haiti and tensions ran high. It was not a safe place to be alone. One guide walked at the front of the line; the other stayed at the back.

From what I could see, most of the shelters were made of cardboard, tar paper, and pieces of tin or plastic, patched together to form tiny, one-room shacks. Some homes had cinder blocks for walls, but they looked like they’d crumble if you leaned on them. There weren’t many windows, so it was hard to see inside, but occasionally I caught a glimpse of a chair or a table or a pot. The floors were dirt, and a piece of ripped cloth often served as a door. No one seemed to have electricity, running water, or toilets. The smell of human waste was thick and nauseating.

Someone said that Mother Teresa called this 2.5-squaremile area “the poorest spot on earth.” I believed it. There were no sidewalks or even roads leading to the artisan shop. We followed a narrow path that ran between the houses, which were less than a foot apart from each other. I tried not to stare at the people we walked by, but it was hard not to. The scene was bleak beyond anything I’d ever imagined.

Later we were told that as many as a dozen people might live in one shack. At night, they had to rotate sleeping on the floor because there wasn’t space for everyone to lie down at once. During the rainy season, when the riverbed and the raw sewage ditches that run between the shacks overflow and the roofs leak, these homes flood, and the dirt floors turn into sewage-drenched mud.

We wove our way through the maze of shacks, passing frail mothers holding babies and young children playing in the dirt without toys. Some of the children had bloated bellies and a reddish tint to their hair—signs of malnutrition and starvation. My eyes met some of the residents and we exchanged nods and sometimes a “Bonjou.” Their voices were quiet and resigned, their eyes full of despair.

I was walking briskly along with the group, in a daze, when a naked 5-year-old girl with pigtails approached from the side and stopped in front of me. She was carrying a yellow plastic bowl of urine, and she needed to lean over the path I was on to pour it into the ditch that ran in front of her shack. She looked up at me with big brown eyes. I mouthed “Bonjou,” and she nodded, but didn’t smile. Carefully she poured the contents of her bowl. The urine splashed onto her bare feet and onto my sneakers. Then she turned and walked back a few feet, disappearing behind her cloth door.

I felt light-headed, queasy from the stench all around me, and I could hardly breathe. Scared, overwhelmed, and outraged by what I was seeing, I didn’t know what to do but keep walking. How could conditions like this be allowed to exist? If the world knew, surely it would do something!

I learned later that many of the residents in Cité Soleil were peasants. Unable to grow crops in the eroded countryside, they came to Port-au-Prince in search of work, food, and a better life for their children. But they were met with an even worse situation. I had no idea how they survived. The cramped spaces. The hunger. The filthy ditches. The flies. The disease. The heat. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to give birth or raise children here.

Finally, we arrived at the art store, a one-room concrete-block structure without windows. I walked into the tiny space, and, once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I was able to see paintings and woodcarvings on display. The artwork, all created by residents of Cité Soleil, was, to my surprise, colorful and bright, beautiful and full of life. Paintings of the countryside, the sea, palm trees, and exotic flowers leaned against the wall. Woodcarvings of women cradling children or carrying food in baskets on their heads were neatly placed side by side on a table. Metal cutouts of brightly painted fish and parrots were so vibrant they looked alive.

In the corner I spotted a small painting of a Haitian neighborhood. A husband dressed in striped pants and a blue shirt stood next to his wife, who wore a pretty blouse and skirt with a matching ribbon in her hair. They were outside their little white house. As I moved closer to the painting, I could see that the house had strong walls and a solid roof, windows, and a wood door. It was surrounded by beautiful flowers and a healthy tree. In the distance were other sturdy houses with small yards around them. Birds flew overhead and a mountain range was in the distance. Even the oppressiveness of Cité Soleil had not snuffed out this artist’s vision of hope.

I bought the painting and several other pieces, wanting to support the artists of Cité Soleil and their vision of beauty and life in the midst of overwhelming misery. I hoped the sale of the painting would help feed their children and make life a little more bearable—at least for a while. But I also felt uncomfortable reaching into my pocket for money—the American consumer, standing in the middle of the poorest spot on earth.

That night, I dreamed I was in a hospital, lying on a gurney. I pulled myself up onto my elbows and saw that my chest was cut open. I could see my heart—damaged, bleeding, and barely beating. I tried to scream to get the attention of the doctors, but no sound came out. No one heard me. No one saw me. I was forgotten in the corner. As I tried to sit up to grab the sleeve of a doctor who was walking by, hoping to get his attention to help me, I woke up. Images of the little girl with the yellow plastic bowl and the children on the street pleading “M’grangou” flooded my mind. I spent the rest of the night staring above my bed at the broken ceiling fan.

Morning finally arrived. My head throbbed from lack of sleep, and my heart ached, reminding me of my dream. I con sidered spending the day in my hotel room, but when I thought of the mother of three lying on her cot near the window, I threw my sheet off, got up, and got in the van for the ride to Son Fils.

As I walked to the intensive care room, I tiptoed carefully around a group of women who were healthy enough to sit in the fresh air on the narrow balcony. The two friends I’d met a few days before were taking turns braiding each other’s hair. They nodded with recognition and proudly showed me their nails, still bright red and unchipped.

I went straight to the back of the room where the mother of three slept. With all the motionless bodies lying under white sheets, the room reminded me of a morgue. A volunteer offered me plastic gloves, but I shook my head, hating the idea of one more layer between my friend and me.

She looked frailer than before. Her eyelids lifted a fraction and then fell shut. I reached for her hand and slipped it in mine. Slowly her lips curled in a smile. I don’t know how long I sat next to her, watching the sheet rise and fall with each shallow breath she took. As the minutes passed, my breathing fell in sync with hers and everything quieted down. My mind became still. My body didn’t flinch. I felt no desire to move or talk. I felt calm and—was I happy? How could I be, with all the sickness and impending death around me and the memories of Cité Soleil still fresh in my mind? But I think I was. I felt filled up. It seemed impossible, but for that moment, I felt completely at peace. Time stopped and nothing mattered more than sitting on the cot holding her hand.

It must have been an hour later that a visit from a guest doctor brought me out of my stillness. He was gentle and kind, speaking quietly in Creole to each patient as he went from bed to bed with his stethoscope. I detected a Canadian accent as I overheard him give instructions in English to a nun, who was taking notes on a clipboard. I wondered what it must feel like to be a doctor with no medicine to give patients. The TB and HIV drugs that were needed to save these women were not on the shelf. I hoped painkillers had arrived overnight so he could prescribe something to make their days less miserable.

He lingered over a young woman who was lying in a cot near me. She looked about 18 years old and was frightened as he examined her. Rail thin, her body was barely noticeable under the sheet, except for a tiny bulge at her belly. I thought it might be a tumor. The doctor pulled a small device out of his bag and placed it on her stomach. A few seconds later, a sound filled the room. I’d recognize it anywhere. Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump. He looked amazed. So was I. A baby!

Remembering the exhilaration of hearing Luke’s heart beat for the first time during one of my prenatal appointments, I wondered what was going through this mother’s mind. I didn’t know whether to smile or cry. Her baby’s heart sounded strong. But she was dying. The doctor’s face was full of concern as he whispered something to the nun and left the room. I turned back to my friend and squeezed her hand, hoping to return to that sense of peace I’d felt so strongly just a few minutes earlier.

But I couldn’t do it. My emotions swung from one extreme to another. Joy at the thought of a baby. Grief at the reality that the baby and mother would probably die. Hope that maybe the doctor could help. Despair at knowing he had no equipment or medicine to work with. My mind searched for ways I might help, but I was overwhelmed by the complexity of the problems. In a few days, I’d be leaving and would never see these women again. I was returning to my son and our comfortable life with cabinets filled with food and a doctor only a phone call away.

The mother of three must have felt the growing tension in my neck and shoulders as these thoughts filled my mind, because she opened her eyes and smiled at me. Her warm, loving expression seemed to be asking me to stop thinking and just hold her hand. I pushed all the other thoughts away and tried to settle back into the moment with her. Two mothers from completely different lives together on a cot, connected. I felt the muscles in my body relax again, including my heart. Love flowed between us. I could feel it and knew that I wasn’t just reaching out to her, offering my hand. She was also reaching out to me, offering hers.

Morning prayers at Son Fils began at 10:30. Those who were strong enough lifted themselves to a sitting position so they could see the two nuns standing near the doorway. A wooden cross and a picture of Mother Teresa hung on the wall behind them. Most of the women remained on their backs with rosaries wrapped around their wrists. I watched my friend to see if she would wake up, but she didn’t move.

The prayer began with just the two nuns, but soon many voices joined in the rhythmic flow of words that I didn’t understand but found comforting. They came from every corner of the room. The prayer transitioned into a song the women knew well and sang enthusiastically. I was amazed by the strength they found to sing.

Suddenly, a deep, almost haunting voice joined in, much louder than all the others. It was from the woman in the cot next to me, the one I thought might be dead a few days earlier, whose body was wrapped from head to toe in a sheet cocoon. I’d glanced over at her throughout the morning as I held my friend’s hand. I’d watched the outline of her body in the sheet, trying to discern breathing. Nothing. She had been deadly quiet. But her voice was now the strongest in the infirmary. She belted out each Creole word with a force and intensity that made the small room feel like a cathedral.

When the song ended, the nuns slipped out, and the room quickly quieted. I could hear the soft, shallow breathing of my friend, her hand in mine. One by one, each patient closed her eyes. Only one woman was unable to rest—the deep-voiced woman lying an arm’s length away.

Her back faced me, but I could see she was in significant pain. I wondered if I should reach out as I watched her fidget and wince, struggling to get comfortable. Slowly she rolled in my direction. Her chestnut eyes, wet with tears, stared at me through a small slit in the sheet. She pulled the sheet tight around her shoulders and face, revealing the skin on her swollen hands. It was raw—light pink, infected. It looked like it was peeling off—even on her fingertips. A fly circled the opening around her eyes, and she moaned as she tried to shoo it away. I leaned over and waved my hand, relieved to be able to do something more than stare.

I wanted to go to another part of the room where her pain couldn’t be seen or felt, but I forced myself to stay put. Our eyes were locked. She whispered something urgent in Creole. I didn’t understand, but I was sure she asked for help. I was afraid to touch her—partly because I thought I’d hurt her and partly because I was afraid of catching whatever it was that she had. I should have taken those gloves.

Thankfully, the doctor came back in the room and walked over to her cot. He nodded hello to me and then knelt by the woman, quietly talking to her as he carefully peeled back the sheet to examine her. She cried out in agony. I held my breath as I looked at her skin. Her whole body was covered in sores. She was bald. Maybe she’d been burned. As he gently wrapped her back up, I heard him say to his assistant that she had some kind of skin disease. Untreatable at Son Fils. There was nothing they could do.

The rest of the morning passed slowly. I felt the weight of every minute. Why did she have to suffer like this? Couldn’t she be put out of her misery, either with painkillers or—I wasn’t sure I should even think it—with death? What’s the point of someone suffering so much without hope or help? I thought of how quickly Rich died. Five minutes. This woman had been suffering for days, months, maybe her whole life, and who knew how long she’d live?

As I watched her try to sleep, I noticed that the sheet she was wrapped in had a butterfly pattern. It wasn’t white like all the others. Printed all over it were blue butterflies, yellow butterflies, pink butterflies. She was wrapped in butterflies—my favorite sign of hope and transformation. How ironic. Where was her hope? She was left on her cot to peel away, one piece of skin at a time.

I stared at her sheet, wondering if there was a message hidden in it for her or for me. My thoughts drifted to the days after Rich’s funeral, when butterflies were my comfort. They became a sign of God’s presence in my grief, appearing frequently outside my kitchen window and at Rich’s gravesite. I even discovered one inside my home. Now butterflies were in Son Fils. But did she feel God’s presence? At that moment, I didn’t.

Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. The heat and stale air started to get to me. I held my stomach, afraid I might throw up. As I watched her shiver and moan, my body started to tremble too, with anger that rose to my throat. I wanted to scream—at God, at the world.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Wrapped in my own sheet, I cried in the darkness and prayed for help—for the butterfly woman, the mother of three, the woman who wanted to brush her teeth, the residents of Cité Soleil, and all the children. Their situation was so overwhelming, I felt weighed down with a sense of hopelessness. Suddenly, in the silence of the night, my head filled with the singing of morning prayers at Son Fils. I heard the deep, rich voice of the butterfly woman. I pulled my sheet tightly around me and shuddered as I thought of her peeling skin and sores. But her singing, her voice. In it was a strength and power that called out from her dark cocoon and clung fiercely to life. I felt how deeply she had looked into my eyes, how urgently she’d whispered something. She hadn’t given up hope, and as I thought about her wrapped in her butterfly sheet, whispering to me, I heard her urging me not to give up either.

His hearty laugh filled the hotel courtyard. Laughter had been rare on our trip. The sound of it was quite refreshing and instantly made me smile. I looked up and saw our evening speaker, Father Gérard Jean-Juste, also known as Fr. Gerry, standing on the balcony. He was the priest of St. Clare’s Church, where we’d worshipped a few days earlier. I remembered the packed pews and his powerful presence as he led the congregation in the St. Jude prayer. I was looking forward to hearing him speak.

Each night after volunteering at Son Fils, our group gathered to hear a guest speaker discuss aspects of Haiti’s culture, spirituality, and history. We also learned about development programs that were working: a bank, called Fonkoze, that gave microloans to groups of women who wanted to start their own businesses. Reforestation projects in the countryside. A bakery in a rural town that helped the residents become self-sufficient. A solar cooking project that helped Haitians move away from charcoal fuel. These evening sessions were a good balance to the intensity of the rest of the day.

I settled into one of the chairs arranged in a circle on the open-air balcony. The evening was warm and breezy. I immediately felt drawn to Fr. Gerry’s energy and smile. He was in his early 50s and was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and black pants, with a pink rosary around his neck. He exuded joy and confidence. Bryan introduced him, saying that he grew up in Cavaillon, a coastal village in southern Haiti. His parents were impoverished farmers. When he was a teenager, friends made it possible for him to go to Canada so he could work his way through school and then seminary near Montréal. He always wanted to be a priest. After graduation, he served the Haitian community in Brooklyn and became the first Haitian Catholic priest ordained in the United States. With the help of a scholarship named after Martin Luther King Jr., he received a civil engineering degree from Northeastern University in Boston. He later moved to “Little Haiti” in northeast Miami and served as Executive Director of the Haitian Refugee Center, advocating for the rights of Haitian refugees who were fleeing the Duvalier regime.

After “Baby Doc” Duvalier fled Haiti, Fr. Gerry returned to Port-au-Prince. His sparkling eyes revealed a love for his country and a hope for its future.

Throughout the evening, Fr. Gerry talked about the struggle of the Haitian people for democracy, human rights, and basic services. He talked about the vast inequities in Haiti and throughout the world and was passionate about the needs and rights of the poor. His charismatic presence drew us in. There was something about him that elicited trust and hope. I could sense his strong leadership and his ability to make things happen. I could understand why the pews were packed on Sundays and knew that’s where I would attend church if I lived in Haiti. He described how he “saw” the roads paved, the people fed, employed, healthy, educated, and housed. He believed in a future for Haiti’s children and was committed to help make it happen.

At the end of his talk, a member of our group asked about the extent of hunger in Haiti. He paused and quietly described Sunday mornings at St. Clare’s Church. “Every week, the children come to me. They point to their bellies and then their lips. ‘My Father, do you have any food in your cupboard for me to eat?’ I give them what I can, but it is not close to enough. I have a vision for a food program for the hungry children in my community.”

These words touched something inside me. Maybe it was a knowing. Or a “call.” But I instantly felt a part of me leap at his vision of a food program. From head to toe, my body tingled with energy. My heartbeat quickened. Throughout the trip, Bryan had told us not to rush into the “What can I do to fix this?” mentality. Instead he continued to remind us to allow our experience to open our hearts. As we explored the feelings that surfaced and looked deeply into our faith, the answers about how to respond would reveal themselves. I felt that my answer had revealed itself right there on the balcony.

When I left Haiti two days later, the despair I’d felt after my day with the butterfly lady had started to lift. The possibility of finding a way to respond to what I’d experienced at Son Fils and Cité Soleil captured my heart and gave me hope.

The Miami airport was like another world—clean, carpeted, air-conditioned, with toilets that flushed and the smell of fresh donuts and coffee. It was a welcome sight, familiar and comfortable. But it was also disturbing. I watched well-dressed passengers hurry through the airport on their way to Caribbean destinations carrying cell phones and laptops, fast food and lattes. Healthy toddlers holding toys and sippy cups in their strollers contrasted with the children I’d seen in Cité Soleil playing in the dirt. I doubted that anyone in the airport had any idea what was happening on one of the islands they were about to fly over on their way to their vacation. I wanted to scream, “HELP! There’s an emergency and it’s only a few hundred miles from here. We have to do something, change something. Quick. People are dying!”

Everywhere I looked there were stores filled with clothes, toiletries, magazines, toys, and food!—burgers and ice cream, burritos and grilled cheese. Food and more food—food everywhere. Half-eaten sandwiches left in the waiting area. Garbage cans stuffed with wrappers and unfinished meals. Kids too full to finish their Happy Meals. I thought of the mothers in Cité Soleil. I was relieved to be back in the States, where the comforts and convenience and abundance overflowed. But at the same time, I felt nauseated.

When I got home and jumped back into my daily routine of carpooling, laundry, work, and taking care of Luke, the fast pace of my life consumed me. I raced from one thing to the next, but the women at Son Fils and the people in Cité Soleil were never far from my thoughts. At every meal, and especially when I scraped food we were too full to finish into the garbage or threw out wilted lettuce I never got around to eating, I remembered the children on the street saying “M’grangou,” and Fr. Gerry’s vision. I saw their faces, the eyes of the mother of three and the butterfly lady—but I was so far away, and I didn’t know what I could do from such a distance.

Shortly after I got back, I went to Costco to buy some things for an ice cream social at Luke’s school. I hadn’t been there in ages, and I’d forgotten how massive it is. Rows and rows and rows of supersized cereal, candy, chips, and soda, everything in bulk. I wheeled my cart through the aisles, struck by the fact that most of the food on the shelves had no nutritional value. It was luxury food, fun food, unhealthy food. I wondered how much money I spent on food that offered no benefit to my body. I was sure it had to be hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars a year.

The cashier rang up the ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream for the school social and then the strip of AA batteries for Luke’s Game Boy, a case of sparkling water, a gigantic bag of chocolate chips, blank videos, and other things I’d thrown in the cart for my home. When she processed my credit card, I knew I could have fed dozens and dozens of children for the same amount.

I couldn’t ignore my discomfort with the consumerism I was so much a part of. I felt restless and guilty, but not sure how to address my feelings about the difference between my life and the lives of those I’d seen in Port-au-Prince. Like the women with the cotton ball, I knew I had to discover what was enough for me and Luke—enough food, enough clothes, enough toys, enough stuff. My closets were packed with pants and tops I didn’t wear. My refrigerator was filled with food I didn’t eat. Luke’s shelves overflowed with toys he didn’t play with. My house was bursting with excess. I decided to go through it all, clean it out, and give away everything I didn’t use or love.

When I shopped at the grocery store, every time I reached for something, I paused to think about whether it would actually be eaten or would end up in my garbage or on my shelf until it expired. Whenever I passed a homeless person on the street, I stopped, made an effort to look them in the eye, and took the time to reach into my purse for a dollar. Giving felt so much better than ignoring.

But the feeling of restlessness continued.

One night, a recurring nightmare woke me up. It was a dream I had once or twice a year during times of stress—tornadoes swirling toward me from all directions, threatening to blow me away. Sweaty and trembling, I lay awake until dawn thinking about how the shade that had once separated me from the suffering of the world had been blown away as a result of the “reverse mission.” I couldn’t reenter my life as it was—all about me and Luke. My heart wouldn’t close up. It ached, and it pleaded for a response.

As I lay in bed thinking about Haiti, images of Fr. Gerry and his church, the boy who collapsed, the prayer to St. Jude, and the S.O.S. that had been spelled out by the elderly lady with the fan played over and over in my mind. The images didn’t haunt me. They called to me.

I shared Fr. Gerry’s vision of a food program with my parents the next day. I thought my dad might have ideas about how to get churches involved or how to start something when you’re thousands of miles away. We brainstormed, but didn’t come up with anything concrete.

Shortly after we hung up, my dad called back. He’d just been to his office and had opened the day’s mail. A few weeks earlier, his church conference had sent a grant for $5,000 to a food pantry. As the conference president, he had just received a letter notifying him that the pantry had closed. The check was returned—unused. Since it was intended for hunger relief, he said it was possible to redirect the money to Haiti.

I listened with amazement. This must be a sign! A huge weight lifted off my heart and, elated, I danced around my kitchen. Five thousand dollars! I called Bryan to get Fr. Ger ry’s e-mail address and wrote him immediately, explaining that I had met him on the hotel balcony, had heard him describe his vision for a food program for the hungry children in his community, and that I wanted to help him make this a reality. He wrote back a few days later, elated as well and already in action. He said the food program would be ready to begin when the check arrived. Dad mailed the check and we waited.

March 26, 2000

Dear Margaret,

The program is wonderful! I just want to let you know that it is working beautifully. From 200 participants last Sunday, it has doubled today. We have been called to a big assignment from God in feeding the hungry brothers and sisters. The news is being spread. Children and their needy parents are pouring on us. I use many volunteers. Many youngsters want to help. I am using the rectory quarters. I need more chairs, more tables, more food, more of everything. The supervisor of the program is a great woman who loves this volunteer task. There is great hope. Now I am exhausted. It is getting late. It is too much, too exciting to count and report all now. God certainly has talked to you today while we were implementing this great inspiration …

Best regards to you and all, Gerry

The speed of the food program’s birth astounded me. I’d been home from Haiti just two months. Fr. Gerry had just received the $5,000 check and already he had lined up the cooks, bought plates and forks, announced the good news, and begun. He told me that food was being purchased from the local farmers’ market, helping to support the Haitian economy. The cost of each meal was about fifty cents.

Inspired, I shared his e-mail with my friends, and a few checks started to arrive in my mailbox. Ten dollars, $25, $100. I told each person that every dollar fed two children.

I wasn’t sure what I was getting into or where it would lead. Things seemed to have a life of their own, and I felt swept along for the ride. But my heart felt full and happy, and so I didn’t worry.

Dear Margaret,

The children are happy. We served more than 400 today. Good menu. Nothing left. God’s blessing for all of us, always, everywhere …

Dear Margaret,

Jesus is happy we’re implementing one of his main teachings: Feed his people. My team and I love it. We work hard to feed some 400 needy children on Sundays. Let’s hope we can institutionalize this for generations to come…

Dear Margaret,

You should hear what they say about the hot meal they receive on Sundays. They say that Sunday is the best day of the week. They cannot wait to have Sunday. Sunday is too far away sometimes for those who are hungry.

I kept spreading the word, friend to friend. More checks arrived. I opened a separate bank account and started thinking about the need to create a nonprofit organization. I had no idea how to do this, but I was sure I knew someone who knew someone who knew how.

Weeks passed quickly. Every Sunday, I pictured the food program, imagining the dishes of hot food and the smiles on the faces of the children. With each e-mail from Fr. Gerry, I longed to return, to see the meals being served, if only for

a few days. I e-mailed Father Gerry that I wanted to visit, and he wrote back that he had arranged for me to stay with members of his congregation. He’d meet me at the airport. Come anytime.

My parents were nervous about me returning to Haiti alone, so they bought a plane ticket for my younger brother, Paul. We are good friends, so I was thrilled to have his company. Paul was a self-employed artist who lived simply in a 500-square-foot cabin on the outskirts of Sonoma, California. He was just scraping by, selling a painting here and there. He jumped at the chance to go.

We left for Haiti in July, seven months after my first visit. As promised, Father Gerry greeted us at the airport. I wasn’t as scared this time.